Protector

by Laurel Dewey

  Silence.

  With the cop close behind her, she crept to the door that led into the living room. “Police!” she yelled out, maneuvering her body into the room. That’s when she smelled it. The stench of blood and fear and death. Jane could feel her throat closing up—a visceral reaction she only experienced when she was virtually standing on top of carnage. She looked down and caught sight of a blanket draped across the end of the couch. With measured steps, she moved forward. The coffee table came into view. A freshly peeled orange sat alone amongst Emily’s scattered drawings and colored pencils. One more step and Jane saw the entire bloody scene.

  Someone lay covered under the blanket, curled up as though they were sleeping. The top of the blanket was soaked in blood from a single gunshot to the head. A knife—the same one used to peel the orange—had been shoved into the person’s left cheek and through one of Emily’s drawings. As Jane moved closer, she made out the words “PAYBACK!” written in red colored pencil across the drawing. Jane could feel herself about to lose it. “Please, God, no,” she whispered under her breath. She gently pulled up the blanket. It was Martha.

  Jane’s body tensed as she turned to the staircase that led to Emily’s bedroom. “God, don’t you do this again,” she whispered to herself with fear and anger. Without acknowledging the cop, Jane headed toward the stairs. When she reached the bottom step and looked up, she saw the door kicked in and the lights out. “Police!” Her voice cracked as she screamed the word. Skimming her back against the wall, she walked up the steps. With each step, her stomach churned. When she reached the top step, she reached around the wall and felt for the light switch. Jane flipped it up and snapped to attention, gun extended. She immediately noted the bedside lamp smashed against the wall. She looked to the closet and edged her way toward it. With a quick twist of the knob, she jerked the door open and shoved the pistol forward. Nothing.

  Jane peered over to the bed. She wedged her boot against the bed frame and shoved it forward across the pink carpeting. No one hiding. The large sycamore branch tapped nervously against the far window, as if to alert Jane. Still moving with extreme caution, Jane stepped to the window and looked out into the darkness. But the shadows played tricks with her eyes. She looked down on the carpet and saw Emily’s discarded jumper, wet from her outdoor adventure earlier that evening. The flashlight Martha had given her was still attached to the strap. Jane leaned over and ripped the flashlight off the strap, clamping it between her teeth. The bright sapphire colored light was surprisingly effective in illuminating the rooftop outside the window. Jane checked the area and listened intently for a sound but there was only silence.

  She pushed her body up onto the window ledge and did her best to get through the open window and onto the roof without causing too much noise. Once outside, she hunkered down, pistol still at the ready. Pointing the flashlight across the roof, she looked for signs of a struggle but the darkness prevented her from picking up the subtle clues. Another skim of the flashlight to the right and then to the left and she stopped.

  The vent pipe was obviously bent and precariously leaning across the edge of the roof. Jane flattened her body against the wet roof and carefully slid down to the pipe. As she came up on it, she examined it with the flashlight and realized it was a recent break. She looked out into the dense charcoal black darkness that filled the backyard. That same feeling came over her—the awareness that someone was out there. She craned her neck and removed the flashlight from between her teeth. Guardedly, Jane shone the pinpoint beam of light across the yard. Back and forth and back again.

  Then, she saw her. There was Emily, directly beneath the edge of the roof, sprawled across the grass. She lay unconscious on her back, her head to the side, with blood pouring from a gash along her left temple. “Christ!” Jane said with a shudder as she threw the small flashlight to the side, secured her pistol and stood up. Without giving it a thought, she leapt onto the large sycamore branch and dropped down to the trunk of the tree. She nearly lost her balance, but she quickly recovered and continued down the tree. When Jane was about six feet from the ground, she jumped feet first to the grass and lunged toward Emily.

  She immediately checked Emily’s heartbeat. It was beating but it was very faint. Jane opened the child’s mouth to see if anything was obstructing her breathing. “Don’t do this to me!” she screamed in frustration. Without hesitating, Jane carefully scooped up Emily’s frail body and cradled the child in her arms. She half-ran toward the back gate and tore down the driveway to her Mustang. Patrol cars zoomed onto the scene. Undeterred by their presence, Jane opened the passenger door on the Mustang and gently placed Emily into the seat, securing her with the seat belt.

