by Dawn Mattox
Rocket bolted from Bob's arms and fairly leaped into Mama Jolene's embrace. Jolene slobbered and fussed and carried on over the dog before setting him on the ground and crying out with joy as Rocket ran, yapping and snarling, at each of us. Jolene kept repeating, “My baby!” over and over again.
I felt the “stupid” light blinking over my head, thinking, Ashley is so dead!
“We'll be right back,” said Bob, smothering a smile as he herded Jolene and baby Rocket into the cruiser to take them home. Gina and I looked at each other in stunned silence until they were out of sight before exploding with laughter. Within minutes, Crazy Bob was back, doubled over the hood of his car, laughing so hard that his eyes ran harder than twin taps at the Sierra Nevada Brewery on St. Patrick's Day.
“Baby! My baby!” he mocked, holding his sides and gasping for air. Gina and I tried our best to help him get a grip. At last, Gina rolled her eyes, and we pushed Bob into the car. I could still hear them laughing as they drove off. I knew the story would become legend and I would never hear the end of it.
My personal trainer, Kissme, sat on the couch next to me, intent on the steaming slice of pizza in front of my face. She was clearly thinking, “I’m here doing my job, Mom. Just rip that baby in half, and I will personally save you fifty percent of the calories.” As my personal trainer, Kissme is always willing to help me diet. The moment was broken by a knock on the door that triggered Kissme to bark and spin. I wasn’t sure if she was doing her watchdog thing or a “Wait! Don’t forget the pizza” thing.
I sighed, wondering why it is people always call or come over when I am eating my dinner, watching the last five minutes of a movie, or just want to be alone.
I knew Logan was in jail, but just in case, I looked through the peephole before opening the door. There was Travis, decked out in a black suit, purple shirt, and dark sunglasses, looking more edible than the already-forgotten pizza. I resented that he looked gorgeous. My body responded, but my heart... that was a different matter.
Not happy to see him, I frowned and opened the door. “Travis. What are you doing here?” It was easy to see that something was wrong—terribly wrong. He just stood there silently, too choked up to speak. “What's wrong?” This was a different side to the man of steel. The man who is in control of every situation
“Looks like you’d better come in.”
I led the way into the kitchen. “Let me get you something to drink.” It was my auto-responder speaking—one of those awkward moments when you don't know what else to say.
Travis removed his sunglasses to reveal the emotional struggle going on within. He reached over and took me gently by the hand, drawing me close as he blinked and spoke in halted words.
“Sunny... Crazy... Bob is dead.”
Hands to mouth, I muffled the wail that started low and rose, escaping with startling clarity. “Wha...?”
“He responded to a domestic call a couple of hours ago.” He wiped his eyes. “Bob was shot by the victim.”
Swaying, I felt myself go weak in the knees. Travis supported me with his hands on my shoulders.
“The victim?” I must have misunderstood. I must be in shock. I shook my head, trying to make sense. “How? Why?— Oh my God.”
Travis clouded up. “God had nothing to do with this. The victim didn’t want her boyfriend arrested. She was in violation of her parole by being with another parolee. He cut her up pretty bad. She was screaming. Bob tried to wrestle him into the squad car.” Travis paused to steel himself. “She grabbed Bob’s gun from his holster while he was bent in the car and shot him twice before back-up arrived and arrested her. He died at the scene.”
The room spun. Travis helped me to the sofa, and I sat in a state of shock. Not possible, I thought. Not possible.
The truth is, most of Bob's fellow officers didn't like the man, but he was still considered family and they would grieve. I guess I was used to men like him. I understood them. He wasn’t so different from Lefty, war-torn and burned out, trying to manage as best as he knew how. Simply put, Crazy had liked me because I had seen through him and accepted him. I had looked through his defenses straight into his heart and saw a gentle soul. And where was he now? I wondered.
I swallowed a growing lump of grief that threatened to strangle me, and probably continued to breathe, although maybe not.
