My borrowed truck’s windows were crusted with sleet and powdered over with crisp snow. The air was so cold it felt sticky in my lungs as I breathed. Opening the door was a two-handed struggle. I started the engine and let it run a while before I tried scraping the windshield.
The weather had dimmed the ardor of the news media. There were still a few reporters around the SO but they were staying in their vehicles. Waiting for the engine to warm and loosen the ice, I tried to keep warm by kicking away chunks of frozen mud from the truck’s body. I couldn’t imagine what Orson had gotten into or why he had been out in this mess to begin with.
I pulled the scraper from under the seat and tackled the windshield. The spot directly above the vents was loose. A sharp rap broke the skin and let me get the plastic edge going. With my first hard thrust the ice flaked and flew up in a cold spray.
“That’s cold work,” someone said.
I looked up. One of the reporters was standing near the opposite fender. Her name was Erin Gray. She worked for the NBC affiliate in Springfield.
“How’d you sneak up on me, Erin?” I asked and kept on scraping.
“I didn’t. You weren’t paying attention.” She pulled a microphone from her pocket and pointed it in my direction.
I chipped up a sharp corner of ice, then shoved the scraper blade as far as I could reach over the glass.
“May I talk to you?” she asked, stepping away from the flakes.
“Go right ahead.”
“You know what I mean, Hurricane.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Would you do an on-camera interview with us?”
I stopped my work to look at her. Erin had interviewed me before, always about safe topics—safety of area tourists, the rise or fall of local drug activity. I was sure this request had nothing to do with softball news.
“Why would I do that?” I asked.
“You want to get your side out, don’t you?”
“My side of what?”
“A triangle.”
“Get out of here,” I said.
Erin didn’t flinch. She took her other hand from her coat pocket and held up a small recorder. “You should hear this.”
She pressed the play button. Erin’s voice came out. It sounded tinny from the small speaker but I could hear the words clearly.
“You’ve made some tough accusations against Bill Blevins,” said Erin, “the sheriff of Taney County. What support do you have for them?”
Then came Sissy Fisher’s voice. “I have Rose’s journal.”
“Is the sheriff mentioned in it by name?”
“In the journal Rose talked about her problems. She wrote about being afraid of being pregnant. She talked about the inspiration behind her song, ‘You Took What Wasn’t Yours.’ And the fear she had that he would take more if things didn’t change.”
“How do you know she was talking about Bill Blevins?”
“The change she was looking for. Rose said that everything would be different once Billy was sheriff.”
Erin clicked the recorder off. “Do you have any comment?”
“No.”
“You have a relationship with the sheriff, don’t you?” she pressed. “An intimate relationship.”
My face must have glowed. I could feel the heat creeping up my throat to bloom on my cheeks. I wanted to climb over the truck hood and do Erin some damage. “Where’s the camera?” I asked.
Erin didn’t answer but her eyes did. She glanced over at the closest news van. Exhaust was smoking from the tailpipe. Half hidden by the vehicle but silhouetted by the vapor was a man sighting through the lens of a video camera.
“That’s how you do it now?” I asked. “Pretend to ask permission but ambush?”
“Sissy Fisher has accused the sheriff,” Erin said, speaking up louder. “Twice you’ve been in altercations with her. What are you trying to keep quiet?”
I resisted the urge to say, my gun. If I stuck around I might not have maintained that level of control. I climbed in the truck and drove off, sighting through the semi-cleared windshield.
Getting to the highway was a fight. The county roads were thick with new sleet. Falling temperatures had defeated the brine treatments. Potholes were standing with slush. Exposed asphalt was refreezing with black ice.
State Highway 65 wasn’t much better. Northbound 160, the main corridor between Springfield and Branson, was being kept clear. I was able to pick up some speed. After a mile the remaining ice on my windshield broke free in a single sheet. It flew over the cab of the truck to shatter on the empty road.
I passed the spot where Calvin had been working the night before. Plowed furrows cut through the snow down to the dirt where the tractor trailer had gone off the highway. I couldn’t help but think of Deputy Tom Dugan. He kept popping up in this investigation. Never in the middle but always around. I wondered if he was connected in any other way. Maybe before there was an actual investigation.
