Burden of Truth

by Terri Nolan

  “Whoa,” he said.

  “What is this?” She held up the photo of Matt’s dead body and thrust it in his face. “How the hell did this get into cyberspace? Huh? It’s your job to serve and protect. This kind of shit isn’t supposed to happen.”

  Ron held up his hands. “Calm down. I had nothing to do with that photo. We’ll figure it out.”

  “We’ll figure it out? Who? You and me?”

  “The sheriff’s department.”

  “You played me. Took advantage of my grief. You had enough prior knowledge of my personality to know how to twist me. You’re the type of guy I go for. You knew that. You romanced me. I’m ashamed to think how we tortured my sheets.”

  Birdie turned away from him.

  Gerard and his adjutant watched with keen eyes.

  Ron snatched the photo from her hand. “I’m sorry you had to see that.” He rolled it up and slid it into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. “I’ll find out who’s responsible. And about the other stuff … don’t think you’re the only one vulnerable to hurt. Your problem is power.”

  Birdie sneered. “What?”

  “You get into nowhere relationships with men you don’t love. Date guys that swoon for you so you’d have the upper hand. But Matt was different. You two never took the final step of physical intimacy because then you’d be linked in an adult relationship. You can’t handle that.”

  “How dare you make assumptions about Matt and I. You have no right.”

  “I may be overstepping, but it’s the truth and you know it.”

  “You two got off topic,” interjected Gerard.

  “Stay out of this, Dad.”

  “Can’t. It happened right in front of my eyes.” Gerard extended his hand.

  Ron shook it and said, “Nice to see you again, sir.”

  “Oh, puh-leeze,” said Birdie, “Is this some hug party now?”

  “My daughter is distraught.” Gerard smacked Ron across the upper back. “But it’s nice to meet a boyfriend of Bird’s that’s not a faggot. I like you.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” said Birdie. “Just someone I had sex with.”

  Gerard winked at Ron and said, “Stubbornness eats up her college-earned brain cells.”

  The sound of screeching tires distracted them all. A car hit the curb and bounced onto the lawn. Emmett got out, obviously not having been pulled over, and madder than ever. He pushed Gerard and charged Birdie. Ron stepped into his path. He was taller, heavier, and didn’t yield when Emmett attempted to shove him away. “You’ll pay for this,” he screamed at Birdie.

  “Hey,” said Gerard, drawing his gun, “back off, Emmett.”

  If Emmett could slay a man with one look, Gerard would be dead.

  Gerard and his adjutant moved closer, guns aimed. Ron put a protective arm around Birdie and pushed her out of the line of fire. Neither of them would actually shoot Emmett so long as he was within two feet of Birdie, but that didn’t ease the tension of the situation.

  “Calm down, everyone,” said Birdie, jumping around Ron. “He doesn’t have a weapon.”

  “What do you call the car?” said Ron.

  “Look, Emmett, I get your anger, but I didn’t tell Eileen anything. She told me.”

  “You told her about the money,” he hissed.

  “I helped because you asked, but I’m not going to take your abuse. Deal with the ramifications of your own actions.”

  Emmett’s face contorted from hate to pain. “I really want to kill you right now.” He said it low and deliberate as if on the verge of tears.

  “You’re drunk,” said Gerard. “That’s the only reason you’re standing right now.”

  “Piss off, Gerard, you self-righteous bastard.”

  Gerard jiggled the gun. “Go for it. I’ll put you out of your misery.”

  “So will I,” added Gerard’s adjutant.

  “Alright. Alright,” said Emmett, holding his hands in submission. “I’m going.” He retreated. The car bounced backward into the street, leaving a big black scar on the curb and two swatches of muddy grooves on the grass. No one relaxed until he accelerated away.

  Gerard ticked his head at the adjutant. “Have him picked up before he kills someone.”

  “That’s it,” declared Birdie. “I’m done. You guys can chase Emmett, have a nice little chat on my ruined lawn, get to know each other, psychoanalyze me all you want.” She twirled her arms in a big circle. “I’m through with all of this.”

