by Janice Kay Johnson - Cop by Her Side (The Mysteries of Angel Butte)
Hanging up, he should have been satisfied by the sergeant’s promise to call the minute they learned anything, but instead he felt edgy.
Clay didn’t usually mind delegating; these days, that was half his job. It made no sense anyway for him to focus without any good reason on this one tip, not when so many were pouring in.
But he didn’t have to like it.
“Hey,” Nguyen called from a few desks away. “You might want to talk to this one.”
Clay waved his thanks and picked up the phone again.
A minute later, he was saying, “Yes, sir, we do appreciate you calling. Now tell me again....”
* * *
THE CALLS KEPT coming, not only to the Butte County Sheriff’s Department, but also to the FBI, Deschutes County, every city jurisdiction. Probably the DEA and the ATF and the CIA, for all he knew. The frustrating thing was that the vast majority of callers were so off base, if not downright delusional. They’d seen a kid trip on the sidewalk and sit there sobbing over her bloody knee, but no mother or father had come running, so it had to be the missing child even though, it was true, this girl had black hair and might have been a little bit older. Was he sure Brianna was only seven?
There were always the lonely folks who wanted an excuse to feel important for a minute, to be listened to. There were the nut jobs who ranted about extraterrestrials and how Brianna’s parents would be lucky if those gray creatures with the pointy heads weren’t cutting her heart out right this minute to study it.
And then there were the semireasonable callers, the ones consuming the time of half the law enforcement officers in central Oregon.
Jefferson County got back to Clay in the early evening. Yes, indeed, they’d caught up to the scared little girl and her daddy, who really was her daddy, except that he had only very limited visitation allowed by the court and hadn’t brought her back after supposedly taking her to breakfast. The mother had been hysterical. The cops in Jefferson County didn’t consider their trek to Carl Lake a waste of time. They’d already phoned the nice lady who had worried about that girl and told her she did a good thing. Daddy, who had anger management issues, was behind bars with charges still undecided. And yes, the child did have curly hair, although it didn’t have any hint of red in it, and she was actually six years old.
Clay thanked them for jumping on it and ended the call wishing like hell that Brianna Wilson had been rescued instead. The other little girl hadn’t been in as much danger as Bree was.
He kept going until after eight, even though tiredness was clouding his thinking. He needed a decent night’s sleep. There was nothing he was doing here that others who hadn’t been going for twelve plus hours straight couldn’t do better. Walking across the parking lot to his Cherokee, he called the hospital and got put through to ICU, where he was told that Melissa’s coma seemed to be getting lighter. Muscles were spasming, eyelids twitching. Once she’d pursed her lips.
None of which, Clay was well aware, meant she’d soon open her eyes and be herself again. Even if she did open her eyes, chances were good she’d prove to have suffered some degree of brain damage. Massive, or more subtle, but still impacting her ability to hold a job or function normally as a wife and mother.
Still, it was good news. He wanted her to wake up and tell him what had happened to her daughter.
He got into the Jeep, stuck the key in the ignition, then just sat there. This had been one of the crummiest days he could remember. All he’d done was spin his wheels.
And alienate Jane.
Yeah, don’t forget that.
He hadn’t, although he’d done his damnedest to block out her expression as she’d tossed those bills on the table and told him she wouldn’t betray her family.
She’d made him feel about two inches tall and slimy besides.
He had been left asking himself whether he was fixated on Jane’s sister and brother-in-law for all the wrong reasons. His gut instincts were wrong sometimes; he couldn’t deny that. But not often. When they spoke, he listened. That and sheer tenacity made him good at his job.
This time, though—had he allowed jealousy to make him irrational?
Sitting there, arms laid on the steering wheel, staring out at the advent of night over Angel Butte, Clay couldn’t answer his own question. He really didn’t know.
Yes, he was jealous. Yes, he believed Drew Wilson wasn’t saying everything he knew or suspected. But any problems between him and his wife might have nothing to do with her SUV plunging off the road and her child disappearing. In all honesty, it was a stretch to imagine how they could.
And yet—
Clay groaned and reached for the key. He needed to hit the sack. Tomorrow was another day and all that crap.
Another day when Jane Vahalik would not forgive him for being a Class-A jackass, and how could he blame her?
She’d been in his head from the minute he got up that morning, and was still there. In all honesty, she’d been there from the first time he saw her, at a lecture on advances in DNA technology and what it meant for detectives working cases. He’d been late, slipping in just before the door was shut and taking a folding chair at the back. It was her hair that had caught his eye—primly pulled into a ponytail, from whence it erupted in a wild cascade, the color fascinating him. He’d thought of melted caramel, wavy striations in red sandstone in the Four Corners country, curlicues of ribbon atop wrapped gifts. There was just a hint of red in her hair, enough to warm it and fascinate him.
He wasn’t looking at the back of her head. The angle allowed him to see one ear and a little of her jaw and cheek. He kept waiting for her to shift in her chair, maybe glance back, so that he could see more. He’d been inexplicably riveted.
