The Murder of Sara Barton (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 1)

by Lance McMillian

  “Probably not.”

  “Never took you to be the modest one. That’s more Ben’s line.”

  We laugh and return to a comfortable silence. She’ll be asleep soon. She’s fighting it, but her body will demand it of her directly. I already promised to come back tomorrow, so I’m free to leave when she drifts into unconsciousness. Ben has been doing a funeral all day and will visit her tonight. Lara is due to leave Atlanta soon, giving me a few hours to stock up on supplies. She can’t exactly be seen around town.

  Mom asks, “Do you ever see Lara Landrum?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “She seems nice.”

  “I told her about your accident. She’s thinking about stopping by to see how you’re doing.”

  “Stop it.”

  Sarcasm always infects our dialogue. That’s just how the two of us communicate with each other. The habit is so ingrained that neither one of us even takes notice. It’s part of the fabric of our relationship—something unique that belongs to us and no one else. Ben marvels at our interactions and worries so much about it that he prays for Mom and me to get along better. The prayers must’ve worked. The Prodigal Son has returned home.

  “Ella is doing the direct examination of Lara Landrum at trial.”

  “What! It should be you. That’s the biggest moment. It should be you.”

  “We have our reasons. Ella is real good at relating to female witnesses. It’s a pivotal moment and needs a woman’s touch.”

  “Nuts.”

  That’s her pet phrase when she desires to express vehement disagreement with whatever you just said. I break the news to her today to avoid having to answer questions about it later. Now she has a few weeks to adjust to her disappointment before Lara testifies. But she’s not having any of it now. The heaviness of her eyes can’t mask her feelings of disgust.

  I assure her, “You’ll still see plenty of me on your bigscreen TV.”

  “Nuts.”

  She falls asleep.

  ***

  Evening comes. The sun is long gone, but the residual light left behind offers its last breaths to illuminate the country around me. I rock on the front porch, waiting for Lara, hoping that she doesn’t get lost without cell service somewhere in middle Georgia. Every vehicle that passes dashes my expectations and turns up the volume on my worrying. The door to the detached garage stands open, ready to hide her car as quickly as possible. In a small town, gossip is the most valuable currency and even the trees have eyes. Her coming is a needless risk in an ongoing cycle of needless risks. We’ve already been caught once. I won’t survive a second discovery.

  When she pulls into the driveway, I direct her to the open garage and hurry to close it behind us. I breathe easier with the evidence out of sight. I grab the bags and shield her from the road as we make our way to the house. I show her the powder room and collapse on the couch, feeling as though I could sleep for days. I awake from a momentary nap when she asks, “So what now?”

  I ask, “Hungry?”

  “Not for food.”

  The eyes dance. Where does she get the energy? The import of her words should excite me, but the impact falls flat. The realization that I barely know this woman hammers me, like I’m playing the most dangerous game of my life without even knowing the rules. I need some answers.

  “Why are you here? Be honest. Tell me.”

  She is dumbstruck. The dancing eyes turn sad. She sits in a chair and stares into the flameless fireplace. I wait her out. She finally fixes her attention back to me.

  “I have nowhere else to go.”

  The tears follow. She moves to the couch to be held. I oblige. She is every bit the lonely woman I took her to be at Sara Barton’s funeral. The implications of her loneliness suffocate me. Two messed up people, mutually co-dependent, carrying out a secret affair with a looming murder trial in the background—the prospect of catastrophe appears a matter of when, not if.

  I embrace her for longer than I would like. The ritualistic chirping of the crickets ushers in a new evening. Last night that familiar sound of my youth supplied me with a small dose of melancholic nostalgia. Now the chirps grate on my nerves. The steady drumbeat thumps louder and louder in my head, like an Edgar Allan Poe story where the guilty man cannot run away from his beating heart. I break the silence to thwart the march of the crickets.

  “Are you going to act again?”

