by Laurel Dewey
“I understand this job is taking its toll on you.” Weyler’s voice bled back into Jane’s consciousness. “And I’m aware that you’re not used to working with children. But you must be doing something right. The child obviously has kind feelings for you. She said over and over how it was her fault that she went outside and that she doesn’t blame you one bit for yelling at her. So, if that’s all you need from me, I’ll be on my way.” Weyler started toward the front door.
“I can’t stay here,” Jane said quietly. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“Jane, the child isn’t holding any grudge! Let’s move on!”
“Boss,” Jane reached out and grabbed Weyler by the arm. Weyler stopped, realizing she was serious. “I’m not asking to leave. I’m telling you that I’m leaving. Call her aunt and uncle in Cheyenne and take her up there.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes! Tonight! It’s a ninety minute drive. She’ll be up there before midnight.”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“Yes. Actually, I have.”
“No one is driving that child anywhere tonight. You talk about protocol? I can’t suddenly call up her aunt and say ‘Make up the bed in the guest room. I’m bringing up your niece.’ She is still in our protective custody and that’s exactly where she’s going to stay until we solve this damn case or I feel there’s a justifiable reason to release the girl.”
“Then take her to the foster home—”
“Jane. I have broken every goddamn rule with this case. I have stretched my leveraging as far as it will go. I am not going to be sashaying this child around Denver tonight and plopping her in some foster house.”
“Fine. Go out there and get Martha and tell her she’s spending the night on the couch. I’m going home.” Jane opened the front door and walked into the darkness, leaving Weyler alone and stunned.
Jane did not say a word to Weyler during the ten minute drive back to her house. The Saturday evening traffic was a bit heavier than usual due to the Memorial Day Weekend events. As she stared out the window, Jane wondered if Emily had crept downstairs yet and found Martha sitting on the couch. Martha arrived at the door with a bag of oranges and apples, saying something about “It’s my dinner” to Jane as they passed on the front porch. Perhaps Martha had made a beeline up to the child’s bedroom to soothe Emily and ask her in a roundabout way the real reason Jane left. But she knew down deep that no matter how much Martha pried, that kid would never say a word about the physical altercation earlier that evening.
Jane was staggered and frustrated all in the same moment. Emily purposely covered up the violent event to protect Jane. Amazing. But why? It wasn’t like they were friends, Jane thought to herself. There wasn’t any kind of connection. Connection? It was too much for Jane to allow.
Weyler rolled up to Jane’s front door but kept the motor running. He stared straight ahead, silent and etched with disappointment. “Okay,” was all she could manage as she got out of his car. He drove down Milwaukee and disappeared into the darkness. After fishing her keys out of her leather satchel, she maneuvered her way up the short walk to her front door. Once inside, she dropped her satchel to the wooden floor and stood in the pitchblack. Within the threads of darkness, she felt herself coming apart bit by bit. There was nothing left to her life. After all the work and the years of struggle, she considered herself a total failure. Singlehandedly, she’d destroyed herself and her life with such precision that to bring back any semblance of order was impossible.
Feeling her way across the living room, Jane stumbled into the kitchen and tapped on the light over the stove. She swung open a cupboard door, brought out a fifth of Jack Daniels, twisted off the cap and took a long swig. At first, the liquid burn was comforting; a warm reminder of what it felt like to be numb and pain-free. She knocked back another swallow. Jane closed her eyes and waited to detach. But suddenly, she felt herself choking. Seconds later, she started to cough. She got her head over the sink just in time to spew the whiskey down the drain. Her body arced in violent waves as she threw up every drop of Jack Daniels. Once nothing was left inside of her, Jane sunk down to the floor, bottle in hand. She stuck her finger in the neck of the bottle, saturated it with whiskey and sucked on it. But moments later, the same gag reflex took effect. Jane threw the bottle across the floor and stared into the semi-darkness. Was this the way it was going to be from now on? If so, there was no good reason to stick around.
