by Debra Cowan
Even though Devon's parents had divorced when Devon was seven, they'd remained close. They still loved each other, but Marilee couldn't live with the chance that each day might be Bill's last. She couldn't cope with the consuming nature of his job or the inner circle of which she'd never felt a part.
Devon saw how painful it was for both of them, and she had vowed never to let that happen to her marriage. Well, she didn't have to worry about that now.
She wished again that she could've gone on the cruise with her mother, but as a teacher, she had yet to have her last day of school.
Carol Lockwood brought out a pitcher of lemonade and ducked beneath the paper sign that her oldest twin, Brad, hung above the garage door. "After all that rain last week, it feels like a sauna out here," Devon murmured.
Her slender neighbor handed her the plastic pitcher glistening with condensation and separated the cups she held in her other hand. "It must be ninety-five degrees, and it's barely the first of June."
"You've lived here long enough to know not to expect too many seventy-degree days." Grateful that Carol's arrival had pushed away thoughts of Mace, Devon pressed the cool cup to her cheek and sighed in relief. "Although I wouldn't mind if spring lasted more than two weeks. We've only painted two signs and I feel wrung out."
Cans of red, blue, green and yellow paint were scattered across the driveway. Long strips of white butcher paper curled like giant ribbon in the yard and across the fence, waiting to be transformed into one of the Lockwood twins' now infamous posters.
Last year the favorite had been Barry's caricature drawing of the twins' father, as a fat, bald man sporting three prominent whiskers on his chin. Barry had drawn the man on a three-legged stool with a finger up his nose. His caption "Don't Sit around Pickin' your Nose all Summer—Party With the Block," had caused Carol to roll her eyes and the neighborhood kids to exclaim, "Cool!"
Devon decided not to ask what he would do to top himself this year. After finishing her drink, she handed the cup to Carol and picked up a paintbrush to finish a sunflower on one corner of a banner.
Barry tossed his cup to Brad, who clutched it to his chest and dodged around Devon. "The pass is complete," he roared in his best sportscaster imitation. "He's going for the goal line."
"Brad, quit horsing around and help Devon." Carol swatted her son's rear on her way inside.
Brad grinned and loped back to Devon. His long legs were knobby like a giraffe's, yet he moved more gracefully than the boys she'd known in high school. He tossed his cup into the yard and picked up a brush, dipping it into the red paint.
In front of them, Barry worked on his next masterpiece, the sign they would use to cordon off one end of the block. He worked carefully, his brow furrowed in concentration as he finished a pencil sketch.
Beside Devon, Brad stopped, then leaned forward to splatter a dab of red paint on the back of Barry's legs.
"Butthead! Knock it off!" Barry turned and grabbed for another brush to join in the war. He missed and his foot slammed into the can of paint.
It crashed to the ground and tipped over, red paint gushing out.
"Uh oh." Barry yanked the can upright, but the damage had been done.
"Mom's gonna kill you," Brad howled.
"It was your fault," Barry snapped.
"Better get something to clean it up." Devon looked down and froze, inexplicably repelled by the sight of the red liquid spilling down the incline.
Wet and shiny and red. Dark red. It rolled toward her.
Pressure swelled behind her eyes and she squeezed them shut. Another migraine? She hadn't had one since the dreams had stopped.
She opened her eyes, rubbing her temples, watching as red paint oozed toward her white tennis shoes, moving closer and closer then tracing around them. Red paint speckled her shoes, marred the clean whiteness.
Flashes of her dream returned and she shook her head, trying to escape the images.
A man's face.
Blood.
Dark hair. Like hers.
Devon's breath jammed in her throat. It was the dream. No. Something was different about these images. Before, Mace's face had been plainly visible as he lay dying.
Now…
She struggled to blank out the images in her mind, and tension squeezed her chest. She could still see the man. Who was it? He had dark hair, broad shoulders. It was Mace.
No!
The man fell facedown, blood pooling around him. A hole gaped in the back of his head.
