Shooting Starr

Chapter 4

Caitlyn listened to the silence and felt anger rising. Once, she had treasured silence, regarded it as a gift, and on those rare occasions when she found herself immersed in it, had taken pleasure in the experience as she might in a warm bath, with scented oils and wine and candlelight. Now silence was her enemy, unknown menace lurking in the darkness beyond the firelight. Silence made her feel alone, and afraid.

But it was not in her makeup to give in to fear, and at the moment her only weapon against it seemed to be anger.

“Say something, damn you.” She shifted again, carefully. Despite the pain medication she’d been given, skyrockets had a tendency to go shooting around in her skull whenever she moved.

She heard a sound-the clearing of a throat-and then the voice, Southern and soft as a summer evening. She’d liked his voice the first time she’d heard it, she recalled. She hadn’t expected to hear it ever again.

“Sorry. Guess I don’t know what to say.”

Vaguely ashamed, she aimed a frown in the direction of the voice. “You knew, didn’t you? About me being blind. They must have told you.”

There was another cough and under it a faint sandy sound. Shoes. No, boots…sliding over a vinyl floor. He must be uncomfortable; he’d shifted position, perhaps leaned forward in the chair. How did she know he was sitting? Because his voice came from a level near her own. She was pleased with herself for being able to deduce so much.

“They told me you’re damn lucky to be alive,” he said, and there was a difference in the voice now. Something harder, denser. Emotion, certainly, but what kind? She made a mental grimace at the discovery that she wasn’t nearly as good at deciphering emotional landscapes as she was physical. “They said a hair’s breadth of difference and that bullet would have blown part of your head off.”

The brutality of his words surprised her. With a bitter smile she answered in kind, “Yeah, but instead it only grazed me a little and hit Mary Kelly in the heart. So, she’s dead, and I have some minor brain swelling that just happened to involve my optic nerve. What luck.”

She heard the shifting sounds again. “They said the blindness might not be permanent. That your eyesight might come back as the injury heals, or if it doesn’t, there’s surgery they can maybe try later on.”

“That’s what they say.” Caitlyn closed her eyes and carefully turned her head away from the man sitting beside her. Might…maybe. She felt so tired…and controlling her face and her voice took so much energy. If only he would go away. If only she could relax and let the tears come.

“Do you remember anything about, uh, the shooting?” His voice was raspy now, and again it vexed her that she couldn’t read the emotions behind it.

She shook her head-bad move-and fought down the inevitable waves of nausea.

“You tried to shield her-Mary Kelly. Did you know that?” Oh, it was anger in his voice-definitely. It came through loud and clear, although he was obviously trying to hide it. It bewildered her, his anger, even as she felt a tiny flicker of triumph for having recognized it. “You threw yourself in front of her. That’s why the bullet that struck her in the chest grazed you first.”

“Who told you that?” The intense emotions were becoming too much for her. She felt desperately close to crying; there were strange sounds inside her head, and a panicky tightness in her chest. “The police? What…did they say…do they know-”

“You knew, didn’t you? You knew Mary Kelly was the target, the second you heard the shots. You tried to tell me-”

The noises in her head had become a cacophony. Through them she heard footsteps, quick and purposeful, and C.J.’s voice, seeming to rise and float above her.

“It was Vasily, wasn’t it? You told me he’d kill her. You told me, and I didn’t-”

She felt a rush of air. Hands touched her, gentle and cool.

“Look. I’m sorry…” She heard C.J.’s voice, moving away from her. “I’m sorry…”

Quiet came. And peace. With a grateful whimper she sank into the oblivion of sleep.

Summoning his courage, C.J. faced the people waiting at the nurses’ station.

“I’m sorry,” he said, squinting with the effort it took to meet their eyes. “I didn’t mean to get her upset. I just wanted to say-” He lifted a hand and let it drop. Shook his head and said it again. “I’m sorry.” Lately it seemed as if he’d been saying that a lot, both out loud and to himself.