  A cop raced over to Jane. “Perry! Is that the kid?” Jane ignored him as she ran around to the driver’s side. “Perry, you can’t do this! It’s against regulations!”

  Jane slid into her car, slamming the door. “Fuck regulations! I’m going to Denver Health! Tell them I’m coming!” she yelled, peeling away from the scene. Jane tore down Franklin, ignoring every stop sign and hitting speeds well over fifty mph. She reached over and brushed the dripping blood out of Emily’s eyes. “Don’t you die on me, kid!”

  Jane zoomed through red lights and crisscrossed around traffic, screeching her tires around the curves. She was within a mile of Denver Health Medical Center and continued driving like a maniac and screaming at Emily. “Come on, Emily! I know you can hear me! Come back!” Jane spun the Mustang into Denver Health, heading for the Emergency entrance. Skidding to a halt, she yanked out the keys and ran around to Emily’s side. She undid the seat belt and hoisted the kid into her arms. “Police!” she screamed, racing to the doors. Several nurses ran up to her.

  “Are you Perry?” one nurse quickly asked.

  “Yes!” Jane yelled back.

  A stretcher appeared and the nurses carefully placed Emily on it. “What happened?” the nurse asked as they dashed through the automatic doors and down the hallway to a curtained treatment area.

  “I don’t know,” Jane said, her voice shaking as she ran alongside the stretcher. “I think she was on the roof and there may have been a struggle—”

  “How far did she fall?” the nurse asked.

  “Maybe thirty feet!”

  “You shouldn’t have moved her!” the nurse admonished.

  “What the hell was I supposed to do? Watch her die?”

  The nurse shot Jane an angry look as they swung the stretcher into the treatment area. A doctor made his way into the space and started checking Emily’s vital signs. The nurse relayed the information given to her from Jane. Their conversation blurred into the background noise as Jane stared transfixed by Emily’s tiny body on the stretcher. Her favorite pajamas with the star print were blotted with grass stains, dirt from the roof, leaves and splatters of blood.

  The doctor fixed a bright overhead light above Emily’s head. He checked for any fixation in her eyes. Turning to Jane, he asked, “What’s her name?”

  “Emily,” Jane responded.

  “Emily?” the doctor said, his mouth inches away from the child’s bloody face. “Emily? My name is Dr. Brunler. You’re in the hospital. If you can hear me, honey, wake up.” He pried open Emily’s mouth, felt around her throat with his gloved finger and turned to one of the nurses. “I think there might be an obstruction in her airway. We may need to intubate.”

  Jane reacted. She leaned down and whispered into Emily’s ear. “Emily! Wake up now or they’re going to stick a damn tube down your throat! Open your eyes!”

  The doctor heard Jane and grabbed her by her shoulder. “Officer, I can’t have you talking to her like that. I need you to leave.”

  A nurse tried to pull Jane away from Emily. “She listens to me!” Jane yelled.

  “Nurse,” Dr. Brunler said, irritated, “please show her into the waiting room!”

  “Get your hands off me!” Jane shouted at the nurse. But the nurse kept moving her backward, away from Em
ily. Jane turned to Emily and yelled. “Goddamnit, Emily! Wake up! Don’t let the bastard who did this to you win!”

  “Officer, please!” the nurse implored Jane as she pulled her backward.

  “Hey, hey!” the doctor said abruptly. “She’s coming around!”

  The nurse immediately let go of Jane and returned to the table. “Stay back!” the nurse cautioned Jane.

  Jane stood away from the action, but positioned herself in a spot nearby where she could see Emily’s face. Emily struggled to open her eyes.

  The doctor pushed the light out of Emily’s eyes. “Emily? Talk to me!” Emily darted her eyes from side to side. “Emily, can you move your head?”

  Emily stared at the surrounding hospital staff. “Jane?” she whimpered. “Where are you?” Emily caught sight of Jane through the hospital crew. Immediately, she reached out her arm and lifted her body off the table, trying to get to her. “Jane!” Jane moved forward, grabbing Emily’s hand. The doctor gently restrained Emily, encouraging her to lie back on the table. “Jane, I’m scared!”

