Edge of Midnight (6 page)

“Pony,” Susan said. The Hyperbole was new, and the place she was supposed to meet Fran. This being the third week of August, incoming college students should be busily concerned with classes. Adolescent pranks of this sort were usually the scene at Halloween. Cow in the bell tower. Eggs in a paper bag. Or dog shit. Place bag at front door, set fire to bag, ring doorbell and run. Homeowner stomps out flames. With a cop job, you always learned something new. Like a cow can be led up a flight of stairs, but it can't be led down.

“Just thought I'd let you know,” Hazel said. “I sent Ida to deal with it.”

“Right.” She retrieved her bag from the bottom drawer and slung the strap over her shoulder. Ida nearly got Demarco killed by opening a gate and releasing a bull into the orchard where Demarco waited for the farmer to turn up and point out the damage kids had done to the trees by climbing up to steal apples. Being partnered with Osey hadn't gone any better. Patient, easygoing Osey could teach her a lot. Except Ida, impetuous, full of herself, thought she knew better than the old hand and had a tendency to leap right in. By disobeying a direct order, she nearly got Osey killed. Two out of two. Keep her on or let her go? Rookies who didn't follow orders were a menace. At the rate Ida was going, she had the potential to wipe out the whole department.

Susan waved a good-bye to Hazel on her way to the parking lot. Six-thirty and the temperature still hovered around ninety, with matching humidity. At the restaurant, she parked beside a van with
LEADING THE WAY
painted on the side and trudged through lethargy-producing heat. Opening the door released a blast of cold air and an outraged shout.

“Ponies are not allowed!” He sounded as though he'd shouted it many times.

“Miniature horse.” The female voice was patient, as though she, too, had said it many times.

“Everybody relax.” Ida, her brand-new rookie cop, trying to keep everything under control, sounded a little frayed.

“What's the problem?” Susan said.

“No problem. Everything's under control—” Ida turned impatiently and caught a better look as Susan came closer. “Oh. Chief. Ma'am.”

The miniature horse was certainly miniature, about the size of a golden retriever, reddish brown in color, small white star on its forehead, paler mane and tail, interested brown eyes calmly taking in the excitement around it. It wore a beige-and-red blanket lettered with
LEADING THE WAY, ASSISTANCE ANIMAL, DO NOT TOUCH
.

“Ponies not allowed,” the agitated manager said again.

“Horse,” the woman snapped. “You have to let her in. It's the law.”

“Uh, I think—,” Ida began.

“Not sanitary. Smells.” He threw back his head and pulled air into assaulted nostrils. “Offend guests.”

“She does not smell. She's a darling, everybody loves her.” She fondled the horse's muzzle. “Yes, baby, you're a sweetheart.”

“Okay,” Ida said. “Everybody just—”

Susan lightly touched Ida's shoulder and with a relieved breath Ida stepped aside.

“Just what kind of assistance does this—uh, animal do?” Susan said.

“Leading the way for the vision-impaired.”

“Guide horse for the blind,” Ida murmured clarification.

“Cannot come in,” the manager stated.

“I'm afraid it can,” Susan said.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“But—”

“The Americans with Disabilities Act requires businesses to admit service animals.”

“Dogs, well behaved only, who wait under the table.”

“There is no specifications as to species,” Susan said. “Properly trained, no service animal of any kind can be banned unless it disrupts business or poses a threat to health or safety”

“Ginger is exceptionally well behaved.” The woman stroked the horse's neck.

“It is impossible. Guests will flee in droves. What if she…” He held out a hand, palm up and bounced it up and down.

The horsewoman drew herself up in offense. “Ginger is house-trained.”

The manager stepped back in defeat, muttering in some language Susan didn't recognize.

“I suppose you have something official that says this animal is more than someone's cute pet,” Susan said.

