Bullet in the Night (9 page)

“No problem, I have an errand too, but don’t make a habit of working at friends’ houses on week nights. Can you be ready to leave soon?”

“Like now.” Tara grabbed her books while I collected a sweater and my purse. She followed me into the garage. The large steel door lifted with my finger push on the button.

The second I put the car in reverse, Tara reached for the radio.

I put my hand over hers before backing out. “Whoa. Let’s talk for a few minutes instead, sweetie. How was school today?” I tapped the remote on the visor, and the garage door groaned down.

“Fine.”

Jennifer, what were you thinking? You teach parents not to ask questions with one-word answers? 

“What’s your homework tonight?”

“Studying for a test. I hate the subject. It makes me feel dumb. I’m no good at numbers or shapes, but I
want
to ace this test.”

My competitive tiger. School studies seemed irrelevant to my crisis-filled counseling life, but I struggled to relate. “Go for it. Just remember A’s are not absolutely necessary.” I strategized with her while encouraging her. “You’re wonderful in our eyes whatever your grades as long as you try your best in every subject.”

Tara grinned. Her wobbly self-image sopped up my comment.
Lord, help me remember my children’s emotional needs.
If only I’d heard more affirmations during my childhood, entering adulthood would have been much easier.

After a pause, Tara’s tiny voice sliced through the air. “About Lenora, Mom. What happened to her made you so sad. It scares me that caring a lot for people means you can get so hurt. I’ve decided it’s best not to have really close friends.” Tara tossed her ponytail back and crossed her arms.

I reached over to press her hand and let mine rest atop hers. “You might want to rethink that. I read a book called 
Confessions
 by St. Augustine. It describes how he mourned the death of his close friend, Aeschylus. Augustine thought he’d never be joyful again, but in time he was. He honored his friend by living fully after his initial sadness passed.”

“It’s too hard.”

I smoothed my palm over her fingers. “Friends are worth the effort.”

“Maybe.” Tara pulled her hand away, released the band holding her ponytail, and shook her hair loose. “Can I turn on the radio now?” She bent over and began fiddling with the dials.

“We’re here.” Tara’s head popped up as I pulled into the blacktop circular drive of Ellie’s ranch home. I kept the car idling while Tara walked up the steps and waited until Ellie opened the front door.

Tara waved at me, cupped her hand and shouted, “Her mom’s driving me home, remember.”

“Don’t be late,” I yelled through my open window.

* * *

Ten minutes later, I steered up the Tucker driveway as the trees splashed moving grotesque shadows inside my car. Soon the house emerged like a huge, lurking octopus. The sensor light came on at the garage where I parked. Tucker’s car was nowhere to be seen.
Great, he’s probably still at the hospital, and I’m alone here.

A gush of cool air blasted my face when I stepped out. Goose pimples peaked on my skin. I’m a scaredy-cat in unfamiliar situations, but this was a familiar place. Why would I feel weird? Because I rarely came at night? Of course not, I knew why. Whoever shot Lenora that fateful night meant to kill her. I pictured him waiting in the woods.
Stop thinking about it, Jennifer.
My jeans and jacket blended into darkness as my Reeboks moved noiselessly along the path, cleared of leaves by strong winds. Why had I worn black?

I forced myself to move up the walk. Trailers for horror movies popped into my brain. I snapped my eyes shut to block the gore. How could I turn off my imagination now?

Self-talk.
Be not afraid, fear cripples. Replace panic with deep breathing and peaceful thoughts.
How many times had I recommended methods to reduce anxiety? “After all, you are a counselor, Jennifer.” I spoke aloud. “Don’t be a wimp. Tucker will be here soon. Get these names and go.”

The problem with self-talk was my other voice spoke, too.
Idiot. Why didn’t you arrange to pick these up in the daytime?
I smacked my forehead with my hand and answered out loud. “I couldn’t get away. Besides, Tucker wouldn’t be home. And since when is daylight totally safe anyway?”

I charged up the cedar steps leading to the porch, trying to manufacture confidence with speed. How silly was that? A ray of light flowed into the yard behind the house, probably from a kitchen window. Was Tucker home after all or did a timer control that light?