The back of the truck slipped and the bed began creeping to the right. I took my foot off the gas and steered into the skid. Once I corrected it, I remained at the slower speed and concentrated on the road.
* * * *
As I approached the town of Ozark, my phone rang. It was Deputy Webb.
“What did you find out?” I asked.
“Several packs of gauze, a suture kit, and lidocaine are missing from inventory.”
“Other drugs?”
“Those are locked away. It’s not impossible she took some, but they are under a different inventory system. We don’t know.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “If Jenifer Perry took the supplies to treat Lawson, she would have taken painkillers too. Once the lidocaine wears off, a sewn-up tongue is going to hurt.”
“We have an updated address. Where are you?”
“Just passed Ozark.”
“Not that far away,” he said. Then he paused, I assumed making time and distance calculations in his head. “I’m sending units out, but weather is slowing everything down in town.”
“Here, too. Just tell me where to go.”
He gave me the address and contact information for Jenifer Perry. I called and got no answer. I didn’t leave a message. Instead I hit the gas and passed a snowplow throwing billows of white to the side. At State Highway 60 I looped over to Campbell Avenue. North from there I made good time for a couple of miles, then turned off. That was where things slowed down.
Main city streets were plowed and treated. The side streets and suburban developments were mostly untouched. It took twenty minutes to go less than a mile off Campbell. Nurse Jenifer Perry lived in the neighborhood behind the giant Bass Pro Shop. Even in this weather that parking lot was clear and almost full of cars.
I parked and pulled out my phone. If Lawson was inside with the nurse I didn’t want to knock on the door. I wanted the chance to get her out and away from him. There was no answer. The only number I’d been given was her cell phone. There was no house line listed.
I called again.
Everything felt ugly and wrong—the blowing snow, the low clouds that sat like a weight over the world, the small house with the unlatched storm door, me. I should have backup but that was a problem. My own department was too far away and stretched thin. The Greene County cops and Springfield city cops had their own problems. They would respond if I asked, but they would ask questions about Lawson I didn’t want to answer. No law enforcement professional wants to admit to taking a beating at the hands of a suspect. Women officers are even more sensitive to it. In the boy’s club, we all get judged by one set of standards. Those standards have little to do with the job and a lot to do with testosterone and upper-body strength. Going out of town and asking for help subduing someone who already kicked my ass was a sure way to make my life harder in the long run.
I got out of the truck. I pulled my service weapon and double-checked a round was chambered. Despite the cold and wind, I left my coat open to have access to the extra magazines, cuffs and telescoping baton on my belt. I’d learned my lesson with Lawson at the mill.
With my 9mm ready in a two-handed grip, I approached the house. I started at a window. Peeking through a torn screen and the frosted glass, I saw a front room lit only by the muted daylight. It was tidy except for the clutter of beer cans on the coffee table. I backed away from the front window and went to the one on the side of the house without crossing in front of either. The view there was a different angle on the same thing.
I ducked under and went to the next window and looked into the kitchen. Housekeeping had failed in there. The table was littered with more cans along with bloody wads of gauze. Dishes were stacked on the counter.
Ducking again, I moved to the rear of the house.
The yard was circled by a sagging chain-link fence. I leaned over it to glance around the corner. A loud slap of wood and rattling glass almost stopped my heart. I jerked my head back and gulped frigid air.
The door slammed again.
I darted my head out and sighted down the lap boards to the back door. It swung open, got caught in the wind, slammed closed once more.
The noise was a taunt. Each time the wind rose, the door whipped, cracking against the frame. Each time it did, my skin crawled. Challenging me to enter or warning me off, either way the door mocked my sense of courage. I hated the sound. Still, I moved forward with my weapon clenched in my two-handed grip.
The latch was broken; there was a retracted dead bolt. Someone had gone out and not set the lock behind them.
Or gone in, I reminded myself.
With a steadying breath I put a foot on the stairs. The two rising steps were rickety and moved when I added weight. I eased back and reseated my foot on the edge of the first step just in case it creaked. The second step I skipped.
The door led into the kitchen. There was trash on the floor that I hadn’t seen from the window. There was blood, too. It stained the table and floor. It soaked bandages.
