After Miles left Weyler’s office, Jane got the expected minor admonition from her boss, which she took with silent resentment. Later that morning, Chris successfully cornered her by the coffeemaker and offered Jane a takeout dinner on him that night. She was well aware that the dining destination would be her house and that dessert would be sex. Jane agreed with half-hearted desire. She’d have to pick up another bottle or two of Jack on the way home. She needed a few extra shots these days to tolerate Chris in bed.
6
“You gotta let it go, baby,” Chris said to Jane, sliding his narrow frame behind her.
The Pad Thai was only partially eaten before Chris was already focused on dessert. Jane stood at the kitchen counter and grabbed the bottle of Jack she bought at the corner liquor store. She poured herself another tall shot. Is this shot number five or number six? She’d lost count after draining the six Coronas. Her body separated from her core and her mind wandered.
“You can’t even tell me how you know Hindu Harry.”
Chris’ voice sounded distant. “Hindu Harry? You’re a fucking riot,” Jane slurred, dripping with sarcasm and knocking back the shot of booze.
“Baby, baby, baby,” Chris’ breath reeked of beer and whiskey, as he wrapped his arms around Jane’s body from behind. He pulled her tucked shirt out of her pants with his usual lack of finesse and quickly worked his fingers under her bra.
Jane felt a jolt of heat rush down her spine. The booze was working fast tonight. Her mind flashed with split-second images. First, she saw her meeting with Cath Bashir
earlier that day. Then, there was the unsuccessful appeal to Sergeant Weyler in his office. Next, she was buying the bottles of whiskey at the corner store. But then, within a millisecond flash, there was an unknown car behind her, as she drove home. What the fuck was that? Jane thought. She’d been so deep in her head that she hadn’t paid her usual keen attention to her surroundings. That, and the fact that she’d already popped the cap off two beers in the car once she cleared the parking garage at Denver Headquarters.
Chris unbuttoned her jeans and forced his greedy hand into Jane’s panties. Through it all, she was detached, becoming more of an observer than a participant. Her head spun, as the same split second images replayed again and again, always ending with her drive home and the lingering awareness that someone was behind her.
She felt Chris’ hands remove her boots and jeans. Somehow, her bra and shirt fell off, as the room rotated in a chaotic whirl. She felt her naked back slam against the hallway wall and Chris’ eager tongue brush against her teeth. His hot skin pressed against her breasts, as he held her arms above her head, pushing his thumbs hard into her wrists. Jane was pinned like a perp, playing out one of Chris’ many sexual fantasies that always escalated in intensity. Jane’s wrists began to throb where his thumbs were embedded and she used all of her waning strength to push him off of her body.
Stumbling down the hall to her bedroom, Jane broke free for only a few seconds before Chris grabbed her from behind and fell on top of her on the bed. The sexual fervor increased exponentially. Chris held Jane down with
renewed strength. The more Jane fought to escape his dominating grip on her wrists, the more it excited him. His hot breath stung, as she felt him move down to her breasts. He dragged his teeth across her nipples and she winced. The bedroom spun faster. Jane tried to focus, but the severed sensation took over.
And then she felt nothing—no pain, no pressure, no fear. She closed her eyes, letting the liquor lead her to the empty place where time stood still.
“Jane.” The voice was soft and familiar. “Open your eyes.”
Jane didn’t want to leave that sacred space of nothingness just yet. But she felt someone holding her hands gently, and it wasn’t Chris.
She opened her eyes and found herself staring into Devinder’s face. They were back on the white-planked porch, but they were alone this time. He turned over her wrists, revealing deep bruises. Speaking without voicing a word, he said, “This isn’t love, Jane. Why do you let him hurt you?”
Jane felt paralyzed, unable to respond. Devinder softly reached behind her neck to expose the point of light. “It’s growing dim, Jane. The danger is too close.” Devinder’s eyes looked over Jane’s shoulder. “Behind you!” he screamed.
Jane crashed back into her body, her spine lifting off the bed in a brutal contraction. Disoriented, she turned
around, throwing punches in the air behind her, but landing on nothing human. The bedroom was cloaked in darkness, save for the digital clock illuminated on the bedside table. 11:11. She swore that she and Chris had stood at the kitchen counter around 6:45 and that it wasn’t much past that time when he started to peel off her clothes. She felt around in the bed for Chris, but he wasn’t there. Putting her hand to her own body, she realized that she was naked. Something felt wrong—deadly wrong.
