by Laurel Dewey
All that was left in the aftermath was fear and the question of how a pain that severe could suddenly dissipate? Jane stood straight up, wondering what in the hell was happening to her body. Is this cancer? Is this a glimpse of what I can expect in the months to come?
It was too much to deal with. Lock it out, she instructed herself. Bury the fear and focus on anything but her inevitable death. Turning back to the bridge, Jane caged the uncertainty and funneled her energy into Jake Van Gorden and the bridge where she stood. Knowing that Jake Van Gorden came to this place to end his life and was then taken possibly by force, she let herself fall into the spaces between the chaos; the place where words previously expressed and feelings already suffered still hung like the stems of ice along the branches of trees in the nearby forest. She imagined the vaguely described “black vehicle” parked on the bridge, waiting for Jake to arrive. If the driver was waiting for Jake, how did he know that Jake was headed to the bridge? Did he stalk the kid and, if so, did Jake walk to the bridge to escape on a regular basis? But what about Jake, Jane thought. If you show up at a bridge with the clear intent of killing yourself and carrying only the rope needed to hang yourself, would you follow through if you saw a strange vehicle parked in such close proximity? Isn’t the act of suicide inherently private? Jane deduced that either the vehicle was there and Jake saw that it was empty, or the vehicle had been parked there earlier in the day—long enough to leak antifreeze onto the bridge and stain it—and then watched Jake from another vantage point?
Jane crossed to the obvious stain of antifreeze on the bridge. Even the hard driving storm that night wasn’t enough to erase the telltale mark. Her eyes shifted to the right side of the bridge and the threads of fresh rope that were still wedged in the upper wooden girder. Looking closer, just beneath the girder, she saw a pale yet fresh ink drawing of a dragonfly. Underneath, were the words: ILLUSIONS DIE HARD, followed by the initials, L.G. Did some passerby stop to reflect on Jake’s disappearance and leave a heartfelt message behind?
She followed the girder down to the wide plank railing where Jake would have crawled up and stood, throwing the rope over across the overhead beam and preparing to die. It took time, Jane figured. There was time to think about what you were doing and time to change your mind. Maybe he was thinking when he stood up there. Maybe just the time it took to rethink his plan was enough for an opportunistic crime to take place?
Jane needed to stand in Jake’s shoes. She hoisted herself up on the wide railing and carefully stood up with help of one of the diagonal support beams. Powdery orange rust that lay caked on the beam brushed against her poplin shirt, leaving a mark. Looking down at the roaring river, she imagined what it must have been like for Jake to stare into that water at night, with a raging spring storm pelting sleet against his skin. If suicide truly was his intended motive that evening, was he even aware of the frozen sting on his face? Had his thoughts caved in so deeply within himself that he could no longer feel cold or heat? Was he so numb that he didn’t hear the kidnapper approaching? Did he get the noose around his neck? Was he willingly led off the railing or was there a struggle?
Jane held onto the diagonal support beam and studied both edges of the plank at her feet. Running her fingers along the wood, it was clear that there were fresh chunks of the old wood recently scuffed off the surface of the edge that faced the river. Her gut clamped down and she felt it, as if she were melting into Jake’s desperate body. There was a struggle that night. He had put his head in the noose and he was in the act of snuffing out his young life. Jane connected hard with Jake’s shock as he kicked his feet against the bridge in an effort to let go and then the sudden, expected interceding of someone else pulling his body back onto the plank and his soul back into his body. If this is how it happened, was the kidnapper actually Jake’s savior? And did that savior salvage the boy’s life only to turn around and use Jake as a pawn in a twisted game?
Jane stood up, securing her cowboy boots firmly against the diagonal beam. The persistent grief still hugged the bridge. She felt his despair and allegiance to death. Allegiance, she thought. How odd? But that’s exactly how she interpreted what motivated Jake that night on that bridge. He was being led by the rope of another, convinced that this was the fate he was born to fulfill.
