Читать книгу The Road To Echo Point - Carrie Weaver - Страница 9

“YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING,” Vi sputtered.

Surely the man wasn’t serious? He looked more like a cowboy than an officer of the court. All western, what she could see of him, from the cotton shirt with the mother-of-pearl snaps to the bola tie at his scrawny, weathered neck.

Trying to regain her composure, Vi glanced around the Echo Point courtroom. The imitation-wood paneled walls were decorated with the usual framed copies of the Arizona and U.S. constitutions. Old black-and-white photos of copper mines and cattle ranches reflected the history of the small town.

Scattered through the photos were color lithographs of dogs. Sporting dogs. Dogs with limp birds in their mouths, dogs pointing at unseen prey. And one color, eight-by-ten of a muscular yellow dog at the side of a man clutching a rifle. Thick black plastic framed the man’s glasses, a turquoise ’68 Ford Camper Special stood proudly in the background. All clues that this was one of Judge Tanner’s favorite photos from his younger days.

Vi swallowed the lump in her throat. She’d heard horror stories about skewed rural justice.

Judge Tanner looked over the rims of his reading glasses. “I don’t kid when it comes to adjudicating a case. Just because my robe’s at the cleaners, doesn’t mean this is a bunch of funny business. I take my rulings very seriously. Says here, you left the scene of an accident. Hit-’n-run.”

“I didn’t mean to imply I take the proceedings lightly. It’s just that…well, I did stop.”

“You didn’t stay to render aid or give insurance information. Hit-and-run. I can revoke your license.”

Vi bit her lip before a succinct curse could slip out. He had every right, and she had nobody to blame but herself. A hit-and-run violation, combined with a few past speeding infractions, could mean a suspended license.

Dread turned her into a one-woman perspiration factory. The lining of her blazer stuck to her back, moisture trickled in places she’d rather not think about.

She gulped. “I could lose my job….”

“Should have thought of that before.”

“I wasn’t thinking—”

“No. You weren’t. You weren’t considering that a child could just as easily have been in that road.”

The thought of maiming a child scared her as much now as at the scene. Maybe more. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. It was an accident. Just a dog…”

Vi glanced at the photos on the wall. “That didn’t come out the way I meant it.”

“I certainly hope not.”

Stepping closer, she murmured, “I—I’m not sure what happened to me. I’ve been under a lot of stress, my appointment was, uh, unusual. And when the guy with the dog charged at me, I guess I snapped.”

That was as much of the truth as she intended to reveal. There was no way she would describe the flashback, or the man she’d really thought was charging at her. The judge would have her in a straitjacket and pronto.

“I admit I made a mistake. I take full responsibility. The dog is recovering. I’ve offered to pay the vet bill…make things right.”

The judge addressed the dog’s owner, slumped in the front row. “Ian, will paying the vet bill make things right?”

“No. Not even close.”

Vi could feel her cheeks flush. “That’s not being reasonable.”

“Life isn’t reasonable,” the man named Ian commented.

She turned to get a better look at him. What she saw confused her. He could have been a WWF wrestler on a downhill slide. Stubble covered his chin, dark circles ringed his eyes. Exhaustion was etched in the lines around his mouth. And yet, the judge seemed to value his opinion. Maybe her knee-jerk reaction on that dirt road had been rash, but the man still intended to ruin her life.

She swiped her tongue across her dry, cracked lips. “Look, I’m sorry. Really, really sorry. But you can’t hold me responsible for the fact that the dog wasn’t leashed. And you’ve got to understand. I was afraid for my life.”

Judge Tanner leaned forward. “A. There’s no leash law in the county area outside Echo Point. B. It’s your responsibility as a driver to be prepared for the unexpected. C. While Arizona is a comparative negligence state, that applies only to civil litigation, not criminal. You can’t parcel out the blame. And finally D. Ian wouldn’t hurt a woman.”

Vi gulped. The judge might not look like the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he apparently was no slouch in the law department. Appealing to his sympathy was her best bet. “I didn’t know that…um…Ian was harmless. He looked dangerous. Put yourself in my place. A woman, alone, out in the middle of nowhere…suddenly a large, angry man comes running at me, yelling.”

The judge opened a slim manila folder and adjusted his glasses. “Ah, yes. Claims Manager it says here. Don’t imagine you intimidate too easily. Tell me about this ‘unusual’ appointment of yours. Who’d you meet? For what purpose?”

