Across the Sound:

by Mark Stone

  Enter Father Jameson. The then middle aged priest had been a staple of St. Patrick’s, our community parish, for as long as either of us could remember. He was a hard nose, an old fashioned man who had come all the way over from Ireland, it seemed, just to make sure we weren’t cutting up in the back pew or sticking our gum on the bottom of the kneelers.

  With Boomer’s dad dead and it obvious the boy was on the wrong path, the priest took it upon himself to set him straight.

  It was a hard row to hoe at first. Boomer was almost as hardheaded as me, but Father Jameson broke through all that misplaced anger and teenage bluster soon enough. He worked with Boomer, helped set Boomer straight, and the two formed a bond that had lasted up to this very moment.

  Why, if not for Father Jameson, I had no doubt that Boomer wouldn’t be where he was today; a happily married father of two who protected and served as one of the best police chiefs this city had ever seen.

  And now the man was at death’s door and there was nothing Boomer could do about it. The man had helped him so much, and now Boomer was powerless to return the favor.

  “It’ll be alright, Boom,” I said, breathing heavily with my heart breaking. “It’ll be alright.”

  I looked over at the candy machine, at the chocolate bar hanging there as though it was mocking us.

  Grunting, I punched the damned machine and the candy fell to the floor of the thing, ready to be picked up.

  “I’m going to find out who did this,” I muttered, looking over at Boomer. “You can bet on that.”

  Chapter 5

  It didn’t take long for the waiting room of the ER to fill up way past its capacity. That didn’t surprise me. Father Jameson was a pillar of our community. In a city where tourists and upstart businesses could and would usually change as quickly as the seasons, Father Jameson was a constant. Having been with St. Patrick’s for over thirty years now, the priest was a stalwart in the church and in our lives.

  Of course, St. Patrick’s was a community parish. So I wasn’t surprised to see a lot of familiar faces and not so many strange ones.

  I took a deep breath as I brought Boomer and his wife their third cups of coffee respectively. Father Jameson had been under the careful knife of Rebecca for a few hours now and, though a resident had come out to tell us things were still under way, he had no way of knowing how much longer the surgery would take.

  “In a case like this,” the young man said. “Longer is often better.”

  I remembered them saying that about my mom at the end, when they went in one final time to try and remove as much of the cancer as possible. It struck me as odd then. Longer meant there was more of it, meant there was more work to do. My grandfather told me differently, said that working more meant more progress, and progress was always a good thing.

  It hadn’t worked for my mother, but I hoped to God it would work for Father Jameson tonight.

  “Here you go,” I said, handing Boomer and Debbie the coffees. Boomer barely looked up as he took the cup, muttering a word of thanks and quickly down casting his eyes again.

  It was odd and more than a little heartbreaking to see my best friend in the world like this. He had always been a strong guy and, more than that, a capable chief who could stand up to nearly anything that came his way. Watching this news decimate him was nothing short of gutting. One look at him told me he wouldn’t be able to deal with this investigation in an even keeled manner. And, though he said he’d sent officers to look over the scene and search for clues, this was too important to leave in the hands of other people completely. Father Jameson had been a big presence in my life. He had been there for me when my mother got sick, been there when she died. He was one of the first people I talked about leaving town with after we laid her in the ground, and he gave me a lot of the strength I needed to make that decision.

  He wasn’t as integral a piece of my upbringing as he had been for Boomer, but I wouldn’t have been the same without him. He deserved the best, and I was intent on giving it to him. I was going to take this case on and I was going to start it right now. I just had to be delicate about it.

  “When’s the last time you talked to him, Boom?” I asked, sitting down beside my friend and looking at both him and his wife. Debbie gave me a closed mouth smile and squeezed her husband’s hand.

  “Dillon asked you a question, honey,” she said when Boomer didn’t answer.

  “Right,” Boomer said, clearing his throat and blinking hard. “Sunday, I guess. At services.”

  “No, not that,” I said gently, shaking my head. “Outside of church. I know the two of you used to hang out kind of informally. Do you still do that?”

  Boomer looked up at me, his eyes narrowing. “What are you doing, Dil?”

  “I’m asking you questions,” I said flatly, staring at him.

  “I know that, but why are you asking these questions?” He responded. “I know what fishing for clues looks like, and that’s what you’re trying to do here, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” I admitted, setting my jaw. “I just figured—”

  “It’s a hit and run, Dil,” he answered. “Probably some stupid kid who got into his parents’ liquor cabinet and decided to take a joyride. He probably got scared when he saw he hit somebody and squealed off. I’ll sure the guilt will get to him before we even have a proper chance to go looking. I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned himself in sometime tonight.” Boomer shook his head, pointing it back toward the floor. “We’ll deal with it then.”

