by Debra Webb
When the call ends Walt doesn’t say anything so I guess it wasn’t Reynolds.
“The vet,” he says in answer to my unspoken question as we push out into the brisk morning air.
“Vet?” My stride lengthens to keep up with my partner’s long legs. I’m not exactly short, five seven, but Walt is six two and when he’s distracted he hustles and forgets all about me. “Is Sandy sick?”
“Nah. It’s time for her annual checkup and shots.”
“Oh.” I smile. “How’s she doing?”
Sandy is Walt’s yellow Lab. I love that darn dog. As big as she is, she’s the most lovable creature. I’ve never had a dog of my own. Maybe it’s time I did. Dogs can be good for kids, I think. I dismiss the notion. Way too early to go there.
“Sandy’s doing great.” We load into his black Tahoe. “What’s the address?”
I rattle off the West side address of the elementary school where the next name on our list teaches and then review the few details we have. “Shelley Martin, thirty-two. At nine, she was one of Fanning’s first known victims.” I pull my seatbelt across my lap and snap it into place.
Walt exits the lot, heading across town. He drives for a while without speaking. Whenever he’s quiet like this, something is up. Since he’s generally an open book when it comes to what’s going on in his life, it must be about me. Then again, there’s a very good chance I’m being paranoid. Whatever the case, he has something besides the case and Sandy’s vet appointment on his mind. He drums his thumbs on the steering wheel, glances repeatedly at me. Oh yeah, it’s about me.
“What?” I finally ask, unable to bear the suspense for another second.
“You’re feeling better this morning?”
I glance at Walt and wonder why he didn’t ask me that question when I arrived at CID this morning, bearing both our favorite coffees from Starbucks. I distinctly recall asking him if he’d had another rough night. His eyes are bloodshot again, and his shirt is wrinkled—the latter is totally out of character for my partner. No matter that we’ve only been partners for two years, I’ve known Walt since I started at Metro. Everyone knows Walt. He’s topnotch. Always on his A game. One of the most beloved detectives in all of Metro. Whenever there’s a particularly sensitive situation that rouses emotion in the community the chief of police inherently wants Walt on the case. Nashville loves him. Maybe it’s the cowboy boots and the extra heavy southern drawl or his plain-spokenness. Whatever it is, folks adore him. I was damn lucky to be chosen to fill the shoes left by his long-time partner when he retired.
All that said, I’m not ready to spill my guts about the pregnancy or my misgivings about the wedding just yet. I still haven’t processed all the confusing emotions myself. Right. I’m kidding myself. What I really am not ready for is to confess that I may have jumped the gun on the decisions in my relationship with David. I made mistakes and he is the one who’s going to be hurt.
I’ve really screwed up.
“I’m okay.” I stare out the window, watch the passing landscape. I also have no desire to talk about how I lost the entire evening and night to that damned headache either. Total amnesia is never a good thing. On top of that, I certainly feel no urge to discuss how the hangover the pain left me with is determined to ruin my day. Instead, I decide to ignore it and hope it’ll go away. Very mature.
“You were in pretty bad shape when I took you home. Is there something you can take when that happens?”
He slows for a left turn. “Sometimes the pills work, sometimes they don’t.” This is true, except even if I had the necessary medication I wouldn’t be able to take the pills because I’m pregnant. Last night my only choice was to sleep it off.
“What about Preston? Did he take good care of you after I left?”
Preston. Walt has never called David by his given name. That alone says a lot about how my partner feels on the subject. All the more reason why I can’t talk to him about how I’m feeling. “There was nothing David could do. The dark and the quiet are the only things that help.”
Walt grunts. “Stella’s sister had migraines. She said stress made them worse.”
“You think I’m stressed, Walt?” I hide my smile. He and Stella had no children so he’s kind of taken me under his wing. Treats me like a daughter sometimes. I can’t exactly say I don’t enjoy it. Since I lost my father, my friendship with Walt means more than ever. He’s like family.
“Yep, I think that fancy fiancé of yours has you way too stressed.” He parks in front of the elementary school. “I don’t think you need him.”
Although I’ve noticed he doesn’t care too much for David, this is the first time he’s come right out and said as much. Laughter bubbles out of me before I can stop it. “I know you don’t like him, but to be fair you really don’t know him.”
Another grunt. “I know enough.”
“Maybe you should come over for dinner again, spend a little more quality time with him.”
He shuts the engine off and turns to me. “That won’t change my mind, kid. Preston is arrogant and he thinks you should cater to his every whim. Breaking bread with him isn’t going to change my mind.”
“He is arrogant,” I confess. “But he’s never that way with me.” Just impatient and obsessive about how things should be. If he asks me again about unpacking those damned boxes I might punch him. I keep that to myself. Violence is never pretty, particularly in a relationship.
“I guess,” Walt offers, “if you’re in love him and he’s in love with you that’s all that matters.”
I reach for the door but Walt doesn’t. He is evidently not finished yet.
“You love him, right?”
I sigh. “You asked me this before.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I stare forward, thinking about the answer before I give it. Do I say what I should say or what I feel? “I want to be in love with him,” I admit. “I love a lot of things about him—as long as we’re not with his family.”
