Protector - Laurel Dewey [23]
“You said it lots of times over the last few days. You said other shit, too, but I couldn’t understand it.” Jane stared uneasily at the piece of paper. Mike’s happy-go-lucky countenance melted into a look of concern. “You okay?”
Jane took a final swig of beer, finishing off the bottle. “Of course I’m okay,” she replied, as if saying that statement would make it true. “Come on, let’s get outta here.” Jane collected the empty Corona bottles.
“This is a shitload of trash. I don’t want to drag it to the curb,” Mike said, a slight whine to his voice. Jane instructed him to snag the dolly from the workshop. He disappeared into the small, dirt-floored side building, leaving one of the large wooden doors wide open. “I can’t find it!” he yelled out to Jane.
“Keep looking,” Jane said with an edge.
“Man, it’s a fuckin’ mess in here. This is gonna be a bitch to clean out, Janie!”
Jane felt her body tense up and her jaw clench. She stared at the open door to the workshop and wished Mike would find the dolly and come back. “Forget cleaning!” Jane yelled. “We’ll burn the fucker down!”
Mike emerged from the workshop with the dolly. “Cool!” He rolled the garbage bags to the curb while Jane locked up and turned off the lights save the outside porch lamp. She felt the urge to break the stonecold silence so she popped a CD into the car’s player. Turning up the volume, the gritty voice of Bob Seger sang “Katmandu.” She picked up the six-pack of empty Corona bottles and walked around the car. Mike propped the dolly against the house and crossed over to Jane. She reached down and grabbed one of the Coronas by its long, thin neck and looked up at her dad’s workshop, the red glow of the setting sun darting across the glass windows. Reeling back her arm, she eyed one of the workshop’s windows and tossed the beer bottle toward the target. It crashed through the glass, leaving a crystal echo and a huge hole. Mike turned to her, his mouth agape. She pulled another Corona bottle from the pack and picked out another window. Hurling it through the air, it burst through the glass with a defined clatter. Jane handed Mike one of the bottles. He took it but hesitated. “Go on,” Jane insisted.
“But it’s his—”
“Fuck him, Mike,” Jane said with a merciless tone. “Fuck him.”
Mike broke into a mischievous grin and hurled the bottle toward the workshop, leaving a hole in a side window. He grabbed one bottle and then another, cheering like a kid after each explosion of glass. Mike was so into the moment that he didn’t see Jane pull out her pistol from her shoulder holster. When he finally turned to her, she was focused straight ahead, both hands extended, her finger brushing the trigger. He stood perfectly still, eager to find out what Jane would do. Mike watched as her eyes zoned in on a target and a peculiar look came over her face. She squeezed the trigger with precision and blew a hole the size of a baseball in the center window. Jane calmly lowered the gun, still staring straight ahead. After several seconds, she turned to Mike. “Ready to go?”
It was after nine o’clock when Jane turned onto Milwaukee Street. She’d stopped at the liquor store to pick up a fifth of Jack Daniels and consumed a good six swigs by the time she neared her house. As she drove closer to her home, she saw a figure seated on her front steps. At first, she thought it was Chris, but the build was wrong. It wasn’t until she pulled in front of her house that she realized it was Sergeant Weyler.
Chapter 6
Sergeant Weyler looked just as dapper in his suit and tie as he had over twelve hours earlier. Jane felt a rush of heat hit her head—partly from the three Coronas and whiskey she had just consumed and partly from the irritation at seeing her boss waiting for her on her own front steps. Weyler sauntered over to Jane’s car as she carefully slid the brown bag that held the Jack Daniels under the front seat. He leaned over on the passenger side of the Mustang, addressing her through the open window.
“Good evening, Detective Perry.”
“Hello,” Jane said,