"No, sir," The deputy said. "She's uh…she's dead. She was shot." He paused. "She told me to come here, that you were in danger."
Words would not come to Dalton. Only pain, gut wrenching, agonizing pain, not of the physical variety but of the mind and heart. His body went numb and he almost fell back to the ground but Deputy Keating kept a firm handle on him. Dalton wailed. It was a horrible sound. Grief, guilt, pain. His tears mixed with the cold rain, pouring down his face in equal measure. She was all he had left, and now she was gone, too. Gone. Forever.
The officer pulled Dalton in and wrapped an arm around him. He looked out onto the roiling lake over Dalton's head, trying to be strong for the man. He had no idea what he was going through and he would not lie to the man to comfort him. He just held him and let the man grieve.
In the distance, Dalton heard the sound of sirens. Then the flash of blue lights reflected in the hundreds of raindrops and broke through the dark. Seconds later, two more officers jogged around the corner. They stopped when they saw the Deputy cradled over Dalton.
Mara. Aiden. Lenore. Nathan. Why? Why?
The simple question ran over and over through his mind. There was no answer. Yes, he had made a mistake, a horrible mistake, but his family had not deserved to pay for it. Not his precious Mara. Not his little buddy, Aiden. And not his loving to a fault wife...Lenore.
It was his price to pay, not theirs. His weeping turned to anger, he rocked back and forth as the tears kept flowing. He couldn't live like this. He couldn't.
Inches from his face, through the pouring rain, he saw the Deputy's standard issue pistol. He didn't give himself time to rethink. He reached around with his good arm and snatched the weapon from the officer’s holster and jerked away from the man's embrace. Then he shoved the barrel to his temple.
"Whoa! No, no!" Deputy Keating rushed back with his hands out. His next words were calm and deliberate. "Put the gun down, Dalton. Just put it down."
"No. I can't. I can't live like this. Without...without them," Dalton said. The tears were hard to see through the thick downpour, but they poured down his cheeks nonetheless. "They weren't supposed to suffer. Not like this. No, not like this. It's my fault. I can't live like this. I just can't."
The other deputies drew their weapons. Dalton heard the click of the safeties disengaging as they took aim. Ashton waved them down, urging them to lower their pistols. Reluctantly, they obeyed.
"Dalton, this isn't your fault," he said. He didn't know the whole situation, he didn't even know half of it, but he knew the man was grieving. He reached his hand out. "Just put down the gun. It doesn't have to end this way. They wouldn't want you to do this."
"You don't know shit!" Dalton yelled angrily. Angry at himself, at the boys that had hurt his family, at Chase, at the man who was trying to help him. He had to pay for what he had done. Dalton tightened his grip on the trigger. He began to squeeze, but he couldn't do it. His finger refused to move. He closed his eyes and tried again, but he couldn't make himself pull the trigger. Coward, he thought.
"Please, Dalton, put the gun down." The deputy's tone became more commanding.
Dalton opened his eyes and without thinking, he pulled the pistol from his own head and aimed for Deputy Keating. "Shoot me!"
Ashton Keating stumbled a few feet back at the sight of the hollow barrel staring him down. He held his hands up with fingers outspread. "Hold on there, Dalton. You don't want to do this."
The two deputies to Keating's right raised their weapons again. This time Keating did not stop them.
"Think about what you're doing. You're in pain, Dalton. You're hurting. I don't know what you're going through and I'm not going to act like I do, but you can't end it like this," Deputy Keating tried to explain between strained breaths, keeping his voice calm. "You're not going to shoot me, Dalton. You're going to put down the gun and we're going to walk away from this. You're going to come with me and we’re going to help you."
The chill of the rain suddenly made Dalton shiver. Then the realization of what he was doing broke through like a raging avalanche. His hands began to shake and he released his grip. The gun dropped to the ground, splashing against the sodden soil. His whole body was shaking. Deputy Keating rushed in and grabbed Dalton's arm before he fell to the ground, ignoring the weapon. He pulled Dalton over his shoulder and took in a rain-soaked breath.
Dalton began to sob. His body was racked with guilt, pulsing with each tear. He had to live with this.
CHAPTER 22
It was raining again.
It was a light rain, but it seemed to press down unsympathetically against the array of black umbrellas. Arms struggled to support the light constructs that kept the rain from pelting their skin and clothes, against their heavy hearts.
