by Chris Culver
“I don’t have it on me. I can get it for you, but you have to let Katherine go first.”
Tess closed her eyes and shook her head. “I don’t think you’re taking this as seriously as you should.”
“This isn’t about money, and we both know that. If you wanted money, your sister could give you more than you can spend.”
“Then what is this about?” she asked. “Enlighten me.”
“It’s about you and me. Let Katherine go. She’s innocent.”
Tess laughed. “Was that your big plan? Come over here and guilt-trip me?”
“I didn’t come in here with a plan.”
She looked at my wife and rolled her eyes. “I can tell.” She tilted her head to the side and smiled wistfully. “You really do love her, don’t you?”
“Yes. With all my heart.”
Tess considered me for a moment and then pressed the gun so hard against Katherine’s head that she wrenched it to the side. “Feel free to cry on my shoulder when they bury her.”
I raised my firearm, the barrel of my weapon wobbling in my unsteady hands. “Drop the weapon, Tess. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.”
“I saw you at the firing range,” she said. “Forgive me for not trembling.”
“I’m giving you a chance to get out of here alive. Moses Tarawally has already turned on you. He’s probably talking to the police right now.”
“Oh, Moses,” said Tess, her eyes almost growing wistful. “That poor idiot actually thought this was about money. He thought my mom was still rich, that we’d just blackmail her and the bank vaults would open.”
“Whatever this is about, there aren’t going to be any warning shots. My first bullet will be straight to your heart. This is the only chance you’re going to get.”
I said it, and I meant it. It felt good to say it, too. Tess looked at me—and I don’t know what happened—but as soon as the words left my lips, her shoulders relaxed, and the malice left her eyes, replaced by calm certainty I had never before seen.
“Then do it. Shoot me.”
“What are you doing, Tess?”
“Shoot me.”
The hope I had felt began to slip away. “No.”
“If you don’t shoot me,” said Tess, her voice even, almost monotone, “I’m going to kill your wife and your unborn child.”
“I don’t want to shoot you.”
“If you haven’t shot me by the time I count to five, your wife is dead.”
“Neither of us is a murderer,” I said, taking a step forward. Tess shook her head. I held up my hands, including the one with the firearm, and did as she requested. “We can talk this out. You don’t want to shoot her. I can tell.”
“Whether I want to or not, I’m going to and I’m ready for the consequences.” She took a deep breath. “One.”
“Put your gun down, Tess.”
“Two. Look at me, Steven. I’m going to kill her unless you stop me. You know I’m telling the truth.”
And I did know. One look in her eyes was all it took.
“Please put your gun down.”
“Three.”
Past the gun in her hand, past the holster at her hip, past everything, I saw the woman I knew, the strong, purposeful woman I had grown up with. I knew that resolve and the ill she had wrought with it.
I also knew that nothing I said would stop what was about to occur. It had been set in motion hours, maybe even days, before. This is what Tess wanted; she had planned for this moment. She wanted me to kill her. Maybe that’s what she had wanted all along. Her index finger slipped from the trigger guard to the trigger, and the rest of her hand tightened around the grip. I felt something inside me harden.
She wasn’t going to hurt my wife.
I stepped forward and pulled the trigger, feeling the weapon jerk against my wrists. The round hit Tess on the chest with a dull thud. I shot her again, and then again, firing until the magazine ran dry. Katherine cried, but I couldn’t console her yet. Not until I was sure she was safe. I reached into my pocket for a fresh magazine and reloaded my gun, my hands trembling. It wasn’t until I had a loaded weapon again that I leaned forward and removed the firearm from Tess’s dead grip.
As I held her gun and felt its weight, the impact of what I had just done began to register. I dropped my hands to my sides. Tess had brought a firearm, but she hadn’t come armed. Its magazine and chamber were empty. I looked at my old friend’s bullet-riddled body, felt the bile rise in the back of my throat, the strength leave my limbs.
“What did you do, Tess?”
52
It was still early in the season, but I watched a snowflake flutter from the sky, looking like nothing so much as a moth with its wings clipped, and land on the headstone of Tess’s grave. I had missed the funeral—almost everyone had, from what Samantha told me—but I at least had an excuse, being in police custody. So far, I hadn’t been charged with anything, but that could change. Illinois had a self-defense law that allowed the use of lethal force in cases where someone’s life is in imminent danger, so the prosecutors there couldn’t charge me with a thing—hell, the law even included a provision limiting civil actions Tess’s mother could bring against me.
The St. Louis courts might be another story, though. My lawyers were negotiating, but the St. Louis county prosecutor’s office remained tight-lipped about their plans. I think they were afraid to charge me with anything related to Dominique Girard for fear of admitting that a group of college kids and an old bar owner had manipulated the system so well that it resulted in the execution of an innocent man, one who enjoyed every protection money could buy. Not only would the press crucify the police and prosecutor’s office, Annette Girard would cite the charges as proof of gross negligence in the inevitable wrongful death lawsuit she filed. It’s hard to negotiate when you’ve put your own back up against the wall. Hopefully they’d be content with the two million dollars they had seized when they impounded and searched my car.
