Chapter Three

Josiah woke up to the uneasy feeling that he was being watched.

Cracking open his eyelids he winced. God, he was sore! His body was stiff and ached somethin’ awful, as though he’d been in a fight with a bear. Wait … now he remembered – he had been in a fight. But not with a bear … the Biggles boys. All four of ‘em. And he’d sent them packing. He grinned then grimaced as the cut in his lip protested. He noticed the bedroom was in shadow apart from the bedside lamp sending a warm amber glow against walls hung with native American artefacts … dreamcatchers, a bow, a buffalo-hide war-shield and some other bits and pieces, the proud heritage of Del’s great grandmother who had been kweharehnuh Comanche. It must be night-time, he thought. How long have I been asleep …

He swivelled his eyes to the space beside him in the bed, and met with a pair of azure eyes gazing back at him.

Rosamund Delancey Sanchez, all four years, four months and three days of her, was lying on her stomach on the bed in her PJs, curly head propped on her hands and her feet – wearing New York Yankees slippers which her father had bought her back from the Big Apple after a seminar – waving idly in the air.

Rosie shared her passion for baseball with her daddy, who was convinced it was genetic, and they often spent hours pitching a softball in the yard, much to Del’s disgust. She couldn’t see past football and the Broncos.

Josiah had often soothed a cranky Rosie when she was teething with stories about the great Mickey Mantle, and how as a boy he had watched the great man hit a homer almost right out of Yankee Stadium on a Sunday afternoon in the May of ‘63. Sanchez Senior had spent a year in New York working in a mission for the homeless, and Josiah had gone many times with a friend and his family to a game, sneaking away when he could. His Papa had usually whaled the tar out of him for desecrating the Lord’s Day, but Josiah had taken his punishment stoically. It had been worth it, he thought, and remembered again the roar of the crowd and the thwack of Mantle’s bat against Bill Fischer’s ferocious fastball. He smiled at the memory of the ball ricocheting with a crack like a gunshot off the façade and rebounding back into the stadium, and the disbelief on the faces of the ‘A’s team as they rose to their feet from their place on the bench. That had surely been one helluva day, and Rosie could recite the events of that great moment word for word.

He took a deep breath and instantly regretted it as his cracked ribs protested, and he let slip a soft grunt of pain.

“Momma says you’ve been fightin’ an’ you’ve been asleep all day!”

Rosie glared at him. Now where the hell did she get that? He decided silently to have a word – no, two or three words – with Larabee and tell the man to keep his Glares to himself when he was around Rosie. It was downright disconcerting, to say the least, to be ‘Glared’ at by a four-year-old. He eased himself upright, propping his bruised and battered frame against the pillows, and looked at his daughter.

“Yeah … well, she’s right,” he said, somewhat shame-faced.

“You told me it wasn’t nice to fight. Is this because Ernie Stivens called you a ‘dumb-assed cop’?” Rosie frowned, looking very much like her Momma when her Daddy had got himself into trouble at work or her menfolk were hurt.

Josiah winced again, this time at the epithets.

“Rosie gal, now those are not the kind of words I expect to hear from you, okay?”

Rosie’s frown deepened as she pondered his comment.

“Sorry, Daddy. It’s just … I mean, you told me it ain’t – isn’t – nice to fight.” She corrected herself just in time. Her kindergarten teacher Miss Rowbotham came from a long ‘way away, from a place called England where they didn’t say ‘ain’t’, and Miss Rowbotham tried very, very hard to eradicate such disreputable grammar. Del found the whole thing hilarious, but kept her opinions to herself – she liked Miss Rowbotham immensely.

Josiah nodded.

“I know, I know. It must seem a bit stupid, huh? Your ol’ man getting into a fight after telling you it’s not acceptable behaviour. And you’d be right, baby girl, ‘cause your Daddy did a dumb thing, and I’m real sorry I confused you. No excuses, either, so I’m feeling pretty silly right now, I can tell you.”

Rosie scooted around until she sat cross-legged on the bed and studied her father. He looked sore, and all beat up, and … she struggled to think of the best way to describe him … he looked sorta sad. But then her Daddy had been lookin’ sorta sad since he came back from St Louis.

She knew something terrible had happened there. Her Momma had told her that her Daddy had gone to St Louis to catch a real bad man, one who had hurt people, even killed them. Her Daddy was clever, he knew lots of ways to figure out how to catch this bad man, and that was exactly what he had done. She had seen her Daddy on TV, but instead of looking all smiley like folks usually seemed to be on TV, he had looked real angry and upset. Momma had explained very quietly that sometimes her Daddy’s work meant he got really sad, and that meant Rosie felt sad too. And when that stupid, dumb Ernie Stivens had said that her Daddy was a no-good cop she had snapped and bopped him one. But it hadn’t felt good, although Stivens had stayed away from her ever since and he hadn’t mentioned her father or his work again.

