Protector

by Laurel Dewey

  “Janie,” Mike said curtly, “there comes a time when you gotta say that you are no longer in control and that you trust in a higher power. That’s the first step.”

  Jane could hardly believe what she was hearing. “Oh, shit. You went to a goddamn AA meeting.”

  “Yes. And it made sense—”

  “Who in the hell dragged you to a fucking AA meeting?” Mike stared at Jane for a long second and then looked toward his house. “That bitch!”

  “Don’t call her that!”

  “So that’s the ‘group’ you mentioned. Has she got a bunch of useless AA members selling her jewelry at the art show? Oh, this is rich! Mike, she doesn’t know you! She will never know you! But I do know you and I’ll always be there.”

  “Lisa used to be an alcoholic and a drug addict. I told her about dad and how he drank and beat on us growing up—”

  “What are you doing telling that bitch stories about our private life?”

  “Stop calling her a bitch!”

  “Those are personal stories, Mike! You had no right to tell a perfect stranger about what happened to us!”

  “She’s not a stranger!” Mike yelled. “You and me, we both have stories to tell! We lived in hell, Janie! Every second of every day was spent in fear of getting the shit kicked out of us. And when you moved out, you made sure you always had a bottle at the ready so you could drown yourself and not feel anything!”

  “Stop it!”

  “No!” Mike grabbed on to Jane’s arm. “You gotta hear this! Part of you died growing up. Part of both of us died! But we just kept digging holes inside of ourselves and burying it. But there comes a time when you can’t stuff it inside any longer and pretend that it didn’t count—that it didn’t change you forever. That what happened didn’t kill you.” Mike’s tears began to flow as he let go of Jane’s arm. “As much as it hurts, I can’t keep drowning in a bottle. I don’t want to lie to myself anymore. I don’t want to wake up and hate myself every fucking day. I’m thirty years old, Janie. I think it’s time I stopped denying everything! I gotta take charge of my life. I need to find something wonderful in my life. And that’s what I’m doing.”

  Jane turned to her brother, a pitiful look crossing her face. “Mike, this is an ugly, dark, awful world. It’s full of people who want to destroy you. Can’t you see that?”

  Mike wiped away his tears. “There’s beauty, Janie. There has to be.”

  A tear streamed down Jane’s face. “No, Mike. There isn’t.”

  Mike reached out to Jane, a profound sadness overwhelming him. “Oh, Janie. I’m so sorry you can only see the darkness. But I can’t live like that anymore. I’m gonna find peace. I’d really like you to be part of it. But if you can’t, then I’m doing it without you.”

  Jane stood still, completely unnerved. She’d lost control over the one person she had always been able to mold and dominate. “I have to go,” she said, the strength sucked from her voice.

  “Janie,” Mike said, gently taking hold of Jane’s arm. “Remember the other night when I told you about every time I make a wish, how I wish for freedom?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I finally got my wish, Janie,” Mike said, tears falling down his face. “And it’s more than I ever dreamed about.”

  “I’m happy for you,” she replied, not really knowing what to say.

  “From now on, I’m wishing it for you.”

  Jane looked off into the distance, her heart empty. “Freedom? I have no idea what that means.” She started toward her car.

  “You’re going away with that little girl, aren’t you?” Mike said quickly. Jane kept her back turned and said nothing. “She’s lucky to have you,” Mike said earnestly. “I know that you won’t let anything bad happen to her.”

  Jane closed her eyes tightly, steeling herself from that memory so long ago. She opened her car door when Mike called out to her.

  “I love you, Janie!”

  Without uttering a word, Jane got into her car and never looked back.

  Jane spent Memorial Day packing her bags. Not knowing where she was going or for how long, she didn’t know exactly what to bring. She filled one bag with clothes and a couple pair of shoes and a smaller bag with her collection of CD’s. A third bag was crammed with piles of notes, yellow legal-size notepads and the sundry newspapers with feature articles on the Stover murder case. One of the newspapers sported both Jane and Chris’ photos on the front page. When she caught sight of Chris’ mug, she turned the paper over and stuffed it deep into the bag.