As Jane slowly lowered her frame onto the carpet and searched for clothing, there was still the sentient buzz from the booze. Touching her Denver Broncos sweatshirt and a pair of underwear, she quickly donned the garb. “Chris?” she whispered. No reply. “Chris?” she repeated with more urgency, her mouth like cotton. “Where the fuck are you?”
Suddenly, she heard a soft thump on her front porch. “Chris?” she implored. “Fuck!” Her heart raced. Is this real? She needed to look into someone’s eyes to see if there was three-dimensional reality behind the orbs. She tried her best to shake off the buzz, as she crawled toward her bedside table. Carefully opening the drawer, she removed her Glock. She stood up and gradually made her way out of the bedroom and into the hallway that led a short distance to the living room. Hugging the wall, Jane held the Glock with both hands, nuzzle pointed toward the ceiling. Her breathing became shallow, as she desperately tried to perceive anything in the coal black darkness.
Thump! The sound distinctly came from the front porch. Is Chris so drunk and disoriented that he ended up outside after exhausting himself sexually? Jane crept cautiously to the front door. The only illumination in
the living room was from the microwave oven clock that glowed green across the room. She checked the front door. It was locked but not dead-bolted. Yes, he could have easily staggered out onto the patio and locked himself out. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Jane swung open the door, Glock relaxed at her thigh. “Chris,” she said, with more irritation than fear. “Get your ass back in the house.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement coming from the front of the house. Her heart raced. The damn buzz still compromised her perception. “Who’s there?”
The sound of heels clicking on the cement pathway that led to Jane’s house broke through the ebony stillness. Jane tensed.
“Jane Perry?”
Jane recognized the sultry voice of Cath Bashir. Cath flicked on a small sapphire flashlight. The violet light lit up the pathway and Cath’s face with startling clarity. She observed Jane’s abbreviated outfit with a slight smile. “Did I interrupt something?” she asked in a comfortable, relaxed cadence. She wore a heavy white coat with deep front pockets and blue jeans.
“How did you find where I live?” Jane said, feeling the air thick and tight around her.
“I followed you home from the police station. I figured you paid me an unexpected visit, so I owed you one.” Cath moved a few feet closer to the steps that led up to the Jane’s porch.
Yes. Right. Jane’s muddled memory kicked into gear. There was somebody behind her when she drove home. In
a weak attempt to remove the alcoholic residue that was clouding her acuity, Jane blinked hard. But the more she blinked, the more her perception became fractured.
“You’re drunk,” Cath declared, with a half-smile. “Is alcoholism a requirement for all Denver detectives? I mean, Detective Miles was half in the bag when he arrived at my humble abode.” She smiled at the recollection. “You know, other people in my position would be really pissed off by that behavior, but I just figured I hit the jackpot.”
Jane knew this was going in a bad direction. “Sure. Old addled, alchy cop is easy to mind fuck. Almost too easy, eh, Cath?” Jane heard herself slur her words. The Glock hung at her side and the thought crossed her mind that she wasn’t sure if she removed the clip when she came home. She circumspectly rubbed her thumb against the bottom of the grip and sunk her finger into open space. No clip. But did I leave the lone round in the chamber, or did I eject it? Her memory was like Jell-o. Think, Jane, she screamed in her head.
Cath took another step toward her, stopping just shy of the bottom step. “I don’t know why, Jane, but I feel like I can’t trust you.” The woman’s voice was calm—way too calm.
The buzz prevented the oral censorship that Jane would normally choose at this point. “Funny. I feel the exact way about you. Too bad Devinder didn’t see the light before you turned it off. You and your fucking dick of a boyfriend.” Cath coolly stayed in place, looking up at Jane with absolutely no fear. “I wonder if the little prick is aware that when you tire of him, you’ll chuck his sorry ass
to the trash heap, too. I mean, like, actually in the trash. Can’t leave a trail of co-conspirators, can you?”
“My gosh,” Cath said with wide-eyed interest, “you really are perceptive, aren’t you? But I don’t think I can kill again. That’s not to say it wasn’t a rush.” Cath’s demeanor shifted. Her psychotic eyes glazed over, as they bored into Jane’s soul. “I thoroughly enjoyed the preparation as much as the execution. Watching Devinder die was… like… the most powerful Kundalini arousal in my body. I’ve never experienced anything so dark and erotic at the same time.” She tilted her head. “You know the funny thing, Jane? I utilized the meditative tenets of the Hindu faith to center myself and facilitate a positive and prosperous outcome…“
“Then I fucked it up.” Jane stated, bringing the conversation back to some level of reality.
