Half-Past Dawn

by Richard Doetsch

  Half-Past Dawn

  Richard Doetsch

  Half-Past Dawn

  Richard Doetsch

  CHAPTER 1

  FRIDAY, 6:00 A.M.

  Half-past dawn, the world slowly came to life. The sun crept along the freshly cut grass, over the scattered toys on the back lawn, and through the rear windows of the modest colonial house, the country kitchen filling with morning light as it danced over cream tiles and a wide-plank oak floor.

  A tall man walked into the kitchen, his black hair mussed and astray, his lean, muscular body wrapped in a blue robe. His face was strong and intelligent, but carried a certain toughness, while his dark brown eyes had the appearance of seeing far more years than the thirty-nine he had lived.

  A Bernese Mountain dog ran to his side, and he crouched down, running his hands through the large dog’s black, brown, and white coat, rubbing his belly and behind his ears. “Hey, Fruck,” he whispered. He always loved giving his pets obscure names that never failed to become conversation starters.

  He reached into the fridge, grabbed a Coke, popped it open, and drank half of it as if it were desperately needed air for his lungs. He wasn’t a coffee guy, never had been, preferring his caffeine jolt cold and sweet. He looked around the kitchen, at the overflowing garbage he had promised his wife he would take out more than a day ago, at the ever-growing stack of bills by the phone, and finally, at the lack of bagels, cream cheese, and newspaper on the counter.

  Heading through the hallway of the small house, he opened the front door to find the newspaper on the slate step. He picked it up, tucked it under his arm, and took a long, deep breath of the summer morning air. There was a crispness to it, fresh and clean and full of hope. Fruck charged by him, through the door, and out onto the lawn, jumping around in hopes of an early-morning romp. But that would have to wait.

  Jack went back to the kitchen, tossed the newspaper onto the counter, and opened the garage door. He shook his head in bemused understanding as he saw his wife’s freshly washed blue Audi parked there. He walked over to it with a smile on his face, opened the door, looked at the gas gauge, and laughed. Empty. Which explained why his white Chevy Tahoe was gone. It had been a forever pet peeve; she would drive on fumes before pulling into a gas station. The following day, without a word, Mia would snatch his car, leaving him to roll the dice on making it to the gas station and come up with an explanation for why he was late for work again.

  Mia had always been a morning person, up at 6:00, down to the deli by 6:15 for coffee and bagels, back home, lunches made, the girls packed off to the bus by 7:00 and gone. Mia had probably been up at 5:30, accomplished a day’s worth of work, and was already on her way to the city.

  Jack Keeler hadn’t seen 5:30 except from the other side of sleep, when he would crawl into bed and pray for the sun to skip its rise for the day. He always seemed to hit a second wind at 9:00 p.m., his mind kicking into overdrive as thoughts about work and life suddenly became clear. But at 6:30 every morning, his body would wake, whether it had taken in eight hours of sleep or two. Of course, the pain factor would determine if it was a one- or two-Coca-Cola morning.

  He grabbed a second can from the fridge and headed upstairs, peering into Hope and Sara’s room-the pink beds made, toys tucked away, the room cleaner than it had been in weeks. The five-and six-year-old Irish twins were inseparable and loved nothing more than climbing all over Jack at night when he arrived home from work. It had been a ritual since they could crawl and was topped only by their love of the ocean.

  Jack cut through his bedroom and into the bathroom. As he brushed his teeth, thoughts of the day began to filter in: what awaited him on his desk, what needed to be dealt with. Leaning over the sink, he finally looked into the mirror… and was confused by what he saw.

  Above his right eye was a scabbed-over wound, a wound he had no recollection of getting. He ran his finger over it, the sharp, stinging pain shocking him. He leaned closer to the mirror to examine it and noticed the other scrapes along his cheek and neck-not as dramatic but surely something he would have remembered getting.

