Someone Must Die

by Sharon Potts

  “The woman is a child killer,” Chris Cole said, so loudly that he startled the reporter.

  “I can’t believe this,” Aubrey said.

  Mama grabbed Aubrey’s hand and squeezed it hard.

  The reporter looked upset. He touched his ear, as though listening to instructions. “Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Cole,” he said. “Back to you, Lourdes.”

  “Next up, a visit with some adorable puppies who need homes,” Lourdes said, as a commercial came on.

  “They’re crackpots, Mama.” Aubrey was fuming inside. She turned off the TV with the remote, then got up and slammed the doors of the armoire shut.

  “The Coles are very angry.” Mama pulled the sweater tighter around her. “They’re parents who lost their child.”

  Aubrey leaned against the armoire, rubbing her arms. Child killer. The words chilled her, even though she knew they weren’t true.

  But Ethan was still missing, and Aubrey had no idea where to look or what to do, to keep her precious nephew from becoming someone else’s victim.

  CHAPTER 19

  Child killer, they had called her.

  Maybe they were right. Diana shivered in her too-cold bedroom. Maybe she was the real villain in all this. It wouldn’t be the first time she believed she was on the side of good and turned out to be wrong.

  She changed into a flannel nightgown, then slipped under the old, worn patchwork quilt, hoping the warmth would stop her chills. The attack by the Coles was upsetting, but she had become somewhat immune to their crazed outbursts during the trial. She was more concerned about what all this was doing to her family.

  Kevin had looked close to a breaking point as he pled on TV for his son’s return. But Aubrey was also caught in the maelstrom, experiencing the kind of outrage Diana had back when her eyes had first been opened to the injustices of the world.

  The irony was that Diana’s parents had tried so very hard to shelter their daughter, just as Diana had hoped she could do with her own children.

  Her poor parents.

  She never understood until recently how hard that year must have been for them.

  Di could see the shock on her parents’ faces as they took in her outfit—ratty jeans and a peasant blouse she had picked up at a flea market in the Village. They were in New York for a few days, and this was the first time they’d seen her in six weeks, since freshman year began. She hated the feeling that she had disappointed them, but knew she had to stay strong. This was her life now.

  They took the subway to the Stage Deli for pastrami sandwiches, but Di didn’t have much of an appetite. She was missing a meeting about an important antiwar demonstration. Or maybe it was Lawrence she hadn’t wanted to miss.

  “Why aren’t you eating?” her mother asked.

  Di played with the pickle on her plate. “Not hungry.”

  Her father put on his concerned physician face. “You’re not taking drugs, are you?”

  “Of course not, Daddy,” she lied.

  “Lysergide is a very dangerous drug,” he said. “It can cause panic attacks, violence, even psychosis.”

  “I’m not taking LSD.”

  Her father continued, as though he hadn’t heard her. “And there’s data that years after use, there can be long-term perceptual changes.”

  “What I’m experiencing right now are short-term perceptual changes,” Di said. “And not from drugs. It’s as though I’ve been asleep my entire life. I’m finally waking up and seeing the terrible things that are taking place in the world. And more important, I’m trying to stop them.”

  “Vat’s happened to you?” her mother asked, her Yiddish accent becoming more pronounced with her agitation. “You dress like a hippie, you talk like a revolutionary. We sent you to college to get an education.”

  “And I’m getting one,” Di said. “A better education than I ever dreamed of.”

  Her father and mother exchanged a worried look. “This isn’t good,” her father said. “Come back to Miami with us. It’s dangerous for you to stay here.”

  Di laughed. “What’s dangerous? Standing up to our government? Not letting them herd us into ovens the way the Nazis did their citizens?”

  Her mother’s face went white.

  “Oh, Mommy.” Di reached for her hand. “Don’t you understand it’s important that we speak out? If the Jews had fought back, maybe more would have survived. Maybe your parents and brothers would still be alive.”

  Her mother pulled her hand away. “You know nothing about these things.”

