Sweet Dreams, Irene ik-2 Page 8

  “That much I would have guessed, Jacob. By the way, I talked to the woman who runs Rhiannon today.”

  “Oh.”

  “Cheer up — she supports your story, even said that you’re not in the coven and that she remembers tossing you out of the store when you tried to pull Sammy out of there. It should help.”

  “If people believe her.”

  I decided a change of subject was in order. “How’s the journalism class?”

  “Oh man, I love it! I mean, we don’t do really exciting things like you — you know, it’s just school stuff — but it’s fun. I’ll get my first story in Monday’s school paper! I saw the proof copy. I wrote about this school play; not a review or anything, kind of an announcement — you know, where to buy tickets, that kind of stuff. But it was so cool to see my name on the byline and all.”

  I smiled, remembering my first byline — on a story about a game our high school girl’s volleyball team had won. “It’s quite a thrill, isn’t it? When the paper comes out, save a copy for me. And don’t forget to start a string book.”

  “A what?”

  “A collection of all your published stories. Later on, you use it to show someone samples of your writing — an editor, or someone hiring you for another publication.”

  “Okay, I’ll do it. Maybe I’ll be showing it to you someday.”

  I laughed. “For my interest — don’t ever look for me to be an editor. I wouldn’t want the headache. I like what I’m doing now.”

  We talked for a few minutes more, and when I hung up, I felt good. There was something contagious in his enthusiasm. Given the way the rest of the day had gone, it’s a wonder I didn’t see the rollercoaster heading down.

  I pressed the button on the answering machine to hear the message. It was Sammy, her voice sounding small and scared in the warmth of my kitchen. She had called while I was in the shower.

  “Miss Kelly? Are you there? It’s Sammy. I’m leaving Las Piernas. Tell Jacob for me, okay? I’m sorry I couldn’t help him. I can’t stay here. I’ve got to go. Bye.”

  Frustrated that I had missed a second call from her, I pushed the play button and listened to the message again. I couldn’t help but feel uneasy. Something in her voice said the words not spoken: Help me. I’m in danger.

  I paced around, unable to think of what I could do to help her. I would just have to pray that I was near a phone the next time she tried to call. It was useless to try to find her.

  Her parents didn’t seem to care what became of her, and I thought of how she must be aware of that. The people most children would turn to first had rejected her, thrown her out of the house. Sammy might have been a very difficult child to deal with, but could she have been that hard to live with? I thought of her out on the streets somewhere, possibly turning to the wrong people for comfort and aid.

  It was only seven o’clock, but I was beat. John’s suggestion about catching up on my sleep was looking better and better. I crawled into my bed, which seemed far too empty, even with Cody beside me. I both missed Frank and worried about him, but didn’t know what I could do to remedy either feeling. When I wasn’t thinking about him, I was feeling uneasy about being in the house alone or anxious about Sammy. I fell asleep despite my apprehensions.

  I dreamt that Sammy was standing on the edge of a ravine. I was on the opposite side, telling her to stay there, that someone would be there soon to rescue her. It wasn’t clear in the dream what she needed rescuing from. But instead of waiting, she reached out to me, and fell. The ravine turned into a bottomless version of the Grand Canyon, and suddenly I was falling down with her, a few feet away from her. As could only happen in a dream, she was talking to me as we fell. “You didn’t catch me,” she said.

  I woke up, scared half out of my wits. It took me a moment to realize the phone was ringing. I reached for it clumsily and answered, hoping it was Sammy.

  “I woke you up.” It was Frank.

  “Thank God you did. I was having a nightmare.”

  Silence. I felt a little irritation. Nothing like calling someone up at — I looked at the clock — eleven o’clock at night and then not saying a word. This passed quickly, though. I was remembering what it felt like to hear those gunshots down at the harbor.

  “Do you want me to come over?” he finally asked.

  “Yes, but only if you want to.”

  “I’ll be there in a little while.”

