Grave Mistakes: A Deadly Vigilante Crime Thriller (Affair with Murder Book 3)

by Brian Spangler

  I heard footsteps scraping along the floor and then the press of buttons, recalling a modern looking jukebox by the door. A second later, music thumped in the background—a top-ten from my day. I opened my eyes and motioned to my empty glass and immediately felt better as I swayed to the old song. The tavern’s door opened then. A cut of bright daylight knifing the cozy atmosphere as a man and a woman walked in. Their bodies stood in silhouette as they scanning the room like I’d done earlier.

  “Todd Wilts,” I mumbled, shocked by the sight of the man and nearly dropping the shot glass. He was in shadow, but I could see enough of him. I shook my head, my eyes widening, haunted by his spirit. It was impossible, and I bit down on my lip, cutting the inside until I tasted the copper and salt in my blood. I’d killed Todd Wilts. My heart stopped then as the woman next to him stepped out from behind his shadow. I clutched the bar, bracing myself as the room spun. It was my daughter, and she was with Todd Wilts.

  FIFTEEN

  I SHOOK MY HEAD again as a wash of whiskey came up. I turned away, facing the closet beneath the stairs and recalled the sight of his dead body on the floor. Breathe, I told myself. I needed to breathe to settle the nightmarish emotions. I heard voices as the man who could be Todd Wilts called over to the other gang members. He said something to the bartender, but the ringing in my ears stole the words. I waded through the sickening panic, fearing I’d get up and run or maybe even get sick and spew my guts onto the oak bar. But eventually, my panic shallowed and then it was gone.

  I turned back around to the Wilts man as the tavern’s door closed and the outside light extinguished. I saw Snacks, and I saw how beautiful she was. She glanced around, taking a quick inventory and her gaze landed briefly on mine. My heart skipped. And while her eyes were hard, and years older than they should’ve been, I recognized them at once. It was my baby girl. For a moment our eyes locked, sending my heart into my throat, believing maybe she recognized me. I wanted to wave and felt my arm go into motion, but then she turned away, uninterested as she disappeared into the shadow of the man she was with.

  When I cleared the buzz from my head and focused on the young man’s face, I saw he was only a few years older than my own children. He’s too young, I thought, as a mounting suspicion left me hoping I was wrong. Did Todd Wilts’ have a son? Had I ever considered the man I’d killed as having a family of his own? I was only supposed to kill those the world wouldn’t miss. Was Todd Wilts missed? Were his days occupied with being a gangster, only to leave the work at the office, so to speak, and go to a home to become a loving, caring and doting father? I considered the idea a moment before nearly coughing up a round of whiskey when a laugh overtook me. I saw what Todd Wilts had done to Brian’s sister. He was a monster through and through. But if the man with my daughter was his son, then Todd Wilts was a man who was missed after all.

  I turned back to my shot glass and motioned for another as the idea found a home in my brain. It’d nestle there, festering, and come back to haunt me like Todd’s ghost was doing now. The bartender poured another shot and then tapped the old oak surface while his eyes followed the young man. I realized I hadn’t paid him any money yet and wasn’t even sure I knew how. When I hesitated, the bartender’s interest in me became clear, as did the man at the door.

  “Sorry, one second,” I said and heard footsteps coming from behind me. I dug through my pockets, searching for any kind of money—a ten dollar bill, or a twenty. Shit, did they still print money? I didn’t even know what a shot of whiskey cost these days.

  “Just put your phone on the bar,” I head from behind me. It was Snacks, her voice in my ear like a dream.

  “Excuse me?” I said, asking, and turning in time to see my daughter standing within an arms reach of me. I leaned forward, leading with my ear. “I’m sorry?”

  Snacks stepped closer and reached around me as if to give me a hug. My breath vanished, and I returned the embrace, sitting upright to hug my daughter.

  “What the fuck! What are you doing lady?” She asked, revolted, and pushed me away.

  “Old chick has it in for you,” the man said with a laugh.

  “Your phone,” Snacks said, holding up the transparent slab. She’d pulled it from my back pocket and placed it on the bar. “Try easing off the sauce.”

