by Terri Reid
Johnny dropped his hand back down to the counter and looked Abraham in the eyes. “What kind of guarantee?” His tone clearly held no give, no compromise.
The Devil’s skin tone deepened two shades. Its black eyes sparked briefly and Its long fingers clenched and unclenched—all of these signs that the Devil was angry. Johnny, of course, had no idea, and for Its part, the Devil contained Its anger. There was no hint of it in Its voice when It said, “I proved myself, Johnny. I gave you my word and followed through. Now it’s your turn to do the same.”
Johnny had never liked repeating himself but in this life-and-death matter, he’d give it one more go before he gave into impatience, which always led to anger. “What guarantee you gonna give me that I won’t shoot up like a rocket and fizzle out like a firecracker? Into nothing. I ain’t interested in bein’ no 15-second wonder.”
The Devil continued clenching and unclenching Its long fingers then after a time or two, It stopped and offered Its hand again. It managed a brilliant smile as an accompaniment and said, “Trust me, Johnny, I got more to lose than you.”
That was it. Johnny was done. Leaning back, shaking his head, he smarted off with, “I’ma take that as no guarantee. And that being the case,” Johnny’s eyes went dark, his tone unforgiving. “I’ma ask you to leave my house.”
The Devil was smart, beyond smart, and knew It’d lost Johnny even before the boy spoke the words. Even if It hadn’t learned that from instinct or from the boy’s words, It need only look at the stony set of Johnny’s face and the boy’s body tensed for a fight. The Devil dropped Its hand and lost the smile. It conceded this round, knowing It had not gambled with big enough stakes to shake Johnny loose from his greatest fear. What the Devil understood that Johnny didn’t know or couldn’t face was the boy was exactly like his father, and his decision to pass on the Devil’s offer proved that. He, like his father, was afraid to take big risks. They were men of little faith, willing to sacrifice their dreams for certainty and in doing so guarantee themselves small, unfulfilled lives. The Devil could have given Johnny the big, fulfilling life he wanted. It could have given him the guarantee he’d asked for, but God wasn’t the only one who required a little faith, a little trust. So in the end, Johnny had escaped Its trap but had ensnared himself deeper into his own trap of fear, which would only lead to more disappointment, more anger and more frustration—feelings that accompanied dead or dying dreams; dead and dying lives. The Devil stood up from the bar stool, hoping that Johnny never figured out that there were other ways he could break free of his father’s mold. It hoped that the boy would continue to attach himself to fear because that would make their next encounter oh so interesting.
The Devil hung Its head, sighed deeply, and when It lifted Its head, It was as friendly as the Devil could be. “Keep the fiddle, Johnny. You earned it. Again.”
The Devil took three steps then vanished into air. Johnny missed it. He stared straight ahead, unseeing, damning his father to Hell.
*
“Pull over here.” Johnny directed Chuck off the gravel to a soft grassy shoulder. Even though it had been a long time, Johnny remembered exactly where his mother lay, would always know.
While Chuck rolled down the windows then shut off the motor, Johnny unfastened his seat belt and reached to the floor mat to pick up the bouquet of purple roses. The salesclerk at the florist shop had told him and Chuck that purple roses symbolized eternal love and Johnny could think of no other woman, or person for that matter—well, maybe Chuck but he’d never tell him that or give him roses—worthy of his eternal love. After stepping out of the car, he opened the back door and grabbed his fiddle case.
As Johnny treaded carefully around the marked places of dearly beloveds, he thought about his last visit here. He’d been on his way out of town and had paused at the cemetery for a visit. He’d played several of his mother’s favorite songs and then talked about her choosing death—congestive heart failure so said the doctors, but Johnny believed it had been the years of beatings—as her means of escaping her husband’s physical and verbal abuse, and how he had chosen a new life in Atlanta as his means of escape. He’d played a few more songs for her, then re-packed his fiddle and told her he would never return. Twenty-two years later, it turned out he had returned, but only because of Chuck. Chuck had insisted on visiting his parents and siblings before they began a six-month, worldwide tour because, “With planes falling out of the sky and ships falling apart on the seas, ain’t no guarantees.” Johnny had declined at first but as Chuck kept pushing, he finally admitted he wouldn’t mind seeing Aunt Ruby again and eating some of her delicious pineapple upside cake. That had been a lie. His secret reason for giving into Chuck was he wanted to visit his mother and tell her about the good things that had come his way in the last two years. But of course, he’d gone through some grand posturing before finally telling Chuck, “Yeah, sure, but one condition. I don’t want to see my father.” Chuck had agreed and eagerly made the arrangements, and here Johnny stood in the middle of an ancient cemetery.
