Protector (31 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
That’s when she saw it. There, alone in the backseat of the SUV was Emily. She slammed her fists against the glass and screamed out Jane’s name.
“Jane!” Emily shrieked. “Help me!”
Jane’s connected with Emily’s eyes just as a tremendous explosion rocketed through the fog and silence, blasting the SUV into a thousand tiny pieces.
Jane stood amidst the raining fire and screamed, “No! Emily!”
Slam!
Jane woke up on the kitchen floor with a core-rattling shock. “Emily!” Jane yelled into the darkness. Something was wrong—dead wrong. Her gut shouted a sick, twisted, dark warning. The more Jane leaned into the feeling, the more sinister it became.
Jane secured her pistol into its holster and rose quickly to her feet. Groping through the dim light, she snagged her leather satchel, pulled out her keys, bolted out the front door and raced toward her parked Mustang.
Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!
Emily looked up toward her closed bedroom door.
“Emily?” Martha said, standing outside the door. “It’s me, dear. Martha. May I come in?”
“Yes,” Emily said, subdued.
Martha walked into the bedroom, carrying several oranges and apples. “Well, it looks like someone’s all ready for bed!”
“Where’s Jane?” Emily quickly asked.
Martha looked off to the side. “Detective Jane had a very important meeting.”
Emily analyzed Martha’s face. “You’re lying.”
Martha was caught off guard. “Why would you say a thing like that?”
“Your face told me,” Emily said, not taking her eyes off of Martha. “She’s not at a meeting. She left. And she’s not coming back,”
Martha sat next to Emily on the bed, wrapping her arm around the child’s shoulders. “Now, dear. Don’t you worry one little snippet about Detective Jane. She can take care of herself—”
“No,” Emily interrupted. “She can’t!”
“Sweetheart,” Martha tousled Emily’s brown hair. “Did Detective Jane tell you that she couldn’t take care of herself?”
Emily studied Martha’s inquiring eyes and felt uneasy. “No. She’s strong. She could fight anybody and win. If someone was trying to hurt me, she’d beat them up and save me.”
Martha let out a little derisive chortle. “My! She certainly has told you a big barrel of bragging.”
“She didn’t say any of that,” Emily pulled away. “I just have to know it.”
“Well, okay,” Martha said, not taking Emily too seriously. “I brought you some oranges and apples—”
“No, thank you.” Emily stared out the window. Martha let out a low sigh. “Alright, then. I’ll say good night.” She got up. “I’ll be downstairs, sleeping on the couch if you need me.”
Tat-tat-tat!
Emily jumped to attention. “What’s that?” she said, startled.
Martha opened Emily’s door and peeked downstairs into the living room. “It’s just the wind, dear. It’s blown the curtain rod against the table.”
“You’ve got the window open?” Emily said, concerned.
“Well, my goodness, yes. I have several windows open. It was so stuffy down there. You shouldn’t sleep in a stuffy house. It’s not good for you!”
“Please close all those windows!” Emily implored.
“Sweetie, fresh air—”
“You can’t have the doors open and you can’t have the windows open!”
“Emily, dear, calm down.” Martha sat back on the bed, observing the child. “Look at you. You’re shaking. What’s wrong?”
“This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be,” she said confused and scared.
“Whatever are you talking about?”
“Where’s Jane?”
“There’s no need to be frightened—”
“Where is she?” A mixture of fear and anger consumed the girl.
Martha let out a long sigh. “Jane had to go home. She’s sick.”
Emily stared into the void. “Something’s wrong—”
“Wrong?”
Emily turned to Martha. “I have to call her!”
“Sweetie, you can’t call her! Now, get into bed and—”
“I need to call her now!”
“Detective Jane has obviously upset you. Would you like to talk about it?”
“Are you gonna let me call Jane?”
Martha sized up Emily. “No. I am not. Come on, I’ll tuck you in—”
“No! I just want to sit here.”
“Well, okay. But the sandman will be here soon.”
Emily regarded Martha with suspicion. “The sandman? Who’s he?”
“Don’t you know the sandman?”
An ominous dark cloud overwhelmed Emily as she looked at Martha. “No,” she said softly, feeling a distinct terror bite into her stomach. “I don’t think I want to.”
“Good night, Emily.” Martha turned to go. “You’re safe, sweetheart. Perfectly safe.” With that, Martha walked into the hallway, closing the door behind her.
Emily waited until she heard Martha’s footsteps descend the stairs. She quietly crept to her window and pushed open the stubborn pane that had caused so many problems that night. Emily stuck her head out the window and peered into the night sky. The clouds were quickly clearing as a palate of twinkling stars blanketed the blue-black sky. In an instant, a shooting star dove across the horizon. Emily closed her eyes. “Jane,” Emily whispered. “You’re supposed to be here.”
Thud!
Emily turned quickly toward her bedroom door. The sound came from downstairs. She stood perfectly still. Maybe Martha dropped something. Emily considered cracking her bedroom door to investigate but something held her back. She turned around to the window, feeling an uncommon draw to climb out on the roof. She pulled herself up onto the window ledge, knocking over the screen she’d removed earlier that evening. Once on the roof, she made a point of not pushing the window shut. She scooted her butt just a few feet away from the window and out of the sycamore tree’s shadow. It was all so silent. So serene. So peaceful. And then . . .
Bang!
