The Road To Echo Point. Carrie Weaver
on her strength, her training, she tried to appeal to the judge’s professionalism. “Sir, I drove up from Phoenix to settle an auto injury claim with an elderly gentleman named Bob Johnson. He’s going in for surgery next week, and we wanted to get his accident claim settled first.” She leaned forward. “As I’m sure you are aware, if he dies before settling his claim, his relatives will no longer be entitled to compensation for pain and suffering.”
“So, out of the goodness of your heart, you came all the way up here to make sure old Bob’s grandchildren get a chunk of change, even if he croaks on the operating table?”
“Well, yes, in a manner of speaking.”
It sounded so cold. In her circle, it was considered more a mission of mercy. Besides, she liked old Mr. Johnson. That’s why she’d hung on to his file after her promotion from adjuster to unit supervisor.
“I’m surprised old Bob didn’t fill your behind full of buckshot,” the judge said.
“But he did, I mean, he tried. He chased me off with a rusty old rifle. The stuff sprayed all over the tree next to me. So, you see, I was rattled.”
A smile twitched at the corners of the old man’s thin lips, then vanished. “Be that as it may, it’s not an excuse for making a poor decision. Since you see the results of accidents every day, I’m sure you can understand how serious this is.”
“Yes, sir. But—”
“With your speeding tickets and this latest stunt, you deserve to lose your license….” The judge brought up his reading glasses, glancing through a thin file. “Violet.”
Violet. The little girl cowering in a corner, trying to make herself disappear.
Another trip down memory lane. It was almost as bad as going home, something she never intended to do again.
“Please, call me Vi.”
“Well, Vi, we have a decision here…”
“I’d appreciate any leeway you could give…sir.”
Judge Tanner leaned back in his leather chair and steepled his hands. “Maybe we can find a solution. Hit-and-run means you lose your license. But, there could be another way.”
“Speed too fast for conditions,” she supplied. A mere point or two on her license. Her insurance rates would skyrocket, but she’d save her job.
The judge’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job. From the looks of your traffic violations, you always drive with your foot in the carburetor. Seems to me you could use some cooling off time. I’ll give you a break. Community service, restitution.”
Relief washed over her. A couple weekends at the local soup kitchen, maybe picking up trash in the town square. How bad could it be?
“Yes, community service. I’d appreciate the second chance, sir.”
She ignored the perspiration pooling at the waistband of her skirt. “I do feel bad about Mr….ah, about his dog.” She gestured vaguely in the madman’s direction. “I’d be happy to replace it for him.”
“So ruled. Community service, replacement of the dog.” The gavel echoed through the small courtroom. “I’ll give you a day to collect your things and move in.”
The judge glanced toward the front row. “You’ve got a spare room, don’t you Ian?”
“Uh-huh,” the big guy grunted.
“Move in?” Vi squeaked.
“Sure. You can’t watch over Daisy properly unless you stay the night.”
She choked back a laugh. “You mean I’m supposed to watch over a dog?”
“No, ma’am. You’ll replace the dog. Take her place.” Judge Tanner turned to the man. “Now, Ian, how long did Doc Woodworth say Annabelle’d be laid up?”
“A month. Six weeks if there’re complications.”
“Who is Annabelle and what does she have to do with this?” she demanded.
“Annabelle is the dog you practically killed. She’s an important member of my family and a certified service dog.”
The mountain of a man spoke to her directly for the first time since he’d come charging out of the brush.
“Wha…? There was no vest on that dog—”
“She was off duty. We weren’t out in public. Even a dog needs R&R, especially a service dog. Fetch is her stress-buster.”
“What about my job? I’ve got responsibilities, a good shot at District Claims Manager.”
The judge waved his hand as if to shoo a pesky fly, telling her exactly what he thought of her job. “You should’ve thought of that before you went speeding down a dirt road. You’ve got till four tomorrow afternoon to show up at Daisy’s place. Ian’ll give you directions.”
“But that’s not fair.” Vi stormed the bench, her heels clicking emphatically. “You can’t do that. I’ll get an attorney.”
“Attorney’d be a waste of time and money.” He gestured toward the man. “Ian, I’ll have Sheriff Moreno stop by for a report now and then. That’ll give old Joe a chance to chat with Daisy and make sure Ms. Lead Foot here keeps her end of the deal.”
“Thanks, Ralph. I’m about beat.”
“Think you can hold out till tomorrow?” His prune face relaxed into a sympathetic smile.
The man swiped a hand across his face. “I’ve done it before. I’ll do it now.”
Fumbling through a daily planner, he found a blank page and ripped it out. He scribbled furiously, then handed the sheet to her. “See you at four tomorrow.”
“Wait a minute. Who’s Daisy? And why the heck do you need me?”
“Daisy’s my mother. Annabelle’s her service dog. You’ll keep an eye on Mom at night while I sleep.”
Vi shook her head. She was having a hard time relating a service dog to a woman who needed to be watched while she was asleep. Seizures maybe? She’d read about dogs trained to sense the onset of human seizures.
“Oh, and bring some comfortable clothes.” He eyed her up and down. His lips curled into a smirk as he took in every detail of her gray silk suit. “You won’t be needing those.”
He gestured in her general direction. By those, she assumed he meant designer clothes, or maybe it was her three-inch heels.
“I need to know what I’m getting into. Why exactly does your mother need a service dog?”
“Alzheimer’s. She has Alzheimer’s.”
VI CAREFULLY NEGOTIATED the curve, keeping her speed down to a crawl. Impatience had got her into this mess, thinking on her feet would get her out.
Mentally reviewing her options, Vi figured her week’s vacation would keep the rumble of discontent at Transglobal Insurance down to a dull roar. After that, they’d start talking leave of absence, a death knell to her goals.
She patted the laptop next to her. A large box of files rested on the back seat. Black leather was hell on the thighs during the scorching summer, but it sure looked good. The Mustang was her pride and joy. New, sleek and powerful. Not bad for a girl from East L.A.
Peering ahead, she saw where the scrub brush parted for a bit and a rutted path jogged off to the right. That had to be it. It was the only private drive for miles. She followed the narrow dirt road for several hundred yards and parked on a circular drive.
Letting out a low whistle, she admired the view. It was an adobe—low, squat and brown. Perfectly framed by the backdrop of lush, undisturbed desert, the Superstition Mountains rising in the