Murder of the Prodigal Father

by Mark Wm Smith

  “I’m sorry I lied about my life,” Akira said at last. “It was selfish.”

  “Selfish? Why does anyone else but you need to know that kind of stuff?” My own lie made me blush. Streetlight shadows and chilly air covered any change in my complexion.

  “Dixon covered my back with the cops. They didn’t ask too many questions, Dixon didn’t offer the wrong answers. He treated me well.”

  I nodded. My father had a generous streak with others that surpassed my understanding. So, what did this confession mean to my theories about Akira the killer Mafioso? Could I continue including him on my list?

  “I like this place, Connor. I like my job. And I think God is using me here.”

  Whatever I thought he’d done, I could hardly toss him out on the street without some proof. And the only thing I’d found was that he loved my father. “I can’t change that,” I said. “If I could, I don’t know that I would.”

  “Thank you.” It was a simple statement. Sincere words without fawning.

  I clapped my gloved hands together. “I better get on. I’m used to a warmer climate.”

  “When you leave for home,” Akira handed me an envelope that appeared from seemingly nowhere. “I have a child, a daughter. She was born after I converted and left the island.” Once again his face turned downward. “I cannot return to see her.”

  I took the letter. An address covered the face of it. “I’ll do what I can.”

  Akira made a deep bow.

  I bent slightly to acknowledge him.

  He maintained his pose a full five seconds after I had straightened. Then he turned quickly and jogged back into his cozy house in the middle of this Eastern Montana winter.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Homeward, Cowboy

  I made my way over the misplaced tundra, contemplating the many twists this trail home had taken.

  Akira’s confession didn’t fit my paradigm. In Okinawa, the family and I had once hiked the Peace Memorial for World War II victims. We followed the sidewalk path toward a group of caves where women and children had hidden themselves from the murderous explosions surrounding them. The pastoral silence echoed with World War II bomb blasts. Taking the weight of it into our hearts, the concrete trail suddenly ended. Between us and those mysterious caves tucked into the side of the cliff face lay the Pacific Ocean. Sudden, unexpected, our self-guided tour ended. That was Akira’s story— hanging out over a vast body of water, a mystery confounded by a obliterated past.

  My ears ached from the cold. Why had I walked? When I left the house, I needed to clear my head. Instead, the numbing temperature was muddling my thoughts.

  I fingered the letter in my pocket. It felt like nothing through the thick gloves. And yet, it felt like an answer. But which answer? Akira might be sending a message to his Yakuza bosses. Nothing I’d heard from him proved his story. He could easily have lied, made the story up about a daughter. He never mentioned her mother.

  I pulled the letter out and peered at the address in the darkness. All I could see was a shadow. Stopping under the next streetlamp, I read the child’s name: Kumi Watanabe. In Yona-cho. Could be a real child. Could also be code for Akira’s Yakuza connection.

  The flap was tightly sealed.

  I stuffed the envelope back into my pocket. Crazy scenarios whirled about and banged into each other inside my head. Ideas I wouldn’t entertain for a moment in other circumstances. Why would Akira need to make such an elaborate attempt at lying? If there were questions about involvement with the mob, why not cut his losses and move on?

  Forget it. Take his letter to his daughter.

  But the mystery forced Mother’s big secret to the surface of memory. It gnawed at my insides. Could she hide walking from everyone? How long had she been playing at needing a wheelchair? Was all this just to keep my father suffering for his drunken mistake?

  A blast of wind picked up some frozen bits of snow and tossed them into my face. I shuddered, and swiped my chin with a stiff glove. This was taking too long. I stretched my strides, racing against frostbite on my ears.

  First thing, after thawing my numbed body, would be to back Renée into a corner about Akira’s past. She might be covering. She certainly spent enough time with the files to know something about the man.

  I cupped my gloved hands over my ears for the last two blocks. Snow was coming. I needed to sew a cap into my coat.

  Mother’s kitchen smelled like beef stew. That would be the dinner we missed.

  Renée’s frail shoulders poked through her t-shirt as she prepared a sandwich. She always had food, yet remained so thin.

