by Laurel Dewey
“I guess.”
“Alright.” Jane patted Emily on the shoulder
“So, when are we leaving, Jane? I mean . . .” Emily struggled a bit. “Mom?”
Jane was caught off guard. “Look, you don’t have to do that when it’s just you and me. That’s just for when we’re in public. Where are your bags?”
“In the backseat.” Emily seriously considered Jane’s words. “The thing is, if I only call you ‘Mom’ in public and ‘Jane’ when we’re alone, I might forget and say ‘Jane’ when I should say ‘Mom.’ So, maybe I should call you ‘Mom’ all the time.”
Weyler walked to the car as Jane pulled Emily’s bags out of the car. “Ready?”
“Ready.” Jane turned to Emily. “We’ll talk about this later.” Emily walked around the Subaru, leaving Weyler and Jane alone. “This whole ‘mom’ thing is ridiculous,” Jane said confidentially to Weyler.
“It’s important you play the part so we don’t raise any suspicion. Treat it no differently than any of the undercover roles you’ve played. You played that hooker way back when you were on patrol and some cops still talk about how realistic you were.”
“A hooker and a mom. The only similarity is that it takes a big trick to pull them off successfully.” Jane lugged Emily’s luggage to the wagon and tossed it in the backseat. Emily sat in the front seat, her seat belt already fastened across her. She held open her Starlight Starbright vinyl case and looked longingly at several family photos.
Weyler held his hand out to Jane. “Good luck.” Jane eyed him briefly before shaking his hand. She had reached a point where she wasn’t sure of her own ability to judge another human being. Standing there with Weyler on that isolated dirt road, she wondered if she was shaking hands with her friend or her executioner. She looked over at Emily, still engrossed in her photographs. She surmised that from this moment on, it was the two of them against the world. Their ultimate survival would depend entirely on Jane’s ability to stay focused, resolute and constantly on guard. “What route are you taking?” Weyler asked.
Jane opened the driver’s side door. If Weyler was trying to garner more information so he could have somebody follow, Jane was damned if she was going to freely supply it. “Not sure. I was thinking I might go by way of Utah. Or maybe I’ll go to Kansas first. I want to keep that mystery alive.” Jane hoped that he would catch her drift that she was onto him. But all he did was turn away and smile.
“Just make sure you get there before five o’ clock,” Weyler said, walking to the sedan. “The real estate woman has to give you the house key. Her name is Kathy. Apparently, she’s real perky and friendly over the phone. I know the two of you will hit it off like sorority sisters.” Weyler’s last sentence dripped with sarcasm. He got into the sedan and pulled away in a cloud of dust and gravel.
Jane got into the Subaru and secured her seat belt. She looked around the dash and then up at the closed sunroof. “Pathetic,” she mumbled to herself.
“I’m glad you told me to keep these photos nearby.”
“Why’s that?”
Emily looked at the photos, brushing her finger across her dad’s face. “That was a good day.” Emily brightened a bit.
Jane reached into the backseat and pulled out her bag filled with CDs. “We’ve got a five hour drive ahead and we need the right tunes to get us there.” Jane quickly lit a cigarette as she searched through the CDs.
“You know,” Emily said carefully, referring to Jane’s cigarette. “That’s not good for my health.”
“Yes. But forcing me not to smoke would be even more detrimental to your health.” Jane rolled down the windows to let the smoke escape.
Emily pulled out a couple of the CDs. “Who’s Joe Cocker?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Is he any good?”
“Kid, if you don’t feel this in your toenails, there’s something wrong with you.” Jane popped in Cocker’s Mad Dogs and Englishmen CD. “Let’s rattle this wagon.” Jane turned on the ignition, turned up the volume on “Cry Me a River” and peeled down the road.
