by Dawn Mattox
I had repeatedly advised Carrie between James’s stints in prison, but ultimately, I was not responsible for her choices. I could give her the best advice in the world, but only she could decide what to do with it.
Travis sped up to the Fed Ex box located in front of the Board of Supervisors, then slowed, popping the door locks so I could jump in the car with an empty envelope that served as a prop. I was only pretending to mail some papers. Laughing like school kids at having ditched Paige for lunch we sped away from the county buildings. I noticed two box lunches on the seat between us from Schlotsky’s Deli over in Chico.
“Is this lunch?” I asked, peeking in the closest one.
“No, they’re body parts. I’m dropping them off at the morgue,” said Travis in all seriousness. “Crime scene stuff.”
“Nasty case,” I said, sniffing appreciatively. “Looks like the victim was a chicken. Chicken fingers, to be precise.”
“That’s chicken strips,” said Travis with a suggestive lift of his brows.
No matter how bad my days were, Travis could always make me laugh.
I felt the bite of curiosity, like an itch that needed scratching, so I asked; “I know why I dislike Paige, but what’s your story? How come you seem to be the only man at work that isn't under her spell?”
Travis laughed, but the look on his face contradicted humor and his hands tightened on the steering wheel.
“What makes you think I am impervious to Paige's charms?”
“Oh.” I felt a warm flush of disappointment rising. Travis glanced at me before adding, “Okay, she can play up the blonde sometimes. The same good looks that can take her to the top will probably be her downfall. But she's not a bad person.”
My eyes narrowed as I studied him. “What's good about her besides typing a hundred words a minute on a keyboard? She's a horrible person.”
Travis pressed his lips into a tight line, frowning at my remark. “You used to like her, didn't you? Wasn't she your friend once? I thought you helped hire her.”
I blew out a jet-stream of frustration. I had never told Travis that tidbit, so I guess he must have learned it through private conversations with Little Miss Wonderful.
“That is the problem,” I said. “I thought Paige was my friend.”
“Come on now, admit it,” Travis lightened up, “other than having great office skills, she can charm information out of almost anyone. And you have to admit, she is cheap entertainment.”
I laughed in spite of myself. He had a point.
Travis continued. “I know you have good reasons for feeling the way you do, but truthfully, almost everyone likes her—except you.”
“Do you like her?” I asked pointedly. The man who never loses his cool seemed to squirm at the question.
“Like her? She's okay. We don't have much in common, but I'm sure she has a story. She probably has reasons for acting the way she does.”
My turn to squirm. I wondered how much more Travis knew about Paige's life than I did. I had thought her too young to have much of a past, so I’d never asked, and now I could care less.
We drove on in silence to the fish hatchery located a couple of miles beneath the dam to watch the salmon run. Parking on the upper level, we took our lunch boxes down to the benches at the observation area that overlooked the spillway. Gathered below the fish ladders, waiting for the doorway to their destiny to wrench open, the salmon sometimes converge by the thousands in schools so thick you can almost walk across them to the other side of the river and never get your feet wet.
“There!” Travis pointed to a three-foot long salmon. We watched in awe at the drama before us. A streak of silver gathered fantastic speed as it darted through the mass of fish before going airborne with a mighty leap up the wall of water, flailing his powerful tail, propelling his way up the spillway, only to fall short and slide back, beaten down by the relentless torrent of cascading water. He was magnificent.
I grew thoughtful. “What do think of salmon?” I asked Travis.
Travis chewed thoughtfully on his lunch. “I love fishing for them. I love getting into the icy water and hooking a big one. They’re tough. Good fighters. I guess I respect them.” Travis paused and tipped his head as an irresistible look flashed like a shining lure across his handsome face. “They’re especially good when grilled with fresh lemon juice.”
I laughed, making a mental note to ask Chance his thoughts about salmon.
“And you?” he asked me in between bites.