Two of the four people there at the counter-a handsome, middle-aged couple-nodded their heads in mute understanding. It was to them he’d spoken-Caitlyn’s parents. Of the others, C.J.’s sister-in-law and lawyer, Charly, clapped him on the shoulder and murmured supportive monosyllables. Special Agent Jake Redfield of the FBI, C.J.’s brother Jimmy Joe’s in-law, leaned against the counter and took in everything with quiet and watchful eyes. He was a melancholy-looking man with stubbled jaws, and the only one present wearing a suit.

A nurse came from the glass-partitioned cubicle where Caitlyn lay, screened from view behind a curtain. “She’ll sleep for a while,” she said in her high-pitched voice with its thick upstate South Carolina accent. “If you want to, you can go down to the cafeteria, get a cup of coffee, somethin’ to eat.”

Caitlyn’s mother gripped her husband’s arm as if drawing strength from that touch, and asked the nurse in her quiet Midwestern voice, “Is it all right if I sit with her?”

The nurse nodded. “Sure. Go on in.”

Watching Chris Brown walk away from him, C.J. thought he could see where her daughter had come by her looks. Not her grace, though, that quality of lightness that made Caitlyn seem, in his memory, at least, fairy-like…not quite real. Though tall and slender like her daughter, Chris Brown moved with a coltish-he could think of no other word for it-awkwardness that was in no way unattractive-and which made her seem much younger than he knew she had to be. But her face was the same flawless oval as Caitlyn’s, her hair almost the same shade of sun-streaked blond, but worn long and sleek and fastened at the nape of her neck with a clip of some kind. She had the same colored eyes, too-a clear and pale gray-blue-but without that heart-stopping flash of silver C.J. couldn’t seem to forget.

Charly glanced at her watch. “Well. I think I’m gonna go see about that cup of coffee. Any of you-all wanna join me?”

Caitlyn’s father smiled the kind of smile that probably came naturally to him no matter the circumstances, and shook his head. C.J. cleared his throat and said, “I think I’m gonna stick around here for a while.”

Nobody asked Jake Redfield what his plans were; he’d already gone wandering over to join the uniformed police officer seated in a chair beside the door to Caitlyn’s cubicle. Charly gave everyone a “See you later,” and went off to the elevators, and C.J. found himself alone with the man whose only child he’d almost gotten killed.

Since he’d been raised by a mother who’d taught him to face up to the consequences of his actions no matter how painful they might be, he squared his shoulders and began with, “Uh, Mr. Brown-”

Before he could get another word out, Caitlyn’s father took hold of him by his elbow and said in a low but friendly voice, “We might as well be comfortable, don’t you think?” and steered him toward the waiting area.

They took chairs at right angles to each other, with a square table topped by a lamp and an assortment of magazines forming the corner. Perched on the edge of his chair, C.J. leaned forward, hands clasped and elbows on his knees, and tried again. “Um, Mr. Brown-”

Again he was interrupted. “I wish you’d call me Wood-most people do. I was given the name Edward Earl after my dad, but the only person who uses it is my sister, Lucy.” His mouth tilted in a half smile. “Only my students call me Mr. Brown.”

“You’re a teacher?” said C.J., feeling dimwitted.

“Used to be. I’m a vice principal now.”

C.J. tried a smile and he, too, only managed half of one. “Guess that explains why I feel like I’m sitting in the principal’s office.”

Wood Brown’s smile was replaced by a look of dismay, then of compassion. He leaned forward, his pose almost a mirror image of C.J.’s. “Son-I know you feel responsible for what’s happened to my daughter and that other woman, but you’re not. Chris-Caitlyn’s mother-and I sure don’t blame you, and I don’t think Caty does, either. She put you in an impossible position, and you did what you believed was the right thing under the circumstances. That’s all any man can do.”

“If what I did was so right,” C.J. said, looking at the floor and forcing words through clenched teeth, “then how come I feel so damn-excuse me-darn bad?”

Wood sat back with a sigh and ran a hand over his thick, iron-gray hair. His rugged features were somber. “It’s not always a matter of a choice between a right and a wrong. Sometimes it’s a matter of choosing the lesser of a whole bunch of wrongs. When that happens, you just do the best you can.”