She headed westbound on Interstate 70. Her need for extreme speed was only tempered by how fast the Subaru could climb the passes and take the curves. They stopped at the 11,000 foot Summit rest area so Jane could use the bathroom. While Jane ducked in to use the facilities, Emily stood outside and took in the high altitude view. It was one of those clear, late May days in the Colorado high country where patches of spring snow still stuck stubbornly to the north-facing grassy hills. Emily was drawn to a mound of snow nearby the restroom. She poked at the icy remains until she touched something hard. Carefully, she pulled the object out of the snow and found a metal bracket with a bright red edge of color encircling it. The object had fallen off someone’s ski binding and wedged in the layers of ice. Emily examined the metal trinket, watching the sun bounce off of it. She was mesmerized by this seemingly innocuous find, and, within seconds, she fell into a trancelike state as the sun-lit glare reflected onto her face. Her heart beat faster and her breathing became labored. A well-defined sense of fear grabbed hold of her and yet she couldn’t pull her eyes away from the penetrating glare. The feeling of doom strengthened. Then out of nowhere . . . “Emily?”
Emily spun around, her eyes wide as saucers, as the metal bracket flew out of her hand. Jane stood behind her, equally startled by the child’s exaggerated response. For a split second, Emily was blinded by the sunlight and unable to make out Jane’s face. In that second of time, Emily could swear that a large, indistinguishable man was standing over her.
“Emily?” Jane said concerned. “What is it?” At the sound of Jane’s voice, Emily was slammed back into reality. She rushed forward and wrapped her arms around Jane’s hips. “Emily, what happened?” Jane asked, canvassing the immediate area. The child grabbed Jane with an even tighter grip and mumbled indistinguishable words. “Emily!” Jane peeled the kid off of her. She knelt down on one knee so she could be on eye level. “Did somebody bother you?”
“No,” the child responded in a confused tone, still somewhat out of her body.
“Why are you shaking?”
“I don’t know,” Emily said, bewildered. “I saw that piece of metal in the snow and something happened. It was like I was somewhere else but I couldn’t see anything. I just felt scared.” Jane looked down and let out a deep sigh. “I’m not making it up!” Emily said, misinterpreting Jane’s reaction.
Jane looked Emily in the eye. “I know you’re not. Trust me. I know.”
The two drove off, continuing their journey west on I-70. There was almost thirty minutes of silence until Emily spoke up. “Why are there bad people in this world?”
“I don’t know,” Jane said, lighting another cigarette and cracking the window.
“Have you met a lot of bad people?”
“Yeah.”
“How many?”
“More than I can count.” Jane took a hard drag.
Emily looked out the window as they descended down the mountain and into the Eagle River Valley. “Did you ever kill someone?”
“You already asked me that question. I’m not answering it. I don’t want you thinking about stuff like that. All you have to do is get up in the morning, eat three meals, play with your toys and go to bed at night.”
“I need to know you can if you have to . . .” Emily insisted.
Jane pulled onto the wide shoulder of the highway, bringing the Subaru to a stop. “A long time ago, I pointed a gun at someone. It was someone who deserved to die. You talk about bad, this guy was the definition of the word. A lot of people suffered because of what he did. I knew his death would make the suffering stop. I wasn’t worried what would happen to me, because once he was out of the picture, I figured the world would be a better place. I had my finger on the trigger and I was going to do it . . .” Jane stopped, briefly reliving that moment.
“But you didn’t?” Emily said quietly.
Part of Jane was still b
ack in the workshop. “But I didn’t.”
Emily felt queasy. “What stopped you?”
Jane turned to Emily. “I was young and stupid. If I’d known then what I know now about how the world works, I wouldn’t have hesitated a second. But I promise you, if it ever comes to that point again, I will not hesitate. You have my word.”
They continued down I-70 for another hour before stopping for lunch in Glenwood Springs. On the way back to the car, Emily gazed longingly in the window of Glenwood Shoe Service at a pair of red cowboy boots. They got gas and headed down Highway 82, then took the turnoff at the town of Carbondale to Highway 133. For the next sixty-five miles, Jane drove through territory splashed with breathtaking, blue sky vistas, lush meadows and the occasional pasture of grazing cows. Jane always smiled to herself when she got into the far corners of Small Town, USA, because there was sure to be the obligatory trampoline stationed either in the front or backyard of the houses. It didn’t matter where she traveled in America, that enormous trampoline could always be spotted from the highway. And it wasn’t just one house; you could count dozens of them in the space of several hours. It was one of those mysteries of life that tugged at Jane. What started the trend? Why a trampoline? Was there some unconscious desire by these country dwellers to jump higher and higher until they touched the clouds and never came back down to their small-town existence?