  By noon, she finished packing and collapsed on the living room couch. The call from Weyler could come at any time. However, being a holiday weekend, Jane knew there was a good chance she and Emily would not be departing to their location until at least Tuesday. She couldn’t tolerate just sitting still but she didn’t want to go for a walk. She didn’t want to watch television. She thought about downing a couple beers, but somehow the idea lost its appeal between the couch and the refrigerator. And so, she did the only thing she knew to do on a holiday weekend. She went to the firing range.

  It was a way to focus, concentrate and blow off the compressed steam that was quickly building inside of her. Jane always went to the same indoor range. It was located in the city of Englewood, southeast of where she lived. She was the only cop who frequented the place—a fact the owners of the firing range bragged about, but that her colleagues at DH always blasted. She wasn’t going to frequent the cop bars so she sure as hell wasn’t going to patronize the cop firing ranges.

  Jane scanned the paper targets that were pinned behind the front desk. One drawing showed a lone male gunman pointing a weapon, another depicted two younger males pointing guns. A third target drawing caught her eye. “That’s new,” Jane said to Oscar, the owner of the range.

  Oscar looked up at the drawing. “Yeah, we nicknamed that one ‘The hostage.’ ”

  Jane stared at it. The target showed a grizzled older man with one arm tightly around the neck of a frightened female hostage and the other hand pointing a large caliber gun at her head. The goal, of course, was to blow as many holes in the grizzled perp without touching the girl. “Give me a bunch of those.” Jane said.

  Once she was positioned in lane eleven—her favorite lane since it was farthest away from the other customers—Jane adjusted the protective ear cups and pinned her target on the screen in front of her. She drew out her pistol, laid it on the shelf and pushed the release button that drove the target six feet away, then twelve feet and finally twenty feet. Jane settled on twelve feet and focused. She stared at the target as she wrapped her fingers around the Glock. With split-second reflexes, Jane lifted the pistol and hammered a clip at the perp’s head. She put down the gun and pushed the button, bringing the target closer. As it drew into view, she saw her handiwork: eight dead-on shots to the perp’s forehead and two dead-on hits to the female hostage. “Shit,” she said under her breath.

  For the next hour, Jane replaced clean versions of the same hostage target and practiced at distances of six to twenty feet. As good a shot as she was, Jane kept nicking or nailing the hostage every time. She was just about to put up another target when she felt two prying eyes behind her. Turning, she saw Sergeant Weyler on the other side of the glass, motioning for her to come out and talk to him.

  “I figured there were three places to find you,” Weyler said as he met Jane outside the secured area. “Your house, your brother’s house or here.”

  “I could use about three more days of practice.”

  “Well, you’re not going to get it. Let’s go outside.”

  They walked outside and sat down on a bench. Jane lit a cigarette as Weyler pulled a small pager from his jacket pocket.

  “This will be your only connection to me,” Weyler said, handing the pager to Jane. “It’s one of those voice pagers. I am the only one who has the number. If I page you, call me back on a secure land line—preferably a pay phone.”

  Jane nodded, sl
ipping the pager into her shirt pocket. “So, where I am going?”

  “Peachville, Colorado.”

  “You’re joking!” was all Jane could muster.

  “Do I look like I’m joking? It’s a small town. The population is under three thousand—”

  “Only if you count the dogs, cats and horses!” Jane turned away trying to digest the news. “Peachville? The town that celebrates fruit?”

  “Better figure out a way to like it because it’s going to be your home for a bit.”

  “Exactly how long is ‘a bit?’ ”

  “Don’t know. We’re still going to be working the case on this end. On your end, you’ll have the child who will hopefully continue to recall what happened that night. Between the two of us, maybe we can wrap up this whole thing in a month or two.”

  “A month or two?”

  “Or three. I’m not putting a definite time on your stay.” Jane thought for a second. “What did you tell Chris about my absence?”

