Читать книгу The Last Breath - Kimberly Belle - Страница 13

7

A CLOWN.

That’s my first thought when I open an eye. Why is there a clown standing above me, poking me in the shoulder?

“Go away.” I pull the comforter tighter and roll toward a window I vaguely recognize as mine, but from a lifetime or two ago.

The clown gives me a two-handed shove in my back. “Wake up, ’fore I fetch me a bucket of ice water.”

For a second or two, I get caught up on the way she said that last word—warter. And then it hits me. The thick accent, that frizzy orange hair can only belong to one person. I turn my head, blink up at Fannie. “Oh, sorry. I must’ve drifted off.”

“Good Lord, child, I’ve been trying to wake you for the past five minutes. It ain’t normal the way you sleep like the dead.”

I push to a sit, swipe the heel of a hand across each eye. “In my line of work, sleeping is considered a job skill.”

“What are you, a vampire?”

I would laugh, but I’m midyawn.

“Stick your head under a faucet or something, ’cause I just parked one fine hunk of police officer on the couch downstairs. He says you were expecting him at eleven.”

Her words are like a shot of caffeine to the jugular, and I spring out of bed so fast I see a rain of sparkles around the edges of my vision. “Shit. What time is it?”

“Sometime after eleven, I reckon.”

I fall to my knees on the floor and rifle through my suitcase, flinging sweaters and T-shirts and underwear aside until I find my phone, lodged in one of my sneakers. “It’s 11:19. Shit, shit, shit.”

“How ’bout I fix him a cup of coffee while you get ready, lickety-split like.” She heads for the door, but not before tossing a glance to the contents of my suitcase, now exploded all over the floor. “And, sweetie, if you don’t mind me saying so, you may want to spend a little extra time searching through all that slop for a hairbrush.”

By the time I make it downstairs seven and a half minutes later, my teeth brushed and my hair gathered into a messy ponytail high on my head, Fannie is holding court on the couch. She’s brewed a fresh pot of coffee and scrounged up a plate of cookies from the stockpile in the kitchen. And she’s seated suspiciously close to the police officer, giggling like a schoolgirl.

He stands when I come into the room, and with one last bat of her lashes, Fannie heads into the kitchen. Her definition of hunk is light-years away from mine. The policeman looks like an older version of Opie, that kid from The Andy Griffith Show, skinny and ruddy-complexioned. His receding hairline scoops two matching Cs high on his forehead. He waits while I take in the patches and pins on his uniform, the heavy weapons at his belt, the stiff hat tucked under a biceps.

“For a Halloween costume,” I tell him, “it looks pretty decent. How much did you pay for it?”

One corner of his mustache twitches. “I see you’re still as much a smart-ass as ever.”

“I’m sorry.” I push two fingers at each temple and shake my head. “I’m just having trouble processing the fact that the boy who taught me how to funnel beer when I was fifteen has since sworn to uphold the law.”

“Strangely enough, you’re not the first person to tell me that.”

I believe it. For the students at Cherokee High School, Jimmy Gardiner was a legend. Mastermind behind every school prank and organizer of every party. He was a straight-D student, an unapologetic pothead and a proven reckless driver who totaled cars faster than his broken bones could set. If it had been a category, he would have been elected Student Least Likely to Become a Police Officer.

“Holy crap, Jimmy!”

“I go by James these days.” He grins, lifts a shoulder. “Had to pass on the name to the next generation.”

“You have children?” I don’t bother disguising my surprise, but I hope I manage to conceal my horror. Jimmy as a father, now there’s a frightening image.

He nods and reaches for his wallet, flipping to a photo of four scrappy boys in front of a Christmas tree. “Jimmy Junior is six, Ronnie’s four and the twins are two.”

“Cute.”

“They’re the devil’s spawn. Last night I caught the two older ones peeing on the living room ficus. Jimmy told me they were watering it.”

I laugh. “Sounds like karma to me.”

“Not the first person to tell me that, either.”

The walkie-talkie on his shoulder hisses, jerking us out of our reunion with a harsh squawk. A man’s voice fills the room. “Approaching Mooresburg, sir. ETA twenty-five minutes.”

Jimmy slides his wallet back into his pocket, hits a button on the walkie-talkie and tilts his head toward the device. “Roger that.”

My heart lodges in my throat. Twenty-five minutes.

At the reminder of why he’s here, Jimmy’s expression sobers. He offers me a neutral smile, his posture assuming that of police officer rather than old school friend. “As much as I’d like this to be a social visit...”

He doesn’t have to finish for me to get his sentiment. I nod, pointing him to the couch. “Please. Have a seat.”

He drops his hat with a soft thunk on the coffee table and sinks onto the couch. Fannie appears with a fresh coat of coral lipstick and two mugs of coffee, plunking them with an admiring grin at Jimmy onto the table. He thanks her, waiting until she’s slipped back into the kitchen before continuing. And then he ignores his coffee, turning on the couch to face me.

“I just want to make sure we’re all on the same page here since the paperwork lists you as the defendant’s sponsor.”

