A Capital Offense

by Gary Parker

  Copyright © 1998 by Gary E. Parker

  All rights reserved. Written permission must be secured from the publisher to use or reproduce any part of this book, except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson, Inc., Publishers

  The Bible version used in this publication is THE NEW KING JAMES VERSION. Copyright © 1979, 1980, 1982, 1990, Thomas Nelson, Inc., Publishers.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Parker, Gary E.

  A capital offense / Gary E. Parker.

  p. cm.

  “A Janet Thoma book.”

  ISBN 0-7852-7786-2 (pbk.)

  I. Title

  PS3566.A6784C36 1998

  813'.54—dc21

  97-46995

  CIP

  Printed in the United States of America.

  1 2 3 4 5 6 QPK 03 02 01 00 99 98

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER

  1

  Determined to carry in all the groceries in one trip, Connie Brandon pinned one bag against each hip with an elbow, gripped another in the fingers of each hand, and dangled one from her teeth. So loaded down, she rushed toward the side door of her modest but comfortable white stone home. Though unable to glance at her watch, she knew she was almost late picking up Katie, her seven year old, from the baby-sitter.

  Usually, being a few minutes late wouldn’t matter. Mrs. Everhart, the retired woman who kept Katie for three hours after school every day while Connie finished up her last semester at the University of Missouri Law School, generally had nothing pressing to do. But today she had an appointment at the beauty parlor and had kindly informed Connie she needed Katie picked up no later than 6:30. Connie had promised to get there on time. Unfortunately, an automobile accident a half mile from the grocery store had created what served in Jefferson City, Missouri, as a traffic jam. On the scale of one to ten, it didn’t amount to that much, but car wrecks in the state capital were as rare as trees in the Sahara Desert and a number of rubberneckers had slowed Connie far too much. A stickler for punctuality, she typically arrived at appointments at least ten minutes early.

  Easing the groceries in her right hand to the floor of the garage, she yanked open the door, grabbed the sacks again, staggered inside, and dropped all the groceries except the sack in her mouth onto the small dining table that sat just inside in the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, she shoved the bag that had hung from her mouth, the one holding ice cream, into the back of the freezer. In spite of her hurry, she had to smile.

  Jack would thank her for the ice cream. Early in their courtship she had learned how much he loved it. He ate a bowl of vanilla almost every night, mixing it with milk and sometimes a banana, making a milkshake unmatched by any fast food restaurant or ice cream shop.

  Thankfully, Jack could afford such caloric extravagance. For that matter, so could she. Both of them were small people, Jack no more than five-eight and a hundred fifty pounds and she barely five-two and one hundred five. Even though he had inhaled a bowl of vanilla practically every night of their seventeen-year marriage, Jack hadn’t gained an ounce.

  Brushing off the front of her cream-colored blouse and gray pleated slacks, she hurried to Katie’s room. Library books were due today, and Connie refused to let them run late.

  As she grabbed the books off Katie’s bed, the phone rang. She held the books to her chest and rushed back to the kitchen. The phone, sitting on a counter by an open window, rang a second time. She glanced at her watch. Unlike so many other people, she hated for a call to go unanswered or for an answering machine to respond. Such deliberate disregard for the caller seemed rude to her, like passing someone on the street and not speaking. The phone rang again. Connie almost reached for it but then thought of Mrs. Everhart. She couldn’t let that good woman down. Just this once, the answering machine could get the phone. She would call back as soon as she got home.

  Connie headed to the door, listening with one ear as the voice of Daniel, her fourteen-year-old son, clicked in on the machine: “Hello. This is the home of Connie and Katie and Daniel and Jack. Leave a message and we’ll call back.”

  Connie reached for the doorknob. After a beep, she heard Jack’s strong bass boom through the phone.

  “Hey, Sunset, it’s Jack.”

  Connie stopped in her tracks. Jack! The only person who called her Sunset, the color of her hair as he described it. Every time she heard him say it, she melted. She had to take Jack’s call, even if only for a moment. She stepped back and grabbed the phone. A soft breeze from the crisp April day outside brushed across her face.

  “Yeah, Jack, I’m here, but I’ve got to hurry.”

  “Okay, just wanted you to know I’m at the bookstore now, but I’ll be out late. The city council is meeting in a special session at 7:30 with some gambling people from Las Vegas. I won’t speak or anything, but I want them to know I’m there.”

  Connie shuddered and the air from the window suddenly felt chilled. Goose bumps rose on her arms. She sensed a threat of some kind in the breeze, a force as unpredictable as the Missouri River that snaked below the bluffs less than a hundred yards from the back of her house. She pushed her hair from her eyes, then squeezed the phone tighter. “What time will you get home?” she asked.

  “Don’t know. The vote is just a few weeks away and everyone’s a little on edge. We’ll talk when I get home . . .” His voice trailed off.

  Connie wanted to ask him more but knew she didn’t have time. For the past year Jack had waged a campaign to convince people to reject riverboat gambling in Jefferson City. In response, the gambling interests had stooped to personal attacks against him. They had labeled him a religious bigot, an intolerant stick-in-the-mud who wanted to control the lives of the citizens of Jefferson City. To her shock, a series of nasty phone calls had invaded their home. The anonymous calls, always made past midnight and always spoken in clipped, short tones by the same male voice, told Jack to stop meddling.