  “I haven’t seen him. He’s so maxed on overtime that he’s got to take several days off. By the time I tell him and the rest of DH of the situation, you’ll be long gone.”

  “Well, good luck with Chris. He won’t go down easy. Did you give a heads-up to Peachville’s police about my presence?”

  “The sheriff has jurisdiction there and, no, I didn’t inform them. I don’t want any leaks within their department that could end up compromising Emily’s safety.”

  “What level of danger is Emily in?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is she’s not safe in this city anymore.”

  Jane took a drag on her cigarette. “You don’t think that there’s any connection between that nutcase that Chris dragged in? The one with the Lawrence’s silver cigarette case?”

  “No. Like you said, whoever did this is smart and possibly a pro.”

  Jane took another puff on her cigarette. “Where are we living?”

  “The DA’s office has secured a rental house under the name ‘Anne Calver.’

  Jane turned to Weyler, startled. “Anne Calver? That’s my mother’s name.”

  “I know. I ran across it in some of the old files from when your dad worked at DH. I can’t have you using your real name. Protective custody means you alter everything, including names and relationships. I figured that Anne was a name you were more likely to respond to since you had some connection to it.”

  “Anne Calver,” Jane mused.

  Weyler handed Jane several stapled pages. “Here’s the address of the house, how to get to the real estate office so you can get your house key and a map of the area. The individual from the DA’s office who made the arrangements with the real estate company on your behalf—who, by the way, said she was a friend of yours—explained that you would be occupying the residence with your nine-and-a-half-year-old daughter.”

  Jane looked up from the papers and stared at Weyler. “Daughter?”

  “Names and relationships must change—”

  “Wait a minute. You said I was hiding out with the kid. Nothing was said about me pretending to be her mother! I should have a say in this! I mean, do I look like someone’s mother?”

  “You have to blend into the town, Jane. You want to avoid rumor and gossip. Easiest way to accomplish that is to make you mother and daughter. By the way, I didn’t give Emily another first name because I wanted her to choose it. It’s got to be a name that she responds to, so the two of you figure that out.”

  Everything was happening too fast for Jane. “Boss, we have to talk about this—”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. Anne Calver and her daughter are going to live in Peachville.”

  “And where in the hell is Mr. Calver?”

  “I’ll leave the details of your fabricated past up to you. He could be dead, you could be divorced or he could have been a one night stand. However, I would strongly consider against the one night stand option. This is Peachville, not Peyton Place.”

  “Have you informed Emily about this ruse?”

  “Not yet. That’s my next stop. I wanted to give her as much time to recuperate as possible before laying out the whole thing.”

  “You’re expecting a helluva lot out of this kid! She loses her parents eight days ago and now she’s being shuttled to some two-bit town and asked to call me ‘Mom.’ I’m sure your psychotherapist pals down at DH would have a field day with this one!”

  “That kid is smart and you know it,” Weyler countered. “I know that once I sit down with her and explain why we’re doing this, she’ll have no trouble playing the role. She already looks up to you as a protective figure. Calling you ‘Mom’ occasionally shouldn’t be too difficult. You’re just going to have to learn how to respond to it!” Weyler stood up. “We’re shaking this thing down tomorrow morning at 8 a.m. sharp. I’ll pick you up at the house and drive you to the drop point.”

  “I’m not driving my car?”

  “No. I’ve secured a vehicle that we confiscated from a meth bust last year. It’s the perfect cover for your new role.”

  “I’m more comfortable in my own car!”

  “I can’t have you zooming around Peachville in a ’66 ice blue Mustang. You’d stick out like a sore thumb. Remember? Blend into the scenery. And circulate with the townsfolk. Let Emily play with the neighborhood children. But stay ever vigilant, with one eye on that child and the other eye out for any sign of trouble. Oh, leave your credit cards at home. I’ll supply you with enough cash to get you through at least two months. And have your brother collect your mail and bring it down to DH once a week. We’ll make sure all your bills are paid while you’re gone.”

  “Any other orders, boss?” Jane asked, with a touch of sarcasm.

