“Another incident—drug bust gone bad. That was the FBI, right in D.C. There was a raid on a crack house; four there were killed.”
“George is going to get right on that. What else?”
“There have been murder and accidental deaths on Mother’s Day throughout the country and time, but those are the most pertinent to us and the police that I can find. Jackson, you’re the head of the Krewe. There’s no reason for you to be especially concerned for me.”
“There’s—me,” Corby said.
They hadn’t known he was standing by the door. He hurried over to Angela and hugged her tightly.
“I’ll be careful,” she promised.
*
I was glad to be there; glad to see what was going on myself. That meant, however, that I wasn’t on the street.
I was going to take a cruise around the neighborhood at some point in time.
And that wasn’t hard; I could explain what I was doing to Kelly. While she sometimes slept at the foot of Corby’s bed, she was never in the bedroom with Angela and Jackson. They’d been married some time, but in Kelly’s words, “Those two can still go at it!”
I slipped out that night. At first, I saw nothing. Then, there was movement. He was there again. His mask was black and his hoodie was black. And he was by a power pole just watching the house. Then I saw him pull out a gun and point it at the house.
I had to do something, but what, I didn’t know.
Saturday dawned. The family had breakfast together, laughing their way through it. Then Jackson and Corby took Kelly for a walk.
I stayed behind.
That afternoon, Jackson went out to work with George. They were interviewing people who had to do with the Mother’s Day drug bust a few years back.
I didn’t like it. I didn’t like her being home alone. But the house did have a good security system.
And she had passed the FBI academy and had been a damned good agent for years.
I tried to reassure myself.
Jackson was home from work. They played Monopoly during the afternoon. Corby and Jackson talked about cooking; Angela suggested sweetly that they just order out—restaurants all around were offering delicious dinners with great prices for delivery.
She was at the computer again after dinner.
That was when I made my first breakthrough.
I excused myself to Kelly, first. And I sat next to Angela. I placed my nose on her lap and whined softly.
I saw her frown and sit straighter, touching her lap.
She’d felt me!
But she rose and stretched and asked Jackson, “Have you . . . sensed anyone here? In the house?”
Jackson looked perplexed. “You mean a ghost? No. And honestly, between us, if a ghost were here trying to reach us for any reason, one of us would know.”
“Of course,” she said.
The Maryland police reported back; George reported back. They’d done their best, but everyone they had questioned denied making phone calls and without more . . .
They had to know more about the man in the street.
Sunday morning dawned. Mother’s Day. Jackson came out of the room, spoke with Corby, and together they headed into the bedroom with gifts. Corby was quite a little artist. He’d done a drawing of the family—Angela looking very pregnant in the sketch. It came with a caption that read, “Our family—with my little sibling hiding in my mom’s tummy!”
It was such a beautiful scene. Kelly leaned against me sobbing in dog fashion.
For an ugly dog, I thought she was beautiful.
And now that they were all up. Jackson decreed that all was well and handled at Krewe headquarters; it was a family day.
Breakfast was omelets. Angela made them, thank God, Kelly told me—with plenty of bacon, and, of course, Kelly was invited to share in the bacon.
Then Angela got to pick the movie. She didn’t choose anything too sappy, but chose a very old favorite, The Princess Bride. After that they played Trivial Pursuit, which started them all laughing, followed by Charades. And during that, Kelly and I were laughing as well.
When Jackson and Corby went to pick up the evening meal Angela had chosen, I was scared. But the house was locked. The alarm system was on.
Angela couldn’t help herself; she sat at the computer. This time when I put my head on her lap, she felt it and didn’t deny it.
She looked down at Kelly. “Hey! Have you got a friend in here? I wonder who he is, hm? I haven’t fell him around before.”
Kelly barked her agreement. I think she understood.
“Well, he’s welcome, of course,” she said. And went back to work. She suddenly looked at the screen intently.
“I’m an idiot!” she murmured. “It was me . . . and it was just a few years ago!”
Of course I didn’t know what she was talking about.
It couldn’t have been her. She didn’t do bad things.
“Oh, Kelly,” she said, probably really just talking aloud, but might as well throw the dog’s name out there. “Oh, no! I’ve got to get a hold of Jackson.”
She pulled out her phone. Jackson must have answered right away.
“Jackson, do you remember Shelby Morrison?”
I strained to hear his reply. I was almost on her lap. If she felt me, she didn’t give it away at that moment; she was probably too concerned with the information she had for him.
“Sure. The woman is in prison. She poisoned her husband.”
“Right. It was about three years ago, a ridiculously easy case because we were the Krewe, and the husband had worked for a politician who was friends with Adam. He knew all about it and right after his funeral, his ghost just stepped into our offices.”
“And we had to prove it,” Jackson said. “Yes, I remember, she had two sons. They were more horrified by her being put into prison than they were by the fact their father was dead.”
“Yes, which is making me wonder now. I mean, we investigated, of course. But there were no incidences of police being called to the house for domestic disputes. The children were never in emergency rooms . . . there was nothing to suggest she killed him in self-defense. The M.E. said she had systematically poisoned him with bits of rat poison over time.”
