by Vicki Delany
He jumped out, leaving the keys in the ignition, the engine still running. “What’s going on here?” he yelled.
A beefy man, about Andy’s age, slammed shut the doors on the van. “Mr. Smith?”
“What about it?”
“Mr. Smith.” A young man walked toward them, dressed as if he were about to catch a giant wave off Waikiki.
“Is someone going to tell me what the hell’s going on here?” Andy said. He looked closer at the man. “Dave Evans?”
“Yes, sir. Your wife’s inside. Come with me.”
Andy followed Evans. Ten o’clock on a Sunday night in late summer, and he’d still been at the store. Trying to find the timesheets that ever since they started the business his wife kept at the tips of her fingers. Lucky had called, said something about Miller, the baby she’d so rashly taken into their home, and Moonlight. Their daughter now preferred to be known by the more sensible name of Molly. Lucky’d taken Moonlight’s change of name as a personal rebuke, but Andy figured that she had to do it if she wanted to be taken seriously in the police world. You couldn’t be called Moonlight when your colleagues had four letter names like Paul, Dave, John.
Moonlight was missing, Lucky had said. At the office, Andy dug through piles of paper without paying much attention to his wife. Molly was hardly a child. She should be able to go where she liked, when she liked, without her mother calling her father. The police were here, Lucky had said.
What the hell? Their twenty-six year old daughter had gone out without telling her mother, and Lucky had called the cops? Could that be Lucy Casey speaking? Lucky who, once upon a time, thought that cops were fascist scum?
She mentioned the Chief Constable, Paul Keller. Keller was a local boy. He’d joined the Trafalgar City Police as a probationary constable, a long, long time ago. Come to think of it, that was the same rank Molly now held. He’d once collided with Lucky Smith and knocked her to the ground in a protest over… Andy couldn’t remember. There had been so many, in the early days.
Andy Smith had never cared for Constable Paul Keller. There was always something about the way he looked at Lucky. Andy had been happy when the man left Trafalgar for better opportunities in the big city of Calgary. Many years later Keller came back, back to his hometown, to take the post of Chief Constable.
In all these years the man had never come to the Smith home. Not until that business last month, and now here he was again. Andy found Paul Keller enjoying a smoke on his kitchen steps.
“Paul,” Andy said, “is anyone going to tell me what’s going on here?”
Keller threw his cigarette to the ground, and crushed it into the earth under his shoe. “You’d better speak to your wife.”
Lucky’s face was washed out. The only signs of her normally red complexion, her Irish heritage, were splotches of red on her cheeks. She stood up as Andy came in.
“Oh, my dear,” she said. “This is all my fault.”
“What’s your fault?”
“Ever since I brought that baby into this house, it’s all gone wrong. My Granny Casey used to tell us stories of the lost babies. Children called by the sea. Selkie children. They didn’t belong on the land, she said.”
Andy grabbed her hands. “No one,” he said, “is ever lost. You know that, don’t you? Lucky? Lucy, light of my life.”
“Moonlight,” she said, “wants to be with Graham.”
“Of course she does. But she knows Graham has gone where she can’t follow. And she’s much, much too strong to try to go after him.” Still holding his wife’s hands, he pushed her gently back into her chair. “Moonlight is your daughter, after all. She comes from a line of strong women.”
Lucky chuckled, the sound as soft as a feather falling from the sky. “A line that began with me. You’ve said that before, dear.”
“No less true for being repeated. Now, please tell me why I’ve come home to find Paul Keller and all his people standing in my driveway.”
***
Smith crouched behind the sofa. The front door stood open. The door to freedom. Safety. No one would blame her if she took it. Something was obviously happening up at the trailer. She could hear men shouting, a woman screaming, the piercing, oh so welcome, sound of a siren coming up the gravel road. The floatplane had barely touched down, and then it had left. Wise pilot. Leaving Burke and her brother stranded.
Smith struggled to get to her feet. She tugged at the rope tying her hands together, but nothing happened.