God has everything to do with it, I thought, vaguely aware that I had never talked with Bob about the Lord. Now it was too late to know where his final home would be.
When I least expected it, Travis tipped my head back and kissed me, slowly, deeply. Completely off guard, his kiss was an unexpected micro-therapy session, a Band-Aid on a bullet wound, a fix for a junkie, a thirty-second Xanax for a mind on the verge of breaking. Or perhaps, it was sweet release from an inner anguish so deep that I couldn't reach it alone.
Then, from somewhere in the distance, I thought I heard Kissme. Had she run out of the house? Was she okay? Drawing back, I turned to call her. But she was already there, wriggling with joy in Chance’s arms.
I don’t know who would have won the fight. Chance is more powerful, but Travis is an expert in martial arts. But there wasn’t any fight. It was more like mutual defeat as Chance just turned and walked away.
“I'm sorry. I had no right...” Travis began.
Having returned more or less to reality as I watched Chance fade into the distance, I turned to Travis, whose worried eyes searched mine.
“No,” I agreed, “you didn't have any right. You never have and you never will again,” I said. “You need to leave.”
And he did. Without another word.
I am not sure how long I stood there staring at the closed door before the waterworks came, but the next thing I recall was the sound of Kissme hacking up pizza all over the couch.
Officers and dignitaries arrived from all over the state for Bob’s funeral. Chance and Travis were each assigned to service-related duties, so I was on my own. Thank God. News cameras rolled. A large color guard marched in perfect precision, carrying the state and U.S. flags. Dozens of fire engines silently lined both sides of the route from the church to the cemetery, light bars flashing as the procession of mourners passed through. At the cemetery, the red carpet was rolled out, and bagpipes pierced the air with “Amazing Grace” as five fighter planes screamed overhead, one breaking away as they flew over the gravesite. I couldn’t stop the tears that coursed down my face.
Bob would rather have had no one present, except perhaps some deer or maybe a rabbit. People had caused him too much pain in his life. All he really wanted was to move away and be alone. Life can be frightening in that way. Sometimes we get what we wish for.
People talked endlessly about what a great guy Bob was and how funny and kind he had been. Shaking my head, I had to wonder if anyone here had really known him at all. They sounded like a bunch of pompous windbags to me, but then I wondered if anyone of us ever really knows another.
I mulled the thought over as the stories continued to “celebrate Bob's life,” droned on.
I recalled a different kind of story: one about an old man who taught his four sons a lesson in life by sending each of them on a distant journey to observe a pear tree. One went in the winter, one in the spring, the third in the summer, and the last in fall. When all of the sons had returned, he called them together to share what they had seen. The first son reported that the tree was ugly, bent and twisted. The second said it was budding and full of promise. The third said it was lush, filled with fruit and ready for harvest. The last said it still had some color but looked like it was dying. The brothers argued over who was right until their father, after hearing all the reports, told them that they were all correct. He said it was important to remember that we only know a person for a season and easily forget there are other stages in their lives. He taught his sons that they must never judge what they have seen as the whole picture.
Maybe, I had just known Crazy Bob in the autumn of his days. Maybe all of
those out-of-character eulogies had only reflected different seasons of his life.
I sat there, contemplating my own life and the inevitable changes those seasons bring. I had choices. I could see the present for what it really was or I could continue to live in the memory of all that Chance and I had once shared, in the springtime of our lives.
CHAPTER 41
“It was just a matter of time. I am not mad at you. I brought this on myself.” Chance said from his sofa where he sat with head down and shoulders slumped, refusing to look me in the eye.
I had raced to his house after cleaning up from Kissme's pizza puke, and when he didn't answer the door, I had let myself in.
“You can lose the guilt trip,” I said. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”
Or maybe it was.
“Really,” Chance looked up with a bitter smile, “because it looked a whole lot like you were kissing Travis. I must have missed the part where you were telling him to stop.”