Who was she? He knew she wasn’t with the sheriff’s department; everyone there was familiar to him by sight, at least.
He kept trying to yank his attention back to the lecture, then discovering five minutes later he was back to staring. She had trouble sitting still. She kept squirming, rolling a shoulder, nodding or shaking her head in response to some point the speaker made. Once she reached up a hand to check the elastic was still firmly in place. She lifted her hair, momentarily baring a pale nape that had his hungry attention.
Sure as shooting, she’d finally turn her head and he’d discover she was homely as sin. Or too young, too old. Have a face plastered with makeup. His interest would go dead in the water.
But then it happened—the door behind him opened and the woman looked over her shoulder to see who’d come in or gone out. Only, he’d been gawking at her, and the idle sweep of her gaze didn’t get any farther than him. Her eyes had widened and dilated, and for a moment that stretched all they’d done was stare.
When the talk ended, he’d waited until she came even with his chair and stood, edging into the exiting crowd right behind her. About one minute later, she’d agreed to have dinner with him.
Meeting Jane had something in common with getting struck by lightning. He had never before or since reacted to a woman like that, far less one whose face he hadn’t even seen.
Once he saw the whole package—her lush, petite body packed into mannish trousers and white shirt—he’d been sold. And once he’d gotten to know her, smart, too serious as if she couldn’t let herself relax, clear-eyed and self-aware, shy about her own sexuality, cynical and innocent at the same time, he’d gone down for the count.
Now he was bothered by one of his first thoughts—she doesn’t look like a cop. Whatever that said about him, her appeal hadn’t waned as he discovered that she did think like a cop.
Maybe it was love at first sight, if such a thing existed. He didn’t know, only that he wasn’t making any progress in getting over her. He thought he might have had another chance if he hadn’t tried to push her this morning into doing something that so repulsed her.
&n
bsp; But, goddamn it, he thought with intense frustration, what could he do but put Bree first? He was carrying a photo of Jane’s niece with him so he had it to show, but also to remind him where his focus needed to be.
Every time he pulled it out he was jolted by how much she looked like Jane, even as he was reminded that she was also her mother’s daughter. Bree would have spectacular cheekbones when she reached womanhood instead of Jane’s apple cheeks. Still. The indefinable something that hinted at Jane was there, and not only the riot of curls. It might be as much personality as anything.
Bree... She’s more vulnerable, I guess. Unsure of herself. She hates change. The painful pause. Even if we find her...
He didn’t like to think how damaged the little girl might be, if they did find her alive.
I had to ask, he thought. Jane is a cop! Was it really so terrible to say, “Yes, they’re your family, but something’s wrong there”?
Clay swore under his breath, bumped his head against the backrest a couple of times, then finally put the Jeep in gear.
Quit thinking about her.
Can’t.
Call her.
Oh, yeah, she’s going to leap eagerly to answer.
You know she’s not asleep yet.
Doesn’t mean she’d want to talk to him.
But she might.
And what was he supposed to say? “Help me find Bree”? Or “give me another chance, Jane”? Please.
It was pitch-dark by the time he got home. He went in and grabbed a beer, then without turning on the porch light came back outside to sit on the steps. He liked the quiet, the cool air after the day’s heat, the occasional rustle or squeak off in the dark branches or the understory of the surrounding woods. He wondered if Jane was addicted to town living and would hate the isolation of his cabin.
One hand curled around the damp, cold beer bottle. In the other, he held his phone, bouncing it lightly.
Call.
Wait until she has an attack of reason and comes to you to say, “You were right and I was wrong.”
He snorted, startling himself. Like that was happening.
Yeah, but it might. Right now, her smarts were at war with her bone-deep sense of loyalty. Clay surprised himself by having faith her smarts would win, in part because she would realize her loyalty was owed, first and foremost, to the girls. More so than to her sister, even.
Bending his head, he scrolled to his last call to her, hesitated...and touched Send.
* * *
JANE HAD TALKED Alexis into going to bed in her own room by promising to stay until she was asleep. She’d read stories, then given a gentle back rub until Alexis’s eyes drifted shut. She was deeply, peacefully asleep now, thank God. She might not stay that way, but for now, Jane could relax.
She slipped out, realizing she was actually hungry for the first time during this entire, devastating day. She’d made tacos for Drew and Alexis and only pretended to eat hers.
Drew had left long since, galvanized when she told him Lissa seemed to be struggling toward the surface. No, Jane had thought, it was more like a butterfly encased in a chrysalis. Tiny movements that grew larger until the first tears appeared.
And what would emerge? That was the scary part. Nobody, including the doctors, really had any idea.
Jane reheated the taco meat in the microwave while she grated some cheese and found the corn tortillas, lettuce, salsa and sour cream. When the meat came out, two tortillas went in the microwave to warm, after which she quickly assembled her meal and carried it to the table. It smelled so amazing, she couldn’t imagine why she hadn’t been able to eat earlier. Now she sat and devoured both tacos. She gave serious thought to licking the last of the sour cream and salsa from the plate.