  “And I’m not only talking about Jews,” Di said. “The German people, too. They should have stood up to Hitler. Just like we have an obligation to tell our government they’re doing the wrong thing.”

  Her mother pushed back her chair. “Let’s go, Louie,” she said. “I can’t listen to any more of this. Our daughter has gone crazy.”

  Diana pulled the old quilt higher. Her mother had been right. She had gone crazy. But at the time, she saw only the heady excitement of doing something to make the world a better place. She’d been critical of her parents’ fear of challenging authority and calling attention to themselves. She was ashamed to think of her brash naïveté and how she must have hurt them. But back then, she’d been intoxicated by a sense of righteousness.

  And by him.

  She closed her eyes and saw a flash of white against the darkness. And she remembered how it had felt, watching him.

  He seemed to be flying as he led their group through the park, his blond hair loose on his shoulders beneath his white bandanna, his white shirt billowing around him.

  Di was breathless as she hurried to keep up with the thirty-or-so other students who had followed Lawrence down from the university to Central Park. He had started referring to himself as Lawrence of Columbia, and it was hard not to make comparisons to Lawrence of Arabia, or at least to Peter O’Toole, who had played the man in the movie.

  As they reached Central Park’s Great Lawn, the crowd morphed into thousands, moving as one, like a giant, spreading amoeba. It seemed that everyone was here for what they were calling the Moratorium to End the War in Vietnam, and Di felt as though she was at its very center. Even the trees seemed to have dressed for the occasion in brilliant shades of red and orange. Above them, Belvedere Castle loomed from its perch on a hill.

  The protestors held signs. “Make Love Not War,” “Bring Our Boys Home,” “War is not healthy for children and other living things.” And chanted, “Hell no, we won’t go!”

  Di shouted with the others. She was finally doing something significant in her life. Helping to stop a terrible war that only benefited the government and corporate America.

  She inhaled the sweet scent of pot and smoke from the small bonfires all around her and watched Lawrence climb up on the shoulders of Steve, by far the biggest guy in their group. Lawrence waved a small white card in the air. “Hell no, I won’t go!” he shouted. He lit a match and held it to the edge of the card. “Burn it!”

  The others in their group cheered and shouted, “Burn it! Burn it!”

  His draft card went up in flames, but Lawrence didn’t drop it, even as the fire touched his fingers. Di felt herself swoon. She didn’t know whether it was from the pain she imagined he was experiencing or from his sexy bravado, and she didn’t care. She only wished she had something to burn, to show him that he had reached her. That she would follow him wherever he led.

  Gertrude had climbed up on Jeffrey’s skinny shoulders. His wiry body was stronger than it looked, as it supported her weight. Gertrude waved her arms, eyes flashing violet behind her pink glasses, nipples visible beneath her sheer white blouse. “Come on, comrades,” Di’s roommate shouted. “Burn your fucking draft cards. Don’t let them send you to kill innocent people, innocent children.”

  Jeffrey’s scowling face, mostly hidden behind mutton-chop sideburns, came to life. “Burn them, comrades. Let it all burn!”

  Several of the guys took out their cards and lit them on fire
.

  Linda was standing beside Di, flaxen hair pasted to her flushed cheeks, blue eyes bright as though she had a fever. She reached her arms behind her back, then triumphantly pulled her bra out of the sleeve of her T-shirt. “I don’t have a draft card,” Linda shouted, “but at least I can burn this.”

  Lawrence grinned and tossed her a book of matches.

  Linda struck several matches at once and held them to her bra as the others cheered her on. The fire caught and flames shot out.

  “Let’s hear it, comrades,” Gertrude cried. “Hell no, we won’t go!”

  “Hell no, we won’t go!” they all chanted in response. Louder and louder. Faster and faster. “Hell no, we won’t go!” Di felt the mounting frenzy around her, the blurry euphoria. “Hell no, we won’t go!”

  “To the castle!” Lawrence shouted, pointing up to Belvedere. “Let’s storm the castle.”

