Protector

by Laurel Dewey

  “She won’t talk to anyone but you.”

  “I won’t do it.”

  “You’re on shaky ground with the Department, Jane—”

  “Wait, the Department says that I’m too fucked up to solve other crimes but I’m not too fucked up to hang out with a nine-year-old kid and somehow manipulate her to tell me what she possibly did or didn’t see? Is that what I’m hearing? Because if that’s what you’re telling me, I want you to think how that’s gonna play back at DH!”

  “Like I said, I can be very convincing with the higher-ups when I have to be. Besides, they don’t know how often you attend ‘choir practice.’ I’ve done everything I can over the years to keep your self-medicating as quiet as possible.”

  Jane looked at Weyler, stupefied. “You don’t get it, boss. You want me to lead that kid straight down to hell. Down in the sludge and the blood and the outright fear of it all. And you buy into all that psychobabble shit that if she helps us solve this mess, she’s gonna magically wipe away all those demons in her head and get healed. Well, that’s not the way it works! You can’t draw that hell out of somebody and expect them to ever be normal again. Because they will never know what normal feels like. I will not be responsible for fucking up the rest of that kid’s life.”

  “I think you want to know.”

  Jane exploded. “I know what she sees!” Her voice caught suddenly. “What she . . . saw.”

  “Good! That’s why you’re the only one I can trust.”

  “Boss, listen to me. What she saw should be forgotten!” Jane turned away from Weyler, her chin trembling. Inside her head, it felt like a million electrical lines had crossed and ignited simultaneously. She wanted out of that house and to feel the burn of a whiskey shot on her tongue.

  Weyler leaned on the front door, crossing his arms. “Okay, let’s look at this your way and follow it through. We drop the case, not wanting to cause any more pain to Emily. We pat her on the head, wish her luck and send her to the aunt and uncle in Cheyenne. Life goes on for her. She makes new friends, starts a new school, sleeps in a new bed, plays with new toys. But somewhere inside, something is never quite right with her. She can feel it. It’s like she has the answer to a million dollar question on the tip of her tongue but she just can’t quite remember what it is. So the years pass, but still that nagging feeling never leaves her. Then one day, she’s driving her car down the street and she sees something—something insignificant by itself, but for whatever reason, it triggers her memory. And in a split second, what she sees in front of her is no longer the street she is driving on but the memory, played out as though she was thrown back into time. She pulls the car over and she is scared out of her wits and all alone. She wonders if she’s going crazy. But once her mind is unlocked, it’s a free-for-all and those memories just keep coming. This happens at the market, in the shower, while she’s waiting for the toast to brown, when she’s in line at the bank. And the more they come, the crazier and more alone she feels . . . until that insanity becomes the only world she knows. She wants the memories to stop more than anything. So one day, she does the only thing she knows to make it go away. She blows her brains out. You want that on your head?”

  Jane turned to face Weyler. The words, “You want that on your head?” brought back the memory of the dialogue that lead to her blood-soaked confrontation with her father. A gnawing indignity engulfed Jane. “Someone used those same words to manipulate me a long time ago. I should have ignored them back then and saved myself a lot of grief. It’s not on my goddamn head what happens to that kid! I don’t know her!”

  “Yes, you do. The two of you are already linked by some unknown force.” Jane looked at Weyler with an incredulous glance. Linked by some unknown force. Jane wondered if he realized how prophetic his words truly were. “You look at her and you see yourself. She’s that moment in time between all that was good and all that went terribly wrong. If you can help her, maybe you can help yourself.” Weyler smoothed his jacket and straightened his tall frame. “You want her to pretend like it never happened. But it did. And so we go from that point. One way or the other, she’s going to remember. And when she does, I want you to be with her.”

  Jane always hated it when Weyler won.