He sat silent for a moment, looking at nothing, then shook his head. “I have-had-this great-aunt. She lived to be well over a hundred, but she’s gone now, bless her soul. Aunt Gwen always believed if you wait long enough it usually turns out things happen the way they’re supposed to. Providence, she called it.” He smiled in a remembering way. “Take me, for example. I met my wife after I broke both my legs in a truck accident in Bosnia. At the time I thought it was the end of the world-the end of sports, my career, all the things I liked to do-but if it hadn’t been for that accident I wouldn’t have met my wife. And I wouldn’t have been there when she needed me to save her life.”

C.J. gave a snort of surprise, and Wood smiled. “A long story and one for another time. I guess what I’m saying is, it’s too soon to tell, yet, how this is all supposed to play out. Could be you were where you needed to be just so Caty could pick you to hijack.” His smile slipped sideways, and he gave a one-shoulder shrug. “You never know…”

Since C.J. couldn’t think of a thing to say that wasn’t going to sound rude, he kept his mouth shut. Thinking about it, though, it occurred to him that whether he believed in all that Providence stuff or not, it was a remarkable attitude for a man whose only child was lying in a hospital bed with a bullet crease in her skull and blinded maybe for life. He felt humble and grateful and undeserving, which brought him back to what he’d wanted to say to Caitlyn’s father in the first place.

This time he plunged right in, talking fast so he wouldn’t get cut off again. “I appreciate your not blaming me for what happened to your daughter, but it doesn’t change the fact that she wouldn’t be where she is if I’d done what she asked me to. I’m not asking you to forgive me for that-” he held up a hand to stop Wood interrupting him “-but what I am asking is for you to let me have the chance to make it right.”

He had to stop there and force his jaws to unclench, and into the pause Wood dropped a quiet “How do you intend to do that, son?”

“By getting the guy who did this to her.” C.J.’s voice grated with rage.

“I think I know how much you want to do that,” Wood said after a moment. “I think about it myself. But that’s a job for the police and the FBI, isn’t it? Realistically, do you think there’s anything you can do?”

“Not by myself, no.” C.J. was surprised at how calm and confident he felt. How certain. “But I’d have a whole lot of help. That man you met in there, he’s FBI, true-Special Agent Jake Redfield-but he also happens to be married to my brother’s wife’s sister.” He paused, and for the first time in a long while felt his dimples showing. “And I do know how awful Southern that sounds.” The smile vanished as quickly as it had come. “The point is, we-and that means the FBI included-believe we can get the man responsible for all this. We have a plan, but it involves…” He sat back and sucked in a breath. “We need Caitlyn. We’ll lay it all out for her, once she’s up to it, and if she’s willing-”

Wood let out air in a rush and once again ran a hand back through his hair. He shook his head, and for the first time C.J. saw the lines of tension and strain in his face…the deep shadows around his eyes. For the first time he looked like a man staring unthinkable loss in the face. “She’d say yes, of course.” His tone held more than a touch of irony. “That’s just Caty.”

He leaned forward, his hands rubbing against each other making a faint sandy sound, and gazed at the carpet as he spoke in a soft, slurred voice. “It’s been hell, these past months. Especially for her mother. Right now all Chris wants to do is get Caty home so she can take care of her. She’s been counting the hours…” He looked up at C.J. “You have any kids?” C.J. shook his head and so did Wood. “I don’t know if you can understand, then. Your child is always your child, even if she’s grown-up. In fact, that makes it worse because you don’t have control over what she does anymore. She makes her own decisions.”

He slapped his knees and stood abruptly. He looked down at C.J., forcing a smile. “Well. That’s it, I guess. In a nutshell. It’s her decision to make, C.J., not ours. If Caty wants to go along with your plan, we won’t try to stop her. We couldn’t anyway, no matter how much we might want to.”

C.J. got to his feet and mumbled, “Thank you, sir.” He held out his hand.

The older man shook it briefly but firmly. Moving in the jerky, uncoordinated manner of a man distraught, he turned and began to walk rapidly away, but after a few steps he whirled and jabbed a finger at C.J. “Promise me one thing,” he said, and his voice grated with emotion. “Just get him, you hear me? You get that SOB.”

