by Willow Rose
“That’s what I used to believe, yes,” Kristin says. “Until I started to work with these patients, with Peter. I realized he was smarter than we thought, and started to believe he had a private chamber in his mind, a place where all his adult thoughts were trapped behind his sickness, behind the palsy. So, it makes a lot of sense that he would fail the tests, since the tests are made for people who can answer verbally, read and write. What I found was a way for Peter to share his intelligence. I found a way to reach that chamber of his, and you will be amazed at what I discovered.”
“And what, exactly, is that?”
“That Peter has a beautiful mind. A mind with a wonderful personality, who is more than capable of feeling and giving love. I fell for that mind. Not the body or the sickness. I fell in love with who he was. But the world, his family, won’t accept it. They want to keep him in his prison, so the world will never hear what he has to say again. He is once again being treated like a severely impaired person and has lost all control over his life. They have taken away his freedom. They’re silencing him and keeping him from becoming who he can be. Worst of all, is that he’ll never be with the one he loves. If I am convicted and sent away, then he’ll never get to be with his child either. Who is abusing whom here?”
As Kristin speaks she stares directly into Peter’s eyes. Daniel realizes it and is truly amazed. Never in his lifetime has Peter been able to keep eye contact with anyone. Kristin smiles and tilts her head while looking at him. Her eyes water as she speaks. Much to his surprise, Daniel sees a tear leave his brother’s eye as well. He watches it as it rolls across Peter’s face and lands on his upper lip, where it stops.
Daniel looks at it, not knowing what to say. Meanwhile, Kristin is being grilled in the chair.
“Isn’t it true that the type of treatment you used on Peter has been subject to lots of controversy?” she is asked.
“Yes,” Kristin answers.
“Isn’t it true that many tests made with people like Peter undergoing the same treatment and supported writing on a keyboard, have been widely criticized? Isn’t it true that in one test, where the typers were asked to name objects their facilitators couldn’t see or know of, that in nineteen studies of facilitated communication performed, that they found zero validation through one-hundred and eighty-three tests?”
“That was the conclusion, yes,” she says, her head bent.
“So, how can you claim that it works?”
“I just know that it does. I know that he speaks to me. I’ll swear on the Bible; I’ll sign anything to make you believe what I say is true. I know that he loves me. I know that he wants to marry me.”
A wave of shock goes through the spectators in the courtroom. The judge asks for silence. Daniel can’t stop looking at his brother, as a second tear leaves the corner of his eye.
Am I making a mistake? Could it be? What if?
Daniel writes a note and passes it to the prosecutor, who reads it, then looks back at Daniel. Daniel nods.
“Your honor,” the prosecutor says. “The family requests that Kristin Martin does those tests with Peter. The same tests used in the experiments where all one-hundred and eighty-three failed.”
Chapter Sixty-Seven
January 2016
They take my story. A detective writes everything I say down, and asks me a thousand questions. He has introduced himself as Deputy Brown. He’s from the Brevard County Sheriff’s office.
Even though it kills me, I tell him everything. I tell him I believe Marcia entered the house and killed the husband. He tells me it looks like the woman is still alive, and I watch as the paramedics take her out of the house. I tell him we entered the house because we believed Marcia was about to kill the daughter. He tells me they found the family’s dog dead in the hallway when they entered.
We stay in the house for hours, going over the questions again and again. I call Joey and ask him to pick up Salter from running club at the school. While talking to the deputy, I can see Steven doing the same, while a female detective is trying to take care of the young girl. Marcia is taken away. Kicking and screaming, they have to carry her out of the house, handcuffed, while the gun is secured.
Then I tell the deputy the rest. I tell him I believe Marcia might have been the one who killed the Elingston family on Merritt Island six years ago, that she told me she remembered things about them, like what clothes they were wearing. I don’t tell him about Chloe or the police files I have seen. There is no need to. He can connect the dots himself. Or someone else will do it for him.
“She is not well,” I say. “She shot at her own son two nights ago. She thought he was part of a conspiracy against her. She is very sick, I think.”
“So, what you’re saying is, you believe she has done this before?” Deputy Brown says.
“Yes. I am afraid so.”
“And to another part of the Elingston family?”
“Another?”
“Yes. Andrew Elingston is the name of the man who was killed here today.”
“That’s odd,” I say. I look at Steven, who is still talking to a deputy as well. His eyes meet mine for a few seconds.
Wasn’t he his brother? Does that mean…?”
“It could look like she was targeting them. Do you know if she had any grudges against the family? Any unresolved disputes?”
I shake my head. “No. I really don’t.”
“All right,” he says. “I’ll let you go for now, but we’ll probably have to take you in for more questioning later.”
“Okay.”
The deputy leaves, and I wait for Steven to finish up as well. Seconds later, he approaches me and we’re asked to leave the house. The team from forensics is coming. I take one last glance at the man lying on the floor, in the pool of blood. Someone covers the body with a white blanket.