Jane left the land of trampoline houses and drove toward the summit of McClure Pass. The white, chalk-barked aspen trees stood at attention, displaying their early summer explosion of quivering green leaves amidst slopes of cow parsnip and fuzzy mullein stalks. Jane slid open the sunroof as Emily held her hands against the stiff wind current. Thirty miles down the two-lane mountain road, construction crews were busy filling potholes. Jane’s speedy journey came to an abrupt halt behind a truck hauling a horse trailer.
“You told me you were thirty-five and one quarter, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“When are you turning thirty-six?”
“January 11.”
Emily did the calculations in the air with her finger. “That means you gave birth to me when you were twenty-five almost tweny-six.” Jane regarded Emily with a questionable look. “If somebody asks, we have to get our stories straight.”
“No one is going to ask you how old I was when I gave birth to you.”
“Sergeant Weyler said you were taking me to a small town. People are nosy in small towns. That’s what my mommy always said.”
“Don’t worry about it, Emily—”
“Where’s your husband?”
“I have no idea.”
“Shouldn’t we make up a story so when people come to our house—”
“People come to the house? Hey, I’m not hosting social events!”
“Sergeant Weyler said we had to act normal—”
“Well, normal for me is not having a bunch of busy-bodies in my house.”
“What if I want to invite somebody over?”
“That’s tricky. My gut instinct tells me to keep people away from the house.”
“What does your gut say about your husband?”
“Christ,” Jane lit a cigarette. “Let’s just take him out of the picture.”
“He’s dead?”
“Yeah, he’s dead.”
“Okay.” Emily sat back and really thought about it. “How’d he die?”
“I don’t know, he . . .” Jane looked at the trailer hauling the horses in front of her. “He got stomped on by a horse and died.”
“That doesn’t happen a lot.”
“It can if you work the rodeo circuit,” Jane said offhandedly.
“Was he a rodeo clown?”
“Oh, please! I would never marry a rodeo clown! I married the rodeo cowboy!”
“So you married a rodeo cowboy who fell off his horse, got stomped and died.”
“There you go. End of story.”
Emily considered the event. “Were you there when it happened?”
“Oh, shit. No! I wasn’t there and neither were you. He was traveling on the rodeo circuit when it happened. In Canada.”
“Canada?”
“Yeah. It happened during the Calgary Stampede.”
“So he died in the stampede?”
“Right. He got stomped in the stampede.”
“In Canada?”
“In Canada.”
“So . . . was the funeral in Canada?”
“Emily, enough!”
The highway flagger waved the string of vehicles onward. Emily sat back and considered the entire phony story. “I sure hope they buy it.”
Within the hour, Jane crested onto the mesa that overlooked the little town of Peachville. She pulled to the side and looked across the verdant valley. “Well, kid, say hello to your temporary new home.”
“Hello.”
“By the way, my boss decided to change my name to Anne Calver while we’re here. That was my mom’s maiden name.”
“It’s a pretty name.”
“Yeah,” Jane replied, a bit taken aback. “Anyway, your last name will be Calver while we’re here, but you’ve gotta come up with a new first name for yourself.”
“Gosh . . .” Emily pursed her lips, taking the assignment very seriously.
“It’s got to be a name that you’ll respond to. Maybe a name of a relative—”
“Patty,” Emily said softly. “That’s what my dad called my mom. You used your mommy’s name and I’ll use mine.”
Jane nodded. “Okay, Patty Calver. Let’s go get our house key.”