An abject sense of desolation wrapped its unforgiving arms around Jane. She had almost ended her life on her kitchen floor just a few years back. She understood the disconnected anguish that brought her to that moment. And then, for some unexpected reason, her thoughts suddenly turned to the young man so long ago; the one she loved without question but who couldn’t see through his own pain to love her enough to not destroy everything they shared—including their addictions, pain and wound-bonding. Did he hesitate before he pulled the trigger? she wondered. Was her face in his mind’s eye when the .38 slug sliced through his mouth and obliterated his brain? Did he still hover in the undone world between here and there, waiting for the light of God to let him in? And if it was Jane’s fate to leave this world prematurely, would she find him in that murky fold of purgatory?
The thoughts bombarded her mind so completely, that Jane failed to see the darkened figure standing in the woods thirty feet above the rushing river’s edge. He had been watching her, studying her and purposely moving his consciousness into hers for five focused minutes. He sought to inhabit her awareness because she had something he desperately needed—something that would serve his greater good. He wasn’t sure what that something was; he just knew that the woman hanging onto the support beam on the bridge with the distant look in her eyes and the aura of death was essential to his survival.
His hand began to shake—imperceptibly at first but then growing with an intensity he couldn’t suffocate no matter how hard he tried to hold his wrist still. The quiver only happened when he was close to someone or something significant. It was the way his body always alerted him to the fact that whatever stood in front of him and generated that reaction needed his immediate attention. He didn’t know who she was, but he did know that he hadn’t shaken with this kind of intensity in over fifty years.
He dove deeper into her mind, seeking a solid connection but she unconsciously fought him in her preoccupied state. But wait…there…yes, there…the current between them engaged. Now his hand shook violently as he willed his psyche to occupy every nerve ending in her body. She had his lifeblood in her grip and he was damned if he was going to let her get away.
As if the psychic stream between them was made visible, Jane turned, emerging from the dark recesses and saw him. There on the banks stood Jordan Copeland staring back at her, his hands shaking uncontrollably. The untraceable fuse ignited, jolting Jane off the railing and back onto the safety of the bridge. The minute her boots hit the beaten planks, she stood immobile, not sure of the disconcerting vibration that had bored into her flesh. Jane stared at Jordan, her senses simultaneously alive and hypnotized. She fought the merge, but those penetrating, enigmatic blue eyes sucked her into his desperate grasp.
“Jane!”
She spun around to the sound of her name. Sergeant Weyler stood on the rim of the highway in front of a borrowed patrol car with its engine running.
“I’m heading over to the Van Gorden’s house to talk to them!” Weyler yelled above the din of the rushing river. “Follow me!”
Jane fell back inside her body. She turned toward the woods. But she already knew Jordan was gone.
CHAPTER 7
It was a short drive to Blackfeather Estates and the Van Gorden’s stony house that sat tucked at the end of a cul-de-sac off a narrow winding road outside of Midas. Jane factored the distance was a little over one mile, an easy jaunt for Jake to make on a regular basis if he often escaped to the bridge. The unsettling experience on the bridge still vibrated around Jane. It was one thing to churn the memories so unexpectedly about the one who died long ago. But to suddenly come face-to-face with Jordan Copeland in such a disturbing manner and, without even a hint t
hat he was right there and Jane didn’t know it…well, she wondered if she was losing her ability to sense danger when it was that close.
There was definitely something unnerving about Jordan. He had a crazy Rasputin vibe from a distance—an intense, mesmerizing gaze coupled with that grimy, weather-beaten appearance. He was reminiscent of the frightening monster in the woods that wakes children from their nightmares and keeps them up with a flashlight under the covers. She figured that she’d keep her spontaneous unspoken sighting of Jordan under wraps for now just in case connecting with him went against some ad hoc protocol Bo Lowry instigated.
