by Alan Lee
Taylor called and hurried to greet us. She reached out to take Kix, which made both him and me very nervous, but he went anyway. She cooed and tickled him until he warmed up to her. I knew the feeling. She made a thin sweater and jeans look good. “Hi there, stud.”
“Hi there, killer.”
“Killer? New nickname? I like it.”
She led us deeper into the crowd. Stephen saw friends and disappeared. I spotted a candied apple covered with chocolate chips that had my name on it.
“So.” Taylor beamed. “I was arrested.”
“You must have a great lawyer.”
“Not really arrested, you know. Just questioned.”
“What about?”
“The murder,” she said, and she reached out to hold my hand before I was ready. “I told them that you’d vouch for me.” Her hand felt warm and she kept a steady pressure.
“Is that so.”
“Yes indeed. Jesus, look at all the stares we’re getting. Wow, we must look great together.”
“You and Roy were close, right? How are you doing with his death?”
“I’m fine. I mean, you know, I cried and everything. But I’m fine,” she said, and she bounced Kix and tickled him some more. “You want a beer? I’ve already had one.”
“Nah, I’m good. I can’t vouch for you, Taylor. We weren’t together when Roy was murdered.”
“I know, but you can tell them you know it wasn’t me. His wife told the police Roy was going to meet me that night, which is just nonsense, but you can tell them I’m not a murderer.”
“If it worked like that,” I said, “you could just get Detective Andrews to vouch for you.”
She whipped her head around to look up at me through her lashes, some of her hair coming to rest across her cheek.
“Why, handsome, are you jealous?”
“Yup. I really wish I could get my hair like his.”
“Where did you hear about me and Detective Andrews?” she asked.
“It’s a small town.”
“Well. Don’t worry. He wasn’t man enough for me. He’s just an attractive place to visit now and then. No need to be jealous, Mr. August.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.
“Besides, you’re famous. Famous people don’t get jealous.”
“I didn’t realize I’m famous.”
“Oh yes. Can’t you see everyone looking at you? You made the paper for the fourth time today.”
“Really really small town.”
“This time there’s a big write-up with your photo and everything. In the picture, you’re sitting in the rain, talking with the police. It’s very debonair.”
“Sure is, asshole,” Jon Murphy said. Jon Murphy the drug dealer. He sauntered up, the same girlfriend in tow. He wore new running shoes, dark-washed designer jeans and an expensive-looking pullover rain jacket. She wore the same shoes and top last time I saw her. How embarrassing. “It’s all very debonair.”
“Jon. What’s it like to be out on bail? Does it tingle all over?”
“Funny guy. Look, babe, look how funny he is.”
I looked at babe and said, “I am pretty funny, you know.”
“Hey Williams, how you doing, sweetie,” he said.
“Hello,” she replied coolly. “Don’t make trouble, Jonathan.”
“Why not.” He chuckled. “You still packing heat?”
“No. Pig. Are you?”
Standing there listening to a drug dealer talk about guns with a woman I suspected of murder, who happened to be holding my son and my hand, I decided my life had gotten weird enough that I needed to check into children-sized bulletproof vests too. And maybe a child-sized shoulder rig and pistol.
The South makes people go crazy about guns.
“Your girl smooth pulled a gun on me, hero,” Jon said. “Couple years ago.”
“At least you know what ‘No’ means now,” Taylor said. “I did ‘babe’ a favor.”
“Doesn’t stop her doing favors for me, sweetie,” Jon said, and babe crossed her arms uncomfortably. Poor babe, this was awkward. “Williams and I used to go out.” He winked at me. No surprise. I assumed every guy had been out with Taylor until they proved otherwise.
“Two dates,” Taylor said. “That’s it.”
“Don’t need a gun now, sweetie. You’ve got the Fighting Father,” he said.
“The what?”
“The Fighting Father,” Taylor said. “You really need to start reading the paper.”