Clouds moved across the moon again. But her eyes were accustomed to the shifting shadows of the dark. She could see Burke coming out of the bedroom, carrying Miller, gasping for breath. “You’re not still here?” Her gun was pointed at Miller’s temple.
“I’m a curious sort. I don’t know what he means to you, and I want to find out. The police have arrived, and your plane left. Give up, Jody, you’ve lost. You don’t want to add murder to the charges.”
Burke held up the gun. It was very steady in her hand. “I’ve heard it said that there’s a place where we go when we die where the meaning of life is revealed. I don’t believe that for a moment. And I don’t imagine that you, Constable Smith, do either. But you are about to find out.”
Burke looked as cool and relaxed as if she were sipping cucumber water at a garden party. Smith’s heart raced, and her legs wobbled. Fire ran though her wrists. She really, really, needed to pee.
“You’re not a stupid woman, Jody. Jamie. Put Miller down and drop the gun. Do the right thing and it won’t go so hard on you at your trial.”
The clouds cleared, and the full moon burst out of cover. Light hit Burke in the face, and Smith read her intention. She hit the floor.
Burke fired at the rolling body. Glass shattered.
Screams echoed through the model suite. Smith wasn’t sure if they were coming from her or the baby.
Like a turncoat, the moonlight changed sides and was no longer her ally. Burke had tossed Miller to the ground like a naughty kitten, and stood few feet from Smith. She stared directly at the constable.
Molly Smith stared into the gun barrel. She tried to scramble backward, but didn’t have the use of her hands, and besides, she had nowhere to go.
She closed her eyes.
The door hit the wall.
A man’s voice. “Police. Freeze.”
A shot.
Another shot. The second one from a more powerful weapon.
The wet sound of a body falling.
Silence.
Smith opened her eyes and attempted to scramble to her feet. Her legs wobbled beneath her; they couldn’t find the strength to support her whole body. She’d landed badly and pain lanced through her shoulder. She fell back to the floor. For some strange reason she found herself admiring the bold blue strokes of the art on the far wall. A man stood in the doorway, to the left of the painting. His right arm was outstretched, the Trafalgar City Police standard-issue Glock in his hand. Another man stood behind him, tall and big, wrapped in shadow.
“Call for an ambulance.” Sergeant John Winters stood over Burke. She didn’t move, and he kicked her gun away from her outstretched hand before kneeling down. “See to Molly,” he said.
The second man slapped the switch by the door. Bright light from the ceiling reflected off the yellow stripe running down his pant legs.
Adam Tocek fell to the floor. “Molly, are you there. Molly?”
“Hell, yes. Check on Miller, the baby. He might have been hurt when she threw him. But first.” She held out her hands. “Have you got a knife on you?”
***
Officers guided paramedics down the path to the model suite. They used strong flashlights to light the way.
Inside the suite, Jody Burke lay on the ground, her lifeblood leaking out of her chest into the gleaming hardwood floor. Her eyes were open wide, but they saw nothing. Her black robe surrounded her like a funeral shroud. She groaned once, and died. Winters got to his feet.
Adam Tocek crouched on the fl
oor, patting a baby on the chest with one hand, and trying to keep a protesting Molly Smith down with the other.
Smith repeated that she was okay. Her wrists were red and angry, and she rubbed at them as if they were infested with bugs.
“Keep still, Constable Smith,” Winters said. “Until you’re checked out.”
The second paramedic headed for Burke. The first went to the baby.
“I’ll take him now,” she said, and Tocek handed her the stinking bundle, looking very pleased to be doing so. The paramedic felt the child’s limbs and head. “He’s breathing, but we’d better get this little guy checked out, and fast. Roy, what have you got there?”
“Woman shot to the chest. Dead.”
“Possible head injury here. I don’t like how quiet he is.” She ran out of the room, carrying Miller, passing a second ambulance crew coming in.
Ignoring orders, Smith attempted to stand up. She bit back a cry of pain as her shoulder moved. Tocek half lifted her. “Some guy named Steve,” she said. “He’s in on it.”