Steven stares at his brother. I grab his hand in mine.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Steven’s body is shaking. “I can’t believe it.”
We continue outside, and then we stop. Steven bends forward. He is gasping for breath. I put my arms around him and pull him closer. I try to comfort him, while he cries in my arms.
“I can’t believe he is gone too,” he mumbles and pulls away. He looks at me with terror. He clasps his face with both hands and bends forward again like he is trying to catch his breath after a long run.
“I can’t believe it,” he says again.
I help him get to the car, and we drive off. He cries most of the way, while I try to keep myself together enough to be the strong one. But seeing a man like Steven lose it like this makes it hard not to get emotionally carried away also. I struggle to hold back the tears.
I keep wondering about Marcia and why she would target Steven’s family. Could they have done something to her years ago that I didn’t know about? And what are the odds that Steven would move in with her, renting a room from the woman he was looking for? ‘Cause she killed Shannon Ferguson as well, didn’t she?
I can only assume so. The gruesomeness of her actions leaves me speechless. I can’t believe that twice someone I love dearly has tricked me. It makes me seriously doubt my own judgment of character. Am I really that stupid? That easily manipulated?
I look at Steven. How about him? Can I really trust him?
“You knew it was Marcia, didn’t you?” I ask, as we get closer to Cocoa Beach. “You knew she had killed your sister, right?”
He doesn’t look at me.
“How did you know?” I ask.
“I didn’t. But I knew the police had been looking at her when investigating my sister’s murder. They had her in for questioning.”
“What were their grounds for questioning Marcia?” I ask.
“Apparently, she told someone that she believed she had done it. That someone went to the police to report it. They questioned her and, according to the detective taking care of my sister’s case, Marcia admitted that she believed she might have done it, but then wi
thdrew the confession a few hours later, telling them she never admitted to anything. They said they still looked into her, but that they didn’t have enough evidence to build a case against her.”
“So, you stalked her?” I ask.
“You might call it that. I found out who she was and started to keep an eye on her. When I realized she was renting out a room, I thought it would be the perfect possibility for me to get really close to her and maybe find evidence.”
“But you liked her, didn’t you?”
He scoffs. “I did. Mostly, I felt bad for the children. I realized there was a person behind the coldblooded killer that I took her for. Now I think I understand better. She’s sick. She’s not herself. But she still killed my siblings. I don’t know if I can forgive her for that, no matter how sick you tell me she is.”
I exhale and drive up in front of Marcia’s townhouse. We sit in the driveway in silence for a few minutes.
“I don’t think I can live here anymore,” he says. “I’ll grab my things and go back tonight.”
“I can’t blame you,” I say. “So, where is home to you?”
“Winter Park,” he says.
I smile. It’s not that far away. About an hour’s drive. Maybe I could see him again. I don’t know if he wants to, though. Maybe I am connected to too many bad memories. I can’t blame him if he wants to just forget everything about me.
“Can I see you again?” he asks. “I know it’s odd. I know I should be thinking about getting as far away as possible and putting all this behind me, but there is something about you that makes me feel peaceful. At ease. You make me happy. I hate to turn my back on that.”
I smile, lean over, and kiss him. “You have my number,” I whisper.
Part Three
The Boy Carries the Answer
Chapter Sixty-Eight
February 2016
“Close your eyes.”
I roll my dad in his wheelchair down 7th Street towards the beach. I have found a chair for him that fits his needs, and even supports his head when he gets tired of holding it himself. It has extra big wheels, so it can go through sand. It cost a fortune, but is so worth it. The past few weeks, I have been walking with him on the beach every morning, letting him finally get outside. It has changed everything for him to feel the ocean breeze on his face again.
Today is a special day. Today we’re not going to the beach.
“Keep them closed, Dad. No peeking.”
“I’m not,” he argues.
“Good.”
I push him towards the driveway of my childhood home and into the lot. The tiles are brand new and make it look stunning.
“Now you can open them,” I say, and stop.
I watch his face as he sees the house for the first time. He is visibly moved.
“It’s done,” I say. “The workers finished yesterday, and today we can move in.”
“Wow,” he mutters. “It’s even better than the old house.”
“It has a lot of new features,” I say. “To make it easier for you to get around. It has everything. A lift on the stairs to elevate you in your chair to the second floor. A lift in the bedroom to help you get into bed. Everything you’ll need to make this your home again. And mine.”
“So, you’re coming with me?” he asks.
“Of course I am. Someone has to make sure you don’t get yourself into trouble, right? Salter and I will be there.”
“And Snowflake?”
“Snowflake too.”
“Good. I’ve really grown to like that dog. He keeps me company when I feel alone.”
“That’s what he does,” I say. “Do you want to see the inside?”
“Sure. But tell me first. What about Joey?”
“Joey has his own place. You know we haven’t been doing very well lately. Besides, I am seeing someone else now.”
“I don’t care much for that Steven guy,” my dad says. “Forgive Joey and have him…move in with us. It’s best for…Salter and…for the dog. Snowflake will be miserable…without Bonnie and Clyde. Mostly…Bonnie, I believe.”