Yikes!
“I'm not in love with Travis,” I said defensively, and at the moment, the words rang true, although I knew that he would always have a piece of my heart. I might have done some mud-slinging at this point and dredged up Paige, but Chance had been right. I was the one keeping Paige between us. The pain in his wide blue eyes told me that I didn’t need to add to it.
Chance tipped his head to one side, brows squeezed tight as he asked the million-dollar question. “Do you love me?”
Yikes, again. It was my turn to hang my head. I wanted to qualify my answer, but I wasn't fast enough.
Chance nodded in silent acceptance of my unspoken reply.
“Yes,” I hastened to assure him. “Of course I still love you. It’s... it’s just not the same. Maybe... after we separated... I was looking at Travis and hoping to find what I once shared with you.”
He brushed a thoughtful finger across his mustache. “You deserve happiness, and I am sure you’ll find it with someone else. I was wrong to hope. I know that things that are broken and repaired are never the same. But...” Chance got up, picking up a small white box from the coffee table. “Here.” He offered the box without a hint of emotion.
It was the kind of box that a woman instinctively knows holds jewelry. “I made this for you,” he shrugged, “for us, really. I was going to give it to you. Surprise you, when... when I was at your house.”
I took it, speechless. Mesmerized. The little box had a big hold on me, flooding me with shame. I didn't deserve anything. In my mind, I saw the divine scales of justice tip, and another heavenly checkmark dashed against my name. I know I am responsible for my own behavior, and Chance’s bad judgment will never justify mine.
“Go ahead. Open it. I guess there’s no point to it now, but you can open it if you want to.”
I tugged gently at the slender satin ribbon that broke loose too easily, slipped through my fingers and landed in a shimmering coil at my feet. The lid came off just as effortlessly to reveal a small wooden cross nestled in the bottom of the box.
Brows raised, I tried to muster a smile but doubt if it reached my eyes. Chance couldn’t have missed my surprise—or disappointment.
It was not at all what one would expect of a wooden ornament.
The cross was not crafted from ancient polished olivewood or aromatic cedar of Lebanon or any other exotic Middle-Eastern wood. More likely it was cut from a Home Depot scrap pile and topped with clear resin. On closer inspection, I could see that what the cross lacked in beauty was compensated by an elegantly designed, feathered mount and hung from a delicate gold chain.
“Particleboard,” said Chance, his eyes fixed on the tangle of forgotten ribbon. “Particleboard is made from a million pieces of shattered wood and held together with a bonding agent. The end product is stronger than the original slab. I had hoped our marriage could turn out like that; better, stronger.”
Chance shook his head and retreated deeper into his man-armor. “To tell you the truth Sunny—while I really do love you—I am tired. No. I am sick and tired of always apologizing. I get more respect and appreciation from the men in my recovery group than I do from my wife.”
“That's because you haven't cheated on them... yet. And which are you tired of apologizing for—the affair, or the lies and deceit that continued afterward?”
“When is enough, enough? How many times will I have to say I'm sorry? A hundred times? Two hundred? A thousand? A lifetime? Will being sorry ever be enough for you?” He shook his head. “I don't think so." Chance looked as if his thoughts were marooned on a deserted island.
“Believe it or not, I’ve been trying to protect you from Logan and his friends the only way I know how... the only way you’d let me.”
“Excuse me?” I bristled.
Chance got up and walked to the kitchen, returning with a bottle of wine and two glasses. “Would you like some?” He asked, wearing a tired but otherwise unreadable face.
I realized that my entire body was clenched. Maybe a glass of wine wouldn't hurt. “Okay,” I said, trying to let go of some tension before I snapped. Chance poured the wine and sat back down.
“Jack was approached by ATF last April with a collaborative proposal. Being Jack, he was totally stoked. So they made a unified pitch to the sheriff's office for a joint venture. I'm just a sergeant, not the Sheriff, and you know what happens when you get two elected officials in one room. I didn't make the rules.”
