Protector - Laurel Dewey [117]
“Jane?” Emily said with an uneasy tone. “Are you okay?”
Jane centered herself. “I’m fine.” She lit a cigarette and descended the tower.
Emily stared at the ground in deep thought as Jane planted her feet on terra firma. “I’m starting to remember more,” Emily said, out of the blue.
Jane took a drag on the cigarette. “Like what?”
“I can’t explain it. It’s like I see or hear things that are no big deal and then I feel things and then my head wants to make a picture out of it, but my eyes don’t want to see it. Stuff like that happens almost every day.”
Jane did her best to act nonchalant, the whole time trying to reconcile her own startling visions. “That’s normal. I imagine you’ll continue to get little memory jolts like that until the pieces come together.”
Emily thought for a moment. “What am I going to see?” she said apprehensively.
Jane turned away. She knew the answer to that question all too well. To see the thing you fear the most . . . to go there the first time drives a knife through your heart that infects your soul. And if Emily ever remembered the brutal, bloody scene of her butchered parents . . . well, Jane couldn’t let herself go there. Standing in the lush meadow with the warm summer wind blowing through the grass, Jane decided to lie. “I don’t know what you’ll see.”
Emily looked deep into Jane’s eyes. “Yes, you do.” The child scuffed her shoe against the wet dirt. “It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me.” The two retraced their steps around the lake and across the soggy meadow. “Maybe you can tell me this,” Emily carefully said.
“Is the person who hurt Mommy and Daddy the same person who was on my roof that night when I fell?”
“I would assume there’s a pretty good chance of that.”
“And we’re hiding out here so he doesn’t come and get me?”
“No, that’s not it—”
Emily stopped in her tracks. “It is the truth!”
Jane turned back to her. “I genuinely do not know if that asshole has the energy and desire to find you.”
“Yes, Jane. He does!” Emily’s voice raised several octaves in fear. “And you know it!”
Jane gently took hold of Emily’s shoulders. “Emily, I honestly don’t know!” She paused, considering how to best approach the subject. “Look, we’re masquerading as mother and daughter to hide your identity. That tells me that the Department senses a need for caution. So, I keep my eyes open, just like you should.”
“But I don’t know what he looks like! It could be anybody!”
Jane couldn’t disagree with the kid. “That’s why you stick close to me.”
They headed home, locked up the house and drove the five short blocks down Main Street to the Mountain Melon Market. As they got out of the car, a voice sounding like coarse gravel rattled across the street.
“I like your bumper stickers!”
Jane quickly turned. It was the town sheriff, a large, meaty fellow with thinning hair and a sallow complexion. “Excuse me?” Jane said, catching herself.
“You brake for butterflies, eh? I’ve never seen that particular one!” the sheriff said in a throaty tone, observing Jane’s car.
Jane remembered the annoying “I Brake for Butterflies” bumper sticker. “Well, I brake unless they smash into my windshield when I’m driving. Then it’s just tough luck, you know?” Jane turned to Emily, “Come on!”
The ting-ting of the front door bell rang out a cheerful greeting when Jane opened the door. She quickly surveyed the store. It was your typical small, mountain town grocery store: eight aisles surrounded by purring frozen food units. Jane grabbed a cart and started down the far left aisle near one of the banks of frozen food that was next to an old refrigerator with the sign “BAIT” taped across the front. The sheriff entered the store and stole a glance at Emily, who looked back at him and smiled.
“Patty,” Jane said abruptly, “come on.”
The sheriff observed Jane’s interaction with Emily before turning to the guy behind the counter. “How’s it goin’?” said the sheriff with a jolly ring in his voice.
“Hey, Sheriff George!” replied the guy, putting down