by Matthew Iden
I shot him.
Placement had always been a forte of mine. My round went right above the tip of his nose and out the other side, a through-and-through meant to plow through his brain stem and stop his body from spasming, a last twitch of his trigger finger that would be fatal for Mary Beth.
The gunshot’s flat clap was incredibly loud in the tiny space. Mary Beth screamed through the tape and jerked her head from side to side, trying to untangle Chick’s hand from her hair as his body folded like a lawn chair and hit the cement floor with a slapping sound, the grin still on his face. The handgun fell from his fingers and clattered next to him.
I jumped forward and kicked it away, then cut Mary Beth free. I held her while she sobbed and we backed out of the laundry room and into the basement as one. I kept my arms wrapped around her while the TV blared on. And that’s how Warren found us when he came down the stairs, shotgun in hand, a look of disbelief on his face.
Chapter Thirty- One
It wasn’t what I’d wanted. We could’ve learned a lot from Chick if I’d talked him down. And violence is the last option in a hostage situation. But he was right. We’d been stuck and it wouldn’t have gotten any rosier when Warren came on the scene. Chick had cornered himself and was smart enough to know that there were very few ways to win once you’d played that card. I couldn’t see him choosing to go down solo. There would’ve been more than one casualty if the situation had been allowed to play out.
The circus began soon after Warren showed. Palmer, Jay, and then a host of agents descended on the place throughout the afternoon and into the evening, asking us questions, retracing the steps, second-guessing my decisions. I answered as best I could. Eventually, the interrogation ran out of steam, though Warren gave me a look that I knew well enough. This had been the preamble. Palmer and the DEA squad would require follow-ups and interviews until every last scrap of the case was examined, reexamined, and logged. I’d be booking a few more nights at the Mosby.
But that was the future. Bone-weary, I pressed them to let us go. Palmer looked unhappy, but he and I both knew there wasn’t anything more to do. Finally, near midnight, they gave us grudging permission to leave. Mary Beth refused to go to the hospital, telling the medics she’d been scared, not hurt, then asked me to drive her home.
I held her hand the whole way, feeling her quiver from time to time. She was quiet and I asked if she wanted to talk. She shook her head, but never let go of my hand.
The silence of the drive back to town gave me the room to think. The night had cooled off and I had the windows down for the first time in weeks. It felt good and an odd calm settled over my thoughts. At first, it was pleasant to have a mind empty and devoid of thought.
But eventually—despite the clear, cool breeze flowing over me like water and the serenity of the night putting me at ease—my mind began toying with the layers of conversation I’d had and heard, splicing what I knew with what I could guess.
Maybe I was on the edge of a true exhaustion that had bestowed a clarity of vision. Maybe it was Chick’s confession. Maybe it was just time for me to put the pieces together. Whatever the reason, with sudden crystalline clarity, all the answers I’d been looking for since I’d stopped at the billboard along the highway came together in a perfect lattice of cause and effect. Facts meshed with guesswork, dates merged with places, and people slotted into their places just so. The truth spread out in front of me like a map, with landmarks and points of interest along the way.
My deductions made me think of the extent of J.D.’s life, the good and bad that he had done, juxtaposed against my own past. I’d like to think that I’d done more good than harm in my time, but I wondered how you measured it. Was it enough to do a little good? Some of what was required, some of what you were capable of? Maybe it was all worthless if you didn’t follow through all the way. Had J.D. redeemed himself simply by trying? Or would he have thought of himself as a failure for not having actually accomplished his one right thing before he died? Did any of us deserve grace if we only tried, but didn’t succeed?
I turned the car onto Beal. The crickets were out again and the night was very still now that we were in town. The moon, full and luminous, worked to break free of the treetops. Driving slowly, testing my new insights, I came to a decision by the time I parked in front of the old home. I turned the car off and started to get out.
Mary Beth turned to me. Her face was as white as milk. “You don’t have to come in. I’m fine.”
“I think I have to,” I said. “Your mother deserves to hear the whole story.”
She looked at me quizzically, but got out and led the way up the walk and into the house. Inside, all was dark save for a single light in the side parlor.
Dorothea’s voice, quavering, called, “Who is that?”
“It’s me, Mother,” Mary Beth said and hurried into the next room. I stayed in the foyer as, through her tears, Mary Beth explained what had happened. I heard the rise and fall of her voice as she described the entire ordeal, Dorothea’s voice wobbling as she asked questions, her own emotions barely under control. After a moment, their voices subsided.
“Mr. Singer?” I heard Dorothea call. I walked to the parlor. The two were sitting on a divan, holding hands. The elder woman looked wan and thin, like parchment worn almost all the way through. A phone and a glass of water were on an end table next to the divan. A book lay on the couch beside her, its pages marked with a newspaper clipping.
“Mrs. Hope,” I said, nodding.
“Mr. Singer,” she said, nodding. “It looks like I have you to thank for rescuing my daughter.”
“It had to be done, Mrs. Hope,” I said.
“And I thank you, again,” she said primly, then looked at me expectantly. “Is that all?”
