by B. E. Scully
Following Senz’s “keep it simple” rule, they’d written only one line: “Cathedral Point; 7 PM; Friday, August 29th. Nostri.”
The list of “what ifs,” on the other hand, was far more complicated: What if Gordon Parker thinks it’s just a hoax and tosses the note in the trash? What if someone else opens the envelope before he gets the chance? What if he turns the note over to the cops and they show up instead?
Emma and Senz asked the questions, but they didn’t bother trying to answer them. Somewhere along the line, they’d stopped worrying about how things would turn out. Everything seemed inevitable now, as if Nostri’s fate had already been decided and they were just moving forward like chess pieces on a board. Whether they’d win the game or lose everything, though, was still undetermined.
What was clear was that Emma was about to walk out the door of her house, catch a bus across town, hike to the top of Cathedral Point, and wait for Gordon Parker. And then Gordon Parker would probably show up and kill her and Senz both.
The notecard still taped to the upper right corner of her dresser mirror caught Emma’s eye: “THE HUMAN RACE SHOULD BE GRANTED A PARDON.”
She took the notecard down, folded it in half, and tucked it into the back pocket of her jeans. Gordon Parker had been right about one thing—the time had come for the world to find out what the “real” Nostri was all about.
* * *
Blythe Kaster hadn’t seen her daughter come down the stairs and attempt to slip out the front door. But despite Emma’s best attempts to go unnoticed, the squeaky door hinge gave her away.
“Where are you going, hon?”
No answer. Blythe closed her eyes and willed her daughter to turn around, to come into the living room and sit down and talk.
There’s still time to work things out, she would say. There’s still time to make things right.
But was there? Or was it already far too late for that?
Blythe Kaster hadn’t slept soundly ever since James Parker’s murder. She’d been driving home from work listening to the news when the story came on. And she knew. She just knew that Emma’s summer full of strange behavior somehow added up to that one nightmare voice on the radio talking about a murdered boy Blythe had never heard of before. And she knew her daughter was involved. Maybe even responsible.
Blythe had almost been rear-ended by the car behind her as she pulled over to the side of the road and rolled the window down, her hands in a death grip around the steering wheel to prevent herself from fainting.
But by the time she was back at home in the familiar comfort of her own kitchen, scrambling something together for dinner just like every other day, she began convincing herself it couldn’t be true. Blythe’s snooping had confirmed that Emma’s interest in philosophy had crossed the line into obsession—her room was crammed with piles of books about every possible subject relating to Seneca and ancient Rome. But how could the same kid who trapped insects in tissues in order to put them back outside instead of squashing them be capable of murdering another human being?
And yet in the raw, honest hours that came long after the rest of the house was asleep, the answer to that question wasn’t so clear.
Blythe had tried to talk to Sam about it. “You know, I sometimes wonder if our parents had it right all along. I mean, think about it—this whole ‘conscientious parenting’ thing. I sometimes think it’s all a load of bullshit cooked up to make a bunch of self-appointed ‘parenting experts’ a whole lot of money.”
“I don’t know. Both our kids seemed to be doing just fine despite the load of bullshit. Maybe they’re like mushrooms. We could call ourselves ‘the fungi family.’”
“Come on, Sam. I’m being serious.”
“What are you worried about, Blythe? Emma?”
“Don’t you think she’s been acting strange all summer?”
“Well, yeah. I guess. But remember that summer Justin got into punk rock and shaved off half his hair? Remember how he was so sure he was going to become a professional skateboarder that we had to actually bribe him to take his S.A.T.s? And look at him now. Almost straight ‘A’s’ his first year of college.”
“But it’s different with Emma. With Justin we always knew things were just a phase. Nothing’s ‘just a phase’ with Emma, Sam. You know how she is—it’s always all or nothing, do or die. It’s been that way since she was a little baby.”
Sam rolled over and tucked into his sleep position. “Emma will be fine, Blythe. Everything will be fine.”
But everything wasn’t fine. And Emma was the least fine of all. And now she was trying to sneak out of the house without telling Blythe where she was going.
“Emma? Are you still there?”
Silence, and then her daughter’s voice drifted in from the hallway. “I’m still here, Mom.”
“Where are you going?”
“Just out.”
“Can you come here a minute first? There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”
“Can’t right now, Mom. I’m meeting someone.”
“Emma—”
But Blythe heard the front door slam shut. It was Friday night, she was exhausted from a long week at work, and all she wanted was to open a bottle of wine and put her feet up. She should trust her daughter like she’d always vowed she would, give her the benefit of the doubt like Sam did.
Blythe sat in the living room giving Emma the benefit of the doubt for about five minutes before she stood up, retrieved her bag and car keys from the kitchen, and went out the front door to follow her daughter.
She trailed Emma to the bus stop and then lost her for a while on the Number Ten line across town. Finally she pulled free of traffic and spotted her daughter getting off the bus about a mile outside of town, in front of a stretch of dense pine-covered mountainside. Easing her car to the side of the road, Blythe sat and watched her daughter disappear up a steep gravel road that led to a place the locals called Cathedral Point.
