“Did you answer?”
“No.”
He hadn’t listened to the message, either, but it had been such an effort not to push the button. He was going to need to get a new number, because he couldn’t stand much more of this.
And when they’d reached the courtroom, their grandparents had been there.
Not their dad’s parents. Their mom’s.
He hadn’t seen them for more than twelve years, and at first, he didn’t recognize them. A woman with her silver hair pulled neatly back into a clip, but her face drawn, her eyes red, and a tall, still-broad man with eyes like dark coals in his face, full of banked rage. The woman had uttered a choked cry and run for them, and the man had turned, his face impossible to look at without hurting.
His daughter dead. His little girl buried like something you’d throw away. And the recognition had jolted right through Harlan’s body.
His grandfather.
Hugs, then. Halting explanations. And so many tears.
He’d had their phone number and address for the past two months, since the private investigator had found them. Why hadn’t he gotten in touch? He could say that he hadn’t wanted to hurt them with questions about how their daughter could have left her kids like that. He could say it, but it wasn’t true. He’d been afraid of his temper. Afraid of the power of his anger.
Instead, they’d had to provide DNA to identify their only child’s remains. They hadn’t even been able to contact their grandchildren, they explained now, in case one of them had been … His grandmother’s chin wobbled as she said the word. “Involved.”
Harlan said, “No. We’ve all talked to them now. They know he did it by himself.” An image he didn’t want, that he couldn’t shake. “And he practically admitted it to me.”
The bailiff had called for quiet, then, and he’d been glad. His chest had hurt, and as hard as he’d tried to relax his muscles, they’d tensed up again just as fast.
There was nothing like sitting in a den of low-grade misery for two hours, though, to turn raw emotion into resignation.
Now, he sat on the hard bench as another prisoner, his neck marked with crude tattoos, headed back out through the doors again, a weeping older lady blundered out of the courtroom doors at the back, and the bailiff called the next case. He whispered to Jennifer, “Doing OK?”
She muttered back, “I have to pee,” and he smiled. The only time that had happened this morning.
“Go on,” he said. “I’m guessing we’ll be here more or less forever.” And she scooted past his sisters and left to do it.
Annabelle whispered, “Is she leaving?” A bailiff looked over at them, and Harlan shook his head. He sure hoped not, anyway.
Everything came to an end, though, even waiting for your father to enter his murder plea. By the time it was his dad coming through the doors, it was nearly noon, and the spectator section of the courtroom—whatever you called that—was almost empty. At the sight of the familiar puffy face, though, the line of women beside Harlan stiffened like they were about to jump up and do the wave. The row was anchored by his grandfather at the end of that line, because he’d never un-stiffened. Harlan would bet he was glaring now, that his grandma had hold of his hand to keep him from jumping up and taking his son-in-law out. He knew, because that was exactly how he was holding Jennifer’s hand.
He’d seen the orange jumpsuit before. He hadn’t seen the wrist and ankle shackles, though, and his sisters had seen none of it. He heard Annabelle suck in a breath, grabbed her hand, and muttered, “You’ve got this.” She took another breath and nodded, and he thought, I’m going to take care of you, Bug. I couldn’t do it before, or I didn’t, but I’m going to do it now.
His dad stared at all of them, but mainly, he stared at Harlan. The kind of look that, if Harlan had been a kid, he’d have turned away from fast.
He’d been rocked off his feet this whole weekend. Now, though, he realized that he wasn’t. He was doing the right things, and he was sure. The feeling was like helium rising up through his body. Even with Jennifer last night. He was sure.
He knew why he was here.
A guy in a suit stood up at a question from the judge and went to sit beside Axel at a table, so that must be where the defendant sat. There was some preliminary stuff, and the judge asked, “Do you agree to waive your right to hear your rights and the charges against you?”
The attorney bent to say something in his client’s ear, and his dad said, “No.”
Harlan would bet that wasn’t normal. His dad just wanted to cause trouble, to make this as hard as possible for everybody else.
The judge, a middle-aged, thin-necked guy with glasses who looked like an insurance adjuster whose only pronunciation of judgment would be whether your car was a total writeoff or not, read the familiar lines of the Miranda warning. And then came the charge. The words washed through the courtroom, and Harlan forced himself to listen to every one.
His mom deserved to be heard. She deserved to be avenged.
“… That the defendant, Axel Andreas Kristiansen, on or about October seventh … did willfully, unlawfully, deliberately, and with malice aforethought, kill and murder Nikki Layne Kristiansen, a human being, by choking her by the neck until she was dead …”
On and on, the words striking his flesh like the leather strap of that belt. The physical pain was the easy part. It was the malice in the hand wielding it that never left you.
Finally, it was over, and the judge asked, “How do you plead?”
“Not guilty.” That voice was the same as always. Firm. Loud.
“Have you hired an attorney, or do you require one to be appointed for you?”
“I have an attorney,” his dad said. “Obviously. He’s sitting right beside me.”
A little stir at that, and the attorney saying something sharp and short. Probably regretting taking this case, except that murder would be good money.
