Protecting the Single Mom

by Catherine Lanigan

  “Okay!” Danny rushed off to his bedroom as Cate went to the bathroom.

  She turned on the water, testing the temperature. She could feel fingers of gloom pulling at her. She always felt this way when Danny mentioned his father.

  Brad Kramer could be dead. Should be dead if there was justice in the world, but she didn’t know for certain. She didn’t want to know.

  “Mom! I found my raptor! He was under my pillow all this time!” Danny raced to the bathroom stark naked and jumped in the tub before she had a chance to slow him down.

  Using a plastic tumbler, Cate doused his thick dark hair and built a foamy lather with tearless shampoo. Danny pretended his dinosaur was diving into the sea while she scrubbed his back, arms and legs. She rinsed his hair and took a towel from the wicker stand.

  Danny hummed one of the songs he’d learned at school while she dried his hair and helped him into his pajamas. He was the sweetest thing, and it took a great deal of self-control to keep her kisses to less than a dozen every night.

  He raced to his bedroom and scrambled between the covers. “Here,” he said, handing her a Shel Silverstein book. “You like this one.”

  “My mother read that to me when I was a little girl.”

  “Uh-huh. And she’s with Daddy in heaven.”

  Cate felt a twinge of sorrow as she always did when she thought of her mother, who had died when Cate was seventeen. That was the year she’d met Brad.

  Brad couldn’t have been more perfect if he’d walked out of a dream. He was dark haired, tall and handsome. He worked as a lifeguard at the public pool where she and her two girlfriends hung out on weekends. He was twenty-one years old and tanned, wearing the regulation black bathing trunks and aviator sunglasses. He looked like a mysterious, rock-hard model. When he asked her out for a burger one Saturday, she’d felt as if she’d walked on air. Even now, she could remember the heady rush of excitement and the thrumming of her heart when he got off his shiny chrome motorcycle at Smitty’s Hamburger Diner holding a single rose.

  He worked two jobs, driving a truck during the week and working as a lifeguard on weekends—to keep up his tan.

  Brad told her he’d watched her for two weeks before getting up the courage to ask her out. He told her he didn’t date much. He had to watch his expenses.

  He told her she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. He played old Johnny Mathis love songs on every jukebox in every diner they went to over that first month. And each time he did, he sang along, as if serenading her. He held her hand when they walked to his bike.

  And he kissed her with so much passion she thought she would melt to the pavement.

  Despite the fact that Cate was struggling with grief, trying to adjust to the foster home where the state forced her to live until graduation, she believed she was in love with Brad from that first night.

  Cate didn’t understand the nuances of grief. She didn’t know that what she was feeling wasn’t love. She didn’t recognize that Brad was simply the force that filled the void left by her mother’s death. Cate didn’t know how to combat grief.

  Over that summer, Brad offered her excitement and recklessness. She’d ridden on the back of his motorcycle, wondering if she could find her mother in the wind. They’d sped across downstate Illinois highways, through country towns, drinking beer and eating mini-mart food because they had so little money. He was wild, and she wanted to be wild, hoping the pain and grief would go away.

  Brad pleaded with her to marry him. She’d been flattered. She’d felt special, even important, after months of feeling small and insignificant. Brad wanted her, and when he kissed her with so much fire and abandon, her reasoning turned to ash.

  Because Cate had promised her mother she would finish high school, she kept Brad at arm’s length until she graduated. He’d been angry about that. Very angry. Cate had translated his outbursts as desire and passion. She was convinced she’d bewitched him.

  The night they were married by a justice of the peace, Brad got drunk, started an argument and hit her. He swore it would never happen again. He begged her forgiveness.

  He’d treated her like a queen—for five days. He bought her roses, ran her bath and brought her breakfast in bed. He said odd things that, at the time, she thought were endearments.

  “You belong to me now,” he’d said. “You’re mine. All mine now that we’re married. You have my name, and I like that very much.”