“We’ve got him. Crying harder than a baby.”
“Good. Good.”
“Check her out,” Winters told the paramedics.
“No. I’m okay. Shook up, but nothing’s hurt.”
“Your decision. I can’t make you go with them, Molly, but we’ve got a long night ahead of us.”
“I’m ready,” she said. Strength began to come back into her voice. “Thanks, Adam. I can walk by myself.”
“I’ll go check on Norman, then,” he said.
“Is Norman hurt?” Smith watched Tocek leave the room.
“Shot. But alive.”
“Poor dog.” She took a step toward Winters, staggered and almost fell. He grabbed her. “You are not okay, Constable Smith.”
She took a deep breath. “You’d better call my mom. She’ll be wondering where Miller is.”
Chapter Thirty-five
Sergeant Winters helped Constable Smith negotiate the path through the woods to the parking area. They went into the trailer for a quick minute and then he guided her into the back of a Trafalgar City Police vehicle.
Before getting in, she took one long look behind her. Then, with a shake of her blond head, she ducked and disappeared into the car. It pulled away.
First out had been an ambulance. Meredith had seen the paramedics running toward it, the woman carrying a yellow bundle. The ambulance spat dirt and gravel as it sped away, sirens screaming.
Then came a stretcher, carrying a still shape. It was loaded into the second ambulance, which took off after the first.
Meredith had hugged herself and watched. Her stomach ached like hell, but she knew if she mentioned it to anyone she’d be giving them the excuse they’d need to send her packing.
Okay, so she’d fallen to the ground and screamed like a ‘20’s movie virgin tied to the railway tracks. Embarrassing, but no one from the paper had been here to see it. When she wrote up her article, she’d mention, prominently, the unprovoked assault on the reporter. If they’d let her get so graphic about a case still to come before the courts. She’d have to talk to the paper’s lawyer about that. It should help that she was personally involved.
The excitement moved on once Blacklock was under guard, and Winters and Tocek disappeared into the darkness. Meredith had heard shots. She would never, ever admit, that she’d wanted to follow those shots, find out what was going on, but instead found herself curled up on the ground, moaning with pain, her head under her hands, too scared to move.
Rather, she’d tell everyone that the officer had told her to remain put.
And, under orders from the police, she had no choice.
A van passed the second ambulance as it left. Dr. Hughes, the vet, jumped out. He ran toward the dog lying in the gravel, moaning softly. After a quick inspection, Hughes settled back on his heels and put his stethoscope in his shirt pocket. He looked up at Constable Tocek, walking silently up the path.
“Flesh wound,” the vet said. “Clean in and out the right foreleg. Bleeding’s almost stopped. This dog won’t be running a marathon soon, but he’ll be fine after a bit of care.”
“Thanks,” Tocek said, trying to smother the sound of his voice breaking. “He’s new. Cost a lot to train. Wouldn’t want to lose him.”
“Help me get him into the van. I’ll disinfect the wound and bandage it up. Keep him overnight, under observation, but he’ll be fine.”
The big Mountie crouched down and gathered the dog into his arms. Norman moaned, softly, but let himself be carried to the van.
“I’ll call later,” Tocek said. “To check up.”
“Anytime.” Hughes climbed into the driver’s seat. “He should be able to go home in the morning.”
John Winters came out of the woods, walking beside and slightly behind Molly Smith. They moved very slowly as he led her toward a patrol car. She rubbed at her hands continuously, like Lady Macbeth trying to wash them clean of the king’s blood.
Tocek stepped forward. He smiled at her, and held out his hand. “Can I help?”
Molly looked at the hand. “I’m fine,” she said. She walked past the Mountie. A uniformed officer held the back door of the car open for her.
Tocek turned and walked away. Meredith watched as Molly looked behind her and hesitated, for just a moment. Then she ducked and got into the car. The officer slammed the door shut and they sped away.
Detective Ray Lopez stepped out of the shadows. He held out his hand. Without a word, Winters handed over his own gun and the one he’d stuffed into the back of his belt. He walked down the road toward the highway, disappearing into the darkness. Lopez dropped the weapons into evidence bags.