“So you’re not really in love with him.” Walt stares at me, his wise gray eyes demanding an answer.
“I thought I was, but now I’m not so sure.” Okay. There. I said it out loud. The ground didn’t break open and swallow me. The world didn’t capsize. The three-carat solitaire at home on my bedside table probably hasn’t self-destructed. I don’t wear the ring to work. Don’t want to risk damaging it or losing it and, besides, the celebrity-sized-dazzler can be a distraction during an interview.
“It’s not until you live with a person that you see who he or she really is,” he warns.
I nod. “He was different before. Moving in has been eye opening for both of us, I’m sure. Everything has to be so perfect in his house. The unpacked boxes are just the tip of the iceberg. He’s fanatical about how things look. I never noticed that until I moved under the same roof with him.” I drop my head back against the seat. “He’s driving me crazy. And I’m making him want to pull out his hair.”
“Then you should give him the ring back and go home.”
Until yesterday it would have been that simple. Now everything is complicated.
“I have to think about all this some more.”
Walt winks at me. “You’ll figure it out. You’re way too smart to get yourself trapped in a relationship that doesn’t include mutual respect.”
I smile but inside I want to cry. There was a time when I thought I was smarter than this, that’s for sure. The past few weeks it’s as if my ability to think and act with reason and wisdom has deserted me. I’ve lost my footing and somehow I can’t find it amid all the uncertainty and newness of suddenly being an adult orphan and a bride-to-be. Throw mother-to-be in the mix and I am totally sinking here.
Shelley Martin’s principal is more than happy to send an assistant to sit with Martin’s class while we speak to her. Walt assured the principal that Mrs. Martin was not in any sort of trouble, that we are hoping she might be able to help us with a case. Still, I doubt the curi
ous principal will let it go. She will want answers. But whatever answers Martin gives are up to her.
We wait in the teacher’s lounge. When Martin arrives she doesn’t appear surprised to see us but she does seem nervous. She wears her black hair in a sleek twist. Her cream-colored trousers and blue shirt are modest. She wears only a simple gold band on her ring finger. She was Shelley Jones when the abduction occurred.
Walt explains that we’re here to talk about Fanning. She flinches when he says the name. Then her cheeks redden and her lips tighten. Hearing his name makes her angry, justifiably so.
She says, “I heard on the news that he’s missing.”
“Mrs. Martin,” I begin, “we need to ask you a few questions about him. Is that okay with you?”
She shifts her stern focus to me. “I loathe him. Pray every day that he will die as painfully as possible. He lured me into his car when I was nine years old. I’d gotten lost from my sister at the mall. He took me to the parking lot of an abandoned warehouse and raped me.” She swallows hard. “He left me there naked, injured and terrified. I gave the police his description but they never found him. There was no evidence because he wore a condom and kept my clothes to ensure nothing from him or his car stuck to what I was wearing. It wasn’t until many years later that he was caught. I came forward, testified against him. I hoped he would rot in prison but apparently that wasn’t considered the sort of justice he deserved.”
Her words are laced with hatred and bitterness. But who wouldn’t feel that way?
“Mrs. Martin,” Walt says gently, “we understand your feelings. You have every right to feel betrayed by how the legal system sometimes works. But we’re here because it’s our job to ensure no one else is harmed by the horrors Fanning carried out against you and so many others. With that in mind, would you tell us if you’ve seen him since he was released from prison?”
Her eyes round with fear. “I certainly have not. Do you have reason to believe he has been watching the people who testified against him?”
Her reaction is a logical one. No doubt every one of his victims has surely experienced that same thought.
“We don’t,” Walt admits.
Now for the hard question. My partner and I exchange a glance and I take the lead. “Ma’am, can you tell us where you were on Sunday and Monday?”
The anger vanishes from her face and shock takes its place. I brace for the blast of outrage.
“Are you suggesting I had something to do with his disappearance?”
“No, ma’am,” I assure her. “We’re only trying to determine who may have seen him or heard from him. You may be able to help us figure out what happened.”
Fury twists Martin’s lips for another moment before she regains her composure. “My family had a big breakfast at home Sunday morning and then I took my twin daughters shopping. Sunday was their birthday. The girls, my husband and I arrived home about nine that evening and I didn’t leave again until I came to school the next morning. I picked up my girls after school on Monday and went home. My family can confirm I was home all night both Sunday and Monday.”
We already confirmed with the principal that Martin was at school all day on Monday. “Thank you,” I say. “We appreciate your cooperation.”
She shakes her head, fury still radiating from her. “How dare you come to me—interrupt my day at school—with such a ludicrous question.” She jams her thumb into her chest. “I am the victim.”
Walt and I share another look. He says, “Mrs. Martin, we haven’t released to the public what I’m about to tell you. We would appreciate it if you don’t share this part with anyone.”
Her anger drains away instantly as fear of the unknown creeps in and takes its place. “You have my word.”
“The other person involved with whatever happened to Fanning was injured. We found a second blood type at the scene. Our goal with these questions is to figure out if someone else was hurt by Fanning the night he disappeared. If that’s the case, we may have someone out there in need of our help and we don’t even know it.”
