Frostwood, Manuscript Format, 1st Draft (Ver. 2.1)

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A. J. Hollins 102 Sims Ave. Louisa, VA facelessmasks@live.com
FROSTWOOD By A. J. Hollins PART ONE: THE BOAT PRELUDE
I was sitting in the conference room at the Sheriffs office, trying to gather the story in my head before I had to explain myself to a room full of people who wanted to put me in jail. I discovered that I had difficulty focusing on any particular moment with lucid objectivity. It was all one long, blurry streak of time in my recollection, like a movie in my mind that I struggled to recall perfectly after only seeing it once. I know how it started, and I know how it ended, but to summarize all the events in between with any accuracy at all seemed to me like it would take much longer than I preferred to spend under interrogation. So I spent the hours that I was forced to wait for the detectives and agents and god-knows-who-
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else collecting my thoughts so it would all come out as one clear, concise and deliberate recount, as opposed to a disorganized slurry of events tossed together like spaghetti in a trash bag. The November snow outside the window looked thick and torrential, like the result of feeding pillows into a woodchipper. I stared out the window, trying to construct some kind of clear narrative of the events that had brought me to this room, which felt haphazard and minimalistic considering the gravity the situation at hand. People were dead, and I was responsible. To the question of why? there was a short answer and a long answer. The short answer was simply a list of whokilled-who. The long answer was something different entirely. All my life, I had always been able to detach myself from reality in times of crisis in order to avoid panic. It was like a switch in my brain and stomach that set my emotions and senses on the sociopath setting, and every sensation was reduced. The fear, anger, disgust, and especially the feeling of panic were all muffled from a roaring tempest to a suppressed howl. And the switch was autonomous: when a time of great stress and trauma came, it required no thought or intent for it to activate. This skill was invaluable in emergencies and it gave me a successful career as a paramedic, but that seemed a lifetime ago sitting in
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that conference room that day. Sitting in that room, going over the events of the twenty months or so, my involuntary numbness was malfunctioning and I could only focus my memory of a single event. It was last April, and I was in the Intensive Care Unit of the University of Virginia Medical Center. * I sat and watched him sleep. The ascites had swelled his stomach so much that it was hard to see his chest rise and fall. I could hear the fluid in his lungs every time he took a breath. He tossed and turned, and he fought the ammonia toxicity for what would be his last moment of clarity. His head tilted over to the side and he looked at me. His eyelids began to sink, and before he fell back asleep I called to him to get his attention one last time. Dad? He looked at me with his eyebrows raised. I love you, man. He nodded again and closed his eyes slowly. The nurse came in almost immediately after and pushed another round of Morphine and Ativan into his IV. His uncomfortable stirring stopped. His breathing became slower. His strained eyes seemed to soften. I sensed that his discomfort and his impatience were dissolving. I knew that these were the last moments I would spend with my
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living father, but I had been anesthetized by some kind of emotional shutdown and found myself numb to the trauma taking place around me. All I was capable of doing was blankly watching in horror as the defining tragedy of my life unfolded around me. I sat there for the next hour, watching him continuously. Finally, I watched as the slow breathing came to a stop, and the gasping, agonal respirations began. I watched as his body resisted the inevitable. Finally, the gasps became slower and slower and stopped, and I watched the life leave my father. Raymond Buck Raines had passed from the mortal world, and when the thought hit me I wept uncontrollably, having no conscious influence over my actions in that moment. I walked into the hallway and paced back and forth as I cried. I knew I had a great deal of talking to do, people to inform, plans to make, but it all seemed like a meager afterthought in comparison to the tragedy around me. And as the intensity of the sorrow lessened, it became something else. It felt like my breaking heart was being welded by rage and hatred. The knowledge that someone had just succeeded in robbing me of my father entered my mind and the tears stopped. I felt like the laces that held together my humanity had all snapped, like the stress had blown a breaker in my heart and mind. In that moment, the thought of revenge was a salve, numbing the wound, and in the absence of
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distress, wrath overwhelmed me. The men that were responsible for my fathers death would not know peace or security or rest until I had sated my thirst for destruction. I would not stop until the pain I felt in that moment had permeated and poisoned their entire existence. And when the time for begging and pleading and appealing to my humanity for mercy, they would receive the same mercy they had now shown my father. * I felt myself getting lost in the sadness and fury of that day, and had to abandon the recollection. I felt the dagger of sorrow in my stomach, and I was fostering it until it grew into a tempest of despair exploding out of me through my face. And there I was, crying, however briefly, in the conference room of the Victoria County Sheriffs Office, but I quickly regained my composure when I heard the door open. An attractive but serious-looking dark-haired woman in a business suit walked in and sat a messenger bag on the table in front of her. She didnt shake my hand or even acknowledge me before she spoke. My name is Jacqueline Ferris. Im here to represent you. I attempted to speak and ask who sent her, but she disregarded me completely as she continued, As of right now, you are not under arrest, but that may change in the very near
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future. You need to tell me everything that happened leading up to this, and you need to tell me right now, She barely looked me in the face as she spoke. She was digging stationary out and placing it in front of her until she finished her last sentence. When she finished that, she sat down, pulled her chair closer to mine, looked into my eyes with an almost angrily serious expression on her face and said, And before you begin, let me explain something to you: If you are going through the events in your mind trying to segregate what you are going to tell people and what you are not, then you can stop now. Whatever happened, no matter how insignificant, embarrassing, or incriminating, is what you are going to tell me. And if I think you are lying, then I am going to pack up my things and walk out and you will have lost the best asset you are going to find in all this. Now, forget whatever you were going to say while I was introducing myself and begin. She picked up a pen and waited for me to start. Miss Ferris, I appreciate your interest and your offer to help, but I havent asked for a lawyer. And it would be difficult to fill you in on everything its kind of a long story. She looked at me impatiently, My employer has taken an interest in your recent endeavors, but he asked that he not be
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identified at this time, for reasons that will be explained later. His instructions were to tell you that he was a friend of your fathers, and he would like to get this situation cleared up as soon as possible. And the sooner you tell me what the hell is going on here, the sooner we can all go home. And if its a long and complicated story, I would suggest starting from the beginning. It felt like I was going to strain a muscle in my brain as I rapidly tried to discern the identity of Ms. Ferris employer. A friend of my fathers is not a highly segregated list. He was the type to make friends wherever he went. Had he not gone into Law Enforcement, he likely would have been a salesman of some sort. After he resigned as a detective in Albemarle County, he worked as a bartender, a post in which he understandably excelled. Suddenly my thoughts were lost again in memories of my father and the woman across from me seemed to realize my thought process, and she set a hand on my forearm a gesture of humanity that seemed alien for her and she said, Mister Raines, very soon, your questions will be answered. But for now, all you need to know is that you have made many enemies. And those enemies have some enemies of their own. Now, can we get started? How did all of this begin?
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I took a sip of the paper cup of water on the table. I took a deep breath and slouched comfortably in my chair. To start at the beginning of all of it sounded easier than it actually was. Truth be told, it could have been said that it started in the mid-Nineties, when Militant Right-Wing Radicals threw in their lot with religious zealots and began a cultural cold war with the rest of the Country. It could also be said that it started in the early Seventies, when a then-Sergeant William Lamar took a young Raymond Buck Raines Jr. under his wing in the Victoria County Sheriffs Department, and the two became lifelong partners in both the Detective division of the Sheriffs Department and briefly in the FBI. There were hundreds of scenes that could be considered the start of the violence, but it all seemed to be like backstory. Well it all started, I said, with a boat.
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CHAPTER ONE
There was a voice downstairs calling my name that Sunday morning, a little over a year and a half ago. It was my father, shouting up to me that we had work to do, or something to that effect. Before I could form my first conscious thought, my stomach began erupting and I moved at some combination of running, stumbling and crawling to the door on the far side of my bedroom. I fell to the floor and vomited into the toilet. Well, mostly into the toilet. After the final empty heaves were finished, I fell to the floor and slipped back into an uncomfortable sleep. I awoke and got up from the floor after about 10 minutes. I took a piss that looked like iced tea and blood, and the sensation of my kidneys being ripped out grew more and more
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crippling in the space of a minute. I walked, almost completely doubled over, back into my room and fell back into bed. I picked a bottle up off the nightstand and slammed a double dose of painkillers, hoping that in forty-five minutes or so, I would be capable of walking upright. The chronic Kidney stones that plagued me since my early twenties had been getting worse. They were a never-ending source of agony and suffering, and in the course of three years, they had cost me my job, my health, my fitness, my girlfriend, my apartment, my car, and the majority of my self-respect. At one point, indirectly, it nearly cost me my freedom as well. After about a half an hour, I got out of bed, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and slowly descended the steps to the main floor. My father was dressed in a suit, drinking coffee and reading the paper, all but the last of which were highly unusual for him. You look like pickled shit, He said. Are you going to Church? No, we have work to do. Here, He slid a silver thermos across the table at me, Drink some coffee. No, thanks, The very idea of coffee seemed to agitate the hangover that was plaguing my head and stomach, It will only make it worse.
Its mostly brandy. I smiled and laughed to myself a little. Dad, youre a man after my own heart, I picked up the thermos, unscrewed the top, and began to sip intermittently, So what kind of work are we doing in suits? Bill called. A guy that lives in his subdivision had his boat stolen last night. He offered Bill two grand to find it, and Bill thought I could use the money. No shit we could use two grand. But why doesnt the guy just go to the cops? Theyll look for it for free. Because the guys got about five pounds of dope stashed in the compartments under the seats, He said with a surprisingly straight face. I, on the other hand, choked on my drink, nearly spitting it out. I laughed, Yeah that explains it. And we get an extra thousand if we come back with the weed. No shit? I was honestly speechless for a second. I sat and thought about the circumstances that must have led a man with 5-pounds of missing weed to the door of a former FBI Supervisory Special Agent in the Domestic Counter-terrorism division. My Dads friend and mentor, Bill Lamar, was much like an older copy of my dad. They had the same humor and
disposition; they both had left their jobs under what they would describe as less than ideal circumstances, and they both were the first to admit they had their vices. Which happened to be the same vice: They both had a habit of turning into philandering, womanizing, loud-mouthed drunks in the literal blink of an eye. And now, Im guessing due to some drunken bond he had formed one night, there was a drug dealer at Bills house trying to hire him to repossess his boat and his drugs. To say that I was a little dumbfounded was an award-worthy understatement. My father stood up and folded the newspaper, neatly setting it down on the table in front of him. Under the paper was a map of Victoria County, Virginia, and circled on it were particular places of apparent interest. I looked at lines drawn from our house near the small, mountaintop town of Frostwood all the way around the 2nd largest natural body of water in the state, Lake Victoria. He had circled marinas, lake-side stores, and other places of interest for canvasing the lake searching for information. He folded the map up, as well, and stuck that in his jacket, which is when I noticed he was wearing his old service weapon, a black Beretta 9mm. Youre bringing your gun? I asked.
You should bring yours, too. Dad said, as though he was talking about bringing a pen. Why? Because theres two likely scenarios here: One, someone stole the boat and took it up out of the water and is going to strip it or sell it or whatever, in which case probably not going to find it unless it was drunk idiots on a joyride. The other scenario is that someone stole five pounds of marijuana, and its unlikely theyre going to want to give it back. And Im guessing its not going to be very nice people in the first place. So I would suggest you bring the .45 I gave you. What about both? Yeah, I guess thats possible. He said, shrugging. Well it seems to me like the easiest thing to do if you just wanted the weed would be to take it off the boat instead of stealing the whole damn thing. Never underestimate the stupidity of some people, He said and picked up his keys, You going to follow me in the jeep? Yeah, I can do that. Let me grab my shit, I said, and I walked back to my bedroom, went into my nightstand, and grabbed a bottle of painkillers, a notebook and pen, and the Colt 1911 that my dad had given me. I changed my T-shirt to a button-up collared one in the interest of looking at least a little more
professional, and headed back down the steps and followed my dad out of the door. * We drove to Bills separately. I had stopped for gas and cigarettes, so I lagged behind a bit and my dad drove on ahead. I arrived at the gated entrance to Honeysuckle Hills and pulled into the lane designated for visitors. It led to a stopping point in front of the security office, where a heavy-set man in a guards uniform came and inquired about which resident I was coming to see. I dropped Bills name and told him my own. He glanced down at his clipboard and handed me a guest pass to keep on my dashboard by the windshield. Dad was parked in Bills driveway, apparently already inside. I pulled in behind him, hopped out with my notebook and made my way to the front door. Bills was a large, two-story house with cedar siding. He had it built when he retired from the FBI almost 10 years before. The house he used to own was the one Dad and I were living in. We were renting it, but I had always thought that Dad would own it one day. That, as things turned out, would never happen. I continued up the walkway in front of his house to the front porch. I opened the glass storm door but Bill opened the
main door for me before I could knock, Come on in, Malcolm. Everybodys in the kitchen. Bill Lamar was 68 years old. To someone who didnt know him he would appear to be in relatively good shape for a man his age, but between a triple bypass and type-2 diabetes, he struggled to maintain the large house by himself. In his days at the FBI (and before that both as a detective and chief of detectives with Albemarle and Victoria Counties) he had been an imposing figure physically and otherwise. Now, he just seemed frail and pitiable. Thanks for coming out, He said as we made our way to the kitchen, Dave has done a lot for me. Hes a good man. In the kitchen, Dad was sitting across the table from a thirty-something year-old with a five-day beard and unkempt hair. David Reynolds struck me as the kind of guy who never really evolved past the person he was in college. Flip-flops, cargo shorts, polo shirt, and a beaded hemp-rope necklace seemed to be the uniform for guys like him, and damned if he wasnt wearing every piece. Sup, bro. The names Dave, but you can call me Bugs, He rose from his seat and extended his hand. Malcolm Raines, Im Bucks son. I shook his hand.
Once I was seated, I took out the notebook and started taking notes. I was just telling Buck that I got tore up last night. There were a couple parties around the lake, so I was just cruising around having a good time. I woke up on a picnic table over at Jefferson Run Campground and walked down to get my boat from the docks and it was fucking gone, dude. I still had the keys in my pocket, so they must have hotwired it. I had to get this chick I know, Michelle, to drive me home, He said rapidly, his anxiety becoming evident, When I got back, I was gonna go to the cops, but He trailed off, wondering how to say the next part. How much pot is on the boat? My dad asked in a voice that implied we were not judgmental or untrustworthy. Five pounds, minus whatever I sold or smoked over the past couple days. Alright, continue. Dad said. Okay, so Id been doing some work for Bill off and on and he told me he used to be a fuckin FBI agent and shit, so I thought he might be able to help me, He paused for a moment.
Dad and I looked at him inquisitively, Thats about it. I was the first to begin asking questions, Who do you think took it? Everyone kinda stopped and stared at me for a
second, like I was asking a stupid question. I elaborated, When you got up this morning and found it missing, was there a name that popped in your head, even if it is just a gut feeling. Anyone? Nah, bro, He said, looking frustrated and sad. Dad spoke up next, We are going to need a couple things, the faster the better. I want you to get a picture of the boat, all your registration and title papers that you have, and your insurance information. Can you do that? Yeah, man, no problem. He said, and before he excused himself to go and gather the requested documents, he handed Dad a folded up manila envelope, Thats a thousand up front. For, like, expenses and shit. Dad took the money and nodded, and after he left, he took a second to think and all was quiet for a moment. Then he spoke to Bill first, Im gonna send Malcolm to a friend of his to see what, if anything, is known about it with the local kids. Im gonna get the papers and start canvasing the marinas and stores. If someone took this on a joyride, they abandoned it somewhere. And he better hope thats what happened. Yeah, thats what I was thinking, too. Youre sure the dope isnt a problem? Bill asked him quietly, almost as though I wasnt in the room.
Im going to let Malcolm handle that end of things. From now on, I dont want to hear about it anymore, Dad said, and true to form, he did not say another word about it. He then turned to me, I want you to get a picture of the boat and go to your friends and see what you can find. If someone was at that party, they would notice a bunch of drunk guys stealing a boat. I think so. And if someone recently came into ownership of a several thousand dollars-worth of pot, someones going to notice to. I know just who to ask. Dave-call-me-Bugs came back, and without another word I took the picture of the boat, made a quick copy of it on Bills computer, and took the original with me to the West side of the Lake. Before I made it out the door, Dad walked up to me with money in his hand, Take this. Look, I dont want you to get into anything sticky. You have a problem, you call me. Understand? I nodded, and he was satisfied. I put the $500 in my pocket and left. If there was someone that I needed to get information from about something that happened on, in or around Lake Victoria, it was Alex Fowler. A 12 year-old couldnt piss in Lake Victoria without Alex feeling the warmth. And I hated to bother him at
nine in the morning, but it was time to pay my old friend a visit.
CHAPTER TWO
I was still nursing my thermos of my fathers delightful concoction of brandy, coffee, and a vanilla creamer of some sort while I drove to Alexs. I was finally beginning to lose my hangover, but I still couldnt turn my head too quickly without feeling nauseous, and I still felt weak and shaky. I lit a cigarette and reached into the center console and popped another double dose of painkillers. I chewed them up and washed them down with more spiked coffee. Riding in a car with a kidney stone is like being carted around in a wheelbarrow full of hot needles, all stabbing you in the back, right below the ribs. I killed the pain from both the stones and the hangover as best I could as I made my way along 652, the main artery along the southern border of the lake. En route, my mother called me.
Hey, I answered. Good morning, She said, sounding unusually bubbly, How are you feeling? Im alright, I guess There was silence as she waited for me to elaborate. I didnt. Are you driving? Yeah, I answered. Wow I dont suppose you are going to church this morning? She asked, half-joking. No, dads found some work for us running errands for Bill. Errands, huh? Alright, well I just wanted to see how you were feeling. Tell your father I said hello. Will do. We hung up the phone, with mutual I-love-yous. My mother and father had been divorced for nearly 20 years. In my adult life, I had grown to disbelieve how they ever could have been a couple for as long as they were, when you considered how different they both had become. Dad was still a man of vice and luxury, caring more for enjoying the moment than planning for the future. My mother was a woman quite the opposite; modest and dutiful, deeply religious though still non-conformist. She had remarried a born-again-Christian who would go from Driving
Trucks to becoming an Ordained Baptist Minister. He and I we were not close, and Ill leave the rest to the imagination. * I arrived at Alex Fowlers house on the lake at around nine-thirty in the morning. I parked in the small, circular driveway in the front, and walked around the side of the house, descending stairs to the lower deck of an elaborate, two-story, wrap-around porch and deck system that included a 100-yard stair descending away from the back of the house to a small dock and boat slip. I put out my cigarette in a bucket next to the sliding glass door and knocked. No answer. I knocked again and this time, two footsteps could be felt easier than heard. A second later, a door inside swung open and out walked Alex, wearing a pair of basketball shorts only. He was average height and build, but like most guys my age rarely shaved or cut his hair. He was a unrepentant stoner, and spent his days as a self-employed carpenter, handyman and contractor, getting most of his business off an ad posted on the internet. When he wasnt working, he was cruising Lake Victoria in an old pontoon boat, beer in hand, Led Zeppelin blaring on a Frankenstein-stereo, and smoke rising off a grill he had welded into the remaining post of what once was a table near the aft. He was an inventive, crafty, and loyal friend. That being said,
he was also probably a borderline psychopath whenever a drop of alcohol touched his blood-stream, which was often. For instance: He once got tired of the phone ringing and his solution was to take a circular saw to it. Repeatedly. What the fuck time is it? He said, squinting as he opened the door. Almost ten. The fuck you want this early? He said, rubbing his face. The last time I had spoken with him was several months prior, and I was somewhat embarrassed to have to come to him for help like this, but it was necessary, I need your help. Alright, He said, sighing, and leaving the door open for me as he walked back into his house. I followed him inside, and shut the door behind me. * We were seated at the bar that separated a small kitchen and his large living space. He was cracking a beer. He offered one to me and I politely lifted my thermos. So whats up, man? He said, scrounging a shirt out of a nearby hamper, putting it on though it was clearly lightly soiled, and sitting down at the bar on the kitchen-side, across from me. He sipped his beer and I took a breath before I began.
Well, a friend of my dad has us looking for a boat. It was stolen from Jefferson Run Campground early this morning, I showed him the picture of the long, green watercraft. Well, I aint do it. I laughed, No, I didnt expect you did. But I think you can help me find it, I said, and took a sip of my thermos and a long breath before I continued again, There was about five pounds of weed hidden on it. Youre full of shit, He said, without pause. Im serious. The guy said hed pay for the boat to be found, and give us a bonus if we came back with the weed. Im sure theres a little something in it for you if you want to help out. It was clear that I had roused Alex from his post-nocturnal haze and gotten what was as much of his attention as anyone could get. He took his beer, stood up from the bar and walked to the couch in the large living area, and plopped down without spilling a drop. So a boat with about what, ten or twenty thousand dollars-worth of weed on it just walks off in the middle of the night. Where was the guy? Ass-up on a picnic table. Who hasnt been there?
Dads out running around looking for it at the marinas and shit. He wanted me to see if there were dudes running around talking about having I dont know, five pounds of fucking weed all of a sudden. Im guessing theyd be in a hurry to sell it. Yeah, I reckon, He said, So what are you, some kind of private eye now? He said mockingly. I shrugged. He leaned over to the coffee table in front of us and opened a wood cigar box. He pulled out a bag of pot and started packing his bong. He continued as he worked, That is kinda weird, though. Sophie called me late last night and was freaking out. She said that Dante Mills called her and was looking for Jesse Mason. She said that Jesse had shown up to Dantes in a ski mask and pulled a gun on him and robbed him. Got away with a bunch of money, and from what I know of Dante, probably a little somethin else. Whos Jesse Mason? I asked, the name sounding vaguely familiar but I couldnt put face to it. He was a year or two ahead of us in school. He was a baseball player. I dont know if you saw him youd probably remember him. Alex finished packing his bong and began smoking. Interesting what time was this? I asked. I had to wait for him to finish his bong hit and cough for a few seconds. We walked over to the bar separating his living room from his kitchen, with him coughing the whole way. He drank
heartily from his beer, which calmed his lungs, and he continued, Uh maybe two Somewhere around then. You think hes got a Facebook page or somewhere we could get a picture of him? You could check, He said, continuing to intermittently guzzle his beer, I guess you wanna use my computer, now. I said sorry already, didnt I? I said. Fine but youre hittin the bong first. * An hour later, I had a photograph of Jesse Mason and a decent buzz. As it turns out, Alex was wrong: I didnt recognize him at all. But from the sounds of it I wasnt missing much. He was a baseball player and from the sounds of it a relatively popular jock until too much partying got him a decent drinking habit. He dropped out of college and was a drunk for a while and got heavy into coke. Now, he lived off his parents substantial wealth and some auto-mechanic side work, and he spent his days, from the looks of his online profile, looking at pictures of his car and masturbating. He listed his relationship status as its complicated with Annabelle Dougherty however when I checked her profile, she was apparently single. It struck me as odd, and hinted at a little
emotional instability. But, I thought at the time, it also may be nothing. Dante Mills, on the other hand, I did remember from school. Before everyone was doing it, only the black kids and the rockers drank or got stoned, and few things cross cultural gaps and bring people together like substance abuse. He and I had misbehaved together on many occasions. Dante was proof that every town has gangsters, no matter how small. If there were degrees of being gangster, he was one of the gangsterest men I ever met. His top four front teeth were gold, in color at least. His car was a 78 Cadillac on 24-inch wheels. He had tattoos on his neck that only he and few others could decipher. And yet, he drove his grandmother to the grocery store on Sundays in his Cadillac, which was inversely gangster-like. He was what I compared other gangsters to. It had been a while since I had seen him, but we had always been friendly towards each other, even though working in EMS had given me personal relationships with many law enforcement officials and he sold drugs. I would never betray his confidence and he knew it. Plus, he knew about my misdeeds while I was a paramedic, so I decided it would behoove me to keep my mouth shut. I took a picture of the photo I had printed. I called my father.
Hello? He answered. From the background noise, I could tell he was driving. How did it go at the campground? I got nothin. Nobody saw anything, or at least nothing they wanted to talk to me about, He said, Im headed to a gas station that has pumps by the water for boats and is open almost all the time. Did your friend have anything? Actually, as it turns out, a crackhead robbed a drug dealer last night. The guys name is Jesse Mason. I got a picture Im going to send to your phone, I said, before adding, You do know how to view a message, dont you? Ill figure it out, He said. I could hear a trace of scorn his voice, but it was quickly gone, You think this is our thief? It could be unrelated. It could be, but I also found out that the guys an automechanic. Hed probably know how to hot-wire a boat. True, He replied, Send me the picture and Ill show it to the folks at the gas station. Where are you going now? Im gonna talk to the drug dealer. Maybe he knows something, I said. Spontaneously, Alex erupted with laughter at something on the computer. I hung my head, knowing that my father heard it and the assumptions he would make because of it, as well.
Okay, My dad said slowly, I hope youre not getting stoned with all these drugs around. But Dad, I said mockingly, If I refuse, they might think Im a snitch. Well, Just keep your wits about you, He said, making it clear that he was not being sarcastic or playful in the slightest, We may need them before this is over.
CHAPTER THREE
Alex had a phone number for Dante that was about five years old, and I called it despite being almost certain that he had changed it by now. The point was moot when I didnt get an answer after dialing it twice. The only solution was to just drive over there, and popping in unannounced on a drug dealer is a considerable faux pas, but I had no choice; with every minute that passed, the chances of my father and I completing our task lessened exponentially. I asked if Alex wanted to come. He profanely and utterly declined. So I grabbed my thermos and departed. As I made the roughly fifteen mile drive, I thought about the possible outcomes of me showing up at his house, right after being robbed, after not seeing him in over two years. I hoped he
didnt consider it to be suspect. Moreover, I hoped he gave me a chance to explain before putting a gun in my face. I wouldnt describe myself as being afraid of dogs. I was conscious of dogs; I respected their potential ferocity; but I was not afraid of them, generally speaking. However, I was mortified of large, angry, barking dogs. And not without reason; when I was 12, my siblings and I were visiting my grandmother for the weekend. She lived in a subdivision built around a lake that my great-grandfather was primarily responsible for building in the 1960s. I spent my days there circuiting the lake with my brother Charlie (two years my elder), hitting all the good fishing spots on my way. We had gotten separated on different ends of Goren Road when he went on ahead to hit a different spot and I decided to continue to try my luck where I was. He was about a half-mile away from me when the dogs found me. They were a litter of puppies that had been abandoned a few years prior when the owners of the mother moved from the subdivision. They appeared to be a cross-breed of German Shepherd and something thicker in the face, like a Labrador. And they had survived in the woods surrounding the subdivision by scavenging and hunting and had grown into a fierce pack of wild dogs, and I happened to be intruding on what they considered their territory.
I fended them off the best I could for the first few moments of the assault, but they quickly grew unafraid of my swinging fishing pole and I was overrun. By time my brother made it to me, they had eviscerated my left leg and right arm, and had even run off with my blue jeans, apparently as a souvenir. I wound up getting twenty stitches in my arm and twentyfive in my leg and I was bedridden for six weeks. They continued to terrorize the neighborhood, killing smaller dogs, cats, and even a whole litter of puppies belonging to the family up the street from my Grandmother. And I was terrified of all dogs for a couple years afterwards, until I came to visit my grandparents for the weekend about two years later. We had heard of the murdered puppies up the street a few months prior, we decided it was time that we had our revenge. Charlie and I crafted walking sticks that were spear-tipped on one end and clubbed on the other. I even drove a few nails into the club-end of mine, and as I did, I felt the terror and the rage flow through me and into every hammer stroke. We grabbed other, smaller weapons; Charlie had a machete and I had my grandfathers old K-BAR from Korea, and when we felt properly armed, we went for a stroll down Goren Road. We came to the wooded bend of the road where they were usually seen. We made it to the corner of the bend and we heard
the growling and rustling leaves. They came out onto the road, three in front of us, with one more off on our left flank. They flashed their teeth and shouted their truculent bark at us, and we stoically lowered our spears. The first to attack was the one on the flank. It lunged at Charlie, and he smacked it with the club end, baseball-style. It whimpered, and slid to the side as the other three made their move. I had never killed anything before that day. * Dantes passion was Pit Bulls. Not for fighting, or for any nefarious purposes, he simply loved the breed. He had four of them the last time I visited him, and as soon as your car stopped in front of his small, white, unadorned house, all four were jumping and barking around your car like it was a cat in a tree. And as soon as you mustered the courage to step out of your vehicle, you were pounced upon by them as they did their best to lick your skin clean off. But for me especially, the barking upon arrival was something that took a great deal of testicular fortitude to disregard, even though I knew their purely benevolent intentions. It was also why, when I pulled up to the house and didnt hear a so much as a whimper, I was especially concerned.
I got out of my car and walked towards the door. There were three cars in the driveway: only one of which I recognized as Dantes. I continued to walk towards the side door under the car port, which was the preferred method of entry, and I began to hear a pounding sound, like someone hitting the ground with a sledgehammer. It was coming from the back yard. I walked around back and there was Dante with a shovel in his hand. He was wearing flannel pajama bottoms, khaki colored Timberland boots (with no socks), and white undershirt, stained with sweat. He was my height (a meager 58) but he was probably fifty pounds lighter, which made the two mammoth black guys standing next to him look even more intimidating. They both were the same height and build, what I guessed was 66, around 300 lbs. They had shovels in their hands, as well. They seemed oblivious to my arrival, which seemed strange considering my retro Jeep was not a quiet vehicle. Dante, I said loudly. He turned around and I saw tears streaking his face. I also noticed a bottle of Grey Goose next to his feet. He either didnt recognize me at first, or was so drunk and distraught that his gestures were muffled. What up, Mal, He replied coarsely, The fuck you doin here?
I need your help with something. This aint a good time, man, He said, turning back around to the hole they were digging. I approached and saw a blanket wrapped around what was obviously the corpse of a dog. Next to the dog was what was going to be his grave. Jesus, man, I said, without finishing my condolences. Like I said, this aint a good time. Its about what happened last night, I said. Yeah, I figured, He finally set his shovel down, picked up the bottle of Vodka and drank heartily. He offered it to me and I politely lifted my thermos. When he finished, he shot me a suspicious look, Dont tell me you workin for the police, now, He said, pronouncing it POH-leece. Nah, man. Better not be. Shit, He started toward the house, Come on inside. * We sat down in the living room on a long couch. In front of the couch was a coffee table covered in guns. I saw an AK-74, a 12-gauge, and three handguns, along with extra clips for all of them, then an ashtray conspicuously in the middle that was overflowing with ashes and cigarette butts.
He leaned forward and wiped off a corner of the able that was left open. He reached under the table and grabbed a cigar box, pulling out a small bag of white powder. As he fixed a couple lines, he lit a cigarette and asked, Whatcha wanna know? I am looking for a boat. It was stolen last night, I began, I went and started talkin to people about it and when I heard what happened to you, I thought there may be a connection. Why you think its connected? I dont fuck with boats and shit, He leaned down and took a line of cocaine about the size of a pencil. There were a couple pounds of weed on the boat, too. Ah, I get it, He said, nodding. He gestured for me to take the next line and I politely declined. He said, Come on, man. Take it, He said, and I got the impression that not taking would be an affront to his hospitality. I leaned down and snorted about half as much as he did before I started to choke. As I was choking, he continued, Well, the muh-fugga that robbed me dont fuck with weed. But Ima find him, and when I do, if he got it on him, Ill let you know. Well, the guy who owns the boat hired me to find it. If its the same guy, then we can help each other, I said, my head
spinning like a top from the drugs. I composed myself and asked, What happened last night? Aight, He said, lighting a cigarette, So I have been hookin up this dude, Jesse Mason for a while now. Over a year. He comes up last night and gets a couple rocks. He asks me about gettin wet, and..." "Gettin' wet?" I asked, ignorant of the term. "It's PCP, nigga! Damn," He said, momentarily sounding both frustrated and a little embarrassed to have to explain it, "So anyway, I told him I could make a phone call. So I get him straight this is like, seven oclock. Later on, its like midnight or around there, and this muh-fugga comes in with a ski masks on, like I aint gon recognize his ass. He was wearin the same shit he had on a couple hours before. Stupid ass. Anyway, he throws a heater in my face, says gimme all your shit. Well, I play it cool, and I give him what I got out here, and he gets wild. Comes up the side of my head with the gun and was like, screamin and shit. Wont making any sense. He takes the shit and leaves. I go back to my room and get my chopper and hes already gone out the door. Slams his shit in reverse and runs over my dog on the way out, He is choking up towards the end.
Damn, man, I gave him a hand on his shoulder, causing his eyes to water, Do you know where he would have gone? Any of his friends places, maybe a party? I dont know, Dante said, wiping his eyes, Hes got this spot he goes and smokes crack up on the lake. But I aint never been there, he just told me about it. Said that it had, like, a dock and a beach and shit. Well, thats about half the spots on the lake. Thats all I know. But you couldnt find it anyway, He said, drawing off his cigarette and exhaling as he finished his sentence, He said theres no road going to it. You can only get there with a boat. * Instantly, we both looked at each other like we had both solved a Rubix cube for the first time. He didnt know anything else, and in his current state, I didnt think I was going to get much more out of him of any use. I thanked him for his hospitality and went outside to make a phone call, but he stopped me at the door. Hey, He called, I think there was someone else in the car. I dont know, though.
I nodded and walked out the side door. I walked back to the Jeep and called Dad. He answered before the end of the first ring. Malcolm, He said, clearly having something important to tell me. Dad, its him. Its Mason. I know. He got spotted on the lake by the guy working the gas station at Victoria Marina. He said that there was a girl on the boat, too. Hmm did you get a description of the girl? I asked, remembering the relationship status inconsistency, She didnt have black curly hair did she? Howd you know? He said, sounding slightly surprised. Its a girlfriend or something. I saw her on Facebook, I replied, Listen, the guy here said that Mason has a spot on the lake he goes to get high and its only accessible by boat. Its got no road access. Well, if the kids name is Mason, Id bet you its up there on all the land that Walter Mason owns. Whos that, again? I asked, having heard the name before but not recalling why. Hes a rich old man up with land off 652, near the Wilson Creek Store. Hes gotta be this kids grandfather or something,
if theyre kin at all. I dont know, He said, Theres a bunch of houses up there. If hes kin with the Masons, he may be living up there. Alright, well if you want to check the houses, I can get Alex to run me around on the lake with his boat. We can check around the area where they own that land and see if we find the campsite. Alright, Dad said, trepidation evident in his tone of voice, But if you see him and hes all crazy on drugs or something, you wait for me and Ill find a way out there to help you. I got this, Dad, I said, Hes probably gonna be screwin his girlfriend. Ill just sneak up, steal the boat, and be done with it. I dont know, Dad said, I get worried when stuff sounds that simple. * Dante was at the window of the Jeep. I hung up the phone and opened the door Hey, I heard you talkin on the phone, He said, He wont at his house. We checked this mornin, and I got a friend up there watchin for him if he comes back. Oh, okay, I said, redialing Dads phone.
And another thing, Dante leaned in, like he was telling me a secret, That black haired bitch? I forget her name. Annabelle Dougherty. Yeah, that bitch, He said, She aint his girlfriend. Shes his baby mama, but she got a fuckin restrainin order on his ass. If hes with her this shit aint gon be good. I didnt tell Dante, but I shared his dread.
CHAPTER FOUR
I was speeding the whole way back to Alexs. I had called Dad to inform him of the things Dante told me before I left. Dante had also given me the location of Jesse Masons house, and Dad was right: he was kin to Walter Mason and his house was on the land that he owned. Dad said he was going to call the cops so that if Annabelle Dougherty was injured or kidnapped or in other forms of danger, we were prepared for any eventuality. He and I both recognized that this could greatly jeopardize our chances of coming back with Daves hidden stash, but there wasnt an amount of money that we were prepared to accept to put a girls health and possibly life in danger. Dad called me back after reporting the potential crime in progress. What did they say?
Well, I didnt have a lot to tell them, He said, Theyre sending a unit to the house, but if hes at that camp site, we have no way to find it. Also, we dont actually know that theres a crime in progress. That could have been anyone, really. We are assuming the worst. Well youre the one who says plan for the worst Hope for the best, He interrupted me, I know. Just get out there and find that camp. They are informing the units on the water, but with it being Memorial Day weekend, theyre up to their eyeballs in boats and campers. Alright Im going. Let me know if anything happens. We hung up and I continued driving. * I made the fifteen or twenty minute drive to Alexs in a little over ten. I raced around to the door of his downstairs apartment and knocked three times. When I didnt hear any movement, I discovered it was unlocked and I walked in. Alex was passed out on the couch in front of an obscure Anime movie. I shouted his name and his eyes shot open and he recoiled like hed discovered a snake on the couch with him. Dude, what the fuck, He said, You scared the shit outta me.
Listen to me, I said, my voice calm and low. It was the tone of voice that I used when the rare occasion arrived that I needed to be taken seriously. He complied, and I filled him in on what I had discovered at Dantes. He listened, but when I came to the end and finished the part about Annabelle Dougherty possibly being in danger, the concern and trepidation on his face was evident. Look, man, He said, using his equivalent of the tone of voice I had been using, This is awesome that youve found your new thing. But this shit is for the cops. Im done playing. Alex, if you take me out on your boat right now and dont say another word, Ill give you a hundred bucks. Alex considered it and didnt move for a second. Then he got up, put on some sandals, grabbed the remaining case of PBR out of the fridge, and walked into his bedroom. When he emerged, he was loading shells into an old-school over/under, breakaction 12-guage. He put two in it and snapped it closed, put a few extra shells in his pocket, and looked at me like I was the one holding everything up. I nodded and followed him as he picked up his beer, shouldered his huge shotgun, and we made for the door. On the way down the long, wooden stairway leading from his house to his boathouse, I felt a nausea that had nothing to do
with the hangover, the drugs, the stones or anything else. It was the instantly recognizable feeling that what you were beginning was not going to end well.