“Oh, Lord, Angela—you were the one who chatted her up at her gym, pretending to be abused.”
“I’m going to go and see her,” Angela said.
“Hey, wait, what—”
“I was never happy about it, Jackson. There was always something . . . wrong. But we’ve had so many cases since then . . . Jackson, I have to see what is wrong, and if something is really wrong, I have to fix it!”
“Angela, slow down. You’re an agent—”
“And now I’m a mom, too. For another mom, for her kids, I have to fix this.”
“Angela! It’s Mother’s Day. Corby and I will be right back. Don’t—"
“I’ll be armed,” she promised.
She hung up; the phone rang again and she ignored it. She checked her Glock and slid her little holster into the back of her pants.
Angela might have been home in the lockdown, but she still dressed every day and she grabbed her jacket.
Kelly let out a mournful bark.
She looked at her and said, “I’ll be right back, buddy. But I have to do this!”
She headed to the door. I looked at Kelly.
“I’m running, lass. I’ll get myself in that car.”
Angela made phone calls, arranging to get into the prison for an interview with the woman. I sat next to her watching the street, ever vigilant.
She smiled suddenly as she drove. Her eyes were still on the road, but she spoke to me.
“I know you’re there,” she said softly. “And you’re a dog. I don’t know what kind, but you must have been a very clever boy—or girl.”
I barked once and her smile deepened.
“Boy?” she asked.
I barked a yes.
Then as she drove, she we
nt through just about every breed of dog known to man—including mutt—before she got to Irish wolfhound.
“I always wanted an Irish wolfhound,” she said. “But I can’t buy a dog when so many need to be rescued, so . . . well, welcome. And thank you. You’ve been looking out for me, right?”
I barked again.
“Stick tight and tell me what you think,” she said.
She turned in her gun at the prison and signed all the right papers. She was brought to a small interview room.
Shelby Morrison wasn’t shackled; she wasn’t considered to be a dangerous prisoner. She looked sad and tired rather than lethal. Her gray hair was curly; her blue eyes were steady and a bit resentful as she looked at Angela.
“Well, what have we here?” Shelby asked.
“I think one of your sons is going to get in trouble,” Angela told her. “It’s Mother’s Day. One of them is planning something. And I don’t want to see one of them wind up in here, too. And sons love their mothers, but they usually love their fathers, too. Your boys didn’t seem to care that he was dead; they cared a lot that you were going to prison.”
Shelby leaned back, looking at Angela. “When you tricked me by wearing that wire, I suggested if you were too damned scared to leave an abuser, feeling he’d come after you no matter where you tried to hide, I told you poison was a way out.” She sighed. “We really thought it looked like a heart attack. Your recording is what put me in here, you know.”
“You did kill your husband. And that’s murder,” Angela said softly. “I just don’t want to see bad come from bad. Is there anything else at all you can tell me that I could present to the prosecutor? He didn’t beat you.”
The woman sighed. “He didn’t beat me,” she said softly. “Not physically. But in a way, words can be as cruel. I was worthless, but I could live with that. It was what he did to the kids that drove me to it, and . . .” She broke off wincing.
“What?”
Shelby shook her head.
“Please, I’m trying to help you.”
“You tricked me and recorded me.”
“That’s my job! You’d killed a man.”
Shelby was silent.
Oh!” Angela whispered. “You were . . . you were helped. One of the kids helped you.”
“No, no! No—not, not on purpose! I never meant for Jerry to die . . . I wanted him sick. I wanted time to get far, far away. He kept telling the boys they couldn’t do anything right; they were ugly. They were stupid. They were going to wind up on the streets. They couldn’t play with their friends and they couldn’t play video games . . . he was cruel and brutal to them, without ever touching them. When he was sick, I was going to get away!”
“But arsenic—doctors would have found it in his system.”
“No. Because they discovered that we had contaminated water. We would have all tested positive—the water was bad. He wasn’t—sick enough. I was just trying to make him sick so he would have had to have been hospitalized for a long time, and there were already lawsuits in our neighborhood against a factory and . . . I just wanted him out of the picture for a few days so that I could get a lawyer and disappear with the boys!”
Angela said quietly, “But one of the kids finished him off?”
“But not on purpose! I had a cake that I was dividing up and . . . yes. He was just supposed to have a piece, enough to add to the problem with the water so that . . . so that he’d be sick! He was being a jerk—saying he made the money, if he wanted the whole damned cake, he’d have it. Joey gave him the whole thing. He just didn’t know. And he was only fifteen at the time and . . .” She broke off, shaking her head. “After I talked to you, I just confessed, and I was given a plea bargain. Please, if you have any compassion at all, leave this all as it is. I don’t want my son in prison for my deeds!”
Angela looked at her. Then she stood up. “Your son isn’t going to go to prison. Not if I can help it. But he loves you so much. I must stop whatever he’s planning. And so help me, you still deserve prison time because—though your circumstances might have been horrible—you did poison a man. But we’ll do what we can. Thank you for agreeing to see me now.”
Angela started to leave. The woman called after her, “Please, please! If anything, save Joey for me!”