  “It’s okay,” Jane assured Emily. “Lie down. They’re gonna fix you up.”

  Emily lay back down and reached up to her left temple, touching the gash and feeling the blood. She broke down. “I tried to hold on,” Emily said through her sobs. “I was so scared. Somebody came on the roof. I slipped, just like you said I would. I tried to hide. I held my breath so he wouldn’t hear me. He was so close. Then that car drove down the alley and he left. But I couldn’t hold on anymore.” She briefly looked up at Jane, tears intermingling with blood against her pale face. “I’m so sorry!”

  The doctor retrieved a syringe from one of the nurses and looked at Jane as if to ask her to distract the child.

  “Look at me, Emily,” Jane said quietly. Emily turned to Jane. “I’m not mad at you. Okay?” The doctor injected Emily with a sedative. Emily screamed out in pain. Jane squeezed Emily’s hand and gently touched her cheek. “It’s all over! It’s gonna be okay!” Emily stared into Jane’s eyes as the sedative took effect. Jane leaned closer to Emily and whispered. “I’m not mad at you.”

  Emily’s eyelids became heavy. She slid her hand from Jane’s grasp and reached up toward Jane’s forehead. The child ran her fingers across Jane’s childhood scar on her right temple. In a soft voice, Emily whispered, “We’re the same now.”

  Chapter 15

  Jane held Emily’s hand and stayed by her side while Dr. Brunler stitched the child’s gash. Thanks to the mild sedative, Emily floated in and out of consciousness. As the bandage was placed over the wound, Emily finally drifted off to sleep. Jane released Emily’s tiny hand from hers and the child was rolled into a secured area for recovery.

  The nurse swept the white privacy curtain to the side, leaving Jane alone. But she sat motionless, shellshocked and still pulsating from everything that had happened that night. She leaned forward on the stool and buried her head in her hands. Behind her, a string of exhausted patrol cops began to arrive. Several of the cops positioned themselves outside the area where Emily rested. Within seconds, Chris appeared on the scene, racing down the corridor and out of breath. Just like the others, he looked like hell. As usual with Chris, whenever he sweated, the perspiration tended to exacerbate his springtime rash, which was currently making another appearance.

  Chris looked around the hospital area and then spotted Jane with her back to him. He stared at her for several minutes, seemingly stunned before walking over to her. “Jane?” he said more as a question.

  Jane lifted her head from her hands and turned to face Chris. “Jesus! Don’t creep up on me like that!”

  “Oh, my God,” was all Chris could say as he began to tremble.

  “What’s wrong with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I thought you were . . .” Chris’ voice began to choke up. “I thought you were in the house—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “When they paged me . . . they said there was an adult DOA on scene—”

  “None of this would have happened if I had been there. Is it that Martha doesn’t listen or was she not told to keep that place closed up?”

  Chris ran his fingers through his dirty, rainsoaked hair, trying to get hold of himself. “I don’t know.” He steadied himself and looked at Jane. “You okay?”

  “Am I okay?” Jane asked. “Well, let’s see. Considering that I am responsible for this entire mess—”

  “You?” Chris interrupted. “How are you responsible?” Jane shook her head in slight disgust. “It’s just a job to you, isn’t it?” Jane let out a tired sigh. “Once again, someone died tonight because of my inability to follow through and see the signs. If it wasn’t for some strange, freaky stroke of luck, someone else would have died.” Jane looked off to the side, fighting back tears. “This is not my job, Chris. This is my life. And I’m not very good at it.”

  Chris got down on his haunches. “Don’t beat yourself up. It’s not your fault. Shit happens, you know? At least the son-of-a-bitch couldn’t find the kid and had to take off. Don’t blame yourself for this huge mistake.” Chris placed his hand on Jane’s leg.

  Jane felt cold and vacant as she looked into Chris’ eyes. It was so clear to her at that very moment why they could never again be partners on or off the force. “A mistake?” Jane said softly. “That’s how you describe all of this?”

