Redemption (20 page)

“Mary. Pretty name.”

“We named her after Mary, the mother of God.
The virgin.
But it seems her namesake turned out to be Mary Magdalene!” Jane waited for Ingrid to add “
the whore,
” but she opted to silently infer that with the raise of an eyebrow. A chilled gust of wind kicked around them, signaling an approaching storm. “We need to get you to your car!”

“Why don’t you go back to the house? I’m fine,” Jane urged.

Ingrid started up the block. “I always walk my guests to their car.”

Jane countered with a quick diversion. “Looks like we’re in for a storm!” She yelled the comment louder than necessary. Ingrid regarded Jane with an odd look.

“Appears so,” Ingrid said quietly.

Jane spoke again, this time even louder, hoping that Kit would wake up and hide. “Are we supposed to get snow?” They were within ten feet of the Mustang.

Ingrid was puzzled by Jane’s loud voice. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

Jane decided to take aggressive action. She moved toward the driver’s side and stood in front of the backseat window, doing her best to casually block Ingrid’s view. “Well, once again, thank you for arranging all of this!”

Ingrid’s eyes fell past Jane and into the backseat. “Well, my, my.” Jane remained unmoved, even though her heart pounded out of control. “Looks like you’ve got an extra load.”

Jane turned around. Now her heart raced faster. Kit was gone.

“That’s quite a heap of luggage you’re carrying,” Ingrid offered.

Jane’s eyes drifted to the pavement. Next to the left front tire she saw a small pool of vomit that trailed around the hood of the Mustang. Surreptitiously, Jane skirted the immediate area for any sign of Kit. But there was nothing.

“Yes,” Jane said halfheartedly. “I really should be going. Thank you again.” Jane unlocked the car door, eyes eagerly scanning the neighborhood. Once inside the Mustang, she started the ignition and looked out the window to where Ingrid was still standing. “Bye!” Jane said, wondering why in the hell Ingrid was still standing there. Ingrid took a few steps back and gave a little wave but stayed in place. Pulling onto the tree-lined street, Jane trolled up the block. Checking in her rearview mirror, there was Ingrid,
still
standing and waving. “Goddammit!” Jane said under her breath, her mind racing with awful scenarios that involved Kit. She crawled up the street another two hundred feet.

That’s when she saw it.

CHAPTER 13

It was just a quick flash of purple, but Jane quickly identified it. That type of billowing clothing only belonged to one person.

The dark plum fabric from Kit’s left trouser leg stuck out from an oak on the right-hand side of the street. Jane tapped the accelerator, cruising toward the tree. There was Kit, her back flattened against the front of the tree, doing her best to hide from Ingrid. Her long braid had bits of bark and leaves stuck to it and her face was ghostly pale. For an instant, Jane noted a faint sense of disorientation coming from Kit. Checking the rearview mirror, Jane saw Ingrid inexplicably still standing in the street. But Jane’s concern for Kit superseded the need for secrecy. She hit the brakes and motioned for Kit to get in the car. Kit shook her head and waved Jane onward with a flick of her wrist. Jane checked the rearview mirror again. Ingrid was in the same spot.

“Shit!” Jane exclaimed. Leaning over to the passenger side, she rolled down the window. “Kit! Get in the car!”

“Is she still back there?” Kit asked, coming back to her senses.

“We’re far enough away! She can’t tell it’s you! Get in!”

“No,” Kit quietly replied, her voice weak, “We can’t risk it! Drive ’round the block and pick me up here in ten minutes.” Kit choked on a rattled cough. “Go on!”

“You’re sick! She can’t tell who the hell you are from this distance! Now get your ass in the car or I’m coming out to get you!” Jane unlocked the passenger door and pushed it wide open.

“Goddammit, Jane!” She hesitated briefly and then made a beeline for the Mustang, keeping her back to Ingrid. Once inside, she slammed the door. “Drive!”

Jane accelerated, checking her rearview mirror. Ingrid was still there.

“I saw vomit around the side of the car! What happened?”

“It’s nothing.”

“The hell it’s nothing!
What happened?
”

“I woke up and felt nauseous. It happens occasionally. I’ve learned that if I can get up and walk in the fresh air, it subsides. So that’s what I did. I had every intention of getting back in the car before you showed up, but....” Kit turned away, trying to gather her thoughts. “I thought I saw someone....”

