Protector by Laurel Dewey Page B

staring into the void. She was a prisoner of her own head and she was the jailer. Unlocking the demons that raged inside her would be akin to lighting the fuse to a powder keg. Jane was sure of it. But the unholy trap of holding on to the discordant memories and sounds was proving equally dangerous. And now there was this new twist to the ongoing madness—this disorganized flash of images that hung just beneath her conscious mind. Jane flexed her right hand, recalling the tight, desperate grip of Emily Lawrence in the interrogation room. It was exactly the same wraithlike sensation she felt brush her hand as she stood in the stairwell at Headquarters. Jane, still blanketed in a slight daze, considered the most insane inference: the idea that she was sensing and seeing things that had yet to occur. She caught herself, almost embarrassed by her absurd reasoning. It was the booze. It had to be. No cop worth her salt would entertain such an insane notion unless said cop was going insane.
     
    After a lunch of macaroni and cheese interspersed with hearty swigs of whiskey, Jane sorted through her notes on the Stover homicide. The hours passed quickly as she read and reread notations she’d all but committed to memory. However, after turning the last page on one of the yellow pads, a black pen fell from the center of the pad. A shock of emotion caught in Jane’s throat. The words: WOLF FACE were written in large capital letters over a crude drawing of a wolf’s face. At first, Jane feared that someone else had written the words and drawn the picture. But she quickly realized that it was indeed her own handwriting and novice attempt at artwork. Touching the drawing, Jane noted that the ink was still wet in spots where the pen had leaked. It was the same pen she had been using the night before when she passed out at the dining room table. But she had no memory of either drawing the picture or what prompted her to it.
     
    Jane checked the time. 5:10 p.m. She needed to escape. RooBar was finally open. If she walked down there—just over a mile—she could be playing pool at her favorite table by 5:30. She strapped on her Glock, grabbed her beat-up leather jacket and headed down Milwaukee Street. When Jane arrived at RooBar, the place was empty, save for two guys at the bar and a young couple playing pool. Supertramp’s “Dreamer” played loudly on the CD jukebox. RooBar reminded Jane of a cave, albeit a cave with dim lighting, red vinyl booths, purple pool tabletops, dark walls and flooring and television sets perched in every corner. It was a cocoon of security—something she needed right now. Once ensconced in a game of pool at her favorite table on the landing away from everyone else, Jane felt safe and able to zone out the madness. For Jane, pool was like meditation—a Zen-like endeavor, a game of chess with a stick and fifteen balls. She set down a row of twelve quarters on the edge of the table; a universal signal that she “owned” that table for at least twelve games. She played eight ball and she always played alone unless Mike was with her. The waitresses didn’t know her name but they knew her pattern. They’d bring her a basket of hot wings and a slice of pizza along with two shots of whiskey. Jane lit a cigarette, racked them up and was just about ready to break when a largeboned, flannel-shirted fellow lumbered up the steps and set his beer down on the pool table. Jane looked up at the guy, sizing him up.
     
    “How ’bout a game?” he said with a cockeyed grin.
     
    “No, thanks,” Jane said, irritated.
     
    “Would a hundred bucks change your mind?” he asked, licking his lips.
     
    Jane stood up and assessed the guy as if he were a suspect down at DH. “You got a hundred?” she asked.
     
    “Right here,” he said, patting his shirt pocket and then covering his mouth with his hand. “It’s all yours if you win two out of three.”
     
    Jane knew the guy didn’t have a hundred dollars in his