He was right. She normally didn’t intimidate easily. At least not anymore. She prayed that it had been the unique set of circumstances and not an indication she was losing all the ground she’d gained in the past ten years. She couldn’t go back to being that scared girl who jumped at her own shadow. The girl who thought black eyes and bruises were an everyday event. That all daddies drank themselves into a rage.

Drawing on her strength, her training, she tried to appeal to the judge’s professionalism. “Sir, I drove up from Phoenix to settle an auto injury claim with an elderly gentleman named Bob Johnson. He’s going in for surgery next week, and we wanted to get his accident claim settled first.” She leaned forward. “As I’m sure you are aware, if he dies before settling his claim, his relatives will no longer be entitled to compensation for pain and suffering.”

“So, out of the goodness of your heart, you came all the way up here to make sure old Bob’s grandchildren get a chunk of change, even if he croaks on the operating table?”

“Well, yes, in a manner of speaking.”

It sounded so cold. In her circle, it was considered more a mission of mercy. Besides, she liked old Mr. Johnson. That’s why she’d hung on to his file after her promotion from adjuster to unit supervisor.

“I’m surprised old Bob didn’t fill your behind full of buckshot,” the judge said.

“But he did, I mean, he tried. He chased me off with a rusty old rifle. The stuff sprayed all over the tree next to me. So, you see, I was rattled.”

A smile twitched at the corners of the old man’s thin lips, then vanished. “Be that as it may, it’s not an excuse for making a poor decision. Since you see the results of accidents every day, I’m sure you can understand how serious this is.”

“Yes, sir. But—”

“With your speeding tickets and this latest stunt, you deserve to lose your license….” The judge brought up his reading glasses, glancing through a thin file. “Violet.”

Violet. The little girl cowering in a corner, trying to make herself disappear.

Another trip down memory lane. It was almost as bad as going home, something she never intended to do again.

“Please, call me Vi.”

“Well, Vi, we have a decision here…”

“I’d appreciate any leeway you could give…sir.”

Judge Tanner leaned back in his leather chair and steepled his hands. “Maybe we can find a solution. Hit-and-run means you lose your license. But, there could be another way.”

“Speed too fast for conditions,” she supplied. A mere point or two on her license. Her insurance rates would skyrocket, but she’d save her job.

The judge’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job. From the looks of your traffic violations, you always drive with your foot in the carburetor. Seems to me you could use some cooling off time. I’ll give you a break. Community service, restitution.”

Relief washed over her. A couple weekends at the local soup kitchen, maybe picking up trash in the town square. How bad could it be?

“Yes, community service. I’d appreciate the second chance, sir.”

She ignored the perspiration pooling at the waistband of her skirt. “I do feel bad about Mr….ah, about his dog.” She gestured vaguely in the madman’s direction. “I’d be happy to replace it for him.”

“So ruled. Community service, replacement of the dog.” The gavel echoed through the small courtroom. “I’ll give you a day to collect your things and move in.”

The judge glanced toward the front row. “You’ve got a spare room, don’t you Ian?”

“Uh-huh,” the big guy grunted.

“Move in?” Vi squeaked.

“Sure. You can’t watch over Daisy properly unless you stay the night.”

She choked back a laugh. “You mean I’m supposed to watch over a dog?”

“No, ma’am. You’ll replace the dog. Take her place.” Judge Tanner turned to the man. “Now, Ian, how long did Doc Woodworth say Annabelle’d be laid up?”

“A month. Six weeks if there’re complications.”

“Who is Annabelle and what does she have to do with this?” she demanded.

“Annabelle is the dog you practically killed. She’s an important member of my family and a certified service dog.”

The mountain of a man spoke to her directly for the first time since he’d come charging out of the brush.

“Wha…? There was no vest on that dog—”

“She was off duty. We weren’t out in public. Even a dog needs R&R, especially a service dog. Fetch is her stress-buster.”

“What about my job? I’ve got responsibilities, a good shot at District Claims Manager.”

The judge waved his hand as if to shoo a pesky fly, telling her exactly what he thought of her job. “You should’ve thought of that before you went speeding down a dirt road. You’ve got till four tomorrow afternoon to show up at Daisy’s place. Ian’ll give you directions.”

“But that’s not fair.” Vi stormed the bench, her heels clicking emphatically. “You can’t do that. I’ll get an attorney.”

“Attorney’d be a waste of time and money.” He gestured toward the man. “Ian, I’ll have Sheriff Moreno stop by for a report now and then. That’ll give old Joe a chance to chat with Daisy and make sure Ms. Lead Foot here keeps her end of the deal.”