“What’s a matter,” Jon said. “Can’t read, hero?”
“No. Hey, do you have any pot on you? I’m all out.”
His smile disappeared and he walked into the crowd, his girl following. I watched him leave and sighed.
“That was rude,” I said. “Should I apologize?”
“What?” Taylor snapped. “Are you kidding? That guy is scum.”
“But I’m not,” I said. And then I noticed that most of the people around actually were watching us.
“See?” she said sweetly.
I got my hands on that candied apple and followed Taylor around because she would not let go of Kix. She took pictures of him sitting next to a jack-o-lantern, and of both of them posing beside a scarecrow.
Mr. Charlie spotted me and patted me on the back. Taylor and Kix were making faces at the scarecrow. Mr. Charlie held a rolled-up newspaper in his hand. I took it from him. “I thought you might want to see this.”
The picture was just like Taylor described. Someone with a camera had been there when I was sitting in the police spotlight, talking with Andrews. The article mentioned me discovering the two bodies, helping bust Murphy, briefly being considered a suspect, and saving Emily Newman. Her account of the ordeal sounded harrowing, and I came off rather heroic. Someone at the paper had done their research. They discovered I used to be a cop and then worked at a church. And now, apparently, I was the Fighting Father. Ugh.
The story was told from Emily’s point of view. I’d been unavailable for comment. Darn right. The press still didn’t know the murderer was good with computers and sending fake emails, which was good.
“Dang,” I said.
“What?”
“It looks like I’ve put on weight,” I said.
“The Fighting Father,” Mr. Charlie said. “It’s a little disrespectful, Mr. August. How long have you been ordained?”
“I’m not. And I’m not Catholic, so I’m not a Father.”
“What are you?” he asked.
“Dunno. I’m not a fighter, either.”
“That’s not what the RO says,” he chuckled.
“He told people?” I asked. “About our fight?”
“Yessir. He told everyone you two slugged it out, that’s how he hurt his hand.”
“I’m glad that didn’t end up in the paper,” I said. “I’d be the Fighting Cop Puncher.”
“So it’s true?”
“A little,” I said, and handed the paper back.
“Listen, Mr. August,” he said, in that great, slow drawl of his. “I hope I didn’t get you into much trouble, about the email. I didn’t know you thought I had sent you an email, so when I told the police, I know they assumed…that you were the…”
“Someone has been sending bogus emails. Not your fault.”
“They brought me in for questioning yesterday. I don’t have a good alibi, but I would never kill Mackenzie, or Roy.”
“Oh yeah? You’re not a coldblooded killer?”
“No, sir. If I was, I wouldn’t admit it to the Fighting Father.”
“Don’t call me that.”
Stephen showed up, holding Kix. He looked at me questioningly. I turned and saw Taylor buying another beer and talking on the phone.
“Thanks,” I told him and took my son.
“Everybody’s bummed,” Stephen noted.
“Yes, these events are usually more lively,” Mr. Charlie agreed, looking around. “The murders are the biggest thing to happen to
South Hill in years. How you doing, Stephen?”
“Good. Think we’ll have school tomorrow?”
“Mmhm, I think so,” he said.
“Mr. August, some kids are calling you the Fighting Father.”
“I heard.”
“Matthew says his mom won’t let him come to school, because she thinks you’re the killer.”
“Matthew’s mom sucks.”
“Whoa.”
“Don’t tell anyone I said that. The killer rumor might help with my classroom management skills.”
Mr. Charlie thought that was hilarious. He was correct.
Kristen and Curtis found me soon. I hadn’t seen Curtis since I ate dinner at their house. They were holding hands. I wanted to hold hands with someone. Who wasn’t a murderer. “Hey there, hero,” Kristen said, and she punched me in the arm. “Or should I say Fighting Father?”
“I’m Protestant.”
“Fighting Pastor doesn’t have the same ring,” she said.
“Protestant Pugilist,” Curtis offered.