“Daddy …”

Josiah knew what was coming.

This is it. It’s time …

“Yeah, Rosie?”

“You’re real sad because of that bad man, huh?”

Josiah took a deep breath which hurt his ribs and let the breath go in an explosive sigh. How the hell could he explain to her? He heard again Chris Larabee’s words echoing in his head … You tell her the truth, Josiah. Just sit down and tell her …

He nodded at his daughter’s words.

“Yep, I suppose I am.”

Rosie was puzzled.

“But you catched him didn’t you? You catched him and put him in jail and he won’t hurt anyone now, not ever, will he?”

Not if I have anything to do with it, Josiah thought.

“We got him. It took a little time, but we got him, and no, he won’t hurt any more people.” Josiah gave his curious daughter a lop-sided smile, trying to reassure her.

“So why are you sad?” Now Rosie was a little confused. If her Daddy had caught the bad man then he should be happy, surely?

Josiah realised she wasn’t about to let him off the hook, and he thought for a moment. God, how do you explain to a four-year-old about evil sonsabitches like Weller?

“Well … ” He pondered the problem for a second, then continued. “It makes me sad because he hurt all those people, and … and I had to stop him Rosie, before he hurt anyone else.”

Rosie’s blue eyes widened.

“He … he killed them, didn’t he?” Her voice was a shocked whisper.

Josiah closed his eyes, his mind suddenly back in that horror of a basement in St Louis … the blood, the surgical knives … and most of all Weller’s trophy wall, the sides of milk-cartons with the pictures of the girls he had killed. Their bodies had never been found apart from the one back molar he took from each of his victims and kept in jars in his refrigerator. The distraught families had posted their children as ‘missing’ and Weller had taken great delight at the milk-carton ads. Josiah suddenly realised he was shaking.

“Yes, Rosie, he killed them.” The rumbling baritone was hoarse with stress.

Rosie sat silently on the bed and thought about it. Then she turned those impossibly blue eyes back to her father.

“Why?”

Josiah flinched. There it was … the question he had been dreading.

“I …” he struggled to calm himself. “I don’t know, gal. I really don’t know.”

I wish I did, then perhaps all the killing would stop …

But Rosie wasn’t satisfied.

“Didn’t his daddy tell him killing folks was real bad?”

God help me, Rosie, if only it was that goddamn’ simple …

And Josiah thought of his own father, the righteous, God-fearing man who knew in his heart that all men were sinners and the sin had to be exorcised from their souls whatever the cost. Sometimes through the best of intentions, Josiah decided, evil found a way to take root.

“Well, I suppose he did. But sometimes folks don’t understand what’s right and what’s wrong … and sometimes they don’t care. Maybe he didn’t listen, or maybe he didn’t understand, who knows. Rosie, we all do bad things, it’s part of human nature. Whether it’s bopping Ernie Stivens on the nose, or cussin’ when you hit your thumb with a hammer - ” he saw Rosie’s face break into a grin – her daddy had a habit of bashing his fingers with hammers, “it’s all part and parcel of life. It’s one of the things that makes us what we are. But sometimes … ” he hesitated, then forged on. “Sometimes someone can get out of control and do bad things, terrible things, things that no ordinary person would do. Some folks would say its because they had a hard childhood, that their parents were bad to them or they had no money or some such thing. Or maybe its because they hurt their head in an accident or something like that … or maybe … maybe they were just born like that, no one knows.”

“Nathan would,” Rosie said confidently.

Josiah grinned, the tension in his body easing. As far as Rosie was concerned her six godfathers and her beloved daddy knew the whole sum of human learning in some form or another, and she was convinced that Nathan’s skills as an EMT could just about cure a rainy day. He would know if these bad people had something wrong with their heads, she was sure.

“Some doctors certainly think that it has something to do with the way these bad people are born, but … well, they can’t really prove it. Anyway, it means that bad people can do terrible things, and it’s my job to stop them. It’s just this time … this time I wasn’t quick enough, and somebody died because of it.” And he thought again of Estelle Kolocek’s battered body and the devastation on her mother’s face. He swallowed noisily.

“Daddy …” Rosie shuffled around to lean on Josiah’s shoulder. She looked up at him. “You did your best, didn’t you?”

Josiah’s voice hitched with pain and heartache as he answered.

“Yeah … I did my best …”

For all the good it did Estelle Kolocek.

Closing his eyes he felt a hot tear trickle down his cheek. He couldn’t hold it in any longer … the hurt was too much and a small sob worked its way from his deep chest.

But he felt something else … a small body snuggled against him and a pair of little arms wrapped their way around his neck, holding him tight. A face tucked itself into the hollow of his neck, as Rosamund Delancey Sanchez gave her grieving father a hug.