We were cruising on the lake, and I couldnt help but think about how nice of a day this would be, if the circumstances were different. It was eighty-degrees, not a cloud in the sky, I had a good buzz, a beer in my hand, and I was cruising the lake with an old friend. For a moment, I smiled, slumped down in my seat, lit a cigarette and let the wind blow my hair back. I smiled, and thought of how Dad had given me the fun part of the job. I would later find the thought ironic. I received a call from Will Fuller, one of the youngest Detectives in Victoria County history. He was also another one of my good friends from High School. Hello? Malcolm, hey its Will Fuller. Hey man, I said, and sarcasm got the better of me, Excuse me, Hello Detective. He did not seem impressed, Whats going on? Patrol just came back and said theres a possible kidnapping and grand larceny, and you are investigating it?
A guy hired us to find his boat. It was stolen last night, I said, being careful with my words, I went and interviewed a few people, and it looks like Jesse Mason went on a bender last night and robbed a guy and possibly took off to a campsite on the lake. The problem is, theres no road access. So Im out right now searching for it, and as soon as I find it, I had planned on calling the cavalry. Well we got the Game Warden and VSP handling the lake today, with it being a holiday weekend, He said, Theyre on the lookout for it, but theyre swamped with calls, as well, so do this: When you get a twenty on Mason, you call me directly. Im headed to firehouse in Frostwood and Im gonna use 4-9 to start searching as well. Four-nine was the call sign for the water-rescue boat. Alright, no problem, I said. If hes got the victim with him, DO NOT approach him. Understand? If hes armed he could hurt her, and he could hurt you, too, He said, in a tone that I wasnt fond of, Just watch him and call me on this number, alright? I got it, Will. Thats Detective Fuller, He said, his tone finally lightening a bit, Look, man, just be careful and use good judgment, alright?
When have I ever used bad judgment? He laughed and we hung up. * Alex spoke up not long after I hung up the phone with Det. Fuller. Hey, I was thinking about it, and back in the day, I had some acid I was selling, He began, And Brandon Keane called me and I went out to a spot like the one youre talking about. He was campin out with this dude and a couple girls. It wasnt Jesse Mason, though. Well he may not be the only one who uses the place. Wheres this place at? Its up near Wilson Creek. Its called Snakebend Cove. Good enough for me, lets hit it. He made a U-turn and we started west, towards the area that Dad had told me about belonging to the old man, Walter Mason. On the way, we saw two boats belonging to the Game Warden. Neither of them seemed to be searching for anything but bikini-clad ass. We passed without them even recognizing us. A good thing, since Alex was driving the boat with a beer in his hand and a case of them on deck. After fifteen minutes or so, we came to a Y-shaped expanse, with one opening over three times the size of the other, called
the Big Arm and the Small Arm by locals. The boats around us we all going right towards the Big Arm, and we took the Small Arm on the left. Ten more minutes of slow, anxious puttering and I was ready to dive in and swim the rest of the way in the interest of time. But just as the anticipation seemed unbearable, Alex killed the radio and slowed the throttle. It was a small cove, the mouth of it roughly the size of a two-lane highway. It branched off of the lake at a perfect right angle, but less than fifty yards into it, you were into the first of several blind curves. Hence the name, I thought. So you just wanna roll up in there, or what? Alex said, finishing his current beer with a loud, long belch. I dont know, I said, weighing my options, How far up in there do you remember it being? I dont remember, He said, It was years ago and I was on acid. Fair enough, I replied, with a slight laugh, Well, lets just take it one bend at a time. Sound good? Yeah, I guess, He said, pushing the throttle forward a bit. I dont remember ever seeing Alex look as worried as he did as we slowly made our way into Snakebend Cove. We rounded the first turn and we saw smoke over the trees of the next curve. It seemed to be a lot of smoke for a
campfire, but with the slight breeze it was impossible to see from outside the entrance of the cove. He slowed and we stopped before rounding the next turn. With the throttle off, the boat drifted off to the side and came to a stop on the shore. Through the trees covered the view of the camp, but we could go no further on the boat without being seen ourselves. Alright, wait here, I said quietly, making my way to the gate on the starboard side of the pontoon boat, Keep your cell handy. If its him, Im gonna see if we can get the weed outta there before I have to call in the cops. If I cant, Im gonna text you so you can get the fuck outta here before the cops get here. I stepped out of the gate and was about to hop down off the boat when Alex stopped me with a loud whisper, Wait-wait-wait, He said and I paused, You owe me a hundred bucks. I laughed and shook my head, reached into my pocket and plucked a hundred from the money that Dad had given me. He nodded at me, his way of thanking me and telling me to be careful, I assumed. I hopped down off the boat and quietly made my way through the woods towards the rising smoke.
I was half-way in between the campsite and Alexs pontoon boat when I saw it. Sitting there, tied off to a pier, was
Daves green boat. It didnt appear damaged. I looked and saw a shape by the campfire, but it was hard to tell who it was from that distance. I needed a closer look, so I slowly walked forward. After advancing a few feet, as quietly as I could, I saw what looked to be Jesse Mason. His white shirt was covered from his waist to his chest in dark red blood. Behind him was a green tent. The front door of it was unzipped and flapping in the breeze. Even from this distance, the blood splatter on the walls of the tent was clearly visible. I down and dialed my phone. Detective Fuller, Will answered. Will, I got him. Where are you? Snakebend cove. Wheres that? A mile and a half west of Wilsons Creek, on the small arm. Shit, Im half an hour out, He said, before calling out directions to someone in the background, What do you see? Hes got blood all over him, I said, Theres a tent behind him covered in blood, too. Oh shit Will sighed, Can you see the victim?
No, but with that much blood, if shes still alive, she wont be by time anyone makes it here, I said, as much to myself as to him, Will, I got to go in there. I got my .45 with me. Malcolm, dont, He said insistently, If you do youre putting yourself and that girl in danger. Will, shes in fucking danger right now, I said, louder than I should have, but Mason didnt seem to notice, If theres a chance of saving that girl right now, there wont be for long. I think I can get the drop on him. Jesus Christ, Will said, I cant tell you what to do, Malcolm. But youre responsible for whatever happens if you go in there. I gotta do what I gotta do, man. Just get here, I said, and hung up. I reached behind me, pulled out my Colt 1911, chambered a round in it as quietly as I could, and walked forward towards the camp. * As I slowly dropped each step on the floor of the woods, I felt my heartbeat slow. If there was an effect on me from all the substances in my veins, I couldnt feel it. I felt focused and alert, and my every move felt deliberate. I didnt know how
but in my mind I was anxious and fearful, but then it was stopped there, like it was filtered out as the signals passed from my brain to my body. I continued to slowly make my way toward the camp, moving a little faster with each step. In my mind, I knew that if that girl was going to have a chance, she needed help and she needed it now, and the only thing separating me from helping her was the psychotic crackhead in my gun sights. Once you stepped out of the woods, there was a grassy area separating the woods and the beach. I walked slowly, with my pistol trained on Mason the whole time. He was sitting there with a pistol on one side of him, a knife on the other, and a Bible in his lap. He mouthed the words as he read them. I stopped at the edge of the beach, fifteen feet from Mason. I could smell something burning in the fire, but I wouldnt know later what he had burned. He had to know of my presence, but he didnt acknowledge me at all. I looked into the door of the tent as best I could from where I was standing, and I saw a naked woman covered in blood. The fear in my mind turned to anger. The anxiety turned to rage. I spoke, Mason. He didnt reply. MASON!
His head twitched, like I had startled him. He said the words he would repeat over and over again for the rest of his life: It was Gods will. I shouted, Show me your hands! He didnt move, Show me your hands, Mason! It was Gods will. I strafed to my right to get a clearer view of the weapons. He sat there, rocking back and forth, repeating himself. It was Gods will. It was Gods will. It was Gods will I dont know how but I knew he was going to reach for it. Before he had even moved his hand the four inches to his gun, I felt a change. I cant describe it perfectly now, but I felt it in my stomach first. It was a flash. My heart skipped, my brain spasmed, my teeth clinched, my eyes lowered and my right index finger contracted. The bullet passed through the top of his chest, exiting out the back with a red burst. He fell backward awkwardly. I could hear his wound hissing and gurgling. I ran to him, without lowering my weapon, and kicked the gun and knife away from him. Finally I lowered my weapon and ran to the tent. Annabelle Dougherty was naked, laying supine in a pool of blood. She had been nearly disemboweled via a massive laceration to her lower abdomen, and her face and chest were bruised and swollen. She had gashes on her face from the beating shed taken
not long before I arrived. I looked at it as promising. I tilted her head back gently and bent down; she was barely breathing, which made the cut on her stomach the second biggest problem. I ran out of the tent and yelled with everything I had, ALEX! I hadnt seen it, but he was already puttering his way around the turn. He had started my way as soon as he heard the shot. He piloted his pontoon boat up to the pier and tied it off haphazardly, opposite Daves boat. As he ran my way, I was already shouting order at him. Give me your shirt! Oh fuck me, man, what happened? Alex said, unable to take his eyes off Masons bleeding body, awkwardly bent backwards next to the fire, Did you Your Shirt, Alex! Alex took off his shirt and tossed it at me. I ran back to the tent and knelt down at Annabelles head. I gave her two breaths of mouth to mouth and listened again. Her breathing was still an almost inaudible hiss. I put the shirt down over the wound on her stomach and felt for a pulse. It was a dangerously slow, heavy thump, the tell-tale signs of a head injury. Alex, I need your help!
He came walking towards me, in a shocked daze. His face was ashen, and I knew that he was going to shut down if I didnt keep him focused. What I didnt expect, though, was as soon as he saw Annabelles body in the tent, he erupted with vomit. I couldnt blame the poor guy, but I needed his help. Alex, get your shit together! I shouted, but he ignored me. He continued puking as he walked towards the boats. I thought he was leaving at first, but I didnt hear anything. I turned my attention back to the dying woman in front of me. I held the shirt over the wound on her stomach as best I could with my right hand, and with my left, I held her head steady to stabilize her spine. Until help got here, it was the best I could do. I noticed one side of her chest rising and falling with her labored breaths, but not the other, which meant she had a collapsed lung as well. Any of the three major injuries shed sustained were enough to kill her. With all three, I thought to myself that she was as good as dead. * Three years prior, I was a five-year veteran of the Frostwood Resort Ski Patrol. I was excellent at my job, and I enjoyed it. I volunteered locally with Frostwood and Victoria
County Rescue Squad and Fire Departments, and I was engaged to a fellow paramedic. Then, I woke up one morning and it felt like someone was pulling my kidney out through my testicles. It was my first kidney stone; my first of many. I was hospitalized and they discovered that I had not just the large one obstructing my entire urinary tract but several more waiting up inside the kidney. They removed as many as they could surgically, but in the end, they told me that my body was just prone to forming them and that wed have to control it the best we could with a change in my diet, and with medication. The diets didnt work. The different anti-spasmodic drugs didnt work. The different muscle relaxers, benzodiazepines, anti-emetics, anti-epileptics, Alpha-blockers and NSAIDs didnt work. But the Morphine and the Oxycontin worked great. After the hospital released me, I went back to work. I tried to carry on my life as normally as possible, but the pain and the drugs affected every aspect of my life. As my conditioned worsened, its effect on my life grew and grew until finally, I was let go from my job at the resort. I continued to Volunteer and apply for jobs at local Rescue Squads and Fire Departments and Emergency Rooms, but none of them wanted to take on an employee that missed ten days out of
every month because he couldnt uncurl himself from the fetal position and get out of bed. When the money ran out and I lost my apartment, I moved in with my dad, but I practically lived at the rescue squad building. It was somewhere around then that there was a problem with the drug boxes. The drug boxes on an ambulance carry everything from Epinephrine and Dopamine, to Morphine and Fentanyl and Ativan. There was a discrepancy in one of the boxes on an ambulance that I had practically unlimited access to, and no matter how much I denied it, a man who is taking 100 milligrams of Morphine a day is always going to be the prime suspect. The man who investigated the incident was the Deputy Fire Chief at the time, Nick Besley. He had been my superior for years, despite us both entering Emergency Services around the same time. But he had stayed on the fast track at the Fire Department, whereas I had gravitated toward Rescue and EMS, which is not a place where its easy to get promoted. He came in to tell me that I was being investigated for Theft and Possession of a Controlled Substance. I told him that it wasnt me, he could go fuck himself and that I quit. There was no evidence to press charges, but the accusation alone was enough to have me booted out of the local volunteer Rescue Squads and make sure that I never got a job in the medical field
again. Besley, despite the lack of evidence, even went after my Paramedic license, which he failed to take from me. But after years of being out of the industry and ignoring my CEs (continuing education, mandatory training for any EMS personnel) my license eventually lapsed and I was gone from the industry for good. I had not seen or spoken to Nick Besley since the day I told him to go fuck himself. Not until after what seemed like an eternity stabilizing Annabelle Doughertys cervical spine and holding a bloody T-shirt over her wound, I saw him piloting 4-9 behind Detective Will Fuller. * You have got to be fucking kidding me, I said, the moment I saw Besley. Will got off the boat first, holding a portable police radio in his hand, shouting commands for EMS and backup to be called in. He quickly ran over to Mason, checking his pulse. When he discovered that there wasnt one, he shot me a look of what have you done and continued talking. Meanwhile, I saw Besley rummaging through the gear on Water-Rescue 4-9, and I started shouting my report to him. Need C-collar a backboard, I said loudly.
I got it, Raines, you can back away, He said condescendingly. Oh yeah, you got a decompression kit? Pneumothorax? He asked, using the fancy term for a collapsed lung like it would impress somebody. What else do you use it for? I said impatiently. No, but theyll have them when they get here, He said, clearly not taking my implication of urgency to heart, Just back away. Shes circling the drain. Unless theyre here in the next five minutes, we have to do it now. He got into the tent and I saw the blood drain from his face. Besley was a firefighter and an administrator, not a medic. And the moment he saw the pale, bloody, dying body of Annabelle Dougherty, he couldnt pretend anymore that he was. He positioned the collar under her neck, but when I took over applying it and securing it, he quickly leaned over to the radio-mouthpiece on his shoulder and began shouting for all available air and water units to be dispatched. With her spine stabilized, I looked at Besley and said, Hold this here, Ill be back, And placed his hands on the bloody T-shirt. His ashen face looked down and then back at me, when he hesitantly nodded, and I ran out of the tent to 4-9.
Will was a firefighter, too, when he was in High School, and once his duties on the radio were complete, he stood next to the tent to assist. Alex, meanwhile, was sitting on his boat in shock. I would have spoken to him, had time allowed, but I had to get Annabelle breathing again, or all of this everything I had done that day would have been for nothing. I quickly grabbed an IV box and the heart monitor/defibrillator unit. I got back to the tent and handed the heart monitor to Besley, who began applying the pulse oximeter and the blood-pressure cuff. Meanwhile, I opened the IV box and removed a 14-guage IV catheter, three latex gloves, and a syringe of normal saline. I put two gloves on and ripped the finger off the third, attaching it to the IV catheter to make a one way valve. I came back inside the tent with my improvised needle decompression kit and Besley stopped me. I cant let you do that, Raines, He said, grabbing my forearm. Nick, shes fucking cyanotic. Shes going die if I dont. Look at the fucking pulse-ox! I shouted and he did. Her oxygen saturation was 82, which was deadly, Tell you what, go get a fucking 02 tank and Ill do it while youre gone. He shook his head, but did as I told him. When he stepped out, Detective Fuller took his place. He looked me in the face
and said, Malcolm, you better hope this doesnt go south. Youre already in deep shit. Thanks, Detective, I said, feeling around the top of her chest for the space between her second and third rib, Youre powers of observation are amazing. He cut something out of her stomach, He said quietly, with a disturbed calm in his voice, Whats left of its in the fire. I ignored him. I had to if I was going to do what I needed to do. I hooked the IV catheter onto the end of the saline syringe and I stabbed the needle into her chest. As soon as it reached the pleural cavity, the hissing told me that Id done it right. I took a sigh of relief and unscrewed the syringe, leaving the one way valve in place. Her breathing became louder and steadier almost instantly, and when Besley came back with the oxygen tank and we put a mask on her, her oxygen levels shot back up into the low nineties. After ten or fifteen minutes, other units began to arrive. I backed away and stood with Detective Fuller and another uniformed officer while I waited for my Dad to show up with the Sheriff. Annabelle was quickly placed on a backboard and carried off to meet a helicopter that would take her to the University of Virginia trauma center. Jesse Mason was pronounced dead on-
scene. People doused the fire and began to pick it apart in an attempt to recover what we would learn to be a young fetus Mason had crudely extracted and tossed into the fire. When Dad arrived, both of us were escorted to the Sheriffs Department for questioning. The Sheriff himself said that it a pretty clean shooting, but protocol was protocol. The Detective Sergeant, a man named Bob Melton, arrived on scene and began aggressively questioning Fuller, what I would later discover was motivated by an old grudge between him and my Dad. Melton was thoroughly convinced that it was a homicide, no matter what his superiors told him. Alex was questioned and released, and before he and I parted ways he slipped me a note: I got the weed. Call me later.
PART TWO: THE GUARDIANS PRELUDE
I sat back in my chair, drew on my cigarette, and let a dramatic pause envelope the moment. As stoic and uninterested as Mrs. Ferris had seemed at first, she seemed to be hanging on my every word. I let the moment lapse into a short breakfittingly, because at the time, the pace and the fervor had made the day go by in a flash, but after that day, everything seemed to slow to a crawl, like time itself was crippled and fatigued. When we got back to the police station, I said, continuing my tale, And Dad and I were separated. I gave my statement to a detective named Paul Johnson. He walked out, and then Bob Melton walked in. He started asking me where the gun came from. He was trying to get me to say that Mason didnt have a gun when I showed up. Then he asked if I had done that to
Annabelle Dougherty. Really, it was pretty obvious that he was trying to get me charged with murder. Even the other cops thought it was insane; Detective Johnson came in and asked Melton if he could have a word with him, I made quotes with my fingers, And I could hear them whispering loudly outside the door. After sitting there for a couple hours, the door opened and Sheriff Duncan came in and told me to follow him. I went into his office and Dad was there. He actually thanked me for saving Annabelle Doughertys life, and said that I was a hero. He warned me that people were going to want to talk to me about it, and we went over what I was going to say. He even apologized for Melton, saying that he wont be a problem in the future. It was on my way out the Sheriffs Office that day, I saw Walter Mason for the first time. He was outside with Melton and the two of them were staring daggers and Dad and I as we left. It says here you werent charged in the shooting, She said, But you were charged with practicing medicine without a license. Yeah, it was a month later and Bob Melton showed up at my door to arrest me, I replied. I reached into my pocket and retrieved a pack of cigarettes, extracted and lit one, as I had been allowed to do when I was sat in the conference room almost
three hours prior, Turns out, he went and got the Commonwealth Attorney to draw up the warrant without the knowledge or consent of Sheriff Duncan. It was even on the national news. People were amazed that I was called a hero for saving Annabelles life, but then arrested for doing so. After Annabelle came and testified before the judge, he dismissed the charges. I actually remember seeing something about that last year, She said, surprising me with her personable tone of voice. Until then she had been cold and mechanical, and caught me off guard when she even mentioned something about herself, no matter how irrelevant or innocuous. Yeah, John Lesters reputation took a hit, coming after me like that, I added. John Lester was the Commonwealth Attorney, and he was surely standing in the other room as I spoke with Miss Ferris, So did Bob Meltons. Dad thought that Sheriff Duncan would fire him, but he wound up just getting a letter of reprimand or some shit. Dad said that there was no love lost between the two of them, but that Melton had too many friends for Duncan for just fire him, at least in that instance. He could have saved a lot of people a lot of trouble if he had, though. Sheriff Duncan wrote a letter to the court denouncing the investigation, claiming that you should be receiving
commendation for saving Miss Doughertys life. Detective Fuller was also instrumental in getting the charges dismissed, is that correct? Yeah, as the first officer on scene, his statement and testimony was the other reason the whole thing was thrown out of court, I said, tapping my cigarette on the side of a mostly empty paper cup, The judge had some choice words for Lester and Melton, too. Jesse Masons late father and John Lesters wife are cousins, are they not? She said, condescendingly. She replaces the court documents in the stack under her legal pad and organizes it all expertly before returning to her note-taking. Yeah, I replied, But he said that the relation wasnt close enough for a conflict of interest. That hed never even met Mason. I think he was full of shit. I share your sentiments, She said with a smirk. Thats Victoria for ya, I said, Some folks cant throw a rock without hitting a cousin. She smiled, and I felt her cold, mechanical exterior melt, but only briefly. She said, What is evident from all of this is a conspiracy of persecution by both the Commonwealth Attorneys office and Lieutenant Robert Melton, along with several
civilians with both present and former connections to local government and Law Enforcement. Wait until you hear the rest of it, I said, laughingly. Hold on a second, She said, I have to know: What happened with the boat and the pot? And how did Alex manage to get it out of there? Well, he threw up next to the tent and walked back to the boat. He had the wherewithal to start searching Daves boat before the cops showed up and he found the pot wrapped in a trash bag in a compartment under one of the bench seats, but he didnt have time to get it all out. Only while Fuller was standing outside the tent and I was working on Annabelle did he finally have a chance to get it out. He took it and secured it under his boat between the pontoons. After that, all we had to do was let the crime scene folks take a few pictures and samples of the boat, and it was returned to its rightful owner that afternoon along with his four and a half pounds of weed. Alex took what he called shipping and handling. Dave wound up paying us five-grand instead of three, too, and it was with that money that Dad and I started the Private Detective firm
CHAPTER FIVE
The money from the boat case would have been enough to jump start the firm on its own. I kept $1500 and put the other thousand towards renovating to foyer and library into an office, paying the fees necessary to obtain my Private Investigators License, buying a laptop and some business cards, and the replacing the Colt 1911 that the Sheriffs Department had yet to give back, even eight months after the shooting. I had even stretched the money enough to have taken online classes in the administration of justice and private investigation. Dad had said he kept and invested the same amounts, but I knew that he had also given me money out of his share in order to pay for the classes and my new pistol, a Heckler and Koch USP .45. He had made himself the face of the firm, as well,
capitalizing on his nearly 20 years of experience as a police officer and then Detective. But the money was only partly responsible for our success as a firm. Lester and Meltons persecution had backfired on them, and when I began to receive national attention for being prosecuted for saving a womans life, our firm exploded with new clients. We had yet to purchase advertisements, yet we were inundated with cases of theft, infidelity, fraud, neglecting child-support, and even the rare process serving job. We had to be selective in the cases we accepted and even then, we were so busy that we had a waiting list that went all the way through the next year. The other thing we were able to do with our new influx of money was hire additional employees. My two younger siblings, Rachel and Michael, were the prime candidates for the roles we needed. Rachel was working at a hair salon. She was hired by the owner, a woman named Laura, to work as a commissioned stylist. She got paid for each hair she completed, as well as tips. She excelled enough at her job that she soon was able to move out of my moms house in Albemarle County up to a small house of her own, fifteen minutes from our house, near the town of Victoria. She had a long list of loyal clients who wouldnt let anyone but
her touch their hair, which caused the healthy competitiveness to fester into jealous resentment. The situation began to dissolve more rapidly when Lauras husband let it slip one evening that he found my sister attractive. Soon, Laura was slandering and disrespecting Rachel as much as she possibly could, overtly trying to make Rachels job enough of a nightmare that she would quit. Soon, when she heard that Dad and I were going to be looking for someone to work in our new office, Rachel decided that the time had come for a career change. But before she quit, she made a point of seducing Lauras husband in the Salon one evening, with the surveillance cameras rolling. She didnt sleep with him, but as it turns out, she didnt have to: when Laura came in and found both the security footage and Rachels resignation letter, all Rachel had to do was sit back and watch as Lauras marriage and her business began to wither and die. Soon, she was our office manager, almost moving in to Dads house in order to be available in the odd hours that we sometimes kept. At dads request, she created the templates for our case files, turning our paperwork from a few hand-written notes stating the conclusion of our work to several pages of uniform, carbon-copied case summaries. We had contracts made up, we had evidence procedures and documents, we had repossession
papers for owners of stolen property it all came together soon after Rachel came on as secretary. * A month after Rachel took over the office, I was working on a property case when I discovered that I had a problem: A sixfoot-four problem named Koran. He had failed to make payments on his entertainment system to the rent-to-own company he had an agreement with, and had disappeared when they had gone to collect the goods. The companys owner, a very nice lady named Sharon, had contracted us to find him and return the property in the best condition possible. My problem was that he never left the house, rarely even walked away from the television, and I had no way to repossess the property without confrontation. Normally, I wouldnt care, and I would go in and let mister
forty-five do the negotiating, but as I did my homework, speaking with neighbors and a few friends, I discovered that there were two children, ages eight and five, inside the house with him. Dad and I spoke and agreed that pulling a gun on a father in front of his children wasnt something that I should be doing. Koran, however, would not likely have such scruples. My younger brother, Michael (not Mike, not Mikey) laughed whenever someone called him the baby of the four of us. He was six-foot-one, around two-fifty, and a semi-pro MMA fighter. He
had dropped out of school and was diving face-first into a life of small-town crime when he was arrested for a fight at a house party. It was when he was put in front of a judge and facing a jail sentence that he declared he was going into the military. Though he had not even considered it as a viable option until the moment before the words left his mouth, after it saved him from conviction and likely incarceration, he lived up to his word, got his GED and entered the Army not six months later. He was well on his way until he crossed paths with a Drill Sergeant named Brown. It was something that Brown had said on their second meeting, which no one but the two of them know to this day, that sent Michael into a rage that only blood would satisfy. Before seven of his fellow recruits finally pried him off of their superior, Michael had broken his cheek, nose, the orbital bones around both eyes, four ribs, four teeth and had dislocated his jaw. Despite the fact that, after the beating, Brown was convicted on multiple counts of assault, conduct unbecoming an officer, failure to obey lawful orders and cruelty and maltreatment, Michael was charged, convicted and dishonorably discharged after being in the Army for less than six months. He was, however, given time served and sent on his way, avoiding jail time once again.
When he got home, Michael defied almost everyones expectations and didnt go back into his old lifestyle. He started going to the gym, working as a trash man, and he began his fighting career. At the time of his first case with us, he had accumulated an amateur record of fourteen wins, one loss and one draw, with ten of his wins by way of knockout. Dad called him, and the next day, Michael was standing next to me when I knocked and the door and the large black guy named Koran opened. Who are you? Im a private investigator, I said, and retrieved my wallet with my P. I. License in it, and flashed it at him, And this is Michael, I gestured to my left, and Michael didnt nod, extend his hand, or say a word. He was a statue. I continued, Ive been hired to find the television in the room to your left. Man, get the fuck outta here. Koran went to shut the door. Michael kicked the door so hard, it broke Korans hand. He walked in the house and put his arm around his neck and called out to me, Grab it. I went and took the TV from the entertainment center, jerked all the cables from the back of it as fast as I could,
and walked away with it, with the power cable still plugged in. It jerked me backwards, and I ran back and unplugged it from the power strip. Michael laughed at my impromptu slapstick routine, as casually as a man flipping burgers or mopping a floor. As I made my way to the door, Koran decided it was a good time for a nap, and his body went limp. I went out with the TV and looked back and I saw Michael set Koran down gently on the floor. In the kitchen, the two kids watched me leave with the flat screen and they stared in what looked to be a mix of horror and curiosity at Michael. He froze for a second, and then spoke to them. Your daddys gonna wake up in a minute or two, He said, Hes gonna be mad, but hell be fine. The older-looking of the two kids asked, Why you takin the TV? Because your daddy didnt pay for it. Okay, He said as though he understood completely. Then, in one of the funniest moments Ive had in my new profession, the kids both simultaneously waved at us and said, Bye, as though we were family, leaving after a happy weekend visit. Michael waved back as he closed the door behind him. *
With Rachael as our office manager and Michael as a selfdescribed recovery specialist, our family business was complete. Charlie even got in on the action as our resident technology expert. He had been building computers and writing programs since the late nineties, and independently building and customizing apps and software had been his recent business adventure. Charlie was tight-lipped about his specific activities and specialties, but when it came to working with us on cases, he was always quick to show off just how much information he could pull off the internet. He had extracted deleted emails from cheating husbands without going near their computer. He had pulled up cell phone data from social media updates for process cases. He was particularly proud of one case where he had found out that a dead-beat-dad by the name of Cutler had been spending thousands every month on Civil War Memorabilia instead of on his three children. He got the information we needed so that the court proceedings could begin, but when Charlie found out that it would be several months before the mans ex-wife saw a dime of the money, he was furious. We didnt see him in the office for a couple days, and when he came back, he had an air of self-satisfaction about him that made it blatantly apparent that he had done something.
A couple days later, Dad got a call from Det. Johnson. Apparently, Mr. Cutler was claiming that his collection of Civil War Memorabilia had been stolen. Upon further investigation, it appeared that Mr. Cutler had sold his Civil War collection to another buyer, whos Pay Pal profile was registered to his savings account, and had been started using his IP Address, on his computer. And he had changed his current Pay Pal profile to be paid to the old joint checking account he had with his exwife, so he had effectively bought his own collection with his saving account, and seemingly tried to give the money to his exwife, inexplicably. All of this was done on his computer, under his IP address, and when he filed an insurance claim on the stolen relics, he was charged with insurance fraud and was sent to jail. His wife received the roughly $15,000 for the Civil War collection, and then after a few months went by, she was granted a judgment against him for nearly every dime he had left. Charlie denies any involvement to this day. * Those were the good days. When we first started the firm, we were like something out of a bad movie. We sat around joking about what to call it. Dads name was on the door from before I had a license, so we left it there even after I did. But Charlie, Michael and I would toss around names like, Raines and
Raines and Raines and Raines, or When it Raines it pours. It was a standing joke, that we needed a terrible, pun-intended name for the firm, and we made a little competition out of who could come up with the worst. I won by coming up with a crappy commercial on the computer, complete with a jingle set to Garbages Im Only Happy When it Rains. Eventually, though, the joke had gotten old, and we decided correctly that if it had not been for Bill Lamar, none of it would have been possible, and that the name should reflect it. So when we changed the name on the door, it was changed to The Raines-Lamar Group, or RLG.
CHAPTER SIX
Eight months after the Memorial Day shooting, on Thursday night in early February, I was fixing myself a drink in the kitchen when I heard the office doorbell ring. I walked from the kitchen, down the hallway and into the old foyer, which now served as a large main office. When the door opened, I saw two familiar faces: Rashad Mills, Dantes older brother, and Morgan Knightly, a girl I knew well; wed gone to high school together, among other things. Why, hello, I said jovially. Their somber faces made it clear that this was not a social call. I had assumed as much. They followed me through the office and into the kitchen, and due to the hour and our familiarity, I deemed it appropriate to offer them a drink. They accepted, and I poured two rum and cokes and we sat at the kitchen table.
For a long awkward moment, no one spoke. I observed the two of them, both staring blankly at the table as they sipped at their cocktails a couple times. I expected them to tell me that someone had died, based on the way they were acting. Finally, I could take the awkwardness no longer. So is theres something I can help yall with, or I intentionally trailed off. Yeah, Rashad said, I need your help, bro. Whats going on? I got hemmed up in some bullshit, He said and was quickly interrupted. Jennys missing, Morgan almost shouted. I looked at Morgan, Your sister? Morgan nodded, like any second she was going to explode with tears. She was over at my house the other night, Rashad began, Shes been comin around to get shit off Dante, and we started hookin up a while back. Well, lately she aint been able to pay, and she been beggin me for fronts and shit. So I get it and hook her up. And after a while, me and her start you know. I mean, aint like shes turnin tricks for it or nothing, nawmeen? I nodded, as non-judgmentally as possible. He went on, Well, the other night she was over there and she wanted some
pills and shit, and I told her no. I just wanted to see what she would do. Well, she flipped the fuck out. She walks the fuck out and calls a ride. Then she came back in, said she was sorry, and she starts fuckin with me. So we you know. And I gave in and hooked her up. So we was just chillin, watchin movies and shit, and she gets a call. She walks outside, and shes gone. Just fuckin gone. When he finished, I drank heartily from my glass of bourbon. I was choosing my next words carefully when Morgan couldnt take the silence any longer. Your ad online said that you find people, She said argumentatively, I can pay. Just slow down as second, I said, I know what the ad says. We just usually are looking for dead-beats and bailjumpers, not missing girls, I said. Morgan put her head in her hands. I couldnt tell if she was crying or not, but I turned my attention to Rashad, How long ago was this? Night-before-last, He said. Have you gone to the police? Yeah, thats the problem, He said. What do you mean? I mean they think I did it. *
How do you know shes even missing? I said, now standing, Women with drug problems are not known for their punctuality. She could be laid up somewhere on someones couch. Morgan fielded the question, Yesterday, she had court ordered therapy. She hasnt missed it once, and she knows if she does, shes headed back to jail. I kept calling her cell phone, but they found it dead in the woods by Rashads house. They? The cops, Rashad said, resentfully. Well what about the call she got? She was on the phone when she walked outside. Do you know who she was talking to? No, He said. Well, the cops can pull the records. Well if they did, they aint tellin me. What exactly did they tell you? Rashad shook his head shamefully, I dont know man, just bullshit. They said when a bitch go missin, that its always the boyfriend. Morgan nearly interrupted him, Dont call her that. I didnt, He defensively put his hands up, I meant in general. So they just questioned you and let you go?
They held me for 12 hours, He said, I didnt think they would let me go home. It was that old muh-fuggah, Melton. He kept askin me why I did it. I told him I wanted a lawyer. I might as well have been askin for a fuckin loan. He denied you counsel? I asked, only partially astounded. I knew Melton was a crooked piece of shit, but that seemed extreme. For him to step over the line like that was the first thing that led me to believe that something was afoot. I cant prove it, so it dont matter. I poured another drink and checked my watch. It was close to ten oclock. Dad was at Bills, probably getting drunk and telling cop stories. I badly wanted his take on the situation, but I knew calling him would do no good. When he was at Bills he intentionally left his phone in the car. I need to talk with my Dad before I make any promises, I began, But if we are hired by the family, its pretty common to have some degree of cooperation from the Sheriffs Department. The biggest problem is that if Bob Melton is the lead on the case, hes not gonna give me a damn thing. The man despises me. Fantastic, Morgan said, Its not like theres anything important going in. I think itd be a great time to rehash private vendettas.
Look, Morgan, I started, but she didnt allow me to finish. No, you look, She stood up as well, I have been told to be patient so many times today I think Im going to fucking puke. My sister just drops off the face of the earth and nobody seems to give a shit except her fucking drug-dealer boyfriend, and hes the prime suspect. I just want someone to fucking look for her. I gave her a second after she stopped yelling to compose herself. Morgan, I understand you are upset, but screaming at someone when youre asking for their help is really counterproductive, I sat back down and she joined me. Rashad was oddly quiet. I went on, We have a policy against taking cases involving violent crime. Morgan stood as though she was ready to leave, Fine. Im not done, I said loudly. My patience was exhausted, Can you calm the fuck down for just a minute and talk to me? She sat back down and I continued, What I was going to tell you was that I can talk to my dad tomorrow morning and see what he wants to do. Im sure theres at least something we can help with, even if its just double-checking what the Sheriffs Department is doing.
And how much is that going to cost me? She condescended. Money isnt an issue right now, I said, countering her condescension with reasonability, Theres a missing girl. And I dont blame you for being upset. The cops need to step it up. I dont care if shes a baby-eating Satanist she deserves to have someone out there looking for her. She didnt say anything at first. The three of us sat there and drank in silence for a minute. Rashad and I lit cigarettes, and Morgan hesitated before asking for one herself. It choked her a little with the first couple drags before she got used to it. She broke the silence, Theres something else you need to know. I looked at her with eyebrows raised. My uncle is going to be involved. Who is your uncle? Martin Pierce. I knew the name. Pierce was a Deputy Attorney General for the state of Virginia who had his eye on a job in the State Senate in Richmond. His intentions were revealed to the people of Victoria County in an ad hed taken out in the paper in which he ranted about the recent liberal leanings of the state and promised to restore Virginia to its former Christian glory.