Caitlyn drifted in a twilight zone that was not quite sleep yet not full consciousness, either. Her mind wandered, as it does in dreams, but with her permission; she knew she was dreaming and took comfort in knowing she could wake up anytime she chose.

Images crowded into her mind, people and places and events-mostly people. One after another they clicked by, too quickly, like a slide show on fast-forward-her past in reverse order, beginning with the last image she remembered: the landscaped mall in front of the courthouse; a sea of reporters and video cameras; the sun glinting on their lenses and the windows of TV trucks; a brilliant blue September sky.

Back inside the courtroom a few minutes before that: the judge’s face, fleshy Southern jowls, soft, smooth-shaven and unsmiling; Mary Kelly’s face, gaunt and pasty, with blue smudges under her eyes and freckles standing out like blotches, trying hard to smile.

In the days and weeks before: Mom visiting her in the jail, her hair like sunshine in that drab and dismal room…frightened eyes looking out at her from the serene and lovely mask of her face; and Dad, calm and reassuring as always, but swiping at a tear as he turned to leave her.

Further back: a sultry April night; a big blue truck, powerful diesel engine idling away behind her; a man with a face like a Norman Rockwell painting, hair soft and thick, sun-streaked blond…eyes dark as chocolate and just as seductive…a sweet and dimpled smile; big hands gentle on her shoulders…lips moving, saying words hard and heavy as hammer blows. I can’t do it-I’m sorry.

The same face in a rapid montage of swirling, overlapping images, like a kaleidoscope: eyes twinkling, smiling and flirtatious with her, nodding with good-ol’-Southern-boy courtesy to Mary Kelly; gentle and kind with a traumatized child; angry, hard as pewter in the bluish light of a yard lamp on an empty concrete apron; anguished, drawn and shadowed in the dimness of the truck cab as she’d seen them the last time. As he’d watched them walk away.

Mary Kelly again…then back through the faces of all the fearful and damaged women she’d known, all the way back to the first and most beloved-her own mother’s face…so young, so beautiful…so haunted.

There were children’s faces, too, and even a few men among the victims-her cousin Eric and his precious baby, Emily, in their desperate dash for safety, bundled against the Iowa winter cold…could that only have been last Christmas?

She saw Eric in happier times, along with his sister Rose Ellen, saw them as the children she’d played with on Aunt Lucy and Uncle Mike’s farm. There were Uncle Rhett’s children, too, though she’d seen them less frequently. They were so much older than she: Lauren, who loved horses, older by eleven years; and shy Ethan, who’d grown up to be a doctor, older by seven. And they’d lived so far away.

She saw herself, a nervous teenager in a long slinky gown, dancing with Uncle Rhett, newly elected president of the United States, amid the dazzle and excitement of his first inaugural ball, and Dixie, the new first lady, radiant and laughing, dancing with a red-faced but determined Eric. She saw herself as a gawky child in overalls, riding on one fender of Aunt Lucy’s green John Deere tractor, while Eric laughed at her from his perch on the other side.

And she saw an even smaller child, thrilled and scared witless, arms in a death grip around her daddy’s waist for one exhilarating turn around the block on his Harley. Much later she’d learned to ride motorcycles by herself, and had even had her own Harley for a while, but it was that first terrifying trip she remembered most vividly.

Her parents’ faces-her earliest memories. Their home in Sioux City. Her room. Pictures and more pictures…seasons and colors, places and faces…images upon images.

And now…nothing.

I’m blind now. What if I never see again? What if it’s forever, and all I will ever have are these memories?

Chilled and sweating, she jerked herself awake. Her heart was pounding; nearby, a monitor was going off. A familiar hand was holding hers, stroking her arm. Touching her face. Her mother’s voice crooned, as if to a very small child, “Hush, sweetie, it’s okay…it’s okay.”

“Mom?” Caitlyn croaked. At least the pain was better; she didn’t feel quite so nauseated.

“We’re both here, honey,” her dad said. His fingers felt warm on her wrist. She sighed, and the monitor went silent.

