Edge of Midnight (21 page)

Cautiously Cary reached out, halfway expecting the animal to bite her. It looked up at her with the sweetest brown eyes and stretched its nose to touch her hand. She had never felt anything so velvety soft as this small horse's muzzle. Every negative thought she'd had got erased when she knelt to stroke the animal and it kissed her cheek. Her heart went all gooey. When she learned she had to be evaluated before she was accepted into the program, she was, suddenly and with great regret, sure she'd be rejected.

“First you get to walk around with an old hand at this guide business named Janus. She's led many candidates.”

Ronny took her out to a corral where a small, black horse was tied to a rail, and told her to take the reins and harness. “Phase I, candidate evaluation.”

Nervousness, stumbling, and saying left when she meant right, had Cary limp with worry and certain she'd failed miserably. Finally, just when Cary was so frazzled she was ready to give up, Ronny said, “Congratulations, you've passed the orientation and mobility skills. You now advance to Phase II, introductory training.”

Cary hadn't been this relieved and proud when she completed her master's. Phase II would be spent in classrooms learning all about the care of horses. Feeding, grooming, and proper facilities for housing. She would learn voice commands and get tested to determine if she understood how signals were communicated though the harness and reins.

With her poor vision, Cary tried to take notes and wished she had a tape recorder. If she passed Phase II, she would become an apprentice handler. One of Ronny's assistants drove her home. Exhausted and exhilarated, Cary sat in the van, running through the voice commands. When she was dropped off at home, she checked the slip of paper in the doorway. It was torn. Had she done it? In her hurry, because she was late, had she accidently torn the scrap and not noticed?

 

26

Around seven Susan split for home, collected the newspaper from the front step, and glanced at the headlines.
HEAT WAVE CONTINUES. NO END IN SIGHT
. Tossing the paper on the living room couch, she turned on the window cooler. The temperature approached that of a tin hut in the desert. Her fever hovered about the same mark, her head pounded, she still couldn't hear out of her right ear, and she had a dinner date with Fran in an hour. Cool air rattled out in a steady stream and she let it blow against her sweaty face.

The record heat was taking its toll on everybody. Drivers were spilling out road rage at the stupidity of the other people behind the wheel, fights were taking place on school grounds, and stray burglars were finding easy access because home owners were leaving windows open at night in the hope of catching a stray breeze.

Priorities: first, kick off shoes; second, fill cat bowl; third, find Excedrin; fourth, fix tall Coke with lots of ice. She carried the glass to her office off the living room. The desk had piles nearly as high and just as untidy as her desk at work. That probably said something deeply psychological about her. She picked up a folder and waited for the necessary oomph to open it. The hour before she was to meet Fran at the Broken Cactus was slipping by. Fran thought they had Mexican food there. Ha!

Okay, this is ridiculous. Call and cancel, then go to bed. Before she could find the number, the phone rang. She glared at it. Any messenger with news that would drag her back to work was dead meat. When it rang again, she picked it up.

“You have to eat. It's too hot to cook. We'll eat fast,” Fran said. “Those are all the replies to all the reasons why you can't join me for dinner.”

“I feel lousy and I—”

“You have to eat.”

“All I want to do is—”

“It's too hot to cook.”

“I was going to say, all I want to do is go to bed.”

“By yourself?”

“I thought I'd take Bach.”

Fran gave a theatrical sigh. “That's another thing we have to talk about. Stand up this minute and walk out the door. I'll meet you there.”

“No.”

“It will be cool.”

This was true. She wiped the sweat from her face, shut off the window cooler, and grabbed her shoulder bag.

Fran, seated in a corner booth, was right about one thing. It was wonderfully cool inside. Susan slid onto the bench across from her. Western-style gear decorated the walls, hats and spurs and boots and coiled riatas. A saddle, with a brightly colored blanket draped over it, rested on a window seat. A candle flickering in a brass holder was reflected in Fran's eyes. Leaning forward, Susan raised the candle and held it close to Fran. “You dyed your hair.”