  I know, I know, a stronger person would have told him where to get off. Somehow, when it came to Frank, I wasn’t sure I was above begging.

  TRUE TO HIS WORD, he arrived on my doorstep not long after. I opened the door to his soft knocking. He looked miserable. He stepped inside, and we held one another in a long hug. I didn’t mind that his hands and clothes were cold with the chill of the night air, that his shoulder holster was jabbing me from under his suit, that he was silent. I was too damn glad he had decided to be with me, too worried over what I had seen in his eyes.

  He kissed me.

  Cody made his presence felt: he greeted Frank by biting him on the ankle. I wanted to reach down and rid him of his pelt, but Frank picked the rascal up and held him in his arms. “Hello, Cody.”

  Cody purred loudly. My sentiments exactly.

  “Hungry?” I asked.

  Frank shook his head. “Tired.”

  He put Cody back down in ankle range and took my hand. I led him back to the bedroom, turning out lights on the way. I took off my robe and got back under the covers. I watched him undress. An incredible sight. If he had known what I was thinking, it might have made him blush.

  He stood looking at me for a moment, then crawled in next to me. I could tell he was still feeling — what was it? Hurt? Sad? I didn’t know. But he seemed a little less miserable than he had earlier. He kissed me again. I pulled him close, savoring his touch.

  “Frank.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “I missed you.”

  His answer wasn’t verbal, but I didn’t mind. Not at all.

  HE FELL ASLEEP holding me. I stayed awake for a while, listening to him breathe, and wondering how I had come to feel such a need for the man. I had been so fiercely independent for so long, it was frightening to realize what a hold he had on me. Not that I was a simpering wimp or anything — I smiled thinking of some of the tests of wills Frank and I had experienced in the last few months. And I knew that if it didn’t work out, I would go on with my life. But I didn’t want to think of what life without Frank would be like.

  Still, his behavior since Mrs. Fremont’s death had been odd; I hadn’t seen this side of Frank before now. I knew he could brood at times, but there was an intensity in his current mood that was unsettling. He had come back across some of the distance he had put between us last night, but something in his manner clearly said he didn’t want me asking him a lot of questions. And as much as my curious nature rebelled against that, somehow I knew not to force the issue.

  We still had a lot to learn about each other, Frank and I.

  Cody jumped up on the bed and situated himself in the curve behind Frank’s knees. I laced my fingers into Frank’s hand, and fell asleep.

  12

  I WAS ALONE in bed when I woke up the next morning. Frank had awakened a couple of times during the night; his sleep had been troubled. I supposed that at some point he had given up on it. I stretched and got out of bed. Maybe he had already left for work. I looked at the clock and realized that I had almost slept until noon. I didn’t feel as if it were a case of sloth, though. Just catching up on my sleep.

  I went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, finding evidence that Frank had not only been up before me but had also been to the store and back. I was quite pleased that I would not have to test the “seven-day freshness” guarantee on the older milk carton.

  There was some fresh bread as well, so I made a grilled cheese sandwich for myself. When I got to the table with my plate and milk, I saw the note he had left for me.

&nbs
p; “Irene — Thanks. Please be patient. Frank.”

  Please be patient. Translation: Please don’t ask me what’s wrong, please be ready for me at the drop of a hat, please put up with my moodiness. The damnable thing was, I would try to do just that.

  He had also brought the paper in, and I was fortunate he didn’t leave it in the kitchen, or I probably would have lost my appetite. The front page was splashed with the Fremont murder story, and the headline made my stomach tighten. “Shelter Founder Murdered by Satanists?” A question mark to cover a multitude of reporting sins. The byline was given to Dorothy Bliss. In the newsroom, our private saying was, “Bliss is ignorance.”

  Although the story itself was couched in careful terms that as much as admitted this was a guess based on the drawing of the goat on the door, by the end of the day most of Las Piernas would undoubtedly be convinced by the headline. While I wasn’t sure Mrs. Fremont hadn’t been murdered by Satanists, somehow seeing it in print brought about a reaction in me, making me want to find the flaws in the assertion.

