J. Jance - A more perfect union

When the ladder had been shoved under the bars and moved safely out of reach across the kitchen, she sighed with relief.

"Now what?" I demanded. "I suppose the next thing you'll want me to take off my pants."

No matter how old I get, I'll never learn to keep my big mouth shut. I doubt she would have thought of it on her own if I hadn't been such a smart-ass and made the suggestion.

"That's a good idea."

And so the belt and pants came off, and my socks, and finally my dress shirt. I sat there in nothing but my shorts, feeling as naked as a plucked chicken. A trickle of blood was still running down my leg from the gash in my knee, but at least by then my nose had stopped bleeding.

"Now put your hands behind your head and keep them there."

I did as I was told, but I tried once more to talk some sense into her head. "Will you please listen to reason?" I asked. It's tough to sound reasonable when you're down to nothing but your skivvies, when you're talking to a total stranger who's packing a pistol.

I took a deep breath, searching for some scrap of dignity. "I'm a sworn police officer, Linda. Are you aware you can go to jail for this?"

She waved the gun impatiently. She wasn't listening to me, hadn't heard a word I was saying. "Who sent you here?" she demanded.

"Nobody sent me."

"You tell me who sent you and then I'll figure out whether I should call the cops or plug you full of holes myself."

"I already told you, I came on my own," I insisted.

"You still expect me to believe that? Just how stupid do you think I am?"

When I didn't answer, she shrugged and turned away from me. She walked over to the counter long enough to pour herself a cup of coffee. Taking both the coffee and the gun with her, she sat down on a tall kitchen stool. She placed the gun on the counter beside her then sat there sipping coffee while she gazed at me speculatively. We had reached an impasse. Neither one of us said anything for some time.

Having the gun out of her hand made me feel a little better. Not a whole lot better, but a little. A loaded gun in the hands of a frightened person can be a deadly combination. There are plenty of dead cops out there to prove it's true. I didn't want to join them.

"Please listen to me. I'm a cop. A detective. I work for the Seattle P.D."

She laughed, but the sound was harsh and humorless. "Sure you are," she responded. "Can't you come up with something a little more original? We've been through that already and I'm not buying, remember?"

I didn't give up. "I came because I don't think Logan Tyree's death was an accident."

"Think?" she asked bitterly. "You think it wasn't an accident, or you know. Which is it?"

"You think I killed him?"

"Didn't you?" The countering question was quick and accompanied by a look of sheer hatred. "It doesn't matter," she added. "They're not here, either. You won't find them. They're in a safe place."

"What's not here?"

"After what happened to Logan, do you think I'm dumb enough to have those tapes with me?"

"What tapes?" I asked.

"And if anything happens to me…"

She was interrupted by a frantic pounding on the outside door leading into the kitchen. "Mommie, Mommie. Open the door quick. Somebody's coming."

Linda Decker leaped to her feet. She was wearing a loose-fitting sweatshirt and Levis. She stuffed the gun under her shirt and raced to the kitchen door, frantically unlocking a series of dead bolts and pushing open the grill to let the breathless children inside just as the doorbell rang at the front of the house.

"Who is it, Jason?" she hissed as she closed both the grill and the door and fastened all the locks.

"It's a policeman," Jason answered, his voice a high-pitched squeak. "With blue lights on top of the car and everything."

My first reaction was one of relief. A policeman. An ally. Someone who would make Linda Decker listen to me, someone who would help me out of my predicament.

The doorbell rang again, insistently. Wavering, Linda Decker glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the front door and then down at her two frightened children. Last of all she turned to me. Her face hardened. She reached under her shirt and tentatively touched the gun. For a moment I was afraid she was going to give it to Jason, but she evidently changed her mind. Quickly she retrieved my Smith and Wesson and shoved it under her shirt as well.

Then she came over to the barred basement door, close enough for me to hear her harsh whisper, but far enough away to remain safely out of reach.

"If you so much as make a sound, so help me God I'll kill you!"

With that, she slammed the door shut. The light went out. I was once more left in darkness, sitting almost naked on the wooden steps in Linda Decker's damp basement, smelling the mouse crap and feeling like a load of shit.

I didn't doubt for one minute that she'd do exactly what she said. I couldn't afford to doubt it. I was convinced she had balls enough and then some.

She also had the gun.

I waited. For a long time. I heard the sound of voices, and then the creak of footsteps as someone walked across a room, then the murmur of someone's voice, only one voice this time-Linda talking, but no one answering. She must have been on the phone. Again there was the creak of footsteps followed by voices again and then a whole flurry of footsteps, but no one came near the kitchen. No one opened the door to the basement for probably ten minutes or maybe longer. I'm not sure.

When the door did finally open, it was Linda Decker herself who flung it wide and hard, banging the doorknob into something metal, probably a stove.

She was different, totally different. Something had happened. Something had changed, and not for the better.

Before that, despite the trembling gun, she had been relatively calm, calculating, working a plan that she had laid out and rehearsed well in advance. Now as she stood staring at me through the barred door there was an icy fury behind her dangerously pale face. Her lips were pulled tight over clenched teeth.

Thankfully, she wasn't holding the gun. If she had been, I think she would have shot me on sight.

"You son of a bitch!" She barely whispered the words, her voice shaking with rage while ragged tremors raced through her whole body. "You goddamned son of a bitch!"

Jason hurried into the room, dragging the whimpering Allison with him. He stopped near his mother and looked up at her. What he saw must have frightened him. "Are you all right, Mommie?" he asked. The grave concern written on his face was far older than his years.

She tore her eyes from me and glanced down at her son. For a brief moment, her face softened. Her throat worked furiously as she tried three times to choke out an answer. Finally she nodded.

"I'm all right, Jason. Take Allison out to the car and fasten her seat belt. I'll be out in a minute."

"But the door is locked," he said.

Without a word, she walked to the door and unlocked the series of locks. I watched her hands. They were shaking so badly it was all she could do to control them. What had happened? What had made the difference? And where was the cop Jason had said was there?

When the outside door closed behind the children, she swung around to face me again. For a moment, she leaned heavily against the door as though every bit of strength had been drained from her body, as though she needed the door to hold her up.

"I'm sorry…" she began, then stopped as another violent tremor shook her body. By force of will she drew herself away from the door and started toward me.

She had begun with the words "I'm sorry," but there was no hint of apology in her body language. The gun was out of sight, but at that point she didn't need a gun. She was a menacing cat ready to spring at my face and claw me apart. For the first time, I was grateful for the bars that separated us.