Done In One Part 3

"What are you smiling about?" Susan asked.

Jill looked at Susan and flushed. She switched the TV to Turner Cla.s.sic Movies where some old black-and-white spook show was playing. Something with Bela Lugosi. She liked Turner Cla.s.sics and usually left it playing all the time.

Jill tried to think up something to say to her writing student Susan Weaver, who was sprawled out on the floor near the coffee table. Kind of burrowing in there. Jill just shrugged.

"Happy your honey is okay?"

Jill nodded, still red faced about what she had been thinking.

The EMT gig had come to an end thanks to a moron playing his Metallica CD too loud who never heard the sirens of the emergency response vehicle. He slammed into the side of her unit. Jill's leg never healed quite right. She could get around just fine, but her first responder days were finished. She might have eked out a few more years as a medic, but her firefighting career was definitely over, and in the Cameron County Fire Department, you couldn't do one without the other. Nor did she want to.

During the long days of her recovery, she realized that she was losing whole chunks of her life in a hydrocodone hypnosis. But she needed the drugs to dull the pain of the external fixator-the steel rods that pierced her flesh and sat in the holes drilled in the bone around the fracture, or as she liked to think of it, that thing Stephen King had on his leg. She decided that she could either continue to stew in a Vicodin vapor while a never-ending stream of talk shows and infomercials played on the TV, or she could work through the pain and do something constructive.

So she weaned herself down to the bare minimum required for pain maintenance and did the one thing she had always wanted to do but swore to anybody who would listen that she just didn't have the time to do: She wrote a novel. She actually did it. Instead of fretting over the maddening itching her bones caused her as they mended, she wrote. And wrote and wrote and wrote. And she bought the latest edition of Writer's Market. And she queried agents. And she signed with one. And then the d.a.m.nedest thing happened. The novel was published. By an actual publisher. An honest-to-G.o.d New York publisher. Her novel was called Living Proof, and it even racked up a few mainstream media reviews. Good reviews. Glowing reviews. But n.o.body much bought it. In fact, she never even earned out the extremely modest advance her publisher had paid for the book.

She didn't care. She wrote another one, Drake's Valley, for which she received an even lower advance that was equal to about three months of her EMT pay. The second book also got some decent critical notice, but, once again, n.o.body much bought it. And Jill's second book also failed to make back its paltry advance.

Undeterred, she wrote a third. Which the publisher turned down, citing how the downturn in the economy had lessened people's interest in literary fiction. Her agent had submitted the ma.n.u.script here and there, but she knew he was only going through the motions. It was a ma.n.u.script by a little-known writer that had been rejected by the little-known author's publisher. If the book, by some miracle, made it to the desk of an editor who was willing to overlook that rejection by the original publisher, a quick review of Jill's BookScan numbers would squash any nascent interest. She just didn't have the sales. So, in effect, her writing career was over-just under three years after it had begun.

But the two published books gave her the credentials to teach creative writing at Cosumnes Community College. And Jill found that she genuinely enjoyed teaching. That she was good at it. That her students' enthusiasm for writing-their nave belief that writing careers were within their grasp-gave her back a little of that earnest self-belief. That foolish enthusiasm. She had even been thinking of slapping a pseudonym on her unsold ma.n.u.script and getting it back out there.

But there were bills to pay, too, and she was able to augment her teaching money by doing a little one-on-one tutoring on the side. Some of her students were more determined than others. They were willing to do whatever it took to get their ma.n.u.scripts finished and polished. Each believed that they were capable of writing the Great American Novel. And who was she to disagree? She'd felt that way once herself. And was starting to feel it again. So if someone needed help and could afford to pay for her time, she would work for them, one on one.

Sometimes she regretted it, though. One male student seemed to develop a bit of a crush on her, so she had to tell him she was just too busy to see him outside of cla.s.s. Susan was okay, though. A little needy, but okay. She was maybe twenty years old, and still had a lot of maturing to do.

When Jacob was deployed tonight, she was glad she already had an evening session scheduled. She didn't want to be alone. She knew Jacob would be gone a minimum of three hours, and that could be a long time in an empty house when your husband was in harm's way. She used to spend those long hours on the phone with her mom or her sister, Megan, but things had gotten tense with them. They were getting fed up with the lifestyle Jill had married into. So, tonight there was Susan Weaver to fill the void.

She watched her now, on the floor, huddled over her laptop, tapping away at the keys. It struck Jill that Susan was a mousy little thing. Rodent-like. A little hamster or something. No, she looked kind of like a possum. Like a befuddled little nocturnal marsupial. A leftover character from The Wind in the Willows.

Without looking up from her computer, Susan said, "I think this is actually going to be worth a d.a.m.n. I see now that it really can be a novel. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Even though I didn't really do anything but sit here and distract you with the TV."

Susan looked up at Jill. "I'm just glad your husband is okay. Guess he'll be home late tonight."

