Mailboat II, page 2
The Wall had come down. The personal defense system I’d been putting together, one component at a time, for the past ten years. In a single moment, security had been completely breached. Emergency sirens wailed inside my head and lights flashed. It was chaos.
Ryan glanced back over his shoulder. His brow wavered. Crap. I’d let him see me looking vulnerable. I pulled my shoulders back and stuffed papers into my portfolio.
“I’ll be right there,” Ryan said to the girl. When she was out of sight, he turned to me and whispered, “You okay?”
“Fine,” I said. “Exhausted.” Between the rumbling aftershocks of the Wall’s downfall and all the shit that had been going down lately, I simply didn’t have the energy to be snarky to Ryan. I glanced up at him and lifted an eyebrow. “You?”
He nodded. “Tired.”
“Black and blue I suppose?”
He rubbed his chest. “Sore,” he admitted.
An officer-involved shooting—Ryan’s—was just one of the many shits gone down. Thank God he’d been wearing his body armor.
Then again, why was I so relieved? I’d spent the past ten years calling down curses on his head. Any man who cheated on me deserved my eternal wrath—especially a man who’d wedded and bedded me, only to chase the first pretty ass that swung by. Ryan and I simply hadn’t been meant to last, I suppose. He was a dick. I was a bitch.
I zipped shut my portfolio and sat on the edge of the table. “We must be tired. Look at us, actually holding a civil conversation.”
He grinned but didn’t reply. Smart man. He knew that any words with me could end in fireworks; I was just that volatile. Hence the Wall. It existed as much to keep myself locked in as to keep other people locked out.
He cocked his head toward the lobby. “I’d better get Bailey home.” Clearly making an exit while his luck lasted.
I dropped my gaze into my lap and nodded.
He left. The door clicked shut behind him. I remained sitting. I should have tried to get him to stay longer. Just another minute or two while the Wall was down. This kind of opportunity wasn’t likely to happen again in either of our lifetimes.
I’d laid the cornerstone back when Ryan Brandt had cheated on me. I’d never meant to embark on such a large-scale building project. I’d never even noticed the pieces moving into place, brick by brick. But when I’d eventually noticed it, I embraced it. It was my Wall. I found it was good against all sorts of things. Lying suspects, violent detainees, hardened criminals of every sort. It was even good against heartbreak: children who died in car accidents, entire families who perished in house fires, wives battered at the hands of their own husbands.
People were intimidated by the Wall. They sensed it the moment I walked into a room, and spines visibly straightened. The Wall was both my protection and my power; my armor and my weapon. No one had ever broken down the Wall.
Until tonight.
In the end, it hadn’t succumbed to cannonade or machine gun fire or military-grade explosives. It had been broken by a child.
Which was fitting in a way.
She wasn’t afraid to look me in the eye. She’d marched straight through the laser network. She had a Wall, too, and hers was better than mine. That’s what had caused the breach in the first place: the shock. No girl so young should have a Wall so tough. I could harden myself against anything—except a clone of myself that hadn’t even graduated high school yet.
What could have broken her so badly to erect that iron barricade? And was there any hope for her?
I sighed and finished packing my portfolio. I hit the lights on my way out of the interview room and found Chief Wade Erickson in the hall, moving toward the elevator.
“Chief. Any luck?”
He stopped and shook his head. “No sign of the get-away car.” His tall frame hung loosely and his eyes were dull. He was exhausted, too.
“Someone will spot it.”
He glanced at me quizzically. I only realized then that it was probably the first time in ten years that I’d played the optimist. I simply backed it up with a smile as if it were par for the course.
“What about leads?” I asked. “Could Roland give us any names?”
He pulled a worn notebook from his shirt pocket and sighed, hoisting his eyebrows. “Yes,” he said, eying his own scrawl. “At first blush, I doubt any of them are a match. Most of these people are in their seventies and eighties.”
I ran a hand down the side of my face. “I’ll go through the list in the morning.”
“Neumiller will. I want you to take a three-day weekend. You’ve been going non-stop.”