  Mark’s story on Jerry Tanner and the harbor shooting didn’t get the play it deserved, but it was reasoned, clear, and balanced. It’s a good thing I saw it, because the next story I laid eyes on didn’t make me feel any pride in working for the Express.

  Not two inches away from the Fremont story, another headline proclaimed “Henderson Denies Son is Satanist.” It was my story all right, but the part that best defended Jacob was cut down to nothing and buried in the back half of the first section. I hadn’t expected any of it to go page one and saw that being placed as it was would only make Henderson appear to be defending against a connection to the murder.

  Damn Wrigley’s miserable hide. This had his signature all over it.

  I got dressed and made the most of what was left of Friday by working until about midnight, covering speeches and setting up interviews. Frank got off work about the same time I did, and stayed the night with me.

  Saturday and Sunday were twin days. With the election so close, there was no such thing as a day off. There was a lot of work to be done, and Stacee actually proved to be of help. She and I ran around between various campaigns and political organizations, putting in long hours. Brian Henderson staunchly defended Jacob, but slid down in the polls as if they were greased.

  Next to the Satanism charges, the big news was that definite physical evidence had been found in Tanner’s home to link him to the murder of the Gillespie child. I thought that might have made a difference in Frank, but it didn’t.

  Sammy didn’t call back.

  I came home exhausted each night, fed Cody, and crawled into bed with Frank, who still hadn’t said more than ten words to me. But he held me close, and I was too tired to need more. At least he was sleeping better.

  On Sunday night — or technically, Monday morning — I lay asleep in his arms when the phone rang just after one o’clock. It was Pete. I handed the phone over to a drowsy Frank. He had the phone in his hand about five seconds when he yelled “What?!” and sat up in bed, moving his feet to the floor. He ran a hand through his hair. Every one of his muscles tensed. After a minute he said, “Why?” He listened in silence to the reply. He thanked Pete for calling and hung up.

  I was sitting up by now. He was facing away from me. He sighed and said, “Monty Montgomery’s daughter walked in a couple of hours ago and confessed to murdering Mrs. Fremont. Pete just found out about it.”

  “Julie?”

  He turned and gave me a piercing look.

  “Frank, she didn’t do it. She’s trying to protect someone.”

  The look didn’t waver.

  “It’s true, Frank, she talked to me Thursday. Not about the murder, but about her boyfriend.”

  “What?”

  I struggled for a moment with the problem of breaking Julie’s confidence, but decided if she was going to do something as stupid as confess to a murder to help Jacob, I would face the consequences of telling Frank what I knew.

  “She and Jacob Henderson are seeing one another. Secretly. She’s been agonizing over the flyer her father sent out saying Jacob is a Satanist. She’s doing this to get back at her father or clear Jacob or both.”

  “Pete says she claims that she’s a Satanist. That she was given the mission of killing—” His voice broke and he looked away.

  I waited. I resisted the urge to touch him. “She didn’t do it,” I said calmly.

  “I’ve got to call Pete.”

  He made the call, telling Pete all I had told him. On a hunch, I caught Frank’s attention and said, “Ask him if there was anyone from the Express there when she confessed.”

  He did, then waited while Pete asked one of the detectives who had been there. Frank listened, then said, “Mark Baker was there fifteen minutes before she showed up. He said he got an anonymous tip that there was going to be a big break in the case, that someone was going to confess. She walked in and announced her confession in a loud voice as soon as she laid eyes on him.”

  “How long ago did Mark leave?”

  He asked Pete, then said, “He was gone about two hours ago.”

  I looked at the clock. “Shit. It will be in the paper tomorrow. She planned this. She confessed in time to get a late chase in, but not early enough to give Mark time to follow up much. If she’s released, it won’t be in time to counteract the damage on her father’s campaign.”

  Pete and Frank talked for a few minutes more, then Frank hung up.