  “Wait,” said Gerard. “What the hell was that about?”

  “Leave me the hell alone.”

  “Birdie …” said Ron.

  By then Birdie had already opened the door and crossed the threshold. She pushed it closed with a dull thud that echoed in the entryway.

  _____

  Birdie was tired. Tired. A condition of extreme mental and spiritual distress. Hibernating was her preferred method of mental detox. She’d sleep. Lie in bed, look up at the stars on the ceiling and dream a new existence; a reality different from the one she was experiencing. Fantasy and reality intermingling to give birth to a new creation. Eight months ago, she would’ve been recreated by liquor. Nowadays, it was sleep. Sometimes she felt guilty for the self-indulgence, but not today. No, today she had earned it and had justification. She turned the phone ringer off, muted the door buzzer, pulled down the blackout shades, got undressed, placed the loaded Sig under her pillow, and covered herself with a soft cotton blanket. Her body jittered as it recovered from the adrenaline dump and want of a drink. No, she’d not go downstairs to get the bottle of B&B in the library. She threw the blanket off and got up to lock the bedroom door. Then she plopped back into bed and covered her head.

  thirty-one

  Monday, January 16

  Birdie’s eyes popped open midday. Her thoughts stretched out to Matt. What he must have endured with all those years of sneaking around and collecting evidence of a cop gang and then called out to a bogus domestic dispute and shot by an unknown assailant. Even near death Matt never let Birdie see the crisis of heart. And when he did call on her to finish, or find, something that was extremely important, she allowed her personal grief to impede her. She had let him down. Well, no more. With renewed vigor she got out of bed.

  Some life experiences can be real shitty, hard to get through, but she had no legitimate reason to feel sorry for herself. Yeah, her heart yearned for Matt, missed him with every cell of her body, but she would not allow his task to go unfinished. She owed him that much. Yes, he had betrayed her, but it was for a reason. He had a plan. He always did. And the reason would likely be discovered when she found the evidence boxes.

  See what a day in bed could do? Add perspective. Birdie had a rich life. A loving family. Trusty friends. A spiritual community. And she had herself. A woman who had the strength and will to push on.

  After a hearty breakfast another page came off the wall. Day 248. Miracle.

  Jacob had left a voicemail: “Now, Birdie, Ron Hughes told me about the photo. I can only think that someone hacked into the county’s computer for some malicious purpose. Please don’t think I or Hughes had anything to do with it. The data card from his camera went directly to an evidence envelope. The chain of custody was intact. I am extremely sorry you saw Matt that way. Please be assured that an investigation has already been launched.” Well, that’s one way to get ahead of the shit, thought Birdie.

  After listening to all the messages, she was surprised that Ron had not called. So she called him.

  “Did you drop everything to race here when you thought I was in trouble?”

  “My weekend is Monday and Tuesday. I’d already considered breaking off early anyway. I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “How long did you and Dad talk about me?”

  “Talk? He interrogated me. He took me to the Westend where
we met up with Thom and Arthur. They gang raped me. Right there in the bar. My ass is sore.”

  “Nice metaphor. My dad will do background.”

  “I’ve nothing to hide, but they pushed me hard anyway. Ger-ard wanted to know why I was at your house. Wanted to know all about Emmett. I couldn’t offer anything more than what I heard on the message. Later they wanted to know my intentions.”

  “What did you say?”

  “What could I say? You told your dad that we’d already had sex, and he told your cousins. So I said that we intended to get to know each other by dating.”

  “Humph. Now the whole family knows.”

  “Yeah, I got that dynamic.”

  “Why didn’t you call after what happened with Emmett?”

  “Gerard said not to. And Arthur said that when you got out of bed, you’d call.”

  “I hate being predictable. On a first-name basis with my dad?”

  “And with Thom and Arthur. I think I’m in.”

  “You’ve schmoozed my family, but you have a long way to go with me.”

  “That’s why I stayed in town. Can I come in?”

  “Come over in two hours.”

  “Why not now?” he said, disappointed.