Instead of the normal glossy chestnut, her shoulder-length hair was now a silver blond. “New man in your life?” Every time Fran met somebody new she dyed her hair a different color.

“What about Osey?” The last Susan knew, Fran had cast a spell over him and turned his mind from police work to love. “If you broke his heart, or did anything that'll make him less efficient at work, I'll have to shoot you.”

Fran smiled slyly. “He's very sweet, but very young. I've decided to return him to the wild.” She hummed a phrase of “Born Free.” “He is now a wiser and more skilled male.”

“Do I have to spend the entire meal listening to you extol the virtues of this new man?”

“You do.”

The waiter, dressed in tight black pants, with a white shirt half buttoned, and a red sash around his waist, came for their order. When he left Susan picked up her water glass and held it against her forehead.

Fran studied her. “You look like you haven't slept in weeks.”

“That's about right.”

“Why aren't you sleeping?”

“I keep having these dreams. Weird dreams.”

“Tell me about them.”

“What are you, my psychiatrist?”

“Aha! Juicy dreams. Tell all.”

“Not juicy.” Susan breathed out a long sigh. “Variations of the same theme. I'm walking somewhere isolated and I get this feeling of dread, something really bad is going to happen. Then I hear gunfire.”

“Wow. You get shot?”

“I wake up before I find out what happens.”

“Maybe you should see a therapist,” Fran said softly. “It's probably unresolved issues from Dan's death.”

It was four years since her husband had died. Sometimes she dreamed about him and struggled to remember his face clearly. “More likely fever.” Susan took a sip of water, swallowing made her ears crackle. “So, tell me about this new man.”

Fran had met Barry at her high school reunion. A physicist now. She vaguely remembered him and hadn't given him a glance, back then anyway. “He was kind of nerdy and I was more into flash.”

“So, having matured, you can see the goodness in nerdy.”

“Correct.”

Fran talked, Susan listened. The attractions of the new man were many, but Susan heard very little of them. Clogged ears, clink of silverware, hum of conversation.

“… witness protection…”

“What?” Susan looked up.

Fran grinned. “I thought that might get your attention.”

“You had my attention.”

“Yeah, right. I saw your eyes glaze over.”

“That was fever. What's this about witness protection?”

“I asked if the Witness Protection Program set somebody up here.”

“Why did you ask that?”

Fran's eyes widened. “So it's true? What is she hiding from? Mafia?”

“Have you been watching television again?”

“What else do I have to do? With everybody booking flights and making hotel reservations on their computers, or worried about terrorists, who needs a travel agent? I'm thinking of opening a soup-and-sandwich place. And don't think you're leading me away from the topic. Where did she come from, and why does she need protections?”

“Fran, I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about.”

Fran tore off a chunk of bread, put a minuscule dab of butter on it, and bit off one end. “Come on, you can tell me.”

Susan sighed. Her headache was getting worse and, dearly as she loved Fran, right now all she wanted was to go home and lie down. The noise in the restaurant was acting like a hammer against her temples.

“First, the idea of witness protection is to
protect the witness
. Nobody except those directly involved know anything about anything. Nobody else knows anything. That translates to nobody knows anything. So, if there were such a thing as a person dropped here with a new identity, nobody would be told about it. Not even me, the chief of police of this town.”

“Wow, I've never heard you so muddled. You must really be sick.”

“I told you I was. Why are you talking about witness protection?”

“Debbie at the library. She told me someone named Kelby Oliver moved in practically in the middle of the night. Who does that, unless they have something to hide? She rarely left the house. Hardly anybody ever saw her. She could have been murdered in her bed for all anybody knew. Neighbors came by to drop off their cakes and casseroles like they do. Have you noticed they always do that when somebody new moves in or somebody dies? Arrivals and departures.”

“Fran, what are you talking about?”