I bent and touched the cold, moist earth and then traced Tess’s name on her tombstone with my fingertips.
Tess Alexandra Girard. Beloved sister and friend.
I laid a dozen roses on the ground and stood. I didn’t know how I was supposed to think of her, so I chose not to think of her death and instead focused on who she had been, on the girl who walked home with me from elementary school, who gave me an ice pack and sat beside me after my father hit me, on the girl who loved me, the girl who was my friend. No matter what happened to her afterward, she remained all that.
Samantha waited behind me. She had asked for the meeting, but I had chosen the place. It seemed as fitting as any.
“Hey, Sam,” I said, turning to face her. She stepped close to me, and I gave her a hug and kissed her cheek.
“Thanks for coming,” she said, looking down at the grave. “I didn’t expect you to bring flowers.”
“ It seemed like the right thing to do. How have you been?”
“Good, considering,” she said, tilting her head to the side. “Mom’s been throwing tantrums lately, mostly about you. The lawyers told her she can’t sue you for shooting Tess, and they’re advising her against suing you for Dominique’s death. They think the revelations about what Dominique did to secure some of his African contracts will tank Girard Holdings stock. That stock is her only income now.”
“She move out of the house completely yet?”
That elicited a chuckle. “Yeah. The place sold, too. Buyer practically stole it from her.” She paused. “I told her she could visit on the weekends, but she shouldn’t plan on staying the night.”
“I’m glad it stayed in the family.”
We started walking back to our cars without saying anything. The grass was moist from rainfall last night, but it had yet to freeze over.
“Did you see the paper today?” asked Samantha.
“I’ve been skipping it lately.”
“The packages Tess sent you leaked. They’re calling her a
serial killer now.”
We knew it would happen, but I had hoped they’d hold out for a while longer. The day after I got back from Chicago, I received four packages, four shoe boxes covered in butcher paper and taped shut along the seams, each postmarked the day Tess died and each sent from a different post office in Chicago. Tess had once been an aspiring writer, and those boxes contained everything she had written in the last nine years, as well as a few other surprises.
“I’d like to stick with calling her Tess,” I said. “We can leave the names to the papers.”
“They arrested ten, eleven, and twelve after an independent investigation.”
I read only one of the journals she sent before turning them over to my lawyers, but one journal was enough. It covered a nine-month period, a time in which Tess seduced a college kid from UNLV, convinced him to murder a Vegas pimp who specialized in very young girls, and then left the state, never to see her murdering lover again. Nine times she had done that since leaving St. Louis, and nine times she had written about it, lamenting the fact that I was never beside her, that all she had were surrogates for the man she was supposed to be with.
Ten, eleven, and twelve referred to future victims ten, eleven, and twelve, three of five individuals Tess had suggested I start with once she was gone, continuing the work she believed we had started when we framed Dominique Girard for murder. She included their dossiers in the third box. One was a trafficker and pimp of teenage runaways, the second was a purveyor and director of child pornography—it was his work that Tess had put on the thumb drive in my home—and the third was a rapist who fixated on the elderly and infirm. The fourth and fifth cooked methamphetamines together. She gave me everything a court of law needed to condemn them for the rest of their lives. Only for the men and women in those files, at least if Tess had her way, there would be no court and no conviction. They would pass straight to sentencing.
“Who’d they miss?”
“The pimp and the pornographer.”
At least they’d caught the rapist. “I’m sure they’ll be caught. The universe has a way of evening things out.”
When we reached our cars, we continued walking along a trail beside the road without saying a word.
“Were you ever tempted to kill them?” she asked.
I stopped. “Of course not.”
“If you weren’t even tempted, why did she expect you to go along with her?”
I gestured to a bench overlooking the graveyard. “Let’s have a seat.” Samantha nodded, so we walked over and I brushed aside leaves and sat. “Tess sent me six dossiers, not five. I didn’t tell the police about the sixth.”
“Who was the sixth?”
“It was her own. It told me everything she’s done these past nine years, every person she’s manipulated, every person dead because of her. She gave it to me because she didn’t want me to feel guilty about killing her. She wanted me to feel as if I had done the right thing. She thought that’s why I set up Dominique.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I did it because I loved her. Right and wrong didn’t enter the equation. That’s what Tess didn’t understand about me and what I didn’t know until just a few days ago. She thought I was some sort of avenging angel on a quest to put the world right, that I just needed a kick in the right direction to show me how it’s done. She thought, I guess, that I was like her, but I’m not. I’m just a guy who tried to protect someone he cared about.”
Samantha put her head on my shoulder. “I still don’t understand why she and Moses did what they did to you. If she wanted you to be this vigilante, why didn’t she just ask?”