  Chapter 10

  Less than thirty-six hours after leaving the Lawrence crime scene, Jane was on her way back to it. Weyler picked her up at her house at seven o’clock sharp and drove the four mile route in near silence. It was thirty-six hours of heavy thought for Jane. Thirty-six hours of feeling stark and exposed. Thirty-six hours of debating how to get out of the assignment. Thirty-six hours of Jane wondering how far she could have driven away from Denver in that space of time. More than anything, it was thirty-six hours without a drop of alcohol and that was thirty-six hours too long.

  It wasn’t that Weyler threatened her if she took a drink. For Jane, it came more from an odd sense of duty—a time to set aside one’s personal desire to become numb for the good of another. There was a kind of righteousness in it. However, it couldn’t assuage her desire to feel the sting of a whiskey shot against the back of her throat. By the time Weyler and Jane pulled onto Franklin and neared the Lawrence house, the mere thought of booze was as addictive as the thing itself.

  Jane spotted two unmarked cars parked across the street from the house. Weyler pulled up alongside one of the cars and rolled down his window. The other driver, a Denver patrol officer, leaned out the window. “Give us ten minutes.” Weyler said to the officer, who nodded in response.

  Jane noted that the backseat window was rolled down several inches. Like a jack-in-the-box, Emily popped up out of her seat and framed her eyes and nose in the window opening. Jane could hear the distinct voice of Martha Durrett admonishing the child to sit down. “What’s Martha doing here?” Jane asked with an irritated edge.

  “Part of the deal with the Court,” Weyler said as he pulled his sedan across the street and parked in front of the Lawrence house.

  “What about all those ‘favors’ you said they owed you?”

  “There are certain things favors don’t cover.”

  “If that bitch is required to be in the house with us, I’m out of here—”

  “Calm down, Detective! Martha stays in the car with the officer, strictly as an observer and as backup if you need it. Same goes for the other car which holds one detective at all times.”

  “What’s all this ‘backup’ shit? I don’t need to be observed!”

  “Hey, the police presence is a request from the neighborhood. As far as Martha’s role, it’s what I had to do to get the ‘okay.’ You’ll also notice a black-and-white patrolling the alley behind the house every twenty minutes or so.”

  “Isn’t this overkill?”

  “It’s precautionary.” Weyler pulled a small cell phone out of his coat pocket and handed it to Jane. “Take this. Phone service was cut inside the house.”

  Jane took the phone. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Weyler let out a sigh that was more irritated at others than at Jane. “The Court felt there was a certain degree of concern regarding the child’s welfare.”

  “Psychological or physical?”

  “Maybe a little bit of both.”

  “Well, I got the psychological figured. What’s the physical?”

  “Like I said, it’s precautionary.”

  “Whoa! If you think for one second that someone is stalking this kid and might come after her, what the hell are you bringing her back here for? What is she? Bait?”

  Weyler turned to Jane. “My God, of course not! You know this is a rare and delicate situation. We have a nine-year-old child who may have important information to share with us. Look, I don’t like this any more than you do. Of course, you tell anybody that, and I’ll deny it. But my hands are tied. The Department is coming off a case where a family of three who we were hired to protect is blown to bits in their own driveway. And when one of those victims is a child, well . . . I don’t have to t
ell you how that makes us look. We need a tally mark in the ‘win’ column. We need to show this city that we don’t have our heads up our collective asses. So, desperate times call for very desperate measures. And one of those measures is bringing a traumatized child quietly back to a crime scene and seeing if we can shake some of that memory loose. Bottom line, Detective, you have to make this work.”

  Jane looked straight ahead. “So, is she or is she not being stalked?”

  “I honestly don’t know. But I sure as hell am not going to take any more ‘ice cream’ chances,” Weyler stated, alluding to the Stovers’ side trip to the ice cream parlor that eventually cost them their lives. “Are you?”

  “We wouldn’t need to ask that question if Chris kept his mouth shut about how Emily was in the house when all the shit came down. I want that on the record.”

  “Duly noted.”

  Weyler dipped underneath the yellow police tape and entered the front door of the house followed by Jane who set her leather satchel near the staircase. At the sound of the door closing, Chris called out from inside the kitchen.

  “It’s us!” Weyler yelled back.