  On Steve’s broad shoulders, he charged up the hill. Gertrude was just behind, clinging to Jeffrey, her black braid bouncing against her back, as the rest of their group followed.

  They made it up to the castle veranda that overlooked the Great Lawn and Belvedere Lake. Lawrence jumped down from Steve’s back and climbed up on the retaining wall so they could all see him.

  “Comrades,” he shouted, “we need to make some decisions about who we are and what we want to accomplish.”

  “Hear, hear,” someone called out.

  “SDS has failed us,” Lawrence said. “The organization is ridden with dissension and power struggles. How can we fight for peace when we’re busy fighting each other?”

  Everyone applauded.

  Di looked around for Gertrude. She was standing off to the side, puffing on a cigarette as she leaned against Jeffrey. Leaning in a comfortable way, as if she would soon be taking her clothes off for him.

  Undoubtedly in the name of peace.

  “We need cooperation,” Lawrence shouted, “Not condemnation.”

  The group cheered.

  “Why don’t we join the Weathermen?” Linda called out.

  Lawrence turned toward her, a patient expression on his face. Linda looked almost like a child with her large eyes and narrow dancer’s body. Then he shook his fist and shouted, “Because we can do it better.”

  Everyone cheered.

  “The Weathermen want a revolution on American soil,” Lawrence said. “Well, we want peace on American soil.” He stretched out his arms as he stood on the wall, a crowd of thousands behind him on the Great Lawn, in front of him, his own small but passionate group. “And peace throughout the world!”

  They exploded in another round of shouts and clapping.

  Peace, Di thought. They were going to fight for peace. They were taking a stand, like the German people should have done. Like the Jews should have done.

  “The fat cats are brewing up a storm of destruction,” Lawrence said. “It’s up to us to drain away their filthy poison and leave behind a cleaner, better world.” He made a fist. “We are Stormdrain, and we want peace on American soil and peace throughout the world.”

  “Stormdrain!” Steve shouted, and everyone cheered.

  “Lawrence of Columbia!” Another cheer went out. “Lawrence of Columbia is our leader!”

  “We are all leaders,” Lawrence called back. “We are in this together.” He pulled off his white headscarf and waved it in the air. “And if we need to use revolutionary tactics to achieve our goals, so be it!” he bellowed.

  Di shuddered. Revolutionary tactics?

  Someone began to sing John Lennon’s song about giving peace a chance, and everyone joined in.

  She linked arms with Steve and Albert, who were on either side of her. Everyone had entwined arms with his or her neighbors’ and swayed back and forth as they sang.

  Lawrence surveyed his minions, searching the crowd with his blue eyes. Look at me, Di prayed silently. Look at me.

  But his eyes fell on Gertrude. She had her arms around Jeffrey’s neck and was rubbing up against him.

  Poor Lawrence, Di thought, just as his eyes pulled away from Gertrude and connected with hers.

  And when he smiled at her, all she could think of was smiling back.

  Diana touched the pillow on his side of the bed, where she never slept, even after eight years. “Oh, Larry,” she whispered. “Our intentions were so good. How did things go so terribly wrong?”

  CHAPTER 20

  The fishy air from the bay clogged her brain as Aubrey jogged the route she used to take when she was in high school—Tigertail Avenue to Vizcaya Museum, then back along South Bayshore Drive. The overhanging oaks and banyans blocked the sharpness of the morning sun and left the cracked, parched pavement dappled, much like on her morning jogs ten, twelve years ago.

  After those runs, she had always felt better, as though she actually had some control over her life. But her special tonic had lost its magic.

  This morning, the pounding of her feet did nothing to free her of her anger toward the Coles after their attack on her mother the night before, or of her frustration from the lack of results in digging into her parents’ past.

  She was winded and covered with sweat when she got back to the house and took in the driveway and bushes. Her mom’s car and one black sedan. No newspaper, but maybe the FBI agents had taken it to check for a ransom note hidden among the pages.

