All The Stars In Heaven (6 page)

Chapter Nine

“Point and shoot,” Grant ordered.

From the corner of her eye, Sarah could see her father’s lips moving. Though the earmuffs muted the sound, she’d heard these same instructions so often that she was even in sync with the timing of his words.

With her feet planted the standard eighteen inches apart, she attempted to hold her hands steady as she took aim and fired the 9mm Glock at the target seventy-five feet away.

“No—
no!
” Grant shouted. “You’re still listing to the right.” He shook his head as he scolded her. He grabbed the chain pulley and drew the target closer so she could see her mistake.

Bracing herself for a rebuke, Sarah lowered the earmuffs to her neck.

“It may not seem like much right now,” her father continued. “But you can’t afford that kind of error.”

Sarah lowered the gun and put one hand on her hip. The other arm hung at her side, the pistol hanging from her fingers. Both shoulders were tired and sore from the repeated practice, and her back was starting to ache. She wasn’t sure why her father was obsessing about this so much today, but she couldn’t care less if she hit her own target or the one beside it. Looking up she said, “I never carry a gun anyway, so who is it you think I’m going to shoot?”

“Anyone who threatens you,” he said in a low, menacing voice. Stepping close, he took the gun from her hand. “And from now on you
will
have a weapon with you. After that stunt Carl pulled at the park, we have to change things up a bit. He isn’t going to be following close enough to do you any good if something goes wrong. And if that should happen, you don’t want to find yourself in a position like this.” He pointed the gun at her chest.

Sarah drew in her breath sharply as she looked down at the barrel touching the fabric of her shirt.

Her father lowered the gun, then reached for her hand and put the pistol in her palm as he turned her toward the targets.

“Got it?”

She nodded, still waiting for her shock to subside.
He pointed a loaded gun at me!
With shaking fingers, she covered her ears and raised her arms once more, this time trying hard to focus her line of vision on the cardboard mannequin at the end of her lane. She took aim and pulled the trigger, hardly flinching at the recoil. She’d grown up around guns, and as much as she hated them, she was also used to handling them.

Grant pulled on the chain and stepped forward to see how she’d done. She lowered the earmuffs to her neck again.

“Better,” he grumbled. “But not your best. You’re not focused today. If school is going to interfere with your job—”

“It isn’t school,” Sarah cut in.

“Then what?” Grant pointed out her latest shot on the target—high and to the right—then released the pulley.

“I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to work on the drug task force. I tried telling you the other night. I hate it. The dealers scare me, and—”

“And it helps pay the bills,” Grant said. “I’m spending a fortune on your tuition. If we’re going to make ends meet, you’ve got to work, Sarah.”

“I’ll find another job,” she insisted. “Mrs. Strouse has been after me for months to give her girls private singing lessons. I could teach piano, too.”

“Piano,” Grant scoffed. “You think that will make a dent in thirty-five thousand dollars a year? The only reason you’re able to go to college is because of your job. Do you have any idea the kind of strings I had to pull to get you this position?”

“I wish you hadn’t. But I’ll work two jobs to make up the difference.” Sarah hated that she sounded as desperate as she felt. “I can find something on campus. I’ll work in one of the cafeterias or be a janitor—
anything
would be better than spending my nights buying drugs.”

Grant sighed heavily. “It’s not possible, Sarah. You can’t quit—no matter how much either of us might wish you could.”

“Then fire me—on the grounds that I’m a lousy shot today.” She gave her dad a half smile, hoping to ease the tension building between them. She knew she’d pushed about as far as she dared. But hadn’t he crossed the line too—a few minutes ago, pointing a gun at her like that? “Fire me and hire someone else who’s as passionate about fighting crime as you are. It would be better for everyone.”

“You’re irreplaceable.”

Against her will, she felt her heart warm with the unexpected and rare compliment. But then she realized what he was doing.
You always try to turn things around, Dad.
“I can see that people might not be lining up for the job, but surely you can find someone.”

“No.” Grant shook his head. “You don’t understand. There simply isn’t anyone else who can do exactly what you do.”