  “Enough for me?” I asked.

  Renée jumped. The paring knife she held slipped to a bouncing rattle on the floor.

  “Connor!” She stooped to pick up the utensil. “You still get thrills over scaring the life out of people?” She stood, accusing me with the tip of the small knife.

  The action recalled the argument with Nansi. Tears welled in my eyes. I turned and strode toward the glassware cupboard. “Sorry.”

  Renée slid the cutting board toward me. “Half.”

  I grabbed the sandwich. “Thanks.” Being in the kitchen together reminded me of better times. “You remember that redneck-American-nationalist spray-painted a couple of Dad’s brand-spanking new Japanese cars?”

  She released a hearty laugh, muffled by the food in her mouth. Taking a hard swallow she said, “He was pissed. Stomping and cursing like a little boy.”

  “Thoughtful points on the Asian auto industry.”

  “Jap-crap.”

  I clamped down on the sandwich to keep from spraying my own mouthful across the room.

  Renée poked at me with a finger, her mouth open in a big grin. I could see the half chewed sandwich inside. “Mom told him he should have expected it. And he better stop using foul language around us children.”

  I caught my breath. “Foul.”

  The word stirred another short burst of laughter from both of us.

  The memory began to settle in my gut. “The anger filled him with vitality. Sometimes I think it drove him.” The words floated over the shortened countertop.

  Renée placed the last bite of her sandwich on the counter. We both stared into the center of the room.

  I chewed on that good memory, and contemplated the two-foot-four-inch tall island where Mother did her cooking from her wheelchair. It had kept our father’s sin in the center of her life. Asking my sister if she knew Mother was walking swarmed over me like angry bees, but the words wouldn’t pass my lips. “What do you know about Akira’s history?” I asked instead.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I carried the glass I’d pulled from the cupboard to the refrigerator, poured some milk, replaced the jug, and took a long swallow before closing the refrigerator door and turning to face Renée. “What if Akira killed Dad?”

  “What?” She was leaning far forward. Her mouth hung open.

  “It’s just a question.”

  “Akira might be the most gentle, Christian man I’ve ever met! Are you insane?” Her posture didn’t change.

  “He was Yakuza. A Japanese mobster.” I swirled the last bit of milk in my glass.

  Renée straightened and closed her mouth. For a moment. “You are losing your mind, Connor. Dad died of a heart attack.”

  “Maybe somebody helped with that.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Dixon played hard, and it cost him.” She turned her back on me, and began gathering dishes into the sink.

  “You act like you wouldn’t care if somebody killed him.”

  “The police investigated.”

  “Have you tried to talk to Chief Frieze about Dad’s death?”

  She turned on the water and began scrubbing the cutting board with vigor.

  I stepped closer. “Akira spent time in the Yakuza. He told me so. He was an angry kid because they interned his family after Pearl Harbor. What if this is just another phase of that anger, keepin
g watch for the Japanese crime world?”

  “Do you hear yourself?” She put the board into the drain rack. “Akira spends all of his free time visiting elderly people at rest homes. He once gave a stranded family his paycheck! I’d say Dixon got a great deal in a guy like that.”

  My theory sounded shallow and foolish next to Renée’s logic. Rebellion took over. “We can’t really know what goes on in someone’s head.”

  Renée threw the rag into the sink. “We sure know what’s going on in yours,” she said, as she stomped out of the room.

  My fingers cast a light pink shadow into the milky-white curtain on the inner surface of my glass.

  I swished the remnant around, seeking truth in the pattern. Finding none, I downed the final dribble. Who wanted Dixon dead? Akira? Not if he wasn’t a Yakuza gangster. I thought about his house. And the way he talked about my father. It sounded like respect, not satisfaction or hatred.

  I placed the glass in the sink basin, next to Renée’s plate and knife. I toyed with the sharp blade. Maybe a girl killed him. Or a man pissed about Dixon’s relationship with his girl. That usually meant bare knuckles in this town. Or a pistol. Unless the guy hid in the bathtub, and then jumped out to scare Dixon to death. My ideas were becoming more ridiculous. And baseless. I shook my head and tossed the paring knife down.

