“Forecasts show the tropical depression hasn’t even become a hurricane yet and they should be concentrating on the investigation until the last moment. The families of the missing deserve at least that much. Really shame them with this piece, got it?”
Nodding vigorously Cole leaps to his feet saying, “Sure thing Chief, you can count on me.”
As Cole opens the door Anson calls after him, “And this is it Cole. After you find nothing today you drop this line of inquiry and get back to your job full time.”
“You got it.”
“And one more thing,” he waits until Cole is staring at him before growling, “Don’t. Call. Me. Chief!”
Chapter 8
Atlanta, Georgia
Sitting uncomfortably in a molded plastic chair Roger anxiously sips at his tepid coffee. He was given the styrofoam cup forty-five minutes ago when he arrived early to the Grady Detention Center. Since then he’s been largely ignored while waiting for the proceedings to get under way.
Waiting for Lionel to show up, waiting for Sadie’s counsel to arrive, waiting for Sadie to be brought down to the room, nothing but one large waiting game. Setting the coffee down Roger reflects on how much of his life lately has been consumed by waiting.
Standing, he begins pacing up and down the institutional gray corridor. The walls and ceiling are all plastered with the supposedly subduing tones of light gray. Even the floors of the place lack a certain shine—the tiles all off-white.
With each step the soles of his loafers squeak and echo in the quiet space. Nothing about the place is soothing or comforting as far as he’s concerned.
Loosening the tie around his neck he once again runs through what it is he’s going to say to her once she’s in front of him. This is my one chance. I have to do this right…for Miriam. No matter what happens I have to keep my cool.
Shaking his head, he knows this last part by heart as Lionel has been drilling it into him nonstop since yesterday.
“Roger.”
Turning at the sound of his name being called he sees Lionel walking toward him, briefcase in hand. Stylish as always, it strikes Roger as odd how out of place he looks in a place like this. Wearing a three-piece suit over a crisply pressed shirt and soft blue vest, he certainly stands out next to the uniformed crowd.
“Are you ready for this?” he asks in a concerned manner.
“Yes,” Roger nods.
“All right then,” taking a quick breath he explains, “Sadie’s counsel is in the room with her now; I tried to convince him to let you speak privately with her but it’s a no go.”
“Why?”
“You know lawyers,” Lionel says with a wink, “Always thinking the worst of people. He says it wouldn’t be in his client’s best interest. It doesn’t really matter though; the important thing is you’re getting to talk to her. Just ignore him and focus on her.
“Now,” he reaches into his briefcase and removes a folder saying, “This is a notarized copy of the offer the State is willing to make for her cooperation. We’ll drop the attempted murder charge and give her time served plus a year’s probation for the assault causing bodily harm.
“This is a sweetheart deal. Do your best to impress that upon her. Make sure she knows that if Tait walks then this deal goes away and she’ll be looking at years in the State Pen.”
“Didn’t her father tell her that?”
“Yeah well,” Lionel smiles, “Here’s hoping you’re more convincing.”
The door to the room opens and Sadie’s counsel waves him in. Stepping toward the room Roger is held up by Lionel’s hand on his arm. “I’ll be right next door OK?”
He nods and steps away before Lionel adds, “One more thing.” Locking eyes with him he waits for him to say “Don’t let her get to you.
“Make the offer—if she doesn’t take it she doesn’t take it; that’s her call. Don’t lose your temper in there; it could lead you into trouble. She isn’t worth it and it’s not what Miriam would want.”
Roger gives him the barest of nods before stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. Along his left side a two-way mirror hangs on the wall reflecting the drab trappings of their surroundings.
Turning from the mirror he slowly raises his eyes to stare at the countenance of Sadie Randle. She’s sitting stoically on the other side of a battered Formica table, her eyes never deviating from the image in the mirror.
She’s wearing a bright orange jumpsuit—hanging loosely on her small frame—that makes her pale skin appear even whiter than it is. Thinning black hair is combed away from a face that once could’ve been described as pretty.
Now, sporting sunken and dull indigo eyes, sallow cheeks, and drawn lips that are parted by a malevolent sneer, she’s creepy more than she is pretty.
Beside her Roger takes in her court appointed representation. He’s a middle-aged man wearing a cheap brown suit that makes him look like a used car salesman. He has a bald spot, a bushy mustache, a penchant for sweating, and sagging jowls to complete the look.
The man smiles revealing a gap between his front teeth reminiscent of David Letterman. Offering his hand he introduces himself, “Cliff Ackerman.”
Roger shakes his hand briefly before sitting down across from Sadie. He stares at her for a long moment in silence. Here she is. The woman who intentionally gave Miriam a fatal disease is mere feet away from me.
He’s suddenly very aware of the dragon stirring in the pit of his stomach. He can feel the black desires rising up from the roiling mass of rage he’s worked so hard to suppress. His fingers start to twitch sending vibrations along his arms. He longs to reach across the table and strangle the life out of her.
The way she has taken the life out of Miriam.
Growing uncomfortable in the silence Cliff clears his throat saying, “Shall we begin then?”
Keeping his eyes on her, Roger sets the folder with her plea deal down in front of him. “Remember me?”