  “Well, it was.”

  “Take your fucking cold hand off my leg and get out of my sight.”

  Chris pulled back. “Jane, I just—”

  “Are you fucking deaf?” Jane yelled as she looked to her right and saw evidence technician Ron Dickson standing in the sterile hallway. She immediately felt embarrassed by her expletive, realizing that Ron heard her. “Ron,” she said haltingly.

  “Good evening, Detective Perry. Detective Crawley,” Ron said.

  Chris stood up and acknowledged Ron.

  “What are you doing here?” Jane asked Ron. “I didn’t know that evidence techs got paged for stuff like this.”

  Ron moved closer to Jane. She noticed that he seemed troubled. “Oh, it’s actually an unfortunate coincidence.”

  Chris observed Ron. “You’re shaking there, pal. You okay?”

  “Oh, yeah. I’ve just had a rocky last few hours.”

  “What do you mean?” Chris said, closely watching Ron’s every move.

  “I was helping my wife cut up beeswax for her famous herbal salve and the knife slipped. I darn near cut off the tip of my left finger.” Ron held up his bandaged hand.

  “You okay?” Jane asked.

  “Oh, it’ll be just fine,” Ron said, dismissing the question. “When I heard about your little girl in there—”

  “My little girl?” Jane said quickly.

  “Well, I mean to say you were looking after her and all.” Ron quickly sniffed a ball of snot up his nose. “I’m sorry. I’m a little discombobulated. I just got word from one of the patrol cops about Martha. I’m in shock,” Ron said, shaking his head.

  “Yeah,” Jane replied.

  “I’ll let you and Detective Crawley go about your business,” Ron said as he stole a look in Emily’s direction. “God bless you both.”

  Ron started off when Chris quickly spoke up. “Hey, Ron! You need a ride home? I could take you. It’s no problem.”

  “No, thank you. My wife will take me home.”

  “Really?” Chris said, his voice becoming slightly intense. “Where is your wife?” Chris suddenly became an inquisitor.

  Ron rubbed his hand in obvious pain. “Oh, she’s gone out to get the car. She had to park pretty far away after she dropped me off. I’m sorry, I need to go. I’m not feeling very well. My wife and I will keep you in our prayers. Both of you.” Ron turned and walked down the hallway.

  Chris moved several steps into the hallway, watching Ron’s every last move. “Yeah, bud, I’ll bet you’ll be praying real hard,” Chris said under his breath.

&nbs
p; “Chris, what’s wrong with you?” Jane asked.

  “Jane! Have you lost your touch? I thought you were a student of observation. Body language and the whole nine yards.”

  “What about it?”

  “He’s shaking like a fucking perp. And he’s sniffing like a fucking coke fiend.”

  Jane stood up, disgusted. “You have got to be kidding!” “There are no coincidences, Jane.”

  “You’re not seriously trying to say that Ron could—”

  “Jane, think about it! He cut his finger chopping beeswax for an herbal salve? What kind bullshit is that?”

  “His wife makes the stuff! He offered me the salve for my burn. Ron is—”

  “Shhh! Let’s just keep this to ourselves until I can investigate further,” Chris said in a hushed, confidential tone.

  “My God!” Jane said, completely bewildered. “I’ve said it before, Chris, and I’ll say it again. You have got to do something about that paranoia.”

  “No, Jane. I’ve got to do something about solving this case. You may not be able to see what’s standing right in front of you. But I’m not going to make that mistake again.” Chris turned to walk down the hallway, then stopped and looked back at Jane. “I’ve got some questions I want you to ask that kid. It can wait for a few days until she’s back on her feet. Until then, I’m gonna do a little private investigation of Mr. Dickson.”

  “Chris, you’re crazy.”

  “Crazy like a fox, kid. Wake up, Jane!” Chris said with a smirk. “I’m gonna solve this crime and I’m gonna put DH back in good favor. And I will get that Sergeant’s promotion. Hey, when that happens, you’ll be working for me. Won’t that be sweet? Watch over that little girl in there. She’s solid gold.” With that, Chris walked down the hallway and disappeared around the corner.