Johnny smiled, his heart filling with love as he inspected his mother’s well-tended gravesite. It had been important to him that her eternal rest be more beautiful and comfortable than her earthly life had been. Which was why he’d been sending money for years to the caretaker. The man had done right by him and his mother. Lightly colored flowers outlined her plot and an angel, sculpted from marble, hovered over her. Johnny moved to the headstone where a sprawling spring bouquet rested beneath her name. He took time to arrange then re-arrange both flower bundles so that they complimented each other and the gravesite. He talked to his mother as he did this, expressing his never-ending love for her and sharing his life’s ups. For in the past two years there’d been a great expansion of his musical career thanks to his exposure on a morning show and a collaborative music project which had birthed four bestselling singles. The CD itself had gone on to sell so many copies that it achieved platinum-level status. The awards and deals had started gushing even before that and hadn’t stopped. As he opened his case, rosined his bow, and tuned his fiddle, Johnny told his mother, “I’m living the dream, Mama, I wish you were here to live it with me.” She wasn’t but he could share his success with her through song. Johnny started with her favorites then launched into his favorites and lost himself in the joy of playing for her, for doing what he loved.
Some time later, he stopped, opened his eyes and smiled down at her. Before he could ask what she thought, a voice behind him said, “You are more than words can express.”
Johnny tensed. In all these years, the voice had not changed. He whirled around, expecting to deflect a blow, but there was no physical contact. In fact, there barely stood a man. His father, although in his early sixties, looked thirty years older. Instead of standing tall, he stooped over and leaned to one side. He looked skeletal; his clothes seeming to weigh more than him. One eye looked like it had been stapled shut and part of his upper lip was missing. The rest of his fine features had been crossed out with scars and wrinkles. Instead of harsh words, there was, “You play beautifully, son. Like the angels in heaven.”
Johnny saw that he clutched all eleven of Johnny’s CDs. His eyes stayed there and when his father noticed where Johnny’s eyes lingered, he explained, “I have ’em all. Ever’ one. I show ’em to ever’body. Tell ’em, ‘that’s my son.’”
His father smiled, showing many missing teeth and those that remained seemed perilously close to death. The old man stared at Johnny, studying him, and after a time that one eye misted over and the old man made a slight move as if to reach out. But Johnny flinched and the old man became still. Johnny saw his father’s Adam’s apple bobbing up and down and the good eye started blinking rapidly and after a short while his father croaked, “I’m proud of you, Johnny. You made it.”
The old man stared at him a moment longer, looked down at the fiddle and bow in Johnny’s hands, looked down at the grave of his deceased wife, then slowly turned and shu
ffled off. Johnny watched til there was nothing left of him to see. Then, as if invisible arms had been holding him up and were suddenly removed, Johnny collapsed and cried.
Delilah
by
Niki Danforth
The bloodied corpses lay dumped on each other as if they’ve been sorted for the trash. Even with blindfolds covering their eyes, their frozen faces show an unspeakable terror. Two of the teenaged victims appear to have their hands tied behind their backs. The third must have worked out of the rope that’s still twisted around one wrist, her other rubbed raw from the binding. Her arms reach around the two girls as if she’s pulling them close. Were they already friends before this final embrace?
I click through the next photographs, close-ups of the girls’ battered bodies. Their clothes are filthy and ragged, as if they’ve been held captive for some time.
Other pictures on my laptop reveal the surroundings, possibly a warehouse somewhere in a rundown industrial area. The bleak, abandoned space is light years away from my cozy, safe cottage in Willowbrook, New Jersey, where I complete homework for my Intro to Criminal Justice class.
Warrior, my beloved German shepherd, stirs near my feet on the end of a comfy chaise in my bedroom. This has always been my first choice of where to hunker down with a great book, but at the moment it’s where I study these photos.
Suddenly, not wanting to taint my refuge with this Russian mob-related case, I take off my drugstore glasses, sweep up the materials, and head downstairs to the kitchen. I continue reading about this tragic human trafficking case and contemplate whether I’m really cut out for this world of investigative work.
Unexpectedly, the wind picks up. Crack!
I jump at the same moment the phone rings and grab it before it can ring again. “Hello? Who is it?”
“Ronnie, it’s Will. Are you okay?” his calm voice asks. “You sound panicked.”
“I’m fine, I’m fine. A huge noise outside startled me, like a gunshot, but it was probably just a limb that broke off.” I pour a glass of pinot noir. “What’s up?”
“Do you want to assist me on a new case? I’m swamped—”
“I’d love to, but is it more involved than the gofer work I did last time?” I take a drink. “Not that I don’t appreciate the opportunity—”
“It’s a cold case in Parklawn, just west of Paterson. It’s not that far from you, and you’ll have a chance to help a lot in the field,” Will interjects. “We’ll find out more tomorrow when we talk to the client. Meet me at the diner at eight.”
“You’re really going to put me in the field?”
“With my close supervision,” Will says. “I don’t want to see a repetition of your—”
“See you there. Thanks!” I hang up.
I grab my computer and run upstairs to turn in. The wind continues to howl outside, and I pull Warrior’s dog nest next to my bed before sliding under the covers. I look at the computer screen, determined to pick up where I left off with my assignment. Outside, the branches creak spookily.
“Who are you trying to kid?” I turn off my laptop. “Enough of the Russian mob for one night.”