Jane parked her Mustang behind Weyler’s borrowed patrol car half a block from the Van Gordens’ cul-de-sac and got out, quickly scanning the area. From what little she’d seen of Blackfeather Estates, she didn’t like. The affluent subdivision was another one of those made-to-order enclaves that had infested the Colorado landscape over the recent years. Developers typically bought up acres of ranchland or farmland, making the rancher or farmer multimillionaires and then ruthlessly carved one-and-two-acre plots out of the once rustic terrain. On those plots, they would build the ultimate fantasy Colorado McMansions with floor-to-ceiling cathedral windows, radiant-heated driveways, meticulous stacks of firewood all cut the exact same length, rock fireplaces big enough to hold two lawn chairs and a table, five-car, heated garages and wrought-iron designer mailboxes. Jane had to laugh at the pretreated siding so many of the houses chose; a factory-beaten stippling and shredding, known as “the old barn look.” To her, the choice was ludicrous; an elitist attempt to pander to what they thought would make their estate appear rustic. These Colorado estates all felt the same to Jane—sanitized wooden boxes that stood like architectural eunuchs, devoid of that rough-around-the-edges western mettle.
As for the people who inhabited these ludicrous log lodges, Jane typically found them to be as facile and authentic as the made-to-order patina bear or eagle that adorned their manicured lawn. From their unscuffed, two-thousand-dollar Lucchese alligator cowboy boots to their ridiculous turquoise, silver-and-coral bolo tie and freshly pressed jeans, they were about as in touch with reality as they were acquainted with their automated dishwasher. Something told Jane that the Van Gordens wouldn’t disappoint in this generalization.
“They always have to live up above town, don’t they?” Jane grumbled as she and Weyler walked toward the Van Gorden’s driveway. “That way they can figuratively and physically look down on the peons.”
“You know, this whole idea of quitting smoking cold turkey…how about just tapering off instead?” Weyler gently offered.
“No, boss. There’s not enough suffering in tapering.”
“Try chewing on the inside of an orange rind. I heard that helps quell the urge for nicotine.”
“Fascinating,” Jane said dryly. “You hear that on your favorite PBS station?”
“Yes. A program on addiction.”
Jane needed to change the subject. She touched Weyler’s coat sleeve and stopped at the edge of the long, steep driveway.
“Your ol’ buddy, Bo, is quite the character.”
“Bo was always a little different than the rest of us. Smart, but in an off-kilter way. Some things he says don’t make a lot of sense, except to Bo.”
“Some things?” Jane said with great disdain. “Juice Box Jake? Trash Bag Jordan? Nah, that’s not weird. Sorry, boss, but your friend is a creaking relic. My mother had a term to describe people like Bo…Crusty.” She shook her head in confusion. “I have a real hard time picturing you and Bo as rookie partners. Putting the two of you together is like a Hollywood pitch for a bad situation comedy.”
Weyler smiled. “I didn’t come out of the Academy looking and behaving the way I do today. I had plenty of cocky, youthful gusto to spare.”
Jane tried to picture Weyler with youthful gusto. “Boss, I don’t give a damn how much youthful gusto you had. You and Bo? There’s just no…connection.”
“You’re wrong, Jane.” Weyler’s voice became serious. “There is a connection.”
Jane waited. “And…?”
“And hopefully you and Bo will be able to form a connection as well. If he doesn’t kill you first.” Weyler started up the driveway.
Jane didn’t follow. She was blocked once again in her quest to understand the reason why Weyler “owed” Bo and, in turn, dragged her tired ass up to Midas. “I’m sure he had a few choice words to say about me after I left.”
Weyler stopped and turned to Jane. “He did.”
She was used to being talked about behind her back. Her often-aggressive nature didn’t earn her a lot of friends. “What’d he call me? A bitch?” Jane asked with a smirk.
“No. He asked me if you were a lesbian.”
Jane looked at Weyler, stunned. “What the fuck? He actually said that?”
“Not exactly. He asked me, ‘Does she pitch for the other team?’”
“Because I speak my opinion? Because I don’t take shit from people?”
“That played a part I’m sure. But Bo has always been visually driven.” Jane already surmised this but was tentative in how it would play out with her personally. Weyler was suddenly uncomfortable. “His perception was based on how you dress.”
Jane looked down at her plain dark blue poplin shirt with the powdery stain of orange rust from the bridge, jeans with splattered mud from the adventure, scuffed cowboy boots and beaten leather jacket. “This is not gay. This is comfortable!”
“Let it go, Jane. We’ve got a job to do. And now that job is a little more complicated with the media interest.” He started to move when Jane grabbed his coat sleeve again.