The note had raised some eyebrows with its vague allusions to the prohibition of abortion and the outlawing of homosexual relationships altogether. It was ignored as a right-wing diatribe from an extremist candidate, but he was earning a fierce and loyal following within the rural communities and becoming a folk hero of sorts to much of the die-hard conservatives around his particular stretch of Appalachia. He was also a powerful man in Law Enforcement. Before Lester, Pierce had been Commonwealth Attorney for Victoria County, and was still influential in the Sheriffs Department. Particularly with Bob Melton, but I wouldnt know why until later. What do you mean by involved? I am pretty sure he was the one at the Sheriffs Office pulling the strings yesterday, She said, as though there was more to the story, I know when she didnt show up to therapy, my mother was called and she most likely called him immediately. So he is your step-fathers brother? Yes, She said, Mark, my step father, died in a car accident in 2002. Since then, Martin has helped my mother, financially and otherwise. I dont know what hes doing down
here exactly, but rest assured, if my mother knows that Jenny is missing, her first call would be to him. Does your mother know anything of value? I dont know, She said, dismissively. You dont know? I asked, and let an awkward silence fill the room when she didnt produce an answer. We arent close with my mom, She said. She paused; waiting to see if that was enough of an answer to satisfy me. When I continued to stare at her, she expounded, We stopped speaking when she threw Jenny out on the street. She said Jenny had stolen from her, and Jenny denied it. I had to pick a side, and I went with Jennys. My mothers done nothing but hurt Jenny since the day she got back from school. Back from School? A year ago, she quit UVA and came home. It put a damper on her social life, I suppose, because she resented her ever since she did. My mother practically put the needle in her arm at first, and then in a couple months she just threw her out. Wow, I said, Its always good to hear heart-warming stories of unconditional love. There was more uncomfortable silence, and I began to feel sad for poor Jennifer Knightly. I didnt know how I was going to get my father to agree to let me take this case on, but I knew
that it was the right thing to do. If nothing else, I could make a few calls and just stick my nose in it before I told her that there was nothing more I could do. Here was a girl in front of me, going insane with worry, and all she wanted was someone to offer to help her. Here was a man in front of me who was being falsely accused and mistreated by the very people sworn to uphold the law. I was the first one to admit that I was morally flexible as a human being, but I couldnt justify turning the two of them away and refusing to help. I can think this over and plan out how I can help you, I began, and gestured for them to follow me back towards the foyer, I need access to where she was living. I am going to need to prove that I have been hired by a family member before the Sheriffs Department will cooperate with us. There are a few other things we can talk about in the morning. Take this, I handed them a pad of paper off the desk in the office as we passed it, Write down the best number to reach yall at tomorrow. I will call you both around lunchtime, because Im going to need some time in the morning. I need to figure out how Im going to convince my father that we should take on a case he expressly has forbidden us from taking. Morgan turned around and handed me back the notepad, Thank you, Malcolm. Im sorry for
Its nothing, I extended my hand and she shook it, and I placed my other hand on top of hers sympathetically as she did, I cant imagine how frustrating this must be. But just trust me. I am going to help you however I can. Rashad shook my hand, thanked me, and the two of them walked out the office door.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dad had gotten in after I had gone to bed, but was awake hours before I was. It was Ten oclock, and he was in his office drinking coffee and Brandy, which had become a part of our balanced breakfast lately. He looked like hed gotten a better nights sleep than I had, despite only sleeping a couple of hours. He was shuffling through papers and rubbing the bridge of his nose where his reading glasses had left red, pear-shaped dents. You know we start work around here at nine, He said, which was his greeting every morning lately, though I had been coming downstairs at the same time since I had moved in. You looking at the Lunsford case? Casey Lunsford was an infidelity case we were working. Her husband, a surgeon, had gotten her to sign a prenuptial
agreement, and his affair would release her from it, rendering her in a position to take half of his substantial wealth. Yeah, He said, removing his glasses entirely now, Charlie faxed in the tax records last night. I got Rachel calling around to coworkers of his, fishing for information. Hopefully theres someone in that hospital whos got a grudge against him. Sounds like a plan, I said, and I sat down in the chair facing his desk. I took a deep breath before I began, So I had a visit from a couple friends last night. Uh-huh, Dad said impatiently, as though he was already telling me to get to the point. Theres a girl whos gone missing. Uh-huh. I knew her from school. Her sister came in last night with Dante Mills older brother Rashad. Apparently, hes the prime suspect. Okay, He said slowly, clearly not happy with what he was hearing. So they bring him in for questioning, deny him a lawyer, and hold him for 12 hours. I assume they werent exactly treating him like royalty, either. She wants us to assist on the investigation, if for no other reason than to make sure the cops
dont fuck it up. I mean, theyre not even looking into anyone else but Rashad, and Im pretty confident he doesnt know anything about it. She has Well how did they take it? I paused, caught off guard by Dads strangely placed question, Take what? The bad news, He said, That we dont take cases involving violent crime. I told them, I was diplomatic as I could be, But Im gonna help them. Not on my dime, youre not, He said, folding the papers up and directing his full attention my way, The reason we dont take violent crimes is because about eight months ago, you shot and killed a man. We need to keep from attracting any kind of attention, and getting involved in another kidnapping is not the way to do that. Whats the harm in me making a few phone calls? There are a couple things I can do without sticking my nose too far into it. No one will even know that Im looking into it I said no. You notice when I said Im going to help them, I didnt phrase it as a question? I said, and Dad raised his eyebrows and glared at me, cautioning me to choose my next words
carefully, Helping them is the right thing to do, and Im gonna do it, with or without your help or your permission. I stood and walked out of his office. * Rachel was in the main office, still on the phone with a mid-level bureaucrat trying to get tax records on the Lunsford case. She cupped her hand over the phone and flagged me down as I walked past. Mal, you got a message, She said, handing me a small slip of paper. It was from Will Fuller at eight oclock that morning. It said to call him immediately. Thanks, I said, and walked back into the main portion of the house. The foyer and accompanying room next to it had been converted into the main office for RLG, but there was also an office in the house that I used. It was our library, and had been since before we had started the business. I sat in front of the computer in there, trying to dig up everything I could from social media and internet searches about Jennifer Knightly, Rashad Mills, Martin Pierce, or anyone connected to them. There was little was available for Jenny that was less than a year old; she had a Facebook page she hadnt used in 6 months, an email address with a handle that sounded like she made it up in
high school, and no one had even posted a picture of her in over a year. It appeared as though when she had left UVA, she had dropped off the face of the earth, as far as her social life was concerned. Rashad was practically invisible on social media, which was understandable considering his line of work. His business wasnt as prolific as Dante, likely due to his day job as a painter. But nevertheless, his extra-occupational activities had fostered a paranoia that was common with folks of his persuasion. A paranoia that was likely validated when he was obtained and interrogated for a crime I was sure he hadnt committed. When I searched for information on Martin Pierce, I practically triggered an avalanche of information. He was the subject of four blogs, sixteen Facebook pages, an online news magazine expos and a podcast, all discussing Pierces controversial political statements, some for and some against. As I read further, I discovered the extent to which he was willing to go in order to win the votes of the extreme right: He was quoted as saying that homosexuals should be incarcerated for their own protection and that abortions were state sanctioned homicide, which he was going to prosecute retroactively. He was described as being a fanatic, a radical, and a Right-Wing-Nut-Job, yet he had an intensely loyal
following, and likely enough votes to send him to Richmond in the state senate next year. It was a fact which sent the internet into a frenzy of protest; the idea that someone with his politics could get elected to any office whatsoever incensed liberal bloggers and Facebook page administrators. The news magazine piece was about his controversial statements of course, but also about his ties to groups on the list of hate groups and even the domestic terrorist watch list. It contends that a secret organization, an unnamed handful of men, was pulling the strings behind the Neo-Nazi and Right-Wing Militias, as well as more legitimate family values groups, providing funding and logistical support. I watched as I saw a piece on the particular church that Pierce attended at the time that the piece was made, and it looked familiar. The filmmakers had blurred the name out front of the building, but I knew I had seen it before. I continued to watch as they interviewed the Pastor of the church, an old man named Jubal Chenault. And then I saw what I thought was my imagination: A view of the church pews during a service in which Chenault was ranting about the dangers of tolerance, the camera pans on to Pierce and then I saw the men in the rows around him. John Lester and his wife, Bob Melton, various other cronies, all sitting behind an old man in the front row: Walter Mason. He was seated alone in the front pew, dressed in an
expensive-looking suit, watching alternately both the pulpit and the pews. I realized that the men that had the long-standing quarrel with Bill and my dad were all part of the same church. At the time, I was unaware of the reason for the feud, all I knew from the Jesse Mason shooting was that Walter Mason wanted me in jail for shooting his eldest grandson. He used John Lester and Bob Melton to make that happen, and it was only when I got the backing of the Sheriff and Annabelle Dougherty that their efforts had failed. It was until the day I saw this video on the internet about the right-wing, Christian-Identity, evangelical extremism that I had thought the entire quarrel was about me. After I saw the faces of the men in the pews, I continued to watch as the narrator of the piece went on to disclose the alleged connection between Mason, Pierce and their association of evangelists, and groups linked to abortion clinic bombings and attacks on gay and lesbian support centers. It was only a loose connection, certainly not enough for Mason and company to be implicated in a crime, especially not in Pierce and especially not in Victoria County, where they practically owned the Commonwealth Attorneys office. Pierce had been insulated from all of the dealings as much as possible in an attempt to keep his image more palatable for the less radical voter. His mentor, Walter Mason, was not as concerned with image, though he
had been more careful since the mid-nineties, when he and Chenault had come under investigation from the Domestic CounterTerrorism Unit of the FBI, led by then-Supervisory Special Agent Bill Lamar and his task force, which included my father. It was learned that money had been laundered through Chenaults churches and given as charitable donations to private citizens in need, which usually involved known radicals whose needs included money for Semtex and AK-47s. The results of Bills crusade against Mason and his cronies were mixed: Mason was acquitted of criminal charges and only faced some tax penalties for his involvement. Chenaults church, Gilead Evangelical Baptist Church, was shut down and he was forced to open a new, smaller church (still called Gilead Evangelical Baptist) in a little village in northeast Victoria County called Boaz Creek. It was the one from the video. The name for Masons elusive syndicate, a name that evaded even the journalists who made the video, was uncovered in the interviews with former members in the mid-nineties, but was never so much as whispered in public by the members. They considered themselves to be quixotic defenders of an idyllic time that was assaulted and destroyed by sin and depravity in America. They called themselves in secret The Guardians of Christian America, or for short, The Guardians.
CHAPTER EIGHT
After learning what I had on the computer, I thought I had figured out how to get my dad to sign off on the Jennifer Knightly case. But before I could go back in there, I had to return Wills phone call. In the time between the Memorial Day shooting and that February, Will and I had become relatively close friends. We played the occasional poker game with a few other deputies (even Dad, Bill, Detective Johnson and Sheriff Duncan would make cameos occasionally), and we discussed current cases and told stories, and after a while, I could call several of the members of the Victoria County Sheriffs Department personal friends, Will Fuller chief among them. My relationship with Will Fuller, Paul Johnson, Sheriff Duncan and a few others was a stark contrast to my relationships
with the rest of the Sheriffs department. At best, the way the other deputies and detectives would be described as cold. At worst, it was hostile. Once Bob Melton was passed over for promotion to Captain, and his persecution of me had yielded the consequences that it did, there were large numbers in Law Enforcement and in Emergency Services that were either friends of his or enemies of mine that fell in behind him. As news spread of the charges against me, it was one of the most polarizing issues in Victoria County. One side felt that I had done what I had to do to save an innocent girls life, and the other side contended that I was a drug addict with a gun who recklessly abandoned the law in order to gain notoriety and attention, and that it had cost a man his life. As my career as a private detective continued, my relationship with the handful of deputies and detectives proved to be fruitful, helpful and mutually beneficial. There were several instances in which I was able to provide intelligence leading to the capture and conviction of criminals and fugitives, and in return, they would cooperate with our investigations when we asked, sometimes providing us with information we wouldnt be able to obtain otherwise (on the rare occasion that Charlie couldnt hack his way into it, that is). There was even the rare occasion when Dad would make a couple
phone calls and wed receive help from folks in the FBI, though I would never hear a name. It would always come in the way of off-the-record information that would never be admissible in court, very similar to the intelligence support we received from the Sheriffs Department. Bob Melton, John Lester, and law enforcement of their persuasion were infuriated with the fact that there were several of their colleagues that were cooperating with what they believed to be amateur wannabes. Having the Sheriff on our side was our best resource, and he went to some degree of trouble to shield us from their various attempts at charging us with a crime or punishing the people who supported us, most of which we were never made aware. The way it was explained to me was that after the bad press from the Annabelle Dougherty charges being thrown out, Sheriff Duncan told Melton in no uncertain terms that if he continued to persecute me the way he had been, he was going to need to start working on his rsum. * I dialed Wills cell number. Mornin Mal, He answered, casually. Hey man, I said, I got your message. Yeah, I thought I should give you a heads up, Meltons on the warpath. He heard this morning that the sister went and
consulted you guys on the Jennifer Knightly case. You know hes runnin lead on that, right? I do now, I said, Well we have a standing policy here. Bob Melton can go fuck himself. This is no exception. Will laughed, Yeah, I know. I just thought youd want me to keep you in the loop. I appreciate it, I said, changing my tone of voice, Hey, I may need your help on this one. It looks pretty heavy. Honestly, Mal, I wouldnt work this one. Theres just too much bullshit on this one. Have you heard about her family? You mean that her uncle is in the Virginia A.G.s office? Yeah, and also that hes in with the Masons and the Gilead folks. Youre stickin your hand in the bees nest if you get involved on this. I cant tell you what to do, but I can already tell, this one is going to get hairy. I was getting the feeling that I had already heard this speech already. Have you been talking to my dad? No. Why? He didnt get the joke. You sound like him, I explained, When I first came to him with this, he flat out refused it. Hes not trying to get involved. But he also doesnt know about the Gilead thing.
Well, I know hes got history with those folks, but even he knows that a missing girl is a job for the Sheriffs Department. Just leave it to us. Hey, let me ask you a question, I said, Were you around when Melton was questioning Rashad Mills? I didnt watch, but I was in the building. Why? Mills said he was asking for a lawyer and Melton wouldnt give him one. Oh, yeah? Will sounded genuinely surprised, You believe him? Actually, I do. I can tell when someone is full of shit, and Rashads been legit with me so far. And the sister believes him, which says a lot. Well, did you know that they found bloody underwear in the trunk of his car? No I didnt. Yep. They found it on a search of the property. Interesting, I was now beginning to share in Wills trepidation. The omission of the bloody underwear was a red flag to me. I wanted more information, Was it a search warrant or a consented search? Consent. That doesnt strike you as odd?
Never underestimate the stupidity of some folks, Mal, He said, He could have thought we wouldnt check the car or something. It just seems a little fishy to me. I mean, if you go through the trouble to get rid of a body, and any evidence of a crime, why would you then leave a pair of bloody drawers in the trunk? It doesnt make sense. Yeah, but like I said, he could just be a moron. Will said. While he did have a point, I couldnt rid myself of the feeling that something wasnt right here. Will and I said our pleasantries and hung up, and I knew what I needed to be looking for: a motive for either getting rid of Jenny Knightly or setting up Rashad Mills, neither of which I could get sitting there in the library of my house. * It was 11:30 and I was walking back into the office to brief my dad on the recent developments. As I entered the hallway, I could hear unfamiliar voices coming from my Dads office before I even opened the door to the old foyer. I walked in and saw Rachel at her desk. She looked as though she had just seen a ghost. She gestured for me to look and see what was going on in Dads office. I tried to peer in through the single
window, but the blinds were closed. I waited a moment, and then decided to enter the room. Sitting there across from my father was Martin Pierce. He was wearing an expensive grey suit with glossy black wingtips. His perfect hair was slicked to one side, and his teeth were unnaturally white. He sat crossing one leg, an artificial gesture of relaxation that looked to me like arrogance. He had an aura of pretentiousness and selfsatisfaction that I found sickening, even on the video I had seen less than an hour before. To be honest, I wanted to punch him in the face from the moment I first saw him. Malcolm, My father said, not at all surprised to see me, Perfect timing. Id like you to meet Pierce rose from his seat and extended his hand, Martin Pierce. I shook his hand, Malcolm Raines, I said. He returned to his seat and I turned my attention to my dad, So you want to fill me in? Well, Dad said, Mister Pierce is here to discuss ways that our firm can assist the police in finding his niece. He suggests that we work peripherally to the Sheriffs Department, so as not to obstruct them in their search. I was just
explaining to him that we werent interested in being involved, that our current case load was already full. What do you mean obstruct them in their search, exactly? I asked, being as suggestive as possible without sounding overtly hostile. Well, Pierce drew the word out awkwardly, I know from my years as a prosecutor that too many cooks in the kitchen will only serve to hinder an investigation. So what is it exactly you would like us to do? I asked, and I saw the incredulous look on my fathers face. I continued, If we were to take the case, that is. Well, it sounds like you both have your hands full, so I think itd be best I decided it was time to fire a shot across the bow. I interrupted him, I ask, because I would think a man whose niece is missing would be more concerned with finding his niece than who was doing the looking, As I finished, I could see the expression on his face changing. I couldnt help but say, Im sorry; I meant step-niece, I looked at dad, Is that even a thing? Well, He said, stomaching his evident rage toward me, had I finished, I was going to say that we would be happy for you both to do some of the interviews with some of Jennys more
uncooperative friends. There may be things they would reveal to someone who wasnt a police officer. When he finished accentuating the last four words, he looked at me and my father and I knew that while I wouldnt take any particular offense to the comment, I was sure it would agitate a raw nerve with Dad. I glanced over to him, and saw his eyebrows split, one raised and the other sunk. When he was smiling, it was his expression for an imminent sarcastic comment. When he wasnt smiling, it was a look of contempt and disgust. When I subtly looked his way, he wasnt smiling. I kept my mouth shut for a moment to see what Dad was going to say. Well, I think Malcolm could go and get some information for you without our case load being too much of a factor, Dad said, his voice gaining several decibels after the Pierces jab, as was typical for him when hes angry. The angrier he gets, the more booming his voice becomes, But you didnt come here to tell us that youd like us to conduct interviews. Why dont we quit with the foreplay and get down to business. In a grasp for dominance, Pierce matched Dads tone and volume, and he said, There are a few people that may be able to provide information as to her whereabouts, and we could obtain that information through you and it would not be a problem, He uncrossed his leg and leaned forward, But with all due respect,
when we go to try this case, I dont want my nieces kidnapper to go free because you two wanted to keep up your public profile. We both remained silent for a moment, Dad and I. He was choosing his words carefully and I was waiting to see what they were going to be. After an uncomfortably long tacit, he said, I think we understand each other, Mister Pierce. Next time, make an appointment. Malcolm, show him to the door, if you please. I believe I can find it, Pierce said. I stopped him before he could make it to the door, and said, One more thing: Are you a member of Gilead Evangelical Baptist Church? I was looking at Pierce, but I could almost feel Dads surprise behind me. Pierce froze for a moment, and with great discomfort said, I attend many churches, and Im sorry but I dont see how it is relevant to the matter at hand. Before I could continue my line of questioning, he walked briskly out of the room and out of the office. I sat down in the chair Pierce formerly occupied and looked at Dad, whose expression hadnt changed since my previous question. Finally, he shook his head slightly as the thought process that had
consumed him deteriorated and he snapped out of his pseudotrance. Malcolm, He said calmly, Call the sister and the other guy back in. And get me everything the VCSO has on this. And tell Rachel to get Duncan on the phone. And Dad trailed off, then turned and looked me in the eyes, Why the hell didnt you tell me? I didnt know until just now. Thats what I was coming in here to tell you. Well He said, and made a face like everything he wanted to say was bottlenecking in his head somewhere. Then he shook his head and said, under his breath, Jesus-fucking-Christ, name in vain was highly unusual. He was raised on a farm, and every stereotype for an old-school-country-boy was present in him. He cursed rarely and never in public, but when he did, it was a tell: It meant he was either drunk or highly displeased. Now, evidently, he was the latter.
CHAPTER NINE
Not long after Pierce had left, I felt my kidneys begin to cramp. I retreated back into the house and made my way upstairs to my bedroom. I collapsed on the bed and curled up into the fetal position for a moment, motionless. When I had finally worked up the strength, I went into my nightstand and removed the false bottom in the drawer. Among the contents in the secret compartment were three bottles of painkillers. I pulled a bottle of Morphine tablets out, put two of them in my mouth and chewed them up, then laid it back in the drawer and replaced the wooden plank that concealed it. I resumed the fetal position as I waited for them to take effect. An hour later, I woke up to the sound of someone coming up the steps. There was no bedroom door; besides the accompanying bathroom, my bedroom was the only room upstairs. The balcony at
the top of the stairs separated my bedroom area from the living room, so no one no matter how tall standing in the living room could see into my bedroom. When I moved in, I fulfilled an old desire of mine when I moved into the balcony room. I had coveted it since I had come there as a child, when it was Bills house. It was the room he had filled with toys and Nintendo games when my parents first got divorced and my father moved in. Charlie and I would spend our time there divided between playing video games in the balcony room and building forts and playing soldiers in the mountain woods surrounding the house. Eventually, my father came to be living in the house alone after Bill bought an expensive house in an upscale, lakefront neighborhood. When he did, the upstairs room became my fathers and our playroom was moved downstairs and turned into our shared bedroom for when we were visiting Dad, usually every weekend around that time. Those were some of my fondest memories, and living in the balcony room immersed me in them. The footsteps on the steps materialized, and Rachel was standing on the balcony. Malcolm? She asked quietly, unsure of whether I was awake or not. I didnt move when I answered, Yeah.
We have a problem. * I followed Rachel into the office, where Dad was standing next to her desk in the old foyer. He was scowling. The other guy, Mills? Hes missing. What do you mean missing? Dads scowl worsened, How many ways could I mean it? No one can find him. Theres a BOLO out on his car, but it looks like hes on the Lam. Shit, I said, realizing that I was now among the vast, shrinking minority who believed that Rashad Mills was innocent in all of this, I gotta find him. Damn right you do. I walked rapidly out of the office, almost running. I went back to my room and opened the drawer in my nightstand and again removed the false bottom. I grabbed a bottle of pills, my new .45, a leather pouch containing two extra clips, a portable recorder, a pre-paid cell phone, and my wallet, cigarettes and work phone from on top of the nightstand as well. After I made sure that my keys were in my wool coat, I put it on as I headed back down the stairs. On my way out, I walked through the old foyer. Rachel, have you talked to Morgan Knightly? I asked.
Not yet, She said, aggravated at the question. Call her and tell her we need her in here. Get her to catch Dad up to speed, and make sure she fills out the new client paperwork. Im going to Rashads house and then to Dantes, I was out the door and had to stick my head back in to stay, And text me if I get any calls. Rachel told me to be careful as I shut the door behind me. * Dads house was on top of one of the shoulders of Frostwood Mountain, which was named after the town, not the other way around. We had the distinction of being the coldest and snowiest place in the State of Virginia, but nine months out of the year, you wouldnt be able to tell. It was warm, breezy, and bucolic through three-quarters of the year. Lake Victoria hummed with boats and jet-skis, baseball and soccer games could be heard in town, and it looked like your typical small, southern town. But when autumn was exhausted and the temperature dropped, it turned almost alpine. Almost every system that came through dropping cold rain on the rest of Virginia would pummel us with six or nine or sometimes twelve inches of snow. It could begin sometimes as early as November, and could last sometimes into April.
It was February 7th, and it was cold but dry. We hadnt had snow for a couple weeks, and only the dirty remnants that refused to melt remained. I was in my Dads old Jeep CJ-7, which had a canvas top which, in thirty-degree weather, made driving unpleasant. However, the thirty-five inch mud tires, the permanent four-wheel-drive and the frame-mounted winch made it invaluable when living on a mountain in the winter. We had only used the winch twice, but its one of those things that when you need it, you really need it. Our short driveway connects to Fleshman Road, a long, winding, rural road that leads from Route 33, the main east-west artery through Victoria County. A right out of our driveway would take you north, and in four miles, to the town of Frostwood and the Resort. A left takes you down the Mountain and towards the main road, which would take you east to the town of Victoria or west towards the West Virginia border. I took a left and made my way to Victoria. Fleshman Road was one of the most dangerous roads in Victoria County; Eleven miles of sharp, blind curves and some of the steepest inclines youll find anywhere. I descended the mountain and then turned east on the main road. When I got into town, I headed north on Route 618, which was a shortcut to Route 652 (the lake road). Around ten miles north of Victoria, the section of Rt. 618 I was
headed to was notoriously poor and rough. Coincidentally, the poorest and roughest part of Victoria County was less than five minutes from some of the richest and most pretentious gated communities on Lake Victoria. Rashads house, or his mothers house to be more specific, was situated on the northern border between the two. Frances Mills went to school with my parents; Victoria County High School, Class of 1973. They were as close as could
be expected in the rural south during the early seventies. After the shooting, when they found out about Dantes involvement, they both had been quick to tell me about their familiarity with the Mills family. It was a familiar occurrence: often I would find that my mother and father were old acquaintances with the parents of my friends, not always in a good way. Rashads white Crown Victoria was not in the driveway, in its usual spot closest to the house. In its place was a blue sedan belonging to Frances, and behind that was Dantes old Cadillac. They were neatly parked in a line behind each other. After the Cadillac, though, was a disorganized pack of police cruisers. As I entered the driveway, I was immediately stopped by a couple of uniformed officers I didnt recognize.
Turn around, One of them said. He was short and stocky and his glossy bald head reflected the sun like a mirror. His nametag said Matthews. My name is He cut me off, I dont care who you are; youre not getting in here. Fair enough, I said, and pulled out my phone. I hadnt even finished dialing when Detective Johnson came walking down the driveway towards me. Matthews, He said, Hes alright. Let him in. Deputy Matthews shoots a confused look at his superior, But Sergeant, isnt this the guy Lieutenant Melton Right now, I am in charge of this crime scene, Deputy. Yes, sir. Deputy Matthews backs away from my Jeep and I continued up the driveway and parked at the back of the swarm of marked and unmarked Sheriffs Department vehicles. I quickly hopped out, unloading my pistol and placing it under the seat before I departed the car. As I walked through the disorganized collection of cars, I noticed that the one closest to the house was occupied: Dante was handcuffed in the back seat. Johnson met me before I entered the house.
Sorry about that, He said apologetically, Melton was here earlier and hes got a hard on for yall ever since he heard youd been hired on the case. We actually havent officially taken the case yet. Morgan Knightly is coming in today to do the intake paperwork. Well you know how rumors go, He said, shrugging. Detective Johnson was an anomaly. Most police officers were uncompromising, stoic and masculine. Johnson was personable, whimsical and comedic. Most Detectives resembled military officers; he seemed more like an English teacher. He wore Birkenstocks, tweed jackets and plaid shirts. His shaggy hair was carefree, much like his demeanor. So whats Dante in handcuffs for? Well, mostly for show, He said, He got a little rowdy with a couple Deputies, but I dont think theyre gonna charge him. I think Melton wanted leverage to get him to roll on his brother, but nothing doing so far. Ill let him out shortly, once hes calmed down. I nodded, and caught Dantes gaze as I listened. Dante mouthed the words I dont know to me, and I asked Johnson, Whats the story with Rashad? Well, He said, taking a deep breath indicating he had bad news, The best we can figure it, hes running.
You dont sound sure. Well, Melton sure as hell is. Hes up at Dispatch meeting with the boys from the State Police and the Marshalls Office. He has the Violent Fugitive Task Force on the way, Johnson pulled out a cigarette and lit it, There are a couple things that dont fit, though. He paused, and I raised my eyebrows at him in a gesture of go on. Usually, you see a guy runnin, hes gonna take certain things with him: money, valuables, anything he would need to survive. Rashad left three-grand in cash in a shoebox under his bed, two guns his bed, his wallet and apparently, hes asthmatic, but I found both his inhalers left behind. It doesnt smell right, to me. Me, neither, I said, What if hes another victim? What if the same people who got Jenny Knightly have taken him, to make it look like hes running? Could be, He said, dragging on his cigarette, Either way, we should know something soon. That boys got four times the manpower lookin for him than the girl does. * I walked into the house. Frances was sitting at the kitchen table, rapidly and angrily smoking a cigarette. The ashtray in
front of her was overflowing, and a stringy haze could be seen throughout the house. When the deputies walked in and out the kitchen, it would scatter the layer of smoke hovering in the air. Three deputies were doing the searching, recklessly rummaging through the possessions in the downstairs bedroom. I walked over and gave Miss Frances a hug before I sat down at her table. Hey, Miss Frances, I said, watching her scowl away her tears, Tough day, huh? Yes, Lord, She shook her head back and forth as she spoke, It dont get much tougher. Mind tellin me about it? Dad and I are gonna work the case of the missing girl. There aint much to tell, I watched her face twist from despair to fury, When I woke up this morning, I went about my business like normal. Somebody called for Rashad and I went to take him the phone, and he was gone. Just gone, He tears spilled over as she spoke, And they dont believe he aint hurt that girl, so instead of lookin for a missing boy, they out there huntin him down like a dog, She continued shaking her head in a combination of rage and woe. There was a noise from downstairs, followed by a crash, and she shouted, for the benefit of the police, AND TEARIN UP MY HOUSE.
I heard the shuffling sound beneath us momentarily stop. I rose from my chair and walked down the stairs and into the bedroom where the three deputies were working. Their names were Walker, Grooms and Pointer; all three of them were loyal Melton cronies. I said nothing before walking away from their unfriendly glaring. I walked back upstairs and sat back down. Before I could say anything, Detective Johnson opened the door for Dante and the two men entered the kitchen. Mal, Dante said urgently, Man, these muh-fuggas got me all fucked up, man, He meant upset, not intoxicated. Its alright, man. Sit down and relax. You want a cigarette? I asked him. He sat in the chair next to me and accepted one of my menthols. I gestured toward the detective, This is Johnson; hes a friend. Aint none of these muh-fuggas my friend, He said, with a subtle belligerence, Goddamn twenty-first century and they still throwin niggas in chains. Easy, buddy, I said, holding a hand up in a calming gesture. I lit a cigarette of my own, Did Rashad tell you he talked to me the other night? Yeah, he said yall didnt fuck with cases like this. Well, were fuckin with it now.
Somebody needs to, Dante looked at Johnson, I told that other cop, he aint runnin, man. I hollad at last night and he was talkin about gettin a lawyer and shit. He said he wont goin down for some shit he aint do. I swear to god, he aint do shit to that girl. Frances spoke up, Dont you be swearin to God like that. Dante nodded, acknowledging guilt to his mother. Then he looked me in the eyes and asked, somberly, So what do we do now? Right now, we need to get Morgan Knightly, Jennys sister, to fill out the paperwork. Then, Dad and I are going to interview some folks and do some riding around to see what we can find out, I extinguished my cigarette with more than half of it remaining, Dante, I want you to come with me. The cop you met earlier, Melton, hes gonna be coming back and I want to be gone when he does, I looked over at Johnson, who nodded as if to say both that he would allow Dante to leave and that he agreed that leaving was a good idea. Dante nodded. He walked into the back bedroom and shut the door. In his absence, I addressed Frances and Johnson, Im gonna take him back to the office and interview him. Frances, try and keep calm as best you can. I promise I will have something to
tell you when I come back. Detective Johnson here is not like Melton, the cop you met earlier. You can trust him. Just please find my baby. I stood and put a hand on her shoulder, I will. Waiting for Dante to emerge, I walked over to Johnson so we could talk quietly. He said, almost at a whisper, Work the victim angle. If Rashad got picked up by the same people that got Jenny Knightly, then theres going to be something to find somewhere. Meltons not gonna treat this as anything but a fugitive case, so someones gotta look into the other possibilities. Alright, I can handle that. Let me ask you something, I said, equally as quiet, Rashad said that right before she walked out of the house, she got a phone call. Any idea who it was that called her? Burn phone, He said, shaking his head, Melton is running it down with the phone company. I dont think anythings panned out yet. Alright, I said, sighing and collecting my thoughts. After a moment, I said, Tell Will I am going to call him later. And if he asks, tell Melton I said that next time he throws the cuffs on one of my friends, hes better have some charges to back them up.
Will you call me if you get anything from the sister? Yeah, I said, If you or Will want to come and sit in on the interview, youre more than welcome. No, thanks, He said politely, I got a full dance card today. Dante entered the room, wearing different clothes and a black hoodie. He hugged and kissed his mother, and then looked at me to say he was ready. I shook hands with Detective Johnson and hugged Frances before I walked towards the door. As I opened it, Frances stopped me, Malcolm, She said, You gotta find whoever is doin this to us. I looked her in the eyes; they were full of desperation and despair. The sight of it hurt my heart in a way that there are no words for. I nearly cried myself. When I left that house, I did so with a new kind of determination and resolve. The possibility of Jenny Knightly being the victim of domestic violence was shrinking, and it was clear that Melton was not interested in finding the person who was actually responsible. He was interested with laying it in the lap of a young black man solely because of the kind of person Melton thought he was. If this was an elaborate setup, which I was almost sure it was, then I had no doubts as to who was responsible. What I didnt know, though, was why. Why go to such lengths to kidnap a
young, troubled girl and disguise it as domestic violence? Why then abduct the prime suspect? With so much at stake, I felt like all I had were questions, and when I pulled out of the driveway of Miss Frances home, I was headed back home to start getting some answers.
CHAPTER TEN
In tenth grade, I asked Morgan Knightly if she wanted to go out with me. We were in English class together and I nearly failed the class because of my inability to focus when in her presence. Her response was that she wasnt interested in dating anyone right now, which was the only thing she could think to say at the time. What she meant to say was that I was a little off putting and not quite up to her standards at the time. Of course, her tactful and apologetic demeanor would never let her say that to me directly. She wasnt fond of confrontation back then; the anger and emotional fortitude that I had seen the night when she came to ask for my help wouldnt come to fruition until years after high school. The girl that I asked out in English class was timid, meek and polite.
When I discovered that, despite her claim that she did not want to date anyone at the time, she was currently seeing one of my good friends, I realized what she had really meant when she kindly rejected my offer. I would be lying if I said that I hadnt taken it personally or that it hadnt bothered me; however I can say truthfully that I got over it quickly. When I arrived back at our house, I saw two extra vehicles in the driveway: a small, blue Subaru belonging to Morgan and a long, black Cadillac belonging to Bill Lamar. I parked behind Dads Cadillac, which hed been given when Bill upgraded to the newer black one. Dante and I walked up to the house and entered through the office door. Rachel was not at her desk, and no one was in Dads office. We continued through the house and into the kitchen, where Bill and Dad sat on one side of the kitchen table and Rachel and Morgan sat on the other. When Dad saw that I had Dante with me instead of Rashad, he rose from his seat first Bill second and they motioned for me to come with them to speak in private. Dante took a seat at the table, where Rachel and Morgan sat watching him with a combination of suspicion and curiosity. We walked down the hallway, into the old foyer, and then we took a right into Dads office. Once inside, we didnt sit or shut the door behind us.
I just got off the phone with the Sheriff. The U.S. Marshalls are going to be here by sundown. Theyre working this as a fugitive case, Dad said, Do we have any evidence to the contrary? Nothing definitive; He left without taking a single stitch of clothing, without a dime of his money, and without his inhalers, which Dante said he wouldnt leave home without. Thats not gonna be enough, Bill said. Even if he is running, it doesnt mean he hurt that girl, I advocated, though I believed he was innocent on both counts, He could just be scared that theyre gonna hang it all on him. They are, Bill said. I could hear a certainty in his voice; like this was a story hed heard before. So how do we stop them? We start with the girl; weve been hired to find Jennifer Knightly, and thats what were going to do. If Rashad is innocent and hes just running scared, then hes likely going to return once weve cleared his name, Dad was petting his moustache, something he did when he was under large amounts of stress. And how are we going to do that?
I think we need to talk with the young lady in the kitchen, Bill said, I think theres still something she hasnt told us. I nodded, and the three of us made our way back into the kitchen. Rachel had broken the ice and Dante and Morgan were engaging each other in small talk as we came and sat back down. Morgan, Dad said gently, How about we start back at the beginning, for the benefit of those who havent heard the story yet. Morgan breathed in deeply before beginning, Okay, four days ago my sister went missing from Rashad Mills house. The two of them got into a small argument that was quickly forgiven, and then she got a phone call and walked outside. The phone call was from a prepaid cell phone. Untraceable, I interrupted. She has had a drug problem ever since she got back from school. A year ago, she dropped out and moved back in with my mother. My mom treated her like she had ruined her life; she would scream at her, talk down to her, call her names stuff like that. I was living in D.C. at the time, and I only talked to Jenny once a month on the phone, at most. When I found out what was going on, I felt terrible, Morgans voice began
cracking and her eyes became glossy as she continued, Like I had abandoned my baby sister when she needed me the most. She dropped out of school because of drugs? Not exactly, Morgan wiped her face with a tissue, She told me that she had a miscarriage. She was devastated. It was a couple months ago that she finally told me it wasnt a miscarriage, it was an abortion. Could that have been the reason that your mom treated her so badly? I asked. I dont think so. She never told mom about any of it. When is the last time you spoke with your sister? Dad asked her, after a moment of silent contemplation. Last Sunday two days before she went missing she came by my house to get something to eat. She seemed like she was doing better, compared to how shed been the past couple months. She didnt say anything special, just asked me if I had some spare cash. I gave her forty dollars and some leftover pizza, and she left. How do you girls get along with your uncle, Martin? Bill asked, his voice laden with subtext. She remained silent for a moment as she considered the question. It was obvious that something noteworthy was to be told, but Morgan seemed hesitant to go down that line of
questions. She sighed, realizing that there was no alternative, and she continued, I havent spoken with him since my stepfathers funeral in 2002, She spoke plainly and deliberately, but she breathed in and our heavily before her next words, Jenny told me that day that Martin had been sleeping with her. She later recanted. When I brought it up with my mother, she accused Jenny of being a pathological liar and said that Martin would never do such a thing, and nothing ever came of it. At the funeral, I told him that if he ever came near my sister again, Id cut his fucking balls off. What makes you so sure she wasnt lying? Dad asked. Because he had tried the same thing with me before. There was another uncomfortable tacit after that. Rachel was the first one to speak again, How has he gotten away with all of this? I never told anyone but Jenny, and then only after she had told me about her. After he had done it, he asked me to forgive him for his weakness. I threatened to tell my father, and he said his brother would believe him over me. He was right. He was also the most powerful Lawyer in Victoria County at the time. If you had spoken up, he wouldnt have been for long. Bill said, with a mild contempt in his voice.