  “What’s he doing here?” Jane said, muffling her voice.

  “He’s the current shift detective positioned in the other vehicle.”

  “Why’s he in here?”

  “I asked him to go get you and Emily some food.”

  “Wonderful.” Jane said, knowing how Chris must have reacted when he was sent to the store. Jane stood on the landing that overlooked the living room and surveyed the area. There was a smattering of knickknacks. The balance, along with the missing pieces of carpet, had been taken into evidence. The room looked cold and disturbed. “You should have had Chris pick up some stuff to fill in the place. And couldn’t you have had someone cover up the carpet cutouts? That’s going to freak out Emily.”

  “It’s all I could do on short notice.” Weyler’s cell phone rang and he answered it.

  Jane wandered across the room and into the kitchen where Chris was putting the final item into the refrigerator. “I thought you were going to Lake Dillon.”

  Chris kept his back turned to Jane. “I did, too. But Weyler figured out a way to squeeze more blood out of the overtime fund.” He slammed the refrigerator door and turned to Jane. “But I shouldn’t complain. I get to shop for you and the kid and then I get to sit out in that car until my shift’s up at 10:30. I’m one lucky son-of-a-bitch.”

  “You want to go one-on-one with the kid, Chris? Be my guest!”

  “No! She picked you! You’re the star of the fucking show. Just do me one favor. Cut to the chase and figure out this fucker! I don’t give a shit what you have to do to jar her memory. Whatever it takes, do it. Understand me? But you keep me informed. I’m the one who has to solve this case, one way or the other.”

  “Whatever it takes?” Jane retorted. “Want me to pry off her fingernails?”

  “Do your fucking job so I can end this.” Chris started out the back door and turned around. “I’m still going to Lake Dillon after the shift tonight. Tomorrow, when I’m on the water with my new boat and starin’ at my new custom boots, I’ll pop open a beer and think of you. I bet a cold one sounds pretty good to you about now, eh?” A sadistic smirk crossed his face.

  Weyler called in from the living room. “Let’s do this!”

  “Showtime!” Chris whispered as he turned and walked out the back door.

  Jane secured the lock on the back door, still stinging from Chris’ comments. She then joined Weyler who was standing at the front door.

  “You ready?” Weyler asked. Jane nodded. Weyler opened the front door. Framed against the filtered light of the setting sun, stood Martha Durrett holding tightly onto Emily’s hand.

  “Good evening, Sergeant,” Martha said, haltingly. “Detective.”

  “Hello, Emily,” Weyler said, lowering his angled frame and holding out his hand. Emily withdrew her hand from Martha’s tight grasp and shook his hand. “Come in,” Weyler beckoned as the child crossed the threshold and stood next to Jane. Emily was dressed in a denim jumper, red short-sleeved blouse and dark blue cardigan. She held tightly onto her Starlight Starbright projector, safely ensconced in its navy blue carrying case.

  Martha knelt down in front of the child. “Remember what I told you,” she said with her trademark patronizing tone. “If you get those scary feelings in your tummy, you are allowed to leave. Okay?” Emily nodded. Martha pulled out a pocket-sized flashlight with a key chain attached—the plastic covered kind that, when squeezed, produces a bright LED blue sapphire light. “This is a very special flashlight, Emily. Four squeezes will be our special signal.” Jane couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Martha angled the flashlight up in the air and squeezed it four successive times as she said with each squeeze, “H-E-L-P.” Without realizing it, the pointed sapphire light was pointing directly into Jane’s eyes.

  Jane turned away and walked into the living room, mumbling under her breath, “Oh, S-H-I-T.”

  “We need to move along, Martha,” Weyler said gently.

  Martha attached the small flashlight onto the right strap of Emily’s denim jumper. “I’m putting this here so that you can use it at a moment’s notice. Just go to one of the front windows and flash our special signal out to the car and I will be at your side within seconds.” Martha awkwardly patted Emily on her head and reluctantly returned outside to her observation vehicle.

