The Debt Collector (34 page)

“Good girl. Come on.”

It wasn't a step, it was more a movement, an inclination in his direction. He leaned toward her and her stomach jumped, then flooded with relief, because all he did was hold her hand, and his fingers were dry, strong, and warm. She could feel his heat, their noses close enough to touch. He looked at her like a man in love, like a man who has seen you from across the room and decided, come hell or high water, that you are the one.

Then he kissed her, lips pressing hard against hers, warm, soft, teeth grazing her lower lip. He pulled away, opened his eyes, sighed.

“I'm going. You coming?”

She could not talk. Her tongue was heavy and her throat tight. She felt that sick, sinking feeling you get when you have to say good-bye to someone you have loved all your life.

It felt bad. Like the death of a heart.

He smiled and dropped her hand. “I'll go first.”

She never could place exactly what compelled her to look up and over Jack's shoulder. Never told anyone what she saw there—her brother, Stuart. How distinctly she saw him there in the darkness, how wonderful he looked, how he smiled at her and held up a hand as if to ward off something bad.

It startled her. She backed away, felt, a split second later, Van Owen's strong grasping fingers as he reached out and grabbed for her, and she pulled away, socks slipping on the wet concrete, landing hard.

She watched him fall, white shirt billowing, disbelief like a hand at her throat, as if she had expected him to be more than human, as if she had expected him to fly. As if she had expected him to take her with him.

68

For some reason Sergeant Crick was telling her to put her head between her knees, which she did, sitting there in Jack Van Owen's leather chair, wrapped in a blanket, shivering so hard her muscles ached, teeth chattering against the cup of coffee that she finally pushed away.

Light from the solitary desk lamp pooled at her feet. She heard men, and voices, and heavy feet, and still more sirens up and down the street.

A man's voice. Gruber. “Can't make a positive ID, sir. He's too much of a mess.”

“It's him. It's Jack Van Owen. I was there when he went over.” Her voice sounded strange and choky. Her voice worried her. It seemed to worry Crick. She had a weird, heightened sensibility, as if she were floating at the top of the room watching everyone and reading their thoughts. As if she were in her body, but out. Crick was unhappy with her. Gruber was worried. Did they know? Did they know what she had almost done? The guilt washed over her like a wave that would take her under.

“This is bad,” Sonora said. They were cops, they knew things. They would know what she had almost done.

“Get Mickey in here, with his camera,” Crick said. “Sonora, where is your gun?”

“My what?”

He tilted her chin up so she could face him, as if her eyes were a book he was compelled to read. “Where is your gun?”

“I had it.”

“Yes.”

“I don't know.”

“Did you fire your gun?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.”

“You're not sure?”

“No, I didn't fire it.”

“You don't remember firing your gun?”

“No, sir.” She waved a hand, waving off the question, the irritation of details. “Sergeant, he talked to me, he told me. There
was
a third man.”

Crick's head moved toward her like a bird of prey. “Sonora—”

“No, listen to me. It was his son. Van Owen's son. That boy never died in the car accident, I checked—”

“What car accident? Are you talking about Lacy's accident?”

“Yes, the boy, Angelo, he wasn't killed, he wasn't even hurt.”

“I know that.”

“You … do?”

“Hell yes, I was there, I was his partner then. There were problems with the boy, Sonora, this is ancient history, it has nothing to do with—”

“Sir, it was the boy that was there, at the Stinnets' house, he was the Angel, he was the third man, Jack was protecting him.”

Crick pulled his chair close in and took both of her hands in his. “Sonora, listen to me. Angelo Van Owen died at the age of seventeen in an institution in Arlington, Texas.”

Sonora wanted to say something but did not know what.