  “I’m going on a run. It helps me think.”

  “I’ll go with.”

  “I have only one treadmill.”

  “We can run outside. It’s a beautiful day.”

  “Yeah, okay. That’d be nice, but I’ll be ready in a few minutes and I really don’t want to wait.”

  “No problem. I’m in your driveway.”

  Birdie opened the door. Ron shrugged. “I wanted to keep watch in case that asshole came back.”

  She looked at the duffle bag in his hand. “What kind of gear do you keep in your car?”

  “Everything I need and then some.”

  _____

  Birdie watched Ron strap on a suspender rig made of neoprene. It crossed in an X over his back, down his chest and wrapped around his waist. All of it to conceal a tiny BUG at the small of his back. He jumped up and down to make sure it fit tight and didn’t chafe. “What?” he said, “It’s what the Secret Service uses.”

  “Yes,” she countered, “but I’m not a jogging president and you aren’t my protection detail.” In the end, she couldn’t convince him not to pack a gun. He explained that he felt naked without one. The Marines taught him to be prepared for any circumstance.

  They walked briskly to 2nd Street, and then started a light jog. It was clear from minute one that Ron was the faster, stronger runner, but he humored her. The air was crisp and bit her cheeks, her nose began to drip. She ran her sleeve across her nose and concentrated on the soft squish of running shoes hitting the pavement, the ponytail slapping her back, the glint of the engraved ID tag attached to her shoe. It felt good to be outdoors for a change.

  They turned eastward on 3rd Street, moving to the sidewalk and upping the pace. They ran in silence. Occasionally, Ron would sprint ahead and double back, laughing and smiling. He reminded Birdie of an overgrown puppy at play. Turning left on Rossmore Avenue, she thought about the joy he brought to her. How much his mannerisms reminded her of Matt.

  She was now certain that Matt wanted her to find the evidence boxes. She also hoped they’d give up an answer to why he died. Despite Danny’s assertions of danger, she felt that as long as she knew more than they did, she’d be okay. Knowledge gave her a safety net.

  Ron fell in next to her. “May I make a suggestion? Relax your shoulders.” That’s it. “Now try to breathe through your belly, not your lungs. You’re puffing too hard.”

  “I’m puffing because I’m not in good shape.”

  “You have a beautiful shape.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Oh, you mean cardiovascular shape?”

  “Ha, ha.”

  “I’ll teach you how to belly breathe when we’re not running. It will be easier to explain when I can touch you.”

  “What a lame excuse.”

  They turned left on Beverly Boulevard.

  Ron laughed. “What can I say in my defense?”

  “Nada.”

  They eased into a comfortable rhythm. The only sound was Birdie’s breathing. Ron was silent. He hadn’t even broken a sweat.

  Pass the Wilshire Country Club, then another left and they were back on her street. She kicked it.

  “Ho, ho,” said Ron. “It’s like that.”

  Ron gave her a significant head start and then easily passed her, sprinting the distance to the house. She moved into the street, huffing and puffing, determined to give it her all. She didn’t see the van. But she felt the front grill, the warmth of the engine. Her body bounced, limbs twisting in an unnatural way, skidding, somersaulting. A kaleidoscope of colors bloomed when Birdie hit the curb and her body abruptly stopped in the gutter. This was bad. She frantically gasped for air, felt like a thrashing fish on a dock. The silver van screeched to a stop. A white man jumped out from the side door to render first aid.

  She heard Ron’s voice, “BIRDIE … NO.”

  Birdie attempted to form the words that would express an apology for running in front of a moving vehicle. The man yanked her up by the ponytail. He put his hands under her arms and jerked her toward the open van door.

  The driver yelled, “Hurry up.” The van jerked forward.

  “BIRDIE.”

  The man fell back into the van, dragging Birdie along. He wrapped a hand around her thigh and pulled her in. “Go. Go. Go.”

  “Who is that guy?” said the driver.

  “Just go,” said the white guy, slamming the door.