“Nice. Kept the alliteration,” I said. “Kristen, that’s where several words in a row begin with the same letter.”
“I know, jerk. Hi, Kix!”
Kix approved.
Curtis said, “I saw the news last night. There’s a shot of you driving away from the crime scene. Taped it, if you want to watch.”
“I thought I got away before the vans got their cameras out.”
“Apparently not. Kristen was over near the school last night,” Curtis said. “Give her a call next time and she’ll come help out.”
Kristen snorted a laugh. “Help with a shootout.”
“What were you doing there?” I asked.
“Nothing. On my way back from visiting friends.”
I nodded.
Kix shot me a look - she’s the killer!
I shot him a look back - no she’s not!
“Where’s your daughter?” I asked.
“With her grandparents. She’s crawling now, did I tell you?”
“No,” I said. “How super for you. You’re obviously superior parents and one day your child will be my child’s boss.”
“Naw, don’t say that,” Cannon said, walking up behind me. He wore a baseball cap over his long, shaggy hair. He patted me on the back. “Kix is a fine baby, real nice boy.”
“This is like the teachers’ work room,” I said, and I shook his hand. He had a mean grip and used it on me often. Kix pointed at Mr. Cannon and called him a name. “We’re all here.”
“I called you, left a message on your machine,” Cannon said.
“About church?”
“About this, the Affair in the Square. It’s usually a real nice time. Thought I’d offer to buy you a beer.”
“Thanks, but I’m on my way out.”
“Okay. Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
Kix and I ignored Cannon’s advice and we strolled through the Affair. Much of the crowd watched us. No one approached or spoke, just stared a little too long. Surrounded by so many people who knew me, I felt alone.
I collected Stephen and started for the car, but resource Officer Steve Reed stopped me. He wore his tight belt and over-flowing khaki uniform. “Hey boy. Deputy Andrews got a hit on his background checks,” he said. “Mr. Gee has a prior.”
“Mr. Gee? The custodian?”
“That’s him.”
“He’s not the shooter,” I said.
“What? He cleans your classroom. The tires look the same.”
“It’s not him. I might not be able to tell who the shooter is, but I can tell who it’s not. And its not him. What’s his prior? Assault?”
“Domestic disturbance.”
“It’s not him. Tell Andrews to keep looking.”
Reed walked off unhappily. I wondered how many people he’d already told that Mr. Gee was the killer.
Time to go. Too many people here.
I finished strapping Kix into his car seat and Taylor appeared behind me. Like a ghost. She smiled halfheartedly and didn’t speak until Stephen had climbed into the passenger seat and closed the door.
“Leaving?”
“I don’t know if we’re in the festive mood.”
“I get it, you know,” she said. She held what I guessed was her third or fourth beer. Her words weren’t slurred, but they weren’t stable either. “I understand.”
“Tell me what you understand.”
“You, me, us,” she said. “Why you won’t date me.”
“Why?”
“It’s because I’m not good enough.”
“I never said that,” I said. “Nor have I even thought that.” Which was true. But if she was the shooter, then I’d think that a lot.
“I didn’t say you did, Mack. I said I’m not good enough. You’re a good person. You are. I get it. You’re trying to be. An’ I’m not. We’re kind of the same, ‘cept you’re trying and I’m not.”
“I am trying.”
“We’re both young, we’re both good-looking, people want to be with us...but you’re a pastor.”
“No I’m not.”
“You’re a pastor,” she said again, “and you’re the kind who doesn’t fuck around. That’s important to you. I get it. You’re trying, but if you’re with me then you’d have to stop. Stop trying.”
“It has a lot less to do with you and a lot more to do with me. If I dated anybody then I’d fail. I don’t trust myself. I’d fail you and I’d fail me, and I’m tired of failing. I want my next one to work. And I’m not ready for it yet.”
“Why does it have to work? Why can’t it just be fun?”
