Protector - Laurel Dewey [91]
Jane crisscrossed through traffic, ignoring the series of one-way streets and driving in the opposite direction. She jumped her Mustang over the center median on Eighth Street, stormed down the side streets and barreled through red lights. Once on University, she shifted gears, zigzagged around vehicles and reached speeds of seventy-five mph in forty-five mph zones. An evil, foreboding feeling permeated her bones. Her gut twisted and a cold sweat broke out across the back of her neck. Jane peeled onto Exposition and continued clocking speeds of sixty to seventy miles per hour until she reached Franklin. She nearly lost control of the Mustang as she turned sharply to the right and came to a squealing stop in front of the Lawrence house.
Tearing out of her car, she pulled out her Glock. Both watch officers were already out of their respective vehicles and standing near the middle of the street. When they saw Jane’s car swerve around the corner and come to a sudden halt, they automatically pulled out their pistols. “It’s me! Perry!” Jane screamed.
“We think we heard a shot fired!” one of the officers yelled.
“Shit!” Jane yelled. She turned to the other officer “Call for backup! You—” she said, addressing the other cop, “follow me and cover!” Jane raced down the driveway, her pistol clasped tightly between her hands. As she sprinted toward the gate, she noted that two windows were swung wide open in front of the house. Other than that, nothing seemed to be disturbed. The cop shadowed Jane as she kicked open the front gate and held out her Glock. The well-lit living room cast enough light into the area for Jane to see that there was no one there. Jane motioned to the cop to follow her alongside the wall, just under the windows that framed the fireplace. When she crept to a point where she felt safe, Jane lifted her body and peered into the living room through the gauzy drapes. The room outwardly showed no signs of struggle. Jane knelt down and moved toward the corner of the house, near the back door. She waited one second, then swung around, pistol extended. Nothing.
“Police!” Jane screamed out. She waited but heard nothing. Someone was out there. She felt it. Jane turned to the cop and whispered, “Where the fuck is backup?” Crashing into the house with the possibility of someone lurking in the shadows was not part of her program. But Jane felt an urgency to get inside the house. Keeping her pistol extended, she walked around the flowerpots by the back door. The patrol cop followed. She turned to the back kitchen door. It was wide open. A cold chill ran down Jane’s spine as she peered into the darkened kitchen. She nodded toward the cop to follow her. Jane entered the kitchen, pistol still out in front. “Police!” she screamed.
Silence.
With the cop close behind her, she crept to the door that led into the living room. “Police!” she yelled out, maneuvering her body into the room. That’s when she smelled it. The stench of blood and fear and death. Jane could feel her throat closing up—a visceral reaction she only experienced when she was virtually standing on top of carnage. She looked down and caught sight of a blanket draped across the end of the couch. With measured steps, she moved forward. The coffee table came into view. A freshly peeled orange sat alone amongst Emily’s scattered drawings and colored pencils. One more step and Jane saw the entire bloody scene.
Someone lay covered under the blanket, curled up as though they were sleeping. The top of the blanket was soaked in blood from a single gunshot to the head. A knife—the same one used to peel the orange—had been shoved into the person’s left cheek and through one of Emily’s drawings. As Jane moved closer, she made out the words “PAYBACK!” written in red colored