  I called the paper, but anyone who could have made a difference was long gone. I realized that by now the story was in print and on its way to being distributed. Nothing could be done about it. As I put the phone down, I noticed Frank was sitting with his head in his hands.

  I turned the light out. There was still enough light from the moon and streetlights to make out his features in the dark. I got in bed behind him, and reached up and rubbed his neck and shoulders. It was killing me not to ask him the five hundred or so questions that I had been gathering together for the last three days. He started to relax a little, and reached up and took my hands. He pulled them around his chest and lay back down. He wouldn’t look at me. I moved a hand up into his hair and stroked it gently.

  “Frank?”

  “What?” A whisper.

  “I was there on Thursday, at the harbor.”

  He turned toward me suddenly. “What?” Not a whisper.

  “I was there when—”

  “Oh God, Irene.” He sighed and turned on to his back, looking up at the ceiling. I waited, but he didn’t say more. After a while, he took hold of my hand again and held it between his. “Now you really know what it’s like, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Being with a cop.”

  I thought about this for a minute. “No, Frank, that’s not the problem. Yes, I’m afraid for your safety. I’m going to worry about you, but I can live with that. It’s much more difficult to feel distant from you.”

  He was quiet for a long time. When he spoke, his voice was strained. “I just can’t talk about it now.”

  I watched him lying there, tense and troubled.

  Neither one of us slept much that night.

  13

  MANIPULATED by a sixteen-year-old kid. I’m about to become known as the man who changed the course of politics in Las Piernas county on a setup by a teenager.” Mark Baker, usually one of the more easygoing members of the staff, was in a foul mood the next morning.

  “You wrote it as fairly as you could.” Even as I said the words, I knew they would be little consolation.

  “I waited around as long as possible, and they were still questioning her when we hit drop-dead deadline. I had no reason to believe she’d be released. I never said she was charged. I was careful, Irene. But you know no one reads anything as carefully as you write it.”

  “Forget it, Mark. Every reporter has had something like this happen to them at least once.”

  “Aw, crap, I should have known. But nobody he
re wanted to wait on it.”

  “Understandable. Her timing was impeccable. She must have found out from somebody what time we…” An awful feeling came over me. I picked up the phone on Mark’s desk and called down to Danny Coburn. Sure enough, she’d asked him about deadlines and printing schedules when she was here on Thursday.

  Mark, who had heard only my side of the conversation, was furious. “You saw her here on Thursday? And you didn’t say anything?”

  “Hold on, hold on. I talked to her after I talked to you. And she wasn’t confessing to murder then. That surprised me as much as it did you. And I sure as hell didn’t know she had talked to Danny about our deadlines.”

  He wasn’t completely mollified, but I didn’t have time to smooth his ruffled feathers. I went back to my desk and started working on election stories, which had now been made vastly more interesting by a couple of high school students. I thought about Julie. Monty Montgomery must have wanted to throttle her. In Jacob’s case, he could go to his father saying he was wrongly accused. Julie was responsible for her own predicament; I couldn’t picture her father being very understanding.

  Not an hour had gone by when the phone rang. It was Pete, sounding frantic.

  “Look, something’s happened to Frank.”

  I let out a little cry, and he immediately knew what I was thinking.

  “No, no, no — God, Irene — no, he’s not hurt or anything. I’m sorry. Bad choice of words. But look, something’s wrong with him.”

  “I know, but he won’t talk about it.”

  “Damn. I was hoping he was talking to you. He seemed to be doing better until this morning.”

  “What happened?”

  “He’s been suspended.”

  “What?!”

  “Bredloe suspended him for a couple of days.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, he sort of punched somebody out.”

  “Sort of punched somebody out?”

  “The guy had it coming. We’re sitting around this morning and Frank walks in, and Bob Thompson makes a crack and Frank punches him.” Pete laughed. “Knocked old Thompson flat on his ass. We had to hold them to keep them from going at it.”