“The boy hung himself. He seemed to be doing better, he got more privileges, and one morning they found him hanging from his sweater. A pretty determined suicide. Jack never forgave himself, but Angelo Van Owen is dead and has been for six years. There was not a third man, Sonora. Give it up. Kinkle and Aruba butchered Joy Stinnet and her family. The only connection with Van Owen was he supplied the victims. And he sure as hell felt bad enough about it, didn't he?” Crick swept an arm around the room, pointing to the walls covered with pictures. “But that business of his was a cover, Sonora. He came up with a lot of good information over the last few years. He was a good guy. He was a good friend. He was never at the Stinnets' house, and he never would have let it happen.”

“You've known from day one, haven't you?” Sonora asked. “You knew he ran the business—”

“He wasn't—”

“Involved? You going to tell me he wasn't involved? Me running around talking about this third man, like some kind of an idiot, because I was totally out of the loop, right? You don't think he was involved? Think again. Because I have it, sir—”

“You have what?”

“Proof that he was there. I've got the gloves he wore when he punched Aruba in the mouth.”

Silence like a pillow over her face.

“Where?”

“Evidence room with the clerk, and they better not disappear.”

“I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that.”

“Pretend all you want, it's been said. Jack Van Owen was there.”

“He was a good cop, Sonora, and you are dead wrong.”

“Somebody here is dead wrong, but it sure the hell isn't me, not anymore. Just you remember those photos, sir. If Van Owen hadn't been there, this would never have happened. He was involved. We may never know how much, but he was involved. He was not the man you knew.”

Crick's voice washed over her, in a low tone meant only for Gruber's ears. “Go up to the roof and look for her gun. See if it's been fired, report only to me. And clear the room. We don't need these uniforms in here. Get them busy somewhere else.”

“Yes, sir.” Gruber so quiet, so serious. He squeezed Sonora's shoulder and she felt tears stream down her cheeks. She did not care that she was crying. She did not care that it made her look weak. She would not care what anyone thought ever again.

“Where in the hell is Mickey?” This from Crick, impatient but holding rein.

“He's coming, sir. You.” Gruber was pointing at someone, but even from the top of the room Sonora could not tell who. “Get Mickey in here, now.”

“Up to the roof,” Crick urged.

Gruber left.

Sonora did not know the name of the uniform who drove her home, and she never found out his name, though she thought of him afterward, mentally dubbing him the sweetest boy in the world. He was tallish and thick-chested, with skinny legs, and his short dark hair was gelled back over his bullet-shaped head.

She had thought she might drive herself home, but her knees were shaky, and she was subject to bouts of trembling, and Crick ordered her not to drive. She wasn't much for following Crick's orders, but she did see his point.

Her only thought was that it was good Crick and Gruber had not been able to read her thoughts. Because right now she hated every single one of them.

She sat in the cruiser and did not respond to the kind questions and offers of help. Well, she did have one question.

“Where did you get it?” She meant the half coffee, half Jack Daniel's that he handed her in a Starbucks cup.

“Don't ask,” he told her kindly. So for once in her life she did not ask. The uniform could not know that
don't
and
ask
were two words that always set her off.

She hoped, later, that he did not take her aura of rage personally. But she had been made to stand up, Crick and Gruber examining her arms, taking pictures of the unbroken flesh, muttering cop things like
no scratches
, hem haw hem. Crick had offered her the chance to call an attorney, damn his sorry ass. Mickey had cleared out under her fingernails, said “nothing obvious” to Crick while he put his specimens away in an evidence bag. A paramedic had drawn blood, and Mickey had done a paraffin test on her hands, right and left, to see if she had fired her weapon. Admirable thoroughness.

My God, she was angry. What did they think, did they think she had shot Van Owen? Pushed him over the edge? Was that easier to believe than the legend going bad?

But she had not stopped him, had she? She ought to have followed procedure and tried to talk him down, or at the very least, shot him before he jumped.

Tomorrow—tomorrow, when she could think, she would have to come up with a story. Something better than I kissed him goodbye and he jumped off the roof.