A discussion about bail, then. The lawyer arguing for a bail reduction. Talking about his father’s ties to the community, about his lack of a criminal record, his property ownership, his solid-citizen reputation—Yeah, Harlan thought, other than murdering his wife, he’s a great guy—and on and on. By the time he’d finished, you wondered why the mayor hadn’t given Axel the keys to the city yet.
The judge said, “I’m not convinced, Mr. Kristiansen, that you’re not a flight risk. You have a wealthy son, isn’t that correct?’
Axel said, “Yes,” and then, reluctantly, “Your Honor.” His back, the orange scrubs printed with Burleigh County Jail in black, like a bizarre Halloween costume, was rigid.
How does it feel, Harlan wondered, to be the one with no power? I hope it burns.
The judge said, “Is your son providing funds for your bond?”
Harlan stood up. The judge glanced at him, and a bailiff took a step in his direction.
“Yes?” the judge asked.
“Your Honor,” Harlan said, “I’m the son. Harlan Kristiansen.”
“Yes?” the judge asked again.
His dad had turned to look at him. Harlan felt his eyes burning through him. His sisters’ presence, too, his grandparents, the weight of this place, of this day. Everything that had descended on all of them. Of a past he wanted to erase, and a house he wanted to burn to the ground.
And the shame of not loving his mother enough.
He said, “I want to say for the record that I’m not paying for any of it. The lawyer. The bail. Nothing. Not now, and not ever. He could still be a flight risk. I don’t know. I’d say anything’s possible, and if I were you, I’d look into it. But it’s not going to be because of me.”
His dad said, “You little son of a bitch.” Rising in his seat, his lawyer speaking urgently in his ear, another bailiff coming forward. The excited rustle in the remaining crowd, Harlan’s famous name making it through their private misery. The judge’s gavel. The judge’s voice, and, finally, quiet.
The judge said, “Request
to reduce bail is denied. Bail is set at one million dollars.”
Harlan told his sisters, “Let’s get out of here.”
Maybe they’d arrest him for walking out while the judge was still talking. He didn’t care. He’d done what he had to do, but his dad was going to be getting out, and they needed to be gone before it happened.
Four hours later, and Jennifer was back on a jet. The plane was about two-thirds full of Annabelle’s possessions, her textbooks, and her shut-down, anxious, overwhelmed self. She was sitting in one of the front seats, watching a movie with headphones on.
Harlan asked Jennifer, once Annabelle had claimed her space, plugged in, and tuned out, “Should I be doing something different here? Talking to her, or something?”
“No,” she said. “I’m guessing she’s doing exactly what she needs to be doing. She’s seventeen. Old enough to decide for herself on some things, and not enough to have good judgment on others.”
“Yeah,” he said, “but which is which?”
“Ah.” She smiled tiredly. “That’s the question.”
“Want to go lie down? Flight time’s a couple hours, and there’s a couch back there.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” She yawned. “Work tomorrow. It has been a long weekend.”
She’d have asked him how he felt, she thought as she stretched out on the leather couch and pulled a blanket over herself, letting the plane’s vibration, the steady roar of the engines, rock her to sleep, but she was pretty sure she knew the answer. Completely overwhelmed. He couldn’t even put it all down once he got home, because he did have Annabelle with him. He had the faces of his sisters and his grandparents burned into his brain, too, when they’d found out that it could be months before they were allowed to bury what was left of their mother, until the defense’s experts had finished doing their own examination, and everybody was sure there was nothing left to get out of those bones. He had the knowledge that there was too much out there still undone. That their father would be back in his house, back selling his farm equipment, telling everybody that it was a mistake, and that some people would believe him.
She thought about it, saw the somberness of his face, looking out the window of the aircraft and seeing nothing but a blanket of gray cloud, then the moment when he caught her looking and smiled at her. In that moment, he wasn’t Harlan Kristiansen, NFL wide receiver and star. He was the man who’d asked her to stay with him, because he didn’t want to sleep alone.
For a night.
Another goodbye on the tarmac, a long, tight hug and no kiss, and nothing but a car and a driver to meet her. No luggage, just a plastic bag with a few items of clothing in it. And, somewhere, a couple of test tubes with labels on them that would decide whether she’d see him again or whether this was it, because anything else would be throwing her heart into a trash compactor and flipping the switch.
She didn’t want to care.
How could she not?
39
Not Eating the Lasagna
The last day of April, and it felt, finally, like spring was … well, not here, but like it might eventually show up. It had perversely decided to snow last week instead, but today, Jennifer had seen daffodils.
Saturday evening, and Dakota and Blake had come over for dinner. It wasn’t exactly the most professional way to ask your former boss for a job, but Blake hadn’t been in Wild Horse much. He and Dakota were mostly in Portland now, but they were in town for the weekend, and you had to grab your chances where you found them.
And if she thought he’d be less likely to say no in front of her grandpa, well … just because she’d never been good at manipulation, that didn’t mean she couldn’t start. Thirty-four wasn’t too late to become a powerfully feminine maneater and a hard-driving development professional, right?
She’d probably better not answer that.
