Just Fire

by Dawn Mattox

  If I don’t help her, who will?

  I knew the answer. I didn’t want to know the answer, but I knew it nonetheless. The truth is like that—inescapable. Truth can be filed but not deleted. Just an hour ago I had hobbled into Mental Health wanting to be the problem instead of the solution. I wanted Dano to prescribe a pill that would take away the pain of my circumstances. I had longed to lay it all down. No more trials. No more guilt. No more death. No more insanity.

  But now, on the even longer walk back to my office, came a great realization. Conviction left no room for doubt that I was born to be—and I will always be—an advocate. I could no more alter this fact than a wild salmon could sprout wings. Some things were simply written into our DNA. I smiled and embraced God’s plan and purpose for my life.

  Not only was I Taylor’s advocate, but there was Quincy to consider. I had turned my back on Quincy while Chance and Travis had both held to hope, frequently alluding to those men of faith as “Dumb and Dumber.” Now was my time—time to grab onto faith, accept the gifts God gave me, and start thinking for myself.

  By the time I reached my office, I was footsore but vibrantly alive, analyzing instead of disassociating.

  The question still begged to be answered: Why would Paige kill herself, with a heavy emphasis on the word why. After all, I mused, suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. I asked myself again: What was so terrible for Paige that death was preferable?

  Bonita dropped by to press me for information about Grace. Good as my word, I provided Bonita with Grace’s new address in Connecticut. If she wanted to subpoena Grace for a trial, she could. Whoever was after Grace was really only guilty of breaking and entering. Without Grace’s cooperation, it would be impossible to prove that Grace was in fear for her life.

  I tried to make it up to Bonita by giving her another SRA case, the latest information on Taylor. Within hours, Bonita confirmed what Dano had already told me—that Taylor had been picked up under Code §5150—a code that provided a legal means of detaining a person who has not committed a crime, for up to seventy-two hours of mental health observation. The criteria for §5150 detention is that the detainee is believed to be homicidal, suicidal, or unable to meet her basic needs. Like most victims of ritual abuse, because Taylor had a long history with mental health, she now lacked credibility with law enforcement.

  “Bonita,” I asked, “why do you think Paige killed herself?”

  Bonita eased her large frame onto the sofa and studied me as if trying to read between the lines. “What do you think?” she asked. “You knew her better than anyone.” Her answer gave meaning to the term “cop-out.”

  “Thanks, Sherlock.”

  “Que es Sherlock? Why d’you keep calling me Sherlock?”

  “It’s a compliment. You’re an investigator, and he was the best,” I fibbed. “I’m asking you because I want your opinion.”

  Bonita cupped her chin and ran her thumb along her jaw. “Amanda told me about Paige—the kidnapping and prostitution. Maybe she never got over it. She seemed depressed to me. Distant. Maybe more so as her time drew near. She seemed that way to me anyhow.” Bonita shrugged. “That’s my guess. I’m no shrink.”

  I asked Duncan the same question when he came waltzing in, no longer on crutches and the cast off of his arm. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing my name tattooed on his forearm. “Duncan, we need to talk about that tattoo. But first I need to ask you a question.”

  “Fire away.”

  “Did you do something different to your hair?” I cocked an eyebrow. That wasn’t what I had intended to ask, but something about Duncan had changed. Instead of 1950’s buzz cut, his hair had grown out and was finger-styled with gel on the top. Extremely attractive.

  He got that shiny-faced little-boy glow. “You like it?”

  “Very much.” I shook my head to clear it and get back to where I started. “It looks great on you. But that’s not the question I wanted to ask. The question I want to ask you is, why do you think Paige killed herself?”

  Duncan sat in the same spot that Bonita had, and his hunches weren’t a whole lot different from hers. “Paige seemed really sad. It must’ve been tough carrying a child and not knowing who the father was. Maybe she felt abandoned all over again.”

