Deadly Aim (6 page)

“Why wouldn’t I be?” She avoided looking him in the eye, hoping he wouldn’t press her. It wouldn’t take much for her to fall apart.

He shrugged. “You were pretty shook up back there. I thought—”

“I’m fine, Nick. I’m going home.”

“Uh, did you hear about the kid’s weapon?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” She ran a hand through her damp curls.

He nodded and straightened. “Want me to follow you?”

“I’m perfectly capable of driving myself home.” Her tone was sharper than she’d intended.

He raised his hands in surrender. “Okay.”

“Nick... look, I’m sorry. I know you’re trying to help, but I’m okay. Really.”

“I understand. If you need me, I’ll—”

“I know. You’ll be there.” Like he always was. Only she didn’t want his help or anyone else’s. She wanted to be left alone.

Nick closed the car door and tapped the roof with the palm of his hand. “I’ll check on you later.”

“Sure.” Angel started to back out when she remembered the replacement gun Nick had given her. “Um—Nick, do you want your gun back?”

“No. It can wait until you get yours back. I have three more at home.”

“Okay, thanks.”

An hour later Angel stood under a hot shower in her apartment, scrubbing Billy’s blood from under her fingernails with a brush. Even though she’d washed every trace of blood away, she lathered her body with fruit-scented soap over and over until the water went cold. She slammed her palm against the faucet to shut it off, then stepped out of the shower and rubbed herself down.

Shivering, she pulled on warm sweats and towel-dried her hair. Black as midnight, it curled in loose ringlets and reached two inches below her shoulders if she straightened it out. Tears had turned her mascara to smoky gray smudges, adding depth to the shadows forming under her eyes. She turned away from the mirror and the accusing gaze that stared back at her. Had she really killed
a twelve-year-old boy? Had his weapon really been a toy? It didn’t seem possible. How could she have made a mistake like that?

This can’t be happening. It’s a dream, right? Please, God, tell me it’s a dream
.

Angel didn’t get an answer, but then, she hadn’t expected to. God wasn’t paying much attention to her these days—if he ever had. His indifference had come through loud and clear with Luke’s disappearance, and even more so with Dani’s death. A little over a year ago, her best friend, Dani Ortega, had been shot and killed while they had been trying to save the children in a day care center.

Angel blinked away the fresh onslaught of tears. God had been as silent then as he was now.

Still chilled to the bone, she went to the kitchen and heated a cup of water in the microwave. She paced across the clammy linoleum floor while she waited, rubbing her arms to warm them. Her apartment was one of those cookie-cutter places, long and narrow with not nearly enough light. There was a closet on the left of the entryway, and her bedroom was off to the right. The hallway opened into the kitchen, left, which melted into the living room with a breakfast bar in between. In the far left corner of the living room was an angled wall with a shelf for her television set and stereo. Under it was a gas fireplace.

She wandered into the living room to the sliding glass door and miniature patio. Pushing the heavy door open, she stepped outside. She had a view of the ocean, though sometimes she wondered why she’d bothered. The weather was often gray in Oregon, with the ocean and fog melding into an obscure mass. At times like that, she actually missed Florida. Today though, the sky was clear, the temperature in the high sixties. All up and down the beach, Angel could see people taking advantage of the pleasant spring day. Below her a couple walked along the shoreline, stopping to examine something they’d found in the sand.

The microwave beeped, letting her know the water was hot. She stood on the deck a while longer, her hands gripping the rail. A cool breeze ruffled her hair, and she inhaled deeply of the moist salt air. She’d read somewhere that deep breathing relieved stress. It didn’t.

Her teeth were chattering when she came back inside. Going to her fireplace, Angel switched on the gas and stared into the flames. The beeper sounded again.

“Okay, okay. I’m coming.” Angel wandered back into the kitchen and dropped a chamomile tea bag into the steaming water, then swirled and dunked. Giving the spent bag a final squeeze, she set it on the little ceramic tea bag holder her mother had made in an art class several years ago.

