Deadly Aim

by Patricia H. Rushford

  “And what would I do with more time?” Anna had asked. “The last thing I need is to be alone.”

  “But you have Dad, and Tim’s kids.” Anna adored her grandchildren. But with five kids, she’d expected to have more than two, and she rarely missed an opportunity to let all of them know about it.

  Anna waved her hand. “Your father doesn’t need me. And Tim and Susan are taking the kids to the new day care at the hospital. Please stay,” she pleaded. “It will give us time to get to know each other.”

  “What do you mean? I already know you.”

  Anna moved her head from side to side and settled her dark brown gaze on Angel. “Oh, honey. You don’t know me at all.”

  What did you mean, Ma? How could I not know you?

  A gentle knock sounded on the door, pulling Angel from her musings. She tried to ignore it, but whoever it was put a key in the lock.

  Startled, Angel bounced to her feet. “Who’s there?”

  The door swung open. Her mother’s salt-and-pepper hair barely showed above two large paper grocery bags. She was still wearing church clothes—a floral-print, knee-length dress and black heels—and was carrying an oversized black purse. Her slender legs looked like those of a much younger woman.

  “Hi, honey, it’s just me.”

  Angel glanced at the phone, then started toward the door. “How did you get here so fast?”

  “I was in the neighborhood.” She’d apparently used her new cell phone—the one she swore she would never buy.

  Angel bit her tongue to keep from saying something she’d regret. She wished she had never given her mother the key to her apartment. Anna had insisted the family have a key in case of an emergency. Did the shooting constitute an emergency? Apparently.

  Angel took the grocery bags and set them on the counter, sniffing appreciatively. Whatever was in those bags smelled wonderful. If she were the least bit honest with herself, she’d admit that deep down she was glad her mother had come.

  “Oh, sweetheart!” Anna deposited her purse on the kitchen counter, then hurried to Angel’s side. “You look terrible. Are you running a fever?” Her hand automatically went to Angel’s forehead.

  Angel ducked and brushed her mother’s hand away. “I’m not sick, Ma. I just...” Shot and killed a kid. She couldn’t finish the thought, not aloud at any rate.

  Anna wore an injured expression on her face, the one that said, I’m your mother, Angel. Don’t push me away.

  Angel ignored the look and peeked into the bags. “What’s all this?”

  “You’ll see.” Her mother smiled, her hurt apparently swallowed up in the pleasure she took in feeding her only daughter.

  Angel pulled out a bag of cookies. She opened it and inhaled deeply before snagging one. “Grandma’s oatmeal chocolate chip?”

  “Of course.”

  Angel closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the moist, chewy morsel. “Mmm,” she said, trying to talk around the cookie. “These are so good.”

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Anna scolded, though obviously pleased with Angel’s response.

  Angel shoved the rest of the cookie into her mouth and reached for a quart-sized plastic container. “Soup?”

  “Chicken noodle.” Anna ran water in the sink and washed and dried her hands on the towel hanging from the refrigerator handle.

  In the other bag Angel found a chocolate cake and a container of icing. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

  “Of course I did.” Anna wrapped an arm around Angel’s shoulders. “You’re my baby. Besides, it was no trouble.”

  Angel resisted the urge to step into her mother’s embrace and be enveloped in the comfort she knew those arms would bring. She’d stopped needing her mother’s comfort years ago. Running to Mommy with every little hurt wasn’t something Dad appreciated, so she’d quickly learned to tend to her own scrapes and bruises.

  Anna let her arms drop. She covered the awkward moment by saying, “Where do you keep your pans?” Not really needing an answer, since she’d been the one to organize the kitchen, she opened the cupboard next to the stove and took out a saucepan. “I’ll heat up your soup. Maybe you could put icing on the cake. Didn’t have time to do that. I’d just gotten home from church when your father called.”

  “You didn’t have to come,” Angel said again.