Dalton’s bloodshot eyes moved from casket to casket. Each was sparkling white with an arrangement of roses atop the sorrowful box. A bouquet of beautiful white roses capped Aiden and Mara’s caskets. Dalton couldn't stop his tears as the realization hit him again, as it had a hundred times over the past days. He would never see them again, not here. A set of red roses crowned the coffin in the center, Lenore’s.
He wanted to rush up and drop his head against the smooth finish of the dreaded boxes, to cry, to mourn without restraint. But he couldn’t, not now.
“This is not the end. Not the conclusion of a life, but the beginning of something greater,” the pastor continued. The elderly man was dressed in a black suit and pants, a white button-up and black tie. He looked back down at his Bible contemplatively and then returned his attention to those gathered around the three boxes. Dalton’s parents and Lenore’s. Old faces, worn with time and stricken with grief. So many friends and other relatives also gathered behind them. Then the pastor turned to Dalton as he spoke not to the crowd, but to Dalton specifically.
“Mourn our lost loved ones…” he paused again. “But remember, death is but a passing on to a greater place. Rejoice for them.”
Dalton bit his lip. A subtle anger rose from his chest. Rejoice? How can I rejoice? They’re gone, dead. I’m left here to remember. He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. No. He’s right.
The acceptance of the pastor’s words did little to assuage Dalton’s grief, his guilt, but it gave him something to hold on to, something to move forward with. He took in a deep breath and blinked the tears from his lashes as friends began to file by, placing singular yellow roses on each casket.
There were so many faces that Dalton didn't know. Lenore’s work associates in the publishing world. Classmates, coaches and teachers who knew Aiden and Mara. He saw Faith Moreno step up to Aiden’s casket, tears streaming down her face. Dalton knew they had been the best of friends and that his boy had always had a thing for the girl. It had brought him to tears when she told him just days ago that Aiden had finally got the nerve up to talk to her again. A surge of pride had ran through his veins, then sorrow at the love his son would never know, the life he'd never have. He wiped another tear away as the line dwindled and disappeared.
Dalton stepped forward and placed a hand on Aiden’s casket, the tears began to pour, his heart hurt. There was so much he wanted to say as Aiden's face entered his mind. The boy hadn't liked sports, but he always loved a good movie or book. He was his mother's son. The phrase hurt. Dalton dropped his cheek to the casket. He was so proud of the kid, he only hoped Aiden had known. “I love you, Aiden.”
A comforting hand found Dalton’s shoulder. He looked back with a grief-stricken frown. It was his mother. In what world did it make sense for Dalton, a middle-aged man, to be standing in the presence of his elderly mother when his teenage son lay lifeless in a wooden box about to be buried six feet under?
He let his hand slide off the casket as he moved to the foot of Mara’s resting place. He again placed his hand on the cold wet box. He wished it was warmer for her, hoped it was comfortable. Dalton pushed aside the inane thought as the tears blurred his vision. He wished he could attend just
one more of her volleyball games, watch her spike a winning ball. She had loved the sport so much. He wanted to hear her call him Daddy one more time. Dalton turned his face from casket and closed his eyes, but he was met with her gorgeous blue eyes.
“I love you, darling.” He opened his eyes again, and again he let his hand drop away from the sleek box.
Then he stared up at the red roses that decorated the head of the horrid box. He imagined the strong beautiful woman that laid inside, lifeless and cold. Dalton knew at that moment that nothing could hurt him worse than this, nothing could tear apart his heart, his world, more than had already been accomplished. His eyes shifted to Mara's casket for a second and then back to Lenore's. His kids had known he loved them, he'd shown them, been there for them. But Lenore. Lenore he had neglected and wronged in about every way he could, and why? For a moment he didn't know the answer, but then it came rushing in. He pushed his own faults onto her, he had pushed her away, he had pushed away the most loving and selfless person he'd ever known. And now?
Dalton let his mind linger back twenty-one years earlier, to the day he met Lenore at the art conference in Georgia. He had been a junior associate at a Charlotte architectural firm and she was attending to promote her first book. He had stumbled all over himself when he'd first spoken to her.
Dalton smiled briefly at the memory before the guilt of how he had treated Lenore the past years crept back in. He would never know if she had forgiven him. How could she? Could he?
“I love you, Lenore…” He stared down at the white casket, a symbol of purity, the red roses, love. But all he found was his own guilt, the wracking grief and realization of what his actions had caused. Dalton’s knees shook and then went numb. He dropped to the ground by the cold box, oblivious to the rain. Water soaked through his slacks and around his knees. His hand still gripped the gloss-coated box. Through tears and stuttered breaths he apologized, as he would continue to do from that day forward.