“Moses was after money,” I said. “I doubt he knew what Tess was up to. As for Tess, I talked to an FBI profiler in Chicago before I came home. He said she was cognitively decompensating. He threw a lot of psychobabble at me, but essentially, all these years, everything that happened to her . . . he thinks her mind just broke under the strain. She knew she couldn’t keep going, so she came back looking for someone to finish her work for her. I turned her down, and she tried to clear the obstacles—including my family and friends—out of the way.”
A tear welled in Samantha’s eye and slid down her face. “So you think she and Moses killed Isaac because he was another obstacle. You think he died for nothing.”
I put my arm across her back. “I think Isaac died trying to protect his friends. There’s nothing in the world more noble than that.”
She wiped the tear from her cheek and sniffled. “That doesn’t make it easier.”
“I know.”
We slipped into a silence that stretched for several minutes.
“What happens now?” asked Samantha.
“I don’t know. Ashley and Katherine are seeing a therapist. I’m considering it.”
“I think we could all use a little therapy after this.” We eased into another silence. After maybe five minutes, she took her head off my shoulder. “I was going to send you an email, but I might as well ask now. What are you guys doing for Thanksgiving? I’m thinking of throwing a party.”
I grunted. “My father-in-law has graciously extended a formal invitation to me to join him and the rest of the family in Chicago.”
“If you’d like a competing offer, you and the family are more than welcome to come to my place.”
I cracked a smile, but held most of it in reserve. “Who’s going?”
“Right now, just me, but I was going to ask Vince Pasquale. I also have it on good authority that an up and coming bestselling author is thinking about coming.”
That was one good thing to come out of this ordeal: three of my books landed on the New York Times bestseller list, one even rising to number three. I wasn’t famous, but my publicist had suddenly started fielding interview requests from newspapers and magazines all over the country, and my literary agent was now returning my phone calls within minutes of my placing them, day or night. We’ve even had translation offers on some of my books. None of them were huge offers, but if I added them up, they’d pay off most of the mortgage or all of Katherine’s student loans. The boon to my career wasn’t worth what we’d gone through, but it was a little consolation.
“Will your mom be there?”
“I am not my mother’s favorite person right now. I don’t expect to see her anytime soon.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll ask Katherine if she’s okay if we celebrate Thanksgiving with my family this year.” I glanced at my watch. “I’ll give you a call in a little while with her response, but I’ve got to get going. I’ve got an evening scheduled with two lovely Hale women.”
“Katherine and Ashley, I presume?”
“You presume right,” I said, a smile springing to my lips unbidden. “We just told Ashley about the adoption, that she’s going to live with us from now on. She had a demand before she agreed to it.”
“Gummi bears for dinner?”
I laughed. “If she had thought of it, I’m sure that would have been on the list, but no, she wants a new dog. I’m meeting up with them at the Humane Society.”
“It sounds like things are working out for you.”
And they were. I stood and gave her a hug.
“I’ll see you soon,” I said.
“Yes, you will.”
As I walked back to my car, I didn’t know what was going to happen to me next year, or the year after that. I didn’t know if my marriage would succeed, if I’d make a good dad, or if, once the novelty of living with her aunt and uncle wore off, Ashley would turn into a terror. I had no idea what the future held for me or for my family, but for the first time in nine years, I looked forward to it. I look forward to being a dad, a husband, a friend, a man finally at peace with the mistakes of his past.
NEXT BOOK?
If you liked Nine Years Gone, I think you’re going to love my bestselling Ash Rashid series. Ash is sort of an Islamic version of Dirty Harry. I think he’s a great character, and I’ve
included an excerpt from The Abbey, the first of the series, at the end of this book.
And if you want to stay on top of new my releases, check out my website www.indiecrime.com or my Facebook page: www.facebook.com/ChrisCulverbooks
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chris Culver is the New York Times bestselling author of the Ash Rashid series of mysteries. After graduate school, Chris taught courses in ethics and comparative religion at a small liberal arts university in southern Arkansas. While there and when he really should have been grading exams, he wrote The Abbey, which spent sixteen weeks on the New York Times bestseller’s list and introduced the world to Detective Ash Rashid.
Chris has been a storyteller since he was a kid, but he decided to write crime fiction after picking up a dog-eared, coffee-stained paperback copy of Mickey Spillane’s I, the Jury in a library book sale. Many years later, his wife, despite considerable effort, still can’t stop him from bringing more orphan books home. The two of them, along with a labrador retriever named Roy, reside near St. Louis where Chris is hard at work on his next novel.
He can be reached by sending an email to: [email protected]
THE ABBEY
CHRIS CULVER
1
I hated doing next-of-kin notifications. Most people guessed why I was there as soon as they opened the door. They put on airs of fortitude and strength, but almost all fell apart in front of me at some point. I could see it in their eyes. They looked at me and knew something, too. I’d go home afterward as if nothing was wrong. I might hug my family a little tighter than usual, but the world would go on for me without much of a hiccup. Most hated me for what I had to do, and I couldn’t blame them. My Islamic faith told me that drinking to escape their stares was an abomination in the eyes of God, but I didn’t care as long as it helped me sleep without dreams.