“Still here, Meredith?” Lopez said. “I’d suggest you be on your way. Constable Tocek, as Miss Morgenstern refused medical help, will you show her to her car.”
“Glad to.”
Meredith’s green Neon was beside the steps to the trailer, where she’d parked it.
“Sorry,” she said, the single word sticking in her throat.
“What?”
“I’m sorry, okay.” She took a breath. “I screwed up.”
The entire area was lit up by white lights. Police officers walked in and out of the trailer, and disappeared down the path through the woods. Sirens came from the road as more police arrived. Adam Tocek’s brown eyes were unreadable, but the skin around his mouth was stretched tight. “I must be mistaken,” he said. “I thought I heard a reporter apologize for messing up a crime investigation, and almost getting an officer, not to mention a good police dog, killed.”
“You won’t hear it again. Not from these lips. But I am sorry.”
Chapter Thirty-six
Jody Burke was formally pronounced dead on arrival at the Trafalgar and District Hospital. Steve Blacklock was sent to the psych ward, muttering nothing but “it wasn’t me,” over and over. Miller Doe, who’d started to cry as the ambulance sped toward town, was fed, bathed, changed, and settled into a soft crib, whereupon, all of life’s necessities provided for, he immediately fell asleep. For eight full hours.
“I’m going down to Seattle later,” John Winters said to the Chief Constable the next morning as light from the rising sun touched the tip of Koola Glacier. “To meet with the detectives working the Kate Watson murder. Looks like we’ve solved their case as well as ours.”
Keller rubbed his yellow fingers. “Is there any doubt about who killed the girl, Ashley?”
“Burke told Molly it was her brother, Steve, who did it. Misjudged the amount of heroin. But Jody was the one in charge, and if Blacklock did the killing, it was at his sister’s orders. Accidental overdose or not, the result would have been the same. Ashley wasn’t going to hand over Miller, and so they would have killed her.”
“Why don’t you take Molly with you to Seattle, John. She deserves to see where this mess all began. I can authorize the additional expense. How’s she doing anyway?”
Keller’s phone buzzed.
He picked it up. “I said no interruptions, Barb.”
“Constable Smith’s here.”
“Send her in.” One side of the Chief’s mouth turned up. “I guess that answers that question.”
The door opened and Constable Molly Smith walked through. She was dressed in uniform. Her face was pale, much paler than usual, and her wrists were red. But her eyes were clear and her back was straight. She carried her hat underneath her arm.
“I thought you might want a debriefing, sir, before I hit the streets.”
“Pull up a chair, Molly.”
She did so, and gave Winters a slight nod. He was pleased to notice that the CC didn’t condescend to Smith. Suggest that she needed some time off. Whatever feelings Keller might have for Lucky Smith, and thus for Molly Smith herself, he kept his relationship with the probationary constable as professional as with anyone under his command.
Smith’s voice was strong and clear, breaking only when she mentioned the baby. Winters suspected that Smith had been more concerned about Miller, and more ready to protect him, than she let on.
But he let it go.
This was Smith’s story to tell. So far.
She stopped talking with a deep sigh.
Winters got to his feet.
“Are you on patrol, Molly?”
“Ten minutes.”
“I want you to meet someone first.”
“Who?” she said, her voice tinged with suspicion. “I’ve already been told I have an appointment with the shrink this afternoon.”
“Someone who has an apology to make.”
A man was sitting in the lunch room. He was big, tough, ugly, with a once (or more) broken nose, and long, greasy hair tied into a rough pony tail. His white T-shirt was stained with brown marks and sweat and his thick arms bulged with tattoos. He put his coffee mug down, and stood up as Smith and Winters entered. He smiled, a slow smile that went a long way toward taking some of the toughness out of his face.
“What the…” Smith said.
“I think you’ve met,” Winters said with a laugh. “But I thought I’d better make it more formal this time.”
“You’re the one who hit me,” she said. “And you got off without even a….” She looked at Winters.