* * *

Sarah stretched plastic wrap over the bowl of spaghetti and stuck it in the near-empty fridge. A six-pack of beer and the usual condiments lined the shelves of the door. The interior shelves, however, were bare except for a half gallon of milk, a couple of apples, and the leftover spaghetti. Sarah frowned. There was no way she could conjure tomorrow’s dinner out of that, and the pantry was just as empty. They’d starve soon if she didn’t remind her father it was time to go shopping again. She should have told him earlier, so they could have stopped by the store on the way home from the shooting range. But his mood hadn’t exactly been stellar, and she’d been too upset to think about groceries. She dreaded telling him now, dreaded the argument that was sure to come up for the hundredth time.

“Grocery shopping is a woman’s work. I shouldn’t have to be bothered with it,” he’d say.

“I’ll do the shopping, Dad. I can ride the bus and—”

“No daughter of mine is going to set foot on a bus. Do you have any idea the kind of people who ride public transportation?”

“People who don’t own cars?”
she’d dared to say to him once when she was about seventeen and hadn’t yet given up hope of getting a driver’s license someday. He’d nearly slapped her for her impertinence, and he hadn’t let her eat a bite of the dinner she’d made that night.

Hopefully this time he’d complain about the lack of food as usual and then decide it was safe to let her do the shopping—with Carl in tow, of course.
Ugh. More time with Carl.
Maybe starving was the better option. If she thought her father wouldn’t yell at her when there was nothing for dinner the following evening, she might have chanced it.

Returning to the table, she grabbed the salad—hardly touched—and carried it over to the sink. It seemed that neither she nor her father had been very hungry tonight. Her stomach was still in knots over the incident at the shooting range. What her father was upset about remained a mystery. Sarah supposed she ought to be concerned that he hadn’t been eating well for the past couple of weeks, but right now she was too angry with him—and too hurt and scared by his ultimatum that she couldn’t quit the undercover job—to be concerned with his health.

Trying to shake the feeling of uneasiness, Sarah glanced over her shoulder as she turned on the faucet. Through the space between the overhead cupboards and the counter, she saw her father dozing in his chair. If she were very lucky, he’d stay asleep the rest of the night.

She dumped the salad in the garbage then returned to the table to collect the plates and silverware. Trying to make as little noise as possible, she placed the silverware carefully in the sink. The paper plates she tossed in the trash. They’d never had a set of real dishes. Instead, her father bought paper products by the case at the local Costco every six months. She poured the rest of her milk down the drain and threw the cup away—their cups were all disposable too. She supposed the tradition had started back when her dad was on his own, then continued as he’d tried to juggle work with single parenting. And since she was on kitchen duty every night, she wasn’t about to complain about it.

With the kitchen clean, she switched off the light and headed down the short hall. Grocery shopping could wait until tomorrow. A night free from her father and Carl wasn’t to be wasted.

“Where you going, Sarah?”

She squeezed her eyes shut.
Just three—more—steps to my room.
“I’ve got a test to study for,” she called over her shoulder.

“Not tonight, you don’t. You’re working.”

“What?”
Sarah turned around to face her father, shock and dismay clearly visible on her face. “It’s Thursday. I never work on Thursdays.” The stern look on her father’s face told her it was hopeless to argue. “Is this some kind of punishment because I told you how much I want to quit?”

“I’m trying to make things easier,” he said, nodding to a bag near the front door. “I thought a different beat and disguise might make working more—bearable.”

Sarah forced herself to walk to the door and retrieve the bag. Under scrutiny of her father’s gaze, she pulled out a pair of worn, grungy jeans. Her brow wrinkled in confusion while her nose wrinkled in distaste.

Her father leaned forward in his chair. “Take the rest of it out.”

She pulled a large black sweatshirt from the bag, followed by a pair of battered sneakers. A puke green knit cap finished the ensemble.

“Well?” Grant asked.

“They’re . . . different.”
Disgusting.

“That’s the point. It’s different from anything you’ve ever worn before. There’s also a box of hair dye at the bottom of the bag. I want you to use that too, and put your hair in two braids. It’ll be a better disguise than that rat’s nest of a wig you’ve been wearing.”