  “I’ve been working nonstop for fifteen years. Since Sara died, I can’t do it anymore. I have nothing left to give.”

  I hear the words, but I’m not really listening, content that her voice drowns out the outside noise. For the sake of my sanity, I keep the conversation going.

  “Don’t you have friends in Hollywood?”

  “No! That place is a bunch of vipers! The men want to grope you and trade parts for sex. The women are worse. They’re mean, shallow, and vengeful gossips. They’d sell you out in a second if it meant a better part for them. Everything’s so fake. I loathe it with all my being. I sold my house when I was out there and don’t ever intend to go back.”

  The sneering vehemence surprises me. I’ve never really asked about her career before, figuring she gets that kind of talk enough. I know without probing that her disgust stems from personal experience—intensely personal experience.

  She goes on, “Remember the night we first made love? I told you that you were real. Well, you are real. That’s why I’m here. You’re the only real thing in my life right now. I can’t handle the fake anymore. I need real. I need you.”

  I don’t feel very real. And a relationship that has no outside identity apart from its own cocoon doesn’t ring the bell of authenticity. But I’m tired. I pushed for answers and now regret doing so. She’s too heavy for me at this moment. To change the mood, I suggest some s’mores.

  Dubious at first, Lara’s face brightens by the light of the firepit in the backyard. I give her a stick, supplies, and instructions. Her unencumbered joy at roasting marshmallows over an open flame restores a measure of my lost hope in the universe. We laugh—the burnt marshmallow, chocolate, and graham crackers rescuing the evening.

  Lara asks, “Can we make another one?”

  “We need to get inside before the storm hits.”

  “How you can tell a storm is coming?”

  “I can smell it.”

  One of the skills you develop growing up in the country is an innate ability to detect the gathering storm. The process defies description. You just know. We retreat back inside, and I send her off to take a quick shower before the weather arrives.

  A back staircase, missed by most visitors, takes me to the attic. It’s one of those old-time attics with high ceilings, a generous-sized window, and a space that spans the house from end to end. The attic could pass for a room, but calling it an attic adds an intoxicating layer of mystery to what is one of my favorite places in the entire world. Little has changed. The rest of my family never cared for the space. As a result, the attic belonged to me alone. Even today it reflects the decorating choices I made a long time ago.

  I sit on the old couch and soak in the atmosphere. Dust particles from last century populate the furniture. An old weight set sits in the corner. A drum kit—like all drum kits, begging to be played—stands in front of the window. A bowling ball and bowling pins lie behind a chest, remnants of a doomed attempt to convert the site into a bowling alley. All kids should have such a place—somewhere creative, free, and unrestricted by adult norms. I miss those days but appreciate that I was lucky to have them.

  The creak of the stairs previews Lara’s arrival. She glances around the room with perfunctory interest before walking with purpose straight my way. She wears a short silk bathrobe about ten sizes too small. She reaches the couch, sheds her covering onto the floor, and drops to her knees on top of it. She removes my shoes, my socks, my jeans, my boxers, my inhibitions. The excitement I feel rises, and her expert handling of me generates the expected response.

  S
he straddles me and begins gyrating up and down in tempo with the steady rain. I close my eyes, listening to the water pound the roof, recalling my days as a drummer to keep the beat with the rhythm of her movements. The melody is slow and steady. Thunder rattles the house the moment I finish, driving out the sound of the drums in my head. She lays her head on my chest for a few seconds, kisses me for the first time since entering the room, puts her bathrobe back on, and strolls out the way she came, having never said a word since coming up the stairs. I trace her path throughout the house based on the sounds of the floor underneath her feet. The rain pelts hard on the attic window.

  25

  After spending another morning keeping company with Mom in the hospital, I drive up to the house and see my brother’s car in the driveway. My stomach drops. Maybe Lara is hiding in a closet. I park and walk in, not knowing what I’m going to find.

  They sit together in the living room. Lara greets me cheerfully. My brother gives me a look of confused wonder.

