Protector by Laurel Dewey

doors opened and she got on. Weyler slid into the elevator just before the doors closed. Jane pounded the button that was marked “parking.”
     
    “What happened in there, Jane?” Weyler asked in a probing manner.
     
    “Leave me alone!” Jane was still shaking and trying to keep herself together.
     
    “When she grabbed your hand, something happened.”
     
    Jane pounded the “parking” button harder and harder. “Nothing happened!!!”
     
    “I was standing on the other side of the wall! Don’t tell me nothing happened!” The doors opened onto the parking level and Jane burst off the elevator. Weyler stayed close on her tail. “If it was nothing, then why are you shaking? Why can’t you look me in the eye? Why can’t you tell me the truth you’re so fond of telling?”
     
    Jane stopped several feet from her car and turned to Weyler. “You want to know what she said? She said, ‘I know they’re watching us from the other side of that funny mirror.’ Satisfied?!” She swung open her unlocked car door and got in.
     
    Weyler leaned his hands on the open window. “Alright. But that doesn’t explain your present behavior. What are you not telling me?”
     
    “Boss, I swear to God, if you don’t take your hands off this car . . .”
     
    Weyler stood back. Jane shifted her car in reverse and screeched out of the parking lot, leaving a trail of blackened rubber on the cement and the lingering echo of screaming tires.
     

Chapter 7
     
    Jane slammed her Mustang into gear the second she cleared Headquarters. She looped around the Civic Center, changing lanes erratically. Angrily, she slapped her head several times trying to bury the emerging memory. A pitter-patter of fat spring raindrops dotted the windshield as Jane curved around Cheesman Park. The rain began to fall with vengeance, making it difficult to see more than a car’s length in front. Jane pulled over to the side, under a “No Parking” sign as the rain beat like fists on the roof. Jane grabbed the steering wheel, stared into the oncoming storm and gave in.
     
     
    “Janie!” Mike screams.
     
    She is fourteen and back in the kitchen staring at Mike who is in a fetal position on the floor where he landed after Dale slapped him out of his chair. A steady pit-pit-pit of hail mixed with snow hits the kitchen window.
     
    “Shut up, you weak fuck!” Dale screams as he leans over Mike.
     
    Mike cups his hands over his ears and holds his breath. Dale punches Mike hard in the head as Mike lets out a bloodcurdling wail.
     
    “What the fuck’s wrong with you!” Dale screams, moving closer to Mike’s face.
     
    Mike holds his hand out to Jane, his eyes filled with terror. “Janie! Help me.”
     
    Jane grabs his hand and jerks him off the floor. Mike retreats behind Jane’s body.
     
    “I’m not fuckin’ done with the little faggot!” Dale yells.
     
    “Yes, you are!” Jane yells back, meeting his angry pitch.
     
    Dale turns over the kitchen table sending the macaroni and cheese across the room. He storms toward Jane, back-handing her hard across the face, but she stands her ground. “Don’t you fuckin’ raise your voice to me!”
     
    “He doesn’t want to look at photos of dead people while he’s eating,” Jane says, her voice more controlled.
     
    “Get outta the way!” Dale bellows. Mike stays pinned behind Jane, his head buried in the center of her back.
     
    “Mom hated having those pictures at the table but she never told you!” Dale smacks Jane across her other cheek with the flat of his hand. “She just kept it inside but she hated it!” Dale lays another hard slap across Jane’s face. “She hated those pictures, she hated this house and she hated you! That’s why she died! To get away from you!”
     
    The blood wells in Dale’s face. “You fuckin’ bitch!” he screams as he grabs Jane by the hair and punches her across the face. Blood spews from her nose and onto Mike as he takes refuge against the