“Lifestyle changes that improve health benefits are always positive,” the doctor offered.
Jesus Christ
, she thought.
There must be a manual these physicians follow, filled with pithy, mollifying statements that sound good but mean nothing.
She couldn’t stand it any longer. “What in the hell are you talking about?” Her voice raised several octaves as she leaned forward and slammed her fist onto the doctor’s desk. “
Obviously
, it made no difference, given your diagnosis!”
“You can’t put a price on sobriety, Jane.”
Fuck
!
Another Hallmark card contribution.
Jane promised herself if the doc’s next statement was, “You have to name it and claim it,” she was going to dive across the desk and strangle her.
“You
are
a smoker, Jane,” the doctor gently put forth. “That’s one of the ten behaviors that put you at greater risk.”
Great. Somebody made a list. Somebody
always
makes a goddamn list, Jane deduced. We’ve become a nation where we respond to lists and studies. Out of studies you get lists and out of lists you get people who chat about the lists as if the list was absolute. “Yeah, of course I smoke,” Jane said nonchalantly, realizing that a cigarette would taste pretty damn good right about now. “Cigarettes are the reformed drunk’s best friend.”
“Cigarettes are also a significant risk factor for cervical cancer, not to mention…”
“Yeah, I get it.”
“Multiple partners…”
Jane regarded the doctor with an arched eyebrow. “That’s
on the list?” The doctor nodded. “Define ‘multiple.’” Jane stated, pretending for a moment that she was talking to her across a dimly lit table in Denver Headquarter’s tiny interrogation room.
“That’s difficult to say. It’s more pertinent whether a partner had an STD.”
“Well, let’s see, I haven’t had a
partner
in the religious sense for two years. And
he
was pretty fucked up on drugs. Are fucked up partners with drugs on your list? Before that, I could count my
partners
on one hand and still have a finger or two available. So, I don’t think I fit the multiple-partner profile.” The doctor flipped the page on Jane’s report. Across the table, Jane could read her name across the top line:
JANE ANNE PERRY. Who in the hell was that
? she thought. She was Sergeant Detective Perry.
That
was a name she could answer and relate to—not Jane Anne Perry. Jane Anne Perry died a long time ago. “What you else you got on that list, doc?”
“Long term use of birth control pills…”
“Since pregnancy has never been possible, the Pill was never an issue,” Jane countered.
“Multiple pregnancies.”
Jane shook her head and a disparaging half-smile crept across her face. “This is your list?”
“Genetic history of cancer…especially the mother.” The sarcastic grin quickly left Jane’s face. “That’s actually a formidable risk in comparison to the others,” the doctor stressed, sitting back in her chair and holding Jane’s gaze.
Jane swallowed hard. It had been twenty-seven years since she had witnessed her mother, Anne, take her last violent breath before collapsing in a pool of blood and vomit. The memory was as fresh as ever, as was the invasive stench of death that Jane could never shake. “She died of lung cancer and never smoked a cigarette in her life.” The randomness of life suddenly struck Jane. What was the point of changing one’s lifestyle if it all came down to an arbitrary spin of the wheel? You might as well build a meth lab in the bathtub and have anonymous sex.
“It doesn’t matter the type of cancer she had. It matters that she
had
cancer and died of it. Between that and smoking, you are at a much higher risk.”
“She never lived…” Jane’s voice softened as she turned toward the office window. The rain was quickly turning to snow as it pelted the glass. “She existed.”
The doctor flipped through Jane’s file. “She died at 35.”
Jane turned back to face the doctor. “Is that supposed to be significant? I’ve lasted two years longer than my mother so my clock’s ticking?”
“Genetics…our family history plays a major role for all of us.” The doctor closed the file and leaned forward. “You can’t ignore your DNA, Jane…your bloodline.”
“What are you saying? That I’m doomed to repeat my mother’s history? I don’t buy that, doc. I’m nothing like her. She was compliant…she was fragile…she had no gumption, no fight. She was always a broken woman. Cancer was a gift because it got her out of a life that she chose to crawl through.”
“So, you’re saying that strong, tough people like
you
don’t die of cancer?”