Silence settles over the room. That I am sponsoring my father is news to me, and a brief flare of resentment for Cal and my siblings bursts in my chest. I don’t recall being asked, and I certainly don’t recall volunteering to be anybody’s sponsor.

“What does that mean, exactly, that I’m Dad’s sponsor? I thought he was being released.”

Jimmy blinks at me in obvious surprise. “Your uncle didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“That your father is not a free man. This arrangement is a home arrest, not a release, and the prisoner is not to leave these premises under any circumstances. As your father’s designated sponsor, you agree to this, as well as to take care of all his business and personal needs until the time of his new trial.”

I give Jimmy a get-real look. “We both know my father won’t make it that long.”

He hands me a stack of papers. “These are the conditions and terms of your father’s home arrest confinement. He will arrive here in less than a half hour. He’s not constrained, but as soon as he enters the house, I’m to secure a monitoring device onto his ankle. Once that’s on, his movements will be monitored 24/7 by satellite through a chip in the electronic bracelet.”

Jimmy’s voice doesn’t carry even the slightest trace of farce, and his hardened brow sets off more than a few of my internal alarm system bells.

“If I see your father has left these premises without explicit written permission from the Hawkins County Criminal Court, I will assume he is violating the terms of the home arrest. This place will be swarming with officers before he can make it to the corner. And they will be armed and instructed to shoot to kill.”

“Shoot to kill.” I nod, not quite able to meet Jimmy’s eyes. “Got it.”

He takes offense at my casual tone. “I’m not playing around here, Gia. Every department within a ninety-mile radius is on high alert. If your father tampers with the ankle bracelet or leaves this house without permission, he will be arrested and returned to prison, or worse. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

I nod again, letting my gaze sweep over the paper in my hands. “It says here you make exceptions for life-threatening emergencies. What if Dad needs medical care?”

“I know what hospice care means, and so do you. It means if you’re going to play the life-threatening-emergency card, I’ll expect to come out here and find the house on fire.”

I bristle at his thinly veiled threat. “My father is almost completely bedridden, so I hardly think he’ll be making a run for it. And besides, why would he bother? The doctors give him a few months at most.”

I don’t add that Cal intends to make sure those few months are spent here at home, and not sitting trial in the county courthouse.

“Still.” Jimmy hesitates, as if to choose his next words carefully. “You should be aware there are more than a few cops who don’t agree with the judge’s ruling. If given the chance, some of them wouldn’t hesitate to put one of their bullets in your father’s body.”

More than a flicker of irritation seeps into my voice. “Then maybe they should speak with Cal or the judge, because releasing him wasn’t my idea. I had nothing to do with this.”

He sighs. “Look, Gi, I’m not trying to get you riled up, but I want you to be aware of what you’re in for here. The law’s the law. People don’t agree with the judge’s ruling that one of the witness’s testimonies was perjured. They don’t like watching a convicted killer, even if he is an old friend’s father, walk away on a technicality.”

“Do you include yourself in that statement?”

“Are you askin’ me as an old friend or a police officer?”

“Whichever one gets me the answer I want to hear.”

Jimmy scrubs a palm over his face, and the set of his mouth softens. “Your dad was my little league coach until I was twelve. He taught me how to make a stink bomb, and he didn’t go blabbin’ to my mama whenever I bought condoms at the pharmacy. I hate every goddamn thing about this case.”

“That’s not technically an answer.”

“The hell it ain’t.” He gives me a sheepish grin that reminds me of the younger Jimmy, the same one who was suspended for switching out all the school’s videotapes for porn. “And I’d appreciate it if you don’t ever ask me that question in public.”

I smile to let him know we have a deal. “Oh, and one more thing. I hear there will be protesters. Do you know if anyone’s applied for a permit for noise amplifiers?”

Jimmy shakes his head. “Don’t think so. But Americans have the right to peaceful protest, and until they step over your property line, I can’t do one doggone thing to make them stop. And I hate to tell you, but they’re already here.”

“They are?” I crane my neck and sure enough, a swarm of people is gathered at the far end of the driveway. Judging by their homemade signs and high-tech cameras, it’s a mix of media and protesters.

“Your father’s not going to be the only one who feels like he’s under house arrest.”

It takes me exactly one millisecond to realize Jimmy’s right. A chill slithers up my spine at the same time my internal thermometer shoots into the danger zone. Every time I step outside the front door, every time I so much as pass by a window, someone will be watching.

Jimmy pulls a card out of his breast pocket, scribbles a number and passes it to me. “My cell. I don’t care what time it is. You call me the minute something happens, okay?”

“Thanks, Jimmy.”

He points to the papers in my lap. “I’ll give you a few moments to read and sign those. I need to make sure the house is secure and the landline is working, so take your time.” He stands, checks his watch. “ETA, ten minutes.”

Ten minutes.

But as Jimmy sets off to patrol the house and I return my attention to the papers in my hand, it occurs to me he didn’t say if something happens.