She continues staring blankly at the image in the mirror completely ignoring him.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Roger declares.
She still doesn’t look at him and the silence gradually reclaims the room.
I hate you I hate you I hate you.
The voice inside his head screams in his ears as he watches her mutely sitting there. Beneath her hollow cheeks and behind her perpetual sneer he recognizes the smug cant of her lips and it sickens him.
You think this is a game?!?
His shoulder tendons bristle with hostility as he struggles to remain seated. Closing his eyes for a moment, he takes a deep breath. Being this close to her is taking all his resolve to keep from leaping across the table and throttling her.
Miriam—I have to stay calm for her.
Fingering a corner of the folder he holds his rage in check and begins again. “The State is making you an offer for your assistance. You’ve heard it before and been advised to take it many times. Even your father has begged you to accept it. That said; you haven’t taken it yet.
“Ask your attorney. He’ll tell you what a good deal this is for you. Do you really want to spend the best years of your life behind bars when you don’t have to Sadie?”
Nothing.
Lowering her gaze from the mirror she offers up no reply.
“Perhaps I could talk privately with my client again for a few minutes?” Cliff says with a faux smile.
“No,” Roger growls low and menacingly. The timbre of his voice causes Cliff to lean away from him. “This is my time to talk to her. Look at me Sadie,” he commands.
For the first time since he entered the room she raises her eyes to look at him. In a flash the darkness that shadowed his features vanishes and his voice cracks with a pleading desperation.
“I need your help.”
She stares at him.
The pain is obvious in his moistening eyes and quivering lower lip. Her response to this is so uncharacteristic to what one would expect that it is start
ling. She smiles and starts to snigger.
“This is funny to you?” Roger seethes with barely constrained fury.
Her laughter ceases as she speaks to him for the first time. “You need my help; why should I help you? I needed your help and what did you do? You speak to me about the best years of my life as if I should give a shit where I spend what will be the last years of my life thanks to you!”
Rolling her eyes to the ceiling she recounts, “All you had to do was denounce HIV. You were standing up there—all you had to do was tell the truth.”
“I did,” Roger whispers.
“NO!” she screams, “You lied!”
Two tears run down her cheeks as she accuses, “Look at me…you condemned me to death. I hate you. Why would I ever help you?”
“Don’t do it for me then,” Roger tries, “Do it for yourself. You can pretend to be an uncaring monster all you want Sadie but you’ll never be that.”
The words burn like ash on his tongue. “You were confused and…you lashed out. You…attacked my wife because he told you to. What is Tait to you huh? Why protect him?
“Do you realize that without your testimony he’s going to walk? You’re going to spend the little time you’re convinced you’ve got left rotting in a jail cell while the real criminal is going to get away.”
“You’re right,” with vitriol she hisses, “The real criminal is getting away. You’ve killed millions with your deceit and what charges do you face?”
“Goddamnit Sadie,” he rubs at his chin saying, “HIV causes AIDS. You…you gave my wife HIV.”
“And you could’ve stopped me,” she maintains. “Does it hurt to know that you could’ve saved her but didn’t? You could still save her—all you have to do is tell the world the truth and spare her the treatment that will kill her.”
Exacerbated, Roger lowers his head into his palms asking, “Does it bother you at all what you’ve done?”
“What I’ve done?” She glowers at him, “All I did was stick the knife in her—you’re the one letting her die.”
He’s across the table before she can react. Without thought of consequence or reason his hands wrap around her throat and squeeze.
Shocked, Cliff jumps back knocking his chair over and clamors for help. His own efforts to dislodge Roger are futile at best.
She claws at his wrists as his hands shake from the vice like grip he keeps pressed on her throat. A pinched sob escapes her lips and her eyes bulge as she gasps for air like a fish out of water. The sight excites him. He can feel her windpipe constricting beneath his thumbs, fueling his wrath.
Behind him the door flies open and voices ring out from seemingly far away. Through the red haze of his rage he recognizes Lionel demanding that he let her go. He doesn’t. He just squeezes harder.
She chokes and splutters, her eyes starting to roll back in their sockets. This is for Miriam. This is for…
The back of his head explodes with pain as the wooden baton wielded by the guard connects against the crown of his skull. His arms go limp as he is thrown off her—his fingers slipping away from her neck as he falls.
Lying on the floor of the room he hears her tortured coughing over the frenetic shouting of Lionel before his vision swirls and the darkness surrounds him.
Soft harmonious laughter chases away the pallor that has hung over the Whittaker home for weeks now.
Sitting in the living room—a serving tray crowded with tea and biscuits between them—Miriam Whittaker shares a light moment with Wendy Rojas.
“Oh, I needed this dear,” Miriam dabs at her eyes that have begun to water from their boisterous laughter. “You have no idea how good it feels to forget everything for a moment and just…be happy.”
“Well it’s my pleasure,” Wendy says with a smile.
“But shouldn’t you be at work dear? I’m sure there are more important matters for you to attend to.”