A spider’s lavish web had attached to a wide black cow bell mounted next to the front door, illuminated by another sensor light. Bad location. I hated to be a home wrecker. I pulled the bell cord. A loud clang sounded. I waited. No one appeared.

Just in case the clanging hadn’t been heard, I fist-knocked the door. No response.

A wooden swing on the porch provided a good vantage seat for waiting, after I brushed off a few twigs and leaves. Surely he’d arrive any minute.

To pass the time I scanned the night sky, locating the Big Dipper. As a child, stargazing brought consolation and comfort. I’d ducked into the back yard and hunted for it. I also sought out the Morning Star I’d read about in Scripture. I never found it, but the dipper was always there.

The groan of a motor and flickering headlights came up the winding drive.

“At last,” I said aloud.

The car pulled into the graveled half-circle and parked. When the driver emerged, I strained to see, but my view was blocked by night shadows.

The sensor-controlled light in the parking area flashed on.

A lump formed in my throat. Instead of Tucker, a man of average height appeared. Who was this?

My isolated woodland setting made me squeamish. I cringed against the back of the swing, wishing I were invisible as I pulled my jacket tighter around me. In the dark, he couldn’t see me. Not yet. And I wasn’t going to call out. Primordial female fear kept me from announcing my presence.

The man stepped over to my empty mini-van and peered in. He walked around, checked the back window, then turned and surveyed the dim house and yard before stepping briskly toward the deck.

He spotted me and did a double take. “You startled me.” His voice was cool, professional.

I
startled
him
? “Likewise.”

“I came to see Tucker. Isn’t he home?”

I noted with some relief his business suit, button-down oxford shirt—surely not the latest in sniper attire. Although killers did wear suits in mobster movies, they weren’t this attractive with a square jaw and intense blue eyes. He was a cross between Tom Cruise and Paul Newman in his prime. Thick hair, slicked back straight off his forehead, receded to leave half-moons at each temple.

My observation skills had kicked in, perhaps because we were at the scene of a recent crime. Was this man safe? Despising my hint of a stammer I responded, “I expect him any minute.” I wanted this guy, whoever he was, to know we weren’t going to be alone long.

He peered at me intensely. “You’re Dr. Trevor, correct?”

He knew me? My spine prickled all over. “Have we met?” 

Before answering, he mounted the deck steps and stopped at the rocker across from me. “I’m Chuck Denton, a member of the Second Chance Foundation’s board. You were introduced at one of our fundraising dinners. We didn’t have a chance to chat. You left early.”

“Probably for kid duty.” I forced a smile. “I have three.” I proceeded to recite their ages as if he’d want or need to know. Being chatty—nerves, no doubt. I recognized his name at least from foundation literature. But I wasn’t ready to shake his hand. Courtesy could wait for different surroundings.

Denton looked around. “It’s weird being here after what happened, isn’t it?”

“Exactly what I was thinking.” I cleared my throat. “Tell me about your work on the foundation board.”

“Pretty low key. We meet three times a year, not much real responsibility. We wouldn’t be described as a working board because Lenora runs the show and does it very well. Or did.” He glanced down as if apologetic for saying her name aloud.

I chuckled. “That’s my colleague. She’s a fireball.”

“Right about that. Have you heard about her latest project?”

I shook my head. “I never could keep up.”

He described in detail the halfway house being built for ex-convicts. “Unfortunately we’re experiencing objections from some sectors of the community opposed to having former inmates in their neighborhood. That’s got to change. There are several million people in prison in this country and ninety-seven percent of them will need a transition place when they get out.”

“It’s admirable Lenora saw the need in our community and stepped up. Terrible what happened to her though.”

“A travesty,” Denton agreed. 

Tucker, where are you? I am done with small talk and need to get home.

Despite Denton’s smooth talk, or maybe because of it, I wasn’t getting good vibrations from him, but then I was off my familiar turf in the dark and he was a stranger. Still, my uneasiness deepened by the moment. I babbled on. “How long have you served on the board?”

“Six months. It’s nice to be involved, even if I didn’t volunteer. My bank requires community service from its officers.”

“Good public relations.”

“Yes, although we’re taking some flack on this issue with the proposed house. I keep trying to smooth things over.”