“Thanks, Ralph. I’m about beat.”

“Think you can hold out till tomorrow?” His prune face relaxed into a sympathetic smile.

The man swiped a hand across his face. “I’ve done it before. I’ll do it now.”

Fumbling through a daily planner, he found a blank page and ripped it out. He scribbled furiously, then handed the sheet to her. “See you at four tomorrow.”

“Wait a minute. Who’s Daisy? And why the heck do you need me?”

“Daisy’s my mother. Annabelle’s her service dog. You’ll keep an eye on Mom at night while I sleep.”

Vi shook her head. She was having a hard time relating a service dog to a woman who needed to be watched while she was asleep. Seizures maybe? She’d read about dogs trained to sense the onset of human seizures.

“Oh, and bring some comfortable clothes.” He eyed her up and down. His lips curled into a smirk as he took in every detail of her gray silk suit. “You won’t be needing those.”

He gestured in her general direction. By those, she assumed he meant designer clothes, or maybe it was her three-inch heels.

“I need to know what I’m getting into. Why exactly does your mother need a service dog?”

“Alzheimer’s. She has Alzheimer’s.”

VI CAREFULLY NEGOTIATED the curve, keeping her speed down to a crawl. Impatience had got her into this mess, thinking on her feet would get her out.

Mentally reviewing her options, Vi figured her week’s vacation would keep the rumble of discontent at Transglobal Insurance down to a dull roar. After that, they’d start talking leave of absence, a death knell to her goals.

She patted the laptop next to her. A large box of files rested on the back seat. Black leather was hell on the thighs during the scorching summer, but it sure looked good. The Mustang was her pride and joy. New, sleek and powerful. Not bad for a girl from East L.A.

Peering ahead, she saw where the scrub brush parted for a bit and a rutted path jogged off to the right. That had to be it. It was the only private drive for miles. She followed the narrow dirt road for several hundred yards and parked on a circular drive.

Letting out a low whistle, she admired the view. It was an adobe—low, squat and brown. Perfectly framed by the backdrop of lush, undisturbed desert, the Superstition Mountains rising in the distance. It looked like a small piece of heaven.

Vi got out of the car and approached the veranda, her gaze lighting on new and wonderful discoveries. Wild flowers in big terra-cotta pots. Two antique branding irons, crossed like swords, anchored to the wall.

She laid a palm against the adobe, absorbing the warmth of reflected fall sunshine, admiring the coarse texture. The weathered mud brick looked like it had been there for years. And would probably last for many, many more. It was stable, unchanging, safe.

Patrick would have loved it. He had loved all things western. Probably because of the old cowboy movies he’d watched when they were kids. Where the good guys always won, and the bad guys were easily spotted in their black hats.

Vi swallowed hard. She would not cry. It didn’t accomplish anything. And it wasn’t what Patrick would have wanted.

Laughter and joy were what he had brought to her life. And at the first sign of trouble, he’d whisk her off to their special fort and tell her jokes until she’d forgotten her fear.

God, how she missed his smile. The mischievous twinkle in his eye. The absolute goodness in his heart. The bravery he shrugged off as brotherly duty.

Vi fingered the heavy wooden door. Splinters nipped at her, but the core was solid. The bulky expanse was attached to the hand-hewn door frame with cast iron fittings. It might be old, but it looked strong enough to hold off an army. Or one really pissed-off SOB.

Yes, Patrick would have loved it.

Someday, she’d have a place like this. If she worked harder and smarter than everyone else.

Vi slipped into her favorite daydream. The one where she possessed the security only money could buy.

What would she change if the adobe house were hers? Definitely not the massive mesquite tree shading the flat roof, its gnarled black branches stretching protectively toward the house. And not the prickly pear cacti that lined the gravel drive. The ocotillo would stay, too. It looked almost like an upside-down octopus as it reached for the sky, the long, skinny stems undulating with the slightest breeze. The blooms added just the right touch of orange, breaking up all the tans and sages of the desert.

It was quiet, hushed almost. Except for the occasional call of some sort of bird, a dove maybe. What did someone do with all this quiet? No sirens, no neighbors, just quiet.

Vi shook herself out of her reverie. She didn’t avoid challenges anymore, she took them head-on.

Her knuckles stung as she rapped on the striated surface of the door. Her efforts hardly made a sound. She pounded with her fist the second time and was rewarded with a dull thud.

She swore under her breath as she blew on her bruised hand.

The door swung open instantly, silently. Plenty of oil on those old fittings.

“You’re here. Good.”

