Protector. Part 28

Chapter 18.

By the time Jane and Emily piled all the frozen food from the Mountain Melon Market into their freezer and unpacked their suitcases, it was almost eight o'clock. For a house that sat right on the main drag, Jane had to admit that it was very quiet. Between the park across the street and their backyard that led into the open s.p.a.ce, it could almost be considered pastoral.

When Emily announced that she was hungry, Jane let her choose which frozen entree she wanted. While it cooked, they sat across from each other at the kitchen counter and devoured a bag of tortilla chips with salsa. The entire time, Emily hardly said a word. Jane couldn't stand it any longer. "Emily, I told you back in the car, it's okay. I'm not mad at you for what happened at the market."

"I know you're not mad," Emily said, spinning her tortilla chip slowly through the salsa. "I'm mad at myself. What's happening to me?"

Jane looked at Emily and felt as though she were looking in the mirror. "Your mind is holding on to the memory of whatever you witnessed that night. But it's like a curtain comes down to protect you when you start to see certain things."

Emily thought for a second. "Did you see my mommy and daddy?"

Jane popped open a can of cola. "I didn't go to the house that night when it happened."

"So, you don't know what they looked like?"

"I saw photographs," Jane reluctantly offered, taking a sip of cola.

"They took pictures!" Emily was outraged.

"They have to take pictures. It's, unfortunately, part of the procedure."

"Where are the pictures?"

Jane hadn't yet looked inside the Lawrence case envelope that Weyler gave her but she hoped the crime scene photos were not included. "The pictures are in a file cabinet at Denver Police Headquarters."

"People just look at them?" Emily was incensed by the thought.

"They look at them so they can try and solve the case," Jane said in a gentle tone.

"You saw them?" Jane nodded. "Did Mommy look frightened?" Emily's throat caught.

Jane's memory flashed on the brutality of Patricia Lawrence's murder, with part of her eye cut out of her head. "Your mom looked peaceful. Like she was sleeping."

Emily relaxed. She bought the lie and felt a bit more at ease. Jane removed her jacket to reveal her shoulder holster and Glock handgun.

"Do you have to wear that all the time?" Emily asked.

"Yeah," Jane replied, laying the gun on the counter.

"You should hide it in another place. It's summer. People are gonna wonder why you're always wearing jackets."

Jane knew the kid was right. These smalltown folks were sure to question her penchant for bulky jackets on a hot day. "Maybe I could tuck it in my jeans."

"Or put it in your purse," Emily added.

"I don't own a purse."

"How about a f.a.n.n.y pack?"

"Don't have one of those either."

"I bet they sell them in town."

Jane agreed and pa.s.sed a small notepad to Emily. "Make a note of it." Jane looked down at her bandaged hand. "I probably should lose this. Between your bandage and mine, we look like the walking wounded." Jane unwrapped her bandage.

"Shouldn't you go to the doctor for that?" Emily asked.

"I can't go to the doctor. And neither can you."

Emily looked astonished. "But Kathy gave you that card-"

"I know," Jane said. "But we can't do it. It's too risky. There'd be questions and I'm sure he'd ask for your medical records."

"Who's gonna take out my st.i.tches?"

"You're looking at her."

Emily's eyes widened. "Do you know how to do it?"

"Sure."

Emily eyed Jane, full of skepticism. "Have you done it before?"

"No."

"So, how do you know you can do it?"

"It can't be that difficult. It's gotta be like sewing, just in reverse."

"Do you sew?"

"No. But I've seen people sew."

"You've seen people cook, too."

Jane rolled her eyes. "You have ten more days before they have to come out. It'll be fine. Trust me." With that, Jane unwound the last layer of her bandage and revealed her hand. It was slightly pale, but aside from a few small blisters, it was in fairly good shape. "I can take care of my hand and I can take care of your head."

"Yeah," Emily said, full of doubt. "You didn't have any st.i.tches in your hand."

