Copyright 2000, 2006 by Elizabeth Delayne
Someone screamed . . . shouts, echoes of sound and horror.
It was dark, dark around the lights, and the lights moved, white robes swirling in the night. Fire and lights. Heat. Sparks of fire.
She cried out, first for her mother. She'd lost sight of her mother. She cried out again for her father. He'd find her. He'd save her.
Fire burned. Roared. Sweeping ringlets of smoke circled through the night sky. The air was bitter, burning. The flurry of robes quickened, swirling around her in a mad dance.
People were shouting, chanting, yelling, grunting.
Screaming. A woman screamed.
Please stop! She cried. Please stop , she wept.
Erica screamed as she was pushed. She fell helplessly to the ground. Her palms scrapped against the ground, pain pinching in little bites.
Then she was lifted, into the white robes, up to her father's face. The swirling slowed. There was fear in his eyes, but safety in his arms.
"Daddy!"
"I've got you—" he said, catching his balance as he was pushed out of the way. Erica buried her face in his cloak. There were new visions from the perch in his arms. Masked faces, dark eyes, raised arms of anger and .
He reached out and there was her mother, her face a mask of fear and disbelief. Anger.
Glass shattered, exploded.
And a woman wept.
Erica jerked awake, frozen for a moment in fear. The screams softened into faded echoes. The bright light of fire dissipated, leaving the dim lights of the sleepy first class cabin. She settled against the cushioned leather seat and listened to the air controlled calm in the cabin.
She was safe. The only sounds were those of the aircraft. The constant blow of air from above. The gentle murmur of words nearly faded into silence as people slept into the nigh.
She could hear the light tapping of someone working on their laptop. It made her think of Jonathon.
The seat beside her was empty—a blessing. Erica gazed out the window into the clear night sky, down at the ground so far below the plane's flight. She was tired, but she couldn't sleep, knowing images awaited her. She would have to talk to her mother. She would not comprehend it—truly comprehend the images until she talked to her mother.
But even then she might never understand.
talking to her mother would have to wait. She wanted it to be a conversation held in person, as much for her mother's sake as he own. The past few days alone and in prayer had strengthened her, though the questions were still multiplying.
Erica wanted to talk and pray with Amber first. So she was on a plane to Portland when she should be heading to New Orleans.
When she wanted to head to Jonathon.
She'd had time in the past few days to process their time together. He'd been attentive and supportive, helping her breath in fresh air of calm, of peace, of hope. And yet, there was something quietly deceptive about him.
She'd asked him once why he'd left the force and he'd given her a pithy response about just needing to do something else for while. At the time, she'd taken the answer, too wrapped up in her own security to question his.
Now she wondered if the truth was something he'd simply not shared with her.
Was it something he was keeping from her? She just wasn't sure.
She knew that cops went through things, saw things, did things . . . that would change anyone's life. She knew his life as an officer was a big part of him, even now as he hid from it. It escaped through his writing, not just his talent as an officer, but his love and patience for the job.
And there was a dark, quiet, almost violent side she knew he tried to hide from her. It wasn't that she was afraid of that side of him, but she did question it.
She thought of Emma, the older woman who'd brought them together months ago at a random gala. The woman was oddly perceptive. She'd looked at Erica and seen, or maybe simply guessed, that she'd needed someone, something. So she'd gone over and brought Jonathon, purposely matching them together.
And if God had seen fit to bring them together using an excited older woman with a heart for romance, and maybe even eyes of compassion that could see all the way to the soul . . . and if Emma had seen the need for someone like Jonathon in Erica, what had she seen in Jonathon that had brought him a woman like Erica?
So, why had he needed her that night months ago now, at the reception when Emma had introduced him, to distract them both? What made him need those few moments of escape over a billiards table, or the exhilarating afternoon at a baseball game, or the quiet chatter of a late night limo ride?
He’d called again, pointedly left her a new number. A cell phone. It seemed he was tired of missing her calls.
She picked up the phone, intending to reach him this time.* * * * *
Jonathon ignored his new cell phone. After leaving his father, he’d gone to a corner store, picked one up in a fit of frustration, then left the number on Erica’s voicemail. Still, he shut off the ringer without looking at it. He’d slipped and called Paige, left his new number with her.
In case she needed to reach him.
She didn’t need to reach him, he thoughtJonathon slammed down the pay phone in its cradle. He stood in the precinct’s hallway. Noise filtered down the hall. The light was dim, the floors needed to be stripped and waxed. He took in the details, dealt with the inner restlessness.
Three days had passed since he'd last talked to Erica in live, digital detail. He hated catching her messages. He had the distinct impression that she was avoiding him.
He’d made her a promise. He should have extracted one from her as well.
If he wasn't up to his eyeballs in an investigation of his own, and if he knew for sure that she was still in New York or Louisianna, or somewhere … he would hop a plane and find her.
Using both hands, he rubbed his face in an attempt to gain focus. He'd spent several hours last night, after a grueling day of activity in his own investigation, working between the Internet and his phone, gathering new details from the Gordon Caine murder investigation. His writing was on the back burner, Amy was impatiently waiting on the side lines and Paige was hounding him from the front.
He wouldn't be any good to anyone if he lost focus now, most of all Erica. He wanted this whole investigation over. He wanted out.
And he wanted to be alive.
"Jonathon," Paige stood at the door to the conference room, watching him with her steady, impassive gaze, "everything okay?"
"Yeah."
"I'll take that answer for now," she said as he stepped passed her into the conference room. He went to the table and braced himself, palms flat against the rough wood. He saw nothing but a blur of papers and photographs, his mind tripping over itself and the details that had him worried—in three different directions.
"You reach her?"
"No," he said, shaking his head to clear it. "But she left me another dandy message."