His condemnation cut deep within Morgan; it spelled out the cause of her regret simply and directly, and to hear it so plainly was like salt in the wound. She said, choking back tears, I was scared. I didnt know who I could trust. He had friends everywhere. I couldnt even go to my mother. What would you have done? As we considered her question silently, Bill cleared his throat. We all directed our attention to him as repositioned himself in his chair. He began, Young lady, I apologize, because youre exactly right: Your uncle, Martin Pierce, has a lot of friends, indeed. There were a select few who heard about the family problems he was having, and he and his friends made sure that it stayed that way. He is part of a group of men who have power and influence all the way up to the Governors office. Your uncle is connected with men that we investigated in the late eighties, Dad said. He didnt marry my mother until 1995, She said, What happened? Well, Bill fielded the question, I was in the FBI at the time *
Back in the early Eighties 84 I think there was a group of crazies who called themselves The Order, among a few other names. They were Right-Wing, Neo-Nazi, Christian Identity whackjobs and they were not content with just holdin rallies and giving speeches. They were out for blood. Well, there was this Jewish fella on the radio and he started running his mouth about them. Granted, most everything of what he was sayin aboutem was true, but damn if they were gonna sit back and letem talk shit. So they ride up and shot him down in front of his house. Well, there was this book going around back then called The Turner Diaries, and it was like a manual for Skinheads who wanted to stage a revolution. The Agency got ahold of this book and it had them a little concerned. Well, as soon as the shooting of the disc jockey came to our attention, for all we knew, there were about to be a bunch of skinheads running around killin people cause some book had them all thinkin it was a good idea. The Agency wanted to get out ahead of it, so I was part of a huge task force committed to flushing out Neo-Nazi groups and putting them behind bars. So a few years go by, and in the fall of 88, there was a bombing at a Gay and Lesbian support center for James Madison University, and we pretty much had the motive figured out. At
that point, all we had to do was figure out which one of them was responsible. Turns out, there was the Adamic Knights of Appalachia who were in Victoria County, Virginia. I made a phone call to my old protg, a detective by the name of Buck Raines in Albemarle County, who I knew grew up in Victoria. I got him brought up to the big leagues, and he worked under me in the FBI while we investigating these clowns. He moved back to Victoria and started working under the guise of being fired from the job in Albemarle and looking for work. So as it turned out, the Adamic Knights of Appalachia were just four rednecks in a garage. They talked a big game, sending letters to CNN and every other news agency that would listen to them, but in all reality they were just a bunch of angry white kids. There was just one catch: the explosives used were military grade and they were carrying Sig-Sauer Assault Rifles. These kinds of toys arent cheap, which meant they were getting money from somewhere, and it wasnt from their criminal activities. Other groups were a lot better at funding their criminal enterprises with robberies. Hell, those Order assholes even netted a multi-million-dollar payday with a few robberies. But these clowns were too stupid for that. I dont think they could rob a baby of its candy without getting busted.
So we started playing the old follow-the-money game, and we let them run loose for a little while. Malcolm, you were about six at the time. Rachel you werent but a baby, maybe two or three. But Mal, you may remember this was when your dad was gone for about a year when yall were living in Charlottesville. He was living in town here, doing the biker thing, and he started drinkin with the father of one of the skinheads up at the bar it was called Kix back then and he got to where he was riding with him every week, at least. Johnny Teixeira was the guys name. His boy was Steven, the leader of the bunch. Through Johnny, he was able to find out more about the boys dealings through the father, and he found that, though Johnny wasnt exactly a saint, he wasnt the psychotic white supremacist that the boy was. It appeared that his son was getting those charming personality traits from somewhere else; probably the same place he was getting the money. As it just so happens, Little Stevie was going to a church every Sunday, without fail. We were expecting a little, tenperson church of whackjobs, but from what we could tell, this was a pretty mainstream church, or so it seemed. Gilead Evangelical Baptist Church; they had plenty of members who were Victoria County high society. So Buck goes one Sunday morning,
and it was pretty Holy Roller, but nothing too sinister. But he noticed that Steven spent a lot of time talking in private with a few of the deacons and the preacher. We looked into the Preacher, a fella by the name of Jubal Chenault, and at first he seemed legit. We found the same with the deacons. That is until we looked into their finances. One of the deacons was Walter Mason. He was in real estate; owned half the goddamn county. He was the richest man in Victoria, at the time. We discovered large transactions between him and the church: he would donate hundreds of thousands to the church, use it as a tax deduction, and then the church would give the money to one of his construction companies to build a house or something, giving him the money back. Thats what is called tax evasion. The preacher was just simply embezzling from the money that was donated to his church. I suppose that was just him taking his cut from it all. Then we found that cash withdrawals were being made right around the time of the bombings. It was all suspicious, but we needed more. We needed evidence of money changing hands between them, and we never got it. Mason had people in higher places than we ever realized, and somehow he found out that we had a man on the inside. Buck was in church one day and Chenault called him to come up to the pulpit. Chenault sold him out him as an FBI agent in front of
the whole church. They, uh kindly asked him to leave, and our investigation was pretty much over with. We got warrants for the little skinhead boys, and we got the three of them, but when we went to pick up Steve Teixeira, hed shot his father and his mother and then himself. It was a pretty bad scene. When the case went to court, Mason had cooked the books and made it look legit enough to where he was acquitted, but had to pay fines to the IRS. We got the preacher on embezzlement, but he didnt get any jail time. Months of investigation and hundred shit, thousands of man-hours pretty much wasted. Later on, Chenault restarted his church up in Boaz Creek and has a small following of acolytes that subscribe to his new message of hatred and disunion. And Walter Mason has little minions all over the place. Mostly theyre people hes bought and paid-for with money or favors. Take Bob Melton for instance: back when Bucks cover was blown, he was a deputy in the Sheriffs department, and were pretty sure that hes the one who blew his cover, although how he found out, well never know or much less be able to prove. And there are many, many more cronies in every facet of government, all the way from here to Richmond. And thats why I am telling you all this: Miss Knightly, your uncle has been going to Chenaults church since he was fresh outta Law School. Walter Mason is the reason hes
in the A.G.s office. The old bastard is practically a second father to him. * Bill took a long drink of his bourbon. Everyone was silent, each considering their own thoughts. I had risen from my chair during his recounting of the story and was pacing in the kitchen, drink in hand. So a man was abusing his brothers step-children, connected to men who were funding terrorism, and hes convinced that homosexuals and abortions are both felonious crimes, and he is on the fast-track to the Governors mansion? Walter Mason has a very large wallet, Dad said. That was a lovely story, really, Morgan said, obviously growing hostile, But what does this have to do with my sister? No one spoke. I sat down at the table and said, gently, Morgan, I think that your uncle is involved in your sisters disappearance. How? Why would he what makes you think that? I think that she threatened to come forward about the abuse, so he silenced her. But he tried to do the same thing to me, She said so matter-of-factly that I found it disturbing, Why hurt her and not me? I could ruin him just as badly.
I dont know, I said softly. I cant even believe this is happening, She lowered her head. After being silent almost the entire time, Dante said, She knew she was in danger. What? I said, verbalizing everyones facial expression. She wanted to buy a gun. She said that there were people after her, and not just some fuckin ex-boyfriend. She said they were powerful people. She wouldnt tell me anything else. Did you sell her one? Yeah, I gave her little .38, He said, I thought she was just paranoid. If yall woulda shut up for a second, I was gonna tell you. And this was pretty soon after she came back from UVA, I said and Dante nodded. Things went quiet again as I looked over what I knew in my own mind: A girl was abused by her uncle. Then she turns to drugs. Its an old story. Except she didnt get into drugs after she was abused, she got into drugs after an abortion It was his baby. Everyone looked at me waiting for an explanation of what was going on in my head.
She aborted Pierces child. This wasnt about silencing her; this was about revenge, I rose from my seat again, pacing as I spoke, Pierce was having sex with her long after she was sixteen. She got pregnant when she was in school, and not wanting to have her life unravel and her abuse exposed, she had an abortion. She didnt get into drugs when he began abusing her; she got into drugs after she had the abortion. It traumatized her. Her abuse was easy to put out of her mind when it didnt have tangible consequences; when it didnt cause anyone but her to be hurt. Now it had cost a potential child its life. And Pierce has been telling anyone with ears that he believes abortion to be First Degree murder, so in his mind, she aborted his child. Walter Mason wants her gone so she doesnt expose Pierce for being a deviant piece of shit, and Pierce is thinking that this girl practically slaughtered his first-born, I said. I took a breath, and then said, They killed her and are trying to frame Rashad.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
There was pause, and then Dad spoke first. Prove it, He said, shrugging. I will, I replied, I dont know how, but I will. Malcolm, Bill spoke sympathetically, You are good at this. You would have made one hell of a cop. And if you had, you would have learned how building a case isnt as simple as knowing that someone is guilty. There are other factors involved. Fine, then there are other factors. But when we prove it and give it to a fucking reporter, it wont matter if we can prove it in court or not. Dad leaned forward in his chair, Do you think youre first person to figure all this out? What do you think Pierce is here for? He knows that she is here, He pointed at Morgan, And he
knows what she just told us. He has had a head-start of over 24hours to go through and scour for anything that would incriminate him. We go straight at this and we will wind up getting burned. Hell tie it up in a lawsuit or something, Dad puffed his cigar and I nearly began again before he continued as though he had an afterthought, Malcolm, I know this man. I heard the rumors about his brothers step-daughters. I was there, remember? Alright, I said, slowly, Since youre the one whos got this all figured out, what would you like me to do, Dad? Take Morgan here and go to her sisters house or apartment or whatever. If anyone gives you any shit, tell them to call Duncan. I will be on the phone with him while youre gone. Dante rose from his chair and spoke for the first time, I am just gonna come right out and say it, Everyone stopped and looked him, mildly surprised, and he continued, I dont give a fuck if this man is the muh-fuggin President. If he did something to Rashad and yall cant get him, then Im gon get him. I dont give a fuck. Dante, I said quietly, When that dude robbed you, what happened? I found him, right? He nodded, Give me a chance to do my thing. We will find out where your brother is, and where
her sister is, and once we got that figured out, well settle up with whoever is responsible. Dante reluctantly nodded and sat back down. Almost on cue, when he had returned to his seat, we heard the door open and then slam closed. Two sets of footprints could be heard traversing the hallway from the old foyer office. From the side door, Charlie and Michael entered the kitchen. When were you gonna tell me about this? Charlie asked, clearly peeved at being left out of the loop, however briefly, but his obvious excitement seemed to override it, Youre looking into the fucking GCA and no one keeps me in the loop? I have only been looking into these assholes for 10 years. When my fathers involvement with the FBI was cut short due to his cover being blown, he had returned to being a detective, though this time it was with Victoria County instead of Albemarle. He had not been undercover in the traditional sense; essentially his only deception was that instead of being an excop, he was working for the FBI. While he had been undercover, the long separation between him and my mother had finally developed into a divorce, so instead of returning to Charlottesville and his job as an Albemarle County Detective, he remained in the apartment he had been living in during the FBI investigation and took a job as a Detective in Victoria County.
Charlie and I were upset when he had gone to live in Victoria to begin with. We were convinced that he was never coming back, and my mother had told us every day that Dad was working on a very important job and we just needed to be patient and Dad would be home soon. We were devastated when we found out that we were right all along, and that he wasnt coming back to live with us. Michael was practically a newborn and Rachel was three, so they were too young to realize what was really happening. Charlie and I, however, were eight and six at the time, and were old enough to understand that Mom and Dad were getting a divorce and that our lives as we knew them were about to change greatly. I was saddened and felt like I was losing my dad. Charlie, conversely, was angry and felt like his father was being taken from him. First, he blamed Dads career in Law Enforcement. Then, he blamed our mother. Then finally, years later, once he learned of the men Dad had been investigating and why, he directed his anger towards them. He didnt believe that they were the sole reason for the divorce or any such nonsense; they were a malicious, evil organization of bigots who our father had sacrificed his marriage attempting to bring down, and Charlie felt justified in despising them for it. To a degree, I shared his resentment, though I wasnt privy to as much of the story as Charlie. Once I knew all the facts, I despised them as much as
he did, if not more. Once his technology career began, Charlie spent much of his free time researching and spying on the church and its members, though it rarely yielded any results. Mason was far too careful, which had always led Charlie to question whether or not Mason and Chenault were aware that they were being watched. We arent looking into the GCA, Dad said calmly, with hints of irritation, We are looking for a missing girl. The Gilead people are only involved peripherally, as far as we know now. As soon as you heard about it, you should have called me. I got those assholes. I got account numbers, IP addys, passwords I got everything. Ive had them by the balls for years and just waiting. Good to know, Dad said. Charlie, can you find the owner of a burn phone? I asked. It may take me a few, but probably, yeah. Do you have it? I shook my head, No one can find it. Its straight. Just get me the number. I nodded and began sifting through the papers on the desk, looking for the phone records. Michael walked to his old schoolmate, Dante, and slapped hands with him. The two men sat down
next to each other at the opposite end of the table from me. There was no more room, so Morgan and I stood. Michael asked, So whats the plan? Dad was silent for a moment as he considered his options. Then he said, Malcolm is taking Miss Knightly here to her sisters place of residence to see what can be found there. Charlie, you stay back with Rachel and work the computers. Rachel, man the phones and if anyone calls with something relevant to this, you call me or Malcolm immediately. Michael, you take Dante and check places that Rashad may be hiding. We need to find Rashad before Melton does, or hes gonna hang all this around the kids neck. What are you gonna do? I asked. Dad replied, I have to go and have a talk with Sheriff Duncan. So am I. I aint sittin this one out, Bill said. We all headed off in separate directions, like a broken huddle. The feeling in the room was excited and optimistic; we all felt in that moment that we were finally going to rectify the injustice from all those years ago. We at least my siblings and I felt like we were heading out on a mission to exact our revenge on a corrupt and evil organization, to rescue an innocent girl, and to clear the name of a man a friend falsely
accused. We were all nave. We were ingrained with all the romantic notions of good and evil and winning and losing. We thought that we could expose our enemy and bring him down by illuminating his sins and those of his cabal. Our simple, black and white understanding of vindication and justice wouldnt last. * Dante and Michael left first, with Dad and Bill close behind them. Rachel and Charlie were in the office, and Morgan was waiting for me in the living room downstairs. I had returned to my bedroom to change my shirt and brush my teeth. When I emerged from the bathroom, I walked to the dresser, pulled on a long-sleeved shirt, and reached into my jeans and pulled out my bottle of painkillers. The cramp in my back was growing, and it was always better to take the Morphine ahead of the pain than try to catch up to it once its gotten out of control. I tossed a couple in my mouth and chased them down with a bottle of bourbon I kept beside. When I looked at the door, I saw Morgan standing there. Shed made her way up the stairs without a sound. Do I even want to know what you just took? Why are you in my bedroom?
You were taking too long, She said, as though she resented the question, What are those pills youre taking? Morphine, I said, I have been taking painkillers for my kidneys for years. And the shot of whiskey was for my nerves. Great, She said condescendingly, Well, I will be doing the driving. I shrugged, genuinely indifferent on the matter. She stomped her way down the steps and out the door in the living room. After grabbing a soda out of the fridge, I followed her out and climbed into her late-model sedan. Its uncomfortable to sit in a car with a gun on your hip, especially with a holster large enough for two spare clips. So when I sat in Morgans car, the first thing I did was remove the holster from my right hip and set it in the floorboard. Her reaction was not what I expected. What is that? A Heckler & Koch USP forty-five, I answered, And its coming with us. After an uncomfortable silence, she started the car but did not put it in gear. She looked at me with a mixture of shame and fear and said, Do you have an extra one I could borrow? Like, a small one on your ankle or something?
Not with me. Be right back, I said, and jumped out the car. I ran inside, then quickly up to my bedroom, and opened a box I kept under my bed. Inside was a Mossberg .500 Tactical shotgun (a gift from Bill), a Springfield 30-06, and an old .38 that my dad used to wear on his ankle when he was a detective. I retrieved it from the box along with the holster and a box of rounds. I ran back downstairs and out the door. Inside the car, I handed Morgan the small pistol and the box of ammunition. She looked at it like she was looking at a time bomb. She said nothing, just accepted it and put both the pistol and the ammo inside the center console. She put the car in drive, and we silently rolled out of the driveway. We had made the trip down the mountain in silence. I spent the time trying to piece together some kind of plan. The only thing I could think of was to find some kind of diary. If Jenny Knightly kept a diary, it would contain the truth about whether or not she was being abused by her uncle. We use the diary to link Pierce to her disappearance. The police then refocus their efforts on looking into Pierce and his cronies. It sounded like a sound plan. My train of thought derailed when Morgan spoke suddenly, Jenny lived with Amanda Meyers. They were really close in High
School. Her house is near Boaz Creek, She said, turning on the road that led down the eastern slope of the mountain. Did your sister keep a dairy of some kind? I asked. I dont know, She said, I know she did when she was little, but Im pretty sure she gave it up when she got into high school. I guess that would make things too easy, I said, mostly to myself. This all seems a little elaborate, She said, Martins church being involved, and framing Rashad, and terrorist ties it all seems like a bad movie. I know its a stretch, but its more believable to me than Rashad murdering the girl he was in love with and then going on the run without taking a goddamn thing with him. I guess, She said, and we went back to riding in silence. * Amanda Meyers house was nicer than I had expected. When you hear about a drug-addict staying with a friend, you usually expect a flophouse or a trailer. This was a three-story, antebellum farmhouse with perfect landscaping, toys and a swingset in the yard, and a picturesque view of the mountains to the west. It seemed like the perfect American family home. Living in
Victoria County for as long as I had, I knew how deceiving such appearances could be. We got out of the car, and I clipped my .45 back on my right hip. Morgan shot me a look, asking if it was really necessary, and I nodded, replying that it was. After Jesse Mason, I never went anywhere without a gun. We knocked on the door, and an 8 year-old boy answered. Hello! He shouted, excited to see a visitor, Are you here to see Mommy? Yes, honey, Morgan said, surprisingly motherly, Go and tell your mommy that Jennys sister is here. Youre Jennys sister? Yeah, my name is Morgan. Is Jenny coming home? He asked innocently. I hope so, Honey, She said, just as Amanda Meyers rounded the corner into the hallway. She walked up to the door and placed an affectionate hand on her sons head. She looked up at Morgan and smiled, and gave me a curious look I couldnt quite decipher. It was equal parts confusion and contempt. Hi, Amanda, Morgan said. Hey, Meg, Amanda backed her son away from the door, Come on in.
Morgan walked inside first, and I followed. Amanda led us to a large living room furnished with antiques. I felt intimidated to sit on the couch, as it looked old and valuable. It was clear that this was not the couch that Jenny had been sleeping on. Okay, Aiden, you run along and play. And keep an eye on your sister while the grown-ups are talking, okay? She said sweetly, eliciting a joyful nod as the boy left the room, I guess yall are here about Jenny, as well? Amanda asked. As well? I asked. The Police were here earlier in the week. Wednesday, I think. They went through the den downstairs where all of Jennys things are and left. Did they take anything? I dont know, She said, shrugging, I was trying to take care of Aiden and Leanne, and keep the dog from going crazy and answer the phone and a million other things. I couldnt watch them and see what they took or what they left. What they left? Yeah, they had duffel bags and kits with them. I thought they were for some kind of CSI thing, but I didnt ask. I was about to ask another question when Amanda stopped me. Can I ask who you are? She said politely.
Sure, excuse me for not introducing myself, I reached for my wallet and pulled out my laminated Private Investigators License, My name is Malcolm Raines. Im a Private Investigator. My father and I run a firm and weve been hired by Miss Knightly to help find her sister. Oh, okay. Thats good, She said, her suspicious eyes quickly becoming starry and glossy. Morgan said, Would you mind if we took a look downstairs? Well be quick and as quiet as possible, and we wont leave a mess, I promise. Oh, I dont care about that. Jenny kept the place a pig sty, so I am used to it. Morgan, why dont you get started down there. I just have a few more questions for Miss Meyers, I said. Morgan nodded and made her way to the door leading to a set of descending stairs. When she was gone, I continued my questioning. You can understand that when I heard about Jennys drug problem and that she was sleeping on a couch at a friends house, this is pretty far from what I expected. Well, I have been fortunate, She said, My husband is a Manager at the Resort, and weve used our money wisely. We had to, with two kids to care for.
I see, I shifted my posture, leaning forward, You didnt have a problem with her lifestyle? I wasnt happy about it, but I understood. Everybody goes through hard times, Mister Raines. Its with the help of our friends that we get through them, and thats why I helped her. Do you have any idea who may have taken her? I asked, getting tired of the foreplay, Did she tell you about any problems shed been having? Anything about her past? I dont know, She said, visibly trying to recall something of importance, She told me things about her mother. That she was horrible to her after she came back from school. She would hand her a bottle of Oxy and tell her to kill herself with it. She would lock the refrigerator and leave her there with no money, no car, no phone and pretty much starve her for days on end. One time she locked her in her bedroom for days, just so she would be in withdrawal. Then she would make her do something to get the drugs. What things, she wouldnt say, but I get an idea. Her mother is a monster. Thats why I told her she could live here. Thats kind of you, I said solemnly, It seems like Jennys had a rough go of it for a while, now. You could say that, Amanda rubbed her nose as she spoke. It was red with irritation, but not like an infection or bug
bite. It was red from being scratched and rubbed repeatedly. She also had stains on her thumb and forefinger from chain smoking. I began to understand why Amanda Meyers was so sympathetic to Jennys plight. I assume we have to smoke outdoors? I asked, reaching for my cigarettes. We have a sunroom in the back, She said, rising from her antique chair, I could use one myself. We made our way out the back door, and sat on comfortable deck furniture as we nearly simultaneously lit up. I smoked casually, drawing deeply and exhaling slowly. She puffed faster, but not conspicuously so, all the while rubbing her nose. Thats called pruritus. What? She said, hoping that I wasnt talking about what she thought I was talking about. The itching. Its called opioid induced pruritus. I dont know what youre talking about, She said plainly, her face frozen. Thats why you took her in, isnt it? You could relate to her addiction because youve been nursing one yourself. Let me guess: the stress of raising two children with an absentee husband, mixed with the aching muscles and sore back, you just needed something to take the edge off.
With every word, she seemed more and more ashamed. I stopped purely out of mercy. I gave her a moment of silence to let her choose how she was going to respond. I have been doing better, She said, I am taking fewer and fewer each day. I am going to stop soon. I just didnt want to do it cold turkey. She looked to be on the edge of crying. That takes strength, I put a hand on her forearm, sympathetically, I am not judging you. I am looking for Jenny, and we havent ruled out the possibility of it being a drug related crime. I need you to be completely honest with me. Can you do that? She nodded. Do you know why she is missing? No. When is the last time you saw her or spoke to her? She called me that night, She said, beginning to cry, She asked me to come get her and said Rashad was being an asshole. She was supposed to get some Oxy from him and she was going to give me some when she got back. When she said she had gotten into an argument with him and she couldnt get anything, I yelled at her. I told her to go back in there and to make nice with him. I told her I wasnt coming out to get her unless she had something for me, Her sobbing evolved into bawling and she
choked on her words as she continued, I I sent her I sent her back in there because of pills! Shes gone just because because I wanted some pills! I hugged her, No, Amanda. Thats not true, I said, running my hand down her dark hair, She is missing because some bad people have taken her. Dont blame yourself for something that you had no control over. For a long couple of minutes, she was silent. She was getting her crying under control when the young boy who had answered the door emerged. Aiden, I thought I told you to go play, She said sternly. But Leanne wont stop crying. Can you come help? Mister Raines, if youll excuse me for a moment, She said, standing and extinguishing her cigarette as she composed herself before returning inside the house. I stubbed out my own cigarette and returned to the house as well after she had been gone for a minute or two. I walked down the long hallway that seemed to serve as the main artery for the middle floor of the house. A door on my right was slightly cracked, and I could see the stairs leading down to the bottom level, where I could hear Amanda going through her sisters belongings. There was an ascending staircase further down the hall on the right, and the various doors to my left led to the
kitchen, dining room, and the living room wed sat in when we first arrived. I opted to join Morgan downstairs. The basement was four rooms; two large and two small. The stairs ended in the den, which had a full entertainment center, flat screen TV, game consoles, cable and DVR. The large sofa was upholstered with a velvet-like material, and it folded out into a queen-size bed with minimal effort. It was a strange dichotomy to go from the main floor, which looked like a scene out of Gone with the Wind to a modern, electronic-centered den down stairs. Morgan was searching the den and the smaller room next to it. I asked, Find anything? No. Damn, I said. I began searching myself, finding stacks of papers and looking through them first. I found a crumpled receipt in the trash can from the Sunday she went missing. She had bought beer, cigarettes, Benadryl and condoms, and not the inexpensive off-brands, either. If she didnt have the money to buy her drugs that day, which is what spawned the argument between her and Rashad, then how had she bought all this? She could have been lying, of course, but she also could have been with someone else before Rashad that day. I asked, Was your sister fond of Miller Genuine Draft and American Spirits? She smoked Newports. I dont think she drank, though.
Then we should find out who she was hanging out with earlier that day, I said, Keep searching for a diary. I dont think were going to find one, She said, But Ill keep looking. I returned to the main floor and found Amanda who was sitting with Aiden in the kitchen. She had him in her lap and was stroking his hair. Miss Meyers, I said, I just have a couple more questions. Absolutely, She set her son down and rose from her seat, And please, just call me Amanda. Okay, I replied, as her son walked into the other room with a stuffed animal in his grasp. She and I made our way to the sun room as I continued, Did Jenny drink beer very often? Never. She couldnt stand the stuff. I found a receipt from the day she went missing, and she had bought beer, smokes, Benadryl and condoms from the drug store in Victoria. She took the Benadryl to help her sleep at night, Amanda answered, She was a chain smoker, so those make sense. I know she was on the pill, but she could have wanted the condoms anyway. The beer had to have been for someone else. Do you remember what she was doing on Sunday?
No, She said, with a regretful look, She was asleep until around noon. I went to the grocery store with the kids and when I got back, she was gone. I wish I knew more. I wish I had been there for her more. Im sure you were a great friend, I said, being supportive again, You gave her a place to live and got her out of her mothers house. Im sure she was grateful, I opened the door for her as we walked out to the sunroom again, Did she keep a diary or a journal? I dont know, She said, furrowing her brow in thought, She may have. Most nights, I would be in bed asleep before she got home, and I would be up and gone before she woke up. My husband Chris and I joked that she kept vampire hours. Pretty much the only time I saw her was when she was helping me out with some pills. I understand, I said, If she did, do you know where she would have kept it? No idea. Okay, I said. I turned and walked back in the house, Thats all I have for you right now. We will finish up looking through her things and well be out of here in no time.
Sure. Take your time, She lit another cigarette and remained in the sunroom as I walked back into the house, I have coffee made if either of you want some. I politely declined and made my way back down the stairs, where I found Morgan seated Indian-style on the floor, looking through a sketchbook, crying. I walked over to her and put a hand on her shoulder, and I saw what was contained in the sketchbook: Several dark, violent, macabre scenes interlaced with bucolic, almost trippy landscapes. It was like peering directly into the mind of an abused, sad, tortured young lady. What if the cops already found the diary? The bad ones I mean. What will we do then? Then we will have to find another kind of evidence linking Pierce, Mason or the Church to the crime. Once we have that, well make such a scandal out of it, the Prosecutors wont have a choice but to take them down. Okay, She said, as though she was relieved that not finding the diary wasnt the end of the investigation. Her potential testimony about what she learned as a child and what she had been told by her sister was inadmissible and meant next to nothing a fact that bothered her greatly. She was there, possibly the closest thing to an eye-witness they were going to find, and because she had been involved before when Jenny had
recanted her accusations, she was now no longer a valid witness at all. No one knew this better than her; when you grow up around lawyers, you pick up a few things. These sketchbooks may be of some value, I said, lets take them. She nodded and began pulling the sketchbooks off the shelf. There were over twenty of them, and we certainly werent going to sit her and look through them all. I walked around the room collecting the bags out of all the trash cans. Then I went and looked through boxes in the smaller room adjacent to the den, where she had kept several boxes of her belongings for which there wasnt room to unpack. The first was a collection of coffee cups. There was a shoebox full of what I could only assume was sentimental possessions. A couple more boxes held extra clothes and shoes. Finally, the final box left to check had what looked like important papers from when she was a student. Text books, non-fiction books, forms, papers, and several other notebooks and envelopes. I pushed the books out of the way, and then I glossed over her papers and assignments. She was an excellent student. It hurt to realize how bright and promising she was. I nearly began to cry, but managed to catch it in time and take a break from going through her school work. Once I had recomposed myself, I resumed my efforts and began
looking through the envelopes. I browsed through a couple that had irrelevant paperwork before I found a thick book inside an unlabeled manila envelope. I opened the envelope and pulled out its contents: A leather-bound diary.
CHAPTER TWELVE
What follows is a transcription of the recorded meeting between Bill Lamar, Buck Raines, and Victoria County Sheriff Victor Avery Duncan:
BILL: Thanks for seeing us so quick, Vick. DUNCAN: No problem. What can I do for yall? BUCK: Weve been hired on the Knightly case; Jennifer Knightly. We are working alternate theories, since Bob Melton clearly is not interested in anyone but Rashad Mills. I also know about the connection between the girl and Martin Pierce, who, as you know, is part of the Gilead people. DUNCAN: Yeah, I was wondering when this was going to come up. Do you have anything yet?
BUCK: Not yet. I got Malcolm doing the legwork. Hes over at the girls residence right now. DUNCAN: We executed a search on the house two days ago. Melton said they didnt find anything. BUCK: What were they looking for? DUNCAN: It wasnt specific. The woman who owned the place gave us permission to look around. Bob was hoping hed find some inconsistencies in Rashads statement. BILL: One could also argue that he wanted to find and destroy any damaging information on Pierce. DUNCAN: Are you talking about the trouble from back in the nineties? You know that was handled in-house, and the girl recanted. BUCK: The sister said that Jennifer Knightly was telling the truth. DUNCAN: So this is your alternate angle: a Deputy Attorney General for the State of Virginia is responsible for the kidnapping and possible murder of his late brothers stepdaughter, all because he doesnt want her to talk about the abuse once hes running for A.G. this August. BILL: Not exactly. BUCK: Pierce believes that abortion is first degree murder, and Jennifer Knightly had an abortion a year ago, right before
she quit school and came home. We think that Pierce had been sleeping with Knightly for a very long time, and when she had an abortion, in his eyes, she had murdered his first-born child. We think that he kidnapped her because of revenge, but I think the other Gilead people want to silence her so that they can have a man in Richmond. DUNCAN: Thats one hell of a theory. Got any proof? BILL: Not a damn scrap. DUNCAN: Okay, then the question remains: what can I help you with? BUCK: How did Melton get put in charge of this one? BILL: It sure seems like a conflict of interest, considering Melton and Pierce have been going to the same church for almost 25 years. DUNCAN: Hes the most senior detective in the Major Felony division. Its just protocol. I may be able to get him taken off of it, but if hes working for Pierce and Mason, then this may be our chance to catch him with his hand in the cookie jar. If we keep him on, then we may be able to finally prove hes dirty. BILL: Buck, hes got a point. BUCK: Hes been a step ahead of us, making sure nothing is left that points to Gilead. We need get ahead of him, or its not likely that well find any concrete evidence.
DUNCAN: Thats something I can help with. I am going to send someone with him to keep an eye on him, make sure that hes keeping everything legit, and make sure no evidence magically gets up and walks off. Ill tell him hes training a new probate. If anything is found, I will know about it. BUCK: That would be much appreciated. Theres one more thing, too. DUNCAN: Shoot. BUCK: I heard that a pair of bloody underwear was found in the trunk of Rashads car. DUNCAN: Yeah, but it turned out to be worthless. The blood on it was too old for it have been involved in the crime. BUCK: Can we examine it? DUNCAN: Yeah, I think that can be arranged. After all, its headed for the incinerator anyway. Let me see what I can work out and Ill give you a call. BUCK: Perfect. DUNCAN: What if yall are wrong? BILL: If were wrong, then were wrong. But it has looked like a setup from the beginning. Think about it: Weve got a pair of bloody drawers in the trunk of the prime suspect after hes agreed to a search. Weve got a girl who quit school a year ago after an abortion and then spirals out of control with drugs
and depression. Then the prime suspect goes missing, without taking his inhaler, something that he never would have done, which is clear evidence of foul play, yet the lead detective disregards completely. Also disregarded was Rashads right to council when he was being interrogated. All of this is because the lead detective, mind you, is a close friend of a suspected child abuser of the missing girl no less. Tell me this whole thing doesnt stink to high hell. DUNCAN: I want to be kept in the loop on this. Melton has been pushing his luck with me ever since Malcolm shot that Mason boy, and I have been waiting for an excuse to give that sumbitch his walking papers. BUCK: Well keep in close contact with you. Officially, we are augmenting the missing persons investigation. If we happen to uncover a conspiracy on the part of a corrupt church with ties to radical groups and domestic terrorism, then so be it. BILL: V.A., you said yourself, its time these assholes got whats coming to them. DUNCAN: I know you got a big ol bone to pick with these guys, but its not as simple as walking up there and putting handcuffs on them. BILL: The hell it aint. [A phone rings. Bucks answer is unintelligible.]
BUCK: Sheriff, well be in touch. [END OF INTERVIEW]
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
We emerged from the basement; Morgan first, then myself. Amanda was in the dining room with Aiden. Did you find what you were looking for? Morgan looked at me when I didnt instantly answer. In a flash, it occurred to me. I said, No, all we got is the receipt. Can we just keep that between us? If the police come back, dont tell them we found it. Sure, Amanda said. She followed us to the door, with Aiden holding her hand. We each said our pleasantries and Morgan and I departed. * It was silent, at first. We left the driveway and then the side roads that led to the Meyers home. We were on the main
road, Route 23, heading west towards the small resort town that was Frostwood, before a single word was spoken. Why did you lie? Morgan was brief and hostile. Shed had those words in her mouth for several minutes. I would prefer to keep this diary and its contents a secret, for now, I replied calmly, trying to offset her impatience, And Im certainly not going to tell a perfect stranger that I found what may be a key piece of evidence in the sexual assault trial of a high-ranking State official. Morgan nodded in agreement. I reached and presented the leather-bound journal. I untied and unwrapped the small strip that was wound three times around it. I was about to open it when it occurred to me to ask permission from Morgan before I went digging into the most precious of her sisters thoughts and secrets. I will do it. I understand, I said, How about something to eat? When did you last eat? I She trailed off. It was answer enough for me. When we get to town, stop off at Mars. I am not going in that place. Sure you are. We have to meet a friend I know. Whos that?
A girl who works for the paper. Thats what were doing, right? Taking this to the press? Yeah, but Relax, I said, Were not laying our cards on the table just yet. I am just setting up the board, so to speak. In English? The hostility had returned to her voice. If shit goes south, I want her to know what kind of questions to be asking. Just trust me. * Past the automotive shops and hair salons that line the streets leading to the old strip of downtown Frostwood, there was a pub built into the old post office. Its owner was Marshall Molineaux, but everyone called him Mars. When he built his pub, he thought The Mars Bar was a clever name. It would be eventually and involuntarily shortened to Mars by the locals, myself included. The name was fitting in both connotation and brevity. I had sent a text to Caroline Hauser when we left Amanda Meyers house. It said MEET ME AT MARS ASAP. I GOT A BOMBSHELL. In the past, when interaction with the press had been required, I had gone to her. After my arrest for practicing medicine without a license, she was first to make the arrest public and gain the interest of local and national media. I owed
her a debt, which I made up to her by providing what information I could. She was also the single most attractive female human being I had ever seen in my life. She was a girl-next-door, cute kind of sexy, and her cunning and wit only ever augmented it. She was another that Id known during high school, but we were barely even acquainted. She and I existed in different spheres of the high school paradigm. The two that never spoke before and then being brought together by a series of circumstances was an old story. And I reveled in the fact that the pretty cheerleader who didnt know I existed was now a regular contact (and sometimes savior) of mine. She was seated at a far booth when Morgan and I arrived. I lit a cigarette as soon as we stepped into the door. There was a small foyer with a table in it that counted as the non-smoking section, which was the often utilized loophole in the law banning smoking in restaurants in the state of Virginia. I always felt like the archetype of cool when I walked casually, smoking, through the bar. The old bikers on the bar stools would glance and the bartender, always a woman, would nod to acknowledge my presence. The place had its own unique smell; the cigarettes and the fryers and something else all blended in some accidental alchemy to create an odor that would stick to you
like sap. A night of drinking in that place and youd smell it on your skin for days. It added to the seedy, mischievous nature of the pub, which both repelled and attracted. It would likely be much less popular were it not the only pub in town. Morgan slid into the booth first and I followed her. I signaled to the bartender, a pretty, young blonde named Courtney, for an ashtray. Morgan? Caroline said, How are you holding up? Im so sorry about your sister. Morgan and Caroline had been more acquainted in school, though from the looks of it, they hadnt kept up with each other afterwards. Morgan said, As best as I can, I suppose. I dont have a lot of time, Caroline said, The case has kept me pretty busy. Ill be quick, I said. I presented the diary, This is Jennys diary. If I am right, its going to say that her late step-fathers brother, Martin Pierce, Deputy Attorney General for the State of Virginia, has been sexually abusing her for years. Holy shit, She said. His eyebrows were as high as she could raise them, Do think hes responsible for her She left the sentence hanging. Yeah.