A purse was unsnapped, a paper drawn out and handed to her. She read that Cinnamon Ginger, a miniature horse, had been trained as a guide for the visually impaired. She returned the paper and it was snapped once again into the purse. The woman and her friend walked into the dining room with Ginger, in her two pairs of tiny white sneakers, stepping smartly along beside them. Diners stopped eating to stare, but nobody fled, in a drove or otherwise. If anything they wanted a closer look. Susan told Ida to get back on patrol, and joined Fran at a booth in the far corner.

Fran was giggling so hard, tears glistened in her dark, exotic eyes. With her cloud of wild black hair, clothes of vivid primary colors and silver bangles, she always brought to mind gypsies. “I must say, Chief, you handled that well. Decisive. Informed. In—”

“Oh, shut up.”

Fran tore off a chunk of bread. Silver bracelets jangled with every movement. “I wonder if the manager doesn't have a point. What if it…” Hand palm up, she mimicked his up-and-down motion.

“The horse is house-trained.” Ginger, small enough to stand under the table where her owners sat, was waiting patiently.

“I didn't know you could do that with a horse.”

“I didn't either.”

“What's the difference between a horse and a pony?”

“God knows.”

“A horse to lead the blind,” Fran said in that flat voice of utter disbelief people use for the preposterous. She smeared butter on the bread. “Just what kind of con do you think these people are running?”

Yeah, Susan was wondering that, too.

Fran stuffed a chunk of bread in her mouth and studied Susan while she chewed. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks. It's great to see you, too.”

“Did you make an appointment with your doctor?”

“There's nothing wrong with me. I'm not sleeping well, that's all.”

“It's not all, you're tired all the time and—”

The waiter sauntered up and rattled off specials. Susan ordered fettuccini and Fran asked for catfish. When the waiter left, Fran went on right where she left off: “—you droop around all the time. Go see the doctor. You might be anemic.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Why aren't you sleeping?”

“I don't know.” Susan moved around cutlery. “I have these weird dreams.”

“Really?”
Fran leaned closer. “What kind of weird? Erotic?”

“More like a sense of dread. I hear gunfire and I'm running around trying to prevent somebody from getting killed.”

“Who?”

The waiter returned with Fran's wine. “Who?” Fran repeated when he left.

“I don't know, but it's vital that I prevent it.”

Fran sat back, a fascinated look on her face. “You're having a premonition.”

“Oh Lord, I hope not. That would probably mean Ida is going to shoot someone.”

“I hope it's not you. Then I'd have absolutely nothing to do. The travel business is in the toilet. Nobody goes anywhere anymore. Airlines can't be counted on. Panic about smuggled weapons. Long lines while you're groped to make sure you don't have anything lethal. And everybody looks askance at everybody else, because who knows who has evil lurking in his heart. Don't you just love that word ‘askance'?”

“It's always been one of my favorites.”

The little horse was well behaved, better than the small child sitting with her just-about-had-it-looking mother. Patrons noticed the animal, were astonished, then sat down and ordered food.

As they lingered over coffee, inertia set in. Susan found it hard to force her spine to pull her upright. When Fran said maybe they should leave because the waiter was giving them dirty looks, Susan got herself to her feet.

Turning into her driveway, the headlights swept over a small form huddled on her back steps. She rolled into the garage, cut the motor, and went toward the house.

“Jen? What are you doing here? Is something wrong?”

“I didn't know you'd be so late. I brought you some dinner.” Jen put an arm around the bowl on the step beside her.

“Oh, Jen, I'm so sorry. Did we have a date? I've been a little forgetful lately.”

“No. I just thought I'd bring you something.” Bringing something, because of Susan's lousy cooking, was the excuse Jen used to come by and hang a bit. She hadn't done that in a while, and Susan thought Jen was adjusting to her parents' divorce, her mom's new husband, and didn't need to clutch so tightly to Susan's offered hand of friendship.

Jen rose so slowly she might have frozen in a sitting position and was, muscle by muscle, joint by joint, ungluing herself.

“You all right, Jen?”

The harsh overhead light made the girl look almost frightened by the question. She nodded.

“Do you need some help with anything?” Sitting forlorn on Susan's back steps, she looked shaky, as if an inner storm was putting her in turmoil.