  Weyler thought for a second. “Have you visited your father to say good-bye?” Jane shook her head. “Then you better get going. Visiting hours are up at eight.” Weyler started to move toward his parked car but then turned back to Jane. He could see that the weight of the world was on her shoulders. “It’s going to work out, Jane.”

  Jane looked off to the side. “You know what I find amazing, boss? You try to stay low your whole life and not stand out. But somehow the forces of the universe find you in the crowd and decide you’re ‘it.’And then for some unknown reason, they conspire against you until you either give up or give in.”

  Weyler was silent as he studied Jane’s somewhat dejected body. “You want to know what I find amazing, Jane?”

  “What?”

  “How our fulcrum, the thing we hold onto and that gets us through the day and night . . . how that thing often becomes our identity and is the one thing that can destroy us in the end.”

  The unannounced trip to visit her father went against her character. Whether she was going to his house or to the hospital, Jane always planned the visit days in advance. She needed time to get properly numbed in order to endure her father’s wrath. But there she was sitting in her car outside the nursing home front door, sucking the nicotine out of every cigarette she had left in her pack. That familiar knot began to pull tighter in her stomach as she neared his open door. Cautiously, she moved forward and stood in the doorway. Her father was fast asleep in his bed with the television, tuned to Court TV, on mute. She stayed still and observed him. His head was awkwardly bent to the side and his mouth slightly parted. A prickly growth of beard covered his usually clean-shaven face. The razor-sharp buzz haircut was a little unkempt. His complexion was sallow and his cheeks slightly sunken. For the first time in her life, Jane felt a sliver of superiority in his presence. As quickly as she felt it, however, she wondered if the whole thing was some sort of trick and that he would suddenly awaken, bolt from the bed and attack her. It was that last thought that kept her positioned in the doorway.

  “He’s been sleeping on and off all day.” Jane quickly turned to find Zoe, the head nurse, walking up to her. “It’s not one of his better days,” Zoe whispered to Jane, stealing a peek at Dale Perry’s slumbering body.


  “Okay,” Jane whispered, “give him a message for me. I have to go away on business and I might be gone for a while. Tell him that—”

  The clanging sound of a metal tray hitting the ground echoed through the hallway, startling Jane and rousing Dale.

  “I guess you can tell him yourself,” Zoe said turning to Dale. “Hello, Mr. Perry. Look who’s here to see you!”

  Zoe walked away, leaving Jane in the doorway. Dale squinted toward Jane.

  “You gonna stay in the doorway?” Dale slurred in an acid tongue. Jane moved forward, stopping several feet from his bedside. “What in the hell are you doing here? If you want money, you’re shit out of luck.” Jane remained silent, standing stoically. Dale turned and watched the muted program on Court TV. “You pick up that stuff from the workshop like I asked you and give it to the boys at DH?”

  “Yes.”

  Dale turned to Jane. “You didn’t fuck with anything in that workshop, did you?”

  Jane noticed his evil eye staring back at her, but somehow it didn’t affect her. She felt a swell of indignity well up inside of her. “Why would I fuck with anything in there?” As the words came out, she realized how strong and unafraid they sounded.

  Dale analyzed Jane. He tried to penetrate her being but his failing health made it difficult. “Don’t use that asshole attitude on me. You know what it’ll get you.”

  Jane moved closer to Dale’s bed. “Why don’t you tell me what it will get me?”

  “You think you can fuck with me now. Is that what you came here to do?”

  “No.”

  Dale checked out Jane’s body language and realized she was not her usual fearful self. A slow smile, laced with a sneer, melted onto his lips. “I’ll be in your head ’til the day you die.” Dale waited for the words to sink in and watch his daughter’s reaction. Jane stayed solid for a few seconds and then he could feel her beginning to doubt herself. “God, you’re so easy,” he said with a delirious glint in his eye.

  Jane felt herself slipping. “I’m going away,” she blurted.

  “Oh, yeah? Where?”

  “It’s confidential.”