  As he began to probe his memory, something on his left wrist caught his attention. A dark marking on his skin peered out from beneath the sleeve of his terry-cloth bathrobe. Fearing another wound, he quickly slid the sleeve up, only to reveal the last thing he expected.

  The tattoo was detailed, intricate, created by an artist’s hands. The design covered his entire forearm, running from wrist to elbow. The ink was of a single dark color, just short of black. The tattoo appeared to be an elaborate woven design of vines and rope, but upon further examination, lettering of a language he had never seen came into a focus like an optical illusion revealed to the mind’s eye.

  As he studied the detail, his mind searched back, and the absence of memory scared him. He had no recollection of needles on his skin, of being drunk, of being a fool. He did have a tattoo of a dancing skeleton on his right hip, a drunken mistake made when he was eighteen. He and two friends had them done at three in the morning on the Jersey shore, the alcohol-induced foolishness of youth. To this day, only Mia and four ex-girlfriends were aware of its existence; not even his parents knew. But the small skeleton on his hip was forever undercover; the markings that covered his arm couldn’t be concealed, couldn’t be hidden for long.

  Jack turned on the hot water, running his arm through the scalding stream, the underlying skin growing crimson, making the artwork pop. He rubbed his forearm with a bar of soap, grabbed the washcloth, and scrubbed his skin raw. But it was to no avail. The markings were deep

  … and permanent. Mia was going to be furious.

  But the surprise of the tattoo and the facial wounds was quickly forgotten as he removed his robe.

  The shock of what he saw sent panic running through him, and he nearly collapsed to the tile floor. The wound was like nothing he had ever seen-black, haphazard stitches holding a dime-sized wound together, dark blue bruises radiating out from its center.

  He tilted it toward the mirror and felt nausea rise in him. Something had pierced his shoulder just below the lower left collarbone, and he had no memory of it. There was no question; the improvised checkerboard stitches were not done by a physician. He ran his finger close to it and nearly doubled over in pain, as if he had just felt the bullet make contact.

  Without thought, he reached into the cabinet and grabbed the bottle of peroxide, poured it over the wound, and then applied a wide mesh bandage over it. He raced to his closet and quickly dressed in a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved button-down shirt. As he slipped on a pair of shoes, he saw a pair of dress pants, muddy and wet in a ball in the corner. Picking them up only proved to cloud his mind further as they were torn and ruined. He couldn’t remember wearing them, but when he reached into the pockets, he found them filled with his personal effects, proving that, despite his lack of memory, he had worn them recently.

  Jack pulled out his wallet from the wet pocket and checked its contents: nothing missing. He found twenty dollars, some change, and the small blue jewelry box that Mia had given him the week before. Opening it, he found it to contain not the cross she had bought him but her pearl choker, the one he had given to her on her birthday three months earlier. Without further thought, he tucked it all in his pocket and raced downstairs.

  He picked up the phone and quickly dialed Mia’s cell. Usually known for a calm demeanor and a clear head in a crisis, Jack was in a full-blown panic, his mind on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He had no recollection of receiving the wounds on his body, no memory of what had occurred the night before or even yesterday, now that he thought on it. His mind was slipping through his fingers, and there was only one person he could turn to.

  Mia’s cell phone ran
g once, twice, three times before going to voice mail, and just as Jack began to leave a message, his eyes were drawn to the kitchen counter… to the newspaper that lay there.

  He zeroed in on the large center photo, the artificially lit nighttime photo of a bridge, the guard rail missing, black tire marks on the roadway disappearing over the edge.

  And above it all, the headline screamed across the page:

  New York City District Attorney Jack Keeler Dead

  CHAPTER 2

  F RIDAY, 6:35 A.M.

  Frank Archer was three months into his retirement and already missing his former life. At 6:35 on a Friday morning, he should have been baiting a hook, hitting golf balls, or at his desk, anywhere but in his backyard planting begonias in his wife’s garden. His world had become chores, a routine not of his choosing but of his wife’s, and his thirty-year dream of retirement, of fishing and golf, was a fool’s dream. It was as if his life was over at fifty-five.

