Just Fire

by Dawn Mattox

  “No sign of her. No sign of Logan either. We figure him for the kill.”

  “Why would Logan want to kill a business associate?” Stupid question. He had murdered business associates before.

  Travis mulled the possibilities and then shrugged. “I can think of a dozen reasons, but I don’t know if any of them are right. Bottom line guess would be good business gone bad.”

  That sounded right—guns, money, double crossings. Logan.

  “Sounds like Logan to me too.” I agreed. “They have Quincy, don’t they?” My voice broke under the weight of the question.

  “I hope so,” said Travis. “Bad as that sounds, the alternative could be worse.”

  Travis left me with a clean kitchen and the refrigerator stocked with fresh food. He also left me with a lot of food for thought. Not the least of which were his parting words.

  “Chance’s funeral will be in ten days. I talked to Mark, and we arranged for his body to be released to the mortuary. I also contacted the Army. He will be receiving full military honors.”

  Travis pulled my trigger and I went crazier than a flash mob at a convenience store. “Oh. No. You. Don’t. You can’t. You have no right. I am his wife, and you have no authority. I said ‘no funeral’ and goddammit, I mean no funeral.”

  Travis’s eyes hardened, glittering. His voice lowered. “This isn’t about you, Sunny. Chance’s friends and associates deserve to say goodbye. And Chance deserves the dignity and honor that is due to a great man.”

  I stood there, fuming. Speechless. Helpless. Furious.

  “The various agencies will be in touch along with Chance’s pastor. Also, you or Mark need to contact Chance’s sister. She has a right to know what’s happened and come to her brother’s funeral.” Travis opened the door and looked back with deliberation, adding, “And babe, you shouldn’t curse using God’s name. Chance’s funeral will not be damned.”

  Rage consumed my every waking minute. I was so upset that I forgot the emptiness of my bed. The vacant space filled with anger and betrayal. The lack of respect was unacceptable. I would never forgive Travis. Not ever. By three a.m. I surrendered to sleep. They can have their stupid funeral, I thought. That doesn’t mean I have to attend.

  Monday morning found me driving to work—one day short of the mandatory week-long bereavement leave. Oh well, if Jack chooses not to pay me, it's fine with me. Home was making me crazy. Maybe my work as an advocate, easing someone else’s pain, would help alleviate my own.

  I tried to glide past the dozen or more investigators that worked for the district attorney’s office. It must have been their inherent sixth sense that made them top cops. Somehow, they knew I was there, and their internal GPS systems guided them to my office, one at a time, until I swore if I heard “he was a good man” one more time, I would scream until my vocal cords went up in flames.

  “Bonita—don’t you dare say it! Please. If you care about me, don’t say it.”

  Bonita rolled in, squinting her eyes and squaring her shoulders. “Hey, Chica, all I was going to say is ‘it’s about time you got your butt back here.’ The work is piling up.”

  I took a stab at a smile, and her face grew serious. “I am sorry for your loss,” she said. “Chance was a good man.”

  Duncan was next. It was unavoidable. The sight of me banging my head on my desk caused him great alarm. “Sunny. Dear. Stop that. You’ll hurt yourself.”

  “If you tell me my husband was ‘a good man,’” I threatened, “I am going to quit my job, and I will never see you again.”

  Duncan frowned and drew himself up, standing tall, sticking his thumbs in his pockets. “Personally, I never cared for the man.”

  I had to laugh. Good Lord, I had to laugh. Duncan looked at me as if I was crazy, but he smiled.

  “Duncan, my friend”—I was about to wreck his day—I need to ask you something.”

  “Anything. You know that. Anything at all.” He looked eager like I was going to snap on a leash and take him for a walk. But he wasn’t getting off that easy.

  “Duncan, I have to ask you a hard question. I hope—no, I trust—that you will be honest with me.”

  “Always. You can trust me.”

  “Duncan, I need to ask you about those weird things that keep showing up in my inbox. I talked to Forrest Woods, the brand inspector. He told me that you picked up the evidence, the charm he found at a crime scene from his office.”

