by Pamela Crane
“Can you remind me again exactly what you saw? This time close your eyes, imagine yourself in that moment. Where were you standing when you saw everything?”
“Standing right there.” Mrs. E pointed a crooked shaky finger at her back door that exited from the kitchen. “I was letting Lucy out.”
“Close your eyes and visualize it. You’re letting the cat out. Now what do you see? What drew your attention?”
“It was dark, but the streetlights cast a glow, enough that I noticed a shadow moving. Only it wasn’t a shadow. It was someone dressed in black. And wearing—what do they call it?—oh, yes, a hoodie. I’m pretty sure it was a man. A smallish man.”
“How was he walking?”
“Pretty quickly. Almost like a fast march. But the movements were stiff. He carried himself very erect.”
“What about the hands?”
“Gloved.”
“Can you see his face?”
“Not really well, but the streetlight looked white against his face. Yes, he was definitely white.”
We were getting somewhere. Although the pieces slowly dragged together, coalescing from a blur into a crisp picture, Mrs. E had a conviction in her voice, a determination to help solve the puzzle.
“What about the shoes—did you get a look at the type of shoes?”
“Black boots, I think. Not cowboy style. Shorter.”
“Anything else you remember?”
“Yes. He was wearing sunglasses, if you can believe it. The oddest thing at that hour.” She smiled apologetically. “My memory’s not what it used to be, sweetie, but I hope this helps.”
I smiled back and squeezed her veiny hand. “You’ve been a tremendous help, Mrs. E. I hope my memory’s half as good as yours when I’m in my ... sunset years.”
“Sunset years, my ass! Honey, I’m just plain older than dirt!”
When our laughter finally faded, I said, “Well, I don’t know about that, but with your help I wouldn’t be surprised if we catch the guy now.”
As she glowed with pride, I realized how important it was to remind our elderly friends that we needed them more than ever to make the world a safer place. In fact, our shut-in neighborhood watchers were the eyes and ears of the community.
After chitchat about her latest feline addition to the family, a black and white stray she named Puddin’, I hugged and thanked her, then headed across the street to my dad’s house. If the killer had been watching me sneak into the house, it was possible he used the same entry point the night of my dad’s attack. I rounded the back of the house to the basement window, where the earth appeared undisturbed since the night of my father’s attack.
Huddling over a collage of footprints, I could easily make out the imprints of the sole of my Converse tennis shoe, which I’d splurged on after cashing my first police department paycheck. Then a second set of footprints—a couple sizes larger. Deep prints from a work boot or military boot with rugged, multi-directional lugs for maximum traction; I’d seen a similar pattern on the boots worn by EMTs and members of SWAT. I could just make out the word Vibram set in an octagon in the middle, so I took a picture with my cell phone. They definitely weren’t my dad’s Reeboks or my mom’s Easy Spirits.
A quick internet search for “Vibram boots” on my phone returned the most interesting result. Common military-issue boots. My mind dashed back to the lingo in the letters. You’d make a helluva Jane Wayne. Where had I heard that name before? Of course—Jane Wayne Day, named after the Duke. All branches of the military had them; a day set aside for wives to experience the challenges their husbands faced on a daily basis. I’d read about one such event at Camp Lejeune. Then there were the I must soldier on and the D-day references.
That’s when I knew who was behind it all.
Chapter 35
Three months ago ...
I listened to him cry. Beg for forgiveness. Plead for relief from the guilt. Real men didn’t cry. Real men didn’t beg. Real men didn’t plead. No, real men sucked it up and took their licks.
To set the record straight, I wasn’t beaten as a child. I didn’t come from an abusive home. A little unconventional, sure, and neglectful, but whose home life was all glitz and glamour? Even the rich snobs making headlines from their reality shows had their fair share of misery. They just suffered while wearing Gucci and gold.
