Love Lies Bleeding
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Note from the Publisher
Dedication
Trademarks Acknowledgement
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Remmy Duchene
A Silver Publishing Book
Love Lies Bleeding
Copyright © 2013 by Remmy Duchene
E-book ISBN: 9781614959472
First E-book Publication: June 2013
Cover design by Reese Dante
Editor: Jamie D. Rose
Logo copyright © 2012 by Silver Publishing
Licensed material is being used for illustrative purposes only. Any person depicted in the licensed material is a model.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission. This book cannot be copied in any format, sold, or otherwise transferred from your computer to another through upload to a file sharing peer to peer program, for free or for a fee, or as a prize in any contest. Such action is illegal and in violation of the U.S. Copyright Law. Distribution of this e-book, in whole or in part, online, offline, in print or in any way or any other method currently known or yet to be invented, is forbidden.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
If you see "free shares" offered or cut-rate sales of this title on pirate sites, you can report the offending entry to copyright@spsilverpublishing.com.
This book is written in Canadian English.
PUBLISHER
www.SPSilverPublishing.com
Note from the Publisher
Dear Reader,
Thank you for your purchase of this title. The authors and staff of Silver Publishing hope you enjoy this read and that we will have a long and happy association together.
Please remember that the only money authors make from writing comes from the sales of their books. If you like their work, spread the word and tell others about the books, but please refrain from sharing this book in any form. Authors depend on sales and sales only to support their families.
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Lodewyk Deysel
Publisher
Silver Publishing
http://www.spsilverpublishing.com
Dedication
To my wonderful Venus—I miss you terribly.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Rolex: Rolex Watch USA Inc
CNN: Cable News Network Inc
Google: Google Inc
Hawaii Five-0: CBS Studios Inc.
Skype: Skype Corporation
Hallmark: Hallmark Licensing LLC
Jane Eyre: Charlotte Bronte
The Raven: Edgar Allen Poe
Baby-Baby-Baby: written by L.A. Reid, Babyface, Daryl Simmons
NYU: New York University not-for-profit Corporation
CNN: Cable News Network, Inc. Corporation
Hallelujah: written by Leonard Cohen
Prologue
He sat in the front row watching everything. Half the time he got so confused, he felt as though someone had blindfolded him, whacked him over the head, spun him around, then turned out all the lights. Law terms were new to him and he had no idea what most of them meant. When each person took the stand, he would watch their faces. Most cried—others looked stone cold. He remembered opening the freezer when he was younger and seeing white smoke coming from it. The people lacked any form of emotion and in their coldness, he could see the same kind of white smoke emanating from them. One woman peered at him through beady eyes, sending a shiver or something nasty down his spine.
The little boy exhaled out his mouth in a noisy whoosh because his chest was tightening.
The courtroom smelled like doom. There was no other way to describe the stench swirling around the room. Lawyers gave off that smell—bottom feeders—those who seek to get what they want and to hell with everyone else. The little boy took a breath and leaned forward in his seat. He never took his eyes off the judge, who had been sitting silently since the defence rested. It was as though he was in deep concentration, but the little boy knew better. As young as he was, he could still see the judge's utter disappointment and the robed man looked outright at his wit's end.
The judge's shoulders lifted and fell heavily while he shuffled the papers before him. He pressed his eyes closed then lifted his gaze to browse the courtroom. "This case has tested me. There are so many things in it that leave a bad aftertaste. I don't know what is more disturbing, the abuse or the fact no one here is willing to take responsibility. As much as I would love to do what my heart is telling me, I have to do what the law dictates. I've listened to both parties and the child, and I am now rendering the following decision."
He didn't know what render meant but the little boy was very sure it was all bad. His little body shook slightly and though he was now painfully twisting his fingers, he couldn't stop. He needed something to keep his mind off the hammer about to drop.
"The law dictates I must do what is in the best interest of the minor. I have to make a decision based on what will give him the best chance of recuperation and life. I cannot make a decision on the property you two are arguing over. That is not my jurisdiction. What is in my jurisdiction is the welfare of this child. I hereby order the he be remanded to the state…"
The little boy felt his world end then. The judge kept speaking but he was too numb. All he heard was a dull, throbbing sound. Eventually someone took his hand and pulled him from the seat and shoved him into a car. There was a flurry of activities but he just couldn't wrap his mind around any of it. Something banged atop him but still he sat, head down, fingers clenched tightly, and eyes glazed over. He wasn't sure what it was and since it caused no physical pain, he didn't care.