  “Boom,” I started in my ‘”I’m probably not going to let this go” voice. “You’re just—”

  “I get it,” he said. “I was a mess when you got here. Hell, I’m still a mess. Look at me. It just that old man means the world to me, and he has since I was a snot-nosed teenager who thought he knew how the world worked. Doesn’t mean there’s more to this than there is.” He cleared his throat again. “I told you, I’ve got officers on this. They’re on Calhoun Street. They’re questioning residents about suspicious activity or strange cars on the road. That’s all we can do for the moment, at least until he wakes up.” I watched Boomer’s body slump as his lips tightened into a thin, pained line across his face. “I mean, you know, if he wakes up.”

  “He’s going to be fine, Boomer,” Debbie said, leaning down and giving her husband a kiss on his cheek. “He’s got to be.” Looking up at me, she said, “Can I see you alone for a minute?”

  I nodded and followed Debbie just outside the doors.

  Now that we were alone, she rested against the wall and gave me a once over. “He can’t do that right now,” she said to me simply.

  “I’m not trying to cause him any pain,” I said, breathing hard. “It’s just, there are questions that need to be answered. Father Jameson lives next to the church on Telfair. He goes to sleep at nine o’clock. He’s been doing that since we were kids. Calhoun is five miles away. What the hell was he doing there at a quarter to eleven, and without his car?”

  “Without his car?” Debbie asked, biting her lower lip.

  “My grandfather was fixing it up for him,” I answered. “I called him soon after I got here to tell him the news, and he told me that Father Jameson’s car was missing an entire transmission as of yesterday night. There’s no way he could have driven it.”

  “So he had someone drive him,” Debbie said, shrugging.

  “To do what?” I asked. “And, if that was the case, then why was he walking across the street anyway? This doesn’t make sense. I need to get to the bottom of it.”

  “Then do that,” Debbie answered. “But keep it to yourself, at least for the night.” She sighed and pushed herself off the wall, walking toward me. “Like I said, Boomer isn’t up for this right now, not with that old man in surgery, not when we don’t know whether or not he’s going to pull through until morning. It won’t stop him from trying to be though. You come at him with all these questions, which are reasonable ones, I’ll give you that, and he’ll want to div
e right in. He’ll push himself way past his breaking point and, what’s more, he won’t be able to see clearly.” She nodded at me. “I know you’ve known Boomer forever, Dillon, but you don’t know him like I do. He’d only make things worse tonight. You got questions? You probably need to get them answered on your own.”

  “He’s the chief,” I reminded her. “I can’t—”

  “Go walking around town and talking to your neighbors?” Debbie asked, her eyebrows jutting up in accusation. “Of course you can. I do it all the time, and Lord knows I don’t ask anybody’s permission. Just go, have a couple chats. Come back in the morning, and tell him what you’ve found, if you find anything.” She looked back at the bursting ER waiting room. “Hopefully everything will look a little better by then.”

  “Hopefully,” I nodded, resolved to do what she said. “And, Debbie, if Rebecca comes out before I get back, would you tell her—”

  “That you had a job to do too?” She asked. “I’m sure she knows, but I’ll pass along the message. And, Dillon,” she said, the smallest, most hesitant of smiles inching across her face. “I told you you’d like her.”

  I nodded again and turned to walk back toward my truck.

  I walked into the employee parking area, where Rebecca told me to leave my vehicle, and slid the key into the door, my mind racing.

  Maybe this was just a hit and run. Maybe it was all an accident and the person responsible would come forward like Boomer said. Maybe all of this would be over by the morning, and Rebecca would have skillfully put Father Jameson on the road back to recovery. Hell, maybe we’d even get a second shot at our first date by the weekend.

  All three wonderful and comforting thoughts moved through my head as I opened the car door.

  “Dillon,” a familiar voice said from behind me. My body went to stone as I recognized it. Spinning around, I saw my half brother, Peter Storm, standing across from me. He had his hands shoved nervously into the pockets of a pair of pants I probably wouldn’t have been able to afford even if I wasn’t paying him rent for a houseboat I never asked him to buy for me. His hair was disheveled and his face was twisted up in a strange expression.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, leaving the key in the door and walking toward him.

  “I’m looking for you,” he said, a statement that had never given me anything but grief whenever it came out of my brother’s mouth.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, my chest tightening in response, preparing for the worst.

  “We need to talk,” he said simply. “It’s about the priest.”

  Chapter 6

  “What did you do?” I asked, my hands immediately balling into fists at my sides. Looking at my half brother, obviously torn up and frantic, standing in the parking lot and asking to speak to me sent a million thoughts through my mind, and all of them were horrible.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Peter said, holding his hands in front of him and walking toward me. Against the fluorescent lights of the parking area, I couldn’t help but notice how much Peter looked like his son right now, with his hair messy on his head and his eyes wide.

  Of all the things that pulled me back to Naples—my grandfather’s cancer diagnosis, seeing my friends on a regular basis again, and just the nascent pull of home that anyone who had been away from where they grew up for any amount of time would understand—Isaac was by far the most important. Knowing I had a nephew was one of the huge turning points of my life. Finally, I had someone who I could pour my attention and affection into. The fact that he was growing up like me, shunned by a father who didn’t deserve him, made the connection and my obligation to him even stronger.

