Justine Davis - Errant Angel

“Uh,” Jimmy began, obviously aware of the tension but uncertain—as she was, Evangeline thought—of the exact cause, “maybe you could bring it by again sometime. Dalton’d probably like to look closer at the motor, wouldn’t you?”

He ended on a rising note, looking over at Dalton. The man merely shrugged, not looking up. Evangeline winced inwardly at the crestfallen expression that slipped over Jimmy’s face.

“Maybe I will,” she reassured the boy.

As she drove away she looked in the rearview mirror, seeing the two of them, together, yet as alone as any two people she’d ever seen.

And she wondered what on earth Dalton could possibly have done that could make him feel so much guilt it was nearly smothering him.

* * *

Are you guys doing something weird up there?

Whatever do you mean?

I mean, I know you aren’t real happy with me, but if you’re going to change the rules on me, I wish you’d at least let me know.

There was a moment of silence from them. She always thought of it as talking to “them,” even though there was only one doing the actual communicating; it must be that ridiculous royal “we” they insisted on using. But she knew they were all listening. Especially when it came to her.

Evangeline tightened her grip on the pendant as she sat curled up in the big, overstuffed chair that took up one corner of the bedroom she’d rented from Mrs. Webster, mainly because it was across the street from the house where Jimmy lived. She waited, imagining them discussing what to tell her.

The answer came at last.

We told you that you had full freedom on this case.

That’s not what I meant—not that it’s not great, by the way, zipping that car up was the perfect way to get Jimmy’s attention. But I meant the other stuff.

What...stuff?

All the feelings.

Feelings?

Yeah. They’re really getting in the way. Besides, you guys promised I wouldn’t.

Wouldn’t what?

She was really trying to be patient, but they didn’t seem to understand. She explained again.

That I wouldn’t feel anything. It’s really very distracting.

Evangeline, you can’t be feeling anything. You know we took care of that. You’ve had the latest and best adjustments in that area. We’ve come a long way recently. And you’ve never had a problem before.

Well, I have one now. It makes it hard to concentrate, and you know you always say that’s my big problem.

We don’t always say that. It was gently remonstrating.

Well, almost always. When you’re not reading me the riot act because I turned left when you wanted right.

She sent it somewhat mutinously; she never had understood why they got so upset that she took a different route, if the destination was the same.

We’ve been through this before, Evangeline. Now, what is this about feelings? You know you don’t have them, except for—

My sense of justice. I know. Then what are all these crazy sensations I’ve been having? Ever since that first night, everything’s been confused.

A quiet rush of air came then, as if they had jointly sighed. Things tend to be that way around you, you know.

“Only from up there,” she muttered out loud this time. Then, returning to the connection, she tried to explain.

This is different.

How, dear?

Evangeline grimaced. Ever since this patient female had become her contact, she’d felt like she’d been talking to a benevolent maiden aunt. But she was so determinedly optimistic that this mission would succeed without any of the problems of past ones, Evangeline felt guilty every time she did anything that she knew they might not approve of.

It’s really strange, she sent at last. The pain was bad enough, but all this—

Oh, my, you haven’t gotten involved with that man you sensed, have you? We told you he was off-limits, that you were to stick to Jimmy Sawyer’s problem.

I know, but—

No buts, Evangeline.

She couldn’t believe they didn’t want her to help him.

But he’s hurting so much, she sent protestingly.

No. The benevolence was gone, the message stern. You simply must behave this time.

The “or else” was implicit. She was walking an even finer line than she’d thought. She wondered if this was her last chance. If she messed up—according to their standards—again, if it really would be all over for her.

She knew then that she didn’t dare turn to the bosses for an explanation of what was going wrong. They would no doubt just chalk it up to her lack of discipline again. And maybe they were right. Maybe she had just let that horrible blast of pain unbalance her.

All right, all right. I’ll be good, she promised.

And, she added to herself when the connection was broken, I will not waste any more time wondering about Dalton MacKay. He doesn’t seem to be in that horrible pain any longer, anyway. Or perhaps he was just managing to hide it behind those formidable walls that were stronger than any she’d ever encountered before.

That doesn’t matter, she told herself, echoing the sternness of her boss’s command. Jimmy is my mission here, my only mission, and I’m going to concentrate on him from now on.

That decision firmly, solidly and irrevocably made, she climbed into bed, pulled the thick, bright yellow comforter over her shoulders, and settled down to sleep.

And in the morning she told herself she couldn’t be held responsible for what she dreamed, even if those dreams involved a lean, dark-haired man who looked at her with eyes so haunted that her heart—which was supposed to be immune—ached for him.

* * *

Dalton rubbed at his weary eyes, groaning at the brightness of the sunlight streaming in through the windows across the room. If he had gotten even two hours of sleep, he’d be surprised. Dawn had been brightening the sky when he’d at last dropped off. If Mrs. Webster wasn’t bringing in her car—if you could call that behemoth of hers a car—for an oil change this morning, he’d roll over and go right back to sleep.

There had been a time when he’d been able to sleep only in the daylight, but he’d made progress since then. Sometimes he even managed to go a couple of nights in a row without dreaming. And sometimes as long as a week without shoving that damned tape into the VCR.

But last night he’d done both. He’d been so restless, felt so distracted, that he’d known it was coming. And it had come, the dream, and even more vividly than usual. So vivid that only the tape, the grim reality, could counteract it, and he’d spent the darkest hours of the night watching it, over and over. It never changed, but he kept on, repeating it, as if he could somehow etch it into his subconscious and erase the dream. He’d rather dream the horror than the miracle; waking up to find the horror was the reality was too devastating.

He knew what had rattled him so, even though he didn’t want to admit it. It was that woman, that teacher, the one Jimmy had brought over. Why couldn’t she have been like that sour-faced, prune-souled woman who was the principal, the woman who sniffed disdainfully every time she saw him, the woman who personified almost every teacher Dalton had had in his life? But no, Ms. Law—had Jimmy ever mentioned her first name?—was no more like that than a go-cart was like an Indy car. And even though Jimmy had told him she was a looker, he hadn’t expected what had climbed out of that classic Chevy.

A classic beauty, he thought as he rolled over and sat up, propping his elbows on his knees and cradling his head wearily in his hands. Although she wasn’t, really, he supposed. Her mouth was a little too wide for classic beauty—and too soft and full for his comfort. Her nose was turned up a bit too far—and too sassy for his gloom. Her eyes were too big, too dark—and far too deep and wise for his peace of mind. Too wise for anyone as young as she appeared to be. Those huge, dark brown eyes were almost eerily penetrating, as if she saw much more than anyone thought they were letting be seen.