Protector. Part 8

Jane leaned forward. "What do you mean?"

"I need to think about it some more."

"Think about what? Come on, you always tell me everything." Jane reached across the table and touched Mike's hand. "Mike, talk to me. Whatever it is, I'll fix it."

Mike looked at his sister with a guarded eye. "I don't think you can, Janie."

The one-hour drive out to their father's rehabilitation nursing home in the Denver suburb of Wheatridge was completely silent. Jane finished off a half pack of cigarettes while Mike stared out the window, lost in his own world.

It had been over a week since Jane drove out to see Dale. When she'd arrived, her father was fast asleep so she quickly left, not even alerting the nurses to her aborted visit. Prior to that, the last time she had seen her father was weeks before his illness. He'd demanded that she come out to the house after a power outage and reprogram his VCR. That visit lasted less than twenty minutes before she lied about having to get back to work. She knew Dale was aware it was a lie. He could always read her and destroy that carefully constructed wall of protection. From what she had been told by the nurses, Dale's stroke was enough to permanently place him in a 24-hour care facility for physical reasons, but not so disabling to destroy his mental faculties. Jane wasn't sure if her father knew she was suspended from the Department but she figured the news would be plastered all over her psyche when she walked into his room.

Jane parked her Mustang across the street from the care facility. She turned to Mike who stared out the window. "You coming in?" she asked. Mike kept his eyes fixed outside and shook his head. "Okay. I won't be long." Jane took one long, penetrating drag after another on her cigarette as she neared the front door of the facility. Tossing the b.u.t.t on the ground, she entered the building. The hallway reeked of ammonia, urine and overcooked broccoli.

"Miss Perry?" a voice called out. Jane turned just in time to encounter the head nurse, Zoe. "Thanks for coming. I know it's difficult when it's last minute."

Jane looked down the hall toward Dale's room. "What's going on with him?"

"He has good days and bad days. Today seems to be a good day."

"Really?" Jane said, not impressed. "What makes it a good day?"

"He's lucid. He was able to walk to the bathroom with very little help this morning. I don't want to give you the impression that he could ever return to his home. Even though things are improving, his health is still fragile. Another stroke or heart attack could put him in I.C.U." Jane nodded. "I want you to know we're doing everything possible to keep him happy and comfortable."

Jane lost herself for a moment. "Well, that's great," she said with no emotion as she stared down the sterile hallway.

"I'll let you visit with your dad."

"Uh-huh," Jane replied. Zoe walked back to her station but Jane didn't move. She started to turn back toward the front door but stopped when she saw several nurses looking at her. Reluctantly, she walked down the hall to her father's door and stood to the side, out of his view. Jane let out a deep breath and crossed the threshold.

Dale Perry was propped up in bed, eyes glued to the television screen that was tuned to Court TV. The sound was muted. Dozens of greeting cards were pinned to the wall on either side of his bed. Vases of long stemmed flowers graced both bedside tables. A banner stretched the length of the opposite wall. In red and black letters it read, "GET WELL, DALE!" which was followed by "Your pals at Denver PD!"

Her father was hooked to an IV and heart monitor. An oxygen tank sat nearby. Jane stood inside the doorway, waiting. Dale turned his head on his pillow and looked at her. He appeared to have aged ten years compared to the day Jane went out to his house to fix the VCR. The only thing that remained sharp and stoic was his grey, regimented buzz haircut. It reminded Jane of the quills on a porcupine-sharp, rigid and ready to attack.

"You got the message," Dale said, his speech slightly slurred. "I bet that nurse ten bucks you wouldn't show. Make sure you pay her the money on the way out." Jane didn't move a muscle. "You gonna plant your a.s.s in a chair or are you gonna just stand there like some r.e.t.a.r.d?" Jane carefully moved to a bedside chair and sat down. "You look like h.e.l.l," Dale said, eyeing Jane like a perp. Jane looked off to the side, pursing her lips, as Dale glared at Jane. "Where's your brother?" he said, his voice slightly raised.

"He couldn't make it," Jane said, looking at the television screen.

Dale stared even more intently at Jane. "He's in the car, isn't he?"

"Yeah."

"The weak little f.u.c.k is hiding out. s.h.i.+t."

Jane kept her eyes glued to the television. Her heart raced and her head pounded. She figured that if she avoided his eyes, he wouldn't be able to drill into her head. "Why do you have the sound off?"