  I say, “Lara, Ben. Ben, Lara.”

  “We’ve met,” Ben says, adding, “I came over to get my weedeater.”

  The weedeater. Great.

  “Ben was just telling me what you were like when you were growing up. I love small towns. I wish I had a nice place like this to call home.”

  “I don’t get back enough,” I observe.

  Ben says, “You’re right, you don’t. But I’m glad you’re here now. A couple I’m going to marry next month is joining Sally, the kids, and me for dinner. We could probably fit a place for the two of you if you’re interested. I know the kids would love to see you.”

  Lara’s slight smile reflects her curiosity as to how I will respond to my brother’s invitation. I am not so sanguine. Knowing that my deceit now extends to my family only makes things worse. Lara should never have come here.

  “Tonight’s not a good night.”

  “I understand. You can walk me out then. Lara, it was a pleasure meeting you. Don’t be a stranger.”

  We exit and face each other under the oak tree in the front yard—the site of so many adventures together in decades past. This oak tree was here when our father was a little boy and will likely stand after the both of us are gone. The thought provides a strange comfort. This tree cares not a whit about my problems. Life goes on.

  “Why is she in Mom’s house?”

  “Witness prep for the Sara Barton murder trial. A lot of paparazzi follow her in the city. It’s a distraction. I figured we wouldn’t be bothered too much down here.”

  My answer actually solicits a laugh. Was it that ridiculous? But Ben is a hard one to fool. Ministry has prepared him well to sniff out mendacity.

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  The words are not harsh. They never are. Compassion shows in his face. Ben is Jesus in the flesh—gentle, faithful, humble, grace-filled, a true servant through and through. He delivers an amazing sermon, and he’s had numerous opportunities to go to bigger churches, pursue greater fame. But he always says no, content to answer God’s call on his life in relative obscurity. He often explains, “A man gets into trouble when he starts thinking about his own glory.”

  He is the happiest person I know.

  “Ben, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  The hurt in his eyes is genuine. We’ve always been close, but Amber’s murder has wedged us apart. He tries to bridge the gap every few months. I refuse to reciprocate. Relationship-tending requires more energy than I can spare.

  And now he has met Lara. The need for secrecy is on my mind.

  “Please don’t tell Sally or Mom,” I say.

  “I won’t lie, not even for you.”

  “I don’t think either of them is going to ask you if Lara Landrum was in Mom’s house.” He laughs.

  “Probably not.”

  He pats me on the back, gets in his car, and starts his engine. Before driving off, he rolls down the window and gives me one last message.

  “Be careful, brother.”

  ***

  We sit together in front of the fire. Lara drinks some wine that she raided from Mom’s liquor cabinet.

  “Tell me about your father,” she says.

  We haven’t talked much to each other about the past. Even in the mountains, the dialogue between us centered on the non-personal. But it’s hard to avoid history in a house like this. I reflect on my father, knowing full well that he would be aghast that I was sleeping with a witness in the same house that his great-grandfather built.

  “Daddy was my hero. He was a lawyer, so I wanted to be a lawyer. He was the real-life Atticus Finch, the moral conscience of the community. His office was on the courthouse square. Seems like everyone in the town congregated there. I would go and hang out, soaking it all in. The town convinced him to go to the legislature. The folks in the legislature liked him so much they made him lieutenant governor. He was going to be governor, but he walked away.”

  “Why?”

  “He didn’t want it. He was being true to himself.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Cancer.”

  That awful word. Daddy faced the end with calm equanimity—the same way he approached everything. Even as the disease ravaged his body, he would sit for hours on the porch, his marked-up Bible in his lap, looking at the trees and feeling the wind. Most people in his situation ask, “Why me?” He thought, “Why not me?” He reasoned he had lived a good life, better than most. It would be untoward to let the bad at the end drown out the overwhelming good. He died a contented man.

  Lara asks, “Do you think your mom would like me?”