The Ian guy stood in the doorway, his massive arms folded over his chest.

Vi took in his scruffy, stubbled jaw. She raised an eyebrow at his just-rolled-out-of-bed hair—short, dark-blond spikes here, mashed flat to his head there. And to think she’d envied guys with their wash-and-go cropped hair. Apparently, the “wash” part was critical to the whole ’do. He looked like a shower and a dab of shampoo might work wonders.

The view improved once her gaze got past the stubbled jaw. His Phoenix Coyotes hockey jersey, though badly wrinkled, outlined a very nice set of pecs, then hinted at a muscled stomach before neatly disappearing in to his jeans. No doubt about it, he was devoted to his hometown teams. The teal and purple presumably brought out the green in his eyes, but today they were just too bloodshot.

It had to be one hell of a hangover, judging from the way his hand shook where he gripped the wrought iron door handle.

Wariness twisted her stomach. This was more than she’d bargained for. Vi let her suitcase down with a thunk. The laptop case remained firmly on her shoulder.

She stuck out a hand. His grip was strong, but with a tremor she could have named in seconds.

“Too much partying?” It was more of an observation than a question.

Ian scowled in response. His shoulders straightened. He had to be six-three or six-four. No wonder he’d scared the hell out of her.

“Look, lady, I don’t know where you think you’ve landed, but there isn’t too much to celebrate around here.”

Vi shot him a glare. “I know a hangover when I see one.”

“You do, huh? How about sleep deprivation, you familiar with that?”

She raised her chin a fraction. “I’ve read a bit. And my secretary has a colicky baby. She says that’s why she’s always late.”

He looked her up and down, his gaze attacking her neatly pressed khakis, polished loafers, cotton sweater set. He shook his head. “No, you’ve never missed a moment’s sleep. Your poor secretary.”

The laptop strap bit into her shoulder. His words bit into her pride. She was a good boss, dammit. She’d come up the hard way—won a scholarship for inner city teens. She knew what it was like to struggle, to fight.

Vi took a deep breath and reminded herself that getting along with the guy might mean all the difference. “Look, we got off to a bad start. Why don’t we try again? You could begin by inviting me in.”

He grunted in reply, shoving away from the wall. He turned without a word, leaving her to follow like a helpless child.

She grabbed her tweed suitcase and trotted behind him. And she never trotted behind anyone. One or two steps ahead at the very least.

“I’d like to get unpacked right away. Get my computer set up….” Her mind was off and running, calculating how she would keep her finger on the pulse of the office, while stuck out here in the boonies. She shuddered to think that Echo Point was the closest outpost of civilization. It was a good twelve miles away.

“Yeah, we better get moving. The witching hour is almost here,” he muttered.

She barely heard him. “What was that…witching hour?” she mumbled, still mulling over office politics.

VI JUMPED at the sound of an insistent knock at her door.

She shoved her socks and underwear into the top drawer of the distressed pine dresser and slammed it shut.

“Vi?” came the deep voice.

“Just a minute,” she called, stowing her luggage under the bed. As she stood, she adjusted the pile of pillows, smoothed the lovely chenille bedspread. Unbleached cotton, maybe even organic. It felt heavenly, soft, under her fingers. It’d taken years to educate herself about the finer things in life. And soon, she’d be able to afford them. Even with the big chunk of her paycheck she sent to L.A. each month.

Another knock. This time louder. Desperate almost.

Hurrying to the door, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She pasted on a confident smile.

“Ready…lead the way,” she said as she opened the door. She was talking to a hulking back moving down the hallway. Vi jogged to catch up with him.

The Mexican tile blurred beneath her feet—the stark white walls glowing in contrast. Migraine-inducing bright. But at least it lightened up all the colonial Mexican stuff.

Just when she thought she might go blind from the glare, the hallway opened into a great room. Large, low-ceilinged, with a big screen TV in the corner. Spare, to the point of being scary. No homey pile of magazines. Just a remote and a TV magazine—

Vi frowned. Was the remote actually chained to the coffee table?

It was.

“Mom, this is Vi.”

Ian nudged her forward until they reached a leather sofa. The high gloss and buttery tones promised soft calfskin. A colorful Indian blanket was draped across the back, right behind an old woman. Slender arms, soft, silvery-gold hair worn in a chin-length bob and cornflower blue eyes that sparkled.

“Vi, this is my mother, Daisy.”

“Hello.” She extended her hand.

The woman grasped Vi’s hand in her own. Pat-pat went the ringed fingers. Her hands were cool, her scent divine. There was a grace to her movements, a regal quality in her posture. This woman hadn’t slouched a day in her life.