"I don't need sound to hear a f.u.c.kin' lie. It's not what they say, it's what they do. Didn't you learn anything?"

"What's the case?" Jane said, still focused on the television.

"The defendant is charged with murdering his wife and kids. But they can't find the bodies. The f.u.c.ker on the stand is a defense witness. He's a friend of the f.u.c.ker who killed his wife and kids. Look at him. There! Look how he touched his mouth and glanced over to the defendant. I bet that a.s.shole helped him dump the bodies. It's so obvious. He's like one big open sore and n.o.body can see the pus. They're blind!" Dale screamed at the television. "They miss what they don't want to see." Dale looked over at Jane and her bandaged hand. "Christ, you still have that G.o.dd.a.m.n hand bandaged? That was one of your less intelligent moments."

Jane took her eyes off the screen and turned toward her father. "Trying to get a kid out of a burning car?"

Dale let out a slight snicker. "The f.u.c.king car's engulfed in flames and you decide to suspend common sense and try to punch a f.u.c.king hole in the window with your fist. Jane, do the f.u.c.king math. That kid was gonna die either way. You should have saved your hand." Dale turned to Jane, meeting her eye to eye. "But you actually believed you were going to be the hero, didn't you? Didn't I teach you that lesson a long time ago?"

Dale's words cut to the bone. Once again, she'd let her guard down and he was worming his way back inside her head. She quickly turned back to the TV. A smile creased Dale's face. "You're so easy," he said, the venom dripping from his mouth. "You don't know who blew them up, do you?"

"No," Jane whispered.

"That's because you haven't followed the right road. You take what you know and find the right road and it always leads to the killer. What you know is that it was a hit. That's obvious. What you know is that Stover, 'Mr. f.u.c.kin' Entrepreneur of the Year,' was a c.o.ke and meth addict. What you know is that Stover and the Texas mob were in bed together. Stover let them launder drug money through his businesses in exchange for all the free meth and c.o.ke he could sniff up his nose. Over time, he got to hear all their important secrets. You also know that the Texas mob offers under the table protection for all the 'Gooks' and 'c.h.i.n.ks' in Denver. Every single one of those is an undeniable fact. So, then Stover gets his a.s.s caught by the cops and he has to make a big decision. Do I lose everything I've worked for, my reputation, my family and get plastered across the front of every newspaper or do I tell the cops everything I know about the mob and their connections? Do I name the players and take away their mystery? Maybe Stover wasn't the only one with a lot to lose. Maybe there were other people just like him with reputations to uphold that didn't want the spotlight. Other people with businesses that are really just fronts. People who live two lives." Dale leaned closer to Jane. "Who did Stover know and who knew him? Ask yourself that question! Follow the protection money and you'll find your killer. Of course, that means you have to cut through all the bulls.h.i.+t and have the guts to see what's smack in front of you. I'm not sure you know how to do that. You'll always miss what you don't want to see. Then you'll be just like those a.s.sholes up on that TV."

Jane may have had her eyes on the TV the whole time, but she didn't miss a word of her father's speech. "I gotta get going," she said.

"Hold your f.u.c.kin' horses. I told you I wanted to discuss some things with you. I understand from the boys at DH that you and Mike are going through the house and cleaning it out. I got some things that I want to sell to some of the guys. They've been hounding me for years about my tool chest and guns. Your lover boy Chris wants that old hand drill for his boat. Go over to the house tonight and get the stuff and take it to DH. They'll settle up among themselves and Chris can bring me the money."

"Where is it?"

"It's in the workshop. Take care of it tonight." Dale sunk his head into his pillow and watched the television. Jane sat motionless in her chair. "I thought you had to go," Dale said. Jane gradually got up. "Tell your brother he's a f.u.c.kin' coward." Jane moved toward the door. "Oh, and Jane?" Jane turned around. Dale moved his right hand up to his face, stuck out his thumb and first finger to look like a gun and pointed it at Jane's head. He peered at her and then quickly flicked his thumb to mimic a trigger. A grin crept across his face and he quietly said, "Bang!"

Their eyes locked and Dale shot into her head.

Jane dropped Mike off at Duffy's to pick up his car. She didn't say a word to him about getting the tool chest and guns from the workshop. Mike was so far gone into his own world, Jane wasn't about to broach the subject with him.