  The man lifted his head with a nod to the bartender and motioned to a corner of the bar where the light couldn’t reach. The man ascended into the darkness, my daughter following, her hand tucked into his back pocket, and her arm swaying like a leash. But before she disappeared, she turned briefly to look over her shoulder. Our eyes met again and I couldn’t help but wonder if she knew who I was. She was so young when I went to prison. Did she remember me? Remember anything?

  “You’re paid up,” the bartender said. I glanced at my phone and briefly saw a payment transaction made to the White Bear Tavern—an animation of dead presidents circled the plastic face and spun into a fading tornado sounding a chime like an old cash register. With a wink, and a cautious glance toward Todd Wilts’ son, he added, “The Bear whiskey was on me.”

  “Thank you,” I said and dared to raise a finger, indicating another shot.

  He gave me a reluctant look, but after a moment’s thought, pulled the home brew bottle and poured two more. He held up his glass to mine, and said, “An empty bottle just means it’s time to make more.”

  “Amen brother,” I followed and threw the whiskey to the back of my throat. The burn ran down my gullet, warming me. I asked, “I’ll take one more of the regular—don’t want to finish all your personal stash—and a coke with some ice.”

  “Coming right up.”

  I needed sugar, some caffeine, save me from falling off the edge of a drunken stupor. It’d been too long since I’d drank anything other than the hooch in prison and my body wasn’t adjusting. I was getting drunk, and that wasn’t why I was here. But with the alcohol, I felt the liquid courage that came with it and decided I needed to talk to my daughter. I followed the path through the front of the bar, to the opposite corner of where the gangsters were sitting.

  In the dark, I saw the glow of red embers—the lit end of cigarettes—and I followed them like a ship finding a lighthouse to beacon it along a jagged coastline. Was that what this was? A jagged coastline. True enough considering I was in the White Bear Tavern, a place that’d grind me up and spit me out for the sins I’d committed against it. As I neared, my eyes adjusted enough to make out the outlines of my daughter and the man she was with—their faces becoming clear. I cautiously closed the distance between us.

  I sensed their stares and heard the exchange of soft whispers. A dangerous thought came to mind then, was it possible the man knew who Snacks was? And if so, I could very well be signing my death certificate. It’s why you’re here, I reminded myself. But I needed to take care in what it was I said.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “Should I?” the man answered, turning on a light above him. Snacks was tucked beneath the man’s arm like a chick beneath a protective wing. She stared absently in another direction, uninterested in me or my question.

  Annoyed, I waved off the man, and added, “Do you?” I directed to my voice toward my daughter, using a tone I’d only ever used with my children. She flinched and her eyes widened as she focused on me. When her head turned, I was sure I’d ticked a memory from her childhood.

  Her attention waned, and she answered robotically, “Should I.” She’d parroted the man with a laugh. Her reply was an immediate disappointment.

  “I’m your mother,” I told her, staying cautious about revealing my name. If I was right, last names were optional. Gang life meant first names or gang names, even a nick-name was more the norm than knowing anyone’s full names. There was safety in the odd anonymity. I could only hope that was still the case and the man only knew my daughter’s first name. But they’d likely never know the same name we’d given her. I hesitated, terrified what saying it might reveal to the surrounding dangers
. When her eyes drifted further, I chanced the risk and added, “Snacks, I’m your mother.”

  My words sprung an interest as she briefly sat up and heard the name like a dream suddenly remembered. The two shuffled from their cozy embrace as Amy crushed her cigarette abruptly and perched her elbows on her knees. In her expression, I saw the five-year-old I’d left behind. I saw the baby eyes and chubby cheeks. I saw the hundreds of toothy smiles and the pouty lips. But then her expression changed, draining to become a hardened face that resembled what I’d see on the inside. Her demeanor changed too as she squared her shoulders with me, readying herself for a fight that would never be. She was positioning for a stand-off, showing her man she could handle business. I backed away and raised my hands.