It was my turn to smile a slow, secretive smile. Travis instantly perceived the deeper question behind our light-hearted wordplay.
“I love the salmon! Watching them is like looking into a mirror,” I said sadly. “I identify with them. If you want to understand me—you have to understand what drives the salmon.”
Travis eyed me skeptically and then followed my finger that pointed to another tenacious fish launching its body through space as though its life depended on it.
“Did you know that they are about three years old when God calls them home from the ocean? '”
I don't know what drove me to say such a thing. I guess it must have been the Holy Spirit.
“Think about it, Travis,” I said, enthusiastically. “They were little fingerlings when they entered the ocean. Just kids, like I was when my mom left me. They go through horrible pain as they transition from fresh water to salt water when they enter the ocean. They have to fight to survive three to four years there, lost at sea until God calls them home.” I stared for some time at my bag of chips, trying to compose my thoughts. “They almost kill themselves getting back. Their lungs nearly explode making the reverse trip from salt water back to fresh water. But nothing stops them! They aren't fingerlings anymore.” I felt the sun glowing on my face. “They starve, they suffer, get mauled by animals trying to eat them, and then... they end up here, more dead than alive. They go through all that—just to lay their eggs and die.”
Travis was genuinely surprised. “And you admire this suicidal mission?”
My eyebrows pinched, like narrowing the beam of a flashlight to illuminate a path. “It’s the ultimate sacrifice, the essence of faithfulness. They die so others can live.” Looking Travis in the eye, I earnestly repeated, “I love the salmon.”
I find great comfort in simple routines, like going to bed and getting up at the same time. When I grope my way to the coffee pot, Kissme understands this is priority-one. Next, I either turn on the heater or open the French doors to the patio. Then it is time to chaperone my crazy dog as she drops her morning stink-bomb on the lawn. Why the front yard when there’s a million miles of national forest?
That leaves just enough time for a quick shower before the news. I always turn on the news to see if the world has come to an end and also to follow the budding romance between the sweet blonde newscaster and weatherman, Scott Sanders, and his pet pig.
You have to be from the country to appreciate Scott and his pig. Scott used to live just down the road from us, and we appreciated the detailed weather reports for little Concow. Then, rumor had it that Scott's pet pig was caught having an affair with a wild boar. That is possibly just another wild Concow legend, or perhaps, the reason Scott moved on.
My cereal was still bouncing in the bowl when—News flash—the world did come to an end, at least for one person. Sadly, it wasn’t the first time I’d heard a name from my caseload make headlines.
“Shocking news out of Durham this morning where forty-five-year-old James Talbot shot his estranged wife, Carrie Talbot, before turning the gun on himself. The Talbot’s leave behind two children, ages fifteen and twelve.”
I heard the bowl shatter before realizing I had dropped it—a sad tribute to shattered lives.
The phone rang and sounded like it was coming from another planet. I guess in a way, it was.
“Are you okay?” Travis’s voice was tender and anxious. I wondered for a heartbeat how he knew to call me just seconds after the news broke, but
didn’t dwell on it. Travis was always reading my mind.
“I’m still at the scene,” said Travis. “Gina will be calling you.”
“Yeah, I like Gina,” I pulled it together. “She’s really nice. She’ll be interviewing the kids, right?”
“Right. And Sunny... this wasn’t your fault.” Travis was close, but he missed the mark.
My job is to keep victims safe, and I used to feel responsible when someone died. But these feelings changed as I grew in my faith. It was a new twist on the old concept, choosing to either play God or trust God. I learned that giving God control doesn't leave you out of control. It only means that you acknowledge God is smarter than you.
Some of my colleagues have been devoured by guilt over the death of a client. Their careers devolved into mental health treatment as they became depressed and suicidal. Other advocates quit because they saw themselves as incompetent. Today I was heartbroken, but not depressed; filled with sorrow, but not despair or guilt. I know I am not God. I am an advocate and a pretty good one.