  A month later, it happened again. This time he was more than just drunk. His pupils were dilated, and he looked as if he had a fever. He’d told her that because they were married, he could do whatever he liked. He wanted her to be submissive. When Cate refused, he hit her and threw her against the wall. She’d hit her head and was stunned, momentarily unconscious.

  The incident must have frightened him, because Brad apologized again. This time he brought home an expensive bottle of champagne and a silver bracelet she knew they couldn’t afford. When she asked him where he got the money, he told her that he’d started a “side business” to cover “extras.”

  Cate didn’t trust a thing he told her.

  Of all the things she was, stupid wasn’t one of them. It was as if the minute she’d agreed to marry, he changed. The challenge of winning her was gone.

  She had to admit that she’d changed, too. She’d dreamed of a little house with children someday. Brad had argued that he didn’t have the kind of income to afford a house. Their very small apartment in a complex filled with people she didn’t know—who appeared to sleep all day and party by the pool all night—was not enough. She wanted more.

  Each time she tried to discuss her dreams with Brad, he yelled that he would never be able to afford the things she wanted. Cate realized if she brought in a paycheck, she could make her dreams a reality. She applied for a data entry job at a nearby pool equipment company and was hired on the spot. Brad was furious. He’d stormed out of the apartment to meet his friends.

  That night, Brad came home drunk, though now she realized he was high on some drug that his friends had sold him. He marched toward her with menacing eyes and balled fists. He screamed obscenities at her. Then he said, “I own you!” Before he took the first swing, Cate took action.

  She ran out of the house with her wallet containing forty-two dollars. She ran. And ran.

  She kept to the state highways and eventually a middle-aged woman who said she was driving from Chicago to Detroit stopped to pick her up. By the time they reached Indian Lake, they needed gas. Cate appreciated the ride, but the woman asked too many questions. It was to that woman that she’d first given her alias. Cate Sullivan. The name had come to her quickly. She’d had a classmate in grade school whose parents were Irish, and the real Cate had competed in Irish dance competitions. Cate envied her those lessons and had wanted to be that girl with both parents still alive.

  In an instant, she altered her life drastically.

  She’d covered over a hundred miles that night. That’s when Cate knew she was a survivor.

  “Mom? The story?” Danny nudged the book toward her.

  “Sorry.” She kissed the top of his head and hugged him close.

  No, she thought. She was more than surviving. She was living the dream she’d wanted for herself. She had Danny, her pretty house and wonderful friends who loved her. Indian Lake was no accident in her life. It was the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, and she cherished every moment.

  CHAPTER THREE

  TRENT MADE A fresh pot of coffee and delivered a cup to Ned Quigley, the dispatcher, just as a 911 call came in. With only a skeleton crew on duty, Trent waited until Ned had written down the particulars.

  “What is it?” Trent asked, sipping his coffee and thinking that one of these days he had to learn how to make decent coffee. It couldn’t be all that tough, could it?

>   “Home invasion. Wife’s on the phone. Appleton is a block away.” Ned patched through to the cop on duty and gave him the address. Then Ned sent two more patrols as backup. He looked at Trent.

  “Where is it?” Trent asked.

  “By the skating rink.”

  That was only half a mile from Cate’s address. Trent knew Le Grande was too smart to draw attention to himself on the same night as a shootout with cops. So where would Le Grande have gone after the bust? To Chicago where the CPD practically had him in their sights? The guy had to know that all of Indian Lake PD was on alert for him. Most of the drug dealers coming into small towns across the Illinois border tended to underestimate local law enforcement. They thought they were dealing with hicks and idiots. Granted, the citizenry might not be as astute about drugs and dealers as Chicagoans, but the police investigators were savvy and well-informed. What men like Le Grande didn’t know was that because the number of active cases with a small-town force was much less than in a city, the investigators had time to spend on each one until it was solved.