“Can I have some water?” A moment later she felt the top half of the bed rise beneath her, forcing her upright, and fought a momentary stab of panic. She fought the urge to put out her hand, to try to hold away the nothingness that hovered just above her like a solid ceiling. She felt the smooth, slightly crisp touch of the straw on her lips, tipped her head cautiously forward and drank. “Thanks,” she said, and settled back, shifting to find a comfortable position.

“How are you doing? Can we get you anything?” Her mom’s voice was unsteady, and that unnerved her. As a physical therapist, her mother was used to hospitals and hurt people; it took a lot to shake her.

She squeezed her mother’s hand. “No, I’m okay.”

Her dad, from closer by, said, “Honey, if you’re up to it, there are some people here that would like to talk to you.”

“I’ve already spoken to the police-”

“Not the police. It’s…” He hesitated, which wasn’t like her dad, either. “Honey, it’s the truck driver you, uh… He has-”

Caitlyn’s heartbeat stumbled, then quickened. She croaked irritably, “Is he still here?” She didn’t feel up to soothing his guilty conscience.

“He is, and he has, uh, some people he wants-” the sigh of escaping breath interrupted the flow of words “-Caty, I think you should hear what he has to say.”

Before she could answer, she was distracted by pain and pressure in her fingers; her mother was squeezing them so tightly they hurt. She resisted gently and murmured, “Mom…”

The pressure ceased instantly. She felt the cool press of her mother’s cheek against hers, heard a quick, husky “I think I should go. I’ll be outside.”

There was a stirring, then an emptiness beside her. Caitlyn broke a brief and awkward silence. “Dad? What’s wrong with Mom?”

“Bear with her,” her father said softly. “This has been hard on her-” again, that whisper of breath “-on us all.”

Silence came once more. This time the memories that filled it were gentle and comforting: the sturdy strength of a finger clutched in her chubby hand; the crunch of footsteps and huff of breath and a tall man running beside her wobbling bicycle on a hot summer day; a hug and a goodnight kiss that smelled of a brand of aftershave she’d never learned the name of.

“Daddy,” she said as the easy and unbidden tears came, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”

“Hey…” The empty space beside her was taken up by that familiar warmth…familiar smell.

“I didn’t tell you…I couldn’t-”

“Tell me what, punkin?”

“What I was doing. I couldn’t-I still can’t. It’s so important-do you understand?” Her eyes stabbed futilely at the darkness; she’d have given anything to see his face. Anything. Please let me see his face again. Please…

She heard a gusty sigh. The hands that held hers tightened, then let go. “No, I can’t say I do understand, Caty.” There was a pause, and then her father added in a dry voice, “You’re not helping, you know.”

“I’m sorry.” Weighted with a helpless sadness, she used her orphaned hands to wipe her face and heard a grunted “Here-” as a wad of tissues was tucked into her hand. Drier-eyed and quieter inside, she said tightly, “I can’t risk giving away the others. What we do is so important. The people we help have nowhere else to turn. It has to go on. Even if I can’t…”

“So,” her dad said, and she could hear him struggling to understand, “I guess it’s like the old Underground Railroad, huh? During the Civil War. Only you help people escape…what? Domestic violence? Sexual abuse?”

“Abusers. Those the law can’t-or won’t-touch. Sometimes…the law and justice aren’t the same thing.” She sniffed and, feeling tremulous and exposed, fought to smile. “I guess it is a little like the Underground Railroad. With some witness protection thrown in. Sometimes it’s not enough to just escape,” she added somberly. “Sometimes people need to…disappear.”

“Ah, Caty. I understand that. I do. But why you?” Her dad was silent again, but only for a moment. Then he gave a short, wondering laugh. “I guess I know the answer to that. But how in the world did you get into-”

“The Internet, of course.” Her lips hadn’t forgotten how to smile, after all, though it only lasted for a moment. “It was my first year away at college. I was lonely, homesick. And I’d get to thinking about how lucky I am…you and Mom…the way you two met…” The sentimentality embarrassed her; she shrugged it away with a sniff. “I wanted to find out more about it, that’s all-domestic violence, abusers, stalkers, all that stuff. And, well, that’s how it began. I’m sorry.”