Angela retrieved her gun and signed out. We headed home. She was thoughtful.
“Can you find him for me?” she asked.
I realized she was talking to me.
I woofed out a “yes.”
Her phone rang; it was Jackson. She winced and answered it. He was upset; I could hear that. But she answered him with calm assurance and determination.
“I can divert a disaster, I think,” she said. “Trust me, Jackson. I know what I’m doing.”
I wasn’t sure what he said then, but she told him, “Yes, I’m coming home. I’ll be home soon. It’s Mother’s Day, yes, I’ll be there soon.” She ended the call. “It’s Mother’s Day. And she was wrong, and she needs to pay . . . but she’s a mom who is paying, and I’m . . . maybe I am wrong, but I have to do this. Maybe for myself.”
I didn’t know what she was doing. But she parked back by her home in Alexandria and yet didn’t head for the house.
She looked at me and smiled. “Wow. You are a beautiful dog!”
And she saw me, Of course, she saw me.
*
Jackson had no idea of what his wife was up to; she just scared him stiff.
He tried to be reassuring to Corby, telling him they’d get the dinner they’d just brought back all set up as soon as Angela was back.
He did a pretty good job. Corby nodded and headed to play his games.
“Love you, Dad,” he said.
“Love you, too, son.”
He waited, and then looked out the window. And looking down the street, he saw her car.
His heart stopped and he saw Kelly hanging at the front window—waiting for her, too.
The dog looked anxious—if a dog could look anxious.
“You stay here, girl—I’m going out,” he said. “Watch Corby!”
He checked his own weapon and headed out the front door.
*
The good thing in all this is that a stalker seldom expects to be stalked in return.
Yes, Angela’s stalker was out there. We had a name now. Joey Morrison.
And yes, I could find him. But when he realized Angela was after him, he tried to back away first, sliding back from tree to tree along the street.
But then he reached the curb. And apparently, he had no choice.
That day, he was in navy—blue jeans, I should say, navy hoodie and mask.
He jumped out from behind the tree. He was carrying a gun, and it was aimed at Angela.
She didn’t draw hers and she didn’t shy away.
“Joey Morrison, I was just with your mom. She loves you; and if you love her, you’re not going to want to go to prison, which you will, if you shoot me.”
He looked stunned. I realized he was only about twenty years old. He dropped his mask and shook his head and then his gun hand shook.
He had never killed anyone, I knew. Instinct.
“But it’s your fault she’s in prison!”
“Joey, I want to try to get her sentence commuted.”
“It should have been me.”
“No, Joey, kids don’t go to jail for innocently giving their father cake. I don’t know all the legal ramifications, but I . . . well, I talked to your mom. There were circumstances that caused a lot of what happened. Still not right, but . . .”
“You tricked her. Now you’re trying to trick me.”
“No. Frankly, I want you to come in and have a meal with us, and then we’ll take you to see her, and come Monday, I’ll talk to the prosecutor.”
“I . . . you really talked to my mom? She told you about—about my father?”
“I really did. I swear. I am not tricking you. I’m trying very hard to keep you from becoming a criminal.
”
The boy winced hard and looked as if he were about to cry.
Then we heard a new voice.
“Shoot her, you worthless ass!”
There was a man there. Dressed in a suit—the suit he’d been buried in, probably. I knew it had to be the ghost of Joey’s father.
“You never could do anything right! You grew up to be the stupid ass I always knew. You have your mother in you, you jerk. Never could do anything right. Come on! Shoot her damn it, do something right in your life!”
It was then we saw Jackson striding down the street; he had his Glock out and it was aimed right at Joey.
“No!” Angela cried. “It’s his jerk of a dad! Jackson, no.”
“Do it, do it, do it—damn it, do it! Do something right in your fool life!” Joey’s father swore.
The kid was shaking. No, he’d never worn bruises. But he’d been a victim all the same. He tightened his hold on the gun.
“I can do things right, I can . . . I can, Dad, I can do things, you just . . .”
I thought quickly.
I’d always been a lover, not a fighter.
But several things happened at the same time; Jackson was about to fire. Angela jumped in front of the boy, begging him not to.
And this guy, egging on his son, was a ghost. I was a ghost. Jackson couldn’t accomplish anything by shooting a ghost, but maybe . . .
I let out my fiercest growl. I took a bounding leap . . .
And I discovered a big ghost dog could take down a big ghost man.
Jackson holstered his weapon. Angela took Joey’s gun. He fell sobbing to the ground. “You don’t know . . . you don’t know what my mom went through, what she endured, trying to fight for my brother and me . . . I’m so sorry, this is insane. But he came into my dreams, my dad . . . he said it was all your fault, all your fault.”
Jackson had reached us. He saw me; he gave me a nod and a pat on the head. And then we both jumped back.
It seemed there was a sudden cloud of darkness like a miniature, swirling, black tornado.
The ghost of Joey’s dad was . . . gone.
It was sad, maybe. And maybe, I thought, there were people in the world who were evil. Bad people could do good things, and good people could do bad things. Shelby Morrison had done a bad thing.
Mother's Day, the Krewe, and a Really Big Dog Page 2