I cleared my throat. “I know this has been an incredibly trying time for both of you, but there’s one thing that still hasn’t been resolved.”
“My God, Mr. Singer. Surely it can wait,” Dorothea said, exasperated. Mary Beth looked at me in surprise and irritation, resembling her mother more than I would’ve thought possible. “My daughter was kidnapped, held against her will, and almost killed. I appreciate what you’ve done for us, but really, this is too much.”
“I understand your irritation, Mrs. Hope,” I said. “But if you answer my questions, this will probably be my last visit.”
“As much as I relish the thought, I really must insist you leave,” she said.
“Mother, I’d be dead without Marty,” Mary Beth said. “The least we could do is hear him out.”
“Does it have to be now? Surely it could wait a day?”
“I don’t think so, Mrs. Hope.” As clear as my vision had been on the way back to town, I’d been afraid of the answer I’d discovered. I needed the truth now or I’d never ask for it.
“Good Lord, if you must,” Dorothea said, shaking her head.
“Where is Ferris?”
Mary Beth blinked and Dorothea’s mouth twisted at the unexpected question. “This is what you need to know so desperately, Mr. Singer?”
“Yes.”
“Ferris left a few days ago to visit family in Tennessee,” Dorothea said with an exaggerated sigh. “I’m not sure when he plans to come back.”
“That’s odd, isn’t it? That you shouldn’t know?”
“I don’t own the man, Mr. Singer. He can come and go as he wishes.”
“He’s almost the only help you have around the house,” I said, pressing. “It seems odd he should decide to leave your side the moment you need him the most.”
“What are you getting at, Marty?” Mary Beth asked.
I looked at Dorothea square. “When did you know J.D. had ALS?”
Her gaze was withering. “I knew when my daughter told me, Mr. Singer. My son was not a good communicator, as you know. I doubt he would’ve told me even on his deathbed.”
I matched her stare. Her eyes were flat and glasslike, dolls’ eyes. “That’s not really true
, is it?”
“What are you insinuating, Mr. Singer?”
“I’ve just spent a week learning about J.D. and dissecting the lives of the crooks he spent time with here. I know that he’d returned to do something better with his life, to turn it around—even if there wasn’t much of it left—and leave his home better than he’d found it.”
She was silent.
“I also spent a lot of time with the men who wanted to use J.D., to help them grow a drug empire, one that would make them millions of dollars if they were able to establish a connection to large cities like Washington, DC.”
“And what could that possibly have to do with us?” Dorothea asked.
“These men weren’t the type to kill someone quickly. I can guarantee you, if Will Brower had even the barest suspicion that J.D. was working undercover against him, your son would be in the basement of that farmhouse, suffering right now. J.D.’s death, in reality, was merciful. And none of the criminals he was involved with could be described with that word.”
The old woman said nothing, just stared back at me.
“Anyone who looked at J.D.’s murder would think it was just history catching up with him, a lifetime of bad decisions and crime and violence coming home to roost. It’s the way I approached it, how the cops looked at it, what the world believed. Too bad we were all wrong. None of us guessed that he was killed for something that had nothing to do with his past.”
Dorothea’s lip quivered slightly. Mary Beth looked as though part of her wanted me to stop, as though she knew what was coming might be better left unsaid.
“J.D. wasn’t killed by gangsters or a hit man or the Browers,” I said to Dorothea softly. “It was you. You had Ferris kill him.”
Mary Beth gasped.
Dorothea didn’t say anything, but small tears welled up and spilled, following the path of the wrinkles and folds of her skin. Her breaths came in short gasps that pulled her lower lip in like a child’s.
“Mother?” Mary Beth asked.
The old woman began nodding to herself.
“Mother,” Mary Beth repeated, sharply.
“It is,” the old woman whispered with painstaking care, not looking at either of us, “a terrible disease. I went to that doctor of his and he told me it was nothing but willpower and medicine that was keeping my son alive. He was in so much pain. And he was running around, killing himself to help those damn policemen put the damn Browers in jail.”
“It was what he wanted,” I said.
She took a deep breath that caught and shuddered in her throat. Her eyes pinned me like darts. “My son was hurting, Mr. Singer. He was dying. And after you put him in prison for something he didn’t even do, he possessed the decency to come home to make amends. But those policemen kept asking him for more. To hell with them. I saw him. A week before…before it happened. He was so weak, so sick. All he had were the pills. They were all that was keeping him alive. That’s when I knew I had to do something. I had to make a stand, as I’ve always done. I couldn’t do it myself, but I knew Ferris could.”
“Not your choice,” I said, not sure with what authority I made the statement.
She glared at me. “I told you once, Mr. Singer. I’ve always made the hard decisions. For my home. For my family. I’ve never made a more difficult choice than I did that night. But I made it anyway. Ferris understood that and did what was needed. He loved my son like a brother and knew what I required of him was right.”
“Oh my God,” Mary Beth said and let go of Dorothea’s hand. “Oh my God.”
“God doesn’t enter into it,” Dorothea said harshly. “I killed my son because I loved him. And the only thing I have God to thank for is giving me the strength to do what was right.”