  “Listen lady, my mother is dead,” she replied without emotion. “She’s been dead most of my life—”

  I shook my head, interrupting her, and added, “But that’s not true. I don’t know what you’ve been told, but I’m not dead.”

  “Chick is drunk,” the man said, annoyed. I’d slurred a few words which wasn’t helpful.

  “What does it matter?” she said, asking and sitting back, diffusing the sudden tension. “I wouldn’t remember my mother, anyway.”

  “Please. I just want to talk to you—” I began, my words sounding sloppy.

  The anger came back more fiery this time as Amy sat up, yelling, “Just shut the fuck up lady! I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m nobody’s daughter.”

  The man laughed at her reaction, his hand draped over her shoulder as he planted a wet kiss on her cheek. “That’s my firecracker.”

  “Piss off,” she added, spitting in my direction before leaning into him as he offered the stem of a glass pipe.

  “This’ll take the edge off,” he told her.

  “Please,” I begged. “Can we go outside and—”

  “Are you fucking deaf?” the man asked, cutting me off. “Or just too stupid to know when to leave. You heard her. So get your fucking drunk ass out of my club!” He motioned toward the other corner and I heard the shuffle of feet.

  I opened my mouth to try again, but by now I’d lost Amy’s attention. Her eyes were gone as she sucked on the end of the pipe. A large man approached from behind me, his hot breath, the yeasty smell of ale, fell on my neck. Reluctantly, I knew what to do next and left the White Bear Tavern. I left my daughter in that place and knew I couldn’t let that be the last of it. But there was nothing I could do now, nothing I could say. Was this some kind of sick karma? A cosmic twist in my fate, my family’s, replacing what I’d taken from the Wilts gang years before? A life for a life.

  When I was back in my car, I felt the first tears prick my eyes. I’d made mistakes, grave mistakes, and there seemed to be no means of recovering or making an amends for my past. I’d lost my children.

  SIXTEEN

  I JUST WANTED TO CRY. I sat in the car, no computers, no voice. Nothing but dread—a hole in my heart that was quickly becoming a void I’d never be able to fill. This was not at all how I’d expected the day to unfold. I’d gone from bad to worse and if Michael and Snacks were any sign of what was to come when visiting their father, then maybe it would be best for me to go home.

  A watery blossom opened on the windshield, spreading in all directions. And then a second and a third, vanishing, wiped clean from the glass by a skinny red beam as it swept the windshield in a single pass. I looked past the glass to find a curtain of summer rain marching toward the White Bear. The street’s blacktop flashed white as a sheet of lighting blinked soundless across the sky. The rain came heavier than, wetting everything, giving way to forked bolts that cut the sky open and rattled my insides with a thunderous boom. To the west, I saw a patch of dark clouds and from the looks, it would be a strong one.

  The heavy smell of wet concrete and asphalt filled my nose, and I waited before visiting Steve. I closed my eyes and listened to the rain hitting the car and was overcome by a sobbing cry that hurt me to my core. I tried to understand what my kids must have been thinking when they saw me. I was a ghost to them. A nightmare. Maybe I shouldn’t have expected so much. Maybe I should have expected anything. What would I have done if I were in their place?

  The storm grew intensely like the emotions welling inside me, throwing the rain sideways in a tantrum while lightning cut the sky again, opening it like a surgeon furnishing a scalpel. I took a moment to listen, to understand what I had—the rain pelting the car was the sound of freedom. My freedom. At least I had that.

  “Computer?” I asked, only to be met with the sound of more rain. I grabbed my phone and pressed my finger on the button, still a little curious about how Brian programmed my fingerprints. “Some things are better left a mystery.”

  “Computer?”

  “Destination?”

  An image of Steve popped into my head. I needed to see him. If I didn’t do it today, I might never get the strength to try again. I cleared my throat and whispered, “Steve Sholes.”

  “We will reach your destination in thirty-five minutes.”

  “Wait. Please wait. First, go to my previous address,” I requested, wanting to see our old home. I needed time to sober up and get the nerve to tell him the truth.

  “Previous address is unknown.”

  “I suppose nobody I know would live there now,” I answered unnecessarily, and then told the computer my home address—the one before Holmesburg prison.