She stopped at the corner liquor store and picked up a six-pack of Corona. By the time she hit the turnoff on I-70 to her father's house, she had knocked back two bottles and was on her third. No matter how loud she cranked the volume on her radio, Dale's voice continued to play loudly in her head. "Follow the protection money" and "You actually believed you were going to be the hero, didn't you?" blended into "Didn't I teach you that lesson a long time ago." The last sentence stung. This was where the madness always began. And to compound matters, she was less than five minutes away from the present melting into the past.

Jane pulled into Dale's gravel driveway and turned off the engine. She drained what was left of the third Corona, popped open another and lit a cigarette. Jane stared ahead at the workshop, standing starkly against an aqua sky. The alcohol gave her a slight buzz-a welcome effect that she had hoped would dull the process and make it easier. But instead, it was as if her senses were heightened. She tried shaking it off as she popped open the car door and got out.

As she walked toward the workshop, a cacophony of screeching birds welled up from the surrounding willow trees. She reached the workshop and waited before clinking open the broken, rusty lock and letting the battered door slowly creak open.

Immediately, Jane was greeted by that familiar odor of wet wood, dirt floor and old paint curled at the edges. Sharp shafts of sunlight beat down from the slanted windows on the roof. She crossed inside, minding each step on the dirt floor that lay littered with the broken gla.s.s from the impromptu bottle and bullet vandalism she and Mike enjoyed a few days ago. Jane regarded her father's worktable where parts of a .22 rifle were strewn. Dale's reading gla.s.ses were perched next to a can of gun lubricant oil that was missing its red plastic protective tip. Her eyes scanned the table until they rested upon Dale's dusty eight track stereo player with the bent handle.

Jane took a long swig of her beer and turned to face the opposite wall. Several boxes sat on the dirt floor in front of a rectangular object covered by an old blanket pad. She nervously dragged on her cigarette for several minutes, staring at the blanket pad. Finally, Jane scuffed toward it, gingerly lifting the padding to reveal the end of a five foot long, unframed mirror. Along the corner section was a curved crack that ran from top to bottom. She pulled the padding off the mirror and sunk to the floor. The fracture across the mirror sliced her reflection in half, distorting her image. It was no use fighting it any longer. So, she decided to give in and live her nightmare to its conclusion once again.

It's that same snowy night in her 14th year. Dale pushes Jane forward into the workshop. She skids across the soft dirt floor on her shoulder, her face bloodied. Dale closes the door and snaps off his thick black belt. He lunges toward Jane and lays a hard crack of the belt across her back.

"Who the f.u.c.k do you think you are!" Dale screams before moving closer to Jane and nailing her with another lick of the belt. Jane covers her head with her arms and tries to get up, but at each attempt, Dale's belt whips down harder. "You don't f.u.c.k with me, b.i.t.c.h!" Down comes another lash of the belt. "You understand me?!"

Dale hovers over Jane's crouching body and showers her with a series of punis.h.i.+ng blows from his belt. By the ninth stroke, Jane begins to lose consciousness. She fights the feeling and rolls up on one knee, ducking the continuing lashes. She reaches out toward the oncoming belt. Connecting with it, she grabs the belt with both hands and pulls herself up on her feet jerking the belt from her father's hand and throws it against the wall.

"a.s.shole!" she screams, slightly dazed.

The words no sooner stumble from her lips when Dale backhands Jane hard across her face. She spins to her right and careens headfirst into Dale's worktable. As she makes contact with the table, she feels a surge of excruciating pain in her right temple. At the same moment, her hand reaches out to break her fall and hits the "play" b.u.t.ton on Dale's tape player. The voice of Nancy Sinatra fills the workshop, singing "These Boots Are Made For Walkin'."

"You keep saying you got something for meSomething you call love but confessYou've been a'messin' where you shouldn't have been a'messin'And now someone else is getting all your best."

Jane's back is to Dale. Blood drips from her right temple and into her eye. The room spins wildly. In the distance, she can hear the faint sound of his voice screaming at her but can't make out the words. Nancy Sinatra's recording drones loudly in her ear as Jane tries to focus on the object directly in front of her on the table.

"Well, these boots are made for walkin'And that's just what they'll doOne of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you . . ."