  Okay, so the only offense turned out to be a goat that probably ended up skewered and barbecued, but Duncan didn’t need to know that.

  “There wasn’t any crime scene,” he corrected me.

  “It was a ‘violation.’ An innocent goat was slaughtered in that canyon.”

  Duncan’s eyes lit and I gave his hand and encouraging squeeze. He lowered his eyes, pursed his lips and relented. “Okay. I’ll confess everything,” he said, his chin going up as his Adam’s apple bobbed down, “even—even if it means losing you—I mean my job.”

  You pick a tiny scab, and you never know what is going to come out. Sometimes a lot of bad stuff has been building just below the surface.

  “It’s all my fault. Everything. It was never Paige. All those things—the spider, the eight ball, the tarot card—I put them there.”

  I was stunned. Floored. “You what?”

  Duncan cracked faster than a fat man skating on thin ice.

  “Okay.” My mouth went dry, and all I could do was swallow repeatedly. The information stuck in my esophagus like a bad case of acid reflux. Finally clearing my throat, I asked, “Why? Why would you scare the crap out of me?”

  His head drooped, and shoulders slumped. If Duncan had a tail, he would have tucked it between his legs. Any priest would have been thrilled at such a heartfelt show of contrition, but I was not inclined to be forgiving.

  “I did it because . . . because . . . uh . . . because I love you, Sunny.”

  Okay, I’ve heard that love is strange, but this was freaky-weird. I was no longer seeing a roly-poly St. Bernard puppy. Duncan has morphed into Cujo, Stephen King’s dog from hell.

  Duncan squirmed as much as the tight-fitting chair allowed. “Paige started it. She started freaking out when she thought you were going to refuse to work ritual abuse cases. She needed a way to make you stay involved. It was her idea, but I did it.” A flush crept across his cheeks. “I guess she was right. She had you figured out. But she didn’t have me figured out,” he added with emphasis.

  My brain had come to a screeching halt upon hearing Paige’s name, but Duncan was on a roll.

  “After Paige died and I almost lost you. I couldn’t stop. I don’t know why it was important to her that you work those horrible cases, but I kept it up because . . . I thought you would like me more. I thought maybe you’d even respect me if I could protect you and help solve the mystery.”

  The phone rang, and it was Gayle at the front desk. “Good morning, Sunny. Just a heads up to let you know that Mark Anderson is on his way to your office.”

  Mark was at the door before my phone hit the receiver.

  I turned a loaded pair of hostile eyes on Duncan and fired, “We’re not done, mister. We will finish this conversation after I talk to Mark.”

  Duncan looked even more sorrowful as he rose to leave. “I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you or frighten you. I have to work down in the fraud unit today.”

  “How appropriate. Now get out!”

  The men exchanged places, and Mark entered carrying a white file box.

  When Duncan closed the door, Mark set the box on my desk and came around to give me a little kiss on the cheek. “How are you doing, sweetheart? You shouldn’t have come back to work so soon.”

  Mark still looked tired, but perhaps that was part of his job description. Maybe it was part of mine too. I tended to avoid self-audits while looking in the mirror.

  Mark brought me up to speed on the investigation that followed the events in the tunnel. Basically, he recapped everything Tr
avis had already told me, and then he handed me the box that contained Chance’s personal belongings.

  Mark and I both held the box for a moment, our hands clutching two different sides of treasured memories. We held it in a long embrace, our eyes connected through an emotional fog. Then Mark let go. “The invitations have gone out to law enforcement. Mac is coordinating with the military. Is there anything I can do?” Mark asked.

  I sniffled. “Yeah. Keep Mercy for me a little while longer, okay? Chance would like that—his two best friends working together.”

  Mark gave a silent nod of assent and hugged me, holding me tight. Then he was gone.

  I tried to focus on my work but had been completely derailed between Duncan’s revelation and the contents of the box on my desk. I stared at the box, captivated by its contents. Our wedding picture rested on top. Chance’s eyes were shining with joy—sky blue, crystal clear, as pure as the water beneath the Tahoe Queen as she steamed her way around Emerald Bay. I looked younger, as radiant as the sun whose warmth reflected off the people around us. The captain of the ship was asking, “Do you promise . . . until death do you part?”