Jane unsnapped her holster and drew out her Glock pistol. It would be so easy. Just wrap her mouth around the tip of the barrel, tilt it at a forty-five degree angle and pull the trigger. One, two, three. No big deal. No one to mourn her. Well, maybe Mike. But he’d get over it with his new girlfriend by his side.
Jane brushed her finger against the barrel of the pistol as an eerie sensation descended over her. She didn’t hear voices—it was more like she felt them. They were coaxing her, encouraging her, goading her into doing the deed. No more pain. No more torment. No more guilt. No more regret. Just lift the pistol and do it.
Do it. Go on . . . do it, they urged.
Jane felt herself slipping into the warm, distant comfort of the intensifying voices. It’s easy. Do it! She lifted up the Glock as the chorus of encouragement grew. Her finger touched the trigger. The barrel was less than an inch from her mouth when one, solitary voice yelled out among the din.
“Jane!”
She froze. “Emily?” she whispered. She turned her head to the sound of the voice, trapped in the sliver between worlds. It was too real, too bizarre. Jane rested the pistol against her thigh, her hand still clutching it. She sat up, squinting into the darkness around her. “Emily?” she yelled. Silence. She was still halfway outside herself but she was convinced she’d turned the corner on certifiably crazy. A groundswell of emotion overwhelmed Jane and her eyes welled with heavy tears. She grabbed her head. “No, God! No!” She broke down, gradually slumping across the kitchen floor sobbing and mumbling incoherently. The harder she cried, the more she felt her body being lifted into the air by the back of her neck. She floated high above herself, seized by the darkness and sure of her fast descent into madness.
Jane opened her eyes and inexplicably found herself sitting in the passenger seat of a patrol car. It was so real—so frighteningly palpable. Everything around her lay hazy as if a thick fog gripped the area. She turned to the driver’s seat and saw Chris. He was staring straight ahead, completely paralyzed. Jane tried to roust him to no avail. She realized her body was moving in slow motion. Jane reached down to the door handle and unlatched the lock. She got out of the patrol car, still feeling as though she were floating. Standing outside the car, the thick fog embraced her body. Gradually, Jane caught a glimpse of two headlights coming toward her in the distance. As the lights came closer, the fog parted, exposing an SUV. Her rationale mind told her this was a dream—albeit, an odd, altered version of the usual Stover family nightmare. Jane strained to make out Bill Stover, the driver, but the fog would not allow it. Finally, when the vehicle was about thirty-five feet from her, the fog lifted just enough for Jane to look into the front seat of the car. There was no driver. No driver and yet the wheel kept moving and the car continued to eerily creep forward.
Jane started toward the car, her legs moving like jelly. She heard the muted sound of fists pounding on glass. Suddenly, she heard the isolated voice of a screaming child. The SUV continued inching toward her as the pounding fists and screaming grew louder. With one quick turn, the SUV changed course, turning right.
That’s when she saw it. There, alone in the backseat of the SUV was Emily. She slammed her fists against the glass and screamed out Jane’s name.
“Jane!” Emily shrieked. “Help me!”
Jane’s connected with Emily’s eyes just as a tremendous explosion rocketed through the fog and silence, blasting the SUV into a thousand tiny pieces.
Jane stood amidst the raining fire and screamed, “No! Emily!”
Slam!
>
Jane woke up on the kitchen floor with a core-rattling shock. “Emily!” Jane yelled into the darkness. Something was wrong—dead wrong. Her gut shouted a sick, twisted, dark warning. The more Jane leaned into the feeling, the more sinister it became.
Jane secured her pistol into its holster and rose quickly to her feet. Groping through the dim light, she snagged her leather satchel, pulled out her keys, bolted out the front door and raced toward her parked Mustang.
Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!
Emily looked up toward her closed bedroom door.
“Emily?” Martha said, standing outside the door. “It’s me, dear. Martha. May I come in?”
“Yes,” Emily said, subdued.
Martha walked into the bedroom, carrying several oranges and apples. “Well, it looks like someone’s all ready for bed!”
“Where’s Jane?” Emily quickly asked.
Martha looked off to the side. “Detective Jane had a very important meeting.”
Emily analyzed Martha’s face. “You’re lying.”
