Protecting Her Son

by Joan Kilby

  Again Riley pondered the apparent coincidental timing of her covert investigation and the age of her son. His mind couldn’t compute a cop who would sleep with a suspect. But what else could account for her strange behavior whenever he asked her about Moresco? Had he pressured her into having sex, or even raped her? While that would account for Jamie, it didn’t explain her getting busted back to uniform.

  The digital bedside clock read 3.25 a.m. He gave up trying to sleep and got out of bed picking his way between the unpacked boxes cluttering his bedroom. He’d been spending all his time on the kitchen and it seemed counterproductive to bring out his valued possessions only for them to get covered in drywall dust during the renovations.

  Picking up his guitar, he went to the living room and sat on the couch to strum a few chords. Lately he’d been trying to teach himself classical but in the wee hours when the world was blackest old ballads were more comforting. Tonight he was having trouble recalling the chords. His fingers felt clumsy and he was out of sorts. He ought to go to bed so he’d be fresh for the bike safety talk tomorrow. But he was too wired.

  Riley set the guitar aside and went to his room to find some sheet music. He rooted through one box without success then lifted it aside to look in the one below. What he uncovered wasn’t a cardboard box but his battered army footlocker.

  Which reminded him, he still hadn’t called Gazza back. Why was he avoiding his friend? All it took was a quick call to say he wasn’t going to make it to the ANZAC Day parade.

  Riley stared at the footlocker. He hadn’t opened it since Afghanistan. Well, why would he? He’d left the hospital with his arm in a sling and his head and ribs bandaged, packing in a hurry so he could catch the air-force jet leaving Kabul for Sydney.

  He pushed the locker aside and went through another box where he found the sheet music. Turning to go, his gaze lit again on the footlocker. An odd feeling of dread came over him, surprising him. Was he afraid to open it? Lumps in his throat, taking menstrual meds…he was becoming a girl.

  To hell with that.

  He found the key in the drawer of his bedside table and inserted it in the brass padlock. The metal lid creaked open.

  One by one he pulled out mementos of his army life—his black beret, neatly folded; an envelope containing his discharge papers; a leather case holding his Victoria Cross for Australia. He opened the case and glanced at the bronze medal and crimson ribbon with the motto that read, For Valour. He felt…nothing. He’d “earned” it for his role in the suicide bomber blast that had sent him home. Earned it? Didn’t think so. Although he didn’t recall details and hadn’t asked about the incident, he did know that everyone involved died but him.

  He tossed it aside and moved on to the next item.

  A photograph of a young Afghani woman.

  She wore a blue burka with the veil flung back, showing an expectant smile and light green eyes filled with laughter. On the back of the photo was written in pencil, Nabili.

  Riley sat back on his heels, baffled. Who was she? Did he know her? She probably wasn’t a random figure in the street. She must have trusted him to show him her face. Why had he taken a photo of this woman—assuming he had taken it?

  He peered closer at the photo. Something about her face both drew him in and haunted him. His memory of the final few months of his tour was spotty. He couldn’t, for instance, recall who he’d been on patrol with the day of the explosion that had injured him and sent him home. He couldn’t even recall where in the city it had taken place. He supposed he could find the answers to those questions if he wanted to. Gazza would probably know, or one of his other SAS mates.

  Riley shifted closer to the lamp, squinting to see more clearly. That smile, those eyes… The migraine, which Paula’s tablets had banished, returned suddenly with a vengeance. His eyesight blurred, distorted by bright lights in his peripheral vision. His stomach roiled with nausea.

  Riley dropped the photograph and staggered to his feet, scraping a shin on a box. He stumbled blindly to the bed, sank onto it and flung an arm across his pounding head.

  He knew what upset him…Nabili reminded him of his sister, Katie.

  * * *

  THE ALARM CLOCK JOLTED Riley out of a troubled sleep. His face was taut with dried sweat from a nightmare—a hellish vision of explosions and flying body parts.