“But you followed them. You put your work ahead of our marriage.”
“You put your past ahead of our marriage. Besides, I didn't see it that way, and I doubt if you'd understand. You think everything is about you.”
I tensed up again as Chance took a slow, thoughtful drink, running his hand through his hair. “I was ashamed. Ashamed and embarrassed when I learned more about my wife in one afternoon, sitting in a room full of strangers, than I had in three years of marriage.
“I talked with Pastor Mac, and in the end I decided that joining the operation was the only way I could protect you. No matter the cost.”
“You talked to Mac? Mac knows about Logan?”
“No. Well, yes. Some. Not all. I talked to Mac about me.”
I gripped my glass, feeling like the fool that I am. “And Paige?”
He slighted his head with a shrug of indifference. “I think she got the job through some political back-scratching.”
“That's what Jack said. Something about her father.”
“Meaning Paige's daddy is a ranking somebody at ATF who wanted Butte County to babysit his baby. Now we cut her paycheck, not the feds. Still, Paige was supposed to work with you, tracking your phone calls and reporting any suspicious activity.”
“Suspicious activity? What does that mean? I used the office phone to call the dog groomer on company time?”
“No.” He traced the rim of his glass thoughtfully. “More like using the county car on county time to go to the cabin. I guess you could say that Paige's surveillance saved your life. That's how we knew that you and Bill and Logan were all up at the cabin.”
I wrinkled my nose in disdain.
“And the meetings at the casino?”
He sighed. “We met several times. It started as business, and then...” Chance grimaced and leaned back in surrender.
“Did you know she was married to Travis?”
“I knew they were going through a divorce. Paige had an affair with her POST training officer, and that was the last straw for Travis. And of course, everyone knew she was hooking up with Mark.” He considered his next words carefully. “She made it easy. She kept hinting that you and Travis had something going on and, well...”
Where is a defibrillator when you need one? I must have paled. I could barely spit out the words. “You believed her? Without asking me?”
“She convinced me that you had never been a child victim. She said you were this wild biker girl; Property of Hells Angels. And I knew what that meant.” Chance sighed, drained his cup and sniffed. The glaz
ed look in his eyes was not from the wine. He worked his jaw to ease his tension. “Of course, all that happened before we spent the day on the lake and you finally told me everything. But by then, it was too late.”
A couple of tears escaped. One found its way into my cup and I deliberately took a drink, swallowing it. I needed to toughen up.
“And since then?”
“I haven't talked to her anywhere except at the office. Strictly business. I told you, I need to be accountable to God and to me. It's not always about you.”
Mercy got up from her bed in the corner of the room and padded over to Chance. Sitting in front of him, she placed a paw on his leg and whined softly as she licked his face.
He was still hugging her when I got up and left without saying good-bye.
Back home, I skipped dinner. I wasn't hungry. The only food I was interested in was food for thought. And my mind drifted like a breeze sighing in the night, stirring memories until they finally came to rest on Aissa Williams.
“I do.” I dutifully swore to tell the truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God.
My curriculum vitae had been reviewed by the court and my qualifications established me as an expert witness in felony domestic violence cases. Until now, I had always been an advocate for the victim. In this instance, the victim was dead and his wife, Aissa, was charged with first-degree murder.
Taye Williams was dead. Aissa had stabbed him in his sleep and then set the house on fire. The coroner had already testified that Taye was still alive at the time of the fire. There were legal issues regarding the time lapse between the years of separation and the murder.
Aissa's face was set in stone. No remorse, no shame, no denial. An aura of defiance radiated from an otherwise impassive countenance. I had met Aissa and didn't like her. But that was not a consideration. My job is to educate juries.
Amanda Cross advanced to the witness stand like a hungry tigress. Garishly dressed and thoroughly intimidating in her Bengal striped tunic and carved ebony earrings, she paused, and pounced.