  Anna opened the lid on the soup container. “I know.” Dumping the still-frozen soup into the pan, she turned on the front burner. “You want to be independent and on your own. You think you don’t need anybody—especially me.” The hurt look was back. “But honey, we all need looking after now and then. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to... to do what you did today. I only know it can’t feel good.”

  Angel swallowed the new lump forming in her throat and looked away.

  “There are times,” her mother went on, “no matter how grown up we are, that we need someone to look after us. That’s all I’m doing, honey. Looking after you.” She pulled a wooden spoon out of the plastic utensil holder next to the stove and poked at the frozen soup, then added a little water and stirred.

  Angel rubbed her forehead. Why was it that just being around her mother for more than a few minutes turned her back into a kid? She had no energy left for arguing with the woman. And what would it accomplish, anyway? More hurt feelings?

  You’ll never be able to change your mother, and if you could, would you want to? Besides, who’s to say she isn’t right?

  The food looked and smelled great. Angel opened another small plastic container filled with gooey chocolate frosting and pulled a butter knife out of the utensil drawer.

  “What? You aren’t going to argue with me?” Anna set the spoon on the ceramic spoon rest.

  “Would it do any good?” The corners of Angel’s mouth turned up in a reluctant smile.

  “Probably not.” She leaned over and kissed Angel’s cheek. “Sometimes your mama does know what’s best.”

  Angel dumped the entire container of frosting onto the middle of the cake and began spreading across the surface while her mother cut into a crusty loaf of French bread. The warm sourdough scent made her mouth water. “Did you bake bread this morning too? I’m going to have to start calling you Martha.”

  Anna chuckled. “I’m not that efficient. I picked it up at the bakery on my way over.”

  Angel made one more pass over the glazed cake. Then, making sure she had ample frosting on the knife, she licked it clean. She stuck the knife in the sink, thinking she should probably finish helping her mother, but any energy she’d had seemed to drain right down her legs, leaving them weak and shaky. Angel managed to make it to the sofa, where she collapsed and closed her eyes.

  “Your lunch is ready,” Anna said a few minutes later. She had set a place for one at the counter, complete with a place mat and a vase full of cut flowers.

  Angel padded into the kitchen and leaned over and smelled the flowers. “These are nice. Thanks.”

  “I picked those up at the market too.” Anna slipped her purse strap over her shoulder. “Enjoy. I’ll see you later.”

  “You’re not staying to eat with me?” Angel surprised herself with the question.

  “Can’t. Have to get home and fix dinner. Tim and Susan are coming over with the kids tonight. I promised Tim I’d make pot roast.”

  “Yum.”

  “You can come too. There’s always room.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t feel much like going anywhere. Brandon wants to take me out to dinner, but...”

  “Good. You should go. It will do you good to get out.”

  Angel braced herself for the Brandon lecture—the one where her mother told her she and Brandon should get married and have babies. But the lecture didn’t come. Instead, Anna gave her a peck on the cheek, waved a good-bye from the door, and left.

  “You’re slipping, Ma,” Angel said to the closed door.

  So she gave herself the lecture while she ate. She had known Brandon Laffert
y since high school, and they had dated off and on since then. Brandon had been her best boy friend without actually being her boyfriend. Everyone thought they’d get married, but Brandon went off to law school and Angel became a cop and moved to Florida. When Angel came back to Sunset Cove, they picked up where they had left off. While Brandon clearly wanted their relationship to progress, marriage and babies seemed as far off to Angel as it had back in high school.

  She turned back to the soup and dipped in her spoon. It smelled and tasted like it always did. The onions, garlic, chicken, carrots, and celery, with Ma’s favorite spices—cilantro, basil, and a pinch of chili peppers—warmed her inside and out. The fragrant aroma calmed her nerves but unfortunately brought on another rush of tears that rolled down her cheeks and dripped into the broth. Dipping into her pocket, she dug out a slightly used tissue, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose. When she’d finished the soup, she devoured an oversized piece of cake and felt much better.