Jane and Emily divided the large chicken pot pie that the kid chose for dinner. By 9:30, Emily was tired and ready for sleep. After tucking her into her bed, Jane checked the lock on the front and back door, and walked down the hall to her bedroom. She slipped into a cotton nightshirt and propped some pillows on the bed. Dragging her leather satchel onto the bedspread, she lit a cigarette, pulled an ashtray onto the side table and lifted out the Lawrence case envelope from the satchel. Amidst the glut of paperwork, there were two line drawings depicting the mult.i.tude of wounds on both victims. On a separate sheet, Jane found a collection of photocopied crime scene photos. Jane made sure to place that page behind all the others and secured the envelope between other files in her satchel. Her hand brushed against the thick file on the Stover triple murder. She drew the huge folder from the briefcase and scattered the pages across the bedspread. The front page of the Denver Post that featured her and Chris' photos was set to the side along with the other news stories on the case. Photos of the burned out Range Rover and the charred bodies of the victims were placed into another pile. Intermingled between the two piles were sundry stacks of crime scene notes and obituaries from the Rocky Mountain News. She unfolded the newspaper and skimmed the obituary: "William 'Bill' Stover, 42 . . . Yvonne Kelley Stover, 41 . . . Amy Joan Stover, 10 were killed . . . tragedy . . . great potential . . . police looking into motives." Jane tossed the newspaper to the side and took a deep drag on her cigarette.

She pulled out two stapled pages of typed information on the elusive Texas mob. The Texas mob. It always came back to them and it always ended there. Jane thought back to her father's comment of "follow the protection money." The Texas mob's side ventures of offering "protection" to foreign businesses against drug entanglements in exchange for a slice of the store's profit was textbook. It was that protection money that could steer Jane to a viable suspect in the case. It could turn out to be some lackey for the mob or it could hopefully turn out to be a heavy hitter.

The more Jane pondered the possibilities, the more she concluded that it had to involve more than one individual. The Stover house was on 24-hour guard. Except for the time when Stover stupidly took his family for ice cream and was accompanied by two patrol cars along the way, there was a fortress of protection around his house. The precise timing it took for the individual to come out of the shadows and plant the crude, C-4 bomb in the driveway-right in sight of Jane and Chris in their parked car-and then disappear into the night was nothing short of amazing.

"f.u.c.king ice cream," she mumbled under her breath. It was so typical of a druggie when he started "tweaking." They always craved sugar and would do whatever it took to get their dose of the sweet stuff. "Screw the rules," Jane could almost hear Stover saying to the cops as they tried to dissuade him from leaving the house. But Stover had been house-bound and in a forced state of detox for more than two weeks. It was insane to expect him to maintain any sense of mental stability. Jane knew that meth detox could take anywhere from three to six months. After just two weeks off the drug, Stover was most likely hearing voices and hallucinating, two common side effects of withdrawal. He was busting at the seams and would have probably offered to cut off his daughter's big toe for a chance to get out of the house and taste sugar. Jane surmised he was still licking that ice cream cone when he drove his SUV into his driveway and tripped the wires that led to the C-4 explosive.

Her dad's "follow the protection money" advice was sounding more plausible. In Jane's mind, whoever organized the Stover hit was either desperate or cunning. Maybe, she thought, a little bit of both. With Stover set to testify the next morning against the mob, it was a last-ditch effort that had to go down without failing. Someone in their inner circle had to be persuaded to act fast, either to prove himself or save himself from the mob's wrath.

The sound of the nightly coal train rumbled loudly through town, tooting its horn several times. As the train rattled and roared along the tracks, Jane heard the quickly approaching footsteps of Emily running down the hallway toward her closed door. With one large sweeping motion, Jane threw all the doc.u.ments and newspapers into a pile and shoved them into her leather satchel. Emily pounded on Jane's door.

"Come in!" Jane said.

Emily flew into the room and jumped onto Jane's bed. "What's that noise?"

"That's just the d.a.m.n coal train I told you about. Remember?"

"The house was shaking so hard. I thought someone was trying to break in!" Emily curled her body closer to Jane.

"No one's gonna break into the house, Emily. I've got my pistol right here. Any a.s.shole stupid enough to break in is gonna get a chest full of lead." The train chugged into the night and all was silent once again.

Emily pressed her body against Jane's side. "I want to stay here with you."

"You've got a great room up there with a picture window."

Emily wrapped her arms around Jane's waist and buried her head against Jane's belly. "I want to stay with you."

Jane knew it was no use. "Get under the covers," she said to Emily. After settling in, Jane reached over and turned off the light. Outside the window, the half moon shone brilliantly in the clear sky. "Look at that," Jane said in awe.

Emily pulled away from Jane just enough to look at the glimmering orb. "Wow," she said, truly impressed. Emily sunk back, her head cuddled up against Jane's chest. "What kind of a kid were you?" Emily asked in a quiet voice.

Jane took a drag on her cigarette. The lit orange tip of the cigarette briefly illuminated the darkness. "Just like any other kid. Nothing special."

"Were you a good kid?"

"That would depend on who you talked to. If you asked my mom, she'd tell you I was good. If you asked my dad, he'd swear I was bad."

"Were you really bad?"

"I guess I was bad when I had to be."