*
Will and I sit in a booth at Angie’s Diner drinking coffee, happy to be inside on a cloudy, chilly February morning. Bells jangle when the front door opens and a sandy-haired man in a plaid flannel hooded jacket and heavy canvas work pants enters. He has several folders tucked under his arm, so Will assumes he’s the man we want to meet and waves. As the guy walks to our table, I note he looks to be my age, somewhere in his mid-fifties.
“You’re Will Benson?” he asks.
“I am.” Will extends his hand to shake, and we introduce ourselves. After we order breakfast and make a little small talk, Steve Lyla begins his story.
“Like I told you on the phone, my dad’s cousin, Benny Paola, retired from the force over in Paterson where he worked with your dad back in the ’80s,” Steve says to Will. “He said I should give you a call, that maybe you could help us on a cold case.”
“How old is the case?” I blurt.
Will grins at my eagerness. “Start at the beginning, Steve.”
“My aunt, Doreen Lyla, was murdered back in 1972, and they never got her killer. Hey, I get it that the police didn’t have everything they’ve got now to track him down.” He drinks his coffee. “Parklawn P.D. and detectives in Paterson worked the case long and hard, but they still came up empty.”
“So, why now?” Will asks. “It’s been more than forty years.”
“My old man’s got cancer, and we don’t think he’ll make it.”
“I’m sorry,” Will and I say almost in unison.
“Pop’s dying wish is that his sister’s killer be brought to justice,” Steve says as the waitress delivers our breakfast.
He gestures toward the folders next to him on the seat. “My dad’s cousin gave me his old case files. In his spare time, Uncle Benny helped a guy named Detective Brannigan who ran the Paterson part of the investigation.”
“Do those files include a list of people the police talked to back then?” Will asks.
“Yeah, and it’s a long one.”
“Any witnesses?”
“No, but I was first on the scene—”
I jump in. “How did that happen? You must have been a kid.”
“Yeah, I was only twelve. But Mom and I stopped by to drop something off at Aunt Doreen’s after basketball practice.”
“What do you remember?” Will digs into his eggs, but his eyes are on Steve.
The man looks down and takes a moment. “Mom and I pulled up to the front of Aunt Doreen’s house.”
“Do you remember what time?” I ask.
“No, but the light was on outside. The door was wide open, and I remember thinking that was weird because it was cold out. Then I noticed something on the landing.”
“What did you do?” I ask.
“My mother hadn’t even stopped the car when I jumped out and raced over. My aunt was sprawled across the steps. Her eyes were wide open, staring at nothing. I’d never seen a dead person before, let alone someone who’d been murdered.” He shakes his head. “It looked like someone had stabbed her over and over and over. I touched her wrist to find a pulse, like they’d taught us in Scouts. There was no pulse, but she was still warm. So I guess it had just happened.”
“What an awful memory to carry with you,” I say.
“I remember her expression…it was like she couldn’t believe that someone wanted to kill her.” Steve’s mouth goes tight. “I ran inside and my mom screamed at me not to go because maybe the guy was in there. But I had to call the police. Pretty soon, I heard the sirens.” He goes quiet, staring at his food.
We give him a moment, and then Will asks, “What happened with the investigation?”
“Like I said, this Detective Brannigan ran it. As the case got colder, Uncle Benny tried to help.”
“They didn’t come up with anything?” I ask.
“Nothing,” Steve says. “Brannigan retired fifteen years ago, and Uncle Benny ten.”
“To be fair to the police and detectives, their other work never stops. New cases keep piling up,” Will says. “Once the leads dry up in a homicide, it gets pushed to the side for more recent crimes and the case goes cold.” Will waves to the waitress for the check.
“Because of Uncle Benny, both the Paterson and Parklawn cops said I can check out their records,” Steve says. “That goes for you, too, since I’m hiring you and all.”
“I’ll email you the paperwork,” Will says, “and we’ll start right away.”
*
Back at the office, we lay out Steve’s files on the work table.
“I have an appointment in twenty minutes,” he says. “It shouldn’t take long. In the meantime, take a look at these. Let me know what you think.”
“Do you want me to head out to talk to some people who were around when this happened—”
“Not yet. Let me be
clear, you’re working under my supervision. You’re not to set foot out of the office on this case unless you’ve cleared everything with me.” Will’s voice is firm. There isn’t even the usual flirtatious twinkle in his eye as he talks to me.
“But Will—”
“No buts, semi-Detective Lake.”
“Yes, boss.” I don’t mean to, but I’m certain a discouraging tone sneaks into my voice. Sure, Will’s been a private detective for almost two decades, but I’m a good fifteen years older than he is. That has to count for something in experience and maturity. So why do I feel like a bumbling office intern when he tells me what to do?
“Now look, I want you to get some experience while you’re going to school for this, but I don’t want you in danger.” He pauses, and his piercing blue eyes soften. “As we both know, rushing into the field too soon without enough facts can land you in hot water. Remember?”
“Right.” I try to keep my voice calm. I’ve known Will long enough to understand he only wants the best for me. But after last summer’s family matter that I tried to investigate on my own, I know I have a lot to learn. Thankfully Will hasn’t written me off completely as a detective, and is still game to help me out.