Martha was caught off guard. “Why would you say a thing like that?”
“Your face told me,” Emily said, not taking her eyes off of Martha. “She’s not at a meeting. She left. And she’s not coming back,”
Martha sat next to Emily on the bed, wrapping her arm around the child’s shoulders. “Now, dear. Don’t you worry one little snippet about Detective Jane. She can take care of herself—”
“No,” Emily interrupted. “She can’t!”
“Sweetheart,” Martha tousled Emily’s brown hair. “Did Detective Jane tell you that she couldn’t take care of herself?”
Emily studied Martha’s inquiring eyes and felt uneasy. “No. She’s strong. She could fight anybody and win. If someone was trying to hurt me, she’d beat them up and save me.”
Martha let out a little derisive chortle. “My! She certainly has told you a big barrel of bragging.”
“She didn’t say any of that,” Emily pulled away. “I just have to know it.”
“Well, okay,” Martha said, not taking Emily too seriously. “I brought you some oranges and apples—”
“No, thank you.” Emily stared out the window. Martha let out a low sigh. “Alright, then. I’ll say good night.” She got up. “I’ll be downstairs, sleeping on the couch if you need me.”
Tat-tat-tat!
Emily jumped to attention. “What’s that?” she said, startled.
Martha opened Emily’s door and peeked downstairs into the living room. “It’s just the wind, dear. It’s blown the curtain rod against the table.”
“You’ve got the window open?” Emily said, concerned.
“Well, my goodness, yes. I have several windows open. It was so stuffy down there. You shouldn’t sleep in a stuffy house. It’s not good for you!”
“Please close all those windows!” Emily implored.
“Sweetie, fresh air—”
“You can’t have the doors open and you can’t have the windows open!”
“Emily, dear, calm down.” Martha sat back on the bed, observing the child. “Look at you. You’re shaking. What’s wrong?”
“This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be,” she said confused and scared.
“Whatever are you talking about?”
“Where’s Jane?”
“There’s no need to be frightened—”
“Where is she?” A mixture of fear and anger consumed the girl.
Martha let out a long sigh. “Jane had to go home. She’s sick.”
Emily stared into the void. “Something’s wrong—”
“Wrong?”
Emily turned to Martha. “I have to call her!”
“Sweetie, you can’t call her! Now, get into bed and—”
“I need to call her now!”
“Detective Jane has obviously upset you. Would you like to talk about it?”
“Are you gonna let me call Jane?”
Martha sized up Emily. “No. I am not. Come on, I’ll tuck you in—”
“No! I just want to sit here.”
“Well, okay. But the sandman will be here soon.”
Emily regarded Martha with suspicion. “The sandman? Who’s he?”
“Don’t you know the sandman?”
An ominous dark cloud overwhelmed Emily as she looked at Martha. “No,” she said softly, feeling a distinct terror bite into her stomach. “I don’t think I want to.”
“Good night, Emily.” Martha turned to go. “You’re safe, sweetheart. Perfectly safe.” With that, Martha walked into the hallway, closing the door behind her.
Emily waited until she heard Martha’s footsteps descend the stairs. She quietly crept to her window and pushed open the stubborn pane that had caused so many problems that night. Emily stuck her head out the window and peered into the night sky. The clouds were quickly clearing as a palate of twinkling stars blanketed the blue-black sky. In an instant, a shooting star dove across the horizon. Emily closed her eyes. “Jane,” Emily whispered. “You’re supposed to be here.”
Thud!
Emily turned quickly toward her bedroom door. The sound came from downstairs. She stood perfectly still. Maybe Martha dropped something. Emily considered cracking her bedroom door to investigate but something held her back. She turned around to the window, feeling an uncommon draw to climb out on the roof. She pulled herself up onto the window ledge, knocking over the screen she’d removed earlier that evening. Once on the roof, she made a point of not pushing the window shut. She scooted her butt just a few feet away from the window and out of the sycamore tree’s shadow. It was all so silent. So serene. So peaceful. And then . . .
Bang!