  “This whole thing has gotten too mean,” Connie said.

  Jack laughed. “It shows I’ve scared them. If they didn’t think people were listening, they wouldn’t bother me.”

  “But the phone calls, Jack, what about them?”

  “Harmless,” he said. “I expected this kind of thing. A person doesn’t speak out on moral issues without stirring up a few enemies.”

  Connie knew he was right. Christians often found themselves at odds with culture. Nothing new about that. But that didn’t make her any less upset about the calls. Angry and protective of her family, she wanted the calls to stop and she wanted them to stop now! Though small in stature and often shy, she had never backed away from a confrontation if someone pushed one on her. The only child of an army sergeant who tended to treat her and her mom like one of the recruits he trained, she knew something about toughness, even if she seldom practiced it.

  But Connie’s anger
hadn’t stopped the calls. They continued to come, sporadically, but never ending. She never knew when to stay awake and when to fall asleep. She and Jack left the phone off the hook several times, but the instant they put it in place again, the caller inevitably rang.

  “You think we ought to call the police again?” Connie asked.

  “I don’t know. Like they said last week, all they can do is put a tracer on the phone.”

  “I like that idea.”

  “Don’t you think that’s overreacting?”

  Connie bit her lip. Maybe so.

  “Look,” Jack continued. “The election is June fourth. After that, one way or the other, the calls will stop. If we lose, the guy might call to console me, but that’ll be all. If we win, he’ll know the game’s over. Either way, the calls will stop.”

  Though Connie didn’t necessarily agree, she decided to let it go. The police could deal with the man if they identified him, but only a trace gave them a chance to do that, and Jack didn’t want a trace.

  “Hey, I’ve got to run,” she said, remembering Mrs. Everhart. “See you tonight.”

  “Late tonight.”

  “Late, then.”

  “I love you, Sunset. And don’t worry.”

  “Love you too.”

  She hung up, rushed to her five-year-old van and jumped in. Rolling down the driver’s side window, she spun onto the road and tried to calm herself. Her shoulder-length red hair whipped out in the breeze, a cascade of scarlet billowing in bangs around her brown eyes. She gunned the gas. If she hurried, Mrs. Everhart might still make her hair appointment on time! As she rounded the corner and headed down the hill below her house, she thought again of the nasty calls that scared her so much. The calls had touched something primal in her, raised her antennae of emotions to a level she’d never before experienced. She now knew how a mother bear felt when something threatened her young.

  With her newly discovered senses, she detected something unusual going on with Jack. He had seemed quieter over the last few weeks, less given to the humor that usually poured out of him like overflowing water from a faucet. He hadn’t popped Daniel with a towel or told a corny joke in weeks, and that disturbed her. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but she knew more was going on than he had confided to her.

  He had a tendency to do that—try to protect her, not tell her things if he thought them worrisome. Connie swung left at a light and remembered the day after their marriage. They were traveling from Jefferson City to St. Louis for their three-day honeymoon. They stopped at a gas station to fill up. Spotting a hamburger franchise across the road, Connie kissed Jack on the cheek and told him she wanted to get a soft drink. His face instantly changed, his blue eyes growing cloudy.

  “Will you be okay?” he asked, concern etched in the deep notes of his voice.

  At first Connie didn’t understand. “Why wouldn’t I be?” she asked. “I’m just going across the street. I’ve been crossing streets by myself for a long time now.”

  Though he smiled, Jack’s voice still sounded anxious. “Well, you know . . . it’s just . . . well, I just got you. I don’t want anything to happen to you, that’s all.”

  “I’ll look both ways,” Connie promised, kissing him again and walking away.

  Stopping at a yield sign, Connie checked her watch. About six more minutes to Mrs. Everhart’s.

  The day of their marriage had been the first hint of his protectiveness. Other experiences had followed. From time to time, she had argued with Jack over it, told him he didn’t need to play guardian over her. Most of the few marital disagreements they had centered on this issue. More than once she had told him, “Look, I know you’re trying to protect me and I love you for that. But I’m a grown woman. What bothers you bothers me. I don’t like it when you don’t tell me things, even if you are taking care of me. I’m asking you to change this for me, change it and let me help you when things happen.”

  “I’ll try, Sunset,” he always said. “I’ll really try. I know you’ll stay after me if I don’t.”

  She smiled. How well he knew her. She gave up on very few things in life. Over the years, Jack had improved. But lately, he seemed . . . well . . . too quiet, almost as if he didn’t want to say anything lest he open himself up to questions. His involvement against gambling had caused an anxiety in him she hadn’t seen for a long time.

  Mrs. Everhart’s house loomed just ahead, and Connie forced her thoughts away from Jack and his involvement with the gambling battle. She had to let him do what he thought right. He certainly told her that often enough.

  “I’ll do what I think is right,” he kept saying. “For Katie and Daniel and the rest of the kids in this town.” When he said it so simply, how could she argue?

