Exit Wounds - J. A. Jance [67]
In her dream, the SUV driver was on his knees, cowering in front of her. She was holding a gun in her hand. Not one of her little Glocks, but her father’s old .357-magnum. “Please, lady,” the guy begged. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. It was an accident. I was just doing my job.”
“Those people didn’t have a chance,” she told him scornfully. “And neither do you.”
With that she pulled the trigger and the back of his skull exploded. He fell onto his back. As a pool of blood spread out beneath him, Joanna turned and walked away, still carrying the .357.
Ten
The horror of the nightmare woke her up. Shaken, Joanna reached across the bed, hoping to find Butch Dixon’s comforting presence, but he wasn’t there. His side of the bed was empty. With one hand over her mouth to stave off the retching, she piled out of bed. By then, Lady knew the drill and was smart enough to scramble out of the way as Joanna once again raced for the bathroom to deal with that day’s worth of morning sickness.
She was still pale and shaken when she made her way into the kitchen. “How long is this going to last?” Butch asked as he handed her a mug of tea.
Joanna shrugged. “Last time I was fine for the first month, sick as a dog for the second, and fine again after that—except for drinking or smelling coffee.” That was when she noticed that the coffeepot next to the sink was empty. “No coffee for you this morning, either?”
He held up a stainless-steel covered mug. “Iced,” he answered. “Made from yesterday’s coffee. I thought if you didn’t have to smell me making it, maybe you wouldn’t get sick. Obviously that didn’t work.”
“It was nice of you to try,” she said, smiling wanly.
“Maybe I should start marking off days on the calendar,” Butch said. “And how long do you go on eating mostly peanut butter? It’s not what I call a balanced diet.”
“No,” Joanna agreed, “but I’m sure I won’t starve.”
“Lucky chewed up another one of Jenny’s boots yesterday,” Butch mentioned in passing.
“Not one of the new ones!”
“Yes, one of the new ones. And the right one, just like the other pair. If he’d chewed up the left-hand one, she’d still have two boots to work with even if they weren’t a pair. I tried to explain to her that, with a puppy in the house, she can’t leave anything lying around untended. I don’t think she got the message.”
“Will she this time?” Joanna asked.
Butch shrugged. “Maybe,” he said. “Especially if this pair of boots comes out of her own pocket.” He came over and settled onto the stool next to Joanna’s. “By the way,” he said, “your mother called late last night.”
“What about?”
“I’m not sure. She said she was looking for George and wondered if you were home.”
“That wasn’t it,” Joanna said. “I’m guessing she really wanted to find out if her calling out the big gun had any effect on me.”
“What big gun?” Butch asked.
Joanna told Butch about Bob Brundage’s call. Butch listened to the story in thoughtful silence and shook his head when she finished. “Eleanor just doesn’t get it,” he said.
“Get what?”
“The idea that you’re all grown up and able to make your own decisions.”
“You’re right,” Joanna said. “And I doubt she ever will.”
An hour later, when Joanna drove into the Justice Center parking lot, she noticed an Arizona DPS van that was parked in front of the gate to the razor-wire-surrounded impound lot where the wrecked remains of the Suburban had been hauled and deposited for inspection. It had been decided the night before that this would be a joint-operation investigation, and Joanna was glad to see someone from the Department of Public Safety was already on the job. So was Dave Hollicker.
“Finding anything important?” Joanna asked as she joined the two clipboard-carrying officers who were conferring earnestly just to the left of the Suburban’s smashed driver’s-side fender.
“This is Sheriff Brady,” Dave said, seeing her for the first time. “And this is Sergeant Steve Little of the DPS.”
“Glad to meet you, Sheriff Brady,