I lifted my portfolio. “I’ve got so much—”
Wade put his hand on it and pushed it back down. “Lehman and Neumiller will both be here tomorrow. You’ll spell Neumiller on Tuesday and Lehman on Wednesday. You’ve pulled your weight. Go home. Recharge your batteries.”
I ground my teeth. I could rebuild the Wall faster at work. At home I’d have nothing to do but stare in shocked dismay at the wreckage. But with all my offensive strategies in disarray, there was no fighting the chief this time.
“Yes, Sir,” I muttered.
“Good. I’ll see you Tuesday.” He turned and began to walk away.
“Chief?”
He paused and looked back. “Yes?”
My mouth went dry on the words I had to ask. “Did you tell Tommy?” The Mailboat captain. It was his son we’d found Bailey crying over in the street.
Wade chewed his lip and stared at the ceiling, sighing through his nose. “I’ll tell him in the morning.”
I scowled and glanced at my watch. “My God, Wade, someone should have told him hours ago.”
“Let an old man get his sleep. It’s not like he has anyone else to pass the news along to.”
My jaw dropped. “Wade!”
He held up a hand and turned his gray eyes on me. For the first time since I’d known him, he looked old. Tired. “Monica, the rules don’t always apply.”
I closed my mouth, but refused to agree.
“I’ll see you Tuesday.” He turned down the hall and walked away.
I growled to myself and headed for my car. All too often, that man simply infuriated me. The instant I walked out into the night air, the reality of a three-day weekend hit me between the eyes. It would just be me and the Wall and that damn breach. The smoke and debris had cleared enough for me to get my first good look at the gash. It was vast. Emotions were pouring through like water spilling over a dam.
Never mind homicide. I had a bigger problem on my hands.
CHAPTER THREE
RYAN
The streets, normally glutted with tourists in daylight, were dead quiet after midnight. I took my time on the drive to Bailey’s house. By habit, my eyes scanned for anomalies—shadows moving inside the dimly-lit gift shops and boutiques, doors ajar on the quaint cottages and Victorian homes. But it was finally quiet in Lake Geneva. The radio in the cruiser was silent. Even the pink and white petunias hanging from the lamp posts were folded up, their heads bowed as they slumbered.
I glanced now and again at my passenger, Bailey Johnson, and kept the patrol car moving just below the speed limit, trying to buy time, hoping to come up with something to say that would finally make an inroad in the barrier between Bailey and the world.
Working law enforcement my whole career, I’d seen my fair share of human hardship and the resulting broken spirits. Most days, I didn’t let it get to me. But something about Bailey got under my skin and wouldn’t leave. She was so alone. She had literally no one in her corner shouting her on. And I couldn’t erase from my memory the fact that it had been my hands that handed her over to the foster care system eleven years ago. I had blithely moved on to new departments, new adventures, a thousand new lives.
And Bailey was still here. Alone. I shouldn’t feel responsible for her. But I did.
She directed her gaze out her open window, the breeze playing with the strands of hair that always slipped loose from her ponytail. Even from this angle, I could make out her fading black eye.
I’d tried to get her to tell me who had given her that mark, but she was sealed like a tomb. Her foster dad, Bud Weber, wasn’t admitting to anything, either, and her nearly non-existent social circle could provide no leads.
I finally ventured to speak. “So, what happened to your arms?”
She scrunched her nose and shook her head as if the question were stupid and meaningless. “Nothing,” she said.
“Doesn’t look like nothing.” I stole a glance for the dozenth time. Purple and blue smudges marred her outer forearms. By their positioning, they looked like self-defense wounds.
“I’m a klutz,” she said. “I walk into everything.”
“You seem to manage mail jumping okay.” They didn’t hire klutzes at the Mailboat. You had to get off and on the boat at top speed to get the mail in the boxes.
She said nothing. Only filled her lungs and sighed. The slant of her eyebrow, the one I could see, was angry. Captain Tommy Thomlin had tipped us off to her bruises. I half expected he was the one she was angry with.