Someone was crying. A woman. The sound was faint. My history with the sound amplified it in my head. I wasn’t alone in the freezing house. I took a moment to force myself to breathe normally. My hands got the message too. They relaxed, giving way grudgingly. My heart paid no attention. It raced in a thunderous pulse that echoed in my chest and ears.
The faint sound of pain got louder as I moved forward. I cleared the living room and stepped into the short hall. The first door was a bathroom. I pushed the door fully open and reached with my left hand to move the shower curtain.
Clear.
I reset my hands into the two-handed grip. The next door was standing wide open. It was a sewing room, cluttered and messy. There was no door on the closet.
Clear.
The last door was closed. The crying woman was inside.
I listened but heard only the sobbing. The knob was locked. At least it wouldn’t turn easily. I wasn’t going to rattle it.
Another breath. I noticed that I could see vapor.
The hall was narrow. I set my back against the wall and raised my right foot. I kicked out, planting my boot just beside the knob. The cheap interior door splintered and caved. I followed through with my shoulder and burst into the room, weapon front.
Jenifer Perry was alone. She was naked and bleeding from her brutalized face. There was more blood on the floor than her face could account for. When she saw me, she covered her face in the same mix of shame and terror I’ve seen in the faces of dozens of women. I’ve seen it in my own face.
“Is he gone?” I asked.
“I didn’t mean to laugh.” She wailed her explanation. “I helped him. I didn’t want this.”
“I know,” I said. The words and my understanding felt small. “I’m calling for help.” I stepped around Jenifer and crouched down to be close. She grabbed my arm and buried her bloody face. I kept my pistol pointed up at the door. Without looking away, I dialed 911 one-handed.
Springfield PD didn’t have a female officer available. Jenifer wouldn’t even look at a man so I stayed with her. I helped the female EMT do her evaluation and get Jenifer onto a gurney. She kept her hand in mine as the ambulance returned Jenifer to the same hospital she had stolen supplies from to help E. Lawson.
Jenifer was taken into surgery. She had suffered a fractured vertebra when Lawson threw her off the bed then kicked her in the back. I held her hand right up to the last set of hospital doors.
A patrol officer took me back to my truck. I didn’t want to go back into the house, but the investigating detective had some questions. I did, too. I was allowed to take a look at Jenifer’s phone log as I told the story of E. Lawson and his possible involvement in the murder of Rose Sharon. I tried to leave out the encounter between him and me at the mill. It didn’t work. Any way I tried to put it together, the question of his wound came up.
The detective asked me again what I knew about Lawson’s injury as I scribbled the number listed for E. in my notebook. Even after I closed the book I kept my head down.
Finally, I looked up. “Lawson is a monster. He uses his strength and size to hurt women.” I handed over the phone. “He had me. He forced his tongue in my mouth. Half of it is still laying on the dirt floor of his sawmill. So you might say what happened here is at least partially my fault.”
The detective stared. There was no telling if his shock was at me or my story. I didn’t care anymore.
“If I had finished the job, he never would have been here to torment Jenifer Perry. She was trying to help him. She told me that she didn’t mean to laugh.”
I looked away from the eyes trying so hard to understand and make my story something reasonable, something to fit neatly into a report.
I looked instead at the bloody carpet where Jenifer had been lying when I broke her door open.
“That’s all it took,” I said. “A little laugh. It was probably when he tried to talk the first time.”
“A man like that,” the Springfield detective said, shaking his head. “No part of it was your fault or hers. And neither of you were the first. You can bet on that.”
The image of Rose Sharon sparked in my mind. Then I heard her singing, “You Took What Wasn’t Yours.”
* * * *
Uncle Orson’s truck idled at the curb. I waited for heat to begin flowing from the vents and stared at my phone. A first breath of warmth crawled from the dash. I dialed E. Lawson.
The phone on the other end rang twice before connecting. Nothing was said. The other phone waited. I had the feeling he knew who was calling.
“Did she hurt your feelings?” I asked.
The only response was a quiet huff of air.
I laughed. “You’re a broken little bitch. Preying on small women and girls. You think you’re a big, bad wolf. You’re not. You’re just another pathetic loser who thinks his big fist makes up for every other small thing in his life. Everything in your world is on fire, Lawson. And I’m the one holding the matches.”