And she closed her eyes, shivering, because he hadn't screamed, he hadn't cried. He hadn't made a sound at all.

69

Sonora slammed the car door of the cruiser, stirring the neighborhood dogs, and ran across the wet lawn to her front door. She giggled for no particular reason, feeling like a teenager out past curfew. The Jack Daniel's was taking effect.

The children had left the porch light on, or had not turned it off, depending upon how you looked at it. Clampett was delighted to see her, and he licked her arms and sniffed her shoes and leaned up against her leg. She dropped her purse and key beside the front door. Staggered a little when she walked, but made a survey of the house.

Clean and neat. Dishwasher running, the light on over the sink. Tim, she guessed, currying favor after his bout of jail time, appreciating home for the first time in a long time—the same could be said for herself. The children's doors were locked, as usual, and she did not have the energy to pick the locks. She sat on the couch. Patted the cushion.

“Here, boy.”

Clampett, possibly her only friend in the whole world, jumped up beside her and licked her nose. She laid her head on his neck and closed her eyes. And saw Jack Van Owen, floating to the ground.

She was exhausted, sleepy, afraid to let go.

The headlights of a car blazed against the living-room window. Someone turning into her driveway.

Clampett growled and leaped off the couch, heading for the front door in a scrabble of toenails and aggression. Sonora went to the window with the slightly sideways motion of the partially inebriated.

A white Cadillac convertible, top up against the rain, pulling to the front of her house. Gillane got out of the car and came to the front door, heralded by the barking of the dog. Sonora had the door open before he made it to the porch. He did not say a word or stop to pet the dog, but grabbed her and held her and led her to the couch.

“How did you know?”

“I was on duty when they brought him in. Van Owen. I was scared to death it was you.”

“Why?”

He paused. “I don't know. But I was. Tell me everything, tell me nothing, I don't care.”

“I have pissed off every single person in my department.”

“It's their fault, not yours. You are completely in the right and they're all idiots.”

She stopped and looked at him.

“I can be efficient when the time comes,” he said.

“Mark, I can't go to sleep ever again. I'm afraid to close my eyes.”

“No, sweetie, it's safe for you to sleep. I brought you something to help you along.”

“That damn Benadryl doesn't—”

“Something nice and strong that will put you out, if that's what you want. How much have you been drinking?”

“I don't know.”

“We'll have to figure it out. I don't want to put you out for good.”

How good he felt. How wonderful he smelled. “I want to sit here on this couch and I want you to hold me all night long.”

“Good by me.”

“What will the kids think?”

“How nice it is that someone will make them breakfast tomorrow morning.”

“I make them breakfast
every
morning.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.” She pushed away from him. “I saw my brother tonight. When Jack Van Owen jumped off the roof. I didn't push him, he jumped. My brother wouldn't let me jump.”

“That's what brothers are for.”

She looked at him, but he was serious. “You do know that my brother is dead?”

“I do know that, yes.”

“But I saw him on the roof. You accept that?”

“I'm from the South, Sonora. We see our family all the time, even after they've passed.”

“But I'm not from the South.”

“It must have been quite a shock.”

She laughed, then leaned against him. “I dreamed about him, and then I saw him. I don't think there's any question but I am going nuts.”

Gillane wrapped his arms around her. “I'm an emergency-room doctor, Sonora. I've watched a lot of people die. We're all out there looking for signs, looking for … grace. Something sacred in the middle of everyday horror.”

“Every time I close my eyes I see Jack falling. Every time I doze off I hear Joy Stinnet saying her catechism.”

“Tonight's going to be different.” Gillane fished something out of his shirt pocket. A white shirt, Egyptian cotton, just like the one Van Owen had been wearing. “Swallow this,” he said.

She did. A large caplet. “How long before it takes effect?”

“Normally about twenty minutes, but you've been drinking, you don't have long.”

She sighed and leaned against him. Smelled mint on his breath, rubbed her cheek on his freshly shaven one.