The question was why she resented me, and perhaps Tommy, for asking. Why she still refused to name her abuser. I knew in my gut that our culprit was her foster dad. I’d met the man and wasn’t impressed. But as much as I trust my instincts on the street, they don’t help a lot in a court of law. I didn’t have any evidence. Nothing that could justify twirling my handcuffs around my finger and coolly slipping them over Weber’s wrists while I uttered the Miranda warning. Instead, I sat idly by as Bailey harvested new injuries. It heated my blood just to think about it.
“You doing all right, Bailey? You got through quite a shit show tonight.” Ever since we’d found her in the middle of the street after tonight’s gun battle, the only one standing—the only one alive—she had been shockingly stoic. Emotionless. A few tears. That was all.
She didn’t answer and simply wrapped a strand of hair around her finger. I’d never known another human being who could maintain a stony silence as long as she could. I was pretty sure I could drive three times around the world, and still be waiting for a reply. She was lost in her own head. Lost in a world that only got worse, never better. My heart cracked every time I looked at her.
“Do you have anyone you can talk to?”
Silence.
It didn’t matter. I already knew the answer. She’d told me before that she didn’t have any friends.
I quit trying to make conversation.
Minutes later, I pulled into her driveway, the cement cracked and crumbling into the street. The house wasn’t much better. A contrast to the idyllic homes that dotted almost every neighborhood in town, this one was short a few shingles and looked out on the world through filthy windows. The paint was peeling off the sills.
I’d seen her foster dad’s place of business, the Geneva Bar and Grill, and it was a veritable palace by comparison. Granted, it looked like a remodeled corrugated tin barn, strung with a confusing mix of neon bar signs and pirate paraphernalia. But at least the amenities were clean, updated, and maintained. There was no question where Bud’s loyalties lay. They weren’t at home, and they weren’t with Bailey, of that I was sure.
I shifted into park. Bailey unbuckled her seatbelt and popped open the door without a word to me.
“Bailey?”
She jumped out of the car as if she hadn’t heard me.
I leaned across the console and the metal bracket holding my laptop. “Bailey!”
Her shoulders visibly drooped, but she halted. She tilted her head back, as if she were staring away at the stars. As if she wanted to be sucked into the cosmos.
“We have a police chaplain. He’s a great guy. I’ll set you up with him, if you like.”
She said nothing.
I chewed my cheek. “I guess I’ll take that for a yes.” It was a fairly safe bet. From previous conversations, I’d concluded she didn’t care what happened in her life one way or the other. She’d probably stopped caring a long time ago.
I stared at her back and wanted desperately to get out of the car and force her into a bear hug. I wanted to hug her until she cried. And then I wanted to hold her some more, until she’d wrung out every last tear that she’d been bottling up inside for God only knew how long. I shuddered to think how many tears she was hiding, merely because no one had ever been there to wipe them away.
I’d never felt this way about a child. A voice in the back of my head said this was what it felt like to have kids of your own. It scared the piss out of me. I’d always assumed I’d make the world’s lousiest dad. Monica, as my ex-wife, no doubt agreed. If I couldn’t remain faithful to a woman, how was I supposed to stick around long enough to raise kids? In the grand scheme of things, maybe it was a blessing we’d never had a family.
Bailey began to slide away, as if testing whether I’d stop her this time. I didn’t. I was fresh out of excuses to make her stay. She swung the door shut and sprinted up the driveway to the house without a look back.
I drummed my thumbs on the steering wheel and released a sigh. I wouldn’t rest until I’d proved the identity of whatever party or parties were responsible for her bruises; until that person was locked in a cell and Bailey was free to live the life of a normal sixteen-year-old. But beyond that, perhaps I should just give up. It was my job to ensure her safety, not her happiness. And she was making it abundantly clear she didn’t want my interference in her life.
It didn’t matter anyway. I was only a reserve officer, hired on to help with the busy tourist season in my hometown. When summer ended, I’d be moving on. I was a drifter—always had been—and in a few short months, I’d be drifting on again.
