Protector - Laurel Dewey [15]
Martha quickly looked up the stairs and then bounded halfway down toward Jane. “Detective Perry!” Martha said in a hushed tone, “curb your language! I have a young child up there!”
“Does she realize what a complete asshole you are?” “Detective Perry! I will not say it again! Please refrain from—” Martha’s attention was drawn upward as the child peered over the railing, her brown hair hanging softly in midair. Jane looked up at the girl and moved away from the wall to get a better view. “Emily,” Martha chided. “Step back. I’ll be right there.”
Emily Lawrence started to retreat when Jane spoke up. “Hey, Emily! Don’t listen to her! Run like hell and don’t look back!”
Emily stared at Jane in stunned fascination. Martha grabbed Jane by her elbow and brusquely took her aside, out of Emily’s view. “Detective Perry, you are very much out of line!”
Jane replied in the same clipped manner. “Get your hand off me, Martha, or I’ll knock you on your—” Jane peered around Martha. Emily stood on the landing above her. In her left hand, she clutched onto her navy blue vinyl case that held the Starlight Starbright projector. Jane felt an unnerving jolt of recognition. There was something vaguely familiar about the kid—strangely familiar.
“That’s it!” Martha announced. “I’m reporting you to your sergeant.” Martha spun on her sensible shoes and walked up several steps toward Emily. “You are foul-mouthed and inappropriate!” Martha exclaimed, speaking over her shoulder to Jane. But Jane didn’t hear a word of it; she was still trying to shake the odd feeling churning her gut. It was as if a memory suddenly surfaced without any lucid connection. “Come along, Emily!” Martha barked at Emily. Martha was halfway up the second set of stairs, issuing orders to Emily but the kid didn’t move. She stared undaunted at Jane.
Jane leaned against the wall. She wanted to say something to the child but . . . what? She figured a mild caveat might be appropriate. “Hey, kid,” Jane said in a half-whisper. “Don’t let her jerk you around.”
“Emily!” Martha beckoned from one flight above. “Come up here now!”
Emily stood for one more long second staring at Jane before she made her way back up the stairs and into Martha’s waiting hand.
Jane waited as the echoing clip-clop of Martha and Emily’s footsteps climbed the stairs. A dull sound of steel against steel penetrated the stairwell when Martha opened the door leading onto the third floor and let it slam shut. Standing in the sudden silence, she tried to contend with the elusive sense that something extraordinary was happening. She felt detached from her body but also filled with a palpable sensation that she knew more than she consciously realized. Given that she’d been blitzed on booze and blacked out many times over the last five days, she worried her current state might precede a complete breakdown. The thought of losing her mind forced the need of nicotine to suffocate the sharp edges. Jane took a long drag on her cigarette. The smoke caressed her throat and penetrated her lungs. She closed her eyes to drink in the sweet anesthesia. But suddenly, a disjointed series of stark images flashed in front of her. There was an outstretched Glock, a flash of blinding light and the genuine sensation that someone was desperately grabbing her right hand. Startled, Jane opened her eyes expecting to see someone holding on to her. But she stood alone.
“Shit,” Jane muttered under her breath. The walls closed in on her. She had to get out of the stairwell. Jane wanted more than anything to run upstairs, sit at her desk and focus . . . focus on anything mundane that would force the booze-induced images out of her head. Her ego quickly took hold when she remembered her suspension. Jane wasn’t about to go upstairs and negotiate with Weyler. A psych counsel now might prove her worst fears. She would do what she always did: bury the trauma and move forward. If she talked to Weyler, she had to be tactful. However, tact was not something Jane had mastered in her 35 years. Tact, as