  He’d been looking forward to meeting Katie’s class and doing the safety talk. Now he wondered if he would make it through the day.

  He dragged himself out of bed and into the shower, tuning the waterproof radio to loud trance music. He stood under the pounding water and let the pulse of the showerhead and the staccato computer-generated music obliterate his thoughts.

  Breakfast was cold cereal eaten standing up amid the rubble of the half-demolished kitchen that now consisted of a lone section of counter supporting the huddled microwave, toaster and electric kettle.

  Riley’s migraine worsened as he drove across town. The closer he got to the school, the slower he drove. By the time he turned into the street the black Audi was crawling like a beetle.

  He hated that Paula was going to see him like this. Hated showing any weakness, especially when he needed to be on his toes around her. He was attracted to her and yet suspicious of her. She would probably take one look at him and make some snarky comment about him resembling road kill.

  He glanced in the rearview mirror at his red-eyed reflection and ran a hand over his bristly jaw. A chill curled down his spine. How could he have forgotten to shave? He swiped his tongue across his teeth. They weren’t brushed. Hell, was he sleepwalking?

  A glance at the dashboard clock told him it was far too late to go home and clean up.

  Children’s laughter and high-pitched voices came to him through the open window as he cruised the curb looking for a parking spot. A gym class was on the field to the left of the school buildings, engaged in some rowdy game involving hoops and balls.

  Sweat broke out along his hairline. His foot trembled on the accelerator as he fought the urge to stamp down and speed off. Instead he pulled into a parking spot half a block away.

  Only his sense of duty—to Katie, to Paula, to the kids, to his job—made him drag his ass out of the car. He looked toward the school. The vague feeling of dread that had dogged him all morning, intensified.

  * * *

  PAULA STOOD JUST INSIDE the classroom door, near the front of the room. The grade one students were restless. Katie had given them a coloring assignment while they waited for Constable Henning but having been primed for an hour of outdoor activity they weren’t taking well to staying between the lines. Or keeping quiet. Or staying in their seats. A group of boys, including Jamie, had lined up at the window to watch the older children in P.E. class.

  “Quiet, please, class,” Katie said. “Sit down, boys. We’ll be going outside very soon.”

  Paula paced out the door into the empty corridor. She checked her watch for the umpteenth time. “I’m surprised he’s late,” she said in a low voice to Katie. “Something must have happened to him.”

  “I’ll give him a call.” Katie reached into her desk drawer for her phone and punched in the number. It rang and rang. Her worried glance met Paula’s. “You should go ahead and start without him.”

  “Let’s give him another minute.” He’d roped her into this on her day off and while she thought it was a worthwhile event, she didn’t want to do it on her own. Then because she couldn’t stay still, she added, “I’ll check out front. Maybe he’s lost.”

  * * *

  RILEY CROUCHED BY THE school gate, unable to take another step. A moment ago he’d heard children laughing. Now their laughter had turned to screams. The billowing clouds above the school were smoke from the explosion.

  Oh, God. No. No. No… .

  Sweat soaked his uniform shirt. His heart
tripped over itself, beating scary-fast. Was he having a heart attack? He was holding his gun. His hand was shaking. Had he fired? No, he couldn’t fire. He was a coward.

  A blonde woman in a uniform came out of the school and stood on the steps. She seemed familiar.

  “Riley, what are you doing?” she called. “Come inside. The children are waiting.”

  There were no more children. Only pieces.

  A stab from the migraine distorted his vision. His eyes squeezed shut. It was just a nightmare, just a nightmare, just a nightmare, just a nightmare…

  A hand was shaking his shoulder. “Are you okay? Riley, are you all right? Can you speak? Answer me.”

  He opened his eyes. Blinked against the bright sunshine. The pebbled concrete path dug into his knees. Paula, that was her name. “What happened?”

  “You tell me.” Her piercing blue eyes searched his face. “You look like hell. Are you sick?”