Blythe guessed that Emma’s mysterious companion was up there already, waiting for her. And what was Blythe going to do now, creep up the mountainside after her daughter like some kind of a paranoid stalker?
She wasn’t even wearing proper shoes for that.
And yet the more important question was: even if she did find out that Emma had killed James Gordon, would she ever be able to turn her daughter over to the police to rot in jail for the rest of her life?
Blythe leaned her head on the steering wheel and closed her eyes. Then she sat up, did a three-point turn in the middle of the road, and started toward home. Glancing in her rearview mirror, she saw a man drive up in a huge green truck and park right at the end of the gravel road. Blythe slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road again.
The man stayed hunched over in the front seat, and at first Blythe thought he was going to start up his truck and drive away just like she had. But then he got out and started up the gravel road. He was walking swiftly, with his head down and his arms swinging, and within seconds Blythe lost sight of him.
And yet she had seen enough to think she might know him from somewhere. She couldn’t quite pin down his face, but she thought she might have even seen the man very recently…
Blythe got out of her car and started walking toward the gravel path. He was probably just some solitary hiker who happened to be on the same path as Emma at the same time. After all, it was a beautiful summer evening. Why shouldn’t someone be out for an innocent stroll?
But Blythe’s gut told her otherwise.
Halfway to the gravel road Blythe stopped. She suddenly remembered where she’d seen the man in the green truck before—on television, and it had been recently—very recently. The last time she’d seen the man in the green truck, he’d been issuing a challenge to his son’s murderers. The man in the green truck—the man now rapidly on his way up Cathedral Point to confront her daughter—was Gordon Parker.
First Blythe pulled out her cell phone and dialed 911 emergency service
s. Then she started to run.
* * *
Emma was ten minutes early, but she wasn’t surprised to find Senz already at the top of Cathedral Point. He was tucked into his favorite corner of the ruins, half-hidden in the lengthening evening shadows.
His voice drifted out across the old stones. “As my man Seneca would say, ‘What could be unhappier than the man who now must be evil?’”
Emma walked over and sat down beside him. “Are you talking about Gordon Parker or us?”
“I’m talking about everybody. All of us. See, I been here about all day already, just sittin’ here thinkin’. And you know, a person sets out tryin’ to do somethin’ right—somethin’ big, somethin’ that matters—hell, just plain ol’ somethin’ instead of just sittin’ around letting the world happen to you all the time. But somehow it all goes wrong. Somehow, somewhere along the line, it all falls apart.”
“It hasn’t gone wrong yet, Senz. We can still get out of here, go somewhere like I said before. We don’t have to face down Gordon Parker. We can go anywhere. Do anything. Start something totally new.”
Senz was gripping the pistol in both hands. “Nah, it’s all up. With Seneca. With Nostri. The whole thing. The cops will figure out who did it. They always do.” Senz cocked his head, listening to a wailing police siren grow louder as it came closer. “See? Hear that? They’s on their way already, as we speak. You might get off without anything too serious, but me—I’m a long goner.”
“But we both killed James Parker.”
“And we both know the world don’t work like that. There ain’t gonna be no ‘just a nice white girl from a good family who made a mistake’ kind of thing going on in this poor fool’s case.” Senz pointed the pistol at the sky, pretended to fire. Then he handed the gun to Emma. “Here. Take this.”
“Why?”
“Well, for one, either Gordon Parker or a bunch of cops or both are about ready to come huffin’ and puffin’ up the side of that mountain. I, for one, want you to be ready when they get here.”
“And what about you?”
“And what about me,” Senz repeated, but it was a statement, not a question—because he already had the answer. Or Seneca did. “‘In every form of slavery the path to freedom lies open.’”
Emma knew the speech. It was from Seneca’s “On Anger,” and she didn’t need to hear any more. “Senz, listen—”
But Senz had just gotten started. “‘Why groan, madman? Why wait, either for some foreign enemy to avenge you by destroying your nation or for a powerful king to fly to your aid from afar? Wherever you look, there’s the end of your woes. See that cliff? The way down is to freedom. See that sea, that river, that well? Freedom abides there, in its depths.’” He pointed into the thicket of pine trees and kept going with the speech. “‘See that tree, stumpy, shriveled, barren? Freedom hangs from it. See your own neck, your own throat, your own heart? They’re the escape routes from slavery. Are the exits I’m showing you too toilsome? Do they demand too much strength of mind? Do you ask what path leads to freedom? Any vein in your body.’”
Emma knew she was supposed to be strong, to be courageous like Senz and Seneca, but she couldn’t. “But I don’t want to live without you! I can’t! I want freedom, too!”
Senz smiled at her. “Then you always know where to find it.”
Someone was coming up the path—someone large and out-of-breath.
Emma stood up and looked down at Senz, still tucked into his corner of the ruins. He nodded at her, and she nodded back. Then she made sure the pistol was ready to fire, and turned around.
* * *
Even though Gordon Parker had rehearsed this moment in his head a thousand times by now, he’d almost turned around and gone home. When the letter from Nostri had appeared in his mailbox one morning, he’d gotten straight in his truck and driven out to Cathedral Point on a reconnaissance mission. He hadn’t once questioned whether or not the letter was authentic. He knew it was. He hadn’t once considered calling the police, either. He knew he was on his own on this one.