"Why?"

"They have to investigate the shooting? Make sure it was righteous."

Jill c.o.c.ked an eyebrow and smiled. "Righteous?"

"You know. Clean-like they put him on leave while they investigate because it's an officer-involved shooting."

Still smiling, Jill said, "Like on the TV shows? No, this is different. A sniper wouldn't automatically be given time off with pay to investigate, because that's the entire point of his specialty. It's already been determined by calling SWAT that death is on the menu. A sniper shooting a bad guy just did his job."

"I had no idea. Scary."

"Yep, scary. But I'm sorry if it took away from our time together. Maybe we can get together on-"

"No, you don't owe me anything. I got what I wanted. I believe in my story now."

"You should. It's d.a.m.n good."

That much was true. Jill really did like Susan's novel-in-progress. If she was being honest, Jill was actually a little jealous of the story Susan was building. It was about a little girl being raised by a single father who was a criminal. A hold-up man. Working his way up the crime ladder from knocking over convenience stores to armed robberies of liquor stores, to that "one big score" of robbing a bank. Sure, it was the cliched stuff of genre fiction, but Susan had a knack for making it seem fresh. Something about the relationship between the girl and the father. The only real guidance that Jill had given tonight was to say that the father "was just a thug. Trash, really. Human trash." She was a cop's wife, and that's just the way she saw it. And the hurt she had seen in Susan's little possum eyes had been real. Her words had stung the girl. But that was just Jill's way. She was honest and blunt. And if the people around her didn't like it, well too f.u.c.king bad. Sorry, Charlie. Still, she was a good teacher, and her one rule in that regard was to follow up negative criticism with something positive. But the positive things had to be honest, too.

That hurt shining in her eyes, Susan was already opening her mouth to defend her work, her characters, but Jill held up a hand to stop her before she could speak.

"Wait. Wait a minute. The father is a thug whether you want to admit it or not. I'm sorry, but he is. I know he has his reasons for doing what he does, but all of them do. Listen. It's the little girl. Rose. It's Rose that redeems him. She's his soul. His conscience. Because of his love for her and her devotion to him, I find myself conflicted. You've stirred up emotions in me I didn't even know I had. Maternal feelings. What would a parent sacrifice for a child? What would a child forgive in a parent?"

The hurt and resentment faded from Susan's dark eyes. The flush faded from her cheeks. Jill had spoken the truth. And then Susan had curled over her laptop, clacking away, looking up only to catch glimpses of the real life drama unfolding on the television.

Now she saved the file and closed her laptop. "It won't take long at all to finish reworking these chapters. Do you think you could look them over and maybe give me feedback over coffee? My treat."

Jill was beginning to feel like she was spending too much time with Susan. Becoming a crutch for the girl. And she was about to say something to that effect, but Susan jumped in first, maybe even prefiguring what Jill was going to say.

"Of course I'll be paying for your time. It's worth every penny."

And d.a.m.nit, why did it always come down to money? After years of bringing home a paycheck that was nearly equal to Jacob's, Jill still felt guilty about only being able to add just a little bit to their family income. It somehow made her feel less than. She wondered how Susan had so quickly zeroed in on her weak spot. It was probably obvious.

"Coffee sounds good," Jill said, and realized that she was making it sound more like a friendship than it really was. Was she leading Susan on?

Susan beamed and reached into her voluminous handbag-her marsupial pouch, Jill thought and smiled-and pulled out her date book.

"Is tomorrow too soon? I can finish the revisions tonight and e-mail them to you."

But Jill's attention was drawn by the sound of the key unlocking the front door. Jill snapped her own laptop shut and ran her fingers through her hair.

"Listen, Susan, it's getting late, but I'll see you in cla.s.s, okay? We'll pick out a day for coffee."

That hurt look shone in Susan's eyes again, offended at her quick dismissal, because this wasn't how you ushered out a friend, it was the way you dismissed underlings in a business meeting. Jill couldn't stand that hurt look.

"Tomorrow. After cla.s.s tomorrow is fine. E-mail me."

Now don't let the door hit you in the a.s.s on your way out, Jill thought and immediately felt guilty. But at least the wounded look went away. Satisfaction glowed on Susan's face, but was soon replaced by awe and probably a touch of fear as Jacob Denton dragged himself into the room. He looked a bit haggard, spots of black face paint still ringing his eyes and nose. Jill wondered if he would be tired or h.o.r.n.y later. Probably both, she decided.

She got up and hugged her husband tight. He hugged back.

When Jacob and Jill stood that close, their differences were striking. She only came up to chest level on him. Her eyes shone with curiosity and energy, where he projected a stoic demeanor.

"Hey handsome. I'm glad you're safe."

They parted, and Jacob took off his jacket and hung it on a nearby coat-tree. His duty belt with all of his police hardware was now visible.