Chapter 17
Jane drove down the mesa that overlooked Peachville. Just outside of town on the rural highway loop, she slowed the Subaru to a stop. Emily gazed into the southeast and pointed out a blackened side of the far mountain range. Jane squinted into the distance. “You’ve got good eyes. That’s the backside of the coal mine. Peachville has two industries: fruit and coal mining. There’s a coal train that comes through here at night.” Jane punched the Subaru into gear and drove down the hill that turned into Peachville’s Main Street. A row of tiny, pastel houses lined one side of the road. A quick glance showed that the ubiquitous backyard trampoline could be spotted behind a few of the cookie-cutter homes. Jane slowed to a crawl as she came up behind a worn-out, Ford pickup truck that strolled at the approved twenty mph speed limit. “God help me,” Jane mumbled. She could feel the noose tightening around her neck as she crept down Main Street. They passed Peach Street, Apple Court, Cherry Lane and Apricot Terrace.
This town that celebrated fruit also made a point to habitually name almost every shop and business with a fruity moniker. There was The Apple Cart, a hardware /gas station/convenience/video store, The Mountain Melon Market, a small supermarket that had eight aisles and felt a need to advertise the installation of “a brand-new frozen food section,” The Peachville Gazette, a weekly newspaper that boasted an amazing 3,000 subscribers, The Orange Squeeze, a tourist trap that sold old postcards and camera supplies, and The Pit, a tiny movie theater. Across the street stood The Lemon Grill, a “high end” restaurant for Peachville as opposed to The Harvest Café—the down-home, vinyl tablecloth, greasy spoon where townsfolk congregated. Squashed in the middle of all this was the small, brick building that housed the County Sheriff. Jane made a special note of its location, quickly surveyed the structure and privately wondered if it resembled the fictional Mayberry Sheriff’s headquarters, complete with two empty cells and an inept deputy. Finally, at the end of Main Street, stood Peachville Properties, the real estate office that served as the sole source for ranches, farms and rental units. Jane parked in front of Peachville Properties and turned to Emily. “Okay, let’s keep this simple. I want to get in and out of here without a lot of talking.”
A happy little bell attached to the front door signaled Jane and Emily’s entrance. The white walled business was neat and smelled of rose potpourri and a fresh print run of the latest Peachville Properties Home & Farm Guide.
A young, bright-eyed girl approached Jane. “Can I help you two?”
“I’m looking for Kathy. She’s holding a rental house for us. I need the key.”
Jane’s attention was drawn to the back corner of the office where a woman in her early thirties was talking on the phone and excitedly waving at Jane.
“She’s just finishing up with a client,” the girl said. “You can have a seat—”
“We’ll stand, thank you,” Jane said abruptly.
Kathy hung up the phone and sashayed around her desk. She was dressed in a pink skirt and matching blazer. Underneath the blazer was a simple white blouse that displayed a delicate gold necklace around her thin, ivory neck. Jane noted that Kathy’s fingernail polish perfectly matched her pink blazer. Her hair was chin length, light brown and shellacked with so much hair spray that Jane figured it would take a Category 4 Hurricane to blow one hair out of place. While her facial features were ordinary, one could not help but be drawn to Kathy’s wide, toothy grin that overwhelmed her narrow face. Kathy rapidly walked across the room, her arm outstretched toward Jane for a full twenty feet before reaching her. “Well, hello you two travelers! Welcome to Peachville! You must be Anne!” Kathy enthusiastically shook Jane’s hand and then turned to Emily. “And you are?”
“Patty . . .” Emily said, haltingly, “Calver . . .”
“Well, good to meet you, Patty! How was your trip?”
“It was fine,” Jane replied.
“You know, I don’t even know where you two were coming from! When your girlfriend called to arrange the rental unit, I forgot to ask.”
Jane realized the intrusion was already beginning. It made no difference where they came from, but somehow, it was vital information. “The Denver area.”
“Oh, my goodness!” Kathy said with an exaggerated expression on her face. “Well, you two travelers must be tired!”
Jane pulled her hair away from her face with her bandaged hand. “Yeah, we’re pretty whipped. You have the house key?”
“Oh, dear!” Kathy said, her eyes pinned on Jane’s bandage. “What happened to your hand?”