  Weyler bent down toward Emily so he was on her eye-level. “Everything’s going to be fine, honey.” Weyler nodded toward Jane and left.

  Emily stood on the hard wooden floor, facing the living room. Her expression reminded Jane of the term “poker face.”

  “You can call me Jane.”

  “Okay,” Emily said quietly.

  Jane felt a swell of irritation build in her stomach. Another minute of deafening silence passed between them. “Look, kid, I just want you to know that I think bringing you back here is a stupid idea and a waste of our time. As far as I’m concerned, you can sit on the couch and watch TV.”

  Emily glanced around the living room. “I can’t. The TV’s gone.”

  Jane turned around and realized Emily was right. “Oh, shit.”

  “Where’s all the stuff? Why’s the carpet missing?”

  It took the child less than one minute to observe the one thing that had concerned Jane from the outset. Jane clenched her jaw and let out a deep sigh. “A lot of things, unfortunately, had to be removed so the police could look at them.”

  “Are they going to put them back where they got them?” said Emily, with a slight indignant sound to her voice.

  It would have been easy to lie to the kid and placate her with some dressed up answer, but that just wasn’t Jane’s style. “Probably not.”

  Emily took several steps into the living room, noting every crevice and cranny. “I don’t feel anything.”

  “I told you. You don’t have to feel a damn thing.”

  “No. I mean I don’t feel anything at all. I know my mommy and daddy are dead. I know ’cause you told me. But I can’t feel sad. I can’t cry.”

  Jane was taken aback by Emily’s directness. She had hoped that by letting the kid off the hook and telling her not to worry that this whole thing would be painless and over in a matter of hours. Obviously, it was heading in a very different direction. “Hey, crying is overrated.”

  “Martha says I’m in . . .” She tried to remember the word. “Shock? She says I’m sleeping real deep and part of me doesn’t want to wake up.”

  “I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”

  “But Martha says I—”

  “You know,” Jane interrupted, feeling a surge of anger. “Forget Martha! Martha is not the end-all, be-all! She’s not even all there! She’s like the tin man in The Wizard of Oz, you know? If she only had a brain!”

  “The scarecrow,” Emily said succinctly.

  “Huh?”

  “The scarecrow didn’t
have a brain. The tin man needed a heart.”

  “Whatever. The point is, I don’t want you to buy into her psychological crap.”

  “How come you don’t like Martha?”

  “She’s a pain in my ass. What? Are you two pals?”

  “No. I don’t like her, but I don’t hate her.”

  “Okay. Fine.” Jane felt her nerves tweak.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine!”

  “How come your hands are shaking? Are you nervous?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Are you scared?”

  “No!”

  “Are you cold?”

  “No!”

  “Well, then why are you shaking?”

  “Stop it,” Jane said directly and to the point. “I said I was fine and I’m fine.”

  “Okay,” Emily replied, not completely buying Jane’s answer.

  Jane nervously looked around the room. Her eyes rested briefly on the liquor cabinet against the far wall. Emily watched Jane intently. Jane turned back and saw the look on Emily’s face. “What?” Jane said, defensively.

  “Nothing.” Emily looked down at Jane’s leather satchel that lay against the wall. “Is that yours?”

  “Yes.” Jane moved into the living room and pulled out a cigarette pack from her shirt pocket. “Look, why don’t you come in here and sit down or something.”

  Emily set down her Starlight Starbright projector and sauntered into the living room. “Does your hand still hurt?”

  Jane searched throughout every pocket, trying to find matches. She looked at her left hand. She suddenly realized she hadn’t changed the bandage in two days. “Nah.” Digging into her trouser pocket, she came up with a box of matches from RooBar. She lit up and took in a meaningful puff on the cigarette.

  There was thick silence as Jane positioned herself on the couch and Emily slid onto the facing chair. Emily looked at Jane with the same fascination she had in the interrogation room. It made Jane extremely uneasy. “What are you doing, Emily?”

  The child struggled to reconcile what she saw with what she was thinking. But there was no way to explain it. “When did you start smoking?” Emily asked.