Emily jumped and quickly turned toward her bedroom window. The penetrating sound came from downstairs and echoed in the night air for several heart-racing seconds. Panic quickly set in. Without watching her step, Emily hurriedly got up. In a split second, her foot slipped on the wet roof. She reached out to grab the window ledge but it was too late. Emily slid down toward the edge of the roof on her stomach, desperately grasping for anything to stop her fall. The only thing she caught hold of was a vent pipe that protruded from the roof. Emily circled her arms around it and held on for dear life as her legs dangled helplessly forty feet off the ground. She looked down. If she let go, she had a fifty-fifty chance of landing either on grass or cement. Since she would be falling backward, gravity would determine which of the two she’d hit.
Slam!
Emily seized up when she heard the sound of her bedroom door being kicked in. Moments later, she heard the splintering crash of her bedside lamp as it was thrown against the wall. Her breathing became labored as she struggled to hold on to the air pipe. The individual in her bedroom moved toward the open window. Emily heard the person breathing and then slightly grunting as they hoisted themselves up onto the window ledge and out onto the roof. Emily closed her eyes, trying to hold her breath.
Footsteps moved cautiously across the roof. One, two, three steps then stopping. A careful turn and one, two, three, four steps and stopping. The intruder’s breath came closer to where Emily’s body hung. Keeping her head tucked inward toward the roof, she listened to every breath of the individual. The steps moved closer to Emily. One step, and then another.
A cruel gust of wind blew across the backyard. Emily heard the familiar tap, tap, tap of the sycamore branch beating against her bedroom window, followed by the slow roll of tires creeping along the back alleyway. The intruder made a determined step forward and Emily realized that the person was within a foot of her body. She pressed her forehead into the roof and waited for the worst.
Jane crisscrossed through traffic, ignoring the series of one-way streets and driving in the opposite direction. She jumped her Mustang over the center median on Eighth Street, stormed down the side streets and barreled through red lights. Once on University, she shifted gears, zigzagged around vehicles and reached speeds of seventy-five mph in forty-five mph zones. An evil, foreboding feeling permeated her bones. Her gut twisted and a cold sweat broke out across the back of her neck. Jane peeled onto Exposition and continued clocking speeds of sixty to seventy miles per hour until she reached Franklin. She nearly lost control of the Mustang as she turned sharply to the right and came to a squealing stop in front of the Lawrence house.
Tearing out of her car, she pulled out her Glock. Both watch officers were already out of their respective vehicles and standing near the middle of the street. When they saw Jane’s car swerve around the corner and come to a sudden halt, they automatically pulled out their pistols. “It’s me! Perry!” Jane screamed.
“We think we heard a shot fired!” one of the officers yelled.
“Shit!” Jane yelled. She turned to the other officer “Call for backup! You—” she said, addressing the other cop, “follow me and cover!” Jane raced down the driveway, her pistol clasped tightly between her hands. As she sprinted toward the gate, she noted that two windows were swung wide open in front of the house. Other than that, nothing seemed to be disturbed. The cop shadowed Jane as she kicked open the front gate and held out her Glock. The well-lit living room cast enough light into the area for Jane to see that there was no one there. Jane motioned to the cop to follow her alongside the wall, just under the windows that framed the fireplace. When she crept to a point where she felt safe, Jane lifted her body and peered into the living room through the gauzy drapes. The room outwardly showed no signs of struggle. Jane knelt down and moved toward the corner of the house, near the back door. She waited one second, then swung around, pistol extended. Nothing.
“Police!” Jane screamed out. She waited but heard nothing. Someone was out there. She felt it. Jane turned to the cop and whispered, “Where the fuck is backup?” Crashing into the house with the possibility of someone lurking in the shadows was not part of her program. But Jane felt an urgency to get inside the house. Keeping her pistol extended, she walked around the flowerpots by the back door. The patrol cop followed. She turned to the back kitchen door. It was wide open. A cold chill ran down Jane’s spine as she peered into the darkened kitchen. She nodded toward the cop to follow her. Jane entered the kitchen, pistol still out in front. “Police!” she screamed.
Silence.
With the cop close behind her, she crept to the door that led into the living room. “Police!” she yelled out, maneuvering her body into the room. That’s when she smelled it. The stench of blood and fear and death. Jane could feel her throat closing up—a visceral reaction she only experienced when she was virtually standing on top of carnage. She looked down and caught sight of a blanket draped across the end of the couch. With measured steps, she moved forward. The coffee table came into view. A freshly peeled orange sat alone amongst Emily’s scattered drawings and colored pencils. One more step and Jane saw the entire bloody scene.
Someone lay covered under the blanket, curled up as though they were sleeping. The top of the blanket was soaked in blood from a single gunshot to the head. A knife—the same one used to peel the orange—had been shoved into the person’s left cheek and through one of Emily’s drawings. As Jane moved closer, she made out the words “PAYBACK!” written in red colored pencil across the drawing. Jane could feel herself about to lose it. “Please, God, no,” she whispered under her breath. She gently pulled up the blanket. It was Martha.
Jane’s body tensed as she turned to the staircase that led to Emily’s bedroom. “God, don’t you do this again,” she whispered to herself with fear and anger. Without acknowledging the cop, Jane headed toward the stairs. When she reached the bottom step and looked up, she saw the door kicked in and the lights out. “Police!” Her voice cracked as she screamed the word. Skimming her back against the wall, she walked up the steps. With each step, her stomach churned. When she reached the top step, she reached around the wall and felt for the light switch. Jane flipped it up and snapped to attention, gun extended. She immediately noted the bedside lamp smashed against the wall. She looked to the closet and edged her way toward it. With a quick twist of the knob, she jerked the door open and shoved the pistol forward. Nothing.
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