"Wow. You're mood's improving. You could always lower your high standards and actually get a cell phone like everyone else in the world."
"Look Paige—" he looked at the face of his old partner and swallowed back the irritation. She was only doing her job. The problem was his, and until he straightened out, he was her problem. "I need some time. I'll be in the gym if you need me."
* * * * * Erica frowned over her computer as she negotiated the architectural design program through the changes that Mr. Boiston had requested. She'd spent the morning in negotiations with the contractor and city, then the afternoon with Mr. Boiston himself. The man had little idea of what went on in a building, but plenty ideas when it came to what he wanted. At least he had the money to waste behind his efforts.
The hotel room was dark, the only sounds were those coming from the nature player Miles had given her at Christmas. It was set for the rain forest. The sounds of the ocean had grown old. She'd even tried the special sounds of the city that Miles had programmed in his preference; honking horns, engines, muddled voices, blaring music, bass vibrating through the trunks of people's cars and into the glass windows.
Erica nearly laughed at herself. She had a headache as it was, pulsing in her temples and along her neck. She'd had time to think in the two days she spent wondering around Dan's land, but most of her time was spent making sketches, watching clouds, and doing whatever it took not to remember—despite her best intentions.
She couldn’t face it. Even in her prayers.
Maybe it was best that she wasn't alone when she faced the past. She had tried to remember the good times. She'd tried to remember her mother as she had been, before the murder, before the long line of men.
She wanted to talk to Jonathon. The days seemed so lifeless without him.
But she didn't know what to say. She was tired. Confused. And homesick for a home she wasn't sure she could enjoy again.
Tomorrow, she was flying to Portland. Maybe it was time she got some help.
* * * * * Jonathon stood alone at the entrance to the precinct. He leaned against the open door, watched the early edges of night fall outside. There had been a time when standing out on the ledge had brought comfort. He'd felt somewhat in control, could believe that he made a difference somewhere, for someone.
Now when he looked out over the street, watched life move slowly on, in the same pattern as before. A car drove by, officers carried wound down from duty…as he watched, he remembered. Not three blocks away he'd watched his world slip away…kids he’d cared about ...gone in an instant.
He'd felt helpless.
Even now as they were closing in on the upper crust of the drug ring, he still felt vulnerable. Useless. Foreign in this building and on this street that he'd once walked with ownership of life and duty.
He frowned and headed inside. The door he'd been leaning against closed behind him. The workout had only made him tired and angry at himself. Paige had left him a note that she had gone out on another call, onto the streets where they'd once battled together.
He entered the conference room and sat at the old oblong table as the minutes ticked by. The papers and photographs were still there, the older reports as fresh in his mind today as they'd been five years ago. He had images in his head. Over and over the wheel spun, the minutes ticking by, reminding him of the faceless bodies, bleeding and broken, lying on the street after the storm of gunfire rang silent. He'd watched, impotent against the onslaught. He felt his heart crumble, his soul shatter, all over again.
"Let it go."
Jonathon frowned over his father's words, his father's voice, and turned to see him there … in the room with him. He was sitting in the cracked chair by the door, as he had before when he'd sat in as an advisor on an investigation. He rarely spoke from that spot, Jonathon remember, unless it was important.
And only if no one else would eventually come up with the same answer.
"Couldn't stay away, could you?"
The bitterness overflowed. He didn't care.
"Haven't ever been able to stay away. From you or this place," he placed his hands on either armrest and slowly stood, his gaze seemingly relaxed. Jonathon knew better. He thought of Erica's description of him as an older Paul Newman. He realized despairingly that she saw what he did now.
"Paige called you."
"Paige and I talk on occasion," he walked around the table, stopped on the opposite side, turned slowly to face his son. He slipped his hands in his pockets. Rocked back on his heels. Anyone who underestimated him would think him calm, but Jonathon knew better. Past the lighthearted face and tranquil voice were eyes of pointed steel.
"It's rattling your brain, Jonathon. Let it go."
"You act like I could have done it a long time ago."
"Maybe you should have."
Jonathon took a deep breath for calm and gave up. "You weren't there, dad," he said, his voice measured, controlled.
His father's chin snapped up. "Do you think I wasn't? I was with you every night for every case. In every moment, in every prayer. Your training was ingrained in you. I knew those boys, because I knew you. I knew what they meant to you. I knew you loved them—and I knew they would burn you.”
”You couldn’t have known.
”Couldn’t I? I left the force for my own reasons, but I've been with you in every nightmare since—even after. Even when you run from it. Over and over again."
Jonathon jerked from his chair. It slammed back, crashing to the floor. "There you go—thinking you can get into my head. I'm not one of your criminals that you can psychoanalyze."
"No."
Jonathon's father stood across from him, his jaw taunt, his blue eyes full of fire. If someone would have seen them, facing off, they would have seen the fierce resemblance, determination, passion that was trademark Burstin. Neither would have appreciated the observation.
"You're my son."
He moved quickly around the table, with speed the belied his age. He stopped before Jonathon, in control, determined. "You want to face off right now, Jonathon?" he voice was raised, challenging. He leaned forward, offered his chin. "Come on. Take it out on me. Turn it on me. You know you want to."
Jonathon strained in fury. His fingers curled into a fist at his side. A good fight—just one. Even if he was his father. Even if he was his greatest ally.
He turned, kicked the metal chair. It slammed against the wall, clattering to the floor. He jerked the door open, its full force sending it crashing back. The only thing that kept him from taking that swing at his father was pointed uncertainty. He wasn’t sure who was wrong.
Who was right.
Let it go.
If only his father could be right this time.
Several officers appeared, ready to step in, then stepped back as Jonathon stormed out.
He wasn't sure where he was going, but he wanted out. He only wanted out.
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