  “I’m fine.” The safety catch was off on his gun. Breath held, he cracked open the chamber. And breathed out his relief. He hadn’t fired. “I heard a gunshot.”

  “I didn’t hear any gunshot.” Paula pressed the back of her hand against his forehead. “You feel feverish.”

  “I’m fine.” He ducked away from her hand. Great, now she was treating him like a child. He holstered his gun and staggered to his feet. Did a check of his heart rate. Not quite normal but getting there. The palpitations had died down. The clouds were white fluffy balls of water vapor, not smoke. The children’s laughter was…joyful.

  “It looked as if you were having a panic attack,” Paula said.

  Special Forces soldiers didn’t have panic attacks. Riley brushed the dust off his pants and re-tucked his shirt. Refocused his thoughts, refusing to dwell on the mortifying incident that had taken place. “We should go inside.”

  He started up the path to the entrance. Sick dread was lodged in the pit of his stomach. He ignored it.

  “Are you seeing a doctor or therapist?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with me. I had a bad turn.”

  She held open the door for him. “Where did you say you lived, on De Nial Avenue?”

  “Very funny.”

  “It isn’t funny,” she said with no trace of a smile. “You need to get your act together.”

  He threw her a look. She dared tell him to get his act together? She who most likely had crossed the line with a suspect?

  Their boot heels echoed as they walked side-by-side, two feet apart, down the empty school corridor.

  Of all people who had to witness him having a flashback… He didn’t need her nagging at him. She didn’t know him. Who was she to say anything?

  Katie’s classroom was coming up. Children’s voices spilled through the open door. Riley’s steps slowed. His palms grew damp and his heart began to race. Oh, crap, not again.

  “You’re not well,” Paula said bluntly. “Go home.”

  “I’m fine.” He marched on. “Katie is expecting me. I can’t let her down.”

  “She’ll understand.”

  “I don’t want understanding,” he shouted. “I just want to do my damn job!”

  Down the hall, a door opened. Katie stuck her head out. “Riley?”

  Damn. He was overreacting, not in control of himself.

  “Go home, Henning.” Paula planted her fists on her hips and blocked the corridor, her knuckles brushing her gun butt. “That’s an order.”

  He scowled, ready to refuse. But below the bravado, lurked the fear that he would disgrace himself again. He’d had his gun drawn, the safety off, a bullet in the chamber…all without even being aware of what he was doing.

  “This isn’t real police work anyway.” He turned on his heel and marched down the corridor and outside.

  On the steps he paused to grip the railing and suck in fresh air. A magpie warbled from a pine tree on the edge of the schoolyard. Bright sunshine and sparkling blue sky contrasted with the seething blackness inside his head.

  What the hell was wrong with him?

  * * *

  “RILEY WENT HOME. He’s not feeling well,” Paula told Katie. “I’ll take the class if you can assist.”

  “No worries.” Despite her words, Katie frowned. “He had a headache the other day. Riley never has headaches. I hope he’s not coming down with something.”

  Riley was already quite ill, unless Paula missed her guess—post-traumatic stress syndrome. She’d seen it before in police officers. But she didn’t say anything to Katie. The room full of six-year-olds was like a box of puppies, spilling over with high spirits and restless energy.

  “I’ll leave the blackboard portion of my talk until afterward. These kids need activity, stat.”

  Katie clapped her hands. “Children, line up in twos at the door. When we get outside, go to the racks and get your bikes. Walk, don’t ride, to the basketball court.”

  Chattering and laughing, the children followed instructions. Paula was pleased to see that Jamie had made a friend, partnering with a towheaded boy with a cheeky grin. They squirmed, play-punched and giggled in the line until Katie admonished them. The kids maintained ranks until the door to outside opened. They spilled onto the schoolyard to get their bikes.

  Paula set up traffic cones on the basketball court and had the kids ride through, one at a time, giving arm signals as they turned corners and getting off and walking when they came to the “street.”