“I’m Daisy. Welcome.”

The woman stood, and her petite frame surprised Vi—her head didn’t reach much higher than Vi’s shoulder. Without warning, the tiny thing enfolded her in a hug.

Vi stiffened. Glancing over the golden head to the giant, she pleaded with her eyes.

Save me.

There would be no rescue from that corner. The exhaustion had cleared from Ian’s face and his eyes were alight with affection.

She awkwardly patted the woman’s straight back, then disengaged herself.

“Mom, Vi’s going to join us for dinner.”

“Who’s Vi?” she asked, a frown pulling at her brow.

“I’m Vi.”

“Oh, yes, yes of course, dear. But who’s joining us for dinner?”

Vi turned helplessly to Ian. This threatened to become a bad game of “Who’s on First?” She’d had only a brief opportunity to research Alzheimer’s and didn’t quite know what to expect.

“Mom, why don’t you show our guest your paintings while I get dinner.”

“What a lovely idea, dear.” The old woman took Vi’s arm and gently led her through an arch and down a long corridor.

Vi couldn’t help but notice the strange wallpapering technique they’d employed. There was some sort of border on the wall, about elbow height. It looked like metallic tape. Reflective tape?

She opened her mouth to ask about it, but never got a break in the conversation. The older woman chattered as they strolled, commenting on the weather, the ballet she’d just seen, the latest scandal involving President Nixon.

Other than forgetting the current president, she seemed remarkably in charge of all her faculties. This job might just be easier than Vi had anticipated.

“Here’s my studio,” Daisy commented, as they reached a set of double doors at the end of the hallway. She threw open the doors to reveal a breathtaking view. There were windows from floor to ceiling along one wall, framed by the gray and purple of the Superstition Mountains in the distance. Below, a lush meadow meandered to a stand of cottonwood trees, with a few scrub oak sprinkled in. Mostly green, but with an occasional burnt orange leaf here and there. Gorgeous.

And the supplies. She’d never seen so many wonderful paints in one place, short of an art store. Her fingers itched to hold a brush, to try the pastels she’d experimented with years ago, given to her by a kind teacher. But no, the colors were all wrong. A bolder, more brilliant medium was needed. One that would bring out all the contrasts and textures.

“It’s wonderful,” she breathed.

“I knew you’d like it. You have artistic hands.”

The gnarled hands picked up hers, tracing the length of her fingers, pressing gently on her palm, as if assessing her strength.

“Mine were very much like this once.” The old lady sighed and dropped her hand. She turned away from Vi, but couldn’t hide the regret in her voice.

“Once?”

Daisy wandered toward the window, lost in thought. “Can’t hold a paintbrush.”

Back she came, her movements stiff, disjointed.

“Can’t dance, either. Knees won’t work right.”

To the window and back, faster and faster.

“Everyone knows. Hold a brush properly. First lesson.”

She moved to the workbench and grabbed a coffee can full of paintbrushes. “Can’t do it.” She stalked toward Vi. “Can’t do it, can’t do it, can’t do it, can’t do it,” she chanted, louder with each refrain. Crimson splotched her wrinkled cheeks. The rest of her face was deathly pale, almost gray.

Oh, God, she’s going to have a stroke.

“It’s okay,” Vi soothed. Her stomach knotted with helplessness. How was she supposed to handle this woman?

“Can’t do it, can’t do it. Can’t do it!” She was directly in front of Vi. Droplets of saliva showered her face. The old hands clawed at her.

“Can’t do it!” she shrieked. The woman turned and with surprising strength, hurled the can, brushes and all, at the window.

The glass shattered. Large jagged cracks radiated from the spot where the can had connected.

Vi panicked. What in the heck was she supposed to do?

Surely Ian had heard the commotion. Surely he’d fling open the doors and take care of this…this situation. She strained her ears, willing his heavy footsteps.

Nothing. No sound of the cavalry coming to her rescue.

Daisy, surprisingly nimble now, raced toward the window.

Vi made a split-second decision and sprinted after her. She caught the woman from behind in a big bear hug. Daisy thrashed and screamed, batting at Vi’s arms. Vi held on tightly, gasping for air. She wouldn’t let go. Wouldn’t let this sick woman throw herself through the glass.

The tiny figure twisted and wrenched in her arms. Every movement forced Vi’s arm upward. She could strangle the old woman if she didn’t let go. But Daisy could die if she did. It wasn’t much of a choice.