Her brow creases slightly thinking about the stacks of paperwork on her desk and the crush of assignments that await her attention. So much work that she really should be at the office now to have any chance of avoiding being there all night. But then again…
With a big, beaming smile she rests her hand on top of Miriam’s assuring her, “Nothing that can’t wait while I check up on a friend.”
For a moment they remain like that, sharing the comfort of friendship before Miriam says, “I know that look my dear, what are you not telling me?”
Sheepishly Wendy draws her hand back saying, “Nothing. It’s nothing.”
“Uh huh,” Miriam takes a sip of her Earl Grey asking, “So how are things going at work? What’s keeping you busy these days?”
“The usual assortment of illnesses and mysteries I suppose,” Wendy offers, “I’m sure you’ve read about the Hope disappearance; we’re going to be sending a team to investigate.”
“Will you be going along?”
“I doubt it,” she shakes her head in reply, “Not with the mountains of work on my agenda.”
Sighing Miriam states, “I do miss Roger regaling me with the goings on of the agency. He so loved his work.”
“Things aren’t the same around there without him.” Wendy takes a sip of her own tea asking, “How’s he doing?”
Her expression darkens as she lowers her chin and steadies the now shaking cup and saucer with both hands. Closing her eyes a moment she answers, “We don’t talk like we used to before…” Her eyes open and rest upon her left hand.
“He just won’t let it go.” Miriam looks up at her asking rhetorically, “Even now, do you know where he is—at the detention center meeting with…her.”
“I’m sure he just wants to make sure they pay for what they did to you.”
Hardening the corners of her mouth Miriam asserts, “There’s a difference between wanting justice and needing vengeance my dear, and don’t you forget it.”
Giving her a look of appraisal Wendy asks, “What do you want?”
“I want my Roger back the way he used to be.” Forlorn, she mouths, “That’s it…just that.”
Resting her hand on top of hers Wendy says, “Just give him a little more time Miriam—he loves you—he’ll come back.”
Nodding slightly Miriam places her other hand on top of Wendy’s saying, “Enough about me. How are you holding up?”
The unspoken elephant in the room rises between them. The specter of a missing friend haunts both of them as they stare in silence at each other, unable to find any words that could possibly offer comfort.
Finally Wendy whispers, “I’m doing my best to hang onto the hope that she’s still alive out there…somewhere. But it’s…not easy.”
“It never is,” Miriam empathizes.
Watching her Wendy see her grimace in pain as her hand retracts to her left side. “Miriam,” she asks concerned, “What is it?”
With a measured breath she replies, “It’s nothing dear, just a little pain every now and then. It’s gone now—as you should be, I know you’ve work to do.”
Despite feeling suddenly rushed Wendy smiles as she rises, “You sure you’re all right?”
Waving a hand dismissively at her Miriam answers, “I’m fine dear. Really, it’s nothing.”
Still not entirely convinced Wendy prods, “You’d tell me if it wasn’t right?”
“Of course dear,” Miriam gives her a warm smile, “But you worry too much. When you get to be my age you’ll learn that you can’t get worked up about every little ache and pain that comes along.”
Chapter 9
God helps those who help themselves.
Surrounded by boxes and teetering stacks of folders, Caleb stares at a photograph emblazoned with those words. It was taken almost four weeks ago at Sacred Heart Catholic Church beside the body of Jefferson Moss.
The words had been written in the blood of the father.
An old skeleton key that fit no locks onsite was also discovered at the scene. He no longer has access to the key with it locked awa
y along with the rest of the evidence, but he does have a picture of it which he holds up to the light.
His belief is that the words written in blood are a riddle whose answer will lead them to a location that the key will unlock. For that reason he has spent nearly every available moment for the past few weeks poring over the Bible searching for the origins of the quotation.
The search has been agonizingly slow and fruitless thus far.
Setting the photos aside he retrieves his Bible, turns to the Gospel of Matthew, and is set to resume his quest when a knock sounds at his door. Extricating himself from his work he swings the door open and frowns upon seeing Hal Jerome standing in the hallway.
“What are you doing here Hal?” he grumbles.
Exhibiting a roguish grin Hal answers, “Hello to you too Cal.”
Caleb stares at his old friend a moment longer before shaking his head and walking back to sit amongst his papers.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Hal extends his white and red cane and cautiously steps over the threshold.
“Watch where you step, the place is a mess.”
As if in response his cane bumps into a pile of papers that promptly falls over. “Ah, so it is.” Closing the door Hal manages to make his way over to the sofa luckily finding a barren spot to sit down.
“So,” he clasps his hands around his cane while asking, “How are you doing?”
Flipping a page noisily Caleb answers without looking up from the gospel, “I’ve been put on suspension and removed from the task force that I started—how you think I’m doing?”
“Well,” Hal taps a finger on his chin saying, “I imagine you’re angrily ignoring that order and are doggedly pursuing your own leads.”
Caleb lifts his eyes from the page saying nothing. Feeling the silence drawing out Hal continues, “But since I only caught the faintest whiff of alcohol on your breath I’d say it’s a step in the right direction.”
“Why are you here Hal?”
Dropping the banter Hal replies, “I was worried about you.”
“Yeah,” Caleb scoffs, “Isn’t everybody.”
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