“I know,” I said. “Oh, and Travis? Thank you. You really are a good friend.”
“I care, babe.”
As the SVU Advocate, I sit on the Butte County Death Review Team whose objective is to deter and prevent deaths caused by domestic violence. This month we would be asking ourselves how Carrie’s death might have been prevented.
I was thinking that I needed to talk with Ashley. I have always found that when you need to vent, there is no substitute for a girlfriend. But good advice can only come from people who have the whole picture... and I made sure that nobody had the whole picture. I never told anyone, especially Chance, the embarrassing private details of my life with Logan. I never told Ashley that I was being stalked by Logan or my sexual attraction to Travis. I didn’t tell Travis that I was talking with Chance again and planning a day on the lake together. And I sure didn’t tell Chance that Travis gives me hot flashes whenever we are alone together. So their opinions were basically useless, but I asked them anyway, which shows I am a California blonde after all.
The dogs were barking as they raced along the lake, splashing and flinging mud. Kissme wriggled in my arms until I relented and let her play with the big boys, Ashley’s dogs. Thrilled but inexperienced in the great outdoors, she spun a few circles, barking first at them and then at me, until I reached down and picked her up again. A lot of things look like fun, but only from a safe distance.
“She’s so weird.” Ashley reached over and patted Kissme’s head as we continued our walk along the shore.
“What will happen with the kids?” Ashley was wondering about Carrie Talbot’s children.
Since Carrie was dead, there were no confidentiality issues to breach.
“They'll be living with Carrie’s alcoholic mother. As bad as that sounds, I think she is a better choice than James’s mother, who thinks Carrie brought everything on herself.”
Ashley winced at the thought. “That’s got be a tough one for the grandparents. It must be hard to take on a pair of teenagers at a time when you’re ready for a nice, quiet senior park.”
“Yeah, that’s real love,” I said. “I admire people who willingly make that sacrifice. I can't imagine raising grandchildren in my old age.”
“What about raising kids in your young age?” Ashley asked. She laughed as she threw a stick for Kobi, the Queensland Heeler who never broke stride as she flew into the lake after it.
“I would hope... if I were old, that I’d be like Kobi there, and just do what comes naturally without stopping to think about it. If I thought about raising grandchildren for too long, I would probably reconsider,” I joked.
Never one to let things go, Ashley asked, “Do you want children? We do! Shane and I...” She let it hang there. A pregnant pause if there ever was one. Color rose in her cheeks. “We want a big family.”
“Hmm, I don't!” Jealousy stabbed my self-worth, right to the heart of my womanhood. Ashley's remark felt like another unexpected betrayal. I was hurt that she could have babies when I could not. “Kids are a waste of time for people with real jobs.” I snapped with a bite, finding perverse satisfaction in the pain that flickered through Ashley’s soft, searching gaze. “Thank God I don’t have work, kids, and a cheating husband.”
Ashley remained thoughtful, letting my angry remarks pass as she threw the stick again, this time for Roca, her red Aussie.
“But you don’t have a cheating husband, Sunny. Chance isn’t doing that anymore.”
Point taken. Biting my lip, I let it go, along with Kissme, and dove into the warm water. The dogs barked, making a joyful noise as we splashed and swam our troubles away. There is something cleansing and refreshing about being dunked in water and washing away the bad.
CHAPTER 21
Amanda, our dynamic SVU Prosecutor, hustled down the hall targeting me with the accuracy of a hypersonic cruise missile and strategically intercepting me after my lunch with Travis. Flamboyant as ever, she wore a fabulous deep orange and green batik wrap with a matching turban.
“Sunny!” she ordered, “a minute, please.” Her eyes narrowed to spear points. She didn’t pause but gripped my arm, swung me around and marched me into my office.
“What’s going on?” I asked, thoroughly perplexed and upset with the brusque way she was handling me.
“That’s what I want to know.” Her brown face pinched with concern. “And the answer is ugly! Over six feet tall, needs a shower, wearing black leather and a ‘Born to Die’ tattoo. White supremacist? Ring any bells?”