Her phone rang, and her heart took an extra, hard beat. It would be the hospital or Drew, telling her something had happened with Lissa. And then she saw Clay’s name. He’d found Bree....
She snatched it up. “Clay?”
“No news.” He’d heard her eagerness, her hope. “I’m sorry.” He sounded genuinely regretful. “I should have thought.”
It took her a second to deal with the adrenaline in her bloodstream, but then she was able to say, “No, that’s okay. Why are you calling if nothing has happened?”
The momentary pause made her wonder if she’d been rude, or even hurt his feelings. Who cares? she tried to tell herself, but knew she did.
“Thought I’d update you,” he said in a voice devoid of emotion. “That’s all.”
“Oh.” Jane slid her thumb back and forth over the smooth side of her phone. “Did you know about Lissa? That she might be emerging from the coma?”
“I checked with the hospital half an hour ago. The nurse I talked to is pretty upbeat.”
“I want to be,” Jane said, and suddenly there was a lump in her throat.
“Yeah.” Now he sounded gentle, the Clay she had begun to think she could trust. “Let yourself hope, Jane.”
“I don’t know,” she heard herself say. “Then it’s worse if you crash and burn.”
“Is that what you always think? That you will?”
Yes. The instant answer startled her. She immediately amended it. “Maybe. You’re the one who has pointed out that we don’t see a lot to make us optimistic.”
“This is different. It’s your sister.”
She didn’t want to think about her sister, who had lied about where she was going and who had driven off a road that led nowhere she should have been. The sister who often seemed to hate Jane as much as she loved her.
“What did you do this afternoon?” she asked, just for something to say.
He told her, talking for long enough that she realized this was why he’d called. He was frustrated, tired and he needed to tell someone.
“It was lucky for the other girl that those people paid attention,” Jane said tentatively.
Clay’s “Yeah” came out hoarse. “But I hoped—”
She nodded even though he couldn’t see.
“Your mom,” he said, surprising her. “Do you remember her very well?”
What a strange thing to ask. Jane didn’t like to talk about her mother. She didn’t like to think about her. But, weirdly, she thought maybe she could tell him. It helped he couldn’t see her, so she wouldn’t give away more than she meant to.
“Yes. Kind of. I mean, I was eleven—I told you that, didn’t I?—so of course I remember her. But I also think I blocked a lot out after she was gone. I was devastated, even though—” Whoa.
“Even though?” he prompted after a moment, his voice a deep, quiet rumble that made her think of a big cat’s purr. Did lions and tigers purr? She had no idea.
“I was an afterthought for her.” Saying it out loud hurt more than she’d expected.
“Just you?” Clay asked. “Or both you and your sister?”
Her fingers tightened on the phone. “Both of us, but especially me. Lissa looks like Mom. Me, I take more after Dad, which does not fill me with joy, I have to tell you.”
“Looks are the smallest part of what we take from our parents, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “In the case of my parents, well, I’m not thrilled to know any part of me came from either of them.”
“That bad, huh?” He sounded tender.
“Dad hit Mom. Us, too, when his mood was right. Or wrong. Mostly we learned to stay out of his way. I didn’t mourn a whole lot when he died.”
“I’m sorry. My father—” Clay cleared his throat. “I told you some about him. Did I say that he’s a cop, too? Over in Linn County.”
Despite the topic, her mouth began to curve. “Is it chance you live on the other side of the mountains from your parents?”
His laugh wa
s short and not all amused. “No. I’m glad to be able to see my family once in a while, but I didn’t want to be close enough for the every-Sunday dinner, and I sure as hell didn’t want to work for the same department my father does.”
“He’s still on the job, then?”
“Yeah.” A wryness in his tone warned of some irony to come. “He’s a sergeant, too.”
“Was he glad when you got promoted?” She suddenly winced, remembering the last time she’d posed a similar question to him, but she didn’t try to take it back, either.
“He said he was, but something changed between us after that. He’s more competitive with me. Happier when he has a chance to jump on something I say.”
Jane thought back and realized he’d cut himself off earlier, not sure he wanted to finish some thought about his father. Because it would offend her? Or bare more than he wanted her to know about him?
“Knowing you has changed how I look at my dad,” Clay said, startling her. This was what he’d hesitated to say. Or hesitated to acknowledge even to himself? “I used to channel him sometimes.” His voice got even gruffer. “Maybe I still do, but...I’m trying.”
Jane’s heart felt like a sponge being wrung out with a ruthless hand.
“That day,” he continued, “what you heard me say about you—I realized later that’s the way my father always talks about women. Even a compliment is wrapped around contempt. I told you I think he really loves my mother, but he doesn’t show it very often. I don’t understand why she puts up with his attitude.”
With an effort, Jane said, “They must have been married a lot of years,” as if that had anything to do with anything.
“Yeah...” He seemed to be thinking. “Heading toward their fortieth anniversary, I think.”