The days seemed to melt into one big night and eventually they found him a foster home. He would sit in a corner, silently. Each day blended into another—then another—and soon he'd lost track of time. From time to time he'd hear a bit of the conversations around him and it was always the same.
"He hasn't said a word since he got here."
"Nothing? How do you know he's hungry?"
"I don't. I just put the food out and when he's hungry, he eats. But it's been three months and nothing."
"Maybe it's a phase."
"I doubt it… I've been begging someone to take him to therapy but the government doesn't care and we can't afford it…"
His eyes glazed over again and he hung his head lower.
Chapter One
Anderson sat up from the bench and exhaled. His body wasn't in the mood for a workout but he couldn't let that stop him. Since it was a little wet outs
ide for a run, he had to settle for the university gym before anyone else got there. Reaching for his towel, he patted the back of his neck, then his face, and grabbed his water bottle. If he hurried, he would have enough time for a shower before he had to motor it back to his office and prepare for class. He was excited about the day, for he was teaching his students about the great masters of literature.
The thought spurred him through a quick shower, a stop for coffee, and a short climb to his office up the stairs. He never liked elevators, even on a good day.
The moment he walked into the office, his phone began ringing. Arching a brow, he grabbed it and dropped it between his head and shoulder.
"Hello?"
"Hi, son. I know you forget things."
Anderson laughed. "Hi, Dad. I remember our date for tonight."
Jazmon chuckled. "Yes, but will you in an hour?"
"Dad."
"I know. I know!"
Anderson spent a little time speaking with his father before glancing at the clock. He wanted to cry because now he was definitely late for his first lecture.
* * * *
Luckily his students didn't mind. He set up their attendance clicker questions and while they mused over the right answers, he got his slide show ready and grabbed his copy of Jane Eyre.
"Okay. Did everyone have a chance read the first chapter in Jane Eyre?" he called, glancing around the large lecture hall.
A few hands went up—more than he thought would. He smiled. "Good. Very good. First we're going to dissect the characters."
The class erupted in a lively discussion. Anderson loved that; he loved having his students participate and ask questions without the fear of being wrong.
"Jane, I don't like cavillers or questioners; besides, there is something truly forbidding in a child taking up her elders in that manner. Be seated somewhere; and until you can speak pleasantly, remain silent." Anderson read from his copy of the book. He looked up at the class and walked forward up one row. It was more to give them a chance to think on it, let it sink in. "Tell me what this means to you."
"She's been broken," one student hollered from the back.
Anderson turned. "Mikail, what do you mean by that?"
"Well. She seems to be a free-spirit—a person who thinks for herself—and they're basically telling Jane there was something wrong with her because she doesn't conform to what they believe in."
"Amazing analysis. There is no right or wrong answer here because each person interprets this book differently. But I love the way you're thinking. Yes. Mikail is right. The answer was like 'you are wrong to have your own mind. And you are wrong to demand to know what you did wrong. You are not entitled to a voice'. Anyone else?"
The day went by in a flurry, for it seemed he ran late for everything. His final lecture went overtime as well, and when he glanced at his watch, he wanted to cry, even as students hurled questions at him. It was as though they didn't want to leave, because it took about five minutes for most of them to clear out of the room. Anderson gathered his things from his desk, while he answered a few questions from the students who oftentimes wanted to speak with him. Except this day, there were quite a few more than normal.
Not wanting to push their questions aside, he answered as many as he could. Finally he told them if they wished to discuss anything further, they should meet him for his office hours. Then he was out the door. But the fact he was all but racing from the building didn't seem to stop anyone from trying to speak with him in the hallways. One student went so far as to jog beside him halfway across the large courtyard before getting winded and having to stop before he passed out. After a quick glance to ensure the kid was all right, Anderson darted home. He tossed his keys into a bowl by the door, plugged in his cell phone to charge, then darted up the stairs two at a time. He stripped on his way and tossed the dirty clothes onto the arms of a large chair by the window in the bedroom.
He took the fastest shower he had ever taken. He felt sweaty from all the rushing he'd been doing and needed the shower to cool his body down before meeting with his father. Finally dressed, he took a moment to glance at himself in the mirror. Anderson was dressed in a sleek pair of black dress pants and a dark blue dress shirt. He attached the chain his father had given him for his graduation from university and slipped on his Rolex before dumping some aftershave into his palms. He rubbed his hands together, lathered his neck, and gave himself a corny gun-salute in the mirror before jetting down the stairs.