Cath chuckled. “Yes, then you fucked it up.” Her throaty voice was a demented singsong.
Jane prayed to God at that point that she chambered a round in the Glock. She lifted the pistol, grasping it with both hands and aimed it square at Cath’s forehead. “I’ll blast your fucking third eye out of your head, bitch.” Jane couldn’t stop her hands from shaking. She was never this unsteady on the job. Of course, she wasn’t drunk or surfing a buzz when she was on duty. She looked at Cath. There wasn’t a hint of tension in her tanned face. Either she’s high or she’s certifiable—or maybe both?
“I don’t think so, Jane,” Cath said with an eerie calm.
Jane’s splintered memory quickly focused on Devinder and how he looked over her shoulder and screamed, “Behind you!” Jane spun around just as a dark figure lunged at
her from the left side. A rope quickly encircled her throat and dug hard into her larynx. She struggled for air, as the figure pulled her to the ground, tightening the rope into her flesh. Jane felt herself losing consciousness. For a split second, she saw Devinder on the porch pulling back her hair and telling her that her light was dimming. That image stoked something primal in her. Gasping for breath, she pointed the gun toward what she hoped was his groin and not hers, and pulled the trigger. The kick sent them both backward. The rope still pulled against her neck. She worried the numbness of the liquor was preventing her from feeling any pain from the gunshot. But then she felt the slow release of the assailant, as he fell backward unconscious on the porch.
Jane struggled for air, as she weakly pulled the rope off her head.
“What have you done to him?” Cath screamed in a frenzy, her coolness quickly gone. She shone her flashlight onto the porch and the growing puddle of blood that was pouring from her young lover’s genitals. “What in the hell have you done?” Jane tried to get up, but the darkness spun around her each time she tried to stand. “You’ve ruined him!” Cath shrieked. “You’ve ruined him!” Cath dug her hand into her coat pocket, pulled out a small revolver and sprung up the stairs.
Just before Cath squeezed the trigger, another shot rang out from Jane’s front door, nailing Cath in the thigh and sending her sprawling onto her stomach. She cried out in agony. The sapphire flashlight fell out of her other hand and rolled to a stop at the feet of the shooter.
Jane looked up through her hazy vision and saw Chris standing in the doorway, completely naked. He was looking as wobbly and half-drunk as Jane.
“Fuck,” he said with a raspy edge. “Call 9-1-1. I need a drink.”
7
The next day was a blur. Jane gave her statement to Sergeant Weyler, implicating both Cath Bashir and her lover boy in the death of Devinder Bashir , as well as the attempted murder of herself. Lover boy had a 24-hour guard posted outside of his ICU room at Denver Health. He told the cops—in a slightly higher octave than before—how Cath was the mastermind behind the murder of her husband. He turned on her faster than fish lying in the noonday sun. Lover boy spilled everything, including how she instructed him to write the suicide note and download the sickest child pornography he could find on his computer. Meanwhile, she handled the skillful computer match of the font on the prescription drug bottles, so she could create an exact duplicate of Devinder’s name. The four million dollar check was returned to Devinder’s parents who took some solace in the knowledge that their son had been set up and hadn’t dishonored their family name.
Sergeant Weyler gave Jane the rest of the day off. She returned to her house around 4:00 P.M., exhausted and only functioning on a couple of cylinders. Collapsing onto her bed, she stretched like a tired cat and, in doing so, caught a glimpse of the insides of her wrists. Blue and green bruises the size of half dollars covered her skin. Her thoughts turned to the struggle on the porch, but then she realized that the bruises were the result of her activity with Chris from the night before. She’d survived plenty of rough days and nights in her life, and had her fair share of bloodied lips, noses and bruised ribs at the hands of another man. These new marks were just another reminder of why she started drinking 21 years ago. The bruises would disappear, but the reason Jane drank would remain in front of her, never allowing a moment’s rest or a sense of safety. It was the pattern of belief that life and love were meant to be violent and painful. And thus, the pattern ensued of grabbing a bottle every time the twisted memory emerged of that fateful night when she was 14.