I said nothing, looking at the floor. Around us, the old house sighed and creaked and popped. Except for Dorothea’s ragged breathing, it was the only sound for a long moment. We were caught together by the awful truth and that truth did nothing to heal or help. Eventually, I raised my eyes and met Dorothea’s glare.
“Does that satisfy your curiosity, Mr. Singer?” she asked, her voice poisonous. Her head shook with anger or age or grief. “Has justice been served? Have you been redeemed?”
I said nothing.
Mary Beth wiped tears away. “Would you…would you excuse us?”
I showed myself out and retraced my steps down the walkway. The moon was out in full now. Radiant, etching everything it touched in blue and silver, giving a glow to the world. I walked to my car and got in. I sat for one weary minute, digesting what I’d seen and heard and said and done, then drove away into the darkness, never sorrier that I’d been right.
Thank you for reading One Right Thing
I hope you've enjoyed what you've read. Please let me know what you think at [email protected], my FaceBook page, or Tweet me @CrimeRighter. I also enjoy connecting with readers and writers at my website at matthew-iden.com.
Independent writers can only survive and flourish with the help of readers. If you like what you've read, please consider reviewing One Right Thing at your favorite readers' website.
If crime fiction is your thing, please check out the first two Marty Singer novels, A Reason to Live and Blueblood, as well as my collection of short stories, one bad twelve (details below). And keep an eye out for the fourth Marty Singer novel, slated for Summer 2013. If you’d like to be notified of future Marty Singer releases (and nothing else!) by email, please sign up for my newsletter on my website, matthew-iden.com.
I also write fantasy and horror: check out my fantasy shorts Sword of Kings, Assassin, and Seven Into the Bleak, and my literary horror novella, Finding Emma (links below).
Acknowledgements
One Right Thing began with an event: my wife and I saw the billboard—and a version of the message that was on it—that starts this novel on a highway outside of Lynchburg, Virginia. None of the content is the same, of course, and the fiction is exactly that, but the story started with that simple sign. I hope the family of the man on that billboard has found its answers.
None of the words in this book would be here without the support and love of my wife, Renee. I know finding her was certainly one right thing that I’ve done.
Friends and family have cheered me on and done much of the heavy lifting in reading all the drafts of this book. Sally Iden, Gary Iden, Kris Iden, Frank Gallivan, Carie Rothenbacher, Jeff Ziskind, Amy and Pete Talbot, David Jacobstein, and Eleonora Ibrani were all sounding boards, unstinting supporters, and readers throughout the creation of One Right Thing. Karen Cantwell, Misha Crews, and Amanda Brice have all been exceptional colleagues along the road to One Right Thing’s publication.
Many, many thanks to Chip Cochran for sharing his law enforcement knowledge and letting me bounce about a thousand ideas off him. Any inaccuracies in a legal or law enforcement context are mine.
My editors Bryon Quertermous and Michael Mandarano cleaned up what I thought was a brilliant first draft and have been invaluable in the process of making me a better writer. Bryon and Michael, thank you. Exceptional thanks and good luck to my first editor, Alison Dasho, as she finds her future. I know she and Marty share a bond that a few thousand miles can’t break.
A Reason to Live (Marty Singer #1)
"The story is filled with twists and turns, just when you expect it to move one way, it turns in another, and only at the very end do you see the full picture..."
— Roberta Karchner, Amazon Top 50 Reviewer, 5 Star review
In the late nineties, a bad cop killed a good woman and DC Homicide detective Marty Singer got to watch as the murderer walked out of the courtroom a free man.
Twelve years later, the victim's daughter comes to Marty begging for help: the killer is stalking her now.
There's just one problem: Marty's retired...and he's retired because he's battling cancer. But with a second shot at the killer—and a first chance at redemption—Marty's just found A Reason to Live.
Availabl
e on Amazon for the Kindle and in paperback from CreateSpace and Amazon.
Blueblood (Marty Singer #2)
"… something so shocking took place I literally jumped."
— Angie H., Amazon 5 Star review
Four unrelated murders. Nothing special in Washington DC. Not even good enough to make the evening news. But then a concerned police lieutenant approaches retired homicide detective Marty Singer with a simple fact that changes everything.
They were all cops.
In a race to stop the killings, Marty tackles the case from the outside, chasing the killer from deadly Southeast DC to the heart of the Virginia gangland, on a mission to stop the spilling of yet more Blueblood.
Available on Amazon for the Kindle and in paperback from CreateSpace and Amazon.
one bad twelve
A group of Mafia wiseguys sweat it out as they wait to hear who's snitched on them in "Up a Rung"; a disturbed woman loses more than her mind in "Possession"; and a postman's larcenous streak gets him in a terrible mess just a few days before Christmas in "Special Delivery."
There are just a few of the thirteen tales that had to be bribed, shoved, and bullied into one bad twelve. Read them, buy them, or ignore them...just don't turn your back on them.
one bad twelve is available on Amazon. The stories are also available in four micro-anthologies: Three Shorts, Three the Hard Way, Three on a Match, and Three of a Kind, available on all ereaders. Please check matthew-iden.com for links and excerpts.