  It clinked against the porcelain, a stingy sound that stuck in the sink bowl.

  Climbing the stairs to my room felt like a hike through four foot snow drifts. Everyone wanted Dixon’s end. Mother. Myself. Renée. Every Nationalist redneck in three counties. Those who hadn’t coveted it directly, expected it. Police Chief Nolan Frieze. Uncle Granger. Sheriff Ox Crandall. And then there were those who loved him. Or, at least, liked him. Wilbur Thompson. Akira. Jasia. Maybe Zach. Even Sheila the waitress.

  I halted at the landing, resting against the rail. The majority of suspects camped in the good-riddance crowd. Most folks who got close to Dixon Pierce were angry with him. Who could ignore anger? Then again, the gap between angry and killing required a leap of psychotic energy. So, who took the leap?

  I trudged down the hallway, into my room and sprawled face down on the mattress. No more thinking about Dixon’s death. Ideas danced their little jigs of rebellion in my head. Who had the opportunity? How did they make murder look like a heart attack? Drugs? Exertion? Poison? A very aggressive pillow fight?

  The muffled sound of my chuckle into the bedding reminded me of Renée crying. I rolled over and stared at the ceiling. Every crack and bump in the off-white surface looked exactly the same. A flitter of memory surfaced. Lying here in mortal pain, broken-hearted over some fight with Jasia, I had counted every imperfection in my ceiling. It hurt so bad then. I could barely feel it now. A deep rest began to settle. My eyelids closed naturally. And then they popped open.

  Maybe someone whacked Dixon with a ball bat. And Frieze had just let it go because he hated my father. Half-sleep craziness. I pushed the thoughts aside. What if it was Frieze’s wife? Was he married? Who would put up with him? Then I remembered the photos in his office.

  Crazy thoughts. Let them go.

  I faded toward sleep while turning my imaginings of Frieze living with an irascible wife, with her worn looks, her disappointing work, and her careful voice. By some miracle, I had no nightmares.

  I awoke in my clothes. They had grown rigid in the coolness of night. A brilliant thought pierced my full-blown headache.

  Dim gray pressure forced its way into the room.

  Sitting up confirmed my waking conclusion that dawn wrestled for control of the dark. Go home. My body ached for the warmth of my wife. Find a way to Great Falls. Catch a space-A flight from Malmstrom Air Base. And get back to my family.

  I searched the nightstand for the telephone. What difference does it make what happened to Dixon? Nobody cares. I can’t bring him back from the dead and ask him what happened to his life.

  The handset rattled under my hand. I gave up. Stumbling down the hall to the bathroom, trying to concentrate, rummaging my gray matter for time-zone differences, I clinched my plan. Pack, call Nansi and the space-A desk at Malmstrom, and say a few quick good-byes. Then jump on a plane for Japan.

  My head started to clear as I stuffed underwear into the suitcase. In fact, my whole life began to clear. I had a vision of a future with Nansi and I working a garden. Quentin mowed the grass. Penelope swung on the porch with a dubious sweetheart. The fantasy generated a smile that further lifted the residual heaviness from my brainstem. My shoulder muscles loosened.

  A voice stopped me. Did I wake Mother with my joy? I walked out of the room to the railing.

  “A few minutes... I... make sure....” Uncle Granger’s voice rose in bubbles from the kitchen. “I... need any... back by eight, eight thirty....”

  Right behind him, my mother spoke. “You.. have to... son... secret, damn it!”

  My jaw clenched. He could not stay away for a single day! This lunatic who threatened me, who spent every possible moment keeping secrets with his recently deceased brother’s wife, who had physically assaulted the poor dead man’s body at the funeral...

  I covered my ears with the heels of my hands and squeezed with a vice-like grip. I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care!

  When I released the pressure on my head all sound had stopped. The house seemed empty and relieved.

  I was relieved as well. Forget about them. Forget about their bitterness and their betrayal. I needed to get back to my family.

  I returned to the bedroom and grabbed the duffel. When I lifted it, the bag brushed the nightstand and knocked something loose.