“Casual is a lie sold by commercials. I tried it. Ask yourself something. Why are you so eager to date me? I’m not worth the effort. You barely know me. You’ve dated everyone I’ve met here, and you’re still looking. Maybe in a few years you’ll be like me and be sick of failing.”
Talking with a murder suspect about romance felt odd.
She crossed her arms, stared at me with eyes that were mostly dry, and spun to walk back to the Affair on the Square.
“You need a ride home?” I called.
She didn’t answer.
47
My alarm clock showed 12:30. In the middle of the night. The house stood silent and dark, except for my table lamp. Rain pattered intermittently on the window. I couldn’t get to sleep so I lay in bed reading Donald Miller’s new book. I think we’d be friends, or at least he’d understand my uncertainty towards churches.
He had just convicted me about giving some of my money away when the power went out.
Third power outage since we moved here. Our sparsely populated lake community was powered by lines that ran through miles of forest, and the wind liked to throw tree branches at the lines. I rolled out of bed and peered out of the closed blinds.
The streetlight still burned. And I could make out the faint wet glow of my distant neighbor’s porch lights. It was only our house then, and our electric bill was paid and we certainly hadn’t blown a fuse. Our power outage was almost certainly not the result of natural causes.
Which meant we had an unwelcome guest downstairs. My chest turned icy.
The breaker box was located in the garage, directly under my bedroom, so I either forgot to close the garage door or the intruder had been quiet forcing his or her way in. I guess it didn’t really matter one way or the other.
My pistol was still in its holster on the dresser. I pulled it out, creating the distinctive sound of the metal sliding against the leather, and pushed the safety off. I’d left my cell in the car and unplugged the house phone. Brilliant.
Standing at the bedroom door, I paused to evaluate. Things had changed. No longer was this only a murder investigation, this had become personal. No longer was I a careless cop, I was a father. The job lost its place as top priority, and Kix’s safety was paramount. That meant I had to fight in a different way. My responsibilities required me to catch the shooter, but not at th
e expense of Kix. It felt like boxing with one arm tied behind my back.
The person downstairs was the shooter I’d been looking for. I knew it. Had to be. I highly doubted Steve and his two drunk friends would be looking for another fight on this cold, rainy night. And I could think of no other reason why an intruder would go to all the trouble of shutting down the power in a single house with almost no neighbors around for miles in any direction. Anne the criminal psychologist had guessed right; I had a stalker. As a detective, I’d seen this happen before. The question was what was the shooter doing here? Stalkers dealing with obsession often end up destroying the object of their obsession. Which in this case, was me. Was that the reason someone prowled my house? Something more innocent? Something more sinister?
First priority, Kix stayed alive. Two ways into his room: his bedroom door, which was directly across the hallway from my bedroom door, and his ground-level window. I couldn’t cover the window from the stairwell, which is where I would have a tactical advantage. The only place I could cover both window and door was from inside of his room. That would help me with my second priority, keeping myself alive, but inhibit my third, catching the stalker.
I made it to the wall in his room without the floor squeaking and sunk to the carpet, my back resting against the wood paneling. From here I could look straight out of his bedroom door, into the hall, and into my bedroom. I could also see out his locked window, which let in a small amount of moonlight. Other than that, I couldn’t see much. My eyes were still used to the light from my table lamp.
The house held the stark quiet of midnight. Eerily silent. The intruder was going to have a hard time navigating in the dark. I would be able to hear the person coming, and as soon as I saw a head poke around the bedroom door I was going to blow it off. The living room clock sounded impossibly loud.
A rustle from the stairwell. I kept plastic bags of dirty diapers there at night. My stalker had either stepped on one accidentally or moved it out of the way.
The intruder had to assume we were both asleep. It was after midnight and all the lights had been off for over an hour, except my table lamp which probably didn’t show through the blinds. A little noise wasn’t that terrible, considering both Kix and I were asleep. Or so she thought.