My mother used drugs, my dad drank. But both were high functioning, able to keep jobs and raise their kids while enjoying the occasional fix. My “psychological issues,” as my high school guidance counselor euphemistically called my acting out, were a volatile mélange of nature and nurture. The counselor said my “domineering social behavior” was characteristic of guys of short stature, like me; a Napoleon complex, he called it. He had it all wrong. I always stood up for the bullied kids for one reason: I saw myself as an underdog too, and I hated seeing someone get the crap beat out of them just because they were different.
Mom and Dad never envisioned college for me, although I’d aced my SATS and had always scored in the top percentile on standardized tests. I blew crap like that off; no kid wants to be labeled a brainiac. My parents always pushed me toward the military—the Air Force in particular. According to them, I was a perfect fit with my leadership traits, which even my stick-up-his-ass principal had begrudgingly acknowledged. I was never among the in-crowd—and had no desire to be—but I was popular with the freaks and geeks and pseudo-intellectuals. Hell, I even ran for student body president—on a dare. Some of my fellow outsiders put me up to it. I mounted a half-ass campaign and, to the surprise of absolutely nobody, I lost big. That was cool with me. Those pussies in student government were self-deluded. Thought their shit didn’t stink. There’s nothing more contemptible than a cardboard authority figure. Except real authority figures. I despise them.
Anyway, the general thinking, at home and at school, was that maybe, just maybe, the Air Force could instill the discipline in me that my parents, teachers, and administrators couldn’t. The world was mine for the taking. I could be a fighter pilot. Or an aerospace propulsion technician fixing planes. Or my top choice: explosive ordnance disposal. Defusing bombs. At least when dealing with bombs it would be a quick and painless death. I have to admit, the idea of messing around with bombs kind of gave me an intellectual hard-on. You know, the danger aspect. Getting blown to smithereens and being branded a hero. Buried in a flag-draped coffin. The whole corny shebang held a morbid appeal for me. Look, Mommy and Daddy, I’m Somebody now.
Yeah, but that was just a bunch of childish bravado. Crazy talk. I wasn’t in any real hurry to die. And certainly not for a country that marginalized the citizens that needed Uncle Sam to have their back the most. I went into the military thinking the government gave a shit. How wrong I was. As they passed out painkillers like candy to force injured soldiers to press on, they turned us into addicts while war turned us into sociopaths.
I’d never forget how scared shitless I felt as my parents stood behind me, forcing me to enlist. It was an easy way to erase the mistake they’d made when they had me. Get rid of me in a jiffy by making me the government’s problem.
Oddly enough, sending me off was the first time they’d made a united front with anything. When it came to parenting, they were divided. When it came to what we ate for dinner, they were divided. When it came to what house we rented, they were divided. But when it came to shipping me off to my death, they snapped together like the mouth of a clam.
As I scribbled my signature across the bottom of the enlistment contract, I felt like I was signing my own death certificate. I had begged my parents to let me live at home, find a job, maybe even try community college out. But no. They wanted me gone ... yesterday. Handed me over to die in some godforsaken Middle Eastern country, their firstborn son. My heart broke and my faith shattered with it as I watched them barter my life away. Six years of freedom from me in exchange for my free will. The deal of a lifetime for them, the nightmare from hell for me. I would never forgive them
for it.
One person fought for me, and that was Helen, Dad’s fiancée and the only one who gave a crap about me. Over spaghetti dinner one night, Helen, Mikey, and her two girls teamed up against my father, begging him to give me a shot at college instead.
“He’s smart. Would probably qualify for grants and stuff,” Helen had tried to point out.
The answer, as it always was anytime I wanted anything, was no. That was the first, and probably only time they’d seen my dad’s inflexible side.
As I boarded a plane for Texas a couple weeks later, I vowed never to forgive them for stripping the one thing I had that was my own—my voice. But I would speak again very soon, and loudly enough so that the world would hear.
Apparently just because you suck at life doesn’t mean you’re fit for a uniform. Weeks into basic training my instructors discovered what everybody else already knew: I was far too much of a headstrong individual to be a good little tin soldier. After all, isn’t that what the military’s all about is—blindly taking orders? I wore my recalcitrance like a medal. I held on for as long as I could, months of being berated and brainwashed until I didn’t recognize myself anymore, but in the end, one’s nature always takes over. My nature was telling me to get the hell out of Dodge. Though even still today I kept my boots polished and bed pristinely made with hospital corners. Some habits never die.