  Angel put away the leftovers, rinsed her dishes, then wandered over to the sofa, where she stuffed a cushion under her head, stretched out under her afghan, and closed her eyes.

  Sometime later she woke to a dinging sound, and after a few seconds realized there was someone at her door.

  “Angel? Are you in there? Come on, open it up. It’s me.”

  Angel yawned and groaned at the same time. Her mother must’ve called Tim. “Hang on, I’m coming.”

  Her head felt like it had been used as a target in a rock-throwing contest. She had a serious pain behind her eyes.

  When she opened the door, Tim brushed past her. “Mom told me what happened. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” She rubbed her forehead and frowned. “I guess.” She looked at her brother. Tim was thirty-five, five-ten, and had hazel eyes and sandy brown hair with a touch of copper. He favored the Irish side of the family, while she leaned toward the Italian. He must’ve come straight from church, as he was still wearing his clerical collar and black shirt and slacks. Ordinarily on a Sunday afternoon, he’d wear something more laid-back.

  “Why are you here?” Angel rested her hands on her hips, not caring that she was being obnoxious.

  Tim ignored her surliness and wrapped his arms around her. “I’m sorry, sis.”

  She relented and hugged him back, clamping her lips together to stop the pesky tears.

  “How can I help?”

  She pulled away. “I guess you could pray. Maybe God will listen to you. I sure don’t seem to be getting anywhere lately.”

  “He’s listening. He always is.”

  “Yeah. Whatever.” She didn’t want to talk about God. But something inside welled up like a pot of boiling water. “Why, Tim? Why did I have to be the one to shoot that boy? Why did he have to die?” She pushed at his chest when he reached out to comfort her again.

  Her brother ran a finger inside his clerical collar and opened his mouth to speak, but she didn’t give him the chance. “I’ll tell you why. Because God doesn’t care.”

  Tim lowered himself into the recliner while she paced back and forth and went on raving. “I don’t need your help, or God’s, or Ma’s for that matter. I just need you all to go away and quit acting like I committed some sort of heinous crime. I was doing my job.”

  She stopped in front of him, suddenly feeling like an idiot.

  He looked up at her. “Are you through?”

  “No.” She turned away from him and went to stand in front of the patio doors. What’s gotten into you? You’re losing your grip. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Yes.” She walked back toward him, her gaze glued to the floor. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

  “Yes, it was, but I’ll let it slide this time. You’re upset, and that’s understandable. I wish I had an answer for you, Angel. All I know is that God is there for you. He loves you, and if you’ll let him, he’ll bring you through this.”

  I wish I could believe you. She folded her arms. “I don’t see how. A twelve-year-old boy is dead because of me.”

  “Would you like me to pray with you?”

  “No. What’s the point?” She hitched herself up on the bar stool at the counter.

  Tim shook his head. “I’ve seen a lot of people struggle with their faith—especially in times of trouble. A child dies and they ask why. They blame God. It’s a normal reaction, I guess. But I just never expected it from you. You were always the strong one when we were growing up. You were the one who never wanted to miss Sunday school. You memorized all of the Bible verses and, man, Angel, I remember when we’d go on vacation—you’d spend the entire trip singing Jesus songs and driving us all crazy.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Yeah, well, things change.” She didn’t want to be reminded of how things used to be. She’d seen too much evil and too many prayers go unanswered in the past few years. She’d come to realize that God—if there even was a God—existed outside of reality, watching creation’s demise and doing nothing about it.

  But Tim wouldn’t let her get off that easily. “Remember when I was in the hospital for so long after the accident?” he asked.

  “Of course.” He had nearly killed himself as a teenager. Like a lot of kids, he’d plunged headlong into booze and partying. He’d been the only survivor of a car accident in which four of his friends had died. At first, the pain had been so great that he’d wanted to die too. Not only had he lost his friends, he’d lost a leg as well.