  “Mom would love you. She would take you around to all the shops in town, show you off, and claim you as her best friend.”

  The image amuses. Yet that meeting will have to wait. The trial dominates our relationship so thoroughly that I rarely allow myself to think about a post-trial life with Lara. Part of me worries that the clock will strike twelve once the verdict is read, and the fantasy will end.

  I say, “Maybe you can meet her after the trial.”

  “I would like that.”

  Her words provide some solace, and that hope sustains for now. The trial is the thing. I just have to get through the trial.

  I change the subject and ask, “What about your parents?”

  She frowns and drifts away from me. I keep to myself and let her float in her memories. I’ve interviewed enough witnesses over the years to recognize that prolonged contemplation of this sort rarely precedes happy talk. I wait. It’s her story to tell.

  “What can I say about Bill and Julia?”

  The pain of the topic etches lines into her face. The beauty remains, even when hardened. Her feet rest in my lap and I rub them to show solidarity as she wrestles with the past. I can’t fix whatever hurt eats at her, but I can let her know that she doesn’t have to travel back in time alone. She readies herself to speak behind soft tears.

  “Bill touched me in ways a father shouldn’t touch his daughter. He made me touch him. The first time was when I was seven. He didn’t stop until I was thirteen. Julia knew the whole time and did nothing. She let that monster rape her daughter. The day they both died in a car wreck is the happiest day of my life.”

  I remove my hands from her feet. The action is instinctual, and I only realize I’m no longer touching her after the fact. Her sobs grow, but I fear holding her, afraid as a man to do anything that would violate her again. I belatedly go find a box of tissues. I can do that at least. Lara sits up and dries her eyes.

  She goes on, “I’ll give Bill credit for one thing. He made me the actress I am today. I hid the abuse from my sister, my teachers, and other relatives. I tried to deceive myself, too, but I wasn’t that good.”

  A bitter laugh follows her words. The tears stop, and a hungry rage takes over. She grasps her wine glass with a bear claw of a grip, and I wonder if it will up and shatter in her hands, never to be put together again. I hold fierce to my silence, convinced that anything
I say will strike the wrong note.

  “I’ll never understand one thing. He only touched me. Never Sara, only me. We look just alike. Why me instead of her?”

  Man is a beast. In no other species will a parent use a child to satisfy his own perversion. The revulsion in me rises. Bill and Julia should’ve been sent away to prison to face the special brand of justice other inmates reserve for child abusers. Lara lays her head on my chest, and we marinate in the quiet for a spell.

  I ask, “Did Sara know?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe your father was doing the same thing to her.”

  “No. I knew what to look for. Sara suspected something was up from time to time, but she never knew. I hid it well. I’m good at that. Even after Bill and Julia died, I hid it well. It’s not like I wanted Bill to abuse her, too. She was my best friend. I would do anything to spare her that awfulness, the terrible smells, the gross violations. I didn’t wish it on her at all. I just want to know why he chose me. What did I do wrong?”

  Her hostility to Barton takes on new dimensions. Barton is old enough to be Lara and Sara’s father. He married Sara when she was only twenty. One need not be a psychiatrist to see how Lara could easily transfer the horror of her own father-daughter experience to Sara and Barton. By going after Barton, I stand as the man who will deliver Lara from her childhood demons. I’m prosecuting Bill for his past crimes. I don’t feel much like a white knight and grimly realize that such a foundation for our relationship is doomed to crumble.

  We sit in silence for a long time.

  ***

  The phone rings and jars us out of the mournful stillness. It’s Scott.

  “How’s your mom?”

  “Tough as ever. She won’t die until she wants to.”

  “Glad to hear it, but this is not a social call. Something’s happened in the Barton case.”

  I joke, “Barton confessed?”

  The joke doesn’t go over. Lara jerks her head to me, confusion worrying her face. I shake my head and mouth, “No.”

  Scott continues, “Sam Wilkins is dead. Gunshot wound to the head.”