Jane sat back. She’d painted herself into an idiotic corner. “I’m saying…that I don’t believe blood defines my life…or my death.” She realized her hand was shaking. Suddenly, there was a strange sense in the tiny office—a heaviness that had not been there a few minutes earlier. Jane shifted with purpose in her seat, hoping she could shake off the unidentified impression that lingered around the edges of her chair. But instead, it hung even tighter.
“Did your mother take DES when she was pregnant?”
Jane felt outside of herself. “What?”
“DES. It’s a synthetic estrogen that was used between the 1940’s and 1971. Women were given it to prevent complications, especially with a history of premature labor…”
Jane tried to push herself back into her body. “I’m the oldest. She wouldn’t know if she had a predisposition to premature
labor so why would she take the drug?”
The doctor pursed her lips. “She could very well have taken it if there were complications during the pregnancy…”
Jane’s head was spinning. “There were no complications when she was pregnant with me.“
“How do you know?”
“I would have heard about it. Trust me,” Jane responded curtly.
The doctor took a breath. “DES-exposed daughters have an increased chance of developing dysplasia in the cervix, usually around twenty to thirty years of age.”
The strange, wraithlike heaviness sunk around Jane’s body, almost demanding to be acknowledged. “And I’m thirty-seven,” Jane stressed.
“It’s not absolute. Since you don’t fit into the profile completely, all other mitigating possibilities should be considered.”
“She didn’t take the drug.”
“She didn’t take it because you
know
she didn’t or because you don’t want to believe she took it?” In an unconscious, almost trance-like manner, Jane gently brushed her fingertips across her forehead, repeating the motion continuously. “Are you all right, Jane?” Jane stared into nothingness, her hand continuing its soothing rhythm across her forehead. “Do you have a headache?”
Jane suddenly noted the odd, uncharacteristic movement of her hand. She crossed her arms tightly against her jacket, a slight disconnect engulfing her. “I’m fine.” She was aware of how distant her voice sounded.
“It’s absolutely normal to feel anxious.” The doctor reached for her prescription pad. “I can write you a script. It’ll take the edge off.”
Jane let out a hard breath, struggling to ground her scattered senses. “Doc, I came out of the gate with an edge. I’ve selfmedicated for years to take the edge off and the result has been an extremely sharp point that almost cut the life out of me.” She
could feel that comforting, familiar grit return as she stood and faced the doctor. “I’ll take a pass on your happy pills.”
Jane stormed out of the parking garage in her ’66 ice blue Mustang and was met with a battering mixture of rain and snow pattering across the windshield. Checking the car’s clock, it was 6:30 pm. In a little over twelve hours, she’d be back at the doc’s office with her feet in the stirrups as they sliced another chunk of tissue out of her. A few years ago, her plan of action would have been simple: go home, get piss drunk, pass out, wake up, nurse the hangover and plod through her day. She may have given up the bottle, but Jane hadn’t given up her need to escape.
She gunned the Mustang onto I-70, easily passing three cars before stationing in the fast lane. Tomorrow was Friday. Next week was spring break.
Perfect
. She hadn’t taken any time off save for the two days when her younger brother Mike got married barefoot in Sedona.
Yes, yes,
she thought. The escape plan was coming together perfectly. Jane unconsciously reached for her American Spirits, deftly lifting one of the slender cylinders out of the pack with her teeth as she changed lanes to pass a truck going the speed limit. Slamming the car’s lighter into place with the heel of her hand, she continued to formulate her unplanned temporary departure. She’d wake up tomorrow, get the biopsy done, go to the market and stock up on enough food and DVDs to last a week, then return to her house and hole up like the old days—sans booze—until she got the phone call with the test results the following Thursday. She liked her plan. It was a classic Jane Perry mixture of
fuck you
revolt and sanctioned hooky. The car’s lighter clicked. Jane pressed the pedal to the floor, passed an eighteen-wheeler and slid back into the fast lane. She drew the lighter to the tip of the cigarette when the reality of the moment came into focus. “Fuck,” she whispered, and her plan quickly deflated.
It was only right that she leave a note for Weyler at DH.