  I couldn’t sympathize with the unknown father theory. “She could have bought a paternity test kit at Walmart any day of the week.”

  “Oh.” Duncan’s thoughtful frown gave way to a look of elation as he leaned forward. “Maybe she was running from something. Or . . . or someone. Why else would someone blow up the funeral home?” His eyebrows danced in animated excitement. “Maybe it was the baby’s father that blew the place up. You know—domestic violence?”

  Yes, I know domestic violence.

  Duncan’s cell phone rang, and he reluctantly excused himself before we could talk about the tattoo.

  I was going to keep asking until I figured out the answer. Kenny had taught me about the power of observation. He told me about a group of elders who sat in a circle inside a lodge, with an eagle feather placed in the center of the circle. Each person took a turn describing the feather as they went around the circle. While their descriptions were similar, no two people saw the same thing. Although the feather was one object, it had many sides. Each viewpoint was unique and yet a part of the whole.

  Perhaps everybody was a little bit right, and eventually, I would get the whole picture.

  I continued to mull it over as I cooked a special dinner for Chance and me. The house came alive with the savory smell of pot roast with all the trimmings. I then took a break and pulled up my e-mail.

  My stomach did a slow roll.

  CHAPTER 36

  “WHAT?! What? Fuc . . . fuc . . . fu . . . fff.” I tried not to curse, but the shock was the emotional equivalent of having my fingers slammed in a car door, and something bad was going to come out of my mouth. The stream of half-curses fizzled as I banged my fist on the desk. The water in my glass sloshed as if rocked by an earthquake, the computer shuddered as if attacked by a virus, and the mouse jumped in terror.

  One of the beautiful things about the church I attended was the faithfulness of the congregation to pray for one another. Whenever a person had a need, they simply sent an e-mail to one of the church ministries, and it would be promptly forwarded to caring church members. I had always felt it a joy and a privilege to pray for my church family, but I was furious over the outrageous e-mail in front of me.

  Please pray for Sunny McLane—healing from her friend’s suicide, her amputated fingers and toes, the dead child, and restoration for her troubled marriage.

  The prayer chain had become a gossip chain, leaving me so upset that I had to dial Ashley’s number four times before getting it right.

  Ashley stood at the door looking like Mauna Kea, the world’s biggest mountain—on the verge of eruption. I hugged all three of her and realized with a pang how much I missed the times we had once shared before we literally grew apart. Gone were the carefree activities, back when we rode bikes, kayaked, and jogged. The only thing we seemed to exercise now was our mouths, and the only “secrets” we shared was gossip.

  My hug was followed by my scowl as I reached for her arm and hauled her over to my computer, pointing a righteous finger of indignation at the message on the screen.

  “Did you do this?” My voice was high and tight with suspicion. Ashley’s eyes widened as she read the message, her brows bouncing up and down like a bobber with a trout on the line. Trained to observe and assess people, I determined her innocence before she opened her mouth.

  “Wow Sunny, you didn’t lose any fingers!”

  “Brilliant deduction, my dear Watson.

  She should team up with Sherlock at work.

  “So who the heck wrote it?”

  “Ashley’s eyes grew as round as a pair of communion wafers. “Not me. I didn’t do it, but you know I’m praying for you.”

  “Who would do this to me
? This is the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to me.”

  “Really?” She looked dubious. “I would’ve thought it was the time you—”

  “Ashley. Stay on topic. Why would someone write this horrible stuff about me? This is private—personal. How am I supposed to ever go back to church?”

  “I don’t know. A lot of people have been dropping out of church lately. Oma is one of them.”

  “Oma dropped out of church? How is that possible? I thought that she had something going with Mac.”

  “Yeah, I think that was the problem.”

  “The problem?”

  “Yeah . . . Oma had something going on with Mac.”

  “That wasn’t exactly a secret.”

  Ashley rolled her eyes and then rubbed her belly suggestively and restated, “She had something going on with Mac.”