“What's the matter, Jen? Are you in trouble? Sick?”

“I'm fine.”

“Unhappy? Is somebody hurting you? Your mother's…” An icy thought touched her mind. “Your new stepfather, how do you like him?”

“He's okay. I gotta go.” She thrust the bowl at Susan.

Susan tucked it under one arm. “Well, is it all right if I walk with you?'

Jen shrugged. “I guess.”

During the block-and-a-half walk, Susan felt as if she was mindlessly chattering with her questions of how was summer school, had Jen made any new friends, did she like her teachers. Jen responded with grunts or one-syllable answers.

“I'm going to have this for dinner tomorrow.” Susan patted the bowl. “Will you come and share it with me?”

Jen shrugged. “Maybe.” She darted off to her house.

Worried, Susan watched Jen trudge up the steps, slouch across the porch, go inside, and close the door behind her.

 

7

A couple beers with the guys meant Mitch didn't get home early like he promised, but he stopped at See's and bought the dark chocolate–covered walnuts that Cary liked. He was sorry about last night. He shouldn't have hit her. She just got him so mad that sometimes he lost it. They needed a baby. That would keep her busy. She couldn't be reading all the time and traipsing off to the library, or going to that Sylvia's place. As he rolled into his driveway he hit the opener and the door rattled up on an empty garage. What the hell? Where was her car? She should have been home hours ago.

He pulled in, hit the remote to close the garage door, and went in the house. “Cary!” No food on the table, no smell of cooking.
What the fuck?

A man worked all day, he should have a meal ready when he got home. Yanking open the refrigerator, he shoved stuff around until he found the last beer, pulled it out and popped the tab. He took a long swallow. He'd told her to pick up a couple six-packs. She was always doing shit like this and making him lose his temper.

“Cary!” He stomped up the stairs. Probably flaked out with one of her damn headaches. If she was asleep, he'd show her what happened to wives who didn't give a thought to their husband, tired after working the job and needing something to eat and a little peace and quiet when he got home.

The bedroom was empty. Spare room, too. It was going to make a great nursery. Where the hell was she? Car broke down? Ran out of gas? Visiting that bitch Arlette? Or forgetting everything and reading at the library. Always reading. You'd think she was going to school or something, the way she was always reading. He slammed open the bathroom door. Two long cracks ran down the center from when she'd tried to lock herself in and he'd smashed it with his fist. Need to get that fixed.

She's run.
The thought hit him like a live wire. He shoved open the closet door in the bedroom and pawed through the hanging clothes. It didn't look like anything was gone, but she might have bought something new, or that bitch Arlette might have given her something. He went through her dresser. Panties, bras, socks. How the fuck could he be sure? It wasn't like he counted this stuff.

Suitcases!
He went back to the spare room and yanked open the closet door. There they were, all the suitcases, on the floor just where they were kept. She wouldn't leave him. When she'd tried that trick before, he'd gone after her and brought her home where she belonged. Got herself all the way to San Diego. By God, she'd better not try it again. No matter where she went, he'd track her down. Wife of a law enforcement officer? Any police department in the country would help. “So you better not be stupid, baby. If you've taken off, you won't get far. And the farther I have to go to bring you back, the more it's going to cost you.”

He hauled in a long breath. Maybe she got held up somewhere. What the hell did she say she was doing today? Picking up groceries? Yeah, that was probably it, she got held up at the grocery store. Stupid people, never thinking about anybody but themselves. Never thinking that when a man worked all day and came home hungry, he ought to find dinner on the table. Not this damn empty house!

He pounded his fist on the kitchen table.

Okay, he wasn't making anything better by getting so riled. Just take it easy and she'd be home any minute. Then he'd tell her how disappointed in her he was, how she should have had his dinner ready. Leaning both hands on the table, he sucked in another breath, then straightened and took a bottle of wine from the shelf. He uncorked it, poured a glass and went into the living room. He sipped. Yeah, just the thing. He'd sit here on the living room couch, have a glass of wine, relax, wait for her to get home.