throttle that blonde, pillowy bitch. The woman was all curves and boobs and hips and a mouth that just kept yammering.
And she was driven by fear, too. Mandy Letton’s threats about Gemma’s possible incarceration had been heard, processed and given her more impetus to get…the…hell…out!
But now she was stuck. Standing in the gray, late-morning light, a cold breeze throwing rain at her, cutting through her clothes and making her quake like she was stricken with seizures, she scanned the lot for deliverance. She’d used up all her strength just leaving the building. Now she wanted to collapse on the ground and hug herself to contain the little warmth that had followed her outside.
She heard the footsteps behind her and whipped around, nearly overbalancing herself. She knew before seeing him that Detective Tanninger had followed her. She heard a car turn down the lane, squealing a little as it came too fast, then the detective grabbed her arm and pulled her aside.
Tanninger grated, “Let’s not make it your day to die. Come here. I’ll drive you wherever you want to go. My car’s over there.” He actually put an arm around her and guided her toward the department-issue car at the end of the row. She could have cried, the warmth and strength of him felt so good. She sensed dimly that she’d been negotiating life on her own for a long, long time, and the support was welcome yet unfamiliar.
He bundled her inside, grabbing a jacket from the backseat and laying it across her knocking knees. She smelled leather and maybe a hint of aftershave and a whiff of coffee from the forgotten paper cup in the cup holder. He climbed into the driver’s side with a squeak of leather. He switched on the ignition, put the vehicle in gear and eased toward the exit.
“Quarry?” he asked.
She nodded.
And that was all they said until they were away from the hospital and down Highway 26 to just outside of the Quarry city limits, some thirty minutes later. Will drove the patrol car through the city’s downtown area—basically one street with businesses on either side that petered out and turned into rural farmland at the far end. Gemma gazed out the window as they passed Thompson’s Feed & Grain, Century Insurance Co., Pets and More, the Burger Den, and other businesses whose names rippled through her consciousness, familiar and yet it was like she’d entered a parallel universe, everything felt so out of sync. At the west end of the street she saw LuLu’s, a one-story rectangle painted green with white trim with a handicap ramp leading to the front door. Her family’s diner. Now hers. Across the street and facing a different direction was the PickAxe, Quarry’s only tavern and bar. She ran through several remembered moments from each establishment, pictures from her own youth. Yes, she was definitely from this place, although the particulars were still hazy.
“Am I still going the right direction?” Will asked.
“Turn on Beverly Way,” Gemma directed. “Go almost to the end. My house is down the lane to the right. The fields back up to the quarry for which the town’s named.”
“You have acreage?”
“Farmland…ranchland…my father dabbled in both.” She gazed out the window and thought about Peter LaPorte. She could scarcely visualize him. He’d blended in with the surroundings, a quiet man who seemed content to let his wife run the show. Jean LaPorte had been fiery and intense and opinionated. She’d been the one who’d insisted they adopt Gemma.
Adoption…
And suddenly Gemma was hit by a memory so sharp she was surprised she wasn’t cut and left bleeding. She wasn’t even sure the memory was true, or if it had been fed to her so well and so often that she believed it to be real. It didn’t matter. It was part of her history either way.
She’d been found on a Washington State ferry when she was five or six years old, alone, shivering, freezing cold. She’d been wearing several layers of
And she was driven by fear, too. Mandy Letton’s threats about Gemma’s possible incarceration had been heard, processed and given her more impetus to get…the…hell…out!
But now she was stuck. Standing in the gray, late-morning light, a cold breeze throwing rain at her, cutting through her clothes and making her quake like she was stricken with seizures, she scanned the lot for deliverance. She’d used up all her strength just leaving the building. Now she wanted to collapse on the ground and hug herself to contain the little warmth that had followed her outside.
She heard the footsteps behind her and whipped around, nearly overbalancing herself. She knew before seeing him that Detective Tanninger had followed her. She heard a car turn down the lane, squealing a little as it came too fast, then the detective grabbed her arm and pulled her aside.
Tanninger grated, “Let’s not make it your day to die. Come here. I’ll drive you wherever you want to go. My car’s over there.” He actually put an arm around her and guided her toward the department-issue car at the end of the row. She could have cried, the warmth and strength of him felt so good. She sensed dimly that she’d been negotiating life on her own for a long, long time, and the support was welcome yet unfamiliar.
He bundled her inside, grabbing a jacket from the backseat and laying it across her knocking knees. She smelled leather and maybe a hint of aftershave and a whiff of coffee from the forgotten paper cup in the cup holder. He climbed into the driver’s side with a squeak of leather. He switched on the ignition, put the vehicle in gear and eased toward the exit.
“Quarry?” he asked.
She nodded.
And that was all they said until they were away from the hospital and down Highway 26 to just outside of the Quarry city limits, some thirty minutes later. Will drove the patrol car through the city’s downtown area—basically one street with businesses on either side that petered out and turned into rural farmland at the far end. Gemma gazed out the window as they passed Thompson’s Feed & Grain, Century Insurance Co., Pets and More, the Burger Den, and other businesses whose names rippled through her consciousness, familiar and yet it was like she’d entered a parallel universe, everything felt so out of sync. At the west end of the street she saw LuLu’s, a one-story rectangle painted green with white trim with a handicap ramp leading to the front door. Her family’s diner. Now hers. Across the street and facing a different direction was the PickAxe, Quarry’s only tavern and bar. She ran through several remembered moments from each establishment, pictures from her own youth. Yes, she was definitely from this place, although the particulars were still hazy.
“Am I still going the right direction?” Will asked.
“Turn on Beverly Way,” Gemma directed. “Go almost to the end. My house is down the lane to the right. The fields back up to the quarry for which the town’s named.”
“You have acreage?”
“Farmland…ranchland…my father dabbled in both.” She gazed out the window and thought about Peter LaPorte. She could scarcely visualize him. He’d blended in with the surroundings, a quiet man who seemed content to let his wife run the show. Jean LaPorte had been fiery and intense and opinionated. She’d been the one who’d insisted they adopt Gemma.
Adoption…
And suddenly Gemma was hit by a memory so sharp she was surprised she wasn’t cut and left bleeding. She wasn’t even sure the memory was true, or if it had been fed to her so well and so often that she believed it to be real. It didn’t matter. It was part of her history either way.
She’d been found on a Washington State ferry when she was five or six years old, alone, shivering, freezing cold. She’d been wearing several layers of
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