  “Has Riley had any problems since he came back from Afghanistan?” Paula asked Katie while they watched from the sidelines.

  “What sort of problems?”

  “Post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD.” She stepped forward to call out to her son. “Jamie, wait your turn.” Then she turned to find the young teacher staring. “Soldiers are exposed to things we can’t even imagine. My cousin was in counseling for months after he was discharged.”

  “Riley’s the same as he always was,” Katie said, bewildered. “Outgoing, confident, cheerful. He didn’t enjoy being a bouncer, but once he joined the police force he’s been as happy as I’ve ever seen him. I can’t believe he has PTSD. Why do you think that?”

  “He was in the middle of some sort of episode when I found him earlier, outside the school.” Paula blew her whistle and waved the next child through the course. “It looked like a panic attack.”

  “Panic attack.” Katie shook her head. “That doesn’t sound like Riley.”

  “I hope you’re right. He could be simply under the weather.” No point mentioning the gun. Any teacher would freak out at the thought of a man standing outside a primary school with a loaded revolver. She herself had been shaken. Riley was normally so controlled and professional. It had been a shock to see him disheveled and wild-eyed, waving a gun.

  “Riley and I are close,” Katie said. “I’d like to think he would say something to me if he was having problems.”

  “Not if he’s in denial.”

  “He’s never liked admitting to weakness,” Katie conceded. “I’ve had some health issues in the past. He had to leave for Afghanistan in the middle of that. But his letters were all upbeat, no death or destruction though I know he must have witnessed a lot of bad stuff. He hasn’t even talked about the explosion that injured him and sent him home.”

  “He hasn’t mentioned it to me, either.”

  “That’s because he tries to protect all the women in his life. Not have them look after him.”

  Paula shook her head with a dry smile. “I’m his partner. As far as he’s concerned, I’m not a woman.”

  Katie laughed. “Do you really believe that?”

  “I have to believe it to do my job properly.” Paula watched the children go around the course, concentrating on making the turns between the cones.

  As a rule she didn�
��t need looking after but with Nick on the loose… Well, Riley was her partner—he was supposed to have her back so she could make an exception and accept help. It had nothing to do with her gender, or any unacknowledged feelings that might have sprung up between them. “I’ll go see him after I leave here. Make sure he’s okay.”

  An hour later Paula drove to the address Katie had given her, a neat weatherboard bungalow at the end of a narrow curving driveway on a quiet street. Well, it would have been quiet but for the sounds of demolition coming from inside. She winced as a huge crash sent puffs of dust shooting out of the open window on the right side of the house. For a second she wondered if he’d gone totally insane and started destroying everything around him. Then she recalled him mentioning renovations.

  She pressed the doorbell. And waited.

  He wouldn’t hear the bell over all the banging. She tried the handle. The door opened. “Riley?”

  She followed the sounds of destruction, skirting the mountain bike in the foyer to go through the arched doorway on her right, into the living room. The furniture was new, chain store but comfortable and mostly covered with drop cloths. A stack of cardboard boxes sat next to the fireplace.

  She moved into the adjoining dining room. The oval oak table was covered in a plastic sheet. The wall that presumably backed onto the kitchen vibrated. Plaster crumbled away from a jagged diagonal crack running floor to ceiling. Chips of off-white paint fell to the pale green carpet.

  Paula approached cautiously. She fished in her pocket for a tissue and held it over her nose. “Riley?”

  A sledgehammer crashed through the plaster. A chunk of plaster fell into the dining room, creating a hole the size of a basketball.

  “Riley.” She could see part of his T-shirt.

  The sledgehammer withdrew only to reappear, making the hole double in size. Wearing headphones and safety glasses, he swung the sledgehammer for another strike. His white T-shirt was wet under the arms and across his chest. His biceps and forearms gleamed, the muscles flexing. Hot? Whoo boy. This was Riley as she’d never seen him before—pure male beefcake.