Nearby, someone whimpered. Pain exploded in Devon's chest, her head. She couldn't see his face, didn't want to.
He had been laughing moments before, in the kitchen. Smiling at her. Then two men entered the kitchen. Who were they?
Dad?
No! No! They had guns.
An explosion rocked her. She flinched, tried to curl into herself Dad? Dad?
Someone whimpered again, louder this time, frightening Devon.
She ran to him. Barefoot. In her nightgown. The floor was cool against her feet.
She stopped close to his body, knowing with horrified certainty that he was dead. Blood spilled around him; rivulets ran into the tile grout, startling against the white of the floor. His strong hand now lay limp in a spreading tide of blood.
The blood edged closer to her, stalking, closing in on her. Dad? Dad!
She could smell the blood now, hot and metallic. And darkly scarlet. Daddy?
Her stomach churned and she ran into the bathroom, escaping the blood, the horror. She burrowed into the corner, seeking safety. Huddled there like a lost child until she heard the soothing strains of her mother's voice, felt her mother's gentle hands stroking her hair, holding her tight.
It was another nightmare, a different nightmare.
No…
She blinked, looking around. Brad and Barry were staring at her queerly. Carol reached toward her and Devon backed away. This was no dream. Was it?
"Dad?" The sound was high-pitched and reedy. Was that her voice? Memories crashed back, flooding through her until she pulsed like a raw nerve. Followed by a nauseating realization.
Bile rose in her throat and agony stretched tight across her chest, cutting off her breath. Feeling suffocated, Devon bent at the waist and gasped for air. Her chest burned as though squeezed by a vise.
She hadn't dreamed it. The nightmare was real, too real, too horrible.
She'd witnessed the murder of her father.
Tears flowed unheeded down her cheeks, welling up from a store of pain she hadn't even known existed. "Dad! Dad!"
She saw Carol's eyes darken with compassion, saw her friend reaching for her in comfort, but Devon couldn't stop the screams. "Daddy…!"
* * *
Her muscles ached like she'd been bounced in a cement mixer. Her mouth tasted like dirt and her head throbbed as though she'd binged for a week.
She didn't move other than to open her eyes and scan the small room. She recognized nothing except the fear.
How long had she slept? The generic ivory room smelled of antiseptic and looked blandly sterile. A pretty, framed floral print hung on the wall in front of her. A single closet stood next to a single door. An ivory curtain with a thin blue stripe hung at the tall, plate-glass window.
The fear waited, squeezing the breath out of her as she struggled to become alert. Where was she? What had happened? She'd been at Carol's helping the boys paint signs and…
In a rush, the memory returned, and Devon dragged in a sharp breath, drawing up her knees and burying her face in her arms. Even closing her eyes didn't erase the slow-motion mind pictures of her father being gunned down by two men.
"Devon?" The soft voice was unfamiliar, and Devon peered up, squinting against a light that had suddenly become too bright.
A young, auburn-haired nurse leaned over, concern in her hazel eyes. "Devon?"
She blinked.
"Do you know where you are?"
"Dad?" Devon's gaze darted around the room
, but there was only her and the nurse.
The nurse smiled reassuringly and stroked Devon's hair. "You're at Mercy Hospital."
"I saw them." Her voice rose; panic knocked at her.
"You're okay. You're going to be okay."
"They came into the house." Her voice turned shrill and she flinched. "They shot him."
"Do you know your address? The date?"
Devon sluggishly gave them. Mom! Where was Mom? Terror and fear lodged in Devon's chest and she struggled to breathe. One breath, then another, before she could think. Her mother was on a cruise. She was all right.
"Can we notify someone for you?"
Mace. She hesitated, then murmured, "No. No."
"Do you know where you are, Devon?"
Devon was very much afraid that she did. "In the loony bin?"
"Well, at the hospital." The nurse gently took her hand, holding it firmly. "Do you know why?"