“We’ll visit,” I say, closing the discussion.
I take my dad through the house and show him how everything works. He is truly impressed and very moved. But something is off. He is not as happy as I had expected him to be.
I roll him outside in the backyard leading to the ocean. I stop his chair on the big wooden porch and he closes his eyes and breathes in the air.
“Now you can get the air you love so much every day,” I say. “Isn’t it wonderful? Aren’t you pleased?”
He opens his eyes and looks at me. I detect a deep sadness in them, and I wonder if all this reminds him too much about his former life with Laura here or about the fire that left him paralyzed.
“It is all very, very nice…and perfect,” he says.
“But…?”
“But I…really like living…at Joey’s. I like…the life with all the animals…and having my family…close to me. I am afraid…I’ll be lonely here…in this big house.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“I’m sorry,” he says and looks away. “I am being…ungrateful.”
I sigh. “No. No of course not, but living at Joey’s house was temporary. You knew that. It’s too small for all of us. We have kind of overstayed our welcome there. It’s time we all move on.”
He nods. “I know. I know. It’s just…well I liked living…this close. We’ll be fine here…too. I am sure…we will.”
He sends me a reassuring smile, but I am not convinced.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
February 2016
Mark looks at the ceiling in his room. He thinks about the many nights he has lain here worrying about his mother, wondering where she is and when she’ll come home. The house is quiet. It’s odd, when it has been so filled with noise for so long. Even at night there would be noises coming from all his siblings, snoring or talking in their sleep. It was never quiet.
Not like it is now. Right now, it’s eerily quiet.
All three of his siblings are at their father’s in Orlando. They live there now. They wanted him to move there as well, when he was allowed to leave the hospital. A nice social worker told him that it was best for all of them if he lived with his father, since his mother was in prison, charged with murder. She also told him there would be a trial and that he might be asked to testify against her, if he would agree to that?
No, he wouldn’t, he told her. But she said a court might tell him he had to. Unless they believed he would suffer emotional trauma for doing so. It was up to the court to decide.
His dad came to pick him up and drove him to Orlando, where his siblings greeted him. It was when looking into their eyes he knew he had to leave again as soon as possible. Especially Tim, the youngest, had changed a lot already. In their room, later at night, he showed him his back, and Rose and Tammy both told him how their father had beat them as well. Mark could feel the anger rise in him as they told him everything, and at night, he decided to leave. Not that he felt good about his decision, no he didn’t. He hated having to leave them there with that monster, but if he stayed, he knew his dad would eventually break him as he had done to the others, and then he would be of no help to his siblings. It was his job to protect them, and he would do a better job if he were on the outside of it.
He just hasn’t figured out how, yet.
Mark hitched back to Cocoa Beach. Hoping to find Harry in the house and ask for his help. He was disappointed—yet not surprised—to find it empty. He moved in and started going from door to door asking for work. He could do anything, he told them. Yard work, repairing garage doors, tree trimming, plucking mangoes, anything they needed. So far, it has kept him fed.
Twice the lady from DCF has been at the door to the house and knocked, flanked by officers from Cocoa Beach Police, probably looking for him, but he has managed to hide when they came inside. No one knows the house like Mark. He has his hiding spots
in the small attic where they would never think of looking for him.
Today, Mark is planning to go down to the beach and ask tourists if they want a surf lesson. It’s been the easiest way to make a little extra lately. Using his mother’s surfboard, he gets thirty dollars an hour for pushing in the little children and teaching them to get up on the board. It’s, by far, his favorite way of making a living.
Every now and then, he runs into some of his friends from school, but he doesn’t tell them where he is living. He just tells them that he moved to another school. Sometimes, he can tell in their eyes that they know his story, that they have heard about his murderous crazy mother, who killed all those people and shot him as well. He loathes those pitiful looks.
They have shut off the water and electricity to the house, but Mark manages without. He goes in the ocean every morning and showers at the beach. There’s even a restroom he can use when he needs to do more than pee. Electricity, he doesn’t need much of yet. He eats mostly bread or dry cereal straight out of the box. It isn’t very hot out yet, so he doesn’t need AC either, but he knows it won’t be long before he will.
He often wonders how long he can stay where he is and hopes desperately to soon be able to find a way out. He keeps thinking about his mother. He hasn’t been able to go visit her in prison. He doesn’t dare to. He knows she is waiting for her trial, that they’re certain she killed a lot of people. He doesn’t believe them. Yes, she shot at him that night when he came home, but that was in self-defense.
Mark can’t stop thinking about her and how bad she must be feeling, trapped in an awful place like that. She is so fragile. Being in there is bound to kill her.
You have to do something, Mark. And you know what it is. You have to do it. Even though it is painful. There is no way back now.
Chapter Seventy
February 2007
Kristin Martin’s hand is shaking as she grabs onto Peter’s elbow. She has done it a thousand times before, but this time, the outcome is going to determine the course of the rest of her life.