  I was learning a lot this week about how a sentence could change its meaning simply by having its emphasis changed. One minute the implication was that Oma was sweet on Mac, and the next minute I had visions of Oma bouncing between the sheets with Mac. My eyes popped, and Ashley confirmed my suspicions with a sage nod of her head.

  My scowl picked up where it had left off. “I intend to find out who sent this e-mail, and when I do, I’m going to make sure that they are the next ones to drop out of church instead of people like Oma and me.”

  Hands on my hips, I showed the offending e-mail to Chance. All he did was shake his head and say, “Delete it.”

  “That’s it? Don’t you care that we are being slandered by the church? You don’t want answers?”

  “Yes, I do want answers, but not to this. This means nothing to me.”

  “How can you say that? Did you skim through it, or did you actually read it?”

  Chance shrugged it off. “I don’t believe in karma, but I do believe in the law of sowing and reaping. Plant seeds of kindness, and reap a harvest back. Plants seeds of gossip, and one day you’ll be on the end of the ugly stick.”

  Ouch! That hurt. But then, the truth always does.

  “They will get theirs,” said Chance with an air of confidence. “What I want now is some of mine.”

  Kneeling next to my chair, Chance placed a hand on my thigh. His smile spread and blue eyes kindled, inviting me to soar with him as he brushed my hair back from the angry red scars that marred my face. Reaching up, he lovingly kissed each claw mark, pausing to linger a bit longer and kissing a bit deeper with each one, breathing the words “I love you” each time he came up for air. The passion was unexpected and long overdue. He worked his way to the top of my ear, which was significantly shorter than it had been before frostbite, tugging gently with soft lips as he breathed warmth into my ear. We had not made love since my rescue and subsequent surgeries.

  Chance rose to his feet and said, “Does this look like we’re having problems with our marriage?”

  The glaring e-mail that had so raptly held my attention began to dissolve and fade into indifference under the warm glow of growing passion. Embers ignited, ready to be consumed. I didn’t want to go there in my mind, but since Chance had been unfaithful to me before I was maimed and scarred, I felt a kind of quiet desperation to know that he still desired me, wanting me in the way a man longs for a beautiful woman.

  I shook my head no, answering his question about the negative state of our marriage and wrapped my arms around his neck. Chance quickly lifted me from the chair and carried me through the house to our bed—where Kissme lay curled in a ball, indulging in her sixteen-hour-a-day beauty sleep. Raising a reluctant head, she growled at the prospect of being tossed off the bed.

  What is it about not having sex in front of my dog? Kissme was not only booted off the bed, but Chance also locked her out of the bedroom as well.

  Our laughter didn’t diminish the mood, if anything it refreshed our passion for life in the way an unexpected summer shower gladdens the earth, teasing it to create.

  One kiss at a time, one button at a time, we undressed each other for the first time, again.

  “Chance?”

  We lay beneath the sheets in a lover’s repose, enjoying the closeness, the softness, and the warmth of each other’s bodies.

  “Um-hum?”

  “Why do you think Paige killed herself?”

  Chance rolled his head back on his pillow with a weary sigh, sounding like a man whose burden had returned to his tired shoulders.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you. At least not now. We can talk about it later.”

  We were more than interrelational; we were interdependent. We had, as our faith instructed us, become one person. I didn’t think either of us could fully exist without the other. At least, I hoped not.

  “Hey, you don’t have to be sorry for sharing what’s in your heart. That’s what I’m here for.” Chance held me close, stroking my skin in the same familiar pattern that I sometimes used to calm Kissme. “I may not always have the answers, but I will always listen,” Chance said, his voice as soft and inviting as the pillow beneath my head.

  “I keep trying to figure out why—why”—I emphasized—“would Paige kill herself? I don’t get it. I should have asked Danielle.”

  “I doubt that Danielle would have your answer. They didn’t know each other.”