“Who?” Jane asked, concerned.

Kit looked out the window, sadness briefly engulfing her. “I was mistaken.”

Jane finally reached the end of the block and turned. “Well, it’s good you didn’t get back in the car. Ingrid would have seen you for sure. She walked me all the way to the car. Some kind of odd Christian courtesy.”

Kit smiled. “My special Guides were obviously watching out for me.”

“Huh?”

“They knew I couldn’t be seen by Ingrid and so they designed an opportunity for me to get out of that car. It’s just fascinating....” Kit’s eyes twinkled at a private memory.

Jane tried to think of any way to help Kit. “Maybe if you’d do some cancer drugs, you wouldn’t get sick like this.”

“I won’t poison my body.”

“But you could lengthen your life.”

“You mean like buy myself another six months? I don’t need six months.”

Jane found the comment odd. “You don’t need—? What?”

“I don’t need six months,” Kit repeated, more to herself.

“What
do
you need?” Jane asked, feeling more than a little confused.

“I need...my balls.” Jane regarded Kit with a questioning look.
“My spirulina energy balls!
Where are they?” Jane directed her to the backseat. Kit eagerly grabbed the bag and brought out two dark green balls the size of kumquats. “Here, try one!”

“No, thanks.”

“You’ve got a long drive. They’ll give you tremendous energy!
Here
!” Jane reluctantly took the spirulina ball and popped it into her mouth. “Not bad, huh?” Kit questioned as she happily took a bite from the remaining health treat.

“Yeah, tasteless algae has always been a personal favorite,” Jane replied, swallowing hard to get the gooey mess past her throat.

Jane’s cell phone rang. She retrieved it from her bag and snuck a look at the caller ID. It was Sergeant Weyler. Jane snapped the phone shut and tossed it into her bag.

“Who is it?” Kit asked.

“Nobody.”

“Who is it?”

Jane let out a tired sigh. “Sergeant Weyler. He’s my old boss at DH.”

“Did you tell him about my case?”

“Of course not!”

“Is he a good man?”

“
Weyler?
Yeah, of course he’s a good man.”

“Trustworthy?”

“Top-of-the-line trustworthy. Why?”

“Maybe he can help us. You know, documents, information—”

“Whoa!
I
am working this case for you! I don’t need Weyler!”

“Why so defensive? Do you respect this man?”

“Absolutely!”

“Then we shouldn’t discard him out of hand in case he could be of assistance!”

“I am
not
talking to Weyler! Period! End of sentence. Case closed.”

Kit observed Jane like a suspect. “Why are you so afraid to talk to him?”

Jane told Kit about Weyler’s offer to return to DH as a sergeant.

“‘Sergeant Perry calling from Denver Headquarters,’” Kit enthusiastically mimicked. “I think it’s got a helluva nice ring to it! Call him back and say yes.”

“You don’t think I can make it on my own?” Jane was seriously insulted.

“Stop acting like a child! You can make it on your own, but maybe you can make it
better
in a larger organization and with the support of this Sergeant Weyler. And I bet they give you one helluva good dental plan!”

“Kit, enough!”

Kit finished her spirulina ball and changed the subject, wanting to know what happened with Bartosh and if he was still practicing paint-by-numbers piety.

“It went fine. He felt my article was a sign from God.”

“What happens when your article never appears in the magazine?”

“
C’est la vie
, as they say in France,” Jane replied in a cavalier tone.

“Well, ‘Cover your ass,’ as they say in the U.S. You should call him back to follow-up with more questions. Makes the whole thing look aboveboard. Then maybe a call down the road to say the article’s not going to happen. Blame it on your editor.”

“Shit happens. Stories get shelved all the time.” Jane gunned the Mustang onto I-70, heading westbound. “Did you know the Bartoshs had a daughter named Mary?”

“No. Why?”

“She left home at seventeen quite suddenly. She was pregnant.”

Kit turned to Jane, stunned. “Bartosh told you this?”

“No. Ingrid.”

“Where’d she go?”

“Who knows. They haven’t heard a word from her since she left.”

Kit tried to piece together a timeline. “She must have left before Lou’s trial, because I never saw any teenage girl that belonged to the Bartoshs in the courtroom.”

