Protector (21 page)
Authors: Laurel Dewey
Tags: #Police Procedural, #Denver (Colo.), #Mystery & Detective, #Psychic ability, #Women detectives, #Crime, #Suspense, #Women Sleuths, #Children of murder victims, #Fiction, #Occult & Supernatural, #Espionage
Jane turned around and realized Emily was right. “Oh, shit.”
“Where’s all the stuff? Why’s the carpet missing?”
It took the child less than one minute to observe the one thing that had concerned Jane from the outset. Jane clenched her jaw and let out a deep sigh. “A lot of things, unfortunately, had to be removed so the police could look at them.”
“Are they going to put them back where they got them?” said Emily, with a slight indignant sound to her voice.
It would have been easy to lie to the kid and placate her with some dressed up answer, but that just wasn’t Jane’s style. “Probably not.”
Emily took several steps into the living room, noting every crevice and cranny. “I don’t feel anything.”
“I told you. You don’t have to feel a damn thing.”
“No. I mean I don’t feel anything at all. I know my mommy and daddy are dead. I know ’cause you told me. But I can’t feel sad. I can’t cry.”
Jane was taken aback by Emily’s directness. She had hoped that by letting the kid off the hook and telling her not to worry that this whole thing would be painless and over in a matter of hours. Obviously, it was heading in a very different direction. “Hey, crying is overrated.”
“Martha says I’m in . . .” She tried to remember the word. “Shock? She says I’m sleeping real deep and part of me doesn’t want to wake up.”
“I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”
“But Martha says I—”
“You know,” Jane interrupted, feeling a surge of anger. “Forget Martha! Martha is not the end-all, be-all! She’s not even all there! She’s like the tin man in The Wizard of Oz, you know? If she only had a brain!”
“The scarecrow,” Emily said succinctly.
“Huh?”
“The scarecrow didn’t have a brain. The tin man needed a heart.”
“Whatever. The point is, I don’t want you to buy into her psychological crap.”
“How come you don’t like Martha?”
“She’s a pain in my ass. What? Are you two pals?”
“No. I don’t like her, but I don’t hate her.”
“Okay. Fine.” Jane felt her nerves tweak.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine!”
“How come your hands are shaking? Are you nervous?”
“Of course not!”
“Are you scared?”
“No!”
“Are you cold?”
“No!”
“Well, then why are you shaking?”
“Stop it,” Jane said directly and to the point. “I said I was fine and I’m fine.”
“Okay,” Emily replied, not completely buying Jane’s answer.
Jane nervously looked around the room. Her eyes rested briefly on the liquor cabinet against the far wall. Emily watched Jane intently. Jane turned back and saw the look on Emily’s face. “What?” Jane said, defensively.
“Nothing.” Emily looked down at Jane’s leather satchel that lay against the wall. “Is that yours?”
“Yes.” Jane moved into the living room and pulled out a cigarette pack from her shirt pocket. “Look, why don’t you come in here and sit down or something.”
Emily set down her Starlight Starbright projector and sauntered into the living room. “Does your hand still hurt?”
Jane searched throughout every pocket, trying to find matches. She looked at her left hand. She suddenly realized she hadn’t changed the bandage in two days. “Nah.” Digging into her trouser pocket, she came up with a box of matches from RooBar. She lit up and took in a meaningful puff on the cigarette.
There was thick silence as Jane positioned herself on the couch and Emily slid onto the facing chair. Emily looked at Jane with the same fascination she had in the interrogation room. It made Jane extremely uneasy. “What are you doing, Emily?”
The child struggled to reconcile what she saw with what she was thinking. But there was no way to explain it. “When did you start smoking?” Emily asked.
“When I was 14.”
“Why did you start?”
“Because whiskey tastes better with a cigarette.”
“Huh?”
“It was just something to take off the edge.”
“What edge?”
“An edge is like a feeling, you know? Feeling edgy. Irritable. Frustrated. Edgy.”
“Like you’re feeling now?”
“Yeah. Exactly like I’m feeling now.” Jane sucked in another dose of nicotine.
“So, I guess it doesn’t work.”
“What?”
“You said you smoke to take off your edge. But you’re still feeling your edge. So I think the smoke stopped working. Maybe if you stopped smoking—”
“Look,” Jane said, leaning forward, “rule number one: don’t hassle me about smoking. Understood?”
“Understood.”
Jane peered around the room once again, zoning in on the liquor cabinet.
“You keep looking over at Daddy’s liquor cabinet.”
“I am observing the room. Period. Don’t keep staring at me.” Jane took another drag on her cigarette. “Don’t you have some toys you can play with?”
“I’ve got my Starlight Starbright but it’s not dark enough yet to use it.”
“Is that all you have to play with?”
“It’s all I want to play with.”
“I see,” Jane said, leaning back into the couch. Emily mirrored Jane as she, too, fell back into her chair and crossed her arms.
“Well, I guess this conversation is over,” Jane surmised, observing Emily.
“What do you mean?”
“Your arms told me.”
