Closer Than You Know

by Brad Parks

  He was shaking his head. His teeth were grinding together.

  “It’s just a real shame Alex won’t grow up with two parents,” he said. “I wanted that for him.”

  He removed the gun from Alex’s head and stretched it out toward me. I was now staring at the black circle of its barrel from perhaps ten feet away. He was breathing hard and his hand was shaking, but I didn’t think he could miss from that distance.

  I braced myself, keeping my eyes on his trigger finger. I wasn’t going to stand there and let him shoot me. I wasn’t there to martyr myself. The moment he began squeezing, I would dive behind the dresser. I just couldn’t make my move too soon.

  “Aaron, please,” I said, hoping to at least bargain for time.

  “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry,” he whispered.

  And then, in one fluid movement, he tilted his head back, stuck the gun under his chin, and pulled the trigger.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  The noise was deafening. A bright-red spray burst from the top of his head and onto the wall behind him.

  “Alex!” I screamed.

  I rushed forward and grabbed him just as he began sliding from his father’s dying grasp.

  The sound had terrified him, and his mouth opened wide in a cry. From downstairs, men were shouting. I could already hear feet thundering up the stairs.

  “We’re okay!” I shouted. “The baby and I are okay. He shot himself. Dansby shot himself.”

  The last thing I wanted was for them to storm in with their fingers restless against their triggers. I opened the door just as they were about to break it down.

  “Are you all right, ma’am?” a guy with a shield asked.

  “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. I just . . . I have to get away from that,” I said.

  I jerked my thumb in Dansby’s direction but didn’t turn. I had no desire to see what he looked like as his life ebbed away. There were already enough horrible images of him in my head.

  Maybe this would change, but I felt no immediate satisfaction or closure in his death. There was a hollow place in me where Aaron Dansby was concerned. Revenge wasn’t going to fill it. I already knew the emotions, while still too new to figure out precisely, would be more complicated than that.

  At that moment, all I really wanted was to take care of my son. Alex was crying. The gunfire had scared him. So had the yelling. I had to get him away from the carnage.

  I carried him downstairs, where a multitude of people with badges asked me if I was injured, if I needed assistance, if I had wounds that required treatment.

  “I’m fine. I just want to get out of here,” I kept saying, cradling Alex protectively in my arms.

  Finally, I was out of the house. I didn’t see Ben, or Teddy, or really anyone. The night was still being cleaved by flashing lights, blinding me.

  “Ms. Barrick, over here, please,” I heard a woman say.

  Not knowing who was calling for me or where, exactly, she wanted me to go, I followed the sound of the voice. It led me near an ambulance, where I was greeted by a woman with square-framed glasses and a tight ponytail.

  Tina Anderson, the family services specialist.

  “Ms. Barrick, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. We’re fine,” I said, clutching Alex tighter.

  “The EMTs need to examine your son.”

  “No,” I said. “No exams. No EMTs. He doesn’t have a scratch on him. He never has.”

  Alex cried harder. His scalp was getting red from the exertion. Anderson reached for him with covetous hands.

  “Ms. Barrick, your son is legally in the custody of Shenandoah Valley Social Services,” she said. “I’m ordering you to turn him over right now.”

  “No,” I said, shielding Alex with my body. “Leave us alone. Just leave us—”

  “Tina, I don’t think we need to press the issue,” someone said.

  It was a woman’s voice, deep and commanding.

  Nancy Dement, the director.

  She emerged from the darkness and slid next to her colleague, gently putting a hand on her back.

  “I’ve been talking with Amy Kaye from the Commonwealth’s Attorney’s Office. I’ll catch you up later,” she said, then turned to me. “We’re dropping our abuse case against you, Ms. Barrick. Why don’t you and your son go home and get a good night’s sleep and we’ll see you in court tomorrow, when we’ll make it official.”

  My gratitude was so immense, I couldn’t even stammer out a full sentence.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Thank you.”

  The system had a soul after all.

  Alex chose that moment to renew his complaints at an even greater volume.

  “I think there’s just too much stimulus for him out here. Is there somewhere quiet we can go?” I asked, looking around for a place where it would just be the two of us.

  Nancy Dement found one before I did. “There’s no one in the ambulance right now,” she said.

  “Great,” I said. “Thank you.”

  I climbed into the back of the truck, and Dement shut the door behind me. The sensory overload from the street—all that law enforcement light and clatter—faded away. Alex stopped hollering almost instantly.

  There was a small jump seat at the front of the cabin. I got us settled into it, nestling Alex in the crook of my arm. I was still shushing him, even though he had quieted. In the dimness, his big, blue-gray eyes were searching around for something to land on. He glanced my way once or twice, but he mostly seemed transfixed by the roof of the ambulance, the walls, anything but the odd person holding him.