Emily jumped and quickly turned toward her bedroom window. The penetrating sound came from downstairs and echoed in the night air for several heart-racing seconds. Panic quickly set in. Without watching her step, Emily hurriedly got up. In a split second, her foot slipped on the wet roof. She reached out to grab the window ledge but it was too late. Emily slid down toward the edge of the roof on her stomach, desperately grasping for anything to stop her fall. The only thing she caught hold of was a vent pipe that protruded from the roof. Emily circled her arms around it and held on for dear life as her legs dangled helplessly forty feet off the ground. She looked down. If she let go, she had a fifty-fifty chance of landing either on grass or cement. Since she would be falling backward, gravity would determine which of the two she’d hit.
Slam!
Emily seized up when she heard the sound of her bedroom door being kicked in. Moments later, she heard the splintering crash of her bedside lamp as it was thrown against the wall. Her breathing became labored as she struggled to hold on to the air pipe. The individual in her bedroom moved toward the open window. Emily heard the person breathing and then slightly grunting as they hoisted themselves up onto the window ledge and out onto the roof. Emily closed her eyes, trying to hold her breath.
Footsteps moved cautiously across the roof. One, two, three steps then stopping. A careful turn and one, two, three, four steps and stopping. The intruder’s breath came closer to where Emily’s body hung. Keeping her head tucked inward toward the roof, she listened to every breath of the individual. The steps moved closer to Emily. One step, and then another.
A cruel gust of wind blew across the backyard. Emily heard the familiar tap, tap, tap of the sycamore branch beating against her bedroom window, followed by the slow roll of tires creeping along the back alleyway. The intruder made a determined step forward and Emily realized that the person was within a foot of her body. She pressed her forehead into the roof and waited for the worst.
Jane crisscrossed through traffic, ignoring the series of one-way streets and driving in the opposite direction. She jumped her Mustang over the center median on Eighth Street, stormed down the side streets and barreled through red lights. Once on University, she shifted gears, zigzagged around vehicles and reached speeds of seventy-five mph in forty-five mph zones. An evil, forebod
ing feeling permeated her bones. Her gut twisted and a cold sweat broke out across the back of her neck. Jane peeled onto Exposition and continued clocking speeds of sixty to seventy miles per hour until she reached Franklin. She nearly lost control of the Mustang as she turned sharply to the right and came to a squealing stop in front of the Lawrence house.
Tearing out of her car, she pulled out her Glock. Both watch officers were already out of their respective vehicles and standing near the middle of the street. When they saw Jane’s car swerve around the corner and come to a sudden halt, they automatically pulled out their pistols. “It’s me! Perry!” Jane screamed.
“We think we heard a shot fired!” one of the officers yelled.
“Shit!” Jane yelled. She turned to the other officer “Call for backup! You—” she said, addressing the other cop, “follow me and cover!” Jane raced down the driveway, her pistol clasped tightly between her hands. As she sprinted toward the gate, she noted that two windows were swung wide open in front of the house. Other than that, nothing seemed to be disturbed. The cop shadowed Jane as she kicked open the front gate and held out her Glock. The well-lit living room cast enough light into the area for Jane to see that there was no one there. Jane motioned to the cop to follow her alongside the wall, just under the windows that framed the fireplace. When she crept to a point where she felt safe, Jane lifted her body and peered into the living room through the gauzy drapes. The room outwardly showed no signs of struggle. Jane knelt down and moved toward the corner of the house, near the back door. She waited one second, then swung around, pistol extended. Nothing.
“Police!” Jane screamed out. She waited but heard nothing. Someone was out there. She felt it. Jane turned to the cop and whispered, “Where the fuck is backup?” Crashing into the house with the possibility of someone lurking in the shadows was not part of her program. But Jane felt an urgency to get inside the house. Keeping her pistol extended, she walked around the flowerpots by the back door. The patrol cop followed. She turned to the back kitchen door. It was wide open. A cold chill ran down Jane’s spine as she peered into the darkened kitchen. She nodded toward the cop to follow her. Jane entered the kitchen, pistol still out in front. “Police!” she screamed.