  He wasn’t about to complain to Lisa. He loved her as much as the day they were married-most days, anyway. Frank always discounted the times she threw him out for drinking, for the biblical fights when she ran off to her mother’s, the weeks of silent treatment and no sex when he forgot her birthday. But all things being equal, she was his life partner and the one he had retired from a satisfying career to be with.

  Finished planting the last flower, he stood up and examined his work of the past hour. He stood no taller than five and a half feet, but his wide shoulders and still powerful arms gave the perception of a taller man, a younger man by at least ten years. He continued to work out almost daily, as he had his whole life, running, lifting weights, whatever it took to forestall Father Time. He wasn’t about to become a cliche retiree.

  The neighborhood was quiet at this peaceful hour, with life slowly returning to the world for another day. He looked at his watch and was surprised that he had yet to see Lisa. She was usually out there, giving direction, asking him in her sweet passive-aggressive way to rearrange everything he had just planted. While he did all the work, the garden was her design, something she took all the credit for when friends praised its beauty. It never bothered him, though, being the type to defer recognition. He required only nine holes in the afternoon in exchange for his sweat-inducing work.

  With dirt-covered hands, he used his forearm to push back his salt-and-pepper hair and then walked in through the back door of the small Cape-style house, only to find Lisa sitting at the dining-room table, her eyes red with tears. A sour feeling formed in his stomach as fear began to fill his mind. He sensed, no, he knew, someone was dead. He didn’t need his wife to say a thing to know it was someone close.

  He finally saw the newspaper on the table before her and closed his eyes in shock, the headline confirming his fears.

  Then the cell phone in his back pocket began to vibrate, causing him to jump, startling him from his grief. Since he had left his job, no one called at this hour, and there was no one he wanted to speak to as he came to terms with the news of his friend’s death. He pulled the phone from his pocket to turn it off…

  And his heart nearly stopped as he looked at the caller ID.

  Jack put down his cell phone and stared at the newspaper-its headline proclaiming his demise-and he could barely focus as the gravity of the situation enveloped him. His hands were shaking; he was unsure if it was from somehow being shot and not remembering it or reading his own front-page obituary. With trembling hands, he finally picked up the paper and began to read.

  Three times over, he read it, his agony growing with each sentence. The description of his death, of the wounds to his body, the strange markings on his arm, was but an afterthought as the words sank in. It was as if someone had ripped away the floor he was standing on. He had never imagined it, even with her line of work… the thought of such a tragedy had not entered his mind until now. Somehow, his worst nightmare had come to pass.

  His wife, Mia, was dead.

  Everyone knew Mia Keeler when she entered a room, even if they didn’t know her. Her dark brown hair was long and thick and flecked with natural auburn highlights. She had a dancer’s body, not that of a waifish ballerina but that of a Latin dancer, strong and lean, with perfect feminine curves. Her large, dark brown eyes were always alive and filled with expression, a trait she used equally well in her job and at home staring down her children when they did wrong. She possessed a classic beauty, a face lightly tanned, which had yet to know a wrinkle despite the worries her daughters had engendered.

  Jack Keeler and Mia Norris had met at Fordham Law. It was their second year. Jack was a man in transition, a police detective hoping for a redo in life, seeking out a second career only four years after his first one began and ended with the tragic death of his partner. Mia, however, had always had a distinct, singular focus: the FBI. Like her stepfather before her, she felt the pull. She had a passion for law enforcement, a mind for puzzles, crisis, and problem solving, a Supergirl instinct for saving the helpless and fighting for truth, justice, and the good old American way.

  Their first date consisted of gelato from an Italian street vendor and wandering around the Upper West Side of Manhattan, finally ending up in Central Park on the Bow Bridge, legs dangling over the lake, lost in conversation for hours. The following day, it was hot dogs along the Hudson and the next, a Friday, an actual formal sit-down date at Shun Lee Palace on 55th Street.