  “But Paige had everything to live for.” The words tumbled out of my mouth. “She was young. She had my gun to protect herself from whoever was after us. She had a brand-new baby to love and raise. I can’t figure out why she would kill herself. Are you positive it was suicide? Not staged to look like a suicide?”

  “Absolutely,” said Chance, pausing to collect his thoughts. “Maybe it wasn’t any one single thing. Maybe it was a combination of things. You told me that right after Paige found out she was pregnant, she asked you to raise her baby. She certainly seemed depressed. Cali said that Paige wasn’t eating or sleeping properly and that she never could verify whether she was under a doctor’s care. I’m with you, sweetheart—trying to fit the pieces together. There’s so much we don’t know about her past.”

  “Long past, or when she was held by the cartel?”

  Chance shrugged. “Maybe both. I keep thinking the truth lies somewhere along the line that connects her past to the present.” I could hear the gears of his mind whirring in the silence between us. “The heart of the matter, the big question for me—and I don’t mean to sound hard-hearted—is why this . . . this hit man . . . would want a baby. Maybe Quincy is the key.”

  The darkness of the night seemed to deepen. The gloomy thoughts were burdensome. It was as though our down comforter had suddenly been transformed into a dozen woolen quilts.

  We lay in silence for a while, and then, reaching for Chance’s hand and taking it in mine, I moved it upward to the soft swell of the curves that covered my beating heart. Chance’s eyes kindled blue-hot, and once again we surrendered dark thoughts of death to a pleasurable erotic celebration of life.

  CHAPTER 37

  Duncan strolled into my office with his smile stretching from one large ear to the other. “Notice anything new?” He wagged his eyebrows suggestively and did a pirouette that resembled a St. Bernard chasing its tail more than a ballet dancer. The newest Duncan looked rugged and handsome—nothing like the geeky nerd that had walked through the door only a couple of months ago.

  “You lost weight, and you’ve been working out.” Those were two wild guesses that I knew were safe bets.

  “How did you know? Can you tell? Ah . . . I bet Bonita told you.”

  “You got me, tiger. I confess—it was Bonita. She said you guys have been lifting weights over at the gym, and that you’re really glad to be done wearing splints and bandages. Better take it slow though. I’d hate to see you reinjure yourself.”

  Duncan lit up and nodded his head. I had to resist an urge to scratch him behind the ears.

  “You wouldn’t believe how much that woman can lift,” said Duncan. “I swear, I think Bonita could hold my Harley ove
r her head if she wanted to.”

  I nodded politely, having no problem at all imagining Bonita weight lifting a Harley, even a Harley with her girlfriend straddling it.

  Tapping my pen against the desk, I asked, “So, what’s up?”

  The façade dropped as seriousness hijacked the joy from his face.

  My features melted with his. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Duncan glanced back over his shoulder and shut the door with an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Sunny. It’s just that I . . . I found another one. Another weird thing in your inbox.” He fished around in the pocket of his sports coat and pulled out a baby charm. A charm that looked exactly like the one I had given Paige. The same shiny silver heart with a little footprint etching that was identical to the one Forrest had found when investigating the blood moon animal sacrifice.

  My mouth opened, silently forming the word where. I searched Duncan’s gentle brown eyes and was surprised to see them retreat before my gaze.

  Duncan wet his lips, pulled a chair close to me, and sat down. Reaching over, he took my hand and pressed the charm into my palm.

  “It was in your inbox,” he whispered. “You think it means something? Do you want me to put it back?”

  “No. No . . . thank you. I’ll keep it.”

  “Who do you think . . .” Duncan leaned forward and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial tone. Too late. My mind had already taken flight, backward in time.

  High school was a trial, both from the pretty girls in their makeup and the football players who liked to show off for the pretty made-up girls.

  The kids were calling me names while playing keep-away with my backpack—part of the usual high school bullying activities while waiting for the bus.