CHAPTER FOUR
BAILEY
I ran up the driveway and threw myself against the front door. But half-way over the threshold, I changed tack from flight to stealth. I landed on tip-toes. Held my breath. Searched the darkness inside. Truth be told, I was more afraid of what lay ahead of me than what lay behind. Much as I hated being scrutinized by Officer Brandt, at least he’d never whipped me with a belt.
The lights were out. The TV was dark. Those were good signs. Maybe Bud was asleep—passed out on the sofa or in his bed or in some weird place like under the sink. There was no telling where he might turn up when he was drunk. He usually was. I couldn’t fathom how he got up early every morning to open the restaurant. As far as I could tell, he didn’t care a whit about hangovers. Maybe he’d developed a resistance, like bugs do to pesticides.
My sins were now neck-deep. I’d slipped out of the restaurant last night before my shift ended. I’d borrowed Bud’s car. I’d gotten it stolen by an escaped murderer. But only after I’d gotten it shot through with bullets. In my defense, I was trying to stop a kidnapping. But after everything I’d done, I may as well hand Bud a cat-of-nine-tails and tie myself to a whipping post. I doubted he’d be overly comforted that I’d survived the street shooting. He’d simply be mad about the car. And he’d make sure I didn’t walk away without some souvenir of the night’s adventures.
Ryan and Tommy probably assumed I was scared what Bud would do to me if I said anything. I let them think so. But Bud wasn’t my first fear.
Moving was.
If Ryan took Bud out of the picture, social services would have to find me a new placement. Again. I could end up anywhere in Walworth County. I could even be farmed out to another county. It may as well have been anywhere in the world.
I didn’t want to move. Not now. Not when my life was as close to perfect as it had ever come. Maybe that sounded stupid. But it was true. All thanks to one person. One person who had turned my world upside-down.
But maybe that perfect world was all just a dream and it would only melt as soon as I reached out to touch it, like all dreams do. But dreams were all I had to live on.
I closed the door behind me silently, a millimeter at a time, and latched it without a click. Slowly I scanned the living room, lit only by the street lamp outside. The coffee table was littered with empty beer cans, a half-eaten bag of chips, and a flurry of magazines, mostly featuring shirtless men with giant dumbbells. As if Bud cared about fitness. Maybe he only had dreams to live on, too.
As my eyes soaked in the darkness, they suddenly made out a long, bulky form stretched across the sofa. I nearly gasped out loud but clapped a hand over my mouth just in time. I stood stock still and watched the shadow. It didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t stir. Slowly the mass took on more shape. The folds of a blanket. The fringed and frayed edge of a throw pillow. But the blanket was empty. Merely a crumpled shell, not even big enough to account for all of Bud.
I stood and breathed for a few minutes, simply waiting for my heart to slow down. Finally I peeled my hand from my mouth and tip-toed through the living room. In the hall, I played a sort of hopscotch, avoiding all the places where the floor creaked. I’d been living here for two years now, so I knew where the noisy spots were and could sneak in and out of my room whenever I needed. By this point in my life, I’d been in so many different foster placements, I could learn a new squeaky floor pattern within two days. Sometimes I felt that in Bud’s house it didn’t matter. It was like he had a sixth sense for my presence.
Or absence.
He had to know I’d left the restaurant early.
And he had to be furious.
But what else was I supposed to do? I’d seen a man kidnapped in our own parking lot, and I couldn’t find Bud to tell him what was happening. I suppose a normal person would have called the police. But ever since the night they’d arrested my mother and sent me to my first foster home, I’d sort of gone out of my way to avoid them.
I was really failing at that lately. It seemed Officer Brandt popped up every time I turned around.
Okay, I could admit it now: Life with my mom and her boyfriends had been pathetic. What five-year-old is supposed to figure out how to feed herself? I still remembered putting the can of soup in the microwave, can and all. It was pretty epic, actually. Sparks flying everywhere… The aftermath wasn’t nearly so cool. I still remembered the bruises from my mother’s boyfriend-of-the-day. I think he was high. My mom and her boyfriends were always high.