  Trent listened as Ned gave instructions to the patrol cop. Trent’s neck hairs prickled. An intruder, Ned had said.

  What if Le Grande had discovered Cate’s—or Susan’s or whatever her name was—existence here in Indian Lake just as he had? Would he go to her? There was a possibility that Trent had shot him. Winged him, maybe. If Le Grande knew about Cate, he might have gone to her for help. Even if she was resistant, Le Grande might think he could get money from her. Steal a car or coerce her to drive him out of town.

  Then there was the question of Cate-Susan herself. Was she a cover for Le Grande? Part of his gang? Had she scoped the town for him, pretending to be someone she wasn’t?

  There was no criminal record on her or any reason for Trent to suspect that she was dealing drugs. She had a kid, after all. Not that a kid would stop an addict mother from using or dealing.

  She didn’t strike him as anything but a model citizen.

  But she’d been married to Le Grande.

  If Le Grande went to her and needed help, would she do it?

  As usual when new information on a case came to light, it posed a myriad of new questions. Trent knew exactly what to do.

  Investigate.

  Following Richard’s advice, Trent would keep this new info quiet. There were too many leaks in any organization. “The chief at home tonight?”

  “Should be. You need him?”

  “Nah. Just curious. I didn’t finish my report.”

  “Slacker,” Ned joked.

  “I’m going out for a sandwich. You want anything?” Trent took out his car keys.

  “No, but thanks,” Ned replied as another call came in.

  Trent decided to call the chief from his car and fill him in about Cate.

  He exited the station and went to his unmarked car. As he climbed in, he had the eerie feeling that Le Grande was close. Trent had looked the man straight in the face. It was the blink of an eye, but they’d exchanged that look—the one between foes—the hunter and the prey. In Le Grande’s case, his look communicated the steely belief that he, Le Grande, was the hunter and Trent was the prey.

  He’s here. He never left, Trent thought as he turned the key. The engine roared. He smiled. Two years ago, Trent had bought a high-performance Mercedes-Benz engine at a Chicago junkyard. Being an amateur wrencher, he installed the engine into his unmarked car—at his own expense. He’d had some help from Kenny at Indian Lake Service Garage, but he’d gotten the job done. When the day came that he was in pursuit of a drug dealer in a Porsche, Trent would be well-equipped for the task.

  Trent patted his shoulder holster as was his habit every time he left the station. He’d cleaned his gun and filled the magazine at the station after the shoot-out. If, by any chance, he came up against Le Grande, Trent didn’t want to be short. He checked to make sure his cell phone was on, the dispatch radio was tuned into the station and he checked to make certain he had a full tank of gas.

  Still, he felt very unprepared.

  * * *

  TRENT HAD PUNCHED Cate’s address into his GPS. He drove up the street and parked three houses away. There were few cars on the street. The houses were all bungalow types, Craftsman style, built in the 1930s and well maintained. They were over a third of a mile from Indian Lake, and the residents took great pride in ownership. The hedges were clipped, the weeds pulled and late-summer flowers and lush potato vines filled planters and window boxes. It was the kind of area Trent would have liked to live—if a normal life could ever be his.

  He turned off his lights and got out. It was dark, with only a quarter moon. Good night for intruders. It was the kind of night that someone like Le Grande would prefer to skulk around an ex-wife’s house. Or, if Cate was a willing participant in Le Grande’s schemes, an evening the neighbors probably wouldn’t notice him coming or going.

  The lights in Cate’s house were on. She was up. Probably the kid, too.

  Trent turned to the right and saw the drive led to the detached single-car garage. Her car.

  If the car was gone, then he had to find out if she was part of Le Grande’s gang or if he’d threatened her. Trent was walking a fine line by coming here tonight.

  Protocol stated he should knock on the door and conduct a proper investigation. Regulations demanded he show his badge, offer his card.

  But protocol didn’t consider that Le Grande could be hiding in that garage at this very minute, armed with his 9 mm gun. Ready to blow Trent away and think nothing of it.