  With a hard left, she spun into Mrs. Everhart’s driveway and ground to a stop. Directly ahead, she spotted Katie running down the sidewalk, her red hair blowing in a thousand directions. Behind Katie, Mrs. Everhart trudged at a much slower pace, her ample girth and arthritic knees slowing her down. Seeing the gray-haired saint, Connie smiled. She’d never known anyone quite so sweet.

  Connie climbed out of the van and rushed across the yard, bending low toward Katie. How blessed could one person get, she wondered? She had a loving husband, a maturing teenage son, and a daughter who looked just like her mother, right down to the color of her hair; the row of freckles across her button nose; her high, rounded cheekbones; and her eyes the color of chocolate milk.

  Katie rushed into her mother’s arms. Connie grabbed her and squeezed. Mrs. Everhart waved, turned left, and walked toward her garage.

  “Sorry I’m late,“ yelled Connie.

  “No problem, child,” called Mrs. Everhart, apparently unconcerned. “Hairdressers always make you wait anyway.” She disappeared into the garage, and Connie heard her car door open.

  Connie chuckled. What a blessing Mrs. Everhart was. Like a grandmother to Katie.

  “See you tomorrow,” she yelled, picking Katie up and climbing back into her van. Mrs. Everhart didn’t answer.

  Back on the road, Connie pointed the van toward town. A pleasant thought occurred to her. She would stop at the bookstore on the way to the library and catch Jack by surprise, see him before his busy night began. “You want to go see Daddy?” she asked Katie.

  Katie nodded. Connie leaned over and took her hand. Jack would love to see them. The April breeze blew in off the river and through the window. Connie squeezed Katie’s hand and thought again of Jack, the only man she had ever loved.

  CHAPTER

  2

  His elbows propped on his cluttered metal desk, Jack Brandon clutched the phone to his left ear and concentrated on the voice of the man on the other end of the line.

  “I need to see you tonight, Jack,” the man said, his voice insistent. “Sometime past ten.”

  “But that’s too late for me,” said Jack. “I don’t know if I can make it.”

  “You’ve got no choice but to make it. This can’t wait.”

  Jack gritted his teeth, an anger he seldom felt and even more rarely displayed rising up in his chest. “But a person always has choices,” he said.

  “Guess again, my friend. I’m telling you, your options are few.”

  Jack wanted to argue but then caught himself. That wasn’t his way. He closed his eyes and counted to ten, letting the worst of the negative emotion pass. He had to stay focused if he wanted to deal with this situation. A decision made out of anger would most likely end up the wrong choice.

  He opened his eyes and pulled a baseball from the top drawer of his desk. Tossing the ball into the air, he watched the names written on it spin around and around as it rose. He knew the names—Musial, Schoendist, Brock. All written on his St. Louis Cardinals ball, the ball autographed by a slew of famous Cardinals and given to him by Daniel, Connie, and Katie this past January on his fortieth birthday. Daniel had saved money from cutting grass for months to pay his part, and Katie had contributed a dime a week from
her one-dollar allowance. Connie had paid the rest. The ball fell into Jack’s right hand, his left one still holding the phone.

  Jack knew if he wasn’t careful with this caller, everything could go down the tubes—everything he’d spent more than a decade trying to build.

  He tossed the ball a second time, then caught it as it dropped. He loved baseball, had played it all through his childhood, second base. His coach at Miller High had described him as tough on the double play and fast on the bases. Only his lack of size kept him from playing past high school.

  Calmer now, Jack rolled the ball onto his desk. It skipped across several sheets of scattered white paper, then came to a stop against a stack of books with a black spiral notebook laying on top. Jack focused on his call again.

  “What time past ten?” he said.

  “What about midnight?”

  Jack rubbed his forehead. Staying out that late would require an explanation for Connie, but he couldn’t tell her the purpose of this late-night rendezvous.

  “Can we do it any earlier?”

  “Not really. I like it late. That way no one can see us together.”

  Jack would have laughed if everything weren’t so serious. Lately, lots of people had worked hard to stay away from him in public. Since the gambling interests had chosen Jefferson City as a prime target for a floating casino, scores of normally sane people had gone off the deep end, diving for the dollars the gamblers so freely threw around. Lawyers, builders, bankers, and merchants—all seemed hypnotized by the gambling green.

  Jack knew all these people, considered them his friends. For years, they had bought newspapers, the latest novels, and cards and gifts from his shop. On cold winter mornings, he served them steaming cups of coffee, which they took to one of the tables he had set up in the back of the store. There, sipping their coffee, the people read the morning paper and spilled out the latest city gossip.

  When one of them got sick or suffered a death in the family or married off a child or earned a promotion, Jack acknowledged it with a card or a gift certificate for a book. From time to time, as opportunity arose, he engaged different ones in conversation about religion, his deep voice and gentle demeanor a strong advocate for the Jesus he loved. Pastors in a number of the city churches filled their baptismal pools and received new converts more than once as a direct result of Jack’s steady efforts to live out his faith. Over the years, clients and others in Jefferson City spoke often of the “good man” who owned the Good Books Store.