The waiter came up with a basket of hush puppies. When he left, Fran said, “I'm telling you it's weird. Here's this woman who barely left the house. Then all of a sudden, she's out walking around, she went in one day and got a library card, and not only that, but she got a job.”

“A job.” Eyes at half-mast, Susan stared at her friend. “From this you come up with witness protection?”

“She was hiding, Susan. She had everything delivered, made the delivery folks just leave stuff on the porch, and wouldn't open the door until they left. And now she's out prancing around. It's like she's a totally different person.”

“Maybe she's shy.”

Fran snorted. “Nobody's that shy.”

“Busy moving in. Unpacking.”

“Oh, right. And she didn't want the neighbors to see her empty boxes.”

The waiter brought salads and Fran picked up her fork and stabbed a lettuce leaf. “Debbie also said she has checked out a lot of books.”

“She checked out books from the library,” Susan said. “That
is
weird.”

“A whole bunch of books, and Debbie said she can barely see.” Fran sat back as though she'd just presented the closing argument.

The food arrived, but Susan could barely taste it, and swallowing hurt her throat. Fran took pity on her, told her to go home, they'd have dinner again another time.

At just after nine, temperature still blisteringly hot, Susan got in the pickup. At home, she spotted a forlorn figure trudging up the street. She pulled into her driveway.

“Hey, Jen, where you headed?”

“Home.”

“Want to come in for a minute?”

Jen shook her head.

“You got me worried, kiddo. What's it going to take to get you to talk? I'm ready for bribery here. I'm willing to go all the way to … six dollars?”

Jen gave her a withering look. “I'm okay.”

“I'm glad to hear it. Tell me what's been bothering you. Are your classes difficult?” That earned Susan another withering glance. She couldn't imagine the classes would be more than Jen could handle. Jen liked school, she was smart.

“Would you shoot somebody for me?”

Susan slid from the pickup. “That bad, huh?” she said softly.

“I hate school. I want to transfer to somewhere else.”

“Why? School has barely started. All your friends go—”

“I don't have any friends.”

“What about Sheila?”

“We were friends when I was helping her with her math. Now all she does is whisper about me and send e-mail.” Jen picked at a mosquito bite on her arm.

“What is she whispering?”

“How ugly I am and stuck-up, and think I'm so smart and always dress like a dork, and I'm crazy like Grandpa. They pretend they have a rifle and yell stuff like ‘shoot those Nazis.' He can't help it. He's sick. Mom says because he was tortured during the war. And they say my daddy was forced to leave because he—did things to me, and…”

She choked and swallowed hard. “And he didn't—he never—Mom just wanted—they just got a divorce and…”

Susan sat on the porch steps and patted the spot beside her. Somewhat to her surprise, Jen flopped down on the step below.

“Sheila took a picture of me when I was changing for gym class, only she put my face on this gross fat body and sent it to everybody, and now nobody will talk to me. And she says I smell bad because I never take a bath, and it's not true—I take a bath every day—and they throw things at me in the restrooms, and—”

“Throw things? Who? What things?” Now that, Susan thought, she could do something about.

“Paper towels and used tampons and stuff.”

“I'll stop it.”

“
No!
” Jen took a breath and blew her nose. “You'll only make it worse.”

“But Jen—”

“I just want to go away. Another school, someplace where she won't be.”

“We can't let her get away with what she's doing.” Susan didn't know exactly how she could stop these kids, but she was so angry she wanted to march into the school, haul the girl out of class, shake her, and yell in her face. “Where would you go?”

Jen shrugged. “Mom says I can't transfer. She can't afford it and…” Her voice trailed off into hopelessness.

Susan didn't think much of Jen's mom, but she didn't ever want to say anything negative about her. “Why is Sheila doing this?”

“They just hate me. They talk about me and laugh and bump into me in the halls and drop disgusting stuff on my lunch and shove me and won't let me out of the bathroom … And I thought Sheila was my friend and she—” Jen fiercely blew her nose.