  “We will reach your destination in twenty-five minutes.”

  “Music.”

  “Do you have a preferred genre?”

  “How about the top 100 from twenty years ago,” I answered. It wasn’t a genre, but it was specific enough. And with the buzz still clouding my head, a little nostalgia in my ears would help me forget the day.

  ***

  Within the half hour, I was staring at our old home, looking upon its face through the summer storm’s blue haze, thinking I’d like to knock on the door and invite myself in to tour our old rooms. Was that an odd thing to want to do? The house looked like an old friend—a little older, the age showing over her eyes and around her mouth, but the sight of her was familiar enough to warrant the heart strings being pulled. I felt homesick.

  Through the falling rain, I saw memory after memory pour into my head. I saw images of me and Steve, carrying Snacks as a baby with Michael jumping and rolling on the front lawn. I saw Halloween costumes, and plastic pumpkins filled with candy. I saw the remains of snow storms, shoveling out the drive and the snowball fights that ended with warm cocoa. And then I saw a family emerge from the front door, the sight of them interrupting my reminiscing. A jealous pang cramped inside, but I was glad my old home wasn’t alone, left abandoned like I’d heard can happen when you are convicted and going to prison for a long stay. People are weird like that, believing the home led the previous owners becoming a criminal, as if it were something contagious. The father and mother closed the front door and covered their children, protecting them from the steadying downpour as they made their escape to the cover of their car.

  “At least one of us is having a good day,” I said to my old home, feeling silly as the whiskey buzz faded. “Computer, Steve Sholes.”

  “We will reach your destination in thirty minutes.”

  “That’s fine,” I answered and leaned back to close my eyes.

  “Music?” the computer asked, jarring my eyes open with a surprise. I hadn’t expected the interaction.

  “Nice touch,” I mumbled, wondering if this was T2 technology. “Sure.”

  “Continue with the top 100 from twenty years ago?”

  I was done feeling nostalgic, and answered, “How about something current?”

  As today’s popular music played, I considered Wilma and wanted to know how she was doing.

  “Brian please,” I asked, uncertain if the car’s computer would work like my phone.

  The center console flashed blue neon and then faded as the word connecting blinked—a crack o
f thunder rumbled and shook the car. I’d driven through the storm to go to my old home, and entered it a second time, going back toward the city. I didn’t mind though. I couldn’t remember the last weather I’d seen. In prison, the only storms to watch for were the ones we made ourselves.

  “Amy?” Brian asked, his face appearing on the center console. “I see you’re getting around and enjoying the weather.”

  I motioned to the window above my head, and joked, “What, T2 doesn’t have a computer to control the weather.”

  “Soon,” he replied without hesitation. “A few billion nano satellites in low earth orbit, the research is very promising. We’ll be able to help the farmers, stop droughts, eliminate coastal erosion, you name—”

  “Brian! I was kidding,” I blurted, interrupting him mid-sentence. “But you’re serious?”

  “I never kid about business.”

  I bowed my head, jokingly apologetic, but impressed and in awe. “I have a question about my inmate friend,” I said, changing the subject. His demeanor shifted. “Please.”

  Reluctantly, he answered, “What is it? And keep in mind, I can only do so much.”

  “I just want to know how my friend is doing, the one who’d saved me.”

  “Wilma Marshall,” he answered, but I didn’t recall ever telling Brian her name.

  I shook my head, “Wilma, yeah, but—”

  He added, “I knew you’d be asking, and it wasn’t hard to pull strings to find out who’d been naughty and who’d been nice during your last hours in that place.”

  “Well aren’t you the Santa Clause,” I said, and then motioned to hear more.

  “She is still in the infirmary. It’s her eye . . . I’m afraid she might lose it.”

  The thought of Wilma going back to the cell block with any kind of handicap was troubling. Lose a leg or a hand, or get stricken with a breathing disorder, and your days are spent in another cell block altogether. But an eye. That wouldn’t be enough to move you out of gen-pop, which is slammer slang for a cesspool that’s made up of everyone. Wilma would be an easy target.