Oh, Jesus Christ, She said, leaning forward and placing her elbows on the table and her head in her hands. Hes working with Melton, trying to hang it around the neck of Rashad Mills. You remember Dante? I asked. She nodded, Its his brother. Seems pretty fuckin convenient, doesnt it? It does, yeah, She began, but then stopped for a moment. After the pause, she said, Alright, before we go forward with this, we are going to need something bulletproof. Have you read the diary? I looked at Morgan. I am about to, She said. The bartender arrived with my ashtray. She set it down in front of me, and I flicked the ash off the end of my cigarette into it. I ordered a Jameson and Morgan had a coffee. As we waited for our drinks, Morgan unlaced the book and opened it. The collage on the first page disturbed me: Eyes. She had clipped the eyes out of magazines and covered the first page with it. It was a poignant yet disturbing statement. Morgan began to read, thumbing through the pages every few seconds. Caroline and I sat in silence as we waited. Eventually the lapse in conversation became unbearable and I broke the silence. I went to his Rashads house. Well, its his mothers house, I think, I said, tapping my cigarette on the rim of the
ashtray, He left his money, all of his worldly possessions, and even his inhaler at home. He uses his inhaler at least once a day. His mother Frances insisted that he wouldnt have left without it, and Im inclined to believe her. She raised her eyebrows skeptically, I spoke with Bob Melton this morning, and he said that Rashad was the last person she was with, he admitted they were arguing, and they found bloody underwear in his car. The blood on the underwear is old; too old for it to be relevant to her disappearance, I hesitated, because I did not want to sound defensive or argumentative, Did Melton also tell you that he consented to the search? Why would he consent to a search and then leave bloody underwear around? If he was planning on running, why would he wait before he did it? The whole thing smells like some bullshit, to me. Which begs the question: if Rashad Mills is innocent, then who is the culprit? And your next likely suspect is a prosecutor for the State Attorney Generals office? How did you get from Mills to Pierce? Simple: Motive. Morgan said that hed been sleeping with Jenny for years, and anybody who knows anything about crime knows that you start with whomever the victim is sleeping with.
Morgan picked the book up off the table and a few loose pages fell out. The first one started with Dear Morgan. As she read the letter from her sister, I noticed Morgans eyes glossing over, and then tears beginning to pool on her lower eyelids. They spilled over and softly rolled down her cheek. She nodded, Yeah. Its in here. She slid the note in front of me and I glossed it over. I wasnt very far into it when the bartender arrived with my drink. I grabbed my phone and shot a picture of all four pages of the note before I slid it back to Morgan and began sipping my drink. Courtney leaned forward as she gave Morgan her coffee and said, quietly, The two boys in the booth over there are talking about you. Okay, I said, nodding. I handed her a fifty, Keep the change, Courtney looked at me with a smile as she walked away. Morgan almost turned around, but I laid a hand on her shoulder, Dont look. I got it. I took a long sip of my whiskey and stabbed my cigarette out in the tray. I rose from my seat and walked to the bathroom. As I returned, I was able to see the two men in question: Cody and Caleb Mason, Walters Grandchildren and Jesses first cousins.
Cody was six-foot-nine and built like a linebacker. He had been a few grades below me in school, but since I shot his cousin, I had seen him a few more times than I cared to. He told me after the case against me was dismissed that he would kill me, and I told him that I looked forward to seeing him try. I was all but sure I couldnt win a fist-fight against him, but I wasnt much for the macho pissing contests. If it came down to violence, I would not be fighting him with my fists, and one of us would be bound for the hospital and the other would be bound for a cell. His brother, Caleb, was a little more of a concern, though. He was smaller than his younger brother, but what he lacked in size he made up for with cunning and malevolence. He was my age and wed known each other in school. We had mutually despised each other from the moment we met, although we were polite even mildly friendly when we were forced to be around each other in social situations, despite our unspoken contempt for each other. Few relationships are as honest reciprocal disdain. This all changed when I shot Jesse Mason, his first cousin. The two were close growing up, and only when Jesses drug use had gotten out of control did they begin to grow apart. Caleb had been present at the courthouse when I went in for practicing without a license, but he did not speak to me. He didnt have
to. His icy stare spoke volumes, all with one central theme: he wanted to see me dead and was willing to spend the rest of his life making it happen. Since the shooting, I had seen him following me on a few occasions. Had he done something other than follow me, I would have had the police take care of it. But when nothing happened, I came to the conclusion he was trying to put me on the defensive, presumably so that I would do something stupid. I refused to give him the satisfaction. As I walked back to the booth from the bathroom, I had a single question in my mind: Has he seen or heard us talking about the diary? In lieu of a definitive answer, I had to assume he had. * I sat back down. Put the diary in your bag, I said quietly to Morgan, and she instantly complied, Not another word about it in here. Who are they? Jesse Masons cousins. They may be doing dirty work for their grandfather. Caroline nodded, I thought they looked familiar. Its Colby or something, right?
Close; the big one is Cody and the other is Caleb. I pulled my cell phone and dialed a number. After a couple rings, Michael picked up. Yeah, He answered. Feel like running interference? Whatcha got? Caleb and Cody Mason are stalking us at Mars. I heard Michael give a subtle laugh, Yeah, be there in a minute. I hung up the phone. The two girls were silent for a moment before I decided to divert the trajectory of our discussion away from pertinent details of Jennifer Knightlys disappearance. So whens the last time you two saw each other? Morgan and Caroline looked at each other, and simultaneously said Um Morgan spoke first, Four years ago, I think. Sarahs wedding. Yep. Shes right, Caroline agreed, God, that was a hell of a night. Did you see it? She asked me. When I told her I didnt know what she was talking about, Caroline began to tell me the story of Sarah Clarkes wedding: the wedding went according to plan until the reception, where Caroline and a few other girls got drunk and picked a fight with
another group of girls from out of town. The ensuing cat-fight rendered several of the girls half-naked, and the cell phone recordings of the incident made for excellent internet content. The incident went viral, as its called on social media, and millions of people were viewing and laughing at the humiliation of Caroline and her friends. As Caroline was finishing her story, Michael and Dante entered the bar. The pulled a smaller table up to the one in our booth and joined us. When the Mason brothers saw them, the leaned in and began to whisper to each other. Have they said anything to you? Michael asked me. Nope. Alright, He said, looking around to survey his surroundings, Well, I think theyre about to. Michael walked up to the bar and ordered a shot of Jagermeister. He lit up a cigarette while he waited for the bartender, and as soon as she slid the shot in front of him, he grabbed it and drank it in one gulp, seemingly without swallowing like he poured it directly into his stomach. He turned around after slamming the shot glass back on the counter and approached Cody and Caleb. Dante rose from his seat at the table adjoined to our booth and joined him.
Yknow, Michael began in a condescending tone, If yall want to eavesdrop, I would suggest doing a better job at hiding. Im sure I dont know what you mean, Caleb said. Well, here, Michael pulled out a $50 bill and let it fall lightly on the table, That should cover your tab. Now get the fuck out. No, thanks, Caleb slid the bill back toward Michael, Im going to finish my meal, though, preferably in peace. Thats not going to happen, Michael said menacingly. Thats unfortunate, Caleb replied, and he nodded toward his brother. Codys right hand was under the table, and in the tense silence, we could hear the hammer of the gun he was concealing being cocked. This isnt going to go like you planned, I promise you, Caleb said calmly, Why dont you and your brother and your friends stop playing cops and robbers and just head home. Cops and robbers? Michael said with a laugh, Thats good. You think of that all by yourself? I heard yall are looking for that missing whore, Cody said, the first time he had opened his mouth in the exchange. His brother glared at him, gesturing for him to keep quiet.
Is that your latest damsel in distress? Caleb said to me, I know you just cant help yourself when it comes to endangered women. Caleb, I spoke calmly and deliberately, This doesnt have to go this way. If you had nothing to do with this, tell me what you know and I wont involve you and your brother. Oh, thats very kind of you Malcolm, He replied, If I knew what you were talking about, I suppose I would be grateful. But as far as I know, you and your father are just grasping at straws, trying to find another way you can trump up something you can use to further persecute my familys church. A church for Gods sake. Youre a pretty good liar, I said. And youre a coward and a murderer, He replied, without pause. No, Jesse was a murderer, I rose from my seat in the booth, He was a junkie, a racist, a hypocrite, and a murderer. I knew what talking about Jesse would accomplish before I spoke the words. Cody rose from his seat quickly and turned to face me, and Michael was quick to move in between us. He stood only inches from him, with his face uncomfortably close to Codys.
Cody, Caleb said, They arent worth the trouble. Lets go, He rose from his seat and pulled money out and set it on the table. As he stood up, I noticed him looking rapidly over the table, and then at Morgan. It confirmed what I had suspected: that he knew about the diary. He was looking for the leather journal, and he thought I would be too angry or distracted to notice. It was his first of many miscalculations. This is your last chance, I said to Caleb, If you arent involved in this, tell me. We didnt kill no junkie skank! Cody couldnt help but shout. It had a visibly hurtful effect on Morgan. Cody, please, Caleb turned to his brother to scold him and then turned back to me, Involved in the murder of junkie whore? I dont associate with the likes of her. His nose involuntarily elevated a little with that statement. It was laughably pretentious, and I couldnt help but let loose a small giggle. Murdered? I said, She was just missing last time I checked. You know as well as I do, Caleb said, If shes been missing for more than 72 hours, youre not looking for a girl. Youre looking for her corpse.
Shut the fuck up, Caroline said, raising her voice You have no idea what youre talking about. Actually, I said with a grin, I think he knows plenty. Dont you, been doing dirty work for your grandfather? I still have no idea what youre talking about, He said, with a reciprocal grin. I think you two should walk the fuck out of here right now, Michael said, While you still can. Michael and Cody had separated, but after Michaels threat, Cody slid toward him and got in his face, Oh yeah? Caleb placed a hand on his brothers shoulder and they began to walk toward the door. Before he exited, Caleb turned to me and said, You shouldnt have gotten involved in this. Before its over, you will regret it. I promise you. The five of us said nothing. Caleb and his brother exited the bar and we all seemed to simultaneously sigh and return to our seats. Courtney came over to us with a tray, I thought yall could use a drink after that, She said, and put a glass of whiskey in front of the men and wine in front of the women, These are on the house. Consider it payment for bouncing those two assholes.
Thanks, Courtney, I said as she handed me my drink. I didnt even set it down before drinking most of it in one long sip. So what now? Morgan asked. We are going to get you and the diary somewhere safe, I said, And then my dad and I will go to the Sheriff. Hopefully we can have Pierce in custody by morning.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
We got back to the house a little after eight oclock. Michael and Dante pulled in behind us in the driveway, and in front of us were both Cadillacs, and Rachels silver Buick. Charlie had left, apparently. When we walked in, Bill and Dad were at the table, hard at work on a bottle of Makers Mark. Rachel was on the couch in the adjacent living room, watching some denomination of reality television; the kind focusing on large quantities of angry, unattractive women fighting with each other and complaining to the camera. Morgan and I sat down at the table. Dad asked, You want a glass? Sure, I said. I know you do, He replied, I was talking to her.
No, thank you, Morgan said politely. Dad stood up and turned around to retrieve a tumbler from the dish drainer. He slid it to me as he sat back down. I poured some bourbon and sipped it. Im only having one, I began, We still have one more thing to do, I nodded at Morgan, who placed the black leather book on the table, Thats Jennifer Knightlys journal. It has everything we need. I have shown it to Caroline Hauser, and after we take it to the sheriff, shes going to get it out. Good deal, Dad looked mildly impressed, Although it still doesnt help us find her. If we can get Pierce in and sweat him, he may give up her location. That mans a prosecutor, Bill said, Hes going to ask for a lawyer the minute anyone looks at him funny. We said we needed a journal of some sort to prove our case, I said, exasperated, Thats the journal. What else do you want me to do? I think were alright for right now, Dad said, Ill call Sheriff Duncan, but hes probably going to tell us to sit on it until morning. Thats fine, as long as we get the process started. What happens if someone comes looking for the diary in the meantime?
I doubt theyre that stupid, Dad said with a grin, The book is in the hands of her sister, so we have a right to it, but if they tell us to turn it over and we dont, were getting dangerously close to withholding evidence. Hopefully, theyll make some desperate play to steal it and destroy it, and we can shootem. Shoot them? Morgan said incredulously, Youre talking about killing people like its no big deal. How does that make us any better than them? Honey, let me tell you something, Bill said. He leaned forward in his chair, Were worse. * Dad was in his office calling the sheriff. I could hear consonants through the door, but not enough of them to determine what was being said. Morgan had been going through the diary and marking entries that she thought were relevant, and I was at Rachels desk in the old foyer finally reading the diary for myself.
November 23RD. Mom is an awful cook. Everyone that came to the country club for Thanksgiving dinner was making fun of
her casserole behind her back. It almost made it worth having to sit in a room full of despicable sycophants. I think Morgan knows what happened with Martin. She is watching me like a hawk and shooting dirty looks at him constantly. If she tells Mark, I dont know what hell do. I know he shouldnt have to be punished for something that I did. Besides, once I leave for school next year, Im sure everything will calm down and go back to normal. I just have to get past these next couple months.
While I observed Morgan reading the diary, she went through several emotions that I expected: anger, guilt, and frustration among them. What I didnt expect was confusion and disbelief. I asked her what was so surprising, but she just kept reading. When the time came for me to read the journal for myself, first on my mind was to figure out what she read that was unexpected.
DECEMBER 10TH. Something happened last night. Morgan wont come out of her room and Martins not answering his phone. Last night he came over and wanted to see me and he
brought some vodka. I drank too much and got sick. After I threw up, I passed out. I dont know what happened after that, but if he tried something with her, I swear to God, I will kill him. He said he loves me. He said that the Lord put us in each others path and that we were destined to meet. Mark and Mom are likely going to get a divorce before too long, and once the dust settles, we can be free and not have to do everything secretly. I cant wait. This lying is killing me.
There it was. She may have been raped in the beginning, and it may be rape in the eyes of the law, but it was at some point, consensual sex. Jenny Knightly thought she was in a relationship with her step-fathers brother. Not the most incestuous I had heard of, but it was still unnerving. There came a knock on the office door. Morgan was standing on the threshold and I gestured for her to come in. I cant believe she was so delusional, She said, Have you looked at these? She actually thought they were in a relationship. Its like Stockholm Syndrome or something.
I shrugged, I dont know. Sometimes people have to tell themselves a lie in order to stomach whats being done to them. Its the only way to handle their torture. I think I am going to be sick, Her face went pale and clammy. She continued, Were talking about my baby sister. I know. Im sorry. When Martin tried to rape me, Morgan took a seat next to me, She was furious, but not for the reasons I had expected. She was jealous. She thought that she had been betrayed and that he would choose me over her. And she still told me nothing. I didnt even know she could tell something had happened. I know its hard to imagine. There was a moment of pregnant silence before she said, Ive been thinking about what Mr. Lamar said about you all not being better than the people working for Mason. I think hes wrong; youre helping to find Jenny and clear Rashads good name, and thats the noblest of missions, She laid a hand on my forearm, But if you all really are as dangerous as Bill implied, could I pay you to kill Martin Pierce? I stopped working on the computer and turned to face her, What you just did is a felony. You should be careful what you say and to whom you say it.
I am not playing around, He teary eyes seemed to freeze and harden as she glared into mine, He has so many connections, so much money, so much time, there will be no way anyone will be able to put him in jail. If I have to watch him get away with hurting and brainwashing my sister, Ill snap. I swear to God, I will lose it. I cant say I blame you, I said removing my glance from hers back to the computer screen, But let me explain something to you: All those friends and connections he has? In order to kill him and get away with it, you would have to remove all of them from the equation. If you dont, you would have every cop in the state hunting you like a pack of wolves. I know. Im sorry I asked, She said, her head lowering and her voice sounding dejected, I just want him to have to pay for what hes done. If we catch him before weve found Jenny, he wont tell us where she is unless they cut him some kind of deal. Hell be free within hours. Im not so sure, but I understand what you mean. I will say this: what happened with your sister happened because he couldnt control himself in the face of temptation. Hes undisciplined and egotistical. Its called Narcissistic Personality Disorder. He thinks he can do what he wants, whenever he wants it, and no one will dare to stand in his way.
He gets off on preying on the weak. This is good news for us. We can manipulate that and get him to make mistakes, and if he knows we have what we need to fry his ass, hes going to get angry and desperate and hes going to lash out at us, and if hes stupid enough to come after any one of us, then I will kill him for free. * I offered Morgan my bedroom if she felt like she needed somewhere safe to sleep. She accepted. Around ten oclock, she relented and began to imbibe with the rest of us. We got out some cards and all sat around the picnic-style table in the kitchen. Dante and Michael cleaned up pretty well, leaving the rest of us short of around $20. He had remained quiet during most of the game, folding almost every hand, but when Bill called Michaels bet, it led to Michael going all in and losing. This happened a couple times before Bill had everyones money. Being the kind of person he is, he gave everyones money back privately except Michaels. Dad went to sleep first, leaving during the card game. When I ran out of money, I adjourned to finish reading the journal pages. When the noise stopped in the kitchen, I returned to find it empty. Michael was on the couch in the living room. I brought
the diary upstairs and placed it on the table next to the bed. Morgan was asleep under the covers, and I saw her clothes sitting on the floor, which surprised me. I moved them off the floor and set them on the table next to the dresser, and noticed that among the clothes she had abandoned was her bra. I shrugged, and considered the fact that maybe the uptight and frigid impression I had gotten of Morgan after spending the day with her was possibly incorrect. I had a hard time sleeping in the library and finally relented and went to the computer. I plugged my phone into a USB device and extracted the photographs Id taken of the note that Morgan found. I enlarged them slightly and printed them out. I took the four pages and sat down, lit a cigarette and began to read. MorganIf you are reading this, then something has happened. I kept this journal at first as a way of remembering all the good times I was going to have in College. I realize now that it has become a testimony. I want you to give this to the police as my statement if anything has happened to me. I have been having sex with Martin, sometimes consensually and sometimes not. I know now that he at
least attempted to do the same to you. For not doing something to stop him from hurting you, I am deeply and eternally ashamed. I never wanted this to get this far out of hand, and now I dont know how to fix it. The last time I had sex with Martin was a month ago. I confronted him about what he had done to you, and he initially denied having done it. I then threatened to make our relationship public if he didnt tell me the truth, and he began to beat me and eventually raped me. It was horrific. To make matters worse, I discovered yesterday that I am carrying a 4 week-old child from this encounter. As much pain as it causes me just to think about it, I have made an appointment at the Family Planning Center to have an abortion. I have not told Martin any of this. If he finds out, I dont know what he will do, but I know it will not be good. I told Mark about Martin and me a week before he died. I dont know how its possible, but I know that his car wreck was not an accident. Theres no way. I think Mark confronted
Martin about what was going on and Martin had to get rid of him to cover it up. I couldnt tell anyone else, or I would be risking your life and Moms life. Its a poor excuse for all the lies Ive told and all the people Ive hurt, but its all there is. If something happens to me, I want you to know something: Martin has a cabin where he used to take me so he could have sex with me. Its in another name, far out in the country, and no one but me has ever even heard of it, much less know where it is. When I told him that I was going to tell people what he had done, he said he would kill me and bury me out there and no one would ever find me. The address of the cabin is 440 Lebanon Road, Wintergreen. I dont care what happens to me. I have made my choices and I know I have to take responsibility for them. But I could never forgive myself if something happened to you. Mark was a good man, and in the end, he was killed because of me. I cant do that again. After this is all over with, I am going to tell you and mom everything. If I can get through this, I am going to rehab and getting clean, too. I swear it. I
am sick of my sins coming back on the ones I love, and I am sick of the guilt. I am sick of all of this. And if you would, if something has happened to me, I want you to give a message to Rashad for me: I love you and Im sorry. And I love you, too. Jenny. * The phone rang at four a.m., while everyone was asleep and the world beyond the windows remained dark. The previous days drinking inspired me to ignore it and go back to sleep. The ringing persisted until I abandoned my attempts at slumber and grabbed my cell phone off the computer desk and answered it. Malcolm, It was Will Fuller, You need to come down to the Sheriffs Office. Im coming up there later to talk to the Sheriff, I croaked. It felt like all the saliva in my mouth congealed into a disgusting paste and I looked for any kind of drinkable fluid. I grabbed the tumbler off the table and gulped down its contents: bourbon. Malcolm, Will had the tone of voice he used when he had to deliver bad news, There was a suicide last night. When we
arrived on scene, we discovered notes made involving you and Morgan Knightly. The deceased planned on meeting you today. Oh, fuck, I said, knowing what he was about to say. Her names Caroline Hauser.
PART THREE: THE FIRE PRELUDE
My story was interrupted by a sheet of snow, ten feet long and at least a foot thick, falling from the roof. It sounded like distant thunder. As I watched it through the thick-paned window, a question came to mind. How did you get here? Whats that? Jacqueline Ferris looked up from her rapidly filling legal pad. The highway has been shut down since yesterday. There are trees down on almost every major road. It begs the question, how did you make it here so quickly? How did you get here at all? By helicopter, She said, as though it was something I should have assumed.
Do attorneys normally ride around in helicopters? I asked sarcastically. They do when theres three feet of snow on the ground, She answered. She shot me a look of impatience, and I continued my story. Will Fuller told me about Caroline Hauser, I said, sipping my coffee, And I knew that she didnt commit suicide. Somehow, I didnt know how, someone got to her and killed her. That, or they forced her to kill herself. I still dont understand. What did you do? Nothing, at first, I said, I actually went back to sleep. I was kind of in shock and I didnt know how to process everything, so I just sort of I left it there. You shut down. It happens sometimes. Yeah, Ive never been accused of being hyperemotional, I said, and slid my chair out from the table and walked to the window. Do you want to take a break? She asked, We can stop for a few minutes. Its no problem. Yeah, okay. She nodded and set down her pen. She sat there silently while I stood at the window, watching the snow pile up on the
roofs of the few stranded cars in the parking lot. I had always loved the snow, and despite all the violence and the trauma, I still felt a sense of calm and reverence as I watched it. It was like watching it as a child, knowing that the snow had relieved you of the burdens of school and chores and all that remained was the luxury of the celebrated and adored snow-day. My thought process was broken by the lawyers comment, Are you okay? Im alright, I said. I reached into my pocket, retrieved the cylindrical pill carrier carrying my painkillers and popped a couple. I was lying: my kidney was roaring, my knees felt like they were filled with concrete, and my head was throbbing at the rhythmic beat of my pulse. I know you must be tired, Ferris said, her voice not so robotic anymore, I am sorry to put you through this, but its what we have to do. I understand. Youre just doing your job. There was another pause and I returned my focus to the snow outside. The silence seemed to fill the room like a gas, and I could feel myself drifting off into something in between a memory and a waking dream. * I was 8 years old.
Charlie and I were standing in front of the large white farmhouse we rented during those days, before my mother and father divorced. The snow had excused us from school, and we were frolicking around in the front yard, playing. My mother had provided us with insulated snowsuits and boots, and we felt impervious to the wetness and the cold. The snow was so thick that we could leap off the eight foot cliff where the hill dropped off next to the house and land on our backs safely without being hurt by the impact. Rachel was on the porch, uninterested in running around in the wet, cold powder. She and mom had been baking most of the day, one of their favorite pastimes, and only now as the sun was an hour or two from descending did Rachel step foot outside the door. She held Michaels hand, who was two at the time, as they walked out and observed the falling snow. Michael looked at it like it was a miracle of nature, his eyes wide and eyebrows raised. Dad was inside listening to a college football game on the radio and drinking. These were the good days of my childhood. The serenity was shattered by Rachels piercing scream. Across the front yard, standing next to the snow-covered creek bed that ran the entire length of our property, there was a black bear staring right at Rachel and Michael. It growled,
but did not move. The growl was sufficient, though, and sent Rachel running back into the house, screaming the whole way. Dad calmly rose from his seat to investigate the scream, while mom sprinted for the door and grabbed Michael up off his feet. She slammed the door behind them and stared out the window at the creature. Dad was not worried. He was not impressed. He was not intimidated. He simply nodded his head in recognition of the job needing to be done, and walked away from the door. He went upstairs to his gun cabinet. Charlie and I were on the side yard, less than 50 yards away from where the bear was standing. We stared at it, and it stared back, the three of us seeming to ask the unspoken question of what now? I moved slowly, not looking the bear in the eyes, but not turning my back, strafing to the side towards the house. Charlie mimicked my movement. Getting closer to the house, though, meant getting closer to the bear, which the growling beast would not abide. With every slow stride, his growl seemed to increase. A wind passed east to west across the yard and I caught a scent of the animal, thick and sour and bloody. It had a visceral effect on me: my stomach turned and the hair on my neck stood on end. My dad walked out the house.
He was in sweatpants and black combat boots. In his hands was an AR-15 bushmaster. He walked calmly towards Charlie and me, standing between us and the bear. We hid behind our father as he escorted us to the porch. When we got to the porch, Charlie ran for the door and slammed it behind him as he ran inside. I did not. I stood on the porch with Dad as he stared down the invading animal. I asked, Are you going to kill it? Yeah, He said, Its not safe to leave it out here. Hes just going to keep coming back, digging through trash for food. Hes just hungry, I said, Whats wrong with that? Its not wrong, He said, raising the butt of the rifle to his shoulder, Its not right, wrong, or anything in between. Dad held his breath and fired three rounds. The bear was on all fours, facing us, and the first round nearly landed between its eyes. The other two landed in its chest. It made an attempt to move after the first round, but barely executed the first step before collapsing into the snow. The blood soaked into the pristine white powder around it, steaming and melting as it flowed. Dad turned to me and said, Sometimes, You dont have a choice.
I felt like I was going to simultaneously cry, scream and puke as I watched the bear take its final breaths. That was the first time I watched something die. * Malcolm? Ferris asked, her voice slicing into my daydream and ripping me out of it, back into the present, Are you ready to get back to it? Yeah, I said as I turned away from the window and returned to my seat. You said you went back to sleep after hearing about Caroline Hausers death. What happened after that? Well, I didnt go back to sleep so much as I sat down on the couch and fell asleep. I woke a couple hours later with a sore neck
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It was eleven oclock. I got up off the couch and lit a cigarette. With the mild hangover, the cigarette made my mouth water from nausea. I walked into the kitchen to discover the remains of the previous nights drunken poker game. The coffee pot was on and half full, and I helped myself to a cup before I walked into the office. Rachel hadnt gotten out of bed yet, and both Dad and his silver Cadillac were missing. I assumed he had taken the diary to Sheriff Duncan. I walked back into the house and up the stairs to my bedroom, knocking softly on the wall before coming around the corner. Im awake, I heard Morgan say. I rounded the corner, and then my feet involuntarily stopped. Morgan was sitting up, on top of the covers, wearing an
old Virginia Cavaliers t-shirt of mine, and little else. Her hair was down and her makeup was off. She glowed in the morning light seeping from the window. Sorry, I had to borrow a shirt, She said, throwing one of the blankets over her legs. Its no problem, I said, trying my hardest to remain stoic, I can come back later. What do you need? Well, I said, pausing to consider my next words, I have some bad news. Her expression changed from curiosity to dread, What now? Caroline Hauser is dead. Wh-What? She stuttered, I dont understand. I got a call this morning from Will Fuller. He said that it looks like she committed suicide. But we just Her eyes filled and her lip shivered, Why is this happening? My only response to her lament was to shake my head. There was a basket with clean clothes next to the bed, and I retrieved a pair of jeans and a shirt from it. I laid a hand on her shoulder and wordlessly left the room. Downstairs, I fixed some coffee and sat down at the table. I had to push the empties and trash away to find room to set my
cup down. My head, legs and kidney all felt like they were being prodded with a red-hot branding iron. I reaching into my pocket and retrieved the metal tube that held a few of my painkillers and chewed them up before swallowing them with my coffee. I started throwing away the garbage on the table. I swallowed the last ounce out of a couple bottles and chased it down with my coffee. Once it was straight, I retrieved a pan and a pound of bacon and got to work fixing breakfast. Morgan emerged, wearing the same jeans shed had on yesterday, but still in my UVA shirt. Her hair was thrown together in a bun on the back of her head, with a pencil keeping it in place. She still emanated the carefree beauty she had earlier, and I found myself nervous around her, which was unusual for me. Even when I was attracted to a woman, it was rare that I had the juvenile anxiety that I experienced watching her pad around my house in bare feet, wearing one of my old Tshirts. In her hand was a framed photo of a 15 year-old version of me standing next to a teenage girl with dark, curly hair. My arms were around her and hers around me, and we both looked at the camera with matching forced smiles. The picture had some fading and was rough around the borders in some spots, which betrayed its age and importance.
Who is she? Her name was Gabrielle Morgan, I said, retrieving some plates from the cabinet, That was Junior Prom. She was your girlfriend? Yeah, I replied plainly, not wanting to give her reason to investigate further, A long time ago. Are you still close with her? She asked, and when I didnt answer at first, she said, She must be special if you keep her picture up in your room. Its a long story, I said, hesitating, Why do you ask? I want to know. Alright, I said, and it occurred that I was lying to myself. I wanted to talk about it; otherwise, I would hide her picture where no one could see it. My father and my siblings all knew the story, and it had been a long time since I had a reason to talk about Gabby. I lit a cigarette and sat down at the table with my breakfast. I offered some to Morgan, who took some scrambled eggs and coffee. I didnt say anything at first; I was collecting my thoughts and going over the story before I began. When I began to speak, the tale seemed to flow out of me like water out of a tap. *
The girl in the photograph haunted me, like the lingering scent of a storm. I had dreamt of her since the day I met her; of the scent of hair, of the curl of her neck, of the grooves along her back. And in my dreams, she eternally remained as I had last seen her: the pretty girl in the burgundy dress. Three years before the photograph was taken, I was an awkward sixth grader who wanted nothing more than to make friends at his new school: The Jefferson School, a combined middle and high school for the gifted, was located south of Victoria. It was a public school that served the surrounding counties as a destination for their academically or intellectually advanced students. Being selected was an honor I was unhappy to receive; it meant leaving all of my friends, travelling over half an hour back and forth every day, having an hour of extra school every day and an extra six weeks every year. But at the insistence of both my mother and my father, I acquiesced to their wishes and swallowed my objections. The school year began with little drama. I took well to the high school system of classes and semesters, and the younger students were sequestered in a separate building from the older ones, preventing the obvious instances of bullying and terrorizing that would come from integrating such drastic age differences.
For my third period of the day, I had the option of Agriculture 1, which I was not interested in, Computer Aided Drafting 1, which I was even less interested in, or Juniors Chorus. There were literally no other options. When I saw the amount of attractive girls that made up the school choir, my decision was made. On the very first day, I was shy and self-conscious about singing. Up until then, the only times I had sung publicly were in church, where I could blend my voice into the other voices and my mistakes were inaudible. In the Jefferson School Choir, I was one of only five males, and the Instructor, Mrs. Gillard, was not content with subtle, non-invasive performances from us. She wanted the five of us to sound like fifteen, to make up for the disproportionate quantities of the two genders. That first day, as soon as class began, Mrs. Gillard called me to the front of the class and asked me to sing. I stood there, frozen in terror, unable to think of anything I felt comfortable singing. As I stood in front of the class, awkwardly silent, the only thing that came to mind was The Eagles Desperado. I sang it a cappella, and did a good enough job to warrant applause afterward. When I observed the clapping classmates, I caught my first glimpse of a shy, pretty brunette with black curls framing her
face and a subtle, but feminine and beautiful smirk. She returned my gaze and I tried to be casual and aloof, but failed miserably because try as I might, I could not divert my eyes from hers. I stared at her the whole way back to my seat. I learned as the day went on that we shared two other classes and that her name was Gabrielle Morgan. Soon, my existence revolved around trying to be near her as much as humanly possible but subtly enough that she wasnt threatened or disturbed by it. I stood in front of her in Chorus, where my secret infatuation was exposed due to my inability to not turn around to look at her. She first didnt seem to care; she attentively focused on the music in her hands and the directions from Mrs. Gillards hands. Then, in a moment of indescribable joy, she looked me in the eyes and smiled. She matched my gaze until I was forced to turn around. After that day, I noticed that being around her required significantly less effort on my part. When I worked up the courage to speak to her, it was to ask if I could sit next to her at lunch. She wordlessly nodded, and I sat down and immediately began searching desperately for something hilarious or witty to say. I was silent for an awkwardly long period of time, wrestling with the mind-numbing anxiety that plagued me. I was helplessly shy, and the
awkwardness persisted until two of Gabbys girlfriends came and sat across from her, excluding me from the conversation. When lunch was over, I stood to ritually return my tray, and in a moment of genius, I stuck out my hand and offered to take hers as well. The small act of chivalry earned me the job of walking her to class. Conversation was difficult and painfully awkward at first, but gradually my nervousness faded and I discovered that I could actually be charming if I set my mind to it. This continued for several weeks until I devised an ingenious and romantic way to earn what would be the first romantic kiss of my life. I came to school carrying a small jewelry box. I carried it throughout the day, not daring to let it be seen by anyone, or my designs would be exposed. I waited until Chorus and chose the point in class when we were free to visit the bathrooms and water fountains if need be. I knew that she always went to the water fountain, and usually alone. I put the box in my pocket and followed her. She turned after taking a few neat sips and looked at me standing there, box in hand with blank confusion in her eyes. It was the reaction I had dreaded. I held out the box and said, Theres something I wanted to give you and she accepted the box. She opened it and it was empty. She looked up from the box, even more confused
than she had been before, and I leaned in for the kiss. She pulled her head back, completing the most humiliating moment of my life thus far. I stood there in front of her, paralyzed with embarrassment, unable to draw together the words even to offer a simple apology. Fortunately, the moment was brief; she leaned forward and planted her lips on mine and kissed me, sending my entire cardiovascular system into unmitigated chaos. It was a feeling of bliss that I had never known before, and one that I was chase for the rest of my life. We became the junior high equivalent of the old married couple. A year was an impossibly long time to maintain a relationship at that age, and people were amazed to see Gabby and I stay together much longer than that. Her shyness evaporated and I got to know the personality that it masked. She was quiet, even meek sometimes, but she was also stubborn and strong-willed. We quickly discovered that despite our apparent differences in personality and disposition, we had much more in common than not. In sixth and seventh grade, the afterschool trips to the skating rink were the most popular activity of the school year (sometimes more popular than the dances). She and I could be seen expertly skating hand-in-hand, weaving around the slower skaters like race cars. It was a status symbol to have someone
to skate with in those days, and I felt like a king among men skating with her. Alone, we would lie around talking for hours, but the ease with which we conversed seemed to distort time, and those hours would seem like a few minutes at most. I would lay back and she would lay perpendicular to me, her arms and head across my chest, and her hair draped over me like black velvet curtains. The difference between ages twelve and fifteen is massive. No three year period in life is more transitional. As expected, the nature of our relationship changed along with us. In eighth grade, the physical aspects became more intense, and around Christmas of that year, while my mother and siblings were away at the Victoria Christmas Parade, we finally offered our virginities to each other. I was unprepared for how enthusiastic she was about the whole thing: we had both been nervous and awkward the first time, but the times after that came more naturally, and soon she would come to my house, step into my bedroom, lock the door, and be out of her clothes faster than I was. Along with sexual maturity, the nature of our mischief changed as well. I began copying Charlie and smoking menthols and marijuana. She was reluctant at first, but later she was just as enthusiastic as she was about sex. We were able to sneak
beers and whiskey from my dads house, and one time wed even taken a whole bottle of bourbon and snuck off to the woods. Her mother became unhappy with me, and rightly so, but her efforts to keep us apart were futile. It was around the end of eighth grade that Gabbys headaches began. They were painful and debilitating cluster headaches that brought her to tears. She would go to her darkened room and lay face down, crying into a pillow for hours. I tried to help, but in the end, there was nothing I could do that would be of any benefit. She and I both felt helpless and worried, and instead of the situation resolving itself, time only seemed to make matters worse. She began to have periods of blind rage and intense sorrow, both seemingly without reason or provocation. I knew something was going on that was far more intricate and severe than cluster headaches, but my concerns fell on deaf ears; her mother didnt have the means to get her to the doctor, and would outright refuse to listen to any talk about doing so. As we began high school, our relationship was suffering from the stress of the headaches and mood swings. I endured, and she was always quick to apologize, but sometimes an apology would not cover the damages sustained. I couldnt stomach even the simple suggestion of breaking up, and she knew that no
matter how hard things got, that not having me around would only compound the problems, not solve them. Early that year, she suddenly moved in with her father and his girlfriend. Her mother returned to New Jersey and very little was spoken about why. I also found out later that her father had managed to get her seen at a doctors office and they began diagnosing the headaches. From there, everything seemed to happen very fast. She came to school one day and said that she was going to be in the hospital for a while, but wouldnt tell me much more than that. I was regularly questioning her about what was really going on, and she refused to talk about it, even denied that there was anything to discuss. She was gone for a week after that, and when she returned, she called me and asked for me to come and see her at her fathers house. She was seated on the small concrete porch outside the front door. Her eyes were swollen and red from crying. I walked to her and sat beside her, but at first, neither of us said a word. She leaned over and set her head against me and wept quietly for a long while before she said anything at all. Then, when she stopped crying long enough, she told me the news: She was moving back to New Jersey to be with her mother. She would be leaving in April, coincidentally the day after Junior Prom. I
begged and I pleaded, but there was nothing I could do or say to change what was about to happen. At first she said that she had no choice in the matter. Then, she said that it was her decision. I didnt know which it was, but I didnt need to know the truth to know that I was being lied to. It wouldnt change what was happening anyway. The day of the dance arrived and I prepared to go and say goodbye to the girl who had been the axis upon which my life revolved for the past three years. I was dressed like a stand-in for Reservoir Dogs, with a simple black suit and thin black tie. I showed up early, hoping that Id be there before she was; I was wrong. She stood in the long walkway from the double doors. Her hair had been curled, and she wore a slim burgundy dress that I was convinced God himself had sewn for her. As beautiful as she was, when I thought to myself that Id likely not see her again after that night, I wanted to vomit. We cried almost continuously that night, and spent most of it sitting off by ourselves. The teachers who were chaperoning left us completely unmolested. No one dared interrupt what they knew was a brutally tragic moment for the two of us, no matter how much affection we showed.