"I … remembered." Her fragile control ruptured. Sobs burst free, scalding and bitter and pushing the air out of her chest.
* * *
Chapter 2
« ^ »
You can do this. Just walk in there and tell the police you lied about your father's murder.
Three weeks later, Devon stood downtown outside the Oklahoma City Police Department and tried to calm her racing heart. Sweat slicked her palms and trickled between her breasts. An uncommon burst of cool air swept down the street, tunneling between the concrete-and-glass buildings on either side.
June heat rolled from the pavement. She wiped her damp palms down the front of her denim skirt. Fear and uncertainty hammered at her, causing a lump to swell in her throat.
She was putting a face on the horror of the past, doing her part to see justice done. Was that why her stomach knotted up like wet silk? Or was she on the edge of panic because she might run into Mace?
Maybe he was out. Maybe the case was closed. She wished both things and believed neither. Mace would never close the case, and while she was willing to give a statement about her father's murder, she wasn't ready to face her former fiancé.
Dr. Beasley had told her she might not be ready yet. If you need to simply stand outside the police station for a while, then do so. You go inside when you're ready.
In the last couple of weeks, she'd been seeing the psychiatrist. She had known her father was murdered, had grieved for him, but there was another level to that grief when she realized she had witnessed his murder. And for the first two weeks after the horrible recollection, she had dreamed about it nightly.
It had been almost a week since she'd last had the dream and a part of her feared that coming to the police station might reopen the wound that was only now starting to heal.
But she couldn't live with herself if she didn't report what she knew. More people than she would be affected. Her father had been a well-loved and well-respected member of this police department and this community. These people—friends, colleagues, fellow officers—deserved to have the information. And the men responsible deserved to pay for what they'd done.
Memories of the last time she'd been here hammered at her. That time, she'd come to see Mace. She prayed she wouldn't have to face him this time.
A chill tripped down her spine and she firmed her jaw. Panic fluttered and she took a deep breath as Dr. Beasley had instructed. Just go in, report it to the commanding officer in Homicide and leave.
She wanted to turn and run, tell Dr. Beasley she wasn't ready, but she was. That realization propelled her up the shallow steps of the station house. She pushed through the doors into the cool dim interior and into a place that most people associated with security, order amidst chaos.
Rather than reassuring, Devon found the wealth of gray-shirted uniforms stifling. Panic flashed, then ebbed into a lingering sense of dread. People threaded around her, coming in, going out, walking toward the stairs to her right. The strong scent of commercial floor cleaner battled with the odors of stale cigar smoke and unwashed bodies.
She chewed at her lip, ignoring the slit-eyed stare of a handcuffed man being escorted past her. The deed wouldn't get done standing here. She stood several feet back from a tall counter with bullet-proof glass and a wood-grained plaque that read Information.
She forced her legs to move and found herself speaking to the officer behind the desk.
He outfitted her with a laminated visitor's badge.
"Pardon, ma'am, but aren't you Billy Landry's girl?"
"Yes." She studied the barrel-chested, balding man, straining to remember if she had ever met him.
"Sergeant Swimmer." He smiled somewhat sheepishly and his pale blue eyes crinkled at the corners. "We've never met, but I recognized you from the picture he kept on his desk."
"Oh." Devon wished she felt at ease enough to exchange small talk, but even that single word lodged in her throat like a missile. Her fists clenched and she realized she was gritting her teeth. "It's nice to meet you."
He smiled, sympathy in his eyes, and came around the desk to direct her upstairs to Homicide. As if she didn't remember every agonizing step from her last visit.
"Second floor. Can't miss it. Ask for Captain Price."
"Thank you, Sergeant."
"Yes, ma'am."
Devon turned to the right, her steps measured as she forced herself to walk to the staircase that loomed before her. Dread fluttered in her stomach.
"Ms. Landry?"
She turned at Sergeant Swimmer's soft address. "Yes?"
"Your father was a fine man." His face reddened, but he didn't look away. "We miss him."