"What do you mean?"

"I was always looking out for my little brother, Mike. I had to make sure that n.o.body picked on him. If they did, I'd fight them."

"Did you always win the fights?"

Jane hesitated briefly. "It depended who I was fighting. Some fights were lost before they started."

"Why would you fight someone if you knew you were going to lose?"

"Because I had to. I made a promise." Jane took a long drag.

Emily felt herself floating peacefully toward slumber. "Like you promised me," her voice trailed off in a sleepy timbre. She let out a deep breath and mumbled.

"What was that?" Jane asked.

"When I saw you the first time . . ." Emily whispered, half-asleep, "I couldn't believe it . . . but it came true . . ."

"How do you like your eggs?" Jane asked Emily the following morning.

"Cooked," Emily replied with a straight face.

"You're a regular little comedienne," Jane countered as she broke four eggs into a bowl and, after picking out pieces of sh.e.l.l, did her best to beat them with a fork. After heating the pan and plopping in far too much b.u.t.ter, Jane added the eggs and began stirring.

Emily found the "Howdy" coupon book that Kathy gave Jane. "How about this: 'Buy one breakfast or lunch special at The Harvest Cafe and get another meal absolutely free!'" She looked up at the frying pan. "Hey! The eggs are burning!"

"They're not burned!" Jane said, dragging the pan off the stove. She took a spatula and tried to wedge it underneath what was left of the eggs. Once she was able to lift a portion onto Emily's plate, it was obvious that the bottom was charred.

Emily poked at the eggs with her fork and lifted the whole slab in one section. "You don't call that burned?"

"Pretend they're Cajun."

Emily looked at the blackened eggs and then looked at Jane. "Caged in? Where were they caged in that made them come out like this?"

Within ten minutes, Jane and Emily were headed to The Harvest Cafe with "Howdy" coupon in hand. Inside the restaurant, they were greeted with the doleful voice of Garth Brooks singing, "The Dance." The Harvest Cafe was obviously the happening spot. To prove that point, there wasn't one empty table or counter seat available. The place had a cramped, greasy, diner-style setup with four booths against the wall and eight tables shoved tightly in the center of the lime green linoleum floor. There were eight additional red stools lined around the Formica counter. Behind that was the kitchen, which could be partially seen through the opening of the pickup area where waiting plates sat roasting underneath crimson hot lamps. The walls were papered in a floral and vine print that curled at the edges and looked as though years of smoke and grease had taken their toll. A handmade sign taped to the wall summed up The Harvest Cafe dining experience: "We proudly serve DiGiorno Pizza!"

A waitress dressed in what Jane thought looked more like a candy striper outfit approached the two newcomers. She was loaded down with six steaming breakfast plates that aroused an almost Pavlovian reaction in Emily.

"Just the two of ya?" the waitress asked Jane. Jane nodded.

Emily raised the coupon for the waitress to see. "And we have a coupon!"

"We've got a guy just about to leave at the counter. You could sit there with your daughter on your lap-"

"Excuse me?" said a man seated at a nearby table. The waitress moved to reveal Dan the maintenance man seated at a table for two all by himself. Dan picked up his plate of food. "How's about if I just move on over to that empty counter spot and let these two folks have my table?" When he stood up, Jane figured he was a good six foot three inches. Dan was muscular but not in a way that looked like he worked out at a gym; it came more from sweat and blue-collar work. He wore a denim shirt and clean jeans with roughout cowboy boots. His face was wide and his jaw well defined. The only unkempt part was his light brown hair that looked as if he'd just rolled out of bed.

Jane was uncomfortable with Dan's offer. "Please don't move!" she said.

"Oh, come on!" Dan said in a warm southern drawl. "You got yourselves a coupon. That means you're newcomers. We gotta make a good first impression!"

The waitress walked away as Jane and Emily situated themselves at the table. "Thank you," Jane said, recognizing Dan's face. With Dan's back turned, Emily mouthed, "Is that the guy in the truck?" Jane nodded.

The waitress swung by and slid two greasy menus on the table. She took the coupon and slid it under her order pad. "Okay, folks! With the 'Howdy' newcomer coupon you get two eggs any way you want 'em, two slices of bacon or sausage, toast and a big ol' servin' of Uncle Al's famous hash browns!" Jane started to light up a cigarette. "Honey, you can't smoke in here!" the waitress said curtly.

"Right," Jane said, putting away her cigarette. "I'll have my eggs scrambled and the bacon," Jane said, pushing the menu away. "And coffee. Lots of coffee."

"What about you, sweetie?" the waitress asked Emily.