Gabby cried as much as I did, which confused me. I felt like she could stop what was happening any time she chose. I didnt understand how she could be tearing them apart voluntarily, and then act like it was the most hurtful thing shed ever been through. The dance concluded, and everyone left the building except for us and a couple chaperones. We were the last students to walk out of the doors, and in the parking lot were two vehicles: Her dads Explorer and my dads Cadillac. I am going to miss you, She said. I dont even know what Im going to be, I said, with spasms in my throat, I dont want to have to do this without you. You have to, She said, And so do I. I will love you for the rest of my life, I said, and it was the last thing I ever said to her. She left with her dad and drove away. I was distraught. In the days that followed, I called her house and no one picked up. I sent a letter to her dads house, and received no reply. It was in early July, three months later, that I received a letter:
MalcolmI am so sorry. I hate that I had to put you through this, but I couldnt hurt you. You have to
believe me when I tell you that this was the way that would hurt you the least. I want you to do something for me: forget about me. Pretend that I moved on and found someone else, and then go out and find someone for you, too. You are mad because I left, and you should be. I want you to be mad. I am so sorry. -Gabrielle
I didnt understand it at first. I realized pretty soon what was going on; it has been staring me in the face the entire time, but when I finally put it all together, it was too late. I called her fathers house again, to no avail. My dad made a few phone calls and was able to find her mothers address in New Jersey. I called, and finally, for the first time since she had left, I was able to talk to someone who knew what was going on. As soon as she figured out who I was, her mother began to cry. Helen Niziolek had never been my biggest fan, but her tone was more aggressive than I had expected. Why are you doing this? Just stop calling! There is nothing to talk about! She hung up, and no one answered my call afterwards.
My dad obliged me, and when I was 17 and had finally gotten my Drivers License, I drove to New Jersey to try and find her, or at least find some answers. I was able to find her brother, who directed me to a field off a side road near Bass Creek State Park. I followed the drive around to the corner, and following his directions, I found the stone bearing the name Gabrielle Morgan. She had no middle name. The date on the right was July 7th; the day I received the letter.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I let the silence hang there for a second. Her eyes were filling and I could feel the stone of grief in my stomach begin to turn. Suddenly, I began to worry that I may shed some tears, as well. I hurried to finish the story. It was an inoperable Glioblastoma; a brain tumor, I said, grabbing a half-empty glass of Bills scotch and guzzling the remains before chasing it with my coffee, Shed known for a while, but she didnt want me to The sentence was abandoned and I got up to take our plates. The sick feeling got worse as I considered the words that had just come out of my mouth, and decided that the time for reminiscing was over: we had work to do.
I am going to call my dad, I said, laying the dishes in the sink. A slow-burning fire in my stomach flickered up into my esophagus and I belched some combination of acid, gas, and coffee. It was right then that my stomach and my head registered the morphine I had taken, and I rubbed my eyes with fatigue, I have to find out what happened to Caroline Hauser. What about Jenny? She asked, passively. Were going to check the cabin from her note, I said, I wouldnt get my hopes up, but if she was so confident that this was what was going to happen, then wed be stupid not to check it out. Just give me a few minutes to get myself together and we can head out. Okay. I can do the dishes if you want, She said. They can wait. Im going to go call Dad. Okay, She said. I looked at her, and it felt like the aggression I had seen the day before had been diminished with trust. Her trust in my father and I to find her sister had finally given her some relief. Her relief terrified me. This girl, who I had once cared deeply for, was now relying on me to recover the person she was closest to in this world, and I was a half-drunk unemployed EMT whose only real asset was a
half-drunk father who happens to be an ex-cop. I realized, as I was dropping dishes in the sink, belching something that came from the bowels of hell, and realizing that starting my day with whiskey and morphine might result in involuntary unconsciousness, that I was in over my head. As if she could hear what I was thinking, Morgan asked, Are you alright? Yeah, I said, rinsing off my hands and drying them on the towel next to me, Dont worry about the dishes. They can wait, I rubbed my forehead and reached into my pocket and lit a cigarette. It worsened my nausea, and I immediately stabbed it back out in an ashtray on the counter. The smoke lingered over the ashtray for a second, and I froze, staring. I watched the wisp of smoke twist up and disappear in the air a few feet above the counter. It was beautiful. Telling that story always had a disastrous effect on my general disposition, yet I somehow couldnt resist telling it. It was emotional masochism. I got lost, staring at the smoke, and I didnt know the Morgan was beside me until I felt her hand on mine.
Im sorry if I made you upset, She said, I saw the picture last night, and I spent all night wondering who she was. I dont remember seeing her in school. Im pretty sure around this period, you were oblivious to the existence of my friends and me. I know. I was kind of a bitch. Its okay. You were far from the bitchiest in those days. She sighed regretfully, and went about cleaning the rest of the remains from the poker game. She returned to the sink once the kitchen was as close to clean as she cared to make it, and I was letting my head hang, trying to train my brain to ignore the screaming in my right flank and the fluid pounding in my head. Morgan put her index finger under my chin and moved my head to face her, I dont know how to tell you how much I appreciate what youre doing. No one else would help me. She looked at me for a few more seconds before slamming her face into mine and planting what had to be her best kiss directly on my lips. The minute I reciprocated in the slightest, we found ourselves irresistibly tumbling toward a full-on makeout session. I let the kissing pan out to the side, and buried my face into the side of her neck.
The vibrato in her breath was stimulating, and suddenly, as if she had planned for it, the pain in my flank and in my head vanished. Her hands found their way to my waist, and she pulled me into her, like I was the only thing standing between her and freezing to death. I was considering going for the bra strap when I was startled by Rashad, coming out of the guest room with Rachel, screaming. We got Five-oh coming up the driveway! They four deep, at least. At first, Morgan and I didnt move from our embrace. In that moment, a thousand things shot through my brain. I considered the few options we had: running would only make us look guilty of something, even if we did get away, and resisting would only get us more charges than whatever they had cooked up for us. The best thing we could do would be to take our chances at the courthouse. Theres a loose floorboard. Its the third one from the bathroom wall. Put the letter in there, Morgan nodded and rushed up the stairs. I looked at Rashad, Go and put some clothes on. Theyre probably here for me, but they may take everyone just for the fuck of it. I grabbed a plastic bag and walked briskly into the library and grabbed a flash drive from the tray next to the
computer. I quickly copied the files with the diary pictures, the case documents, and my personal files, and once it was finished, I opened the window, put it in the bag and threw it into a bush near the woodline. I closed the window, popped a double dose of morphine while I still had the luxury of doing so, and then I calmly walked back to the kitchen, picked my nearly whole cigarette up off the counter, and lit it again. It didnt take them long. I heard, SHERIFFS DEPARTMENT! SEARCH WARRANT! and then the front door flew off its hinges, sending forth a shower of splinters in its wake. There were five men in black SWAT gear, stacked up outside the door, typical for a tactical incursion, and they walked in, single file, with their weapons drawn. I put my hands over my head and knelt down on the floor, with the cigarette still dangling from my lips. I was thrown to the floor, and a heavy knee was planted in my back to ensure that I stayed there. From my vantage point, the only thing I could see was the burning cigarette next to my head. I heard the sounds of the other officers intermittently shouting CLEAR! while they restrained Rachel, Michael, Dante and Morgan individually. Morgan was
screaming Get the fuck off me! and gnawing, clawing and striking at her captors. In the midst of all the noises, I could hear the crisp clicking of dress shoes. In front of my face, I saw a pair a spit-shined pair of Parade Duty shoes. I heard a voice that sounded familiar, and didnt take much of a leap to figure out who it was. Malcolm Raines, youre charged with obstruction of justice, tampering with evidence, making false statements to law enforcement and possession of a controlled substance with intent to distribute. I painfully twisted my neck up to look at him; Bob Melton was standing there in his dress uniform, with a smug grin on his face. Too bad being a racist piece of shit isnt a crime, I said. He said nothing in reply. He was still for a long, dramatic beat and then he bent down and picked up the lit cigarette off the ground. Before I could say anything else, he stabbed it out in my left eye. I cringed and growled, but I did not scream. When Morgan was brought through the living room, she saw what he was doing and began screaming
at Melton, but what she was saying, I cannot recall. I was a little preoccupied with my burnt eyelid at the time. I was dragged out of the house and my captors where careful to make sure they slammed my head into all available surfaces on their way to the police cruisers. I heard Bob say quietly that I fell onto my cigarette and burnt my eye to the SWAT team, and saw the team nod their heads out of my good eye. Once I got into the back of the car, I painfully forced my eyelid open to see that I wasnt blind in my left eye, but that a small amount of burning ember had made it past the lid and into the fleshy pink around my eye. It felt like someone had put hydrochloric acid in an eye dropper and squirted it into my bare eyeball. Fortunately, the morphine kicked in pretty quick on account of not having eaten, and I could have actually had the acid and not felt too much pain. I was in the car myself. Two of the three remaining cruisers held two people each: Rachel and Morgan in one, and Michael and Dante in the other. I could see them speaking with their neighbors, and I sulked into my seat and closed my eyes. I slept. One would assume that being arrested, having a cigarette put out in my eye, and being slammed against
several different walls repeatedly would prevent someone from getting any meaningful rest, but I was buzzed on enough Morphine to kill a full-grown elephant, and probably slightly concussed from all the trauma to my head. I have no idea how long I was out, but when I awoke, I was in the driveway of the Sheriffs Office, slowing to a stop. They didnt move me at first. I couldnt see the cruisers with the others inside them, and I could only search but so much with my wounded eye causing serious complications when it came to my peripheral vision. I cursed Melton in my head for a second as I felt my eye sting and spasm and well with a milky fluid. I was almost asleep again when the door I was leaning on flew open. One of the SWAT team members, now with his helmet off and a bandanna over his face to conceal his identity, grabbed me by the arm and forced me out of the car. I was led through the key-card door in the lobby, down a few white hallways, and finally into a small, windowless interrogation room near the center of the building. I sat silently in there for half an hour until the door opened and Melton walked through the door. How is your eye, Mister Raines?
Its about as swollen and raw as your wifes asshole, I said, without a beat, She really likes me to make it hurt when shes high. Very funny, He said, using his best poker face, I bet youve been saving that one up the whole way down the road. I said nothing. No clever comments? You dont have some witty comeback for me? Melton stared at me, with his eyebrows perched up on his head, I suppose its hard to feel real smart after falling on your own lit cigarette, huh? Falling on my own cigarette? Is that what youre going with? I breathed a deep sigh, trying not to let my rage infect my thought process too much. Once my decision making and reasoning process was impregnated with rage, it would be almost impossible to get it back. I resisted, and focused intently on the words coming out of my mouth, Explain the physics of that to me, Bob. How would a cigarette that is lying on the ground manage to stab me in the eye while I am flat on my stomach? Show me how that would be feasible. Im afraid you dont understand whats going on here, Mister Raines, He said smugly, You have no right to ask
for anything. You are here to answer my questions. I assume youd like an attorney, in which case we can save both of us a lot of time and send your ass to lockup right now. Is that what you want to do? Not quite yet. I think it would be wise for me to get my eye looked at, I said calmly, Yknow, just to play it safe. Oh, yeah, okay, He condescended, Ill get right on that. But first, how about you answer a few questions? We can talk about this like men, right? Let me make this easy for you, I was slipping in my efforts to control the fury building inside me, The answer to half your questions is going to be go fuck yourself. Another quarter of them will be I want my lawyer, and then the final quarter of them will involve anal sex with your junkie whore of a wife. I see, He said. He got up and looked toward the camera in the corner. He nodded before standing up from his chair. I knew what was coming and braced myself. He backhanded me on left side of my face, making sure that the knuckle of his index finger landed in my wounded left eye. I made no noise other than the expulsion of breath. Then he grabbed a handful of my shoulder-length
hair and used it to force my head into the table. I felt everything go blurry and hot, and I felt like I would puke. My mouth filled with blood. Youre fucked, Malcolm, He hissed at me, Weve got the diary. Weve got your files. Weve got the sister, and shes going back to Charlottesville as we speak, which means your involvement in this matter is over. And now, I am going to spend all of my available time making your life as uncomfortable as possible. You and your drunk old man. Now say something smart again, you worthless wanna-be junkie fuck. I shrugged, and summoned all of my available strength before I spat a whole mouthful of blood in his face, eyes, and down his shirt. He backed up, wiping his eyes and face and I said in a slur, Something smart. After what I assume was a few more blows to the head, I was out cold. I felt myself being carried, and when I awoke, I was in an ambulance. I looked around in terror for a second, disoriented and confused. I was handcuffed to the gurney, and the light above me was blinding my hindered sight, making the terror more intense. My head was screaming and my eye was on fire. My right kidney felt like it was being
ripped out, and my stomach was full of rot. Before Id gotten my wits about me, I leaned to the side and vomited harder than I would have believed I was capable at the moment. When it stopped a few minutes later, I heard a mans voice shouting obscenities at me. I closed my eyes and regulated my breathing, and despite the intense pain, I was able to gather enough consciousness to see the man next to me. Nick-fucking-Besley. What the fuck is happening? I demanded. Close your mouth, Malcolm, He said, impatiently. What are you doing? Where are we? We are on the way to UVA. Im treating you for an overdose. I didnt fucking overdose. I was beaten unconscious. Thats not what I was told. I took a second, and then it occurred to me why I felt so horrible, You gave me fucking Narcan, didnt you? Malcolm, shut up. Well be at the hospital soon. Oh, you motherfucker, I said. Narcan, or Naloxone, was an Opioid Antagonist. A shot of that in your vein and any trace of opioids in your system were completely nullified. Its used on Heroin
addicts in mid-overdose, and it would send them from neardeath intoxication to full-on withdrawals in less around ten seconds, and it would remain that way for around an hour. My discomfort was a result of not only being beaten, blinded, burned, brutally hungover and suffering from acute kidney distention, but also from morphine withdrawal. I began vomiting again, and I was able to focus enough to aim for Besleys shoes. I missed for the most part, but even a drop on him was enough to consider my efforts a success. When we arrived at UVA, he was sure to slam the cot as much as possible as he forced it through the hallways and into a room, where he loosed the handcuffs and jerked the sheet onto the hospital bed, after which he left without a word. I passed out after vomiting again, and when I woke, I had an IV in each arm and something fantastic in my veins. I was in a room in the Emergency Department, and if I had thought to look at the clock on the wall, I would have seen it was four oclock in the afternoon; six hours had passed since I was detained in my house, though I had no recollection of it at the time. My left eye ached and burned, but I could move the lid and even see light, colors and shapes; an improvement from the ambulance ride.
With my peripheral vision obscured, I had to turn my head uncomfortably to the left to see the nurse standing beside me clicking the keys of a wall-mounted computer. When I moved my head, she looked me in the eyes, and I could see her silently assessing my level of consciousness. Mister Raines? She asked loudly. I nodded. Youre in the Emergency Room, She continued to speak to me as though I was hard of hearing, My name is Becky. Im your nurse. You passed out in the Ambulance. Youve been asleep for a few hours now. What happened? Well, you passed out during questioning at the police station. They called the ambulance. It looks like you hit your head a couple times, and of course, theres a burn on your eyelid. Events began to return to me, and I found myself unable to contain my fury. My blood pressure spiked, and I went to move when I discovered that I had a tube in my dick and a heart monitor connected to five leads that were glued to my chest hair. I decided against trying to get out of bed at the time and I laid my head against the pillow in defeat.
Becky went on to tell me that I had received several stitches in the side of my head while I was unconscious. They had taken a CT of my brain, and drawn blood for testing, as well. Before she left, she said the doctor had ordered more pain medicine for me. From the front pocket of her scrubs, she pulled out a small ampoule of Dilaudid and hooked it into the IV line, before pushing the green plunger at the end and sending its contents into the veins of my right arm. I felt my neck and my back tense up and a rush shoot through my peripheral nervous system, instantly dulling the burn and ache of my eye, my back and my head, simultaneously. The pain from the multiple injuries was still palpable, but nowhere as intense as before. Of the myriad of thoughts running through my head, one stood above all others: where was Dad, and what was he going to do when he found out about all this. I wouldnt have to wait long for my answer.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I was contemplating a method of removing my restraints when I heard a pair of shoes clicking their way toward my room. They didnt have the rapid, deliberate cadence of a doctor, and there was no way in hell that anyone who worked on their feet all day would be wearing a shoe that sounded like that. I felt a knot of anxiety form; I was used to the vulnerability of being in a hospital bed, but not being bound to the railing of one, especially with footsteps approaching. In between me and the open door of my room was a curtain, drawn across the length of the room. I heard the clicking steps come to a halt outside the open door. For an endless second, the doorway was darkened but the curtain remained untouched. I dont know how I knew who it was, but
once I did, I laughed heartily when I considered the phrase the man behind the curtain. I said aloud, You cant make this shit up. Walter Mason jerked the curtain to the side when he heard me begin to laugh. Glad to see you again, Mister Raines. I struggled to catch my breath, Given my current circumstances, Im sure you are. Oh, surely not, He walked closer to the bed, standing only a few feet away, Actually, I wanted to assure you that I am quite displeased with Brother Meltons behavior. The manner in which he administrated the law in this case was nothing short of barbaric. It is not how a member of our congregation should behave. As far as I can tell, its exactly how your congregation behaves. Or, should I say organization? Whatever you murderous bastards call yourselves. What organization? You surely dont believe the lies of one desperate, dishonest and discredited journalist, do you? I ignored the question, Next youre going to tell me you had nothing to do with Caroline Hauser. How many people are you going to kill to protect one person?
I still dont know what youre talking about. Its a shame about the young reporter, but I had nothing to do with it. And when it comes to protecting Martin, I cannot sit back and do nothing while a man who is like a son to me loses his promising career and livelihood over some witchhunt. You are a fucking psychopath. No, He said, and for smallest moment, flashed a smile, Sometimes, I think I am the last sane person alive. Spoken like a true narcissist. Now I see where Pierce gets it, I set my head back and closed my uninjured eye to rest it, Why the fuck are you even here? If youre going to do the bit where you threaten me and tell me to back off and leave you alone, fucking spare me. He spoke in a hushed, serious tone, I wanted to tell you that I will personally see to it that even if the charges against you get dismissed or dropped, there will more in your very near future. And if those are dropped, there will be more after that. You will spend the rest of your days going in and out of handcuffs, he paused, But it doesnt have to be that way. Just tell me what you did
with it. And please, dont act like you dont know what Im talking about. Try as I might, the it he was referring to could have been so many things at that point that I honestly had no idea what location he would like me to disclose. Sporting my best poker face, I didnt make a sound. I also want you to know that I dont care about what you think I have done or what you think I am guilty of, or what kind of man you think I am. None of that matters to me. What matters to me is my family; your actions directly cost me the life of my grandson, and you are going to pay me for what you owe. One day very soon, you will pay your debt to me in full. Fair enough, I said, shrugging without opening my eyes, But your grandson was a racist piece of shit, and I would shoot him again if I had the chance. Last chance: Where is it? Its as deep in my asshole as I could get it. Youre welcome to go dig for it. You know you want to, I said, whimsically, continuing to rest my head and my lone functioning eye, Once I get out of here, Im coming after your other grandsons, and most of the corrupt motherfuckers in your little club; Yknow, the one that you claim doesnt
exist, I said. Mason turned and began to walk to the door and I continued to speak, And I am going to find out what you did to Jenny Knightly, and what really happened to Caroline Hauser, and you and your friends are going to beg to be put in jail. And I dont know where Morgan is, but if any harm comes to her, I promise you that Ill make fucking you up the reason I get out of bed in the morning. He paused for a moment before turning and glaring into my eyes. His tone changed from a menacing to didactic, In the Bible, there were always opportunities for the enemies of God to renounce their paths of destruction and come into grace. This was your chance; but you have chosen the way of Ramses, and the Philistines, and the Romans. And for that, you will suffer just as they did. By the end of his proselytizing, I could hardly contain my laughter, Fuck you. You murder innocent women and invoke the Bible? I said, Spare me your bullshit. You use the church as a decoy. To you, its another implement for you to use to your advantage, just like everyone and everything around you. Go back to your mansion and masturbate to Christian Radio or whatever it is you do. He was nodding as he walked silently out of the room; his heels clicking their way down the hall. In spite of the
anger and stress, or maybe because of it, I felt myself drifting off again, and I fell back into a painful sleep. * When I awoke, and could only open my right eye. Bill Lamar was standing next to my bed on the left, and Will Fuller on the right. There was a metallic chiming and I looked down to see Will removing the handcuffs from the bed first, then my wrist. Gmorning, Sunshine, Bill said loudly, his voice like a timpani in my head, How you feeling? Like someone put a cigarette out in my fucking eye. How are you? Oh, Im just dandy, He said with a smile, Your dad will be here shortly. He had to handle a few things before he came to see you. Walter Mason just paid me a visit. I know, Bill said, We saw him in the parking lot. Wheres Dad? Does he know? Yeah, Will said, He knows. I noticed the grin on Bills face, and I could assume that Dad was not pleased when he heard how I was treated during my arrest.
Will spoke again, Youve been bonded. The charges havent been dropped, yet, but Sheriff Duncan is talking with the magistrate, so I dont think theres going to be a problem there. Mason offered to drop the charges if I gave him something. He didnt say what it was, just kept asking where it was. He wasnt going to drop the charges. Lester is with a judge now trying to kiss his ass enough to make it stick. Who were the cops with Melton? Meltons fucking cronies. Theyre Gilead members he made sure got hired. It was legal, but barely. Most of them are on unpaid leave pending an investigation. What happened to everyone else? Bill said, Rachel and Morgan were released. Rachel is looking for Morgan as we speak. Morgan was taken into the Sheriffs Office and no one saw her after that. I would bet that shes in handcuffs being driven to Pierces house in Richmond. And Michael? Dante? Michael is being held for questioning. The got a bag of weed off Dante, so hes in lockup. Fantastic.
During a short silence, a doctor walked up and rapped slightly on the open door with his knuckles. Will began walking toward the door, and Bill laid an affectionate hand on my shoulder before he did the same. Dont worry about that right now, Bill said, You just relax and get yourself fixed up. Well get this all sorted out later. They walked out and the young doctor walked in. He was a thin man in his early thirties, with a nearly shaved head that almost camouflaged his deeply receded hairline. He appeared polite and interested, and lacked the cynicism and euphemistic duplicity that was typical in Emergency Room doctors. Hello, Mister Raines? He asked. I nodded, and he stuck out his hand, Im Doctor Bradley. How are you feeling? Like someone put a cigarette out in my eye. Fair enough, He said, with a smile, We can give you some more pain medication. The good news, is that the CTs showed that theres no serious damage from the wounds on your head. Ive paged our Ophthalmologist on call, and theyre going to be in shortly to examine your eye, just to
be on the safe side, but it looks like the eyelid got the worst of it. Yeah, I said, as the pain in my eye flared up as if it knew we were discussing it, Its hard to feel lucky right now, I guess. I was reading in your records that you have chronic kidney stones as well as other kidney problems. We did a quick ultrasound while you were sleeping and we saw some swelling on your right kidney that has us concerned. You are cared for by Doctor Gold, in Victoria? Thats correct. The reason I ask is, wed like to take a look at your bloodwork in the past so we can compare it to what we have. We drew some blood when we were putting in your IV and it came back with a few things that were concerning, He said, grabbing the rolling stool from next to the sink and sitting on it, Your Lactate is high. That comes from your organs not getting enough oxygen, and youve got a high white blood cell count, indicating infection. Have you not been getting enough water or vomiting at all lately? Yeah, sometimes. Okay, well your potassium, calcium and phosphorus were all critically low, as well. Weve been infusing
calcium in your IV, and wed like to keep you in the hospital until they come back up. I dont know, Doc, I said, I got some stuff going on right now and it He held up his hand, Theres more. The problems in your electrolytes are also indicative of serious dehydration. Its caused abnormal kidney and liver functions, and weve got to get it under control. This is serious. I have had this kind of stuff happen before. I can just drink some water when I get home, and Ill be fine. I really dont think Mister Raines, He said, moving the stool closer to the hospital bed, I understand that youre hesitant to go into the hospital. I spoke with Mister Lamar while you were unconscious. We need to keep you so we can get your electrolytes back to their normal levels, and we can get your stones taken care of and keep an eye on your left eye. I think its really important. We cant keep you against your will, but I would strongly advise against you going home tonight. I took a moment to consider my options, and before I could say yes, I saw a group of nurses and trauma surgeons
walk by alongside a hospital bed. Upon the bed was a man strapped to a backboard. I watched as it went by, and it was difficult to see due to the C-collar and the blood, but the white haired man looked awfully familiar. The white uniform shirt with the Lieutenant insignia gave it away. It was the man who put a cigarette out in my white eye.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
What follows is a transcribed excerpt of the interview performed by Sheriff Victor Duncan and Lieutenant Robert Melton at the University of Virginia Medical Center:
DUNCAN: You want to tell me what the hell happened today, Bob? MELTON: Its in the report. DUNCAN: Im not talking about this morning. Well get to that in a minute. I am talking about you getting drunk and wrecking your cruiser. MELTON: I didnt wreck, and I wasnt drunk. It was Buck Raines. DUNCAN: Im not following you.
MELTON: Raines forced me off the road and then forced me to drink. He put a gun to my head. He threatened my family, Vic! DUNCAN: Oh, youve got to be kidding me. MELTON: Thats right. Of course your good friend wouldnt do something like that, right? Get your head out of your ass, Victor! [SILENCE] DUNCAN: I am going to assume you arent thinking clearly from the accident and disregard your last statement. Now, calm down and just start from the beginning. MELTON: Calm down? Im not some redneck pulled in for suspicion. That son of a bitch almost killed me, assaulted me, threatened me, and forced me to drink to cover his tracks. DUNCAN: How did he force you off the road? Did he hit your car? MELTON: He got beside me and pulled out in front of me. I had to swerve to miss him. DUNCAN: He assaulted you, though? Did he hit you? Is that how your nose got broken? MELTON: He slammed my head into the steering wheel.
DUNCAN: Okay. He forced you to drink? MELTON: Yeah, he put a bottle in my mouth after he slammed my head. DUNCAN: So thats where the bottle in the floorboard came from? MELTON: Well DUNCAN: So thats not what he used? MELTON: No, that was it. [SILENCE] DUNCAN: So he forces you to drink and then what? MELTON: He put a pistol to the side of my head and threatened to kill me and my family. DUNCAN: What did he say exactly? MELTON: He said if I ever came near his family again, he would kill me. DUNCAN: Just so I get this right, he said, If you come near my family again, Ill kill you and your family? MELTON: That wasnt how he phrased it, but yeah. DUNCAN: Well, how did he phrase it? MELTON: Goddamn it, Vic, I cant remember. DUNCAN: Tell me what happened after that. MELTON: He drove off. DUNCAN: Thats it?
MELTON: Yeah. He got in his fucking car and drove off. What the fuck do you want me to say? DUNCAN: No, I get it. Thats fine. [SILENCE] MELTON: I bet you the smug son of a bitch is in the room with his junkie son, laughing it up. You should wheel me over there so I can put the cuffs on him myself. DUNCAN: So, just one more time, for the record MELTON: Damn it, Vic, I already told you! He runs me off the road, puts a gun to my head and makes me drink. Then he drives off. What the fuck do you need? DUNCAN: He puts the gun to your head and makes you drink, or he makes you drink and then puts a gun to your head? Because before you said that he put a gun to your head and threatened you after he made you drink. MELTON: Oh, dont try that bullshit with me, Vic. Not today. You know exactly what I said. DUNCAN: I do. MELTON: Stop wasting time and go arrest the person who did this to me. DUNCAN: Well [SILENCE] MELTON: What the fuck do you mean, Well?
DUNCAN: Well, its not that simple. MELTON: Oh, Christ, here it comes. Youre not arresting him. Youre arresting me. DUNCAN: Bob, try to understand what Im looking at, here. We got you on the side of the road, wrapped around a tree, with a BAC of one-nine and no skid-marks. We got a bottle in the floorboard that you know damn well you had under your seat. And we got your statement thats contradicting itself. MELTON: Go to hell, Vic. DUNCAN: And pulling that stunt at the Raines office certainly isnt going to earn you any favors. MELTON: Office? Its not an office, Vic! Its not an office and theyre not cops! Its a drunk and a drug addict and they broke the law. I was doing my job. DUNCAN: Im not here to argue. MELTON: You know what, get the fuck out. Ill deal with you when I get back. DUNCAN: I dont think you understand me. You wont be back. [SILENCE] MELTON: I told you to get out.
DUNCAN: Fair enough. Youre being charged with driving under the influence, and youve been placed on administrative leave pending an investigation. MELTON: Youre just loving this, arent you? DUNCAN: I assume youll have your lawyer contact us. MELTON: Go fuck yourself, Vic. DUNCAN: You messed up, Bob. Not me. MELTON: Yeah, right. Well see about that. DUNCAN: I dont know why you think you can do the things you do and get away with it, but this is a long time coming in my opinion. You put a cigarette in the Raines boys eye, for Gods sake. MELTON: Dont you blaspheme in my presence. DUNCAN: Blaspheme? You really have lost it, havent you? That church has messed with your head, Bob, and now its cost you your job. You really ought to think about that, while youre here. Is being buddy-buddy with the Masons really worth all this? MELTON: You got no right to judge me. You think I dont know about you? About Mindy? You think I dont know what you go home to at night? [SILENCE] [END OF RECORDING]
CHAPTER NINETEEN
After the next dose of sunshine hit my veins, I struggled to stay awake. I remember seeing my father talking Paul Johnson outside my door, but not what they were talking about. In hindsight, I can assume that it had something to do with the Police Lieutenant in the other room, but at the time, I was barely conscious and thoroughly disinterested. When I awoke, I remember feeling disoriented, and the inability to open my left eye caused me to panic briefly. I was no longer in the Emergency Department; I had been moved to a regular room upstairs on the third floor. I looked to
my right and between my bed and the door was a second, empty bed. I saw the panel of buttons on my bed; several for the television, a couple for the lights, and a big red one with a cross that called the nurse. I pushed the red one. In a few minutes, a pretty blonde lady came in rolling a computer on a cart. She had syringes and vials in her pocket and a sympathetic smile on her face. Mister Raines, She spoke like she was talking to a young child or an old man, hard of hearing, Im Becky. Im your nurse. I was going to speak. I was going to ask where I was. I was going to ask what time it was, how long I had been asleep, what was on my face, what the price of beans in China was I was going to say something ANYTHING but I could not force my mouth to move in the shapes it was supposed to, and I couldnt make sound come from my throat. I panicked a little more when I realized that couldnt speak. Are you okay? She asked in the same loud, slow tone of voice. I struggled to form the words, Where
Youre in the hospital, She said, wheeling the cart next to my bed, Ive got more pain medicine for you, and Im going to give a Potassium infusion in your IV. Your electrolytes are all out of whack. I nodded. Slowly, I felt myself coming out my delirium. As my consciousness returned, so too did the burning in my eye. It felt like a hot iron was being pressed against my head. Also, the cramping sensation in my back was more pronounced than before. I eyed the glass vial she had in her hand with urgency, and she must have noticed, because she drew the fluid out of the glass tube and quickly screwed the end of the needleless syringe into the plastic tube connected to the IV and emptied it. The rush was almost immediate, and I was powerless to resist the warm, euphoric intensity spreading down from my spine. My right kidney felt better instantly, but the eye continued to burn as though it was immune to the drugs. Okay, now let me know if this burns a little, She said, hooking a small, fluid-filled plastic bag up next to the large bag of saline. She fed the tubing through an IV pump and pressed several buttons on the pump to measure how much was being infused. After it was in, she began rapidly
typing data into the computer, and she grabbed a handheld scanner and began scanning the empty vials. She was preoccupied with her duties, and I was still shuddering from the opiate in my veins when the potassium hit my veins. It felt like someone was driving stakes between my Radius and Ulna. The pain was gradually working its way through my arm, and without noticing it, I went from disoriented to acutely aware. My aphasia evaporated and I shouted, What the fuck? As I began to scream, Becky said, Okay, okay, okay over and over as she rapidly punched buttons on the pump to slow the transfusion rate. The pain subsided, but I was fully awake now. I didnt have time to compose myself before I heard a knock on the door. My mother walked into the room. Rudy, honey, She said, rushing over to my bed and hugging me, How are you feeling? Rudy was my mothers name for me. Im alright. I came as soon as I heard, She said, You sister told me what that son of a bitch did. What time is it?
Its She checked her watch, Seven-thirty. Youve been asleep most of the day. Shit. Wheres Dad? Hes downstairs with Bill talking to Sheriff Duncan. They arrested Bob Melton for DUI shortly after you were brought in. The news took me off guard. I had forgotten about seeing him with blood all over his face, being wheeled into a Trauma room in the Emergency Department. There was no part of me that would have believed that the DUI and the events of that morning were unrelated. I saw him. I cant believe they would do this to you. That son of a bitch is going to pay. Youd better believe it. I think he already is, I said. The nurse finished with her duties. She turned to me as she was wheeling out her computer cart, Okay, Mister Raines, Im all done. You can have medicine again in a few hours. If you need anything, just hit the button. Thank you, Becky, I said, and she wheeled her computer out the room. My mother sat down in a chair next to the bed and began pulling items from a large, handled paper bag shed brought with her.
I brought you a few things, She said, and the first thing she produced was the biggest bag of Skittles I had ever seen. She set them next to me, I know these are your favorite. After a few more small items, she produced my laptop from the bottom of the bag. She set it next to the window, I brought this for after youre feeling better. I had better not see you messing with it until then, though. I nodded, planning on retrieving it the minute she left the room. Charlie walked into the room as she was folding the empty bag up and putting it under her arm. In his hands was a thin manila folder. So I hear you had a visit from Victorias finest this morning! He said with a smile. Yeah, the very finest, I said, returning his humor. I got some good news, He said, opening the folder, I got a buyer for the burn phone. He pulled a photograph from the folder, but before he could hand it to me, our mother intercepted him. Charlie, let your brother rest, She said forcefully, Yall need to stop it with this nonsense. Messing around with these people is going to get yall killed!
Its okay, Mom, I said, in a futile attempt to calm her that only seemed to agitate her further. No, its not okay! It was one thing when your father had you out there handing out summons and snapping pictures of cheating husbands, but youre messing around in stuff that you got no business, Malcolm! Youre not a cop! Im getting that a lot lately. Malcolm, please, She sat down and held my hand, Please stop this. I dont want you to get hurt, or worse. The last time you got involved in something like this, you had to kill a man, and you almost went to jail! Mom, listen to me, I said, turning to look her in the eye, A girl is missing, and theyre not going to find her without our help. How do you know that? Because I do, I said, I know youre worried about me, but I know what Im doing. I will be as careful as I can, but Im not going to start this and then quit when it gets hard. Mom said nothing in reply. After a tacit moment of concession, Charlie handed me the picture. It was a still photo from a surveillance camera. It showed the counter of a local drug store, and standing on
the far side of it with a prepaid cell phone package in his hand was a man I had not yet seen before. He was average height, muscular, clean shaven and sported a bald head under a baseball cap. There was a tattoo on his arm that looked military; a spade with a skull on it. I would later find out that he was ex-special forces and he was a highranking member of a domestic terrorist organization. His name was Dominic Wade. Who is this? I asked. Thats who bought the phone that called Jenny Knightly before she went missing, Charlie answered, His name is your job. I just get the picture. Fair enough. Wheres Morgan? Can we get her to take a look at it and see if she knows the guy? Morgans MIA, He said, Youll have to talk to Dad about that. What do you mean? Well, you guys are fucked, Charlie laughed slightly as he spoke, Any tangible proof you guys had, along with the girl who hired you, is gone. Dantes in jail. You have no client, no proof, and youre quickly running out of money. Im glad all this is funny to you.
Its not funny. Its just amazing that you all managed to fuck this up so bad. Mom rose from her seat and began checking the vital signs on the heart monitor next to the bed. My blood pressure and my pulse were both high. She took the opportunity to change the subject. How often are they checking your vitals? Mom, Ive been awake for about five minutes. I have no idea. Im going to go speak with your nurse. As Mom was leaving the room, I heard her speak to my father. They were both polite and I heard my mother say quietly that she wanted to talk with him later. Dad walked in with a disposable coffee cup in his hand. When I saw the smug look on his face, and the perpetual blushing in his cheeks, I assumed that there was more in his cup that coffee. How you feelin? He asked, a little too loudly. Im alright, I said, High as gas. Yeah, theyve been giving you the good stuff, huh? It looks like it, yeah, I said, quickly changing the subject, What happened with Melton?
Didnt you hear? He was driving drunk and got into a terrible car accident, He said, and the corners of his lips quivered as he fought back a grin, I just got back from Nelson County. The cabin? I said, hopeful. Yeah. Nothing, He said, wanting to quell my optimism. He stroked his mustache, and let the silence hang for a moment before he continued, I told Duncan about it. Hes going to get dogs out there, but I wouldnt get your hopes up. I asked the obvious question, So what now? Well, He said, his voice lowering to a more inconspicuous level, Melton took the diary, and probably destroyed it. It was shaky evidence, anyway at best. The reality is, were looking for a body at this point, and I think were going about it the wrong way. What do you mean? I think charging at this head-on isnt going to get us anywhere. I think we should make it look like weve dropped the case. Now that Meltons gone, the Sheriffs Department will get boots on the ground, looking for the girl and for Dantes brother. They have the resources we dont, and now theyre actually going to use them.