It also didn’t hurt that it was 7:15 pm when she squealed into police headquarters at 13
th
and Cherokee. Weyler was certain to be home by now, feet propped up on his ottoman, watching whatever PBS had programmed.
Getting off the elevator on the third floor, Jane quickly entered the homicide department and took a sharp right into her office. She snagged a blank sheet of paper out of the fax machine, scribbled a few sentences and signed her name. Before turning off the light, she grabbed a stack of paperwork from her cluttered, dusty desk, tucking it under her arm.
Goddamned Protestant work ethic
, she scolded herself.
A quick look around the Department showed no one. She walked into Weyler’s office, placing her letter in the center of his pristine, uncluttered desk. It would be a stealth departure, Jane assumed, until she spun around and smacked into the 6’ 4” frame of Sergeant Weyler.
“Jane,” Weyler said with ease. “Just the person I’m looking for.”
CHAPTER 3
“Boss!” Jane stammered. “I thought you��d left.”
Weyler sidestepped his way around Jane and crossed to his chair. “I was on a long call to an old friend.” He slid a yellow pad filled with handwritten notes across his desk and spied the folded sheet of paper. “What’s this?” he asked, unfolding Jane’s letter.
Jane never planned to be standing in the room when he read her hastened note explaining her abrupt weeklong leave. “It’s…a…” It was uncharacteristic for her to stumble like this. She respected Weyler too much to bullshit him but she also wasn’t in the mood to explain herself in person.
“’Boss?’” Weyler rejoined, reading the heading on her note. “Why do you keep calling me
boss
?”
“Habit, boss,” Jane said, distracted, and feeling like the proverbial fish in a bowl that was about to be shot. “Let me explain about the note…”
Weyler slid the letter onto his desk in a nonchalant manner. “Sorry. Can’t give you any time off now.”
Jane’s back went up. A second ago she was hesitant. Now she was pissed by Weyler’s offhand attitude. “I have more time on the books than anyone in the Department! I’m just asking for a week…”
“I’ve already committed you to a case. Well,
both
of us, actually.”
Jane felt the walls caving in. That all-too-familiar edge began to creep up.
God, a cigarette would taste damn good right now
. “I really need this time off…”
“Is someone dead or dying?” Weyler stared at Jane, waiting for her answer.
For a moment, Jane wondered if Weyler could read her mind.
Dying
. His words yanked the freshly formed scab off the news she’d received just an hour earlier. “I…” She was at a loss for words.
“Because someone
else
is,” Weyler stated, taking a seat in his plush, leather office chair and motioning for her to sit across from him.
Jane reluctantly sat down. “We work in homicide. Someone’s always dead or dying.”
Weyler drew the yellow pad toward him. “But
this
one is way outside the norm. Goes against the statistics.”
Jane hated the fact that Weyler knew how to play her so well. She loved cases that dwelled outside the box and made her think. She took the bait. “What stats?”
“A fifteen-year-old boy was kidnapped…after what appeared to be his attempted suicide.”
The thought briefly crossed her mind that some poor kid
was having a worse day than she was. “He tried to kill himself…”
“By hanging. On a remote bridge.”
“And then someone kidnaps him? What are the odds of that?”
“Million to one.“
“Make it two million to one, given his age. Fifteen-year-old
boys
don’t get kidnapped. They’re full of testosterone and attitude…”
“His name is Jacob Van Gorden. He goes by
Jake.
’ Even though he’s fifteen, he’s small for his age,” Weyler offered, checking his notes.
“So what?
He’s fifteen
! He’s a
boy
! Fifteen-year-old boys run away, hop a train…”
“Hop a train?”
“You know what I’m saying. The suicide wasn’t real. Jacob…Jake obviously set it up and ditched town.”
“That’s what everyone thought. But here’s where it gets interesting. The family and police are being sent odd clues as to the boy’s disappearance.”
“Asking for ransom? Come on! The kid’s in on it. He’s pimping his family to get attention and some money.”
“No request for money, Jane…just odd deliveries of statements to the family.”
The day was quickly catching up with Jane. She pinched the skin between her eyes. “You said a remote bridge? Didn’t know Denver had any of those left.”