What he had done in the three days between receiving the letter and the time of the meeting was to drive out to Cathedral Point every day and study the land. He learned the entire layout of the mountain. He knew exactly how long it took to get to the top of the path and back down again. He’d thought about going up early on the day of the meeting, of hiding out and ambushing his son’s killers. He’d discovered that it was possible to get up to Cathedral Point from the back side, without using the gravel road. It was a time-consuming trip through blackberry brambles as thick as his wrist and pines so close together the sun probably hadn’t broken through in years, but at least he could take them by surprise.
But sabotage and sneaking around didn’t feel right. If his son’s killers had wanted to play dirty tricks, they wouldn’t have sent the letter. They could have killed him anytime they wanted to if that was the point. But it wasn’t. The point was to face up to what they’d done, up close and personal—man-to-man, firepower-to-firepower.
Gordon Parker’s chosen firepower was his SIG Sauer centerfire pistol, the same gun he always used in his revenge fantasies.
Only those fantasies were about ready to become reality.
And yet he’d almost turned around and gone home. After all, that’s where his wife was. No matter what condition she was in, she still needed him, now more than ever. His two remaining kids still needed him, too. And yet it was that very word that got to him—remaining kids. To remain: to continue in the same state or condition; to continue to be in the same place; stay or stay behind; to be left after the removal, loss, passage, or destruction of others.
Only Gordon Parker wasn’t going to be left behind after the destruction of his other. At the very least, he was going to make sure James’s killers weren’t left behind, either.
He got out of his truck and started up the gravel path. The day was still hot, and Gordon was soon sweating through his shirt. But he knew the path well by now, and his adrenaline was carrying him along. In fact, he hadn’t felt this energized since he was a young man just starting out in life.
Partway up the path, he heard the police sirens and broke into a light jog. He felt almost exuberant, as if the finish line of some grueling marathon was finally in sight.
Gordon Parker had been training for this particular marathon for over thirty-five years.
Before reaching the top of the path, Gordon stopped. He pulled his pistol from his shoulder holster and clicked the safety off. Then he stepped off the tree-shaded path and into the soft evening shadows creeping across the old stone ruins. One of his son’s killers was already there waiting for him, and turned to face him.
Gordon Parker dropped his weapon to his side and said, “Holy shit, you’re just a kid!”
And then the first shot went off.
The next thing he heard was a second shot, and someone, a woman, yelling, “Emma, no!”
And then Gordon Parker heard nothing at all.
4
“Doesn’t look much like a killer, does she?”
Detective Monte Martinez stared at the young girl slumped in her chair behind the interview room’s one-way glass. With her short, dark hair and full, round face, Emma Kaster looked like any other kid you’d see hanging around the riverfront or riding bikes through the park. Only this kid had put three bullets into James Parker and another one into his father.
Detective Cassie Shirdon thought she looked even younger than her almost-seventeen years. “Doesn’t look much like a revolutionary, either. But then again, who does?”
“Speaking of revolutionaries, a call just came in from the hospital,” Martinez said. “Gordon Parker’s still in intensive care, but it looks like he’s going to make it.”
“He has Emma’s mother to thank for that, though I doubt he’s feeling much gratitude right about now.”
If Blythe Kaster hadn’t followed her daughter and then called 911, Gordon Parker most likely would have en
ded up on the same coroner’s table as his son. The shot Emma had fired at his chest hadn’t been as accurately aimed as the one she’d delivered to his son, but Cathedral Point was isolated enough for Gordon Parker to have bled to death before anyone even knew he was there.
If Blythe Kaster hadn’t also then followed Gordon Parker to the top of the gravel road, her daughter might have ended up on the coroner’s table right next to her victim. The first bullet had been fired at Gordon Parker, but given Emma’s state of mind at the time of her arrest, the third might have ended up in her own head.
Right now, though, Shirdon and Martinez were most interested in where the second bullet had ended up. The crime scene unit had recovered two shell casings, and Emma’s mom had heard two shots fired. The first bullet had just been fished out of Gordon Parker’s chest, but so far the second one hadn’t turned up anywhere.
Shirdon watched as Emma made a cradle out of her arms and laid her head down. She’d been in custody for over 24 hours, most of which had been spent in the interview room. Her mother had an attorney at the station before Emma had even gotten out of processing, and the dad had shown up soon after. Emma’s family had a defense team in place before the D.A. had even decided on the charges, but Emma had insisted on talking to Shirdon and Martinez alone. Her initial interview had lasted four hours and resulted in a fourteen-page statement that was more or less a confession of the entire “Nostri” case from the baby in the dumpster to James Parker’s murder.
The problem, however, was the “more or less” part. They’d always figured Nostri as a two-person operation, and Emma’s statement confirmed that theory. She’d described her partner right down to his name, age, reading habits, and favorite hang-out spots. The hair that had been left behind in the plastic sheet protector pinned to James Parker’s body almost certainly belonged to Emma’s accomplice. But so far, not a trace of evidence had turned up to prove that Darrell “Senz” Ward existed.