“Well, that’s all right then,” she said, matter-of-factly. Josiah and Del had told Rosie that folks should always try to do their best.

And in that one moment Josiah Sanchez knew the truth of it. He had done his best, he had found Jonathan Becks Weller and taken him off the streets … and stopped him from killing ever again. He had not saved Estelle Kolocek’s life. It hurt. It hurt badly, but he would learn to live with it, and he could do that more easily with his wife and daughter beside him and his team, his six brothers, to back him up. So he lay quietly, letting Rosie’s love wash over him and heal his damaged soul.

After a few minutes Rosie looked up into her father’s face and shook her head.

“Daddy, you look like Ez after he’s been watchin’ his silly movie.”

Josiah snorted in amusement and wiped away the tears on his cheeks with a big hand.

A couple of months previously Ezra had ended up with a chunk taken out of his butt by a stray bullet in the line of duty. The young intern at Mercy ER had not dealt with Team Seven before, and given Ezra pain-killers that usually knocked him for six in the grey-cell department. As his apartment was undergoing a vast re-decorating program he had been cajoled by Rosie to stay at her house, and Josiah had come home the following day to discover Ezra sitting in Del’s only comfortable armchair, a blow-up ring cushioning his rather damaged derriere. Unfortunately he was watching ‘Gone with the Wind’ on TV, and Rosie had sat on the floor, mesmerised, as a painkiller-befuddled Ezra blubbered and wailed at the sight of his beloved Atlanta going up in flames. Del had been leaning against the door jamb in silent hysteria while Rosie solemnly handed Ezra tissues on which to noisily blow his nose. Rosie had decided the film was very silly. Plus, of course, Ezra still hadn’t lived it down due to the photographs taken by a sly Del Sanchez and circulated by a gleeful Vin Tanner.

“Are you gonna be okay?” Rosie asked as she reached over for a tissue from the bedside table and clumsily dabbed away the tears. Josiah took it from her and finished the job, concerned about losing an eye. Rosie could be very enthusiastic when it came to looking after her Daddy and her menfolk.

He winked at her.

“Yeah, I reckon. It’ll take a while I guess, but I’ll get there.”

“Good.” The broad Missouri accent made him look up to see Del wander through from the tiny living room in her Broncos nightshirt. “We were kinda worried about ya there, big guy. You’ve been sleepin’ all day and I’ve had the fellers on the phone every five minutes wonderin’ how you’re doin’.”

Josiah looked for the first time at the clock on the bedside table. It was just gone eleven at night. He had slept for nearly twelve hours! Then he realised Rosie should have been asleep in her bed long ago, but Del interrupted before he could open his mouth.

“She wanted to check that you were okay when you woke up. It ain’t a school-day tomorrow an’ I thought it was more important that she knew her damn-fool daddy wasn’t hurt too bad. Are you feelin’ better?”

Josiah ran his fingers through his short curls and nodded.

“I guess. I’m tired though, and I’m sore.” He looked somewhat sheepishly at his wife as she came to sit on the bed beside him. “Del, I’m sorry. I should’ve let you know … should’ve talked to you.”

Del grinned at him, her lean face almost beautiful.

“Yeah, well, just don’t do it again, okay?” Her face sobered. “I gotta do some apologisin’ too. I wish I could’ve helped you, Josiah. I knew you were hurtin’ but I didn’t know how to make it all go away, an’ I’m sorry. I wasn’t much use to you, darlin’.” She reached forward and kissed him, careful of his cut lip.

Josiah settled back on the pillows, feeling drained and drowsy, Rosie snuggled against his chest.

“Wasn’t anything you could do, Del. When someone like Weller comes along, you can’t help but be caught up in it, and it affects not just you but everyone around you. I got some apologisin’ of my own to do … ”

“Well, that can wait until Monday. Right now I’m tired an’ Rosie should be in her own bed.” Del smiled and lifted her now sleepy daughter from her daddy’s arms, Rosie murmuring a slight protest but too drowsy to do much about it.

When she had been put to bed Del returned to Josiah and slipped beneath the sheets and turned out the light. She turned and snuggled against her husband’s broad frame. Josiah lay for a while, gazing at the faint outline of a Yankees pennant on the wall.

“Del?”

Silence.

“Del honey …”

Sigh.

“What?”

“Did I ever tell you about the day I saw Mickey Mantle hit a home run almost out of Yankee Stadium? They say now it was near as dammit 734 feet! Can you believe it? You should’ve seen the look on Bill Fischer’s face, gal, it was a picture I can tell you! And as for ‘The Mick’, well, - ”

Delancey Cowper Morgan Sanchez buried her head under a pillow and groaned.