In Plain Sight. Tara Quinn Taylor
by the federal government.
The school bus had dropped off the elementary school kids twenty-six minutes before. Because once upon a time he’d been trained to observe and to protect, he’d watched them all disperse to their respective homes and waiting parents. In another two or three minutes the high-schoolers would be descending on the block.
He got in another line or two before their bus arrived. And watched them climb down, one by one, sometimes collecting in groups, as they sauntered down the street, some going into houses, others disappearing down side roads. Alan Bonaby was the only one Simon knew by name because the boy used to deliver his papers before quitting the route. Alan walked alone, pushing his glasses up his nose every couple of steps. His house was the last one before the road dead-ended into acres of pine trees.
Simon pushed his wire rims up his nose and got back to work. Law-enforcement manuals did not write themselves—which overall, was probably a good thing, since if they did, his publisher, Sam’s publisher, would not pay him to write them.
Red phosphorus is regulated. To get around this, perpetrators obtain road flares in bulk and scrape off the phosphorus…
Reaching up to push against the knot of muscles at the back of his neck, Simon was briefly distracted by the hair tickling the top of his hand. It was starting to turn up at the edges. He opened the top right-hand drawer of his desk and grabbed a pair of scissors. Careful to catch the falling strands, he lopped off a quarter inch all the way around. Curls were out.
Indicators of a meth lab.
Simon hit the bullets-and-numbering key. Chose a hand-pointing bullet. Chemical odors. Bullet Two… A car had just turned up the street—a blue Infiniti, driven by his next-door neighbor…. Chemical containers in the trash. Bullet Three… She was pulling into her drive…. Multiple visitors who don’t stay long. And on into her garage. In about forty seconds she’d be heading out to the box at the curb for her mail…. Bullet Four. Homes with blackened windows.
And there she was, beautiful as always, her shapely butt looking quite fine in the narrow, calf-length black-and-red skirt she was wearing; that long dark hair swinging just above her hips as she bent to peer into her box.
Simon jumped up.
“You know,” he called out, seconds later, strolling across his front yard, “it’d be safer for you to drive up to this box just like the mailman does and get your mail from inside the car.”
Janet McNeil smiled at him. “You see robbers waiting in the wings to take me down and confiscate my bills, Simon?”
He saw all kinds of stuff she knew nothing about. “Just passing on an observation,” he said, sliding his hands beneath the loose tails of his button-down shirt and into the pockets of his jeans. They were baggy, too, exactly as he liked them. “If you’re not into safety, think of it as time management,” he said. “You could save a good two, three minutes if you picked up as you drove past.”
“And another five without my conversation with you,” she said, still grinning at him, “but then, what would I have to shake my head about over dinner?”
“I saw your name in the paper again this morning.” He’d dropped the toast he’d been eating, ready to stand up and protect her, before he remembered she was none of his business. That he was no longer sworn to uphold and protect.
“Yeah, another day, another criminal,” she said, sifting through the envelopes in her hand.
“Is Hall really a white supremacist like they claim?”
“Who knows?”
He rocked back and forth on his heels, watching her look at the coupons in a general delivery flyer. “You going to try to prove it?”
She looked up then, her fine features completely composed. “What do you think?”
What he thought was that she should be married and at home having babies. Sexist or not, the concept suited him far better than the idea of a nice woman like Janet McNeil spending her days with the dregs of society spitting at her.
“I hear they’re not a friendly bunch,” he said, keeping most of what he had to say on the subject to himself. Simon might understand how vital it was to obliterate violence and hate, but he didn’t have to think about it. Or like it.
“You know, Simon,” she said, tilting her head, “you should consider writing suspense instead of economics textbooks. It might suit you better.”
Yeah, well, no one said she didn’t have a discerning eye. He’d finished typing in the handwritten revisions on an economics textbook once. He’d done it for someone else and still maintained the fiction that this was what he wrote. It was easier that way. “Hey, you trying to say I don’t look the economics type?”
“No.” She held her mail to her chest. “I’m saying your curiosity and imagination are wasted on numbers and percentages.”
But being considered an author of economics textbooks made a great cover. “Someday, I’ll have to show you my etchings.” He managed to keep a completely straight face while he delivered the tacky line.
“Are you ever serious?”
“Not often. You?”
“All day, every day.”
He was glad to hear that. One moment of levity in her line of work could lead to the missed clue that returned to stab her in the back—literally.
“Then, you should pay particular attention to your five minutes with me every afternoon,” he said. “People need a bit of humor to keep them healthy and strong.”
“I figured eating a good breakfast did that.”
He smiled. And would have liked to hang around. “Have a good evening, Counselor,” he said, backing up before he got too close.
Or did something stupid, like ask her if she wanted to go get a burger with him.
Simon didn’t like to share his burger experiences. Or his life.
He didn’t have enough to spare. And he intended to keep it that way.
They knew the landing gear on the jet was damaged. No one was all that concerned. Jan pulled a file from a vault in the courthouse office inexplicably housed within the airport, watching people come and go from the street. The sun was shining out there. Inside, a cast of gray infused the lighting with gloom.
Suddenly, the structure lurched. Her shoulder slammed against a wall. They were going to crash. She heard someone scream the news—a coworker. Oh, God. She was finally going to crash. She’d known her whole life this time would come.
She tried to scream, but she couldn’t make a sound. Tried to tell someone they were already on the ground. And then all she heard was the screeching of metal against metal, as the plane met asphalt and she fell to the side. Things tumbled around her, breaking. She waited to die. Wondered how it would feel.
And then, just as quickly as it started, the motion stopped. Jan half lay on the floor, listening, waiting. She was breathing.
She tried to stand, slowly, straightening her limbs—waiting for them to fail, waiting for the ensuing pain. She explored her face with her fingers, assessing the damage, feeling for cuts. There were none.
She was alive—and she had to get out before there was an explosion. She searched frantically but the distressed and agitated people blocked her view. And then she saw Johnny. Her only sibling had glanced her way, but he must not have seen her. He turned toward a beam of light and dashed into it.
Scrambling over files, slipping on debris, Jan stumbled after him, desperate to get to the light before the plane burst into flames. She gulped. And her lungs filled with the coolness of fresh air. She’d made it out.
Distraught, she looked for someone she knew. She was crying. Needed to be held, comforted, and everyone was busy, unaware of her presence. Pushing through the crowd, she caught a