I hadn’t intended to wash out, especially with nowhere to go. AWOL, the military called it when you just up and disappeared. I was sure they were looking for me, but I’d lost any capacity to care about what happened to me. I hadn’t told my family—if I could even call them that—until one day I showed up at my dad’s house carrying the duffel bag I had been first shipped off with on one shoulder and the weight of failure on my other.
After my military stint had slaughtered all my old dreams, I lost all sense of purpose along the way. Who was I? What did I want in life? I didn’t have a clue.
Until now.
I dropped my bag at the foot of the blue living room sofa that felt like sandpaper. I’d suffer through sleeping on it if it meant I didn’t have to deal with my mother.
“You can’t live with me. Go live with your mom.” I could smell the beer on Dad’s breath as he got in my personal space, his body swaying slightly.
“You’re a real son of a bitch, you know that? Can’t even give your son a place to crash for one night after he comes home from serving his country. Fine, I’ll go to Mom’s. Can you at least give me a lift?”
His eyelids drooped like anvils weighed them down. His body swayed like he was riding waves. I had never seen him this bad—not in all my childhood or adolescence.
“Just get a taxi or somethin’. I’m in no shape to drive.”
Making his way to the kitchen, he tripped over the arm of the sofa and fell into the seat. I wondered if this was just alcohol ... or was he on something stronger?
“Are you high? What are you taking?”
“None of your business, Keeeevinnnn.” I hated the way he slurred my name when he was drunk. “It’s just a little something to make me feel better.”
“Feel better how?”
“I’m going through some stuff right now. Just leave me alone.”
“Dad, what kind of stuff? You can talk to me.”
“See, that’s the problem, Keeeeev. I can’t talk to you. Can’t talk to no one. Just go. Goooooo!”
As if expelling that last word took every last bit of energy he had, he fell back against the cushions.
Then he gained a second wind as one eye peeked lazily open. “I see you judging me. You wanna call me a junkie? Go ahead, say it. But what you don’t understand is that I’m a story, with lots of pages. I’m laughter, I’m love. I’m ripped open, I’m scabbed over ... Those are my insides, Kev. I’m not just what you see when you look at me.” He seemed to consider his own words and gave a self-deprecating snort. “I’m a deep sumbitch, ain’t I, Kev? God, what a bunch of horseshit.”
I knew depression when I saw it. A seductive mistress. It enticed with whispered suggestions: it’s easier to hide. What I saw in my father wasn’t just depression. It was darker, grittier, harsher. It was guilt. A soldier ambushing him, slaughtering him from the inside out. He was unsalvageable, much like myself.
“It’s no wonder Helen split up with you and Mom didn’t want you,” I grumbled under my breath. I figured his excessive drinking had something to do with Kat’s disappearance. My grandmother had told me about it during one of our monthly calls, said Dad had been falling apart ever since. I guess if something happened to Mikey I would have felt the same. While he wasn’t my kid, I had almost raised him myself.
I decided to make a sandwich and called for an Uber, watching him sleep, until I heard a sniffle, then a sob. At the kitchenette table I silently sat, observing him as he fumbled for his cell phone in his pocket and misdialed with a wandering finger, then dialed again with a little more deliberation.
I could hear the other end ringing, then a voice that sounded like a voicemail.
“Cody, man, I can’t sleep, I can’t eat. I’m just ... I’m so sorry about Kat. It’s all my fault. I don’t know how to fix this. I feel like she’s haunting me from the grave. Every night I see her, the bullet tearing through her, and I know I can’t take it all back. Please help me. I don’t want forgiveness. You can’t possibly give that, I know. I don’t deserve it. How do I make it stop? The guilt. The ache in my soul. She’s dead ... cuz of me. I ... just wanna die with her, man.”