  “You know what kept me going, Angel? Prayers. Your prayers. You came to see me every day, and you kept telling me that God was going to make it all better.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I also told you to quit feeling sorry for yourself and get your lazy carcass out of bed.”

  “That too.” Tim got out of the chair and walked toward her. He’d made a full recovery and had been fitted with an artificial leg. “The point is, God answered our prayers. He made everything more than all right. God used that accident in a number of ways to give me a better life than I had before. I never touched a drop of alcohol after that night. And I met Susan. She was a candy striper, remember?”

  “I remember Peter and Paul threatening to steal her from you if you didn’t shape up.” Tim had married Susan six years later. She’d become a nurse, he the pastor of St. Matthew’s Church.

  “You’re avoiding the issue.”

  “What do you want me to say, Tim? You want me to agree with you—to say that God is going to make everything right? I can say it, but I still don’t believe it.”

  “You’re obviously too upset to think clearly.”

  “Because I disagree with you? You have your faith, and that’s fine, but don’t push it down my throat.”

  He glowered at her. “Some things never change. You are still the most infuriating, stubborn, and obnoxious sister a guy could have. When you come to your senses, call me. In the meantime, I’ll be praying for you.”

  Tim turned around and left, pulling the door shut behind him with a resounding thud.

  Oh, that was good. Your big brother offers his help, and you attack him. What’s wrong with you? He was just trying to be helpful.

  But he didn’t have to be so pious about it. She pinched the bridge of her nose. In a way, she wished she could go back to the faith she’d had as a child, but that wasn’t possible. As she’d told Tim, too many things had happened to convince her that God could not be who she had once thought him to be. How could a God of love allow such despicable things to happen? Dani had believed in God. Dani was dead.

  A chill shuddered through her. Something akin to stage fright weakened her knees and gripped her around the chest, making it hard to breathe.

  You’re overreacting. Snap out of it. She glanced at the clock. Brandon would be here soon, and she needed to get ready. The two of them would have a cozy, quiet dinner. They’d talk about his work and his family. Maybe after dinner they would come back to her apartment and relax in front of the fire. Or maybe they’d walk on the beach i
n the moonlight.

  She rubbed her hands down her face. “I’m not ready for this.”

  Maybe not, but it sure beats being alone and thinking about that kid.

  Callen walked from the entry of the old cannery to the north corner, where he took a left and headed down the hill to the waterfront. He couldn’t say for certain what prompted him to go down to the marina. Maybe he just needed to put some distance between himself and the crime scene—and the media. With two crime scenes to deal with, the place had turned into a three-ring circus.

  It could have been nostalgia that brought him to the docks. He’d come here often as a kid and watched as the boats came in with their holds full of salmon to be cleaned, packed, and shipped to distributors. The condemned warehouse had once been a thriving cannery where boats could come right up to the private dock, but the dock was fenced off now to keep the public from injuring themselves on the rotting wood. The place had been empty for over ten years; laws protecting salmon had put a strain on the entire industry.

  While he walked toward the water, Callen thought about the deadly force incident. Something about the shooting didn’t ring true, but he couldn’t say why. According to the officers involved, the gunmen had had an arsenal. So what on earth was the boy doing with a toy gun? Regardless of the reports he’d heard, he couldn’t seem to tie the woman he’d seen with the action. Worse, he couldn’t get the image of Angel Delaney out of his head. Sitting in that patrol car, she’d looked like a kid fresh out of college—her eyes wide and innocent and almost desperate. She wasn’t beautiful like Karen had been, but cute. She had that all-American girl look a guy couldn’t help but appreciate.

  He pushed the image of her aside, pulling back into focus the job at hand. He had no time for women. After his wife’s death he’d decided not to get involved seriously with anyone again. He still hadn’t gotten over Karen or the child he’d never know.

  Get your act together, Riley, he chastised. This is not the time to be licking your wounds. You have a job to do.