  The funeral itinerary.

  The trifold floated gently to the floor, a name staring up at me the whole way down. Dixon Randall Pierce. Then the rectangle of paper took a spin in the air at the last second and landed face down.

  “Damn you!” I glanced at my watch. Seven fifteen. That was almost an hour if I left right now.

  I put every stitch of clothing back into the bureau drawers. Whatever this guy wanted, he wasn’t getting it without work. I stashed the duffel bag into my closet. Out of all of my suspects, Granger was the only one who actually attempted to shoot anybody. To my knowledge. “Dammit, Dixon. You could have taken care of this yourself before you died,” I whispered to the piece of paper on my floor.

  I crept down the stairs and grabbed my jacket. Stepping quickly into the kitchen, I said, “Good morning!”

  Mother shot me a glaring hate, gripping tightly to the wheels of her chair. Granger’s jaw pulsed, but he kept his scowl pointed at the floor.

  “I’m going out,” I said cheerfully. “Didn’t want to spook you two with the slamming door. See you later!” I waved, and strode out to the car.

  A heavy snow met me outside. The wind slapped my face. Damn the luck, it looked like a blizzard.

  As I backed into the street, I wondered how long Granger might stay. I’d need at least an hour to search his place thoroughly enough to satisfy my suspicions. If he only stayed until eight....

  But with me out of the house, he might stretch it to eight-thirty.

  Driving by his pickup, I had the idea of letting the air out of his tires. I shook it off and drove into the blinding snow.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Back On The Trail

  Crossing the Yellowstone River at dawn in a snowstorm galvanized the idea. Poison is a good way to kill in secret.

  Poison needs a delivery system. In Miles City, the Yellowstone delivered life-sustaining water. A person could pour a lot of toxins in before the symptoms became telltale. Unless there’s a reason to pay attention, the delivery goes unnoticed. Blood is the body’s river, delivering minerals with its liquid cargo to every fleshy port. And in heavy winter, the flow hid beneath cover of blowing snow and a thick sheet of ice. It was a stretch, but somehow Dixon’s final circumstance made a toxin the most probable means of murder. If murder it was.

  Creeping along the road, bent into the
steering wheel and straining to keep it between the ditches, I began to think on Granger’s farm. There were sure to be poisonous substances around the place. Poisons he may have used to hurt my father.

  I was a half a mile past his drive when I realized it. I slapped the wheel and skidded to a stop.

  A horn blared. Headlights flashed, first in the side mirror and then right beside me, as a farm truck careened around the New Yorker.

  “Shit!” My heart thumped like a war drum. I took a deep breath. “Get busy, Connor.” Get busy and get it right. Or get caught.

  A hard stare through the rear window revealed no oncoming headlights. I backed across the road, cranked her hard and rolled forward as close to the ditch as I dared. Giving the throttle a hard tap in reverse spun the wheels toward the opposite bank. The car skidded to a stop just before I dropped into the ditch.

  “You big damned road hog,” I cursed the Chrysler. “Why any idiot would take you down a narrow track like this.” I punched her into a peeling launch back toward Granger’s driveway.

  His road needed grading, but the broad yard gave me room to turn.

  I had decided the house would be the best place to start. Then the barn, which I guessed held the herbicides, pesticides, and any chemical fertilizer he might use.

  Granger always left the door unlocked. It seemed outside of his paranoid nature, but somewhere along the way easy entry had rooted itself within his routine.

  I walked right through the snowstorm, icy flakes stinging my skin, and up to the front door. Stomping my feet on the porch to loose as much snow as I could, I pushed inside. My watch told me I had twenty minutes on the short side.

  A musty scent permeated the house and indicated the length of Montana winters. Mother made a point of airing the house weekly. Granger probably didn’t spend enough time at home to worry about keeping his house fresh. The idea of sleeping in this stale air made me queasy.

  It took me a minute to find the bath. I’d spent a couple of months on the ranch years and years ago, before the accident. So I assumed, foolishly, that I’d remember. After stepping into a spare bed room with a bare mattress, and walking into the meager linen closet, I hit my target.