I stared into her big brown eyes. Amanda could have been a linebacker for the Oakland Raiders if she had been born a man. She was fearless and aggressive with moves the opposition seldom saw coming on the legal playing field.
Does she know? I tried not to look nervous as I pulled away and attempted to regain my composure. I had no intention of talking about Logan with her.
“What about him?” I asked cautiously.
“Oh!” Her eyebrows shot up and she placed her hands on her ample hips. “So you do know him.” She raised her voice. “He came knocking at the front desk looking for his wife. Gayle directed Darth Vader to me since you were off gallivanting with GI Joe.”
My brain kicked into overdrive. “Were you able to help him?”
“He said his wife’s name was Sunny and that she works here,” she said.
“Must be a mistake,” I said with feigned innocence. “My husband’s name is Chance.”
“Uh-huh. I was at the wedding. Remember?”
I was staring down the barrel of a twenty-gauge glare, and she wasn’t packing dove load.
“What does he want with you, girl? Is he harassing you? Are you in some kind of trouble?” She lowered her voice and relaxed.
I could see Travis—make that GI Joe—through the window as he approached my office. He swung through the door jangling my car keys in his hand. “Hey, gang. What’s up?” he asked, tossing me the keys and chewing a piece of gum with boyish charm.
Amanda redirected to Travis in prosecutorial style. “Sunny had some low-life visitor who claimed to be her husband looking for her today. And it wasn’t Chance,” she added, as her eyes shifted suspiciously back and forth from me to Travis.
“Oh... you must mean Logan. Don’t worry, Boss.” Travis gave her a smile and a reassuring nod. “Everything’s under control. Next time he shows up at the desk, call me first,” Travis said, patting her on the arm.
“Mmm-Hmm. Now I know you wouldn't try to patronize me with your charming ways,” said Amanda, cross-checking us one more time. “It just so happens that I left a meeting with our dear sheriff this morning. He told Andrew, his arson investigator, that they located an eyewitness to the spot fire below your house, Sunny.”
A giant lump formed in my throat as Amanda tipped her head expectantly. She paused and continued. “Andrew turned the information over to the Gang Task Force and low and behold, turns out the biker below your house was flying Mongol co
lors. I didn't think much about it until I saw that not-husband-biker-guy in the lobby asking for you.”
I blinked hard in spite of myself but managed to keep a poker face. “Was he a Mongol?” I asked, trying my best to look curious.
Amanda scowled. “No. He was a Hells Angel.” She waited for a reaction that didn’t come. “All right, have it your way. You can stop by Andrew's if you're curious enough to see an artist sketch, even though we both know the picture won't mean a thing. But Sunny,” she said, her tone mellowing considerably, “we’re all your friends, in case you forgot.” With that, she headed out my door and toward the stairs, her gold hoop earrings dancing to the beat of her swaying rhythmic stride. Amanda carried herself like an African Queen.
Travis and I heaved big sighs as we looked into each other's eyes. I knew why I was sighing, but I wasn’t sure about Travis.
“Why do you care about Logan?” I asked. “Tell me you're not still playing detective?
He threw me a sexy smile–I swear he knows how to deepen those dimples–that never fails to stir me up. “How many times do I have to tell you? I am an investigator, not a detective.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “You know I'm just looking out for you, babe. That’s all.” The smile faded as he lowered his voice. “Are you packing?” I immediately understood that we weren’t talking suitcases.
“In my car.”
“Give me your keys back. I’ll bring it to you,” Travis paused, “and I’ll walk you to court later. You can leave the gun locked in your desk when you need to go through the security screener. Stay alert, babe.” He took my keys and left.
The news about Logan’s appearance was probably already masticated and digested by the shark pool. Wincing, my thoughts returned to Travis.
It was disturbing that he knew so much about my life. And since when had I become his babe?