Jane tips her head to the right to force the blood out of her eye and makes out the object that sits within her reach. It's a Smith & Wesson, 357 Magnum revolver and the chamber is fully loaded. She carefully drags her hand a few inches and wraps it around the b.u.t.t of the gun. Her head pounds and the searing pain in her temple permeates her entire being. She gathers her strength, lifts her head, scoops the gun off the table and spins around to face her father. She stands, both arms outstretched, hands wrapped tightly around the grip of the gun. Blood streams from her temple, down the side of her face and gradually works its way into the corner of her right eye. Through the glaze of blood, she aims the s.h.i.+ny black barrel at her father's head. Dale stops screaming and stands firm. The only sound between the two of them is the incessant blare of Nancy Sinatra's voice and Jane's labored breathing.

"You keep playing where you shouldn't be playingAnd you keep thinking that you'll never get burnt (Hah!) . . ."

"What the f.u.c.k are you waiting for, you little c.u.n.t!" Dale yells over the music. "Go on. Pull the f.u.c.king trigger! I dare you." Jane slides her finger onto the trigger. The workshop rotates around her. "You don't have the guts," Dale screams.

Jane can hardly see out of her right eye which is now completely flooded with blood. She blinks hard in a wasted attempt to clear it. "You don't . . . know me . . . very well," she manages to get out.

"I know you better than anyone. You think you're tough, but you're nothing! You think you know how to win, but you'll always fail."

"I'm going to kill you now," Jane utters, with no emotion.

"Is that so? You'll go to prison."

"I'll go to 'juvie.'. . . I'll fake insanity . . . I know the ropes. . . I'll be out. . . when I'm 18 and you'll still be dead." Jane feels the sweat of her finger against the steel trigger and starts to put pressure on it.

"What about Mike!" Dale yells. "When you're stuck in juvie, who's gonna watch out for him and protect him?" Jane stands firm, still pointing the barrel at Dale's head but saying nothing. "You don't have an answer for that, do you?!" Dale screams. "Stupid b.i.t.c.h didn't think about that! You know where the little f.u.c.k's gonna end up? . . . A foster home! And the guy who runs it will b.u.t.t f.u.c.k him every night because he knows Mike won't fight back! You want that on your head the rest of your life? If you do, you dumb b.i.t.c.h, then shoot me! Shoot me!"

Jane can hardly see through the blood. The more she tries to think rationally, the cloudier her perception gets. Dale's face waves in and out of focus as the gun becomes heavier. And through it all, the song plays against the moment.

"These boots are made for walkin', and that's just what they'll doOne of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you."

Jane strains to focus. She can see that Dale is slowly moving toward her. As the blood clears from her eye, she can clearly make out that he is smiling.

With a sudden jolt of movement, Dale slaps her arms off to the side. Jane pulls back on the trigger and blows a hole in the ceiling. Dale grabs the revolver from Jane's weak hands and throws it on the ground behind him. It falls against the rectangular mirror that leans against the wall, forging a deep crack in the gla.s.s. Jane stumbles backward. With his right hand, Dale grabs her by the throat and pulls her upright. She gasps for breath as she attempts to pull his hand away. "You are nothing! You understand me?" he screams. "You understand me?"

Jane manages to pull several of his fingers away from her throat. She looks Dale straight in the eye. "f.u.c.k you!"

Then, another power suddenly enters Dale's body-a power so destructive that it will stop at nothing until it shatters its target. Dale b.a.l.l.s his fist and nails Jane hard against her cheek, sending her to her knees. Before she knows what hit her, she feels Dale's boot kick her hard in the stomach. She falls to the side, trying to protect her body. But no matter how much she tries to take cover, Dale is relentless. He kicks her hard repeatedly in the groin.

The pain crescendos and then . . . nothing.

Jane opens her eyes and sees her reflection in the cracked mirror. She observes her father's boot contacting with her body but feels nothing. There is no sound. There is no pain. There is no grief. There is no emotion. There is a coc.o.o.n of emptiness and she sits in its void. She watches as a trail of blood travels from the cut on her head and into the corner of her mouth. That's the last thing she remembers before she loses consciousness.

Hours pa.s.s before Jane wakes up on the dirt floor. She is alone. The snow outside has turned to pellets of hail that beat a drowning rhythm on the workshop roof. At first, she wonders if she is dead and that h.e.l.l looks just like her former existence. She starts to move but feels a bolt of pain in her tailbone that works its way down both legs. Jane looks in the mirror and sees the dried cakes of blood smeared with dirt crisscrossing her face. She remains on the floor for another hour, considering her next move. About five feet away from her, she spies a gallon jug of whiskey hidden underneath a chair. She drags the bottle closer and pops the cork. Jane looks around for a clean cloth but finds nothing. She tips the jug and pours a handful of whiskey into her palm. Jane then holds her palm against the deep gash on her head. A low, guttural moan emits from her throat but she continues to bathe the wound in the whiskey.