  Tears formed in my eyes. We thought we would live forever, Chance and I —or at least grow old together. Fate or destiny or misfortune had intervened. I traced the outline of my husband reliving our special day when I sensed the presence of another person. Duncan had returned and was standing in the doorway, his eyebrows peaked in wonder as he stared in shock and dismay, looking genuinely hurt.

  I looked up at Duncan as if stirred from a dream. “What?”

  Duncan had tears in his eyes too. “You really did love him, didn’t you?” he asked, incredulous.

  My eyes widened, and jaw dropped. “What kind of question is that? Of course, I loved him. He was my husband.”

  The lines on Duncan’s face deepened into a scowl. “He was unfaithful. He cheated on you. You told me he was ‘sort of a husband.’”

  I couldn’t explain it to someone who hadn’t been there. I couldn’t tell him what it means to wholly give your heart to someone only to have it ripped out later. I couldn’t account for the love and mercy and grace of God that had performed CPR when He breathed new life into a dying relationship. I couldn’t describe that kind of love. There were no words.

  “Chance wasn’t perfect. No one really is. I guess you could say I loved the good in him.” A lame stab at trying to explain the impossible.

  Duncan’s jaw quivered in anger. “I don’t believe you. You didn’t love him! You’re not even going to his funeral.”

  His words felt like a hard slap that set me reeling. If Duncan really cared about me as he claimed, he would have understood. He would get that everyone—every single person—has a breaking point. I had just survived birth, death, and dismemberment. Being frozen, mauled, burned, and nearly drowned. Quincy gone and Paige and Kenny dead. My beloved husband dying in my arms. And there stood Duncan, judging me as if I were no more than a child acting pouty and throwing a temper tantrum.

  I lifted my chin, seething. “How dare you?” I snapped. For the second time, I ordered him to “get out!”

  Duncan didn’t move. He stood firm, his gaze and voice unwavering and determined, jaw thrust forward as he nodded. “The truth hurts, doesn’t it?” he challenged, squaring his shoulders as he stood tall and resolute. “You really disappoint me,” said Duncan. Then he turned and walked away.

  CHAPTER 43

  Morning finally arrived, following the longest night of my life.

  Duncan had been right, of course. What was I thinking? By not burying Chance that I could keep him alive? That I could stop death by refusing to acknowledge it? I tossed in the bed, turning over for the millionth time. More likely, I had been teetering on the brink of insanity—one more funeral and I’d be §5150’d.

  Wrapping my arms around Chance’s pillow, I held it tight and breathed deeply. His essence lingered as I took in the last traces of his physical being. I wanted to lay there forever.

  Speak to me Lord, had been the midnight prayer as my body finally surrendered to sleep. And my prayer was answered as dawn slid through the slats of the blinds to wake me. The thought emerged; our days on earth are but a series of funerals—of births and deaths—until we, ourselves, lie down for the last time. Life happens in between.

  Today was an in-between day. Time to get up and say goodbye. Another chance, another opportunity to say, “I love you.”

  I got up and called Mac.

  Mac picked me up, and we drove mostly in silence. A small bottle of water and a packet of tissues fit in my purse. I was as ready as I would ever be.

  We headed to Harrison Stadium, the perfect location to accommodate a crowd. Fire engines lined both sides of the road facing one another; they stood vigilant with lights quietly flashing, like rows of gleaming angels dressed in red. The parking lot was jammed. Hundreds of people were already there, in the bleachers and on the field. The stars and stripes, the California bear, and US Army flag all snapped in a brisk wind above the stadium. A color guard stood at attention at the entryway to the field, dressed in formal black coats and dress hats with their white-gloved hands wrapped around polished rifles.

  Chairs were set up in front of a stage amid an ocean of flowers. Behind the stage sat the Kiowa Search and Rescue helicopter—the same one that had carried my husband and Mercy to me on the day we met— and today, would take him away.