“How do you do that?” In spite of myself, I was intrigued.

“Mostly I talk up the value of the foundation as a charitable organization and help with fundraisers to garner financial support. When I was growing up, I had it pretty easy. It feels good to do something for guys not as lucky.”

Denton appeared to be enjoying our small talk. I didn’t. I wished I were home.

His positive words belied his tone. Something about his compassion level didn’t register. I keyed in on discrepancies. I was trained to evaluate truth in clients’ personal revelations. A headache began a drumbeat around my temples as I tried to figure this guy out. Why would he lie? I peered anxiously at the road. Where was Tucker?

Lenora knew compassion couldn’t be faked. Had she thought Denton genuine?

To my immense relief, Tucker’s car came shooting up the drive. He exited, slammed the door, and hurried over.

“Sorry I’m late. I wanted to stay until Lenora was settled for the night. She was more restless than usual. Have you been here long?”

“About thirty minutes. Mr. Denton kept me company.”

Chuck Denton stepped forward, extended his hand, and made sympathetic remarks to Tucker. He ended with. “I wanted to extend my condolences in person. I’m so sorry about Lenora.”

“Thank you. Come in, please, both of you,” Tucker invited.

He led us into the kitchen. Tucker opened the briefcase he’d carried in. “Here’s the list you wanted, Jennifer; I made two copies.” He handed me two clipped pages but held another setback. “These are for the police. They called today for this info, also.”

No need to tell Tucker I’d talked to the police chief, urging a wider investigation.

“Good. I’ll check them against the list Nick had scrounged up for me to make sure we missed no one.”

Tucker lowered his gaze. “I hesitated to give this information out.”

“Why?” Denton asked, clueless about how personal these issues were.

“I don’t want Lenora’s other prison protégés dragged in unnecessarily.”

“The police are discreet,” I assured him. “And you know as a professional counselor, I will be too. Lenora’s other client files will be safe with me. I’ll be back for those as soon as I get every Consent to Release form signed.”

Tucker lifted his eyebrows. Why? He knew I’d require them. He seemed reluctant to let anything of Lenora’s go.

Denton interrupted us. “I need to be on my way.” He handed me his card then turned toward Tucker. “If I can assist with anything, Tucker, please call.” He hesitated. “I mean it. Anything, let me know.”

“Thanks. That’s very kind of you.”

“It’s what neighbors are for.” Denton patted Tucker’s back.

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Tucker stiffen visibly at his touch. Strange man.

Tucker turned to me. “By the way, sorry you had to wait outside. I keep the place locked since the shooting. We rarely bolted the doors before.”

“Understandable. I’m hoping Lenora will use more caution when she gets home.” I spoke positively about her recovery for my sake and his.

“Not that locks would have helped protect her from a sniper like Kirk.”

“Or whomever,” I corrected.

“Right, mustn’t prejudge. For all we know the shooter could have been someone from my past wanting to shoot me. ”

This was the second time he’d suggested he could he have been the target. What in this man’s life made him think someone might want to murder him? Besides, couldn’t the sniper see Lenora at her desk? Maybe the image was shadowy, and the sniper merely assumed the target was correct.

* * *

That night, awake and waiting for Tara to return, I slipped out of bed, leaving my husband snoring softly. I couldn’t fall asleep when our daughter wasn’t in her bed where she belonged. When I looked at the clock, my stomach lurched. It was eleven-fifteen.

At eleven-twenty I called Ellie’s. No answer. A shudder raced down my spine. Every nerve tingled.

Tara tiptoed in at eleven-thirty and began chattering the minute she saw me. “Ellie’s mom had to do an errand at Wal-Mart. She said to tell you she’s sorry we’re late.”

“Ten-thirty is your curfew on school nights. You should have called. We’ll discuss this tomorrow.”

Clearly the pressure from not knowing about Lenora and her shooter had heightened my paranoia.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The next morning, eager to get started on my research of ex-convicts Lenora worked with, I called Ellen into my office.

“Here’s a list of the individuals. Get any current employment information available. Some addresses are hopefully accurate, others are incomplete or blank; we need relocation information, anything you can track down. The police will be checking these names, too, but we’ll do our own investigation. With privacy parameters, we can’t expect them to release information.”