Jane weighed the pros and cons of her next move and decided it was worth the risk. She dug the five-by-seven photo out of her shirt and handed it to Kit. “Take a look at the girl on the far left-hand side.”

Kit’s eyes bugged out. “Where did you get this?”

“It was one of many photos in a collage in their hallway—”

“You
stole
this photo?!”

“That hallway was so dark, you couldn’t see your future. They’ll never miss it!”

“Jane P., they
will
miss this!”

“You don’t understand the feeling when your gut twists and you just know you’re on to something but you can’t put your finger right on it—”

“You mean it felt
hinky
?”

Jane was seriously taken aback. It was the last word she ever thought Kit would bandy around, let alone use correctly in a sentence. “Yeah...
exactly
...that’s exactly it.”

Kit seemed satisfied by Jane’s response and studied the photo. “Okay. So, what about the girl on the far left side?”

“How old is she?”

“Sixteen.... Maybe seventeen.”

“I’m saying seventeen. What do you bet that’s Mary?”

Kit looked closer at the photo, this time with more interest. “It could be anyone.”

“Look closely. She’s got Ingrid’s features. And just that part of the photo where she appears was covered up.” Jane started factoring the timeline in her head. If Mary was seventeen in that photo, then she left home in 1990. Since Kit didn’t see her at Lou’s trial, Jane figured Mary left home sometime between Easter and that summer.

Kit saw the written reference to Pico Blanco on the photo. “That’s the cabin.”

Jane inwardly grimaced. She kicked herself mentally for forgetting the significance of the cabin and handing it to Kit. “Here,” she said, reaching for the photo.

“No,” Kit said, holding on tightly to the photo. Her eyes fixated on Lou. “You see how handsome he is? Is it any wonder he enticed girls?” Kit fell into a trancelike state. “I wonder what he looks like now. He was clean-shaven with an army haircut at the bond hearing last year. Prison took away some of his youthfulness. But he still had that blue-eyed come hither look that traps and tricks the unsuspecting child....”

Jane gently took the photo out of Kit’s hand, securing it in her satchel. “I’m sorry.”

“So many memories....” Kit contained her emotions and asked what Jane thought of Bartosh. When Jane said she agreed with much of what he said in relation to the sexualizing of young girls, Jane noted how Kit took it as a blatant defense of a man she could never respect.

“I don’t buy the religious end,” Jane argued, “but I agree with him when he talks about how young girls are enticed to act older and sexier than they should. It sets the stage for chaos and sexual predators. Sexual predators are always looking for the perfect victim.”

Kit bristled.
“Perfect victim?”

Jane took it down a notch. “A cop sees three types of people in this world: victims, predators, and none of the above. Victims put off an energy—” Jane knew she was treading on dangerous ground. She didn’t want to dredge up more painful memories for Kit. But she wished she could explain clearly what her years as a cop had proven to her: some people put off either a conscious or unconscious vibe to predators. Her experience showed that there was always an inherent weakness in the victim. The predator hones in on that weakness and takes full advantage of it. Sometimes, that weakness was sheer ignorance; ignorance that provocative clothing, actions, or behavior tripped a predator’s senses. It didn’t mean the crime was justified. But from Jane’s perspective, there were many cases where the victim was either drunk, stoned, in known dangerous locations, or fraternizing with people who had, in Jane’s estimation, obvious criminal intent. But to try and
explain this to Kit was pointless. And the last thing Jane wanted to do was give Kit the impression that Ashlee asked for what she got.

“Are you talking about free spirits?” Kit asked.

Jane couched her response carefully. “To a sexual predator, a ‘free spirit’ is asking for it,
especially
if the predator is coming from some warped religious point of view. Bartosh made a comment that I agree with: ‘Where there’s no self-discipline there’s no self-rule.’ Self-rule and self-discipline work both ways. Free spirits usually don’t have either.”

“What do you suggest we do? Shove everyone into a box and crush their vitality, only letting them out to breathe and stretch before slamming them back in the box? Isn’t that what
Bartosh
tells parents to do with their children? Create little robotic drones who can’t think for themselves, let alone act without first consulting with the Great Master in Grand Junction? That technique obviously didn’t work on his own kid!”