He said something. There was a wild, strangled sound on the line like a Pentecostal preacher channeling the holy spirit. No telling what it was, only that it was nothing I needed to hear. I broke the connection. Then I went into my settings and blocked his number. There is nothing a man like him hates more than a woman who refuses to listen.
I buckled in and put the truck in drive. The street that had been high and white was worn into a dirty slush by so much police traffic. My exit was much faster than my entrance. At Fort I turned north, heading to Sunshine Street. At the light I called the therapist’s office. Dr. Kurtz herself answered. I told her what had happened.
“That’s great news,” she said.
I hesitated a moment as the confusion boiled in my head. “I think you and I are talking about two different things,” I said.
“Yes and no,” she answered. She had a way of being infuriatingly indirect sometimes.
“I don’t—”
“You’re handling it,” she explained. “It wasn’t that long ago you were in my office in a panic after your investigation led to a twenty-year-old sexual assault.”
“That was a different situation,” I said.
“It was a different woman,” she hit back.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
Even though I was driving and on the phone, I shrugged. “For saying it.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. “Now tell me why you needed to come in so urgently today.”
“It’s a long story,” I said, trying to dismiss it.
“You’ve been in the news.”
“That’s part of it.”
“What are the other parts?”
“A girl is dead. Her family is standing in the way of finding out the truth.” Even as I said it, I heard the weakness in the statements.
“You don’t come to me to talk about the job, Katrina.”
It sounds silly, but one reason I allowed myself to trust Dr. Kurtz was the fact she never called me Hurricane. At the same time, trust was one of those issues I needed work on. “My therapy is a mandated condition of keeping my job.”
“Screw your job,” she said. “What happened?”
I didn’t have the courage to hang up. I tried to wait her out in silence. It didn’t work. After two minutes of letting her listen to me drive and breathe I finally confessed. “I’m going to kill a man.”
Dr. Kurtz simply asked, “Who?”
I told her what had happened with E. Lawson at the mill and what he had done to Jenifer Perry.
“Sounds justified,” she said.
“I hate my job.”
“You’ve never said that before. The job was always the one thing you believed in.”
“I still believe in it. I just hate it.”
“What are you going to do about that?”
That was a question I didn’t want to think about. I tried silence again. I believe what came next surprised me more than her. I broke the dead air by saying, “Billy is choosing his job over me.”
She didn’t miss a beat. Dr. Kurtz immediately asked, “Was it an honest choice or the only one he had?”
“What’s that mean?”
“Sometimes we are hurt most when people in our lives make the only choice we leave them with.”
“You’re saying it’s my fault?”
“I’m asking if you gave enough of yourself for him to keep holding on to.”
More silence.
“I don’t know why I keep talking to you,” I said.
“Sure you do.” It was hard to argue with her confidence. “When your husband died, he left you wealthy. You kept the estate growing by letting lawyers handle everything.”
“What’s your point?”
“How much are you worth now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. Tell me.”
I felt foolish and caught in a trap. “Close to five million,” I admitted.
“And yet you hate your day job.”
“You’re the only one I hate right now.”
“I get that.” She actually chuckled. “You’re a woman who likes strong men, military, police, but you hate bullies. You found one who was strong without being cruel.”
“I married him.”
“You married Nelson Solomon knowing that he was sick and dying.”
“That’s a hard way of putting it,” I said.
“Truth is always hard, Katrina.” It was her turn to use quiet. She didn’t have the patience I did. “What kind of man is Billy Blevins?” she asked.
“Kind,” I answered, angered by the admission.
“You told him you didn’t think he was strong enough for the job of sheriff.”
“Not in so many words.”
“Copping out?” she asked. “That’s not like you.”
“Just get it out there,” I said. “I’m tired of this dance.”
“Don’t do that,” she said. “You’re already the toughest woman I know. If you turn some of that courage inward, you’ll turn some of the anger out.”
“That easy?”
“Nothing is easy. But it’s not impossible to have what you want. You just have to decide what it is and get out of your own way.”
“I don’t even know what we’re talking about anymore.”
“You can’t get angry at people for not making the choices you want them to make when you don’t even make the choices you want.”
She got off the phone after that and I got on the highway. I hated therapy.