“Look, boss,” Jane felt the world closing in around her. “I didn’t know Betty was gonna blast this story on the wire. I just called her to put forth the possibility that…”
“You called her in hopes of getting out of this assignment… period. Don’t attempt to bullshit me, Jane. I’m too old to buy it and you’re too proud to sell it.” Weyler started up the driveway.
Jane aborted her improvised regret and followed him. “10-4, Beanie.”
Weyler cast a cautionary glance back at Jane. “Jane?”
“Boss, I gotta know. It won’t go further than the two of us. Why Beanie?”
“We’re late, Jane. Come on!” Weyler started up the steep driveway.
“Okay, fine.” She followed him. “But what about the E on your luggage? M.E.W.? What’s the E stand for?”
“Eloquent,” Weyler stated without missing a beat.
“Come on!” Jane cajoled.
“Educated,” Weyler affirmed.
Jane shook her head. “Evasive,” she countered. They crested the long driveway and stood aghast at the massive two-story log monstrosity that the Van Gordens called home. Four gigantic wooden pillars supported the entrance to the overwhelming structure that some might call a “show place” but most would term an over-the-top obscenity. The two pillars closest to the pathway were carved in the shape of owls and gave the appearance of ominous sentries. Jane counted no less than twenty-two perfectly pruned spruce trees that towered twenty-five feet and, she reckoned, cost a good three grand each to truck in full-size and plant in the most appropriate place to generate the greatest visual impact. At least thirty lofty aspen trees were scattered around the side of the house. Overkill, she thought to herself. The wide concrete walkway and stairs that led to the front door was tinted in shades of black and grey to simulate the look of marble. As Jane and Weyler approached the front entrance, they felt their size quickly dwarf under the dual-arched doorway, complete with stained-glass panels on each side of the door and above the archway.
Pretentious. That was the next word rattling through Jane’s head as she pressed the lighted doorbell. A melodic ding-ding-DING-ding-diiiing rang out, followed by silence.
Jane turned to Weyler. “You know, if they’re in the back of the house, it might take them a few days to get here.”
“Try to
control the sarcasm, Jane. They don’t know we’re coming.”
“Why?”
Weyler shrugged. “Why not?”
CHAPTER 8
The heavy, ornate front door opened just as the sound of a ringing telephone was heard. “Could you get the phone, Bailey?” Carol Van Gorden stood apprehensively in the doorway, assessing Jane and Weyler. The telephone rang again and then stopped. “Can I help you?”
Weyler flashed his badge. “My name’s Sergeant Morgan Weyler and this is Sergeant Jane Perry. We’re from Denver. Do you and your husband have a moment to talk with us?”
Carol looked exhausted as she nervously studied the ground. She was in her early forties, but the stress had clearly taken its toll. Her black wool slacks, black-and-white striped tunic with the cloisonné butterfly brooch and blond bobbed hair looked well put together though. “Uh, you know, it’s just that… we’ve already talked at length with Bo…”
“I’m heading out!” Bailey yelled from an upstairs area.
“Bailey, wait!” Carol yelled back. After Carol let him know that two sergeants from Denver were at the door, Jane heard a hard pause followed by determined footsteps toward the door.
Bailey graced them with his appearance. His look did not disappoint Jane, given her earlier derisive generalization of Colorado estate dwellers. He was about six feet tall and his forty-eight-year-old body was obviously acquainted with a gym. Bailey had the chiseled chin and jutting jaw of someone who always looks as if they’re about to speak but whose words were usually a bore. His tanned skin—acquired surely from a tanning bed this time of year—appeared more dramatic against his crisp white shirt that was tucked into a pair of pressed, stonewashed jeans. Jane figured the denim cost more than her monthly grocery bill. Around his thirty-three-inch waist was an alligator belt, which perfectly matched his…yes…two-thousand-dollar Lucchese alligator cowboy boots. Bailey observed Jane and Weyler like a lab worker regards a specimen in a petri dish. It was obvious to Jane that Bailey instantly labeled them as amoebas and he just didn’t sink that low. “I’m sorry,” Bailey stated, clearly not sorry one bit, “I’m on my way out. You’ll need to come back another time.”