Pushing his feet into his shoes, he unplugged his cell, grabbed his car keys from the bowl beside the door, and began whistling as he made his way to his car. Backing out from the driveway, he turned the car towards his father's place. He really didn't want to tackle the traffic but there was no way to get to his father's without it. Side roads were basically non-existent because of tolls. Moaning when he got stuck behind a large bus, Anderson reached forward to flip on the radio then the air conditioner. A cool whoosh of air caressed his face gently while he picked up his cell phone and dialed his father. He might as well tell Jazmon he would be late.
The phone rang over and over but no one picked up, which was rather strange. Ever since his mother died, every other Friday was dinner night. It was strange his father didn't answer. He hung up and called back once, twice, until the traffic moved a little better for about two blocks, only to gridlock again. Anderson slammed a fist into the steering wheel and swore. He always complained about how bad the traffic was, but he'd never once thought of moving until that very moment. There had to be a better way. Side streets were out of the question since there were no real side streets in New York anyway; they all looked like the street he was on. He had to get to his father. Something was not right. His mind began racing about the possibilities.
Maybe Dad was in the shower.
Maybe Dad stepped out for a second.
Maybe…
But when the guard allowed Anderson into the parking lot and he pulled up behind his father's car, the bad feeling still hadn't gone away. If anything, it had worsened.
"Hey, Andy!" the guard called when he walked back toward the doors leading to the elevators.
"Hi, Mike," Anderson called but didn't stop to speak like he normally would. There was urgency about the way he moved quickly, like a spirit through the doors, and jabbed his finger impatiently against the button leading from the parking lot to his father's floor. When he was finally there, his eyes widened to see the front door to the large apartment standing wide open. Now he was certain something wasn't right. His father would never leave the door open, not even if he was expecting his son to arrive. He held his breath as he walked up to the front door and stepped into the lobby. The floor was clean, the way his father would normally keep it, but still that dread washed through him. His heart began slamming against his chest, his palms sweating.
Easy, Andy. You're exaggerating again.
But that voice quickly turned into panic when he moved further into the house and almost stepped into a large puddle of blood.
"Dad!" he screamed. All thoughts of being careful or rational left his mind as he began tearing through the house. The fact he should back out and call the cops didn't remotely enter his head. All he could think was there was blood on the floor in the foyer and his father wasn't answering his phone. When he finally found his father in the bedroom, Anderson's world collapsed in on him, threatening to destroy him completely. There was writing on the wall across from the bed. The room was neat—put together—which struck Anderson because his father was never a neat person. The bedroom bore the brunt of his paperwork and files.
"Dad," the word was a strangled cry the second time he said it. He didn't recognize his voice.
With shaking hands and tears streaming down his face, he picked up his phone again.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"I need the police; I just found my father, Judge Williams, dead…"
That was the last thing Anderson remembered doing before he stumb
led out of the apartment and fell to his knees, panting for air. It was as though no matter how much air he took in, his body craved more. His throat burned terribly as his body heaved and for the first time in a long while, he vomited. Even though he'd skipped lunch and barely had anything for breakfast, he still threw up. Finally his body simply dry heaved painfully. He lost all track of time and when the sirens stopped and someone began asking him what happened, he turned dazed eyes to look at who was speaking to him. It was a uniformed cop.
Of all the days to be late, why did it have to be this one? He was normally on time but the day had gotten away from him. He'd spent too much time doing other things and he'd forgotten about his dinner plans. He normally would allow his students to go a little early so he could make it on time. Guilt washed over him so strongly his knees wobbled uncontrollably. He felt like a fool and a coward.
Anderson swallowed and leaned against a low wall with his arms folded over his chest, "I don't know," he spoke softly to himself. His voice shook. "We were supposed to have dinner tonight. I knew something was wrong when he didn't pick up the phone. Then I get here and his door… my dad never leaves his door open. He's a judge, for crying out loud! He knows better!"
When Anderson inhaled, he felt his body tremble. Tears threatened to pour down his face again and he turned his head from the cop. "He knew better…" Anderson whispered weakly.
* * * *
A feeling of accomplishment washed over Leo as he added his signature to the file and began reading it over. Though he knew the feeling only lasted until another case fell atop the already high pile of unsolved ones he had on his desk, he had every intention of relishing the feeling for as long as it lasted. With a deep breath, he closed that file, dropped it into a red basket by his desk, and reached for another.