“I’m sorry… I’m so…sorry. I’m sorry.”
CHAPTER 23
The small office smelt of old cologne. It was musky but not overbearing. Books lined the wall to Dalton’s left and three narrow windows crowned the wall to his right. In front of him sat a short stocky man of about fifty. The man's grey hair formed a crown around the dark skin of his head. A thin mustache and goatee outlined his small lips just under a pair of rimless glasses.
“So how are you feeling, Mr. Summers?” Doctor Kapil Prashad asked in a nasally tone, his attention confidently locked onto Dalton.
“I’m hanging in there,” Dalton responded, trying not to focus on the fact that he was talking to a psychiatrist. The police had felt he needed to work out his feelings. Something about his "outburst" after he'd been drug from his burning home. They weren't pressing charges, though, not after they had found all the dead bodies and his home's security feed.
“It’s all right to talk to me about how you’re feeling, Mr. Summers. Dalton. Can I call you Dalton?” Doctor Prashad asked.
“Yes, of course, Doctor,” Dalton agreed.
“And you may call me Kapil.”
Dalton nodded. He licked his lips nervously and crisscrossed his fingers. Let's just get this over with, please.
“I’d like to begin our sessions with a few questions, Dalton,” he started in, it was his first session with Dalton. “Some of these may not be easy for you to answer right now, but I want you to be as honest with me as you can. All right?”
Dalton nodded again, “Yeah. I’ll try.”
“Good, that’s all I ask. Hopefully this will become easier after a few visits.”
Doctor Prashad looked down to his desk where a notepad sat. He scribbled down something. Dalton pursed his lips, wondering what it was. The doctor looked back up with a gentle smile.
Half an hour later, Dalton was walking out of the office and to his car. He stepped up into a new Jeep. After the incident, that's what he was calling it now, he'd sold the BMW, and the other cars. Then he'd bought an apartment in Charlotte in one of the high rises. Everything about his home, the land, the cars, Kannapolis, it all reminded him of that night. He had to get rid of it, though he had a feeling that Doctor Prashad would have disagreed with his logic had he the opportunity.
He shifted the SUV into drive and pulled out of the parking lot. As much as he hated going to the psychiatrist, he secretly hoped it would help. He knew that he'd live with what happened that night every day of his life, but he wasn't coping well himself. He hated to admit it but he needed the help.
With time he hoped it would pay off, that he could move on, that he could live with what happened. No matter what the doctors said, though, it was his fault, he knew it.
The Jeep glided under a stoplight surrounded on all four sides by massive glass-faced buildings that reached higher than he could see, much higher. People walked the sidewalks. Some were in conversation with fellow walkers, others were absorbed in their phones, but they all seemed happy or unreadable. A woman with a little toddler crossed the adjacent street as he stopped at the next light. The little blond-haired girl smiled brilliantly as they stepped up onto the sidewalk. For a brief moment her bright green eyes met Dalton’s. He smiled.
Then the light turned green and Dalton guided the Jeep forward. Ahead, an outcropping of trees and decorative shrubs dominated the next square, hollowing out a space of reds, yellows, oranges and browns amidst the glassed towers. Dalton let his gaze drift to the serenity of the gently flowing water lapping over the edge of a pool behind an almost bare tree. Children played and lovers sat wrapped together in long coats on the wrought iron benches enjoying the trickle of the water.
He let himself smile just a bit. The light turned red and he came to a stop by the oasis. He watched the people walking to and fro, sitting, talking. A young couple, or maybe business associates, walked through the sparse crowd. Another man in a suit rushed by, completely bypassing the calm scene. Another sat on a bench and pulled out a lunch. Then in the background, just at the edge of the pool of glimmering water, a man stood. No, a boy. He stood in a black t-shirt and jeans, his face pale and thin, and dark eyes shone into Dalton's soul as he glared back.
Dalton's heart pounded, his pulse jumped. What? No! He clasped his eyes closed, not wanting to open them again, but did immediately. There was no one there. His eyes darted back and forth among the crowd. He was nowhere. Dalton looked down and slowed his breathing. Then the light changed. It was time to move on.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jordon Greene is the author of the Amazon Bestselling conspiracy thriller They’ll Call It Treason. A graduate of UNC Charlotte, Jordon works as a full stack web developer for the nation’s largest privately owned shoe retailer and spends his spare moments keeping up with the next big action movie, listening to hard rock music and writing his next novel. He lives in Concord, NC just close enough and just far enough away from Charlotte.
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www.JordonGreene.com
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