  They laughed at how neither was really a serious student until senior year of high school, both preferring the joys of sports and socializing. They shared a passion for the Rolling Stones, Aretha, and Buddy Guy and would have flown anywhere in the world for a Led Zeppelin reunion.

  As the weeks went on, they played baseball on Tuesday nights and spent weekends climbing the Shawangunk Mountains in New Paltz, New York, with ropes on their backs and pitons clipped to their waists. Jack taught her how to ride his motorcycle and win in mock trials, and they went head-to-head in skeet and trap shooting, neither one giving quarter.

  After a month, they found themselves in Jack’s small apartment on Bleecker Street deep in conversation while the strains of Clapton’s “Layla” played in the background. Mia told Jack of her tough-as-nails mask. Opening up her soul, she told him of her fears of life and failure, of the expectations her parents had always placed on her to be nothing but the best. She had rebelled against them as a teen but by twelfth grade had made everything in her life about pleasing them, about meeting their ideals, about avoiding that all-too-common disappointed stare.

  And as Clapton’s heartfelt guitar cried the song’s final notes, Mia told him of her life up to when she was a young teen, things she hadn’t spoken of in years, a pain buried deep down of an event no child should ever endure: the death of her father in her arms at the age of fourteen.

  She allowed the memories to rise as Jack’s gentle words, his presence and warmth, conveyed an understanding she had never known. And as she spoke in soft whispers, it was cathartic, akin to confessing one’s sins. Mia told him of the pain, the horror that had forever changed her life and set her on a path that had been anything but linear yet had become at times an obsession.

  Although she fought with everything she had to contain her emotions, the tears pooled on the lower lids of her eyes. He gently reached out, a simple brush of her arm, his touch conveying his heart, his sympathy. Their eyes locked, time slowing until a silent understanding flowed between them. He took her in his arms, allowing her pain to come up finally in quiet gasps.

  And as her grief was purged, as her trembling subsided, a truth emerged. Her head rose from his shoulder, their faces inches apart, feeling each other’s breath on their skin, a near kiss that built in sexual tension. The moment hung there, their breathing falling into a synchronized rhythm, until the unspoken barrier finally dissolved away.

  It was like nothing Jack had ever experienced in his life. Mia’s lips were full and warm, filled with passion. They inhaled each other’s soul until they were one. Tearin
g each other’s clothes off, they fell to the couch in a tangle of arms and legs, seeking and giving pleasure. It was animalistic yet heartfelt, sensual and honest, a moment of perfection that neither had dreamed of. Thoughts and worries drifted away. They were safe in each other’s embrace, complete in the moment. The music continued to play, growing ever distant as they fell into their own world, where the only sounds were their passionate sighs of urging and joy, their quickened breaths and pounding hearts.

  And in the after-moments of silence, their beating hearts slowing, the sheen of sweat cooling their heat, they understood.

  Without a single word necessary, they knew.

  So often, as love takes hold, it sharpens the focus, the selflessness, imbuing confidence in one’s abilities, providing the self-assurance to be able to achieve anything. It fills the heart with hope and possibilities, opening the eyes to the joys of life that can become obscured by the trials and tragedies in life’s journey.

  And so, what was to be a fifteen-minute frozen snack to discuss tort reform and judicial process turned into a sixteen-year relationship, with two kids, mountains of bills and stress, but a deep satisfaction and reward from a life filled with love.

  Jack looked back down at the article one final time: District Attorney Jack Keeler and his wife, Mia, were killed just after midnight, their car plunging off the Rider’s Bridge. Their bodies have yet to be recovered from the Byram River, the recovery effort proving to be futile in the raging, storm-swelled waters. Unconfirmed reports of bullet casings at the scene have bolstered rumors of foul play and that the accident is being treated as murder.

  He pushed his grief aside and allowed his logical mind to begin to take over. He was the one who could always see the forest for the trees, who could sift through the evidence and glean the truth where others saw nothing but disjointed facts.