"This is Susan Weaver, a student."

Jacob leaned down and offered his hand.

"Nice to meet you, Susan."

Susan stared at Jacob's huge, grimy hand, plainly afraid to put her own hand in his. Rather than offend, she shook his hand lightly, briefly.

"Sorry, I still need to clean up."

Susan scrambled from the floor, and scurried around Jacob. She seemed to be both fascinated and repulsed by the menagerie of cop hardware that he sported.

"No, I ... I mean, you're fine, really. I just. I've gotta go, you know."

Once she had finally maneuvered herself around Jacob and was standing at the front door, she realized that she'd left her laptop back in the living room.

"Oh s.h.i.t! I mean, c.r.a.p. My, uh ... My computer. If you could. You know what? I've gotta go. Jill, thanks again."

Jacob leaned down, retrieved the laptop, and took it to Susan. He held it out to her, and she seemed to be debating whether or not to accept it. She s.n.a.t.c.hed it and said, "Thanks. Bye."

And with that Susan was out the door. Jill and Jacob stared at each other in complete silence.

"I take it you told her what it is I do for a living?"

Silence again.

Over the years, they had both seen this type of reaction too many times. A mixture of fear, curiosity, and repulsion. Some people freaked out if they met an undertaker. This was a similar phenomenon. It was irrational and ignorance-based, but the person couldn't help it. It was just a gut reaction.

On one memorable occasion, Jill and Jacob were at a New Year's Eve get-together with several other couples. At one point during the evening, it came up that in addition to being a deputy with the Sheriff's Department, Jacob was also the sniper on the department's SWAT team. Some of their friends knew this already, but some didn't. One couple, Jeff and Janice Stephens, did not know it. They were clearly distressed by the knowledge. Janice turned gray and looked like she was going to spew the bacon-wrapped c.o.c.ktail weenies she'd been scarfing down all night. Jeff, with some half-a.s.sed look of moral superiority on his face, had said, "You kill people for a living?"

Jacob had nodded and said, "Yep, pretty much."

Jeff and Janice stuck around another five minutes or so, then mumbled an excuse, grabbed their coats, and hightailed it out of there.

They never saw the Stephens again. Ever.

Nowadays, when they socialized, it was with cops and cop wives. It was easier that way.

Jill nodded. "I told her."

Again, silence. Then she giggled. Jacob chuckled. Then they both burst out with laughter.

"It was on the news, what was I supposed to say? That I'm in love with Clark Avery?"

This sent Jill back into hiccups of laughter. Jacob moved into the kitchen and banged around in the cupboards, looking for something to snack on.

"I don't know. Are you in love with Clark Avery, the most dashing news correspondent since Anderson Cooper had his prematurely gray hair copyrighted?"

Jill got her laughter under control as it occurred to her that Jacob was the guy, the hero, who would take out a thug like the father in Susan's novel. She wondered if Susan had realized the same thing.

Jacob kept talking to her from the kitchen. "How was your day? Cla.s.s went okay?"

"What can I say? They inspire me. I'm working on my own stuff, too."

"Ahh ... a new novel, huh? Great."

Now there was another silence that was both comfortable and tinged with expectation. They still hadn't really talked about it yet. Not Jill's writing. But Jake's killing. Because that was the way they did it. They talked about it. It was kind of like a little magic trick they pulled off together. They made the abnormal seem normal. Presto chango.

"So what did Mr. Avery have to say?"

Jill sat down on the sofa and said, "Oh, the usual. Some SWAT guy got off a lucky shot."

The Bela Lugosi movie on TCM was still playing. Charles Laughton was in it, too. It was Island of Lost Souls. Laughton played a mad scientist trying to turn animals into people.

Jacob made his way back to the living room carrying a steaming cup of coffee and sat on the sofa next to Jill.

"I hope that's decaf."

Jacob took a careful sip and said, "It is."

On TV, Bela Lugosi was barely recognizable in his monster makeup. Half human, half beast.

"Why do you watch this old junk?"

"It's not junk. I just like old things. Like you."

Jacob grunted. At forty-five, he was ten years older than Jill.

"So ... how are you?" Let's make the abnormal normal.

"I'm okay."

Jill ran her fingers through Jacob's hair.

"This was the seventeenth, right?"

Jacob shrugged. "Something like that."

"Dirt bag, or average Joe having a really s.h.i.tty day?"

"A parolee who served time for rape, a.s.sault with intent, burglary." Jacob took a bigger sip of coffee. "Now a cop killer. Otherwise, a model citizen."

Jill's hand rested on Jacob's shoulder. He took her hand and noticed the nails had been beautifully manicured and painted-a healthy coral pink with white tips.

"And how much did these cost?"

"Cost to you: zero. I did it myself. It's called a French manicure."

"Nice."

"Did you know the suspect you shot?"

"No."

"Did you know Carpenter well?"