  I realized I was holding my breath. Here we were, reunited at last. It was the moment I had longed for. Anticipating it had sustained me through the worst of what I had experienced.

  But was this reunion meaningful only to me? Was I just another pair of warm arms to this child? Had our time apart made me a stranger to my own son?

  Finally, his gaze locked on me. He studied me blankly, with nothing in his stare betraying his thoughts.

  Then, slowly, this sly expression began forming around his mouth, like he had already figured things out but didn’t want to let on. It spread next to his cheeks. At last, he couldn’t hold back any longer. This huge, toothless grin had broken out across his face.

  I swear, even if dementia wipes every last memory from my mind many decades from now, I’ll never forget that smile. It’s because it won’t actually be stored in my brain.

  It will be in my heart, along with the most important parts of both of us.

  “There’s my boy,” I purred.

  He smiled even broader.

  “That’s right,” I said, my eyes blurring with tears. “I’m your mama. You remember me? I’m your mama.”

  Of course he did.

  He was a child forged in a crucible of terror, born under uncertain circumstances to a poor mother whose own parents had abandoned her. But he didn’t know anything about that. He didn’t need to know. Babies are nothing if not a chance for the world to start over again.

  All that really mattered to him was that a connection had formed between us. It began as flesh, at the moment of conception, but had become so much more, growing stronger and more profound—just as he had grown from a tiny seed into the astonishing creature who was now cooing happily in my grasp.

  Through everything that had transpired, that mother-son bond had not been broken.

  I knew now it never would be.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A few years back, I began the habit of taking time each day to think about what I’m thankful for. I call this small daily ritual “connecting with my gratitude.”

  The great privilege of writing novels for a living—really: I have the best job ever—is often in my thoughts during that time. So is being able to publish them with the top-notch team at Dutton
.

  That begins with my editor, Jessica Renheim, who has been a magnificent shepherd for this novel and its author. It continues with my fabulous publicists, Liza Cassity and Becky Odell; marketing masters Carrie Swetonic and Elina Vaysbeyn (if you ever see me on Facebook Live, it’s because of Elina); cover designer Christopher Lin; production editor LeeAnn Pemberton; and Christine Ball and John Parsley, who oversee this dedicated crew with aplomb.

  It is a distinct pleasure, both personally and professionally, to partner with such an exceptional group of people.

  The other key editorial eyes on this book belonged to Alice Martell of the Martell Agency, whose counsel has become essential in my life, and Angus Cargill at Faber & Faber, whose insight and perpetually sharp editing pencil are greatly appreciated.

  A variety of experts helped inform the procedural aspects of this novel, and I’d like to thank them—even as I absolve them of blame for any mistakes I may have made.

  My legal education was aided tremendously by Middlesex County Commonwealth’s Attorney Michael Hurd (who is, for the record, a far better lawyer than Aaron Dansby); by the formidable legal team of Shevon Scarafile and Greg Parks; and by Michael Soberick Jr., who is always good for spit-balling ideas.

  Juvenile and Domestic Relations Court Judge Sandra Conyers, Middlesex County Social Services Director Rebecca Morgan, and attorney Carla Hook were all kind enough to let me bombard them with questions. Protecting our children is a tough, often thankless job. We’re fortunate when such caring people choose to make it their calling.

  Chris Anderson of CP Anderson Trucking helped me create Diamond Trucking. Forensic psychologist Scott A. Johnson filled in where the textbooks left off when it came to criminal profiling.

  And I couldn’t have written this novel without Nikkita Parrish, whose toughness and courage are an inspiration.

  I also need to acknowledge my friends at Hardee’s for remaining tolerant of my hours-long occupation of the corner table each morning. In particular, I’d like to thank the real Melanie Barrick, who keeps the morning shift working smoothly; and my teapot buddy, Robin Young.

  Of course, none of what I do would matter at all if it weren’t for you, gentle reader. I think of the time you chose to spend with this novel as a gift, and I appreciate it more than I can adequately explain. Oh, and Ginnie Edwards Burger? I am hereby putting the following promise in print: One day, I will visit Erie, Pennsylvania.

  I’ll end by thanking my family. My in-laws, Joan and Allan Blakely, and my parents, Marilyn and Bob Parks, are a nurturing presence.

  All that said, my primary source of joy remains my wife and children. When I connect with my gratitude each day, their health, happiness, struggles, and triumphs are the first and last things I think about. They make me lucky and loved beyond any measure one man deserves.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Brad Parks is the only author to have won the Shamus, Nero, and Lefty Awards, three of crime fiction’s most prestigious prizes. A former reporter with The Washington Post and The Star-Ledger (Newark), he lives in Virginia with his wife and two children.

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