As I stood there listening to my father’s murder confession of the girl who would have been my little stepsister, I realized there had been no abduction. The search parties, the media frenzy, the suffering, the worry, the depression, the drugs, the alcohol—my dad had caused it all. He had left Helen’s life in shambles. He had taken Kat’s life. And now he sat in his own soiled misery wanting freedom from the guilt.
I couldn’t free his conscience. But I could free him from the chains of this life. Because that’s what child-killers deserved.
Chapter 36 Ari
“Candace Guffrey?” Tristan asked as we stood side by side on her doorstep. Glancing at me, I saw the recognition in her eyes, then a glint of pissed-off-ness. She felt betrayed by her fellow woman, and rightly so.
“Yes?”
“I’m Detective Tristan Cox with the Durham Police Department. May I come in for a moment?”
“I’m sorry, but I’m running late for work. Is this important?”
“Ma’am, I think it’s best if you get this over with now. I promise to make it as quick and painless as possible.”
Huffing in frustration, she stepped aside and let us in, whispering an audible “Liar” as I passed.
Tristan led the way into the living room, where Candace reluctantly trailed him.
“Can your son join us?”
“What’s Mikey got to do with anything? He’s five.”
“Not Mikey. Kevin. I know he’s here.”
She paused, folded her arms defiantly across her chest. “I’m sorry, but he’s in the Air Force down in Florida. So you’re wrong. He’s not here.”
“Ma’am, don’t make this worse than it has to be. We just need to ask him a few questions about his dad.” I could hear the strained politeness in Tristan’s voice.
“Then ask me. I’ll answer whatever you need to know.”
“Ms. Guffrey, would you prefer we haul him out of here in handcuffs?”
Rolling her eyes, Candace turned to the hallway. “Kevin!” she yelled. “Get out here please.”
When a young man appeared around the corner where the kitchen met the living room, my mouth nearly dropped. He was young—far too young to be the Southern Slicer. He stood there silently, his blue eyes darting between Tristan and me, then resting on mine. A corner of his lips lifted in a secret acknowledgement that he recognized me, knew exactly who I was. His blond buzz cut was growing out, sprouting short curls. And there on his feet were Vibram military boots
like the ones I’d seen online. Bingo!
“Kevin Guffrey?” Tristan asked, though we both already knew the answer.
“Yes, sir.”
“We’d like to speak with you down at the station.”
“Yes, sir.”
Without another word, Kevin straightened his back and marched through the living room toward the front door, behind Tristan and me. As Tristan opened it to walk Kevin out, an unseen fist smashed against Tristan’s cheek, then another punch smacked him in the nose. Throwing his arms up to protect his face, Tristan ducked blindly as Kevin wound up and delivered a haymaker that sent Tristan stumbling backward into me. We both fell on the floor in a heap.
Behind us Candace yelped, “Kevin!”
Managing to throw my weight toward Kevin’s legs, I clawed at his ankle, which was close enough to wrap my fingers around. I pulled at his leg, trying to drag him down to the floor. He wildly kicked at me while I squinted against the foot flying at my face, dodging it as best I could. I didn’t see the wheel kick coming from the other direction as the steel toe thudded against my temple, temporarily blinding me. For a long moment my world went black. I felt my grip loosening as he pried at my fingers. I heard Tristan grunt as Kevin kicked him viciously in the head while he was still down. As Kevin royally kicked our asses, his mother shrieked in the background.
When I could see straight again, there went Kevin, darting across the front yard and into the street.
“He’s getting away!” I screamed, pushing Tristan off of me and jumping up to my feet. My head and tailbone hurt like hell as my legs pumped, but I ignored the splitting pain. I heard footsteps clapping against the pavement behind me and looked over my shoulder to see Tristan joining the chase, blood dripping down his nose and his eye red and split. But Kevin’s head start put him nearly a quarter of a mile ahead of us. I lost sight of him when he cut through a neighbor’s yard and dashed into a copse of trees.
My lungs burned and legs ached as I tried to keep pace, entering the clearing where I thought I saw him go. Beyond, the trees grew thick. I knew he was long gone. Several beats later Tristan joined my side, bent over and heaving as he caught his breath.
