WIND BLEW A crumbled paper past headstones and graves, catching Tana’s eyes and distracting her from Robert’s funeral underway.
Jett and the entire White Sands Police Department stood behind the pastor, on the opposite side of the silver casket holding Robert Gulliford’s body.
The pastor began speaking, but she didn’t hear much of what he said.
She was again engaged in an internal dialogue, or diagnosis, or discourse, or whatever you want to call it when she shut out everything around her and let herself get lost in her own thoughts. If she had PTSD before all this began, what did she have now? Is there such a thing as “extra-post traumatic stress” or “super-traumatic stress?” She felt lost in a fog of names for her new self-diagnosis.
After the service, people began walking back to their cars. Tana remained, staring blankly at the grave, oblivious to the conversations and condolences among the people around her.
Tana’s mind filled with clouds of thoughts and words, images of Robert, the sight of the paper rolling in the wind. She suddenly remembered balaclavas, the last thing she’d spoken to him about.
Why was she so fixated on balaclavas then? Why hadn’t she asked him more about what he was doing? More about the barge he saw and that she later destroyed after the people on it tried to destroy her?
She almost jumped when the thought of balaclavas brought to mind the videos she’d watched. It dawned on her that robbers in the videos wore the same clothing as the men at the warehouse in Pascagoula. She needed to check, but she felt certain the men’s shirts had a symbol on them identical to the shirts worn by men on the barge and at the warehouse––if she could see the shirts well enough on the camera recordings.
She was still working through these connections, when Jett stepped up to her. He waited patiently for a moment, then when she didn’t notice him, gently touched her shoulder. She blinked her eyes, then turned towards Jett.
“Jett, I…” She hadn’t seen him since the warehouse in Pascagoula, almost a week ago. She looked at his uniform, crisp and starched––except for the white sling holding his still-healing left arm. “I was…the robberies…the guys in balaclavas…same as at Pascagoula.”
Jett watched her as she mumbled her thoughts. He waited for her to finish before speaking.
“I know,” he said. “Some of the guards have been cooperative. We found out those robberies were supply runs…for feminine products. They figured they couldn’t just go into stores and buy large quantities without drawing attention, so they used the robbery as a distraction.”
“Oh…” This made sense, Tana thought. That’s what the second man at each robbery was doing when they disappeared from view of the security cameras.
A silence grew between them. Jett shifted nervously.
“Tana, how are you?”
Tana looked down and nervously picked at fabric pilling on the black sweater she’d pulled on for the funeral. “I don’t know, Jett. It’s been tough.”
“I hear that.” Jett guided her away from a small group of people standing nearby. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you. We never had a chance to talk about what happened. To us. Before, I mean.”
“Uh-huh.” Tana’s mind was still somewhere else, Jett decided.
“I read the report about what had happened to you on the barge. I…I can’t believe it.”
Tana still tugged on the pilling on her sweater.
“Could we, I mean, I’d like to…”
She stepped back and looked up at Jett, as if seeing him for the first time in his uniform.
“Look at you! You clean up pretty nicely, you know that?”
Jett grinned. “Thanks. Let’s have dinner.”
Her face dropped. “What?”
“Dinner. You and me. We need to talk.”
“Oh, Jett, no. I don’t think I’m ready for us to…”
“Tana, I understand. I know I was coming on too strong before. That’s why you pushed me away.”
Tana looked up at Jett, searching his face. Did she push him away? She felt her anger rising.
“The thing is, I really enjoy your company. The way you can just be still, it…well, it calms me. I don’t know what goes on in your head all the time, but it’s OK. I just really want…”
He tried to find his words. He had watched her through the service, feeling separated from everyone present and longing for Tana’s company. He didn’t hear a word said during the service as he planned out what he wanted to say to her.
But Tana had a way about her that always screwed up his thinking. He wanted to be near her, to be around her more, to love her, but something always seemed to get between them, and he wasn’t sure what it was.
“Jett, I don’t think I’m in a good place right now. I have enjoyed being around you, too, but, I’m just…just…”
She struggled the find the right word, then spit out the closest she could find. “Screwed up.”
Jett opened his mouth to reply, then stopped, unsure of what he needed to do. He had to keep Tana talking to him, keep the door open to building on their relationship.
As he stammered trying to find the words he wanted to use, a thin, casually-dressed man stepped up at his side.
“I apologize for interrupting, but are you Chief Jeanrette?”
“Yes. What can I do for you?”
“Oh, I just wanted to shake your hand, and to say thank you.” The man stuck out his hand for Jett to shake. “I knew Officer Gulliford, and it’s just such a terrible thing.”
“Thank you,” Jett said, studying the man’s face and demeanor. “It is. How did you know Robert?”
“We used to play pool up in Bougainville. Used to go every Saturday, and he’d be there. Lost a lot of games to him––and a lot of money.”
“And what is your name?”
Tana noticed the man’s eyes tighten just a little.
“Name’s Chad Broussard, chief.”
Tana noticed Jett’s odd expression. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Broussard.”
Broussard smiled at Tana and took a step back from them. “Miss,” he said to her, gesturing as if tipping a hat. They watched him walk away.
“As I was saying, Jett, I’m not sure this is a good timed for us…”
Jett was still watching Broussard walking away. “What’s the matter?”
“Something wrong about that guy.”
“Why do you say that?”
Jett looked at Tana. “Bobby was a terrible pool player. Hated the game. I don’t believe he would ever went to Bougainville to play pool.”
***
Broussard walked to his car, then pulled out his cell phone and dialed Mironoff.
“Did you get the picture?”
“Yes,” Mironoff sneered. “Good work.”
“Is that the woman?”
“It is, indeed.”
“They seemed in the middle of a personal conversation.”
“Perfect. We may only need one stone. Come back to the condo.”
Broussard started up the car and drove down the lane snaking its way through the cemetery. Jett watched the car passing and took note of the license plate. There was something not right about this man Broussard.