by Pamela Tracy
It hadn’t gone well, either.
“So none of Derek’s issues can be directly related to his birth parents?” Rafe asked. “Maybe something to do with his mother?”
“No, we’ve had him since he was eight. For the two years after his dad’s death, he was pretty much neglected by his mother. Besides, if any of his mother’s friends came looking for him, they wouldn’t know to search for him under our last name. Once we got his anger issues under control, he fit right in. We were thrilled. We’d wanted five of our own.”
The Chaneys were good people. They were doing what innocent people did, sharing everything, trying to be helpful, wanting to understand how things could go so wrong.
“He didn’t realize how good he had it,” Janie whispered.
Rafe thought the same about many of the juvenile delinquent cases he handled.
Getting back on task, though, he said, “There’s a chance that Derek had information about another case we’re working on. On the phone, you said you’d let us go through Derek’s room?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Chaney said. “We will do all we can to help the police so some other kid doesn’t become a victim like Derek.”
Mr. Chaney ushered them up the stairs and opened the door into a room almost the size of the living room. “My wife can’t bear to see all this,” he said. “It’s exactly the way Derek left it.”
A mess, typical teenager. The bed was unmade, the floor littered with clothes and books and video games. A flat-screen television was against one wall. Shelves of books were on two others. A whole row was designated for textbooks. Rafe noticed math, sociology and lots of English. Well, that made sense. According to Janie, Derek also had a gift for writing. Posters, of bands Rafe didn’t recognize, graced the wall.
“He used to be a reader,” Mr. Chaney said. “Up until about eighth grade.”
“What happened?” Janie asked softly.
“First sports, then girls,” Mr. Chaney said. “They wouldn’t leave him alone. Once he got to high school, it was a strange herd of friends.”
There were no photographs in the room, but lots and lots of drawings. Derek seemed to be enthralled by dark castles, fire-breathing dragons and fierce warriors.
“I’d better go check on my wife,” Mr. Chaney said.
Janie walked into the room, not a bit put off by the mess. She rubbed her shoulders as if cold, but it wasn’t a chill in the air that made her uncomfortable. It was more likely a chill in her heart. He felt it, too.
“I should have tried harder with that boy,” she murmured.
“You did make an effort,” Rafe reminded her.
“Not enough of one. Sometimes a teacher is the only one who can make a difference, see beneath the grime.”
Rafe wondered if a teacher had been there for her, back in her muddled childhood. She’d made it clear that cops hadn’t been. Somehow knowing that made him want to change her mind. Not only about cops in general, but about him specifically.
But they were losing precious time, so he asked, “Do you see the art book?”
“Not yet.” Janie walked to the middle of the room, sidestepping a pair of jeans and a skateboard. She turned in a circle, first with her eyes open and then with them closed. After a moment, she headed for a desk.
“The desk is too neat,” she explained. “Nothing else in this room is neat.” She briefly touched the computer’s mouse and lifted the pad. Then, she opened the only drawer.
Nothing.
Watching her, Rafe was again struck by her attention to detail. She was doing what he usually did, had been trained to do, and she was doing it by instinct.
Janie next checked under the bed. He’d already done that and found nothing unusual.
But she pulled out one tennis shoe. “This isn’t his.”
Rafe looked at it: dull brown and somewhat new. “How can you be sure?”
“Derek would never wear this color.”
“What color is it, exactly?”
Janie gaped at him in disbelief. “It’s green.”
Rafe wasn’t one for sharing what he didn’t consider a disability. But, in this case, it might make a difference in what she could see and what he couldn’t.
“I’m color-blind, which means I have poor discrimination with certain colors. Green being one of them.”
Her expression went from disbelief to pity. Well, an artist would feel sorry for someone who couldn’t appreciate every color’s beauty.
“That must make your job harder.”
“There was some concern that I wouldn’t pass the vision test. I did, and luckily, my condition is considered mild. The fact that I work for a small rural county makes a difference. I also wear corrective lenses.”
“Derek wore black, gray and white. It’s almost as if he was making a statement about his personality. Green is the color of safety.”
Rafe dumped the shoe in a baggie he pulled from his pocket and ran out the door to ask the Chaneys what size shoe Derek had worn—Mrs. Chaney said her son was an eleven.
Rafe reentered the room as Janie was bending to check an unzipped backpack that was stuffed to the side, books and papers spilling out. Janie riffled through it for a moment, then she pulled an art book from a side pocket and flipped it open. Derek’s inked name was on the cover. She thumbed through the pages.
He touched her arm and angled her so he could read over her shoulder.
“This is his, this is the right one. He’s done most of these thumbnails or scrapped them. No writing yet, but maybe there’s something at the end, some reason he didn’t want to turn this one in to me.”
He noticed how carefully Janie held the book—for a witness, she was getting too involved.
It only took her a moment to make it to the final pages, but it felt much longer to Rafe. Then her face turned white. He took a step toward her. She didn’t notice; she was focused on the art book, not on him.