Jane uses what is left in her palm to wash away part of the blood on her face. She pours another handful into her palm and rinses off the thick crusts of dried blood that settled in the crease of her lips. A few drops make their way into her mouth and she winces at the bitter taste. She continues to cover her face in whiskey. Each time, more of the liquid makes its way onto her tongue. She shakes off the flavor, but then begins to notice a comforting warmth enveloping her injured body. Jane takes a small sip from the jug and then another, until she swallows several ounces.

She starts to free-float. The pain in her tailbone fades. A penetrating heat surrounds her body. For the first time in her short life, she feels safe and protected.

Jane drinks another few ounces of whiskey before shoving the cork back into the bottle and sliding it under the chair. Using the chair as support, she pulls herself up to her knees. Jane looks down and catches a glimpse of dark, dried blood in the crotch of her jeans. She unzips her jeans and pulls them down to reveal her underwear soaked completely through with bright blood. She stares at her body but cannot connect with any emotion. There is blood and yet there is no feeling attached to it. She zips up her jeans and drags herself to her feet. Jane makes her way carefully outside the workshop, closing the door behind her and enters the house. The morning sun is cresting in the distance, allowing slivers of light to illuminate the landscape.

Jane makes her way through the kitchen and enters the living room. Her father is sound asleep in his barcalounger, a bottle of whiskey precariously propped up in his hand. Carefully, Jane walks around the chair and starts up the stairs toward her bedroom. The stairwell is dark and full of early morning shadows. The top step creaks and a door slowly opens. Jane looks over to see her brother peering from around his bedroom door.

"Janie?" Mike asks quietly.

"It's okay, Mike," Jane whispers. "Go back to bed." Mike closes his door and Jane softly pushes open her door. She walks inside, but before closing it, she peers outside into the hallway one last time. The stillness of the house blends with the long shadows. It draws her into its grasp. Jane records the memory before closing the door and going to bed.

Jane sat on the dirt floor of the workshop, staring straight ahead. She didn't jolt out of the memory this time. It was more like sliding out of it, while making sure to leave the door open so she could return to the nightmare.

She finished off her Corona and threw the bottle against the mirror. Jane stood up and grabbed a nearby cardboard box. She dumped every gun from her father's collection into the box, including the ones he had taken apart to rebuild. Wedging the box of guns under her arm, she snapped the lid down on the tool chest and walked out.

On her way home, Jane finished the sixth bottle of Corona. It was pitch dark by the time she pulled up in front of her house. She had driven slowly on the way home due to the buzz she felt from the beer. Jane grabbed the box of guns and the toolbox and got out of the car, stumbling up the curb toward the house.

The sound of a car door opening and closing, along with footsteps approaching her, caught Jane off guard. She dropped the toolbox and box of guns and spun around. "G.o.dd.a.m.nit, Chris!" she yelled. "I'm not in the f.u.c.kin' mood!"

Sergeant Weyler emerged out of the shadows. Jane took a step back and tripped over a sprinkler head on her lawn. She tried to stay upright but gravity pulled her down to the gra.s.s.

"Well, Detective," Weyler said matter-of-factly. "Did I catch you at a bad time?"

Chapter 9.

Jane tried to get up from the lawn where she fell, but her head spun like a top.

Sergeant Weyler peered down at Jane's flaccid body. "Detective Perry, exactly how much have you had to drink tonight?"

Jane looked up at Weyler. She could feel her blood pressure rising and knew that her ability to censor her mouth would be difficult. "Gee, Dad, I'm not sure! Why don't you look inside the car and count the G.o.dd.a.m.n bottles for yourself!"

"My G.o.d, Jane! How in the h.e.l.l can you drive in this condition?"

"Oh, f.u.c.k, boss. You should give me an award. Most people in my condition would have taken out at least five cars on the way here."

"Get up!"

"No, I think I'll just sleep here tonight." Jane rested her head on the moist gra.s.s.

"Give me your hand!" Weyler commanded, holding out his hand. "Get up!"