  She went into the kitchen for a glass of orange juice, then poked her head into the family room. Smolleck wasn’t there. Agent Tan Lee, whom she’d been introduced to the night before, sat alone in front of his computers. The newspaper was open to an inner page on the table beside him. She could make out the headline: NO LEADS IN MISSING BOY.

  It had already become old news, hidden inside the paper. The world had moved on, but Ethan was still missing.

  “Anything happening?” she asked.

  Agent Lee glanced at the newspaper, then back at her. “Not too much.”

  She leaned against the doorjamb. She had read everything she could online before she’d left for her run but was hoping the FBI knew more than the reporters. “Please, Agent Lee. My mother and I are going crazy with worry. Ethan’s been missing for over forty hours.”

  Lee looked around the room, as though he were concerned about someone walking in. They’d taken down the blown-up photos from the walls. Had they found a suspect in the crowds at the carnival?

  “We cleared all known SOs in the vicinity,” Lee said. “And the carnival employees.”

  “That’s good,” Aubrey said, though because of the note, she already knew a sex offender wasn’t involved. “What about the Coles?”

  “I’m guessing you’ve seen the tweets,” he said.

  She had. #where’sgrandma? #grannychildkiller? #doctordidie. And many others crucifying her mother. “I hope you’re not distracted by them,” she said. “The Coles have a vendetta against my mother.”

  “We know that.” His phone rang. “Excuse me.” He answered the call, turning away from Aubrey.

  She went upstairs to shower. The door to her mother’s room was closed. It was well after eight. She hoped her mother had gotten some sleep.

  The hot water pounded over her as she considered whether the Coles could be behind Ethan’s kidnapping.

  She had googled them at length after their appearance on the news, looking for some reason they might want to hurt or even kill Jonathan, in addition to wanting to get even with her mother.

  She’d found nothing.

  But even though she believed there was a reasonable possibility that the Coles had sent the threatening note, she wasn’t willing to tell the FBI and risk that the kidnappers would act on their threat to kill Ethan.

  She quickly dried herself and put her hair up in a ponytail. After she dressed, she went to her mother’s bedroom. The bed was made, and her mother, wearing a flannel nightgown, sat on one of the wingback chairs near the fireplace, a small box and some color snapshots on her lap.

  “Morning,” Aubrey said, as she sat dow
n on the other chair. “Did you sleep?”

  “A little.” Her mother scooped up the photos and put them back in the box, which was decorated with neon colors and old-fashioned peace symbols. Aubrey had never seen it before.

  “Can I bring you some breakfast?” Aubrey asked.

  “I’m fine, thanks. I’ll go down in a bit and fix my own.”

  “What are you looking at?”

  “Old photos.”

  “Of what?” The feeling that Mama was hiding something reemerged, even though Aubrey wanted so much to quell it.

  “Just some old friends,” her mother said. “Your father and me.”

  “Any reason you’re looking at them now?”

  “Your questions last night started me thinking about the past. Some terrible things happened, like that explosion, but there were a lot of good memories, too.” She reached into the box and handed Aubrey a photo. “I don’t believe I ever showed you this.”

  It took Aubrey a moment to realize the man wearing a white bandanna was her father. Young Larry had shoulder-length blond hair, a cleft in his strong chin, and intense blue eyes that seemed to be searching for something.

  “He seemed larger than life to me,” her mother said. “My white knight on a snowy stallion.”

  A knot formed in Aubrey’s throat. It had been a favorite song of Aubrey and Mama’s—“My Hero Knight.” She remembered how her mother’s face would change when she listened to the lyrics. It occurred to her only now that for her mother, the song had been about Dad.

  “He looks like a movie star,” Aubrey said. “Was he in costume for something?”

  “That’s how he dressed back then. Back in the late sixties, everyone was playing some part.” Her mother rubbed her left hand with her right one, as though feeling for the wedding band she had once worn. “I never met a man as charismatic as he was.”

  Aubrey studied the photo. He had once been a hero—to Aubrey and her mother. And she realized she and her mother had been attracted to the same kind of charismatic men. “I’m sorry, Mama.”