“I’ve never colored my hair before. I thought you said I had to leave it natural.”

“It’ll be back to natural soon enough—the dye is just temporary. Now hurry. Carl will be here in forty minutes. He’ll drop you off five blocks from your job. You’ll carry a Glock with you—that’s why the sweatshirt is extra large.”

The knots in her stomach multiplied. He was serious about her carrying a gun.

“Hurry up. Go.” Grant shooed her down the hall with a wave of his hand.

Reluctantly Sarah went into the bathroom and shut the door. She sat on the edge of the tub as she read the instructions for the hair dye, wondering if the red would really wash out. She stood up and looked in the mirror, pulled the rubber band free from her ponytail, and shook out her hair.
What I really need is a new hairstyle,
she thought glumly. But her father always insisted on long and plain. He said anything else might attract unwanted attention.

Sighing, she donned the disposable gloves, mixed the solution, and squirted the foul-smelling liquid all over her head. When it was rubbed in as much as possible, she picked up the bag of clothes and went to her room. Glancing at her cat clock, she noted how many minutes she had to wait until she could rinse her hair.

Taking a folder from her backpack, she pulled out the prints Jay had bought and sat on her bed and shuffled through them, remembering each moment at the museum when she’d stood in front of the real paintings. When she came to
Mrs. Israel Thorndike,
she paused a little longer, remembering how she’d been aware of Jay looking at her instead of the painting. And she’d known, if she had only turned her head, what kind of look she would have caught in his eyes. It baffled her.

Perhaps the idea of taking her out had started on a bet—or a joke between him and the dancers he knew. But if so, something had changed last Friday.
She
would bet now that he was serious when he said he wanted to see her again.

But why?

She wished she knew, wished there was some way to find out. Because when Jay looked at her, it didn’t creep her out, which was the way she felt around Carl—like prey being tracked by a predator. Being around Jay was nice, comfortable. Not the comfortable she felt around Reverend Daniels and the Ladies’ Aid women who were always so kind to her, but a more interesting kind of comfortable—
friendly.

A wistful smile touched her lips as she placed the prints back in the folder. With some effort, she forced thoughts of Jay and friendship to the far corner of her mind and hurried to get ready.

Grimacing, she pulled the jeans and sneakers from the bag. No doubt these things had come from some secondhand store. She tried not to think about someone else’s skin touching the fabric, another person’s
feet
wearing the shoes. She took a can of Lysol from her shelf and sprayed the pants, shirt, and shoes inside and out. When she finished, she was coughing, and her nose burned with the antiseptic smell.

Kills ninety-nine percent of germs,
she told herself as she dressed quickly, saving the shirt until after she’d rinsed and braided her hair. But she was already counting the hours until she could shower tonight.

Thirty-eight minutes after her father had sent her to get ready, she emerged in full costume. Over the years she’d also learned not to be late.

“I’m ready,” she announced as she walked into the living room. Her father was in the chair where she’d left him.

“You look good,” he said. “You’ll fit right in with the crowd.”

“What crowd?” Sarah asked warily.

“College students mostly. It’s a much safer beat than you’ve had. These rave parties are becoming popular—and a real concern. We’ve got to get a handle on them before they grow too much. You feel better in that getup?”

She nodded. Aside from being grossed out about who the outfit’s previous owners might have been, she did feel better. Gone were the plunging neckline, too-short skirt, and dreaded heels. She didn’t miss the itchy wig either, though her hair felt like straw and she was worried the dye wouldn’t wash out as easily as the box promised. “It’s better. Thanks.”

He nodded and cleared his throat. “Come here so I can tell you what’s up with this group. There’s been an infusion of drugs around the university lately. We think a new dealer is moving in and—”

“Cambridge?” Sarah said bleakly. “You want me to work near the university? Isn’t that out of your jurisdiction?”

“Yes and no. There are several cities working together on this. The more we cooperate with each other, the better chance we have of getting the stuff off the street. But you’ll still be in Summerfield. There are a couple of clubs . . .”