  A large formal portrait of Chance was mounted on one side of the podium. He was dressed in his sheriff’s uniform, looking proud and handsome. The other side of the podium held a double row of chairs filled with VIPs. Jack Savage and Perry Atchison were among them.

  All five members of our little church choir stood patiently waiting against the backdrop. For all of their shortcomings—for we were just people, after all—when the chips are down, there are no more selfless, or compassionate, or dependable people than my church family.

  Front and center rested the casket, draped with an American flag.

  I couldn’t breathe. My God, I mouthed. No wonder Cali had hidden behind a privacy window. I can’t do this. Too many deaths. Too many funerals. Way too many people.

  My heart raced ahead of my feet. I needed to run—run to the solitude and sanctuary of my beloved mountains. I spun, pulling away from Mac, our arms stretched wide when I was intercepted.

  Travis took my hand from Mac, saying, “She’s with me.” He led me toward the front row of the seating that faced the podium, sparing me from the nightmare spectacle of facing the crowd. “You look beautiful. I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered as we walked.

  Travis directed me to my chair and turned to introduce me to an elegant woman dressed in black that was seated next to him. I immediately recognized her from Paige’s memorial service.

  “Sunny, I’d like you to meet my friend—”

  She reached out her hand.

  The microphone crackled, and the church choir sang.

  “If You say go

  We will go . . .

  If You say wait

  We will wait . . .

  If You say step out on the water

  And they say it can't be done,

  We'll fix our eyes on You and we will come . . .”

  I politely let go of her hand and sat down, feeling somewhat dismayed that Travis would bring his lover to Chance’s funeral.

  Mac opened with prayer—Isaiah 41:10. “Do not fear, for I am with you. Do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

  Mark was up next. He brought Mercy up on stage. She sat obediently next to him with her eyes trained on me. Mark detailed Chance’s professional life. Army: Special Ops and K-9 unit. Then he recapped Chance’s service with Butte County Sheriff’s Office—Search and Rescue—and how Chance had mastered the various specialties one by one: K9, air operations, over the edge, search, swift-water rescue, winter, and remote area rescue.

  No w
onder so many people had come to honor him. I only hoped that my presence would honor him as well. I was trying.

  The ceremony went on and on and on. At one point, Travis reminded me to drink some water.

  Finally, the piercing squeal of a lone bagpipe broke through my numbness with the haunting tune of “Amazing Grace.”

  The honor guard snapped to attention. Seven of them assumed a position and fired their guns three times, for the twenty-one-gun salute. Travis prompted me to accept the folded flag from Mark. The tears I had held in check released without my even knowing it. A bitter wind blew, and I could feel their cold tracks as they trailed down my face.

  The casket was escorted and loaded carefully onto the Kiowa. Two other helicopters appeared as if by magic, hovering above the stadium right on cue. The Kiowa revved its engine and thundered upward to pause for a moment with the others—forming a perfect triangle. Then, the Kiowa broke away, taking Chance away from me . . . and home to Yankee Hill Cemetery, forever.

  CHAPTER 44

  My bed wasn’t empty for long. Mercy, the Wonder Dog, had become Mercy the Bed Hog. She took up two-thirds of the bed, and Kissme and I competed for what was left. Better the bed too full than too empty. At least I was sleeping at night without the help of prescription meds.

  Work was a blessing, and I buried myself in my tasks as January came to a close.

  Every day I received new cases of domestic violence, involving battered women who’d had their internal navigators disrupted in much the same way a solar flare can fry the delicate circuitry in satellites, disabling their guidance systems. Domestic violence wounds a woman in her most private emotional place—the place that once harbored the light of trust becomes a black hole of betrayal. Victims of domestic violence need love, guidance, and protection until they can heal and rediscover their true north.

  Sexual assault cases came in too. They were fewer in number. Victims of rape who had been violated in the most intimate of places—the heart of their sexuality—a place designed by God to experience heights of passion, sometimes culminating in the greatest miracle a human being can experience—the bringing forth of a new life born of love.