What about Pierce? What about Mason? Theyre not going anywhere, Dad said, in a patient tone, If we drop it, if we let them think theyve won, theyll get sloppy and make a mistake. People like them always do. So Im supposed to just sit here? Yeah. Thats what you do in the hospital. I laughed, Fantastic. Just let it go. And he was right about one thing: For eight days, I sat there. I did not could not let it go. * After the first day, the visitors dried up. My days were filled with an Oxalate free diets and drug doses. I was getting Dilaudid pushed into my IV every two hours, and it kept me from wanting to cut my kidney out or my eyelid off. The bandages came off after a couple days, and it was still scarred, but my vision had returned to almost normal levels. My depth perception suffered slightly, and my peripherals were mildly constricted. Other than that, I was almost completely unaffected. My right kidney, it turns out, was holding seven stones of varying sizes, and two of which had been getting
stuck in the ureter, causing hydronephrosis. I had been masking it with obscene doses of Morphine and enough Whiskey to keep three Irishman asleep. Unfortunately, the dehydration had wreaked havoc on my internal organs. I was in danger of going septic, had I not come in when I did. The ironic truth was that Melton may have saved my life. It was made very clear to me that continuing to drink like I had been would only make matters worse. In what I can only describe as a lapse in foresight, I promised Dr. Bradley that I would quit drinking entirely. I had varying degrees of trepidation (read: sincerity) at the time, but I was more than happy to say the words. In between the multiple naps one has to take when theyre getting pumped full of intravenous opiates, I worked on the laptop. I went to work on the face in the photo; the man who bought a missing (likely dead) girl a cell phone. I looked at the piece on the Gilead church again, and again, and on my third time, I resigned to the fact that he wasnt in it. My memory of the day my eye was burned and my family was detained, abducted, and harassed, was shaky, at best, but it was returning. I remembered the flash drive in the woodline, and I called Rachel to retrieve it. She called and said she couldnt find it,
which meant either she wasnt looking in the right place, or the Meltons cops had found that, too. No sign of the flash drive, the letter, the files on the computer all of it. It was as though Morgan and Rashad had never come through the door. I assumed that they had this had been the plan all along. The day after we started looking, we got more results than Melton had gotten in three. They must have gotten wind of the diary from Caleb or Cody Mason, and they knew they were in trouble. I cant believe I didnt see it coming. We were careless; arrogant. We thought because we had friends in high places, that we could sit around and get drunk and play poker, and we forgot that people werent just going to sit back and let us ruin them. This was my fault. What twisted the knife was Caroline Hauser. She was a beautiful mother and wife, and now she was dead because of me. The coroners report found pot and heroin in her system, but the husband and friends denied any knowledge of her having a history with anything heavier than a little weed. She smoked occasionally in the evenings, and rarely even drank. She was an excellent mother, and a loving wife. And I was I am the reason she lost all of that. I didnt even have a chance to tell her husband the truth. When I
got out of UVA, that was something I would remedy. And when my debt with Walter Mason and Martin Pierce is addressed, they will pay dearly for what they did to Caroline Hauser.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Dad picked me up from the hospital. I was dressed and waiting, busy picking the tape residue from the IV off my arm, when he walked in the room, handed me a coffee and we made our way out the hospital. The way home was cathartic. I slouched in my seat and clicked on the stereo in Dads Caddy. His six CD system contained six CDs of ZZ Top. Just Got Paid came on, and I was content. We took back roads through Standardsville and Earlysville, winding our way northwest through the hills of Greene County, soaking in the deceptive warmth of the winter sun. In an hour, we crossed the line from Greene into Victoria, and soon after, we were in Frostwood. On our way
through town, Dad slowed the car, clicked on his turn signal, and about to pull into Mars when I stopped him. Can we just go home? I suppose, He said, shrugging. He didnt ask, but I think he knew that something had changed. He never offered me another drink. When we got home, after an hour of getting settled, I began searching for Morgan. She hadnt replied to phone calls, text messages, E-mails, or the messages I had sent her on my laptop. She also had not made any contact with anyone using her cell phone or her computer since the incident at my house. We had Charlie monitoring her cell phone and IP addresses at her home. She had taken a leave of absence from her work, shed not returned to her house in Albemarle County, and her car was towed from my driveway to her mothers house and had not moved since. I feared the worst until my father told me that Mason and his people were looking for her, as well. We didnt know what had happened after she was taken from our house, but at some point she must have escaped the custody of Masons cronies and gone into hiding. I assumed that she would contact me when she was ready, and the only thing I could do is wait.
Weeks went by, and she remained missing. Bill and Dad remained adamant that I should wait until she contacted me, and I had no choice but to obey. I returned to working the Lunsford case. It was close to resolution, and we would wind up having to fight to get paid because the woman was either lying or wrong about her husband having an affair. The only affair he was having was with his work as a surgeon, and as I came to know Casey Lunsford better, I could hardly blame him. When the resolution paperwork was finished, and Dad called her in for the meeting, it was approximately five minutes into the conversation that she was proposing that she pay us extra to fabricate evidence to use in court so she could go forward with divorce proceedings and get the money anyway. She left that day very displeased with our services, but the threat of handing over the recorded bribery attempt was enough to get her to pay her bill. I may or may not have slipped a note to the poor bastard, giving him a heads-up, anyway. Who can be sure? It was late March when we learned anything new about the Jenny Knightly case. *
I was at Mars, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. It was 9:30 on a Saturday night. Dad was drinking at the bar, and I was in my regular booth. An old friend, Scarlett Meeks, and I were making small talk in between her getting angry text messages from an ex-boyfriend. She walked away, and I went to the bar for a refill and sat down in a temporarily vacant seat next to Dad. Whos that? He asked. Scarlett. You remember her, I had to shout to make it over the jukebox blaring some horrible denomination of what passes for Country Music nowadays, She dated Ronnie in high school. Ah, Dad said, pretending to recall. I turned to catch Courtney as she walked by, but with several other patrons in her ear, all either ordering drinks or making a pass at her, I couldnt get a word in edgewise. At the moment, I was occupying someones vacant seat; someone I assumed was on the dance floor or in the bathroom. I set my empty cup down on the bar, and moved his beer to the side. I couldnt help but notice the brand. Miller Genuine Draft.
Without deliberately thinking about it, but somehow subconsciously knowing that this was significant, I involuntarily looked in the ashtray. American Spirits. I froze. I immediately began contemplating the odds that I had stumbled upon someone who was smoking and drinking the exact brand of cigarettes and beer that was on the receipt I found at Amanda Meyers house. As though the owner of the items would suddenly be obvious, I looked around the bar scanning faces fervently. When Dad saw the expression on my face, he asked, What? Who was sitting here? He gave an inarticulate, I dont know, which was essentially a verbal shrug. After a few more seconds of looking around like a paranoid Methamphetamine addict checking for the cops, Courtney showed up to fill my coffee cup. Courtney, who was sitting here? I dont know him. Can you point him out? Courtney looked around and shook her head, I dont see him.
What did he look like? I dont know Malcolm, She said, frustrated, White guy, baseball cap, tattoos. She walked away, and I waited. I was looking at the dance floor and staring at a guy that matched her vague description when someone tapped me on the shoulder. He was of average height and build. He was fit, but not from working out. His hands were that of a construction worker or a mechanic. He had both arms sleeved with tattoos, and a stud in his lip. To be honest, I actually found myself envying his Motorhead T-shirt. Can I get my seat back? He asked. Yeah, man, I said, doing my best to play it cool, Sorry, I was just talking to my dad. Dad stared at me, still not sure what to make of what was going on in front of him. I rose from the bar stool, and stood back as the tattooed reclaimed it. He took a sip from his beer, and stared at the television above the bar, not noticing me behind him, staring like he was an alien. I desperately tried to think of a way to engage him, and my father came to the rescue. Chicks dig the lip ring?
The tattooed man turns to Dad, I dont know. Do chicks dig the mustache? I saw the smile on Dads face and I knew what was coming. Your mother sure did. There was an uncomfortable silence before the man in the trucker hat said, You tryin to be funny? Im just messin with you, Dad said, coolly. How bout you try bein funny with someone else. What is your name? I said, dispensing with the small talk and taking a deathly serious tone, which was not well received, based on the look on his face. Go fuck yourself. Tell me what I want to know and I will. He rose from his seat, I wont tell you again. Before I tell you what happened next, you need to know that I am not much of a fist-fighter. I never have been. Even in high school, when it was the standard format for establishing ones masculinity, I considered it an absurd dick-measuring ritual propagated by the dumb. That does not mean I am weak or helpless, but I am certainly not going to stand in front of someone who intends to hurt me and put up my dukes for a boxing match. Im much more likely to enlist
the help of a blunt object or a knife. My father told me once that the most dangerous thing on the planet was an intimate knowledge of human anatomy and a sharp knife. I was, in my opinion, a thoroughly dangerous man. It was fortunately rare for me to be put in a situation where I would need combat skills. I suppose when youre famous for shooting and killing someone, people are less inclined to antagonize you. My father, on the other hand, had no such qualms when it came to combat. The man with tattoos threw his drink in my face and pushed me backwards. As I stumbled back a few steps, my father took the man by the thumb, twisted, and turned his arm upside down. Once Dad had control of his upper body, he smashed his head against the bar, rendering him dazed and barely conscious. Waddy, the bouncer, saw what was taking place, especially the push and the drink being thrown in my face. Im sure the fact that we were regulars and he was not played a part in Waddys judgment on the situation, because he walked up, put the tattooed man in a headlock, and began dragging him outside. We followed. Waddy laid him down against the brick wall on the side of the building.
Now, lets try this again, I said, What is your name and how do you know Jenny Knightly? I didnt know her, He insisted. So she was just buying your cigarettes and your beer the day she went missing, but you dont know her? Dad finally understood what all this was about. I dont know what the fuck youre talking about. My dad decided that the current method of interrogation was not effective, and changed things up a little. He knelt down beside the man and looked him in the face and said, Listen, We know you know her, and you know that we know that you know her. You can either tell us what we want to know, or we can spend the next few weeks picking apart your life to figure it out on our own. Okay, fine, He said, holding up his hands in surrender, I asked if she would bring me some smokes and a twelve-pack. What is your name? I repeated impatiently. Billy! Billy Walker! Why was she bringing you beer and smokes? I was hooking her up. With what? Smack, man. I was hooking her up with smack.
Dad and I hanged our heads, assuming that we had just exhausted our last lead. With the diary and the letter it contained missing, the final piece of tangible evidence we had was the receipt, which was no longer a mystery. You should talk to Caleb. Caleb Mason? I asked. He nodded. How do you know Caleb Mason? Dad asked. Same why I knew Jenny. Why should we talk to him about her? What are you talking about? I asked. The night she went missing, Caleb and some guys came by my place. I thought he was just getting some shit off me, and then he asked if Id seen her. I told him not since that morning. He bought some shit off me, and then said hed double the price if I told the cops that Jenny had been by that night, and I told them that I didnt want to be talking to the fucking cops at all. Then he said hed pay more than double, and I was just like, fuck it, yeah. So I sold them a couple grams, and they left. And what did you tell the cops? He said, No cops ever came. Who was with him? I didnt recognize them.
Whatd they look like? White guys, late twenties, both clean cut. If they werent with Caleb, Id have thought they were cops, He went to try to stand up, and Dad gestured that he should remain where he was, One of them had a tattoo on his arm. A spade with skull on it. Like with playing cards? It must have looked at him like hed said some kind of password. The three of us all stood silently for a moment, without moving or speaking, before my father took the lead. Okay, give me your drivers license, Dad demanded. I expected some kind of resistance, but Walker hurriedly retrieved his wallet from his back pocket and produced his ID. Dad copied down his full name and his address. He retrieved a business card from his own wallet, and gave it to him as he was returning his ID and said, Soon, I am going to contact you. When I do, youre going to be there. If I have to come looking for you, Ill rip that stupid looking bullshit out your head, you understand? Yeah, I got it. I picked Billy Walker up off the ground, and he ran to his car in the parking lot behind Mars. I was processing the information in my head as he did; Caleb Mason and the man who bought Jennys phone were at her Heroin dealers
house the day she went missing, buying a sizable amount of heroin more than enough to kill someone. Caroline had been killed and made to look like it was a suicide. Shed also had heroin in her system. This was the connection. Dad and I went back inside, paid our tab, and went home, convinced that the information we had just learned would break the Knightly case wide open.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The next day, I finally could get through to Charlie. Hello? Charlie, I was shouting from excitement, We got something on Jenny Knightly. We need you. He didnt answer the question. Instead, he asked impatiently, Have you checked your email? I considered the question for a moment, Not in a while. Why? Because you got mail, motherfucker. I was unable to get ahold of Charlie because he had been at Thaw-A-Palooza. Every March, as the ski and snowboard season winds to a close, Frostwood Ski Resort holds a blowout party to send the year off in style. It was a Three-day, Two-night rager
called The Frostwood Mountain Thaw-A-Palooza. They get every jam band they could afford to come and perform, they make a hefty donation to the Fraternal Order of Police and the Victoria County Sheriffs Department so people can party without worrying about being hassled by the cops, and they light up the pavilion at the base of the mountain and let people crash in the nearby cabins on the cheap. Ive been several times and had a blast, but that year, I stayed home on account of trying to keep away from the sauce. Apparently, Charlie had not. The Resort was notorious for inconsistent cellular service. They still have excellent Wi-Fi, though, so he had emailed me an urgent message. This had been two days ago. Having not read the message, I had to settle for Charlies account of what happened: He had been sitting around the fireplace at the pavilion, and he was talking about his greenhouse set-up with a guy from the local commune, Gemini Woods. They started comparing Hydroponic systems and Charlie broke out his phone to show some pictures. Forest, the man from the commune, got out a camera phone (an older model that the Community shared, of course) and did the same. He couldnt help but notice one of the pictures that had a familiar
looking girl in it. Of course, in spite of the fact that he had been checking her phone records daily for over a month, he couldnt quite put a name to the face. It took a day before he remembered. Once he remembered, he looked for the man from the Commune to question, but he was nowhere to be found. Once I heard this, I could barely contain my excitement. In a single day, it had come alive; the case I couldnt let go, that was on my mind when I went to bed, that was on my mind when I woke. The question that I so desperately wanted to answer was nearer to a resolution, I felt, than it had ever been. I had let things go unfinished before, but this burned in me more than anything else ever had. Maybe it was the life at stake. Maybe it was the friend who was asking for my help. And maybe it was the unfinished kiss. Whatever it was, I had to see it through. The one thing I couldnt do let it go was probably the one thing that could have prevented what was to come. * Gemini Woods was an intentional community started back in the sixties. It was an idealists vision of what life could be in a socialist utopia: a group of people committed to a selfsufficient, immaterial, communal existence, and in that, it was
an overwhelming success. The people there, even now, seemed happy and content with their existence, and it always amazed me that such a leftist, secular, counter-culture could survive even thrive in such a conservative, traditional community. When I was a kid, I played soccer. It was the only sport I was interested in that a kid of my stature could excel at. That threw me in with the Freaks; the Victoria County High School name for kids that listened to Grunge, wore their hair long, and carried the nihilistic, apathetic attitude of our Punk forefathers. One of the friends I made thanks to my soccer career was Barrett Long. Bear, as he was ironically called, was tall, thin, and wore shaggy hair and thick coke-bottle glasses. He and I became fast friends because of our similar sarcastic sense of humor. He was raised in Gemini woods by a lawyer and a professor of astronomy, both of whom retired early from their successful careers to seek an alternate way of life at Gemini Woods. He was raised with a kid named Eric Leeds, who had grown up from infancy at the commune, years longer than Bear. The two were, as far as anyone who knew them were concerned, brothers. He was stockier, more athletic and the alpha-male of the two. He played Soccer with us as well, and it was thanks to my friendship with them that I was brought to Gemini woods as a seventh grader.
My father had been raised on a farm. My mother was considered a hippie in the early seventies for wearing flowers in her hair and listening to the Beatles, but in reality she was just a country girl with good taste in music. As you can expect, they raised their children as they had been raised: in an oldfashioned, traditional house where things were as they had been. Manners were more important than logic, and arbitrary rules were to be followed and not questioned. The modern world had its inevitable effect on us, but at our core, our upbringing was prominent and irreplaceable. When I came to Gemini Woods for the first time, I felt like I had wandered into another country. It was a massive compound; seven buildings, connected by roads of varying degrees of sophistication, and roughly seventy people, all living as a single, collective family. There were women in the forest, sitting together beneath the trees, meditating. There were men sitting around a table, rolling handmade cigarettes, talking over the finer points of Nietzsche and Jung, Kafka and Camus. What seemed exceptional to me was blas to Bear and Eric. At first, it gave me the horrible feeling of intellectual inadequacy, and that my upbringing had been inferior to the utopic existence they had been brought up in. It wasnt until later that I grew an appreciation for the kind of
life I was given; the other side of the intellectual coin is simplicity, which has its own merits. Eric had a sister, as well. Claire Leeds was one of four girls who were the same kind of pseudo-siblings as Bear and Eric. Their names were Claire Leeds, Morgan Robins, Daisy Thomas and Violet West. I wasnt nearly as close with the four of them, but due to my proximity because of Claires brother, I found myself spending more time around them then I think they would have liked, truth be told. Claire, fair-skinned and crimsonhaired, always seemed oldest to me, whether she was or not. She struck me as skeptical and pragmatic, though both of which were traits very prominent with the other three, as well. Morgan was bubblier and jovial, but never to the point of seeming daft or ditzy. Daisy was had a sense of sarcasm and wit that I could appreciate; it was somewhere between sardonic and pensive, or rather a combination of the two. In the same way that Claire seemed the oldest, Violet seemed the youngest. She was always very kind, but very quiet, when I was around. Collectively, they were always nice when it came to Eric and Bears friends, myself included, but palpably distant. I assumed it was in an effort for them to forge an identity outside of their siblings, and never took it personally. However, the four of them seemed to accept the fact that their inseparable proximity with each other
would conflict with any efforts to forge an identity separate from each other. In fact, both when I was introduced to them and ever after, they were referred to simply as the girls. Were you to use the generic moniker to almost anyone of our age in school, they would assume that you were referring to the four of them. Though many friends of ours were mutual, there were a small number of our friends that the girls didnt socialize with, and likewise with them. Morgan was part of this small group; she was in many of the same classes as Morgan and Claire, but she never seemed to permeate into my circle of friends. On several occasions, though, I had noticed her at social functions at Gemini Woods, and I distinctly remember her being there even when there wasnt, and it was just her and the girls. After High School, the girls all went to college together, and as far as I had heard, never really looked back except for the occasional visit. I had lost almost all contact with Bear and Eric, and thus had not heard much at all about the girls in years. If someone wanted to effectively disappear, Gemini Woods would be the place to do it. The level of self-sufficiency, seclusion, anonymity (people commonly choose a new name when they move there), and privacy were not something that could be
attained anywhere else. When it occurred to me that this is what Morgan must have planned all along, I couldnt help but laugh at the genius of it. I was happy that she could find somewhere safe, but the reality was that if she wanted to find out what happened to her sister and see the people responsible brought to justice, hiding was not an option. * After the phone call with Charlie, I immediately dialed the number I found on the Gemini Woods website. I got a machine. I decided not to leave a message. Having been there, the one thing I knew well enough was the polite suspicion and mild paranoia the folks at Gemini Woods (sometimes referred to as G.W. by the residents and locals) had about people from the outside. The likelihood of someone releasing information to me about one of their residents over the phone was infinitesimal. I held the phone in my hands, wondering what the best way to go about reaching Morgan would be; I didnt want to just hand a message off to anyone, not knowing if it would reach her or not. I had to talk to her in person, which meant going to G.W. with an escort (called sponsors). To do that, I had to enlist the help of one of my old friends, which would be harder than it sounded.
Before I started dating Maggie and wound up in the EMS industry, I was trying to make a living as a musician. I played for various bands and as a studio performer for a couple years, and in that time period, I was rarely sober. I partied like every day was New Years Eve, and every morning felt like New Years Day: I felt like pickled shit and couldnt remember anything, thus it was a brand new start for me. Telling the stories from that time period are a great way to get a laugh, but the truth is, it wasnt nearly as charming of a trait when it was happening. People who werent comfortable with watching me self-destruct were alienated and pushed away, and I came out of that period of my life with fewer friends than I had when it started. Bear, Eric, and the girls were among those who I lost along the way. I couldnt imagine theyd be happy to hear from me. It didnt matter. No amount of shame or awkwardness would keep me from seeing this through. I punched a number into my phone. Whattup? Alex, I need a favor. * A little over nine months after I killed Jesse Mason, I pulled into the driveway of Alexs lake house in the same car,
in nearly the same circumstances, and at almost the same time of day. We were huddled around the bar in his kitchen taking bong hits as I filled him in on the situation. When I finished, he was quiet for a moment, I assumed while he processed everything. Then he said, Jesus-Fucking-Christ, man. How the fuck do you get involved in this damsel in distress bullshit? Is this your new thing? I mean, Morgan was hot and all in School, but a piece of ass aint worth Im not doing this for a piece of ass, Alex. Then what the fuck? You got a cigarette put out in your fucking eye, and you want to keep fucking with these people? If shes safe over with the hippies at G.W., fucking leave it be! I shook my head, I cant. And he asked the inevitable question that Id been asking myself all morning: Why not? Because you shouldnt be allowed to do shit like this and not have to answer for it. So you have to be the person to make sure that happens? This aint a movie, man. Youre not a super hero. Youre a dude with a kidney problem running around playing detective, even after it almost got you locked up.
Look, I said, raising my voice, If you think this is news to me, or that I havent said the same fucking thing in my head already, then youre wrong. I know its not the best of ideas. I know Im not a cop. I know that going up to G.W. trying to track down someone that doesnt want to be found, to stir up some shit that should probably just be left alone, is not the best of ideas. But the alternative is to leave a girl probably lying in a ditch somewhere, her sister in hiding, afraid for her life, and a fucking pedophile is pulling a six-figure salary as a State Prosecutor. And thats some shit that I cant do. Now all I need from you is someone who can get me into G.W. on short notice. Bear, or Eric, or the Girls do you have their numbers? Are they around? No, theyve all moved away, He said with a relenting and exasperated sigh, Bears in Richmond. Erics in Iowa. Violet and Morgan are in North Carolina, and I dont know where Claire and Violet are. Shit. You know who you should talk to? I had a feeling I did. Izzy. Both my inner monologue and my mouth said, in unison and dread, Shit.
* On the list of friends I had alienated with my shenanigans a few years back, Isabel Garano was close to the top. We had known each other even longer than I had known Bear. Our houses were nearby, and when I moved to Victoria in Elementary School, she was one of the first people I met. She and Gabrielle were close, and she was in the choir class that I joined to be close to her. All through the Gabrielle years, when I had a problem, I went to Izzy for advice. When Gabrielle moved away, it was Izzys proverbial shoulder that got the most tears. As the years progressed, mutual friends kept us in close proximity to each other, and I had even lived briefly at her house; briefly, because one night I got drunk and left a log on top of a burning wood stove, nearly setting the whole house ablaze. Had that been my only lapse in judgment, we probably still would have been close friends. Alas, it was not. Isabel was also not the type to suffer fools. She was raised by former G.W. residents, both of whom instilled her with a feminist resilience that could be mistaken for aggression by those who didnt know her well. The sharpness of her wit had also been honed by her relationship experience, as well; Romance had not always been kind to her.
I learned from my sister that being an attractive female can put you in a position of power. The ability to use your looks to manipulate people and situations to your favor is a skill most women master from a very young age, batting their eyelashes at daddy for an extra scoop of ice cream. Rachel also taught me, however, that a target is on your back the moment you hit puberty, and you can choose to be either predator or prey. Isabel liked to believe she chose the former, but all too often, I watched her become the latter. Her parents were former G.W. residents, and she spent more time there than probably any non-resident. She also was the only person who hadnt moved out of town; her older sister, Elise, owned Orqudea, a high-end restaurant in the Resort, where Izzy was one of the managers, and where I found myself headed after leaving Alexs house.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
It was eleven when pulled into the large parking lot at the main building of the Frostwood Mountain Ski Resort, my former employer. Before I made it to Orqudea, I called my father. Hello, My father had always answered the phone with a statement rather than a question. Dad, I said, I got an in at the commune. Im gonna go get Morgan. I dont think were ready for all that just yet, He said, and I could hear the hesitation in his voice. He was of the opinion that the situation would resolve itself in time. She can identify the man in the photo, I reminded him, She also may be able to connect the Billy Walker to the two guys and Caleb Mason. Besides, we need her to okay the case before we can get back on it.
There was a silence on the other end of the phone, and I was beginning to wonder if Id been disconnected when I heard Dad speak again, Alright. Just stay out of trouble. Me? I said sarcastically, and hung up. I walked over to the entrance to the restaurant and opened the door. Dark wood paneling and Mahogany floors gave the restaurant a rustic feel, and the avant-garde artwork on the walls emphasized the high-end nature of the menu. The first person to see me was Elise. Elise was older than Isabel by almost a decade, and she had been her guardian since the day she was born. Many an illintended boy had run afoul of Elise and elicited her wrath, much to their ensuing displeasure. If you didnt know they were siblings, you never would have been able to tell: Elise was tall and thin, with brown curly hair and hazel eyes, whereas Isabel took after her fathers Sicilian side, being short and oliveskinned, with an hourglass figure and coal-black hair. Elise was behind the bar, taking inventory of the liquor, and she didnt appear happy to see me. I began to get the feeling that her tandem expression of contempt and annoyance was one that I was going to be seeing a lot of that day. Were closed, She said. They werent.
Im not here to eat. I need to talk to Isabel. Is she around? Shes busy. Elise, I said, appealing to her reasonable side, Its important. Her reasonable side concurred with her aggressive one, I said shes busy. If youre not here to eat, then get out. I hanged my head, stomaching the urge to meet her hostility with some of my own because I knew how that story ends; with me being asked not-so-nicely to leave the resort, and a couple large, angry black men helping me do so. Fine. Fuck it, I said, leaving a card on the bar, Give this to her and tell her to call me. Someones life is in danger, and I need her help. Elise said nothing, and I walked out, conceding for the moment, but having no intention to leave. I had made it roughly twenty yards from the door when I heard my name. Izzy stood in the doorway of the restaurant. After getting my attention, she gestured for me to come back as though I was wrong to have walked away in the first place.
I walked back into the restaurant and sat at the bar. She looked at me impatiently, and neither of us spoke for a moment. She asked first, What happened to your eye? I cut myself shaving. She struggled against a smile, and asked, What do you want, Mal? I need your help. To drink, Malcolm, She said, What do you want to drink? Oh, I stuttered. Since we were kids, she had a way of making me feel like an idiot, second guessing every word that came out of my mouth, Just coffee is fine, I struggled to say. Okay, She walked behind the bar and quickly produced two cups of coffee and various condiments, So whats wrong? Morgan Knightly is hiding at Gemini Woods and I need to find her. Why is Morgan hiding? Do you want the long answer or the short answer? The short one, for now. There are people looking for her, and they may have killed her sister and a reporter already. You mean Caroline? She said, I thought she committed suicide. I think it was made to look like a suicide.
Hold on, She said, I changed my mind. Give me the long version. I went back and started at the beginning, all the way back to the boat and Jesse Mason. Shed heard some rumors and seen it in the news, but she hadnt heard much of my account of what happened. I told her about Rashad and Jenny both of whom she knew from school and about Morgan coming to me for help. I purposefully told her about Martin Pierce and Walter Mason and the Guardians, as well as their connection to White Supremacists and Right-Wing extremists, knowing that she was a die-hard Feminist, Liberal, and that she despised racism. I finished telling her about the heroin dealer and the man called Forest at the music festival (she appeared to recognize the name) before she spoke again. She removed her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose angrily, Shit, She mumbled, How did Morgan get into Gemini? She would have to have had someone invite her there. No idea. Alright. What are you going to do when you find her? I need her to sign a paper saying that shes hired us on the case again, first of all. The old contract was voided when she went missing, I said, sipping my coffee, Then, I need to
see if she recognizes a man from a photograph. He purchased the cell phone that called Jenny the night she went missing. Alright, She said, Im not a resident, though. You cant sponsor unless you live there. I know, but with Bear and Eric gone, I dont know anyone there, much less anyone who would help me. So you came to me? She said, her eyebrows raised. It wasnt my first thought. Gee, thanks, She said playfully. I took it as a good sign that some of the ice between us was being chipped away. Isabel, I began, after a tacit transition between subjects, Things arent like they were before. Im not like I was before. Im sorry and I need your help. I could tell when you walked in the door, She said softly, Ill help you on one condition: you cant start any shit, and what I say goes. I smiled, Id have it no other way. * She made a few phone calls and told Elise that she was taking the day off. I offered to drive, and she politely insisted that we take her car: a late model Subaru. I grabbed my notebook, the manila folder with the photo inside, my meds (popping a few for good measure) and my pistol. I walked to her
car, and the first thing I noticed was the child seat in the back. I was going to ask about it until I noticed the picture hanging from the rearview mirror. Your son? Yep. He turns two in June. Hes cute, I said, and I opened the door to the passenger side and stopped, Izzy, listen to me for a second, She stopped and looked at me, The last girl who got involved in this with me is dead. She left behind two kids and a husband. I am not taking any more chances. Im going to keep it unloaded and in the passenger seat, but Im bringing my gun. There was a moment where she studied my face. In years past, when I was a drunken scoundrel on even my best days, she would have laughed and told me to go to hell. What I saw in her eyes was, for the first time in a very long time, trust. She said, Okay, And she slipped into the car. She put the car in gear. I set my belongings in the floorboard, and I removed the clip from the .45 and locked the slide back. She looked at it like I was defusing a bomb. I put the clip in my pocket and set the gun in the floorboard with the rest of my things. Malcolm, She said, in a tone I hadnt expected, What happened to Caroline isnt your fault.
I froze. The knot in my stomach returned and I could feel my eyes glossing over. I nodded, I know, but If someone hurt her, its because they chose to, and not because you got her involved. I nodded again, and the car became eerily quiet before she dialed up 91.9 on her radio, a college radio station out of Charlottesville that played mostly indie-rock. A melancholy Gillian Welch song came on, and we rode most of the way in silence. To this day, I dont remember seeing the SUV following us. * In order to find Gemini Woods, you have to drive ten miles down a rural road, only to turn onto a gravel road that looks like little more than a logging trail. Another mile down the dirt road is the first sign you see. When you pull into the commune, the first thing you see is the farm; acre after acre of soybeans, corn, root vegetables, God-knows what else. Half a mile past the fields, you come to a parking lot with a small fleet of cars and a mechanics shop nearby and two roads continuing on into the wood line. We parked in the lot, and we had barely stepped out of the vehicle before a Golf Cart whirred its way up to us, and the older, mustached man behind the wheel waved to Izzy.
Izzy, He said, Its so good to see you! The man was Daisys father, Greg Thomas. I had met him before, and he had always been friendly. He greeted Isabel with a hug, shook my hand, and smiling, he said Nice to see you again, and he appeared as though he meant it. Sorry to bother you like this, Greg. Its no bother at all! I always have time for a visit, He said, then turned to me, Malcolm, I was sorry to see you in the news a while back. Are you doing okay? Yeah, Im alright. Well, it was a hell of a thing you did for that girl. She got lucky. She was lucky you were there, He said, missing my point. After the small talk, we climbed into his cart and began up one of the paths into the woods. We passed an old, abandoned storage shed that had been reclaimed by the forest decades ago, and then came to a large single floor building that was known as Castillo Libertad, and by various nicknames, the most popular of which was its initials. We came in through the side entrance and walked through a commercial kitchen to get to the main dining hall. The flashbacks were vivid and surreal. I could remember clearly coming there as a teenager over fifteen years ago. Our
shoes squeaked along the hardwood floor, and the pristine nature of the dining hall made it seem more like part of the Resort than an Egalitarian community. It was another misconception about the commune: the stereotype of the unhygienic hippie was an outdated clich. Id always remembered the places I went in the commune as being cleaner than anal retentive mothers house, which was remarkable that such a thing was even possible. Along with CL, I spent a lot of time at Oberoende (or O.B.) and Daystar, two of the residential buildings. The recreational building that was filled with the younger children during the day and the teenagers in the evening was called Hauskuus or Kuus (pronounced kooz) for short. It was one of the only places you could find a television on the whole compound. It also was a convenient way to escape the watchful eyes of the adult residents. We entered a small room off the main dining hall, called the reading room, and sitting on one of the couches was a woman I recognized: Sol Prendergast. She was one of the Planners, the people who ran the show. She had been one of the original founders of the commune, and she had been a planner for thirty years. She also was the woman who took on the job of discipline when it came to Bear, Eric and myself.
The idea that the outside world was evil and corrupt was one that was prevalent among people around here, and when their children came home with a child that was a product of the world they distrusted, by default, they didnt trust the child, either. I was never treated rudely or hostily, but I was never given the impression that I was fully belonged, either. A lot of that had to do with my attitude: I was a smart kid, which is a double edged sword as a teenager. You overestimate your intellect and grow sardonic and mouthy. I also was never one to obey arbitrary protocol without resistance, and people were quick to pick up on that. I always felt as though people were waiting for me to do something wrong, and more often than not, I gave them what the mischief they were looking for. And now, sitting across from me, was the woman who trusted and respected me the least, and I had a feeling I knew exactly how this conversation was going to go. Hello, Isabel. Its very nice to see you, Sol said, before perfunctorily turning to me, And you, Malcolm. Hi, Sol, Izzy said, as I obeyed her request to let her do the talking. I simply nodded respectfully. Izzy said, quietly, Im sorry to bother you both with this, but it is an urgent problem. Whats going on?
A woman here is running from people. Shes a friend of ours; Morgan Knightly? She went to school with the girls and I. Do you remember her? It sounds familiar, but I cant seem to put a face to it, Sol said, and I believed her. Greg, on the other hand, was shaking his head in the negative, and I wasnt buying it. His motivation for lying remained to be determined. Well, we have reason to believe that shes hiding here. Malcolm is working as a private investigator in her sisters disappearance, and he believes she has information that could lead to the arrest of the people responsible for her sisters disappearance. The same people she is hiding from. And what makes you believe she is here? We saw a photograph taken over the past couple weeks of the greenhouse, and she was in the background. Interesting, Sol said, unimpressed, And you are sure it was her? Well Izzy began. When she failed to finish the sentence, I interrupted her. Im working the case with my father and brothers. My brother Charlie was the one who saw the photograph, and he was positive that it was her, I said, matter-of-factly, We
couldnt find the man with the photograph to confirm or to question him about her, which is why were here. Who had this photograph? Sol asked. Forest Manning. Interesting. Im not sure where Forest is, right now, but we should certainly include him in this conversation. Finding him isnt as important as finding Morgan, Izzy replied, implying urgency. I understand, but we need to respect peoples privacy. We cant just go around questioning people about a girl were not even sure is here. If she is here, it is literally a matter of life and death that we find her, I interjected. Feel free to help yourself to some coffee or tea while I attempt to contact Forest, Sol said, rising from her seat. She left the room while Greg remained with us. Just try to be patient. Well get this sorted out. Greg, I looked at him, and didnt speak again until he looked me in the eye, Wheres Morgan? It was an uncomfortable silence that followed the question, and I saw Greg look at the ground and rub his mustache before reluctantly, he said a single word, Daystar.
Lets go, I said. Isabel and I got up and began walking towards the main doors of the dining hall. Hold on, Greg said, We should wait for Sol. Come on, I said, walking out of the room. I figured one of three things would happen: either hed do nothing, come with us, or run to Sol and get us thrown out. Any of these would have the same outcome: I was going to Daystar, a residential building nearly a mile further up the wooded dirt path that had brought us from the parking lot to the CL, and I was going to find Morgan. Isabel didnt seem happy with the disobedience, but she came along without protest. We walked up the path, and at first, neither of us spoke. It occurred to me that Isabel was becoming personally invested in the case, which worried me. The outcome of this was unlikely to be positive, and I didnt want anyone else to be hurt because I involved them in it. Isabel and I came to the building we were looking for. It was a four-story wood structure the size of a small hotel, with a large greenhouse on the side. It was built on a hill, with the front entrance on the second floor and the back entrance on the bottom. The whole first floor looked like a textile mill, with strands of rope and fiber hung across the room, and looms set up in several stations, with the notable exception of the area next
to the back door, which had a drum kit, amplifiers and a couple guitars. It was in that very room that I picked up a guitar for the first time seventeen years prior. The tsunami of memories was almost overwhelming. Izzy could see the expression on my face, and a smile lit up on hers as she joined me in reminiscing. For every fond memory I had of the band room in Daystar, she had a hundred. We crossed the room to a staircase, and which ascended to a common room on the second floor. The front entrance was on the far wall, and a kitchen and living room divided them. We saw no one in the common room, so we continued up the stairs to the dormitory. I remembered Morgan living on the third floor, which was our first stop. Her room looked very different, much more Spartan than when I had seen it before. In those days, paintings and pictures and albums and posters covered the walls like a surrealists wallpaper. Now, the walls were bare (except for the holes left by hundreds of thumbtacks) and painted a different color. We returned to the stairs and ascended to the fourth floor. Of all the Gemini girls, Morgan was closest with Morgan and Daisy. Their similar interests kept them in lockstep with each other all through school. The three of them together was a
picture in my head that I could clearly see when I thought on those days, and if Morgan was here, it was likely at the behest (or at least approval) of one of the two of them. Once on the fourth floor, we walked quickly to the room once owned by Daisy Thomas. The door was closed. Izzy knocked first. An unidentifiable female voice on the other side answered. Yes? Hey, is Izzy Garano. Can you open up for a second? Izzy? The voice said, and when the door shot open, I found myself staring at Daisy Thomas. The years had been kind to her; she had a fair complexion and dark hair, and didnt appear a day older than when I had known her. If I asked her, shed claim it was the product of healthy living. I think she got lucky in the genetic department, personally. Daisy? Izzy said, apparently as surprised as I was. Malcolm? Daisy said, apparently as surprised as Izzy. Can we come in? I asked, and Daisy stood away from the door and we entered the bedroom. It was obvious once we were inside that two had been sleeping in the room.
