Protector - Laurel Dewey [22]
“People get killed every day. Turn him off!”
Mike poked his head into the kitchen. “Think that little girl saw anything?”
Like an irate parent, Jane walked with purpose into the living room. “Jesus, Mike! Turn it off!” With that, Jane angrily slammed off the TV.
Two hours later, the hall closet was empty of all the boxes. Jane pulled out a few classic crime scene text manuals for her home library and dumped the leftovers into garbage bags. The rest of the house would have to wait for another day. Besides, after she and Mike downed three Coronas each, there wasn’t much desire to continue.
They sat outside on the cement steps that led from the kitchen to the workshop. The heat of the late May day had burned off, leaving a stippled layer of Denver pollution against the pink-stained sky. Jane lit two cigarettes, handing one to Mike. She took a swig of Corona and let out a low sigh.
“Does your hand still hurt?” Mike asked.
“I don’t know. I stopped connecting to the pain a few days ago.”
Mike grinned. “Thanks to a fifth, eh?”
“You got it,” Jane said with a half-smile as she took another sip of beer.
There was a moment of silence between them before Mike spoke up. “Hey, I got news for you!” Mike said brightly. “I made a decision.”
“Oh, god, you made a decision. And what would that be?”
“I’m gonna ask Lisa to move in.”
“Who’s Lisa?”
“You know . . . Lisa. We’ve been seeing each other for two months. Well, technically, six weeks. But I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna ask her.”
“Mike, that’s not a good idea. It’s six weeks. You’ve spent half of those six weeks at my place. So, technically, it’s three weeks and that’s not long enough.”
“Janie, I think she’s the one—”
“You thought Kelly—”
“Karen,” Mike interrupted.
“Karen. You thought Karen was ‘the one.’ You thought Lori was ‘the one.’”
“Okay, yeah, at the time. But Lisa’s different.”
“They’re all different. And then it falls apart, you get hurt and it’s a mess.”
“Fuck, Janie. Sometimes you act like my warden.”
“That’s my job, Mike.” Jane cast her eyes toward the ground.
“Don’t you want me to be happy?”
“Happy? Mike, the only happy people are the ignorant. Nobody with a functioning brain is happy. They know better.” Jane looked over at Mike who was sinking into himself. “I don’t want to see you get hurt. We’ve got each other. That’s one more person than a lot of people have. I’ll never hurt you and I’ll never let you down. You can’t say that for all the Lisas out there.”
Mike thought for a second before he spoke. “You got Chris.”
“Fuck Chris! I’m getting rid of Chris!”
“I thought you and he were—”
“We’re nothing!” Jane felt herself slipping. She didn’t know whether it was the beer or the end of an awful day but she had to drag herself back into the moment. She took a deep drag off her cigarette. “Sometimes I’m talking to Chris and it’s like I’m talking to Dad.” Jane looked off to the side, lost in a pocket of emotion.
Mike seriously considered what Jane said. “Shit . . . That’s gotta suck.” He downed another gulp of beer. “You still having those dreams about the explosion?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“I thought so. When I tried to wake you up this morning, you were really deep sleeping.”
“You should have gotten me up. I was damn near late to work.”
“You were talkin’ weird again!” Mike chuckled.
Jane turned to Mike with a puzzled expression. “Huh?”
Mike grinned. “When you were sleepin’ these last few days, you were quite the Chatty Cathy doll. It didn’t make a shitload of sense.”
Mike’s jovial recollections of her blackout irritated Jane. “What did I say?”
“It was all disjointed. But . . .” Mike suddenly remembered, “I wrote some words down that you kept repeating.” He pulled a wad of receipts from his jeans pocket and sorted through the disorganized bundle. “Here it is. You explain this to me: ‘Navy blue . . . Glock something or another . . . Bright light . . . Hold on to me—’ ”
Jane snatched the corner of paper out of Mike’s hand. Her heart raced as she read the words. Except for “Hold on to me,” it was a printed repeat of the odd staccato visions.