Angel took her drink to the sofa and curled up under a cream cable-knit afghan. Her mother, Anna, had made that too. Angel warmed her hands on the cup, almost wishing her mother was there now, cooking up her spicy chicken noodle soup. She’d dish up a steaming hot bowl and bring it to Angel on a tray.
“Eat up, honey. It’s good for you. It’ll make you feel better
.”

A tear slid down her cheek, followed by another. And another. “Not even your soup will make this better, Ma.”

Her mother would be getting home from church about now. She’d be bustling around in that huge Italian kitchen of hers, getting lunch and making preparations for dinner. Sunday dinners at home had been one of the things Angel missed most when she’d lived in Bay City. And home had been a haven for her when she’d come back from Florida. She’d stayed six months, licking her wounds, trying to get over Dani’s death. Trying not to blame herself. Not a day went by that she didn’t wonder what she could have done differently, wishing she had run into that day care ahead of Dani.

Then you’d be dead
.

Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. I wouldn’t have been there today. I wouldn’t have fired at that boy
.

Billy. She wondered if her dad knew about him yet. He probably did. He’d been there. She’d forgotten that until now. She’d meant to check with dispatch and find out why he hadn’t been at the scene with the others. He must’ve been called away. She couldn’t
imagine Frank Delaney staying on the sidelines or not showing up when something like an officer shooting involving his daughter was going down. Unless he’d been hurt.

The phone rang. Angel glanced at it and turned back to her tea. She wasn’t ready to talk to anyone yet and wondered if she ever would be. After three rings the answering machine picked up.

“Angel.” The rough voice belonged to her father.

Angel blew out a sigh of relief. He was safe, which meant he’d gone to another call.

“Just heard about your run-in with the gang. Joe said you brought one of ’em down and that you were taking it pretty hard.” Her dad hesitated, then added, “Don’t. You hear me? The streets are better off without punks like that.”

“He had a toy gun, Dad,” she muttered into her drink. Chances are, since he’d talked to Joe, he already knew about the gun. Angel thought briefly about picking up the receiver, but she couldn’t trust herself to talk. Especially not to her father. Frank Delaney was a veteran police officer, crusty and tough. He would be okay with the shooting, he just wouldn’t understand why it was tearing her inside out. Angel had never told him about Dani and how her world had collapsed, how she almost hadn’t come out on the other side of the darkness, and how sometimes she felt like she was still there.

Her father didn’t tolerate weakness in any of his kids. Well, that wasn’t exactly true; he expected some weakness in her, a girl, but she’d proven over and over that she could be as tough as any of his sons.

“Call me.” He hesitated. “Oh, by the way, your mother wants you to come for dinner.”

The machine clicked off. She was about to unplug the phone when it rang again. She got up to answer it. Her hand shook as she reached for the receiver, then stopped. It was probably her mother, the last person she wanted to talk to. “Sorry, Ma. I just can’t...”

After the answering machine beep came a male voice. “Hi, honey,” Brandon Lafferty crooned.

Had Brandon already heard? Probably not. The news programs wouldn’t start until 5:00, and Brandon’s plans for Sunday mornings usually included golf or tennis with his father and brother at the country club. “Just wanted to remind you about tonight. Pick you up at 6:00. I thought we’d have dinner at Maxwell’s.... Love you.”

“Oh no,” Angel groaned. She’d forgotten all about their date. The last thing she felt like doing was going to a restaurant, especially one like Maxwell’s. The restaurant sat atop the three-story Smith building and gave diners a perfect view of the beach. Normally she enjoyed eating there, but not today.
Please not today
.

Angel reached for the phone to call him back and even punched in the number. But then she hung up. She couldn’t say why; maybe she just needed to do something other than think about the shooting. And Brandon would provide a good diversion.

She was just about to sit down on the couch when the phone rang again. This time she gave up and answered.

“Angel, honey. It’s your mother.”

“I know.” Angel rolled her eyes. For some strange reason, her mother always felt compelled to preface every phone conversation with her identity.

“Your father told me what happened. I’m so sorry. It’s a terrible thing, honey, even if you were just doing your job like he said. You shouldn’t be alone, sweetheart.”

“I’m okay, Ma. It’s not a big deal.”

“Since when is shooting someone not a big deal?”