I know why youre here, Daisy said, She told me youd find out where she was eventually, but she couldnt risk reaching out to you and her uncle finding out. Where is she? Shower, Daisy said, Shell be back any second. I thought you were in North Carolina, Izzy said, talking softly to Daisy. Morgan called me and asked if she could stay here, Daisy said, I got my Dad to sponsor her. I came back that weekend, and Ive been here until she got her situation figured out. We heard a door close and the soft clapping of a pair of flip-flops coming up the hallway. Morgan entered the room wearing nothing but a t-shirt and panties. She stopped in the doorway when she saw us, and instinctively (read: pointlessly) pulled her shirt down, trying to get a few more inches of coverage out of it. Oh, God, Morgan said, embarrassed, Im sorry. Why hello, I said, my attempt at being comically charming. She didnt appear impressed. I smiled, and she silently scolded me with an obviously playful look. Sorry to just show up, Izzy said, But Malcolm asked me to help find you.
No, I knew he would, She said, as though I wasnt in the room. This man bought the phone that called your sister the night she went missing, I said, not wasting any time, Have you seen him before? Morgan stared at the picture. She looked back at me with confusion in her eyes, and shook her head. I need you to come back with me, I said, and was stopped from continuing the sentence by the slamming of a door down the hall. Thats probably Sol and your dad, Isabel said to Daisy, We sort of walked off when we found out where you were, and Sol wanted us to wait for her. Ill take care of it, Daisy walked out of the room. I turned my attention back to Morgan, We cant continue the case without you. The cops cant let us in unless we have a family member contracting us. Okay, cant I just sign something? Part of the agreement is that we maintain contact with you. Malcolm, I cant come out yet. You saw what they did Morgan began, but trailed off. Before she could begin again, Daisy came back wearing a worried scowl.
Something is wrong, She said. I looked at her for only a second. It was all the time I needed to realize what I had done. As usual, I didnt know how all of this was so suddenly obvious, but it felt like I should have known all along. Isabel and I were followed. I ran to the stairway, and the door wouldnt budge. It wasnt locked; the knob turned and the latch moved, but something was keeping the door in place from the outside. I was pulling on it an exercise in futility when I heard a handheld drill begin screwing something into place on the outside of the door. The girls were running down the hall towards me (Morgan had found some pants), and I realized what needed to happen. Daisy, whats the other way out of here? There isnt one. What do you mean? Morgan was shouting. I mean theres no other way out of here. There was a fire escape but its been broken for years. Wheres the fire escape? I asked, being as calm as possible. Wordlessly, she gestured for us to follow her as we ran down the hall, past her room, and took a left at the end. We took another left, and we were on the opposite side of the
building than the blocked stairs. Through a locked and deadbolted exterior door marked DANGER: NO EXIT was a small metal balcony that looked as though the rust was the only thing holding it together. I put a foot on the edge and pushed, and it flexed and shuddered. The ladder that once descended from it was gone, and we were stuck a full forty-feet in the air when we heard the fire start.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Seconds after the telltale woosh of igniting accelerant, the hall began to fill with smoke. Staring out of the open door on the fourth floor, we could see people moving below us, but only the tops of their heads as they ran by. Isabel and Daisy screamed to them for help, and they continued walking. I pulled the two girls back inside. What is going on? They must have followed you, Morgan said in far too calm of a voice. I remember actually being disturbed at how worried she wasnt acting. I dont know how, I said, looking Morgan in the eyes with more distress than I wished to convey, I was careful. We werent even in my car. I havent used the They were listening to my phone calls.
Shit. What? They must have a tap on my phone, I said, I called my dad this morning. I mentioned coming here. Shit, Isabel and Daisy said in near unison. It doesnt matter now, Morgan said, still with a worrisome calm, We have to get out of here. The fire was coming from north-facing side of the building, where the stairs were. I had to assume the stairwell was impassable, if for no other reason that whatever route we chose to attempt, there may be no turning back and choosing another. I traversed the square hallway rapidly, looking for an idea. No viable ones came. Daisy began to panic. I could hear them on the other hall trying to calm her down through their coughing. I heard their tones of voice change, a metallic crash, and Izzy and Morgan screaming. I ran back to see them standing at the doorway to the broken fire escape. Daisy had fallen with a heap of metal that was once a balcony. She hit the bottom and the metal had cut her right leg, and she appeared to have broken a leg, but she was running on pure adrenaline and continued to move. None of us saw the man in black BDUs and the balaclava coming up behind her until it was too late. He wrapped his
forearm around her head, pulled her head into the crook of his elbow and squeezed. As Morgan and Isabel screamed, Daisys eyes began to close and as the man dragged her limp body into the front door of the building on the second floor, she looked as though she was losing consciousness. The man in the black didnt return. The fact that he had a pistol holstered on his leg had not escaped me. I left the doorway to continue my search for an alternate way out. I walked quickly, but I tried consciously to hide my growing panic. I began opening all the closed doors as I traversed the hallway, looking for anything that would remedy the current predicament, and though I didnt know it at the time, thats exactly what I found. In the hallway opposite the staircase, I went to open a door and found it locked. I banged on the door with three heavy, rapid knocks and heard shuffling. After shouting FIRE! and delivering three more blows to the door, I heard an old voice saying something unintelligible, but likely to the effect of Im coming. The door opened slowly, and an old man with a five-day beard was standing in the doorway, wearing nothing but a pair of old, comfortable looking slippers. I was
Hey, man, He said in the exact cadence and tone of Tommy Chongs catchphrase. He appeared unconcerned with the smoke filling the hallway and seeping into his room, Are you here about the vaporizer? No, I said, and the smoke began irritating my lungs. Oh, bummer, He said, walking back into his room but leaving the door open, Because I was wondering The building is on fire! I said between coughs, and my raised voice took him by surprise. I know, He said, sitting on his bed, Just hang on a second, I looked at him in confusion, and watched him sift through a pile of old clothing and retrieve a pair of corduroy pants and a sweatshirt, both of which had obviously been a product of the 1970s. After he listlessly put his clothes on, he excused himself and walked to the bathroom on the hall between his bedroom and the balcony door, where the girls remained, hanging outside for fresh air. He went inside and began to piss without even a single a question about the current situation. I continued looking for escape routes, and when he finished emptying his bladder, he calmly walked to the door where Morgan and Izzy were swallowing the clean air like a fratboy guzzling a beer. He surprised them when they first noticed him.
Kahna, Izzy said, Where did I was taking a nap, He said with a shrug, before gesturing to them to follow him, Come with me. They obeyed, and as I watched the flames onto the ceiling and the walls, I noticed the three of them go into a large storage closet on one of the halls perpendicular to the burning stairs. Once I made it inside, I saw the man called Kahna dig through spools of rope and produce a trash bag out of a hidden wall access, both of which smelled like someone had set an acre of marijuana plants on fire. He then pushed on the false wall in the back of the crawlspace and opened up a chamber between the walls. He stood back and let Morgan go in first. Her small, thin frame just barely fit into the crawlspace. As she disappeared behind the wall, Isabel got down and began to crawl in behind her. I laughed as she struggled to pull her trunk and hips into the relatively small opening and heard an angry REALLY? from just inside the wall. With a pronounced fury, she pulled and squeezed into the crawl space. Go ahead, man, The old man said to me, I got a few things to get before I go, He said, looking around with the urgency of being tardy for a meeting instead of a torrent of flame engulfing the building.
The door is stuck! Morgan shouted from inside the wall. She had arrived at a hatch leading into a room on the third floor, but she couldnt get the hatch to lift. Uh-oh, The old man said, as he hurriedly crawled in after them. I could hear rustling through the walls and unintelligible words being spoken as I began to struggle for air. I also noticed the temperature being to rise significantly, even on the hallway opposite from the burning wall. I looked around desperate to figure out how to get into the crawlspace to help, and I reached down and grabbed the largest object I could find to try and break through the drywall, which happened to be a spool of thickly braided rope. The idea came from a memory I had of the Virginia EMS Symposium a few years back. I had gone at the behest of Maggie, my fianc as well as co-worker at the time, and in retrospect it now seemed like a very worthwhile venture. I signed up for the classes and seminars that seemed relevant to my current line of work: Rural Emergencies and Extrication, Forest and Mountain Navigation, and the most popular class of the whole weekend: Wilderness Rescue. The reason for its popularity was that one of the course requirements involved rappelling down the side of a seven-story hotel.
That this was in optimal conditions, with the correct gear, several fail-safes, and half a pint of scotch in me. Having to rappel out of a burning building with four lives dependent on my success was never something I had planned on. Such is the price of experience: you cant get it after you need it. I had taken the spool of rope and found a window that was situated over windows on the lower floors. I wrapped the rope around my belt, hitting the loops, and then down through my legs, creating a makeshift rappel harness. I threw the spool out the window, shouted Stay there! to the girls and the old man in the crawlspace, and began my descent. I made it to the third floor, where I saw another empty bathroom nearly identical to the one I had just left, only considerably less smoky. I kicked the glass out of the window and pulled myself in using my legs. Once inside, I pulled my pocket knife out and cut the rope. I flipped the knife upside down, and carried it with me as I followed the sound of the old man trying to free the trap door. It led me to a closet, identical to the one upstairs, with what looked like an attic door on the ceiling. The door had a wooden bar that served as a makeshift locking mechanism. I took my knife, slid it under the bar near the nails, and ripped. The door came flying open and the old man nearly fell out of the hole that remained.
Once I helped the girls down, I told them to wait for my signal before following me down the stairs between the second and third floors, on the wall perpendicular to the engulfed stairs between the third and fourth floors. When they asked what the signal was, I said, A shitload of gunshots as I pulled the pistol magazine I still had in my pocket out and threw it into the far hallway that was burning. I ran back to the stairs, down to the second floor, and waited. I readied my knife and began running the possibilities through my head, all of which were centered on an inevitable fact: I was about to bring a knife to a gunfight. It took longer than I would have guessed for the ammunition to begin to explode, and when it did, I opened the door and walked quickly and quietly into the main room on the second floor, ready for a fight. Standing over Daisy, having secured her arms and feet with zip-ties and stuffed a dish rag in her mouth, was the man in the black BDUs. That much I had planned for. What I had not planned for was the man dressed the same way standing next to him. * The bullets stopped exploding. I waited, watching the two men as they looked at each other with shock. It had been almost ten minutes since the fire began, and I had correctly assumed
that they hadnt planned on being here that long. The doorway to the stairs behind me opened and the girls walked into the room, followed by the old man. The fire had nearly engulfed the entire fourth floor, half of the third, and now smoke was billowing through the ceiling into the main area of the second floor. Morgan and Isabel both looked at me, and I would never forget the look on their faces: terror in its purest form. Suddenly, I heard a voice coming from the front doors. Greg burst in and was shouting at the two men standing over his apparently lifeless daughter. He flew into a rage and was charging at the two men, screaming something unintelligible. The man who had performed the sleeper hold on Daisy drew his sidearm and fired twice, hitting him in the torso. As he fired, I noticed his bare forearm was tattooed with a spade and a skull. As I was planning my next move, my fathers words rang in my head: The most dangerous thing on the planet is an intimate knowledge of the human anatomy and a sharp knife. As soon as the door burst open, I had taken my chance at catching them off guard and charged them. Just as the man on the left was firing, I was sinking my knife into the one on the right, at the eighth intercostal space on the left, at the posterior scapular line. My knife went through his descending
Aorta and into the left Atrium of the heart. What happened next was called rapid exsanguination, which means bleeding to death in a matter of roughly 180 seconds. When I pulled the knife back out, a splash of blood his me in the face. As the man on the right was trying to figure out what the sharp stinging on his back was, I had pulled his sidearm from his holster and pushed him forward. I fired, hitting the man I had already stabbed in the arm, but missing the man behind him. They both ran for the door, and the one with and as the smoke was making the living room uninhabitable, the girls grabbed Daisy and I carried Greg and we all fled from the burning building. * Once outside, everyone began sucking in air as fast as they could, myself included. The unwounded man was headed north, through the woods, and his partner was on the ground in front of the door, dying in a pool of blood that was the size of a dinner table. I considered giving chase, but I was coughing heavily, and decided that Gregs gunshot wound was more pressing of an issue. I knelt beside him, set the knife down, and pulled his shirt up around the wound. It was in his breast, but to the right of the lung and the heart, so he was very lucky. I held
his balled up shirt over the wound, applying pressure enough to control some of the bleeding. I picked up the knife and the blood covering it had turned to sap. I held it out, offering it to Morgan so she could cut the Daisy free of her bonds, but she didnt take it. She stared at the blood, looked at the wound on Gregs upper chest, and looked at the man on the ground in the doorway, but she couldnt bring herself to touch the knife, covered in leaves, dirt, and dark, sticky blood. She stared me in terror and shock. I had blood running down my face, onto my shirt, into my mouth, and she looked at me like I had just eaten the man alive as opposed to stabbing him. As the building burned, Gemini residents came and helped tend to Greg until the ambulances and fire trucks arrived. He would survive his wounds, however the man with the puncture wound in his back would be pronounced dead on the scene. The man who took off into the woods the same man from my photograph, who called the missing girls phone wouldnt be captured or identified for until much later. And of course I didnt know it then, but I had just met my fathers murderer for the first time.
PART FOUR: THE LION PRELUDE
Wait, Jacqueline Ferris said, scribbling on her legal pad, Go back a second. When you were in the hospital the first time, what exactly happened between your father and Robert Melton? Was Melton telling the truth? To tell you the truth, I still dont know, I replied, I asked Dad what happened and he refused to talk about it. All I know for certain was that the bottle in his car was purchased by Melton two days before, and there were no marks on his cruiser from contact with any other vehicle, which means he put himself in the ditch. As for the rest, I paused for a drag off my cigarette, I can only speculate. What would you do if someone put a cigarette out in your childs eye? The question was semi-rhetorical, and she didnt answer.
In the weeks in between getting out of the hospital and the fire at Gemini Woods, Paul Johnson was promoted to Lieutenant and Bob Melton was officially fired. That made some headlines, and the whole incident got my name in the papers again. She scribbled some more on her pad before she asked, What was the item that Walter Mason asked you for? Ill get to that, I said, and I dumped another cigarette into the Styrofoam cup and poured some coffee on it to put it out. The cup was almost half full of cigarette butts and ashes, First, theres something you need to know. * I dont know when exactly, but shortly before the fire and the bar and all of that, Dad got Bill to take him to the doctor. He didnt tell any of us what was going on. The doctors told him he had pancreatic cancer that had metastasized to his liver. He was in liver failure, and soon the rest of his organs would shut down as well. He had about six months to live. As it turns out, hed be dead in less than a month, anyway. He was sick throughout that April. He spent a lot of time at home, sitting in his chair in the office. Rachel and Michael were off at Moms, because after the fire, Dad didnt want to put more people in harms way than absolutely necessary. I spent
most of my time around Morgan, who spent most of her time around Isabel. The two of them formed a bond after the fire, and they felt safer together. I wasnt around as much as I should have been, which is something Ill regret until I go to my grave. I only noticed about two weeks after the fire that Dad was sick. I came home and noticed the yellowing in his eyes. I asked him what was going on, and he said that he was having some liver issues and that he was going to the doctor about it. I was concerned, but Bill told me it was being handled. I wanted to spend more time around Dad, but he wouldnt have it. He said that I needed to be with Morgan until the State Prosecutor deposed her, and then probably until she testified. People were still aiming to keep all that from happening, and with the man with the spade tattoo on the loose, my job was protection detail. I argued that Michael was more suited for the task, but Dad insisted it was me. I sure he did it so I would be out of the house and not around to see how sick he was. Its shameful, that I could have gone to school for emergency medicine and I was a six-week bridge course away from being a Registered Nurse, and when it came to my own father, I was so deep in denial that I thought everything would be fine. Even when his kidneys failed, and he swelled up from edema and
ascites, I thought that hes going to the doctor and theyll figure out something. All of this was happening at once. We were nearly murdered, the Sheriffs Department was enveloped in scandal, Dad was sick, and to make matters worse, Eric Leeds came back looking to kick my ass. The way he saw it, I was responsible for the events that took place at Gemini Woods, and that I should have never gotten them involved. I politely reminded him that they were involved the minute they took in a girl who was on the run. It nearly came to blows, but fortunately, we resolved our problem and he actually stuck around to help keep a watch over Isabel and Morgan. Since Dad had sent Michael to Charlottesville to stay with Mom, Eric actually got put on the payroll to pick up the slack. As for the offer from Walter Mason, I said, We were pretty sure he meant the letter from Jenny that we found in her diary. I had scanned it in the computer, which mean when it was seized, they had to have seen it and known what it said. Morgan managed to smuggle it out in her bra, and she had given them the slip before they found out about it. But to be honest, we never knew exactly what he wanted. It didnt matter. The end result would have been the same.
Youre sure? Even now, you dont regret not having given him what he wanted? The only thing I regret, I said, in a low, stern tone of voice, Is not having gotten up out of that bed and killed him with my bare hands the minute he walked into my room. Killing him in cold blood would have made you just as bad as him, She said. I dont care, I said, I truly dont. I never claimed to be better than him. In fact, I am probably worse, because he is fighting for his cause and his principles, no matter how flawed. I am fighting I stopped, reconsidering, At first, I was fighting for someone who could not. At first? She asked, What about after that? I shrugged, After that it was the lion. * I call them the Coyote and the Lion. I didnt know what to call it, at first. I didnt feel like I perceived other people to feel, and I didnt think like I perceived other people to think. Growing up, most people feel this way, and its how we forge our identities and our individuality, but in my case, I was right. I was melancholy all the time, and only in bursts would I show any emotion other than dreary apathy. As I hit puberty, the symptoms of it grew into
overt sadness. At first, my mother was the only one to pick up on it. Then, my siblings became aware, as well as my father. This was during his time with the department and the FBI, so he wasnt around enough to do anything about it. My mothers solution was therapy, which is how they got their names. His name was Dr. Joe Kaiser, a pediatric and family psychologist in downtown Charlottesville. I remember little of those days, but what I do remember was my mother taking me to a brick building and sitting me down on an expensive looking couch and telling me that she and my father were getting a divorce and that the man sitting across from us wanted to talk to me about it. I didnt mind talking; in fact, it was what I enjoyed doing. I liked being the center of attention, because I knew how to keep their attention and at least to some degree, entertain them. He taught me the game of Chess. Week after week, I came in and he would help learn the different tactics and in between lessons, he asked me about my life. I was happy to tell him. Then, as time went on, we got around to the inevitable: Why did I feel this way? He said that people can have different brains than most others, and that it didnt mean that something was wrong. Just different. I told him that I felt like the Coyote in the cartoons, always walking with the storm over my head, no
matter where I went. And it only stormed on me. He asked me if it was like that all the time, and I said that it wasnt, that sometimes, it was other things. When he asked me to describe it, I said that there were some days when I felt okay and happy enough, but sometimes, I felt like there was something inside me, something mean and terrible, just begging to get out; A lion, caged and sleeping, but only sometimes. Sometimes, he was awake and he wanted to hunt. He wanted to kill. He asked me about the lion, and what made it angry. I told him that when I saw people hurting, and when I saw people doing bad things to othersto methat it woke up lion and made him angry. He talked to me about control, and that the reason the lion is in the cage is because he could hurt innocent people who dont deserve it. He said that without the cage, the lion would be just like those people that made him angry. It was a long time until I fully understood the truth in that statement.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
A few days had passed since the fire. I was at Izzys small house near the Resort, sleeping on the couch while Morgan watched the young Ethan play in his room. I had felt like someone was stabbing me in the kidneys with a hot knife ever since the fire. Apparently, rappelling out of windows is not good for a kidney thats full of stones. Wed arrived early that morning so Izzy could open the restaurant, and Id immediately gone back to sleep when she left. It felt as though I had just lost consciousness when I heard the theme to The Legend of Zelda begin playing in my pocket, and I retrieved my cell phone and answered the call. Malcolm Raines? This is he.
My name is Tom Kennon, He said, speaking quickly and deliberately, Im with the U.S. Attorneys office in DC. I was referred to you by Detective William Fuller. Yes, sir, I said, trying to compose myself, What can I help you with? It has come to our attention that you have a woman who can testify that she and her sister were sexually abused by Martin Pierce? The Deputy Attorney I cut him off, Morgan Knightly. Its his late brothers step-daughter. She is in the other room from me. Ive been with her since the attempted murder a few days ago. I am going to be meeting with Russell Graves, hes with the Public Corruption Division at Quantico, He said, Were going to be coming to Victoria County to meet with you and well make our determination at that point as to whether or not to pursue charges against him. Tell me what to do, I said, matching his tone. Get with Detective Fuller and Lieutenant Johnson. Be sure that the girl is kept safe, and we will consult the FBI and the Marshalls service to see if she meets the qualifications for WitSec.
Witness protection? I said, having never thought of the possibility, Is that really necessary? I mean, these guys cant have the resources to keep after her like that. The people that Pierce has connections to are as wellfunded and organized as they are violent and dedicated. If Morgan can provide information that will effectively send their man inside the state prosecutors office to prison for the rest of his life, they are going to be coming after you with everything theyve got. Fair enough, I said, conceding the point, Shell be kept safe. I give you my word. We ended the conversation with typical pleasantries and I got off the couch and walked into the other room, where Morgan was sitting cross-legged on the floor, enthralled with the toddler before her. I just heard from a guy in the U.S. Attorneys office. Apparently, the case against Pierce is going to be a federal one. What does that mean? Morgan asked genuinely. Well, for starters, it means they want to meet with us in a couple days to go over your testimony, I said, stopping for a second before telling her the rest, It also means they want to put you in Witness Protection after its all over.
Morgan stared at me in stunned silence. She had seen enough television to know what the implications of accepting the help of the US Marshalls. She said nothing, and I didnt press the issue. I walked back into the living room, took some painkillers and fell back asleep on the couch as soon as they kicked in. Once again, I didnt sleep for long. Within minutes of losing consciousness, Morgans boots knocking on the hardwood floor as she walked into the room woke me, and I opened my eyes to see her standing in front of the couch with her arms crossed. I dont want to go into the witness protection program, She whispered, not wanting to wake the child in the other room. Okay, I replied, unable to find a better answer through the fog in my mind. She sat down on a chair next to the couch and silently pondered her options. I got the feeling that she hadnt considered what would come of all of this once it was resolved. She looked as though she had finally come to the terrible realization that the minute her sister went missing, her life was never going to be the same again. I wished there was something I could say to take the feeling of hopelessness and dread away, but I knew that there was not. I watched her worry in silence for a moment before her eyelids grew heavy and she curled up in the chair, drifting off
to sleep with a sigh. I drifted off as well. It was a couple of hours later that there was a knock on the door. Ethan began to cry immediately, and Morgan shot me a fearful look. I wiped the sleep from my face and stood up, and on my way to the door, I grabbed the pistol from the top shelf of a bookshelf in the hall where Id left it to keep it out of the reach of curious toddlers. As I pulled back on the slide and chambered a round, I looked through the peephole but saw nothing. Who is it? I asked. Daisy, A feminine voice said from the other side. I opened the door, and leaning on a crutch with her lower leg, ankle and foot in a cast was Daisy Thomas, who I hadnt seen since the fire. She passed through the door and uncomfortably made her way into the house and toward the couch I had been sleeping on, where she plopped down, exhausted. Morgan came and sat beside her, and I heard the two of them talking. Did you hear about what happened with Eric? Morgan asked. I heard he and Malcolm got into it. I thought they were going to fight, Morgan said, emphasizing her concern. I told him not to say anything. Its not Malcolms fault.
No, its mine, Morgan said softly, regretfully, I should never have gotten all of you involved in this. Its not your fault. You didnt set the fire, you didnt hurt your sister, you didnt Daisy stopped herself, I assumed before mentioning the abuse. I know. Morgan didnt sound as though she found any relief in Daisys words. If she hadnt gotten me involved, her sister would still be missing, Rashad would still be taking the fall, and I would still be in hot water with the Masons. The only difference would be that Martin Pierce, Jubal Chenault, and Walter Masonnot to mention whoever they had doing their dirty workwould likely be getting away with it. There would be plenty of both cause and time for secondguessing later. * Later that day, I sat down with a legal pad and began writing out my statement. It all sounded ridiculous and fantasized to have to spell out in such minimalist terms. I first began with the shooting. When it had reached halfway down the page, I tore it out and began again, because I felt the context of what had gone on between Gilead and Mason and Bill and Dad had not been expressed. So I went back and started with My fathers days as an FBI informant.
As I read it back to myself, it sounded literally unbelievable. I thought about omitting some of the details to help its credibility, but considered that with Morgan there to corroborate everything, I didnt have to be concerned with whether someone thought I was lying or not. I sipped coffee as I continued to work, and Dad walked in the side door to the living room. Bill was with him, and he was walking as though he was having problems standing up straight. His face looked puffy and pale, and the whites of his eyes looked like a stained sheet of old paper. You okay? I asked as he neared the kitchen. Yeah, He replied, as though it was a stupid question, and walked right past me and to his office, where hed been spending all of his time lately. Not working, but usually napping in the expensive chair hed gotten as a Christmas gift. I continued working on my statement, without giving it another thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
After the fire, we had made every effort to keep Morgan safe. We changed up our daily routines, used different vehicles, didnt talk on the phone about where we were going to be or when, we moved her from place to place and didnt stay in one address for too long, and we even had Rachel do her hair like Morgans and used her as a decoy. If someone was going to make an attempt on Morgans life, they were not going to be able to catch us off guard, of that I felt very sure. And I couldnt have been more wrong. Days before the interview with the U.S. Attorney and the special prosecutor for the State, we had a small celebration at our house. We had gathered enough evidence that we were sure we could finally bring down a sexual predator and likely murderer of multiple people, although Morgan was hesitant to consider him
the later because of the obvious implications. This was the most important case wed ever worked on, and I knew that my father was proud to be doing something more important than checking on unfaithful spouses and delivering subpoenas. He was noticeably ill, but he hid it well enough for it to be overlooked most of the time. I was around him the most, and it was hard for me to notice the gradual change. People who didnt see him as often noticed the yellowing eyes and fatigued expression, especially my mother. That day, before the festivities began, I received a call from her. Malcolm, what is wrong with your father? What are you talking about? You mean you dont know? She said, incredulously, He is jaundiced. Hes lost weight. He looks tired. How have you not noticed? I dont know, I said, somewhat insulted, Ive been busy playing guard dog. Well, you need to get him to a doctor as soon as possible. Hes been going to the doctor. Well, what did they say? She was almost shouting. I dont know.
What do you mean, you dont know? I mean I didnt ask. What is wrong with you? She asked, Hes been visibly ill and going to a doctoryour father, going to the doctor for the first time in forty years, probablyand you just didnt ask what was going on? I told you Ive been busy. What youve been is in denial. Convinced that my mother was overreacting, I promised her that I would ask my father what had been going on and let him know. Despite the fact that theyd been divorced for a little over two decades, my mother still cared greatly for my father and the two of them were friendly. They rarely spoke about anything other than my siblings and I, but when they did, they were quick to begin joking and teasing one another. They both considered the prospect of getting back together to be a terrible and ridiculous idea, but they still maintained the friendship theyd had since before they were teenagers. I never got a chance to fulfill my promise to my mother. * The night before this, we had sat down with Sheriff Duncan, the recently promoted Lieutenant Johnson and Will Fuller and designed a plan of transporting all the witnesses to the
courthouse for the meeting. That included Morgan, Isabel, Dante, and his mother Frances. Dante had refused the official protection from the Sheriffs department, and not without reason. Their treatment of Rashad had left a sour taste in the mouths of Dante and his mother, and they were both loathe to have anyone from that department responsible for their safety, whether they were one of Meltons corrupt cronies or not. Dante had arranged for a few of his more hardened friends to accompany them while they traveled tomorrow. Hed even offered to provide us with a small security detail of his associates, claiming that wed be much safer with them. While I believed him, I didnt think Morgan and Isabel would be as comfortable with a group of armed gangsters as they would be with Sheriffs department personnel, no matter how well-intentioned the gangsters were. As both a practical and necessary piece of gear for a protection detail, and as a gift for the near completion of our biggest case, Bill announced that he had bought a gift for the company. Michael and I went to the living room to find several large boxes containing body armor. They were military-grade tactical vests, with curved plates in the front and back, along with webbing for customizable M.O.L.L.E. pouches and holsters,
and several nylon straps for a snug fit. Each one was worth several hundred dollars, and Bill had bought five of them. We followed the unspoken rule of receiving a gift of any kind of apparel and tried them on. I felt like I looked misshapen and barrel-chested in it, but I supposed I probably looked at least slightly more badass wearing it. I felt the sudden urge come over me to find some kind of badge to wear on a lanyard around my neck on top of the vest like you see cops do on television, which was immediately followed by the acute awareness that I was, in fact, not a cop, and at the moment I was actually playing an adult approximation of dress up. The moment ruined, I put the vest away and continued my evening. Izzy and Morgan were with Rachel in the living room playing video games. Will Fuller, Michael, Bill and Dad were around the table near the kitchen, sharing a bottle of Johnny Walker, and I was in the library playing the guitar. Suddenly, I heard the music in the background get turned off and everything get quiet for a second, which alarmed me enough to set my guitar down and go into the living room to see what was happening. I could see Michael looking at Rachel with concern, asking her if we were expecting any more people to our little soire. Dad remained seated, seeming unconcerned as to who it may be.
Bill got up and walked to the window and after a couple seconds, he recognized the personal vehicle of Sheriff V.A. Duncan. I had never seen the man in anything other than his dress uniform. As he walked through the door with a bag in his hand, I saw him wearing a neatly tucked-in plaid shirt and blue jeans. He made some terrible joke about the party getting too crazy as he walked in living room door and towards the kitchen. He shook Bills and Dads hands immediately and sat his plastic bag on the table. Here you go, He said, This was a gift from Paul that I wanted to share. Dad pulled the contents of the bag out and set it on the table: a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle 23-year Reserve. Say what you want about the man, but Paul Johnson had great taste in bourbon. He set it on the table and opened it, handing it around so the old timers could smell it. Isabel and Morgan even got a nice whiff of it, and they both had an identical, quivering reaction. They politely declined and went back to the living room and their video game, and Michael and I took a seat at the table with Bill, Dad and the Sheriff.
The U.S. Attorney has a room at the resort for the evening, The Sheriff loudly, his voice glazed with sarcasm, He is enjoying our small town hospitality, I believe. I take it hes at the Wolf? Bill asked. Yes, sir, Duncan smiled. The Wolfs Den, the bar at the resort was where the younger patrons of the resort usually sought their entertainment, and was frequently filled with attractive women. Well, at least we wont be the only ones looking like shit at the meeting tomorrow, Bill said, as he sipped his Blue Mountain stout. I got a look at some paperwork of his, though, The sheriff began, To be honest, filtering money to the Klan and blowing up abortion clinics is the tip of the iceberg of what these Gilead folks are into. Turns out, theyve been buying up Delegates and Senators left and right trying to get some bullshit put through to tear up science books and burn down abortion clinics. They want to charge doctors at the clinics with homicide. They want to outlaw homosexuality, like its something you could practically charge someone with in this country. They want to pretty much just throw out the US Constitution and start out own, He paused, To be honest, I
dont know what scares me more. At least the illegal stuff we can forceem to stop. What gets me, Will said, Is that these are the same people who are screaming that Muslims are coming to ruin America, and Muslim countries are the enemy, even though theyre probably the closest thing to the kind of theocracy they want. No, thats not what scares me, Bill said, What scares me is that the man responsible for Oklahoma City in 95 believed this kind of shit. The folks who took down the World Trade Center believed this kind of shit. The people who kill hundreds of innocent people just to make a point usually do it for this kind of shit, and now just because they call themselves Christians, the folks at Gilead think that theyre the good guys, the underdogs. What scares me is that they could destroy this town and the people would stand in the ashes and thank them for it. * I was strumming Wild Horses on my old Taylor acoustic in the Library when I heard footstep in the doorway. I saw Morgan lean up against the door frame. She tilted her head slightly to the side and set it on the door frame as well, and she watched me with glossy, far-away eyes and a wistful smile on her face, like she was looking at a sad painting that reminded her of
something from long ago. I finished the song, and turned my gaze to her. She didnt move at all for a few seconds, as though she had been lost in a thought. Then, like shed snapped out of it, she was back on her feet, and she walked a couple of steps into the room before stopping. I She said, letting the syllable linger at the end, wanted to talk to you. Okay, I said slowly, to match her. Then she sat her glass of vodka, grenadine and pomegranate juice on the coffee table, turned around, and slowly closed the door. She stood there, turned away from me and facing the closed door for a moment, as though she was preparing herself for something. Then she locked the door, as well. And as though I had been in denial up until that point, I finally understood what was going on, and sat the guitar down in its stand on the far side of the couch. A hundred thoughts ran through my head, most involving my memory about hygiene, and the second to last one being whether or not there was a condom in my wallet. The last was whether or not there was a condom in the house. She turned around from the closed door, and the ruse collapsed. She opened her mouth to speak, and she said nothing.
After a second or two of running words through her head, she looked down, blushing. Would you like to sit down? I said, mustering every last morsel of charm I possessed. Yeah, She said, and she walked to me. She came and sat down on the opposite end of the couch, as though she was moving in metered steps towards the inevitable result. I leaned over and grabbed her shirt at her elbow and gave it a gentle tug towards me. She worked her way down the couch until she was pressed up against me and I could feel her warmth through my jeans and her cotton yoga pants. I leaned forward and said softly, Look at me. She turned her head and she looked like she was fighting back tears. Whats wrong? I just dont want to have to go, She began, I mean, if Jennys gone, then I dont have a lot holding me here. But I have started to She stopped momentarily, Get used to things around here. And I She stopped again, searching for the right words, and she looked into my eyes and said, I just dont want
to start something I cant finish.
I touched her chin and moved her eyes level with mine and said, fighting back a smile, Im pretty sure we got time to finish. She burst into laughter. She grabbed my hand from her chin and held it a moment as she laughed, then as her laughter slowed, I heard her say, Fuck it. Then she almost lunged at me, pressing her lips into mine, and we kissed a long, slow kiss that seemed to last for hours. After a few moments of it, I just closed my eyes and started kissing her wherever my mouth ended up, first with the neck, and then the shoulder. This went on for a few moments until she moved forward and I was slumped back and she was on top of me. Before I had a chance to, shed ripped off her shirt, and suddenly I was acutely aware that she hadnt been wearing a bra all day. Shortly after she tore off my shirt with ferocity that I wasnt used to, I discovered that she actually hadnt been wearing underwear at all. We were disrobed and she was on top of me, and it felt like our anatomies had been specifically designed for each other. Everything was just wear it needed to be, and everything felt just like it was supposed to feel. Her skin was impossibly soft, as though it wasn't skin at all but some divine concoction of butter and cream. It was warm to the touch, and my fingers left
small trails of paleness behind them as they moved. It was like touching the ideal of what human flesh should be, as perfect as fresh snow. The surprising thing to me was how unfamiliar I was with not just that I wasnt being the predator for once, but that I was actually being the prey. She rocked back and forth on top of me until I saw her toes curl and her back arch, and she fell on top of me and began kissing my neck. We had been trying to be quiet enough not to be heard over the stereo in the living room, but I felt as though her sighs and moans may have crossed that threshold at that point. After I decided that I didnt care if anyone heard us, it occurred to me that everything up until that point was what she had been doing to me, and suddenly I felt as though I really hadnt done much at all. This was unacceptable to me, and seeing as how I still had some gas left in the metaphorical tank, I moved up, to the side, and back down, effectively reversing the whole situation. Now that I was on top of her, it was time for to do what it was that I do in these types of situations, and I went to work. I was later told by Will and Rachel that we seemed to be in there for quite a while, but I still dont know exactly how long we were in there, just that it was long enough for it to be halfway into a different album on the CD player. When emerged,
everyone tried to make it seem as though they hadnt noticed that wed been in a room together alone for over an hour and reappeared looking as though wed been in a fistfight. I walked into the kitchen and discovered the Sheriff had left, and I took his empty seat. Bill poured me a drink of the Pappy Van Winkle into a glass and handed to me saying, You look thirsty. I thanked him with a smile, and after Id lit a cigarette, I drank it until it was gone. The smile, however, remained.

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HOLLINS/FROSTWOOD/1

A. J. Hollins 102 Sims Ave. Louisa, VA facelessmasks@live.com

FROSTWOOD By A. J. Hollins PART ONE: THE BOAT PRELUDE

PART TWO: THE GUARDIANS PRELUDE

BUCK: Sheriff, well be in touch. [END OF INTERVIEW]

PART THREE: THE FIRE PRELUDE

PART FOUR: THE LION PRELUDE

to start something I cant finish.

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