Derek’s final drawing told Rafe exactly how much danger Janie was in.
Two dark trees, lots of dirt, and an open grave with a body in it. Derek had penned a few words underneath:
I have to tell somebody. I can’t live with this. But if I confess, whomever I tell will be in as much danger as me.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE OLD ART BOOK went into another baggie, which, to Janie, looked like an oversize sandwich Ziploc.
“I’m toast,” she whispered.
“No, there’s a chance they haven’t a clue Derek’s even—”
“They! I’ve got to worry about a they? As in, more than one?” This was going from bad to worse. She’d been thinking of who might be responsible. What kind of person would have access to the school’s safe? But it might be a who all was responsible, a what kind of people.
“You don’t know that for sure. All this could just be foolish fabrication.”
“Oh, right,” Janie said snidely. Since this morning, he’d been a man on a mission. No way could he shift his beliefs now. “Even if the art book hadn’t been taken from the school’s safe, I’d have a hard time believing you,” she finished.
Rafe’s hand went to his chin and he rubbed his thumb on stubble she’d not noticed before. It was dark, the same color as the circles under his eyes.
“So, what are we going to do?” she insisted. “Last night I was nervous about what I read. Today I’m nervous about who knows what I read. This is getting crazy.”
He didn’t disagree, and he kept rubbing for a moment. Finally, he said, “Everything points to the college. It’s where Brittney was last seen. It’s where Derek turned in the art book and where the art book went missing. We need to find a friend of Derek’s who’s willing to talk. And we also need to find out whose shoe is under his bed, and why it’s there.”
He finally sto
pped rubbing his chin and lifted the mattress, looking at the mess underneath: old food, socks, a girlie magazine.
Scattered there, too, were a few pieces of Lego bricks—red, blue and yellow. Finally some real color. Nearby was a well-worn baseball glove. Derek Chaney had been a boy, just like the ones who came to BAA and put their fingers in their mouths and made faces at Candy the spider monkey, and who fed pellets to the giraffes while being grossed out by the giraffes’ long tongues, and who dreamed about jumping into the pool with Aquila the black panther.
Just like the dark-haired man next to her had at one time been a boy, probably with his head in some Encyclopedia Jones book or insisting on playing I Spy over and over.
She bent down, wanting to move the Legos away from the girlie magazine. As if she could save Derek now.
“Don’t touch anything,” Rafe ordered.
She rolled her eyes. They’d been in the bedroom for a good fifteen minutes. Her prints were everywhere, and these Lego bricks weren’t the calling card for something sinister.
But Rafe was the cop and she the uncomfortable civilian.
When they finished in Derek’s bedroom, he led the way back to the living room and the bowl of sympathy cards. Rafe asked for the senders’ addresses, and Judy Chaney dug out her book to give him those she knew. Mr. Chaney went looking for envelopes for those she didn’t.
Every person who’d sent a card was meticulously recorded in Rafe’s little black book. No doubt Officer Candy Riorden would be assigned to find phone numbers and addresses to go with each name. Then, there’d be a visit.
Janie didn’t think she’d enjoy Rafe’s job.
Way too dark.
No wonder he saw the world in shades of brown.
And, boy, was he good at giving orders. She spent ten minutes sitting on the sofa with Derek’s high-school graduation photo staring down at her and listening to Rafe tell the Chaneys what to do. As soon as he and Janie left, they’d be going through Derek’s clothes searching for pieces that might not be his.
Clothes weren’t the only item. Rafe also asked them to check for out-of-place combs, wallets, books, videos, etc., and to widen the search to Jimmy’s old room, the backyard shed, the garage.
They’d be digging up dirt on their son while the undertaker was digging up dirt for his casket.
Morbid.
Janie didn’t want to do this anymore.
Without missing a beat, he turned from the Chaneys to her. “Lock your doors before you go to class today. If you feel like something’s wrong or someone’s acting suspicious, go where there’s lots of people. Call me, I don’t care what time it is.”
“But—”
“No buts. I’m making you my personal responsibility. Give me your phone.”
No didn’t seem to be an answer he’d accept, and as sheriff he could pretty much do what he wanted, so she dug it out of her canvas bag and handed it to him. He added his number and two more: those of Jeff Summerside and Candy Riorden.
“You’re coming across a little heavy-handed,” she reprimanded as she held out her hand for her phone. Delayed reaction seemed to be her standard response when near him. How dare he just take over, without asking? She opened her mouth to give him the you-can’t-boss-this-girl speech, but then he looked at her.
Really looked at her.
And she lost her breath. His eyes were smudged coal, ready to ignite, but now only flickering. She’d painted something very much like those eyes years ago. She’d drawn a black panther on the wall of her bedroom—watchful, hurting, helpless, hopeless, as those he loved disappeared.
Never to return.
Rafe was hurting.
She got just that one tiny glimpse of his vulnerability and then the Sheriff Salazar mask slammed into place. He handed back her cell phone and pointedly looked at his watch. “What time does your class begin?”
“Six, and then it’s over at nine.”