  Trent crept closer, taking out his gun. He picked up sounds—the scurry of a small animal over the garden mulch; the chirping of a cricket near the garage door. He felt the breeze as it slipped around the house, chilling the night.

  A night-light burned in a socket near the entry door. Not only was it a smart idea so she could easily see to lock and unlock the door, but it also illuminated the car.

  “Not here,” he whispered to himself and instantly spun toward the house. “But are you closer? Inside?”

  Trent stuck his gun in his holster. No need to get anxious. Still, he needed to make sure his instincts were simply being overly alert before going to the front door to announce himself.

  He moved toward the back porch, checking the boxwood hedges for any signs of footprints, lost items. Anything Le Grande might have dropped in his haste.

  * * *

  CATE HAD JUST finished the story for Danny.

  “Mom, can I have some water?” Danny asked.

  “Sure, pumpkin. I’ll be right back.”

  In the kitchen, she took a glass from the upper cabinet next to the kitchen window. She glanced into the yard as she turned on the tap, thinking that she needed to plant more daffodil bulbs. Maybe those Casa Blanca lily bulbs she’d seen in the catalog.

  Suddenly, a man’s face was framed by her kitchen window.

  She dropped the glass in the sink, and the sound of shattering glass and her scream stung the air.

  The man put his palms against the windowpane. He shook his head.

  “Mom!” Danny shot into the kitchen carrying his baseball bat. “What is it? I’m here!”

  Cate felt as if she’d been socked in the chest. She couldn’t breathe. She was light-headed. She was dying.

  She held on to the edge of the sink with one hand and pointed toward the window. “You go away! Get out of here or I’m calling the police. Right now! Go away!” she screamed at the figure on her porch, unsure of the man’s identity. She was so terrified, she could be seeing things.

  The man stepped back and disappeared into the darkness. Cate sucked in a breath, holding her hand over her heart. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening, could it?

  Then she heard Danny talking. He held her cell phone to his ear. “Hello,
911? Help!”

  Cate looked out the window, but the man was gone. Suddenly, the front doorbell rang.

  Danny stared at the phone. “Wow. That was fast!” He raced into the living room.

  “Don’t open that door!” Cate shouted anxiously as she rushed up behind Danny and shoved him behind her. “You don’t know who it is. What if it’s him?”

  “The bad guy?” Danny asked, wide-eyed.

  “Absolutely.” She peered through the peephole. He didn’t look like a bad guy. He was dressed in a sport jacket, white shirt and tie. His hair was dark, groomed and he was handsome. But there was no mistaking it. It was the Peeping Tom.

  “Go away!” she shouted through the door. “We’ve called the police.”

  “Ma’am, I know. I am the police.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Here’s my badge. My name is Trent Davis. I’m very sorry to have frightened you.”

  Cate looked at the badge through the peephole. “You’re really a cop?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Detective.”

  Detective. The man had barely gotten the word out and already Cate’s hands were shaking and her mouth had gone dry. Her next words felt as if they were tumbling out over sand. “What do you want with us?”

  “I’m investigating a break-in a few houses away. Again, I’m very sorry to have frightened you. I thought I’d seen someone in your backyard. I’d like to ask you some questions. May I come in?”

  “Questions,” she said to herself as she backed up and bumped into Danny.

  “Mom, let him in. He’s a policeman.”

  “I’m not sure.” She chewed her thumbnail. Cate had woven a perfect cocoon around Danny and herself. No one had invaded their privacy because she hadn’t given anyone a reason to look past the face she presented to the town. When she’d first arrived in Indian Lake on that frightening night, the owners of the mini-mart and the adjacent marina and docks—Captain Redbeard, Redmond Wilkerson Taylor and his wife, Julie—realized her plight, without her saying much at all. They didn’t care that Cate didn’t have a penny to her name. They saw through her anxiety to the honest person she was.