  I loved that kid, loved him like I had never loved anyone else in the world, with the possible exception of my grandfather, my own mother and, when I was lying in bed in the middle of the night with my eyes pinned on the ceiling, his mother too.

  It was that love that stopped me from ever getting too close to Peter. He had been a bastard to me when we were young, doing everything in his power to make sure I knew exactly where I stood on the Storm family ladder. But I would be lying if I said he hadn’t taken steps to try and rectify that. He had even bought The Good Storm for me, the houseboat I was now living on with my grandfather.

  The fact that I was actively paying him installments to wash that debt away notwithstanding, it was a damned fine gesture. Still, I couldn’t forgive him for what he did to Isaac, what he was still doing to Isaac.

  “You came to see me in the middle of the night to tell me you didn’t do anything?” I asked, my eyes narrowing in accusation. “Forgive me, but that doesn’t sound too believable.”

  “Well, it should,” he answered quickly. “And can you blame me? In the couple of months you’ve been back in town, you’ve arrested me for—not one—but two crimes that I had nothing to do with committing. I’d like to make sure you have no intention of making it a hat trick.”

  He had a point. Since my return, I had brought my half brother in for questioning, and then in cuffs, two times. What he didn’t seem to take into consideration was the fact that there was more than a little evidence which led me to him. In fact, in both cases, the perpetrator was actively trying to frame him for various causes.

  “I don’t consider people suspects unless I have reason to,” I said, swallowing hard and walking toward Peter as well, bridging the gap between us. “Do I have a reason to consider you a suspect, Peter?”

  “You don’t,” he assured me. “But I’d like to make sure it stays that way and, to that end, I’d like to be perfectly honest with you about things.”

  That struck me as more than a little curious.

  “Okay. How about you start with telling me how you even knew about this in the first place, seeing as how it just happened?”

  “Because he didn’t call me,” Peter said flatly, as though it was a reasonable answer, as though there should have been any reason for Father Jameson to call him at all, let alone on the night when he was injured.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” I asked, my body tensing. “What business would he have calling you?”

  “Because I’ve been talking to him,” Peter sighed, leaning against my truck and running a hand over his face. His expression was heavy, as though he was admitting something he shouldn’t be, as though he was ashamed. “I’ve been talking to Father Jameson on a regular basis.” He shook his head. “He’s helping me through something.”

  “He’s fighting for his life, Peter. Someone ran him over and left him in the street to die. That being said, we both know you’re going to have to be a lot more specific than that,” I said, swallowing hard and trying to make sense of all this.

  Peter breathed heavily, rubbing eyes that looked far too much like my own and glaring over at me.

  "I'm not happy, Dillon," he said flatly.

  "A lot of people aren't happy, Peter," I answered. "I'm not sure I follow you."

  "Of course, you wouldn't," he said, shaking his head. "Because you've always had everything I ever wanted."

  "Are you insane?" I asked, narrowing my eyes as a jolt of something like indignation ran through me with about as much subtlety as peeing on an electric fence. "Not that this is the right time or place to talk about this, seeing as a man of the cloth might very well die tonight, but the idea of me being the have and you the have not is ridiculous. You do understand that, don't you?"

  It was true. Peter had grown up in Storm House, the enormous castle on a hill, the place I had always looked at and seen what my life could have been like if only my father had accepted me the way he accepted him.

  "We both know that's not what I'm talking about," Peter replied. Peter was right. Since my return to Naples, I had spoken to my half-brother about our lives and the differences in them. It turned out the idyllic existence I always pictured him having was anything but. It didn't surprise me, but my bastard of a father wasn't great to him either, and that wasn't something he had been able to move past
easily.

  He blinked hard and looked at me. "I thought I'd be happy after he died."

  I balked a little, and he responded quickly, reading my face.

  "That's not what I meant. That didn't come out right," he said. "I didn't want my fath- our father to die. That's the last thing I would have ever wanted, but after he did, I figured I could spread my wings. The company would be mine. My life would be mine. I just thought things would finally fall into place."

  "But they didn't," I said, leaning next to him on the truck. I wasn't close to my brother, and I didn't think there would ever be a time when I would be, but I could understand what he was going through now, and I wasn't the type of person to pretend I couldn't.

  "It's just more of the same, Dillon," he answered, glaring down at the parking lot. "None of it matters. None of it feels like mine. I've waited so long for my life to start, and it still hasn't." He exhaled loudly. "I'm not sure that it ever will."

  I was about to tell him that perhaps the reason he was feeling empty had something to do with the amazing little boy he still pretended didn't exist. I was about to suggest that actually taking an active role in the life of someone he was responsible for bringing onto the earth might provide him with a sense of importance and whatnot, but I didn't have a chance. Peter kept talking.

  "Our father wasn't a religious man," he said, not bothering to turn to me. "He pretended when the idea suited him, when we had a client who was obviously very interested in the church and all of that, but Father never gave any of that a second thought when he was on his own. Hell, even the funeral was a product of his last wife."