Protector - Laurel Dewey [58]
Jane turned to face Weyler. The words, “You want that on your head?” brought back the memory of the dialogue that lead to her blood-soaked confrontation with her father. A gnawing indignity engulfed Jane. “Someone used those same words to manipulate me a long time ago. I should have ignored them back then and saved myself a lot of grief. It’s not on my goddamn head what happens to that kid! I don’t know her!”
“Yes, you do. The two of you are already linked by some unknown force.” Jane looked at Weyler with an incredulous glance. Linked by some unknown force. Jane wondered if he realized how prophetic his words truly were. “You look at her and you see yourself. She’s that moment in time between all that was good and all that went terribly wrong. If you can help her, maybe you can help yourself.” Weyler smoothed his jacket and straightened his tall frame. “You want her to pretend like it never happened. But it did. And so we go from that point. One way or the other, she’s going to remember. And when she does, I want you to be with her.”
Jane always hated it when Weyler won.
Chapter 10
Less than thirty-six hours after leaving the Lawrence crime scene, Jane was on her way back to it. Weyler picked her up at her house at seven o’clock sharp and drove the four mile route in near silence. It was thirty-six hours of heavy thought for Jane. Thirty-six hours of feeling stark and exposed. Thirty-six hours of debating how to get out of the assignment. Thirty-six hours of Jane wondering how far she could have driven away from Denver in that space of time. More than anything, it was thirty-six hours without a drop of alcohol and that was thirty-six hours too long.
It wasn’t that Weyler threatened her if she took a drink. For Jane, it came more from an odd sense of duty—a time to set aside one’s personal desire to become numb for the good of another. There was a kind of righteousness in it. However, it couldn’t assuage her desire to feel the sting of a whiskey shot against the back of her throat. By the time Weyler and Jane pulled onto Franklin and neared the Lawrence house, the mere thought of booze was as addictive as the thing itself.
Jane spotted two unmarked cars parked across the street from the house. Weyler pulled up alongside one of the cars and rolled down his window. The other driver, a Denver patrol officer, leaned out the window. “Give us ten minutes.” Weyler said to the officer, who nodded in response.
Jane noted that the backseat window was rolled down several inches. Like a jack-in-the-box, Emily popped up out of her seat and framed her eyes and nose in the window opening. Jane could hear the distinct voice of Martha Durrett admonishing the child to sit down. “What’s Martha doing here?” Jane asked with an irritated edge.
“Part of the deal with the Court,” Weyler said as he pulled his sedan across the street and parked in front of the Lawrence house.
“What about all those ‘favors’ you said they owed you?”
“There are certain things favors don’t cover.”
“If that bitch is required to be in the house with us, I’m out of here—”
“Calm down, Detective! Martha stays in the car with the officer, strictly as an observer and as backup if you need it. Same goes for the other car which holds one detective at all times.”
“What’s all this ‘backup’ shit? I don’t need to be