“You’re saying he may have taken another victim?” The abject horror on her face is palpable.
“We can’t say anything for sure,” I counter.
“This is why,” Walt goes on, ”it’s extremely important that we ask these hard questions of anyone who is connected in any way to Fanning. For all we know, you may have driven by his place—accidentally or not—and noticed someone who might be relevant to whatever happened there.”
She shakes her head. “I have no idea where he lives. I saw on the news that he’d been released and I tried not to think of him again. Of course it was impossible. Before the trial I was just an anonymous little girl he picked up at the mall and did bad things to. My name was never released in the news. But then, at the trial, I had to face him. He learned my name, where my parents and sister lived. I won’t lie, I’ve been looking over my shoulder since the day he was released.”
“That’s completely understandable,” I say. Deep in my skull the ache begins and I refuse to acknowledge it. I have never had a migraine so many times in one week. This is really wrong.
We apologize again for disturbing her day and leave the school.
“Somehow I don’t think we’re going to find out what happened to that bastard through his victims.”
I agree with Walt. But we have to confirm that theory. We can’t skip any steps. This is way too important. Someone’s life could depend on what we do. And I damn sure don’t mean Fanning’s.
When we stop for lunch I check in with my doctor’s office to see if I can manage an appointment later today. They have a cancellation at two. I glance at the clock on the wall of Taco Mama’s. It’s one now. I take the appointment. I need to know what’s going on with my head.
When Walt returns from the men’s room I say, “I need to pick up my car. My doctor can see me at two. Maybe she can give me something to help with these migraines.”
“I’ll take you,” he announces. “I can make some phone calls while I wait.”
I want to argue, but I have no desire to beat my head against that particular brick wall. Walt is as stubborn as he is good at being a detective and a friend.
After peeing in a cup and having blood drawn, I sit on the edge of the exam table and wait impatiently while Dr. Raeford goes through the findings listed in my chart. I told her about the pregnancy tests and about the headaches. About the move. She already knew my father died and that I’d gotten engaged. My annual exam was in March and all was good. How did so much change since then?
Hopefully she can give me some clue as to why the headaches are back with such a vengeance. I really can’t afford to be taking any time off work right now. Walt needs me. And the idea of spending twenty-four/seven in David’s house is more than I can stomach.
The thought stops me. Part of me feels as if I’m making him the bad guy in all this, but it’s more than that. I can’t explain these new and intense feelings. Every instinct I possess is sounding an alarm that something bad is coming and I can’t stop it. Whatever it is, it somehow involves my relationship with David. The urge to run is strong but I feel trapped by the promises I’ve made. Cold feet? Who the hell knows, but this fear of needing to escape is the best way I know to explain it. I have no idea how I’m going to find my way out of this corner.
Bottom line, running away isn’t an option. Not that I’ve ever run from anything.
“Well, everything I can see here looks normal.” Dr. Raeford smiles at me. “Of course some of the tests will take a few days. You are, indeed, pregnant. Based on your last period I’d say five or six weeks. Considering the fact that your last period was so light, there’s a possibility you could be nine or ten. We’ll schedule an ultrasound for your next appointment to get a better handle on where you are.”
Oh God. This is real.
Smiling just a little at the fear on my face, she goes on, “The wacky hormones you’re experiencing right now are qui
te possibly a major contributor to the headaches. The good news is those hormones usually level out in the second trimester. I suspect having recently lost your father, getting engaged and moving in with your fiancé have your stress level off the charts.” She glances at my file again. “Your blood pressure is a little high but that might just be related to the lack of sleep or the headaches or maybe just because you’re nervous or worried. Even tough-as-nails cops like you can get a little nervous and worried sometimes.”
I nod. Definitely nervous and worried. I am not ready for this. But it’s real and I have to get that way fast. These issues with David have to be worked out. This child will need both of us.
She scans my file. “You said this is your first pregnancy?”
I nod again, realize she’s still perusing the file and say, “Yes.”
She makes some notes on my chart.
“About the headaches, is there anything I can take to help?” I steady my voice and keep going. “They’re interfering with work and it’s just not a good time for me to be sick. My partner and I are in the middle of this big case.” I don’t say as much but that’s not actually unusual. We’re always on a case and with Walt as a partner they’re generally the most difficult and high profile ones.
Another smile from the doctor. “Is there ever a good time to be sick?”
I shrug. “True.”
She picks up a prescription pad and starts filling in the blanks. “Sadly, there isn’t anything beyond Tylenol that I would recommend you take. You’ve had migraines before, you know the triggers. Try to avoid them. Relax as much as you can. That will help.” She removes the top page from the pad and passes it to me.
I stare at the illegible words. It’s a good thing cops don’t write the way doctors do.
“For now,” she goes on, “you need to get started with prenatal vitamins. I’ll let you know if there’s anything else you should be taking once we have your blood work back. But based on your physical just two months ago, I’d say the headaches are nothing more than stress and hormones. Exercise and meditation are good sources of stress relief during pregnancy. Take long walks in the evenings. Lie down with some hot tea and relax. Put everything else on hold for now. Those are simple things you can do to help.”