  Through her fuzzy-head, Birdie realized these men weren’t overzealous in their attempt to help. They hit her on purpose. Birdie was being kidnapped. She tried to scream, but still hadn’t caught her breath.

  She heard a POP as the back window exploded into a gazillion pieces of safety glass. The van rocked as it accelerated down the street. Two more POP-POPS as bullets hit the van.

  “BIRDIE. NOOOOO.”

  “The jerk is chasing us,” the driver screamed.

  “Get the hell out of here.”

  Finally Birdie managed her own scream—the best she could muster.

  The man and she got tossed sideways as the van took a fast turn.

  The driver yelled, “Shut her up.”

  Birdie was still screaming when the gloved fist hit her face.

  thirty-two

  I awoke with a primeval instinct to be absolutely still and assess the situation. Not an easy deal. Every nerve in my body screamed uncle. My right shoulder lay crumpled under my clavicle. Blood glued my cheek to the filthy concrete floor. Acidic goo coated my teeth. My eyes throbbed. And worse, my abdominal muscles were in a sustained state of contraction. My body was getting ready to vomit or shit. Retching or Expulsion? Guess it didn’t matter. My detritus would blend with the stale piss, decomposing rodents, gastric chunks, and moldy fast food of my prison. I lay in odiferous hell and cursed my keen olfactory system. Even the clotted blood of my broken nose couldn’t filter the odor of raw crude that fought for a presence among the miasma. How long had I been here? A day? Three? I had no sense of space or time.

  I wasn’t alone in this nasty place. Two male voices: one harsh, one softer, engaged in argument. I couldn’t make out the content, but they were clearly unhappy. Their voices were in front of me, so I dared to move my hands positioned behind my back. The fingers wiggled slowly. All ten intact. My wrists were handcuffed. That’d put a damper on any active plan of escape.

  A sudden heat, like a fever, overwhelmed me. The peristaltic activity had reached its climax. An involuntary moan escaped through my clenched teeth just as my bowels emptied. The smell was quick to spread as excreta oozed underneath my running tights, warm and liq
uidly against my thighs. My thoughts reached deep inside my brain. As I drifted back into blessed unconsciousness I recalled the leftovers on Matt’s death bed.

  _____

  Sour water streamed onto my face, stinging. I lapped it up, desperate with an unquenchable thirst.

  “Wake up,” said a man.

  When the water stopped I managed to open my one good eye. A dim light source barely illuminated white hands pulling up a pants zipper. The indignity of drinking piss didn’t bother me. I had other pressing concerns. Like survival. I rolled over on my belly and tried to get up. The man pushed me down.

  “I said wake up, not get up.”

  Then he stomped my kidneys. The pain was what I’d imagine a lightning strike to be like.

  _____

  I had gone to hell. Not limbo. Not purgatory. Straight to hell.

  _____

  A man drummed on my body. “That’s it,” he said. “Get the blood moving. Attagirl. Time to wake up for your company.” He smacked the crook of my arm. Tap, tap, tap. A prick preceded a quickening of awareness. My heart beat faster. My brain fired up. What had he given me? I lolled my head side to side. Look around. Where am I? Feel the environment.

  _____

  Someone kicked my face. No pain. Just a snap like a soda cracker. The darkness closed around me. A blackness hijacked my heart. All I saw were eyes. Matt’s eyes. Dead eyes.

  _____

  There was a long hallway. The door at the end was carved marble with a warm candlelit glow. That was the door to heaven. I, Birdie Elizabeth Keane, had an appointment with God. I wasn’t afraid. I was at peace, ready to accept my fate. I stood in front of a tall pulpit. I felt the presence of a judge full of intense power and true, unconditional love. Deliverance from this earthly hell waited for me. I looked down on my body. Eyes open. Glassed over.

  I’m coming, Matt. I’m coming.

  thirty-three

  St. Peter washed Birdie’s feet with warm water. He poured rose-scented oil on her skin. The oil warmed as he gently massaged the vamp, toes, ankle, and calf. His hands were soft as they pressed into the flesh. He gently worked his way toward her knees. Okay, he’s getting frisky, thought Birdie.