“You want me to feel worse than I already do?” Angel rubbed at the beginnings of a headache. “Ma, please. I don’t want to talk about it, all right? I feel bad. And I’m really sorry all this happened.”

“Of course you are.” She paused. “Listen, sweetheart, I made a chocolate cake this morning before church. Your favorite. I’m bringing some over.” With the change in subjects came a change in tone. Angel had never been able to figure out how her mother could make the switch so abruptly. Nothing seemed to bother her, at least not for very long.

“You don’t have to do that.”
In fact, please don’t
. But she couldn’t bring herself to say this. She loved her mother’s chocolate cake.

“Of course, I don’t, but it’s what mothers do. I’m coming, no argument.” She hung up.

Angel thought seriously about leaving. She didn’t want to deal with her mother on top of everything else. Ma was the kind of woman who’d love you to death if you let her. Which was one of the reasons Angel had moved into her own place. Now that her kids had grown up, Anna spent most of her time taking care of other people. But she had loved having Angel come back to what she called her empty nest. She still thought of Angel as her baby girl and probably always would.

When Angel had decided it was time to move into her own place again, her mother objected.

“Stay, Angel. We have plenty of room.”

“It isn’t right, my living at home anymore,” Angel told her. But she hadn’t dared tell the real reason—she felt smothered. It wasn’t easy trying to fit back into the home she’d grown up in. There were too many memories, too much confusion; and instead of treating Angel like the adult she’d become, her parents acted as though she had never left home.

Angel, too, found herself reverting back to adolescence, back to a time when life was simpler, where burglaries, assaults, child abuse, and murders were light-years away. For a while it felt good to be cared for, but after six months she couldn’t handle it anymore. “You and Dad have raised your kids,” she told them. “You deserve some time alone.”

“And what would I do with more time?” Anna had asked. “The last thing I need is to be alone.”

“But you have Dad, and Tim’s kids.” Anna adored her grandchildren. But with five kids, she’d expected to have more than two, and she rarely missed an opportunity to let all of them know about it.

Anna waved her hand. “Your father doesn’t need me. And Tim and Susan are taking the kids to the new day care at the hospital. Please stay,” she pleaded. “It will give us time to get to know each other.”

“What do you mean? I already know you.”

Anna moved her head from side to side and settled her dark brown gaze on Angel. “Oh, honey. You don’t know me at all.”

What did you mean, Ma? How could I not know you
?

A gentle knock sounded on the door, pulling Angel from her musings. She tried to ignore it, but whoever it was put a key in the lock.

Startled, Angel bounced to her feet. “Who’s there?”

The door swung open. Her mother’s salt-and-pepper hair barely showed above two large paper grocery bags. She was still wearing church clothes—a floral-print, knee-length dress and black heels—and was carrying an oversized black purse. Her slender legs looked like those of a much younger woman.

“Hi, honey, it’s just me.”

Angel glanced at the phone, then started toward the door. “How did you get here so fast?”

“I was in the neighborhood.” She’d apparently used her new cell phone—the one she swore she would never buy.

Angel bit her tongue to keep from saying something she’d regret. She wished she had never given her mother the key to her apartment. Anna had insisted the family have a key in case of an emergency. Did the shooting constitute an emergency? Apparently.

Angel took the grocery bags and set them on the counter, sniffing appreciatively. Whatever was in those bags smelled wonderful. If she were the least bit honest with herself, she’d admit that deep down she was glad her mother had come.

“Oh, sweetheart!” Anna deposited her purse on the kitchen counter, then hurried to Angel’s side. “You look terrible. Are you running a fever?” Her hand automatically went to Angel’s forehead.

Angel ducked and brushed her mother’s hand away. “I’m not sick, Ma. I just...”
Shot and killed a kid
. She couldn’t finish the thought, not aloud at any rate.

Anna wore an injured expression on her face, the one that said,
I’m your mother, Angel. Don’t push me away
.

Angel ignored the look and peeked into the bags. “What’s all this?”

“You’ll see.” Her mother smiled, her hurt apparently swallowed up in the pleasure she took in feeding her only daughter.