“Caty, honey. I’m the one who’s sorry…” To her dismay, her father’s voice was choked…thickened. Unable to think of words that would comfort him, she groped for his hand and patted it awkwardly.

From behind the glass partition nearby, C.J. watched the emotions play across Caitlyn’s face, graphic and revealing as those lines of closed-captioning dialogue on the television screen. He watched her father bow his head to hide the anguish in his face from eyes that couldn’t see it.

He’d been eavesdropping unabashedly, with arms folded and jaw tight…knots in his stomach he couldn’t get rid of no matter how many times he told himself he wasn’t responsible for those people being here, and this way. She’d made her choices, Caitlyn had, long before she’d ever met him, and she’d made him part of her crusade without ever asking him if he wanted to be. No sir, legally he wasn’t to blame-probably not ethically, either.

He had a fairly clear understanding of all that. He also had a clear understanding, deep down amongst those knots in his belly, that there was another standard of measurement, one he didn’t know the name of or where he’d learned it-the one that says when it comes to helping out another human being in dire need, a man doesn’t stop to count the cost to himself. By that standard he’d fallen miserably short, and he was having a hard time living with that.

Furthermore, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to live with himself until he’d figured out a way to make it right.

Right now, watching the two of them together, the father and his daughter, Wood and Caitlyn Brown, watching their faces-the grief in his, the fear in hers-what was giving him those knots in his belly was the realization that there maybe wasn’t going to be a way to make this right. Ever.

Though C.J.’s eavesdropping hadn’t given him much with which to console himself-and quite a lot that didn’t make a lot of sense to him-he’d heard enough to be pretty sure the subject matter wasn’t something either party to the conversation would want the FBI to know about. So when he saw his in-law-once-removed, Special Agent Jake Redfield, and his lawyer, Charly, approaching, he stepped around the partition and announced himself and them with a warning cough and a gruff “Hey.”

“C.J.-” Looking relieved, Wood rose and motioned him over. “I was just telling Caty-” ingrained honesty won out and he amended it to “-was about to, anyway. Here, why don’t you…” He sidestepped hastily around the chair he’d been sitting in and offered it to C.J. instead. To his daughter he said unnecessarily, “Honey, C.J.’s here. I told you he has something he wants to talk to you about. Some people-ah.” His eyes shifted to focus beyond C.J. as Jake Redfield and Charly filed into the room, filling it to its standing-room-only capacity. “Here they are. Well. Okay, C.J., I’ll leave the introductions to you.”

Though Wood backed out of the way of the gathering crowd around his daughter’s bed, C.J. noticed he didn’t leave the room. Finding himself a corner, he settled into it and stood erect with his arms folded on his chest in classic military style, like a sentinel. Like a bodyguard, C.J. thought, vigilant and ever ready. Determined to keep watch over his little girl but maintaining a low profile about it.

With so many pairs of observant eyes in the room, C.J. tried his best to avoid looking too long or too hard at the woman lying in the bed, lest he give away more of what he was feeling than he wanted to. But a glance gave him an image that lingered, of those delicate, fairylike features set in an expression both guarded and intent, and at the same time faintly annoyed. He focused on her hands, lying curled and slightly overlapping on the blanket that covered her to her waist, and a different kind of memory, sensual memories of their featherlight touch on his folded arms made his voice gruff as he introduced Charly, then Special Agent Redfield of the FBI.

The hands on the blanket jerked and clenched into fists. “I won’t answer any more questions,” Caitlyn said in a thin, remote voice. A voice beyond caring, C.J. thought; a voice that said to the world, “What more can you do to me?”

Unperturbed, Jake Redfield arched his eyebrows at Caitlyn as if she could see him. He’d taken the position at her elbow across from C.J., with Charly back a little and toward the foot of the bed. “That’s okay,” he said quietly, “I don’t plan on asking you any. Not right now. What I’d like you to do, though, is listen to what I have to say. Can you do that?”