“Great, that will give me a chance to speak with Nathan,” he decided. “I need to bring him up to speed.”
Then, he turned to the Chaneys. “I’ll make sure he’s expecting you to take a look at the mug shots, the same ones Janie went through this morning. Before I show you the pictures she pointed out, I want to see if you pinpoint the same kids. If possible, I’d also like to get another team out here tonight to go over Derek’s room.”
The Chaneys both nodded. They were willing to do anything to find out what happened to their son.
Rafe held out his hand to help Janie up from the couch. She took it and followed him out the door and to her car. For a moment, she wondered why he hadn’t asked for her number to program it into his phone. She easily answered the question: he already had it from their one date. Plus, when you were sheriff of Laramie County, you didn’t need to ask for someone’s number. You just went to CopLink.
He’d find out a few other things about her on CopLink. Great, just great. Unless it was true that a juvenile’s records were permanently sealed.
He opened the car door and said, “I’ll be outside the classroom door waiting for you. Ten minutes before nine.”
As she pulled out and followed his car down the road, she wondered if she should have just let him drive her to class, as he’d wanted to do. Even scared, she’d been able to breathe while he was by her side. Now, as his SUV idled behind hers as she pulled into a parking space and turned off the engine, the panic started to rise again.
Rolling down his passenger-side window, he said, “You’ll be fine. Campus is hopping right now, people everywhere.” Then, he rolled up his window and drove off, leaving her alone. The slim hold she had on her emotions slipped even more.
Call Katie?
No, Katie was eight months pregnant and didn’t need this hassle.
Call Adam?
No. Sharing the situation with Adam would just mean more talking, no solutions.
Janie followed a crowd heading for the student union and college café. Right now, more than anything, she wanted a hamburger, lots of French fries and a chocolate malt.
She’d just sat down when Rafe called her on the cell phone. “You okay?”
“Now that I’m eating.”
“Glad you stayed on campus and with lots of people. When you’re done eating, go right to class. Okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
Silence. Then disconnect.
She listened to him, though. After finishing her food—she had eaten every bite—she cleaned her area and headed to the art department. She wanted to talk to Patricia. Her fear turned to surreal introspection as she walked past the parking lot and watched the evening students park their cars and walk to class. It felt wrong; they were so carefree and laughing. They believed they were invincible.
Janie had never felt that way.
Janie continued on to the faculty offices. Patricia wasn’t in her office, which was very unusual. It was also too bad because Janie figured, next to Rafe, Patricia was the only one who she could share her ideas and fears with.
Suddenly the hamburger, fries and chocolate shake didn’t seem such a good idea.
With no outlet, Janie decided to focus on her duties. She spent her night helping students develop different hues out of just twenty colors. The professor, Estelle Wagner, was a new hire who kept a tight grip on the class and hadn’t been too willing to share responsibilities so far. Janie ended the evening covered mostly in green and red and very glad that this class didn’t require art books.
When class ended, Janie found Rafe leaning against the wall across from the art room, just as he’d promised. He was watching students leave, studying them, possibly searching for one of the students she’d identified as Derek’s acquaintances.
Not in this particular class. Which just showed how much of a loner he was, as most of the students knew each ot
her and considered the class more of a social venue.
A couple of the students recognized Rafe. One or two asked him about Brittney. Most just seemed impressed that they were meeting him. Janie hadn’t realized just how prominent a figure he was. Rafe shook their hands whether they agreed with his politics or not.
“Class go all right?” he asked when the last student exited the main door.
“Yes. I was a little jumpy, but I don’t think they noticed.”
“Smart people get jumpy. Foolish people get lax.”
He walked her to her car, bent down to check under it and then waited while she unlocked it. “I’ll be behind you. And, yes, that means you should go the speed limit.”
Now she was certain he’d looked up her record. Aware that he was watching her every move, she settled behind the wheel, strapped her seat belt, and wished again that she’d agreed to just let him drive. Even with him behind her, she felt alone, traveling in a darkness that had nothing to do with how late in the evening it was.
Finally, she pulled in front of her cottage and exited her car. It took him just a few minutes to open her door, check inside, and wait for her while she gathered what she’d need to stay in the main house with Katie and Luke.
But even after he’d left her in Katie’s capable hands, something of him lingered, some remnant of his strong personality that refused to be ignored.
She wished she were that strong.
Maybe then she’d have gotten some sleep that night. In the morning, when Yolanda Sanchez, the college student who kept everything running at Katie and Luke’s house, knocked on the door, Janie was still counting sheep.
To be exact, Janie had counted one thousand, two hundred and fifty-six sheep in her head between the hours of eleven and seven. That made two nights without sleep.
Sluggish, Janie changed into her khaki shorts and royal-blue BAA shirt and frowned at the mirror. Even after a shower, her hair was thin and lank. Her skin, normally flush, was pale and splotchy. She felt thirteen again, with pimples and a self-image the size of a postage stamp. Yup, she’d be scaring the customers today. Too bad, Fridays were fairly busy.