"Thank you." Devon's throat closed up and quick tears sprang to her eyes. "So do I."
He nodded and turned away, affording her an opportunity to blink back her tears. This whole grueling experience was what Dr. Beasley called "closure," and Devon hoped it truly was.
As she climbed the stairs she tried not to think about the last time she'd climbed them or why. She'd found Mace and returned his ring.
Because of her parents' divorce and her father's overprotective nature, Devon had grown up ignorant about a cop's life. When she and Mace had become engaged, she'd told herself that she could live with the reality of being a policeman's wife, that she was stronger than her mother. But she hadn't been.
She shied away from the memories, feeling squeezed between the jaws of the past and the present.
She stopped at the top of the stairs near the squad room, which ran the length of the linoleum-tiled hallway. Through the door she could see desks, squared off against each other like double rows of dominoes. In one corner stood a planter holding a lone bare branch that bent under the slight weight of a plastic vulture.
The division secretary's office was also in there, as well as a small file room and the rest room that Devon would forever carry in her memory. Dim overhead lights flickered and the air conditioner groaned with the strain of combatting the brutal midsummer heat.
Directly across the hall, she spotted the door that read Captain Maggie Price.
Devon hesitantly stepped up to the door. An authoritative and decidedly feminine voice sounded on the other side of the open door. "I don't care what you have to do, but I want it done."
Devon took a deep breath, and even though she wanted to walk away, she peered around the door. As Captain Price continued her phone conversation, Devon studied the small office, which was as practical as the woman who inhabited it.
Three file cabinets lined one wall and a computer bummed on top of a desk cluttered with files and folders. The only personal items were a framed photograph of Captain Price and her husband in a canoe on a sparkling river and a small aquarium filled with several vividly colored fish.
Maggie Price stood about five foot six, a slender woman with shoulder-length chestnut hair. Her blue pinstriped suit made her look at once professional and frail. But that frailness was belied by her dark eyes, which shone with confidence and strength. The woman was fearless in Devon's estimation and she co
uldn't help a small stab of jealousy.
Looking impatient and exhaling loudly, Captain Price motioned Devon inside. As she entered, Mace's captain barked into the phone, "Gotta go, Phil. Visitor."
She hung up and moved gracefully around the desk, holding out a hand. "Devon, how are you?"
"Okay, thanks." Maggie Price had been involved with the investigation into her father's death last year. She herself had questioned Devon and her mother extensively about their presence in the house.
Had they heard the intruders? Had they heard the shots? Had they seen anything? Devon and Marilee had answered no to all the questions, and Devon had believed at the time that she was telling the truth.
Now she was here to tell Captain Price that she'd lied. Not deliberately, but lied all the same. Devon had heard about people seeing horrible things, then completely blanking them from their minds, but she'd never dreamed she would be one.
Would Captain Price believe her? She had to. To have recalled all the horror of that night and be dismissed… Devon shuddered, refusing to contemplate it.
"Please have a seat." The other woman indicated a dark brown vinyl chair in front of her desk and eased down onto one corner of her desk. "How's your mother?"
"Very well, thank you." Devon perched on the edge of the chair and gripped her purse. "I finally convinced her to take a vacation. She just returned from a cruise and is visiting her sister in Houston."
"I bet she loved the cruise," Captain Price exclaimed, dark eyes glowing. "My husband and I were spoiled for any other type of vacation after our first one."
Devon swallowed and forced a lame smile. Anxiety plucked her nerves and her throat was as tight as if she'd been hauled in on charges rather than coming on her own free will.
"You didn't come here to talk about vacations," Captain Price said gently. "What can I do for you?"
"I think … I might have some information."
"About what?" she asked with a kind smile.
"About my father's murder."
The policewoman straightened, her gaze sharpening. Devon knew no easy way to say it so she blurted, "I saw the men who did it."
The other woman's smile faded to a concerned frown. "This comes as quite a surprise."