Emily looked down at her arms folded across her chest. “What’d they say?”
“You’re cutting me off. You’re feeling defensive.”
Emily thought about it. “What’s defensive?”
“It’s like you’re building a big wall around yourself so no one can find you.”
Emily slowly uncurled her arms. “What does this mean?”
Jane looked across at Emily who was almost sharing her identical pose. “That’s what you call ‘mirroring.’ It’s that I look like you and you look like me.”
Emily carefully observed Jane. “Oh, yeah . . . Is that good?”
“Well, you changed your position to mirror mine, so that means you’re trying to make me feel more comfortable.”
Emily considered the idea. “Is it working?”
Jane looked at Emily and felt a slight smile come up on her lips. “Maybe.”
“What does this mean?” Emily slid her index finger down to her tummy and gently poked it again and again.
“You’re telling the pitcher to throw a fast ball,” Jane said with a deadpan expression.
Emily smiled at the joke. “It means I’m hungry. Would you please fix me some scrambled eggs?”
“Eggs?”
“Yeah, eggs.”
“Okay,” Jane said, getting up and heading toward the kitchen. Emily quickly followed behind her. Jane opened the refrigerator and found a carton of eggs that Chris bought. Setting the carton on a nearby counter, she contemplated what to do.
“Mommy and I made eggs every morning on our camping trip! I’ll get you a bowl,” Emily said, opening a cabinet and removing a white bowl.
“Okay.” Jane awkwardly grabbed an egg and broke it over the bowl, landing most of the yolk on the table. “Shit,” she said under her breath.
Emily opened a drawer, pulled out a towel and diligently sopped up the mess. “Try it again,” Emily said quietly, her eyes pinned onto the bowl.
Jane cracked another egg against the bowl and the same thing happened, this time knocking some of the yolk onto her hand. “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Jane grumbled. Emily quickly swept up the residue. “I’ll try it this way,” Jane said, slamming the egg against the inside of the bowl, scattering tiny flecks of the smashed eggshell into the broken yolk.
“You got to pick those things out,” Emily said, looking into the bowl.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah!” Jane said, digging for pieces of the eggshell.
“This isn’t the way Mommy does it.”
“Look, it’s been a long time since I made scrambled eggs and I’ve pretty much forgotten how it’s done.”
“Don’t you cook at your home?”
“Not really.”
“How do you eat?” Emily asked, astonished.
“I know how to put food in a microwave and I’ve got Domino’s on speed dial.”
“Are you joking?” Emily said seriously with a semi-shocked look on her face.
“No. How does a pizza sound?”
“How about a sandwich?”
“Pizza.”
Emily held her fist in the air. “Rock, paper, scissors. If you win, pizza. If I win, sandwich.” Jane rolled her eyes and held out her fist. “Okay, on three,” Emily instructed. Jane and Emily brought their fists up and down in unison as Emily counted it out. Emily made the form of a pair of scissors and Jane kept her fist clenched. “Rock crushes scissors,” Emily said, defeated. “Pizza.”
Jane rifled through the nearby phone book until she found the number for a pizza parlor. Pulling the cell phone from her jacket pocket, she dialed and rattled off her order like a seasoned pro. Emily slid onto one of the kitchen chairs and watched Jane intently. She noted that Jane’s navy blue pants were wrinkled, her denim shirt had a spot on the pocket and that her tan leather jacket looked as old as her leather satchel. Jane removed her jacket, tossing it on a chair. Emily immediately eyed Jane’s shoulder holster and black pistol. “No anchovies, right?” Jane asked Emily, lowering the phone.
“Huh?” Emily said, still in awe of Jane’s pistol.
“Never mind.” Jane lifted the phone, continuing the order. Emily crept out of her chair and worked her way around the kitchen table toward Jane. She stood next to Jane, her eyes on the same level as Jane’s Glock. Jane snapped the phone shut and looked down at Emily, just in time to see Emily’s hand reach up toward her gun. “Hey!” Jane said brusquely. “Don’t you ever touch that!”
Emily was taken aback by Jane’s voice. “I just wanted—”
“I don’t care! You never touch my gun! That’s rule number two! Understand?” Emily nodded. “Let’s just sit down and wait for the pizza.”
Emily took a seat. Jane lit another cigarette off the ember that was dying and crushed out the old one in the sink. She took a deep drag and sat across from Emily. “I need to ask you a question,” Emily said quietly.
“What?” Jane said, sucking in another good drag.
“Did you ever kill anybody?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Well, did you?”
“No,” Jane stressed.
“Could you kill somebody?” Jane sat back in her chair, surprised by the question. “I have to know when they come back to get me—”
“No one is coming to get you!”
“But they are—”
Jane was incensed. “Who told you that? Martha?” “Nobody told me. I . . . I just know.”
Jane leaned forward. “No one is going to get you,” she stated with conviction. Emily remained silent, not buying Jane’s reassuring statement. “Look, you’ve got two cars out front and a black-and-white out in the back circling the alley every half hour—”
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