Also, she had the answer to that paternity test, and so, presumably, did Harlan. She hadn’t heard from him since her own copy of the results had arrived five days earlier, though, which pretty much spoke for itself. She needed to make the announcement tonight, because there was no way she could ask for a job without telling Blake the truth about the maternity leave she was going to need. And then there was Dyma, who was going to be another issue entirely. She’d rather get it all done at once.
It wasn’t happening yet, but they’d just started eating. Plenty of time.
Dyma was asking, “What are you working on now, Dakota?” Dakota was talking about a fern series in stained glass and how she could suggest raindrops, which all sounded very Portland-like, Blake was looking proud of her, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smile on his face, and Jennifer was half-listening, but mostly working up her courage. Which was why, when the doorbell rang, she jumped.
“You expecting somebody?” Oscar asked.
“Probably for Dyma,” Jennifer said. In fact, Dyma was already up. Not quite as excited as she would have been if she’d thought it could be Owen paying a surprise visit, but that was because Dyma herself had told him to stay away.
“I’ve got four AP exams starting in two weeks,” she’d told him over another family dinner last weekend. “And I’ve got to nail all of them. Once I’m done, though, if you want to come up …” She’d given him the kind of sidelong look Jennifer still hadn’t perfected. “We could go … hiking.”
Dyma was definitely working on her powerfully-feminine moves, and from what Jennifer could see, Owen’s resistance was wearing thin. He was still resisting, though. Thank goodness, because Dyma sure wasn’t.
Some exclaiming from out there. Girls’ voices. Not Owen, then.
Another voice. A male one, smooth as dark caramel.
Oh, boy.
Why?
When Harlan pulled to a stop at the address Owen had given him, outside a shabby blue duplex that was never going to be featuring in the Luxury Homes book, Annabelle was still saying, “Why do we have to do this in person? And what is it you’re doing?”
Harlan said, “I’m going to let you know in a minute,” and tried to calm his racing heart.
Game face, he told himself as he headed up the walk, then decided, Wait. No. That’s not going to work. You’re not trying to scare her.
He had no face for this.
A wait at the door, and then Dyma opening it. Same lively little face, same blonde hair, cut even more daringly now, because she’d gone even further in the “undercut” direction. Same piercings in her eyebrow. She exclaimed at sight of Annabelle, gave her an exuberant hug, and said, “I didn’t know you were coming! Hey, if you’re staying the night, we should go see this show. We could still make it. Some friends of mine are into drama, and they’re doing an experimental thing. My mom’s having this dinner first, though. It’s lasagna, so if you haven’t eaten …”
Harlan had tuned out long since. His pulse was galloping like he was about to run out of the tunnel, and if real life allowed it, he’d have been doing some running and jumping to bleed off the adrenaline. Instead, he thought, You’ve decided. This is the easy part, and told Dyma, “I came to talk to your mom.”
“Well, I figured,” Dyma said. “Unless you came to talk to Blake.”
“No,” Harlan said.
“Well, too bad,” Dyma said, “because he’s here.”
Which, yes, he was. They’d moved out of the little entryway and into an equally minuscule living/dining room where four people sat around a crowded table, all of them turned inquiringly to take in the new arrivals.
A very old guy, the kind who got stringier as he aged, like a piece of beef jerky, other than his shock of thick white hair and beetling white eyebrows, which looked like they’d been growing for about twenty years. Right now, the eyebrows were raised over a pair of not-amused brown eyes. That would be the grandpa. Blake Orbison, next, looking no more welcoming than he had the last time Harlan had seen him, like, What are you doing here, exactly? Or, possibly, About time, depending what Jennifer had told him. A young woman with mile-h
igh cheekbones and long, dark hair, too, who looked more interesting than expensive. That must be Blake’s new wife, the artist.
And Jennifer. Who was clutching a cloth napkin in both hands and staring at him. Frozen, he’d call that.
He said, “What, you didn’t think I’d come?”
“I …” She seemed lost for words. After a second, she stood up and said, “Hi, Annabelle. Have you guys eaten? Want some lasagna? I made plenty.”
Annabelle said, “That’d be great. You’re a way better cook than me, and Harlan cooks extremely healthy.”
“Dyma,” Jennifer said, possibly recovering a little poise, “go set another two places, would you? And grab the desk chairs out of our rooms. Oh—Grandpa, this is Harlan Kristiansen and his sister, Annabelle. My grandpa, Oscar Gardner. I guess you know Blake and Dakota, except that Annabelle won’t. Know them. So, uh—Blake and Dakota. Savage.”
As a smooth introduction, it failed. Dyma said, “Unless everybody holds their plates in their lap, how does this work? Annabelle and I can eat in my room.”
“Uh, no,” Jennifer said. “Actually … no. I need to talk to you.”
“Actually,” Harlan said, “you’re right. You do have to talk. How come you didn’t call me?”
“Me?” Jennifer said. “Me? I’m not the one who got that five days ago, and didn’t say a thing!”
“Sorry,” Blake said. “What?”
Oscar said, “I have a feeling we’re about to find out. Dyma, go get that other bottle of wine. Can’t have an Italian dinner and a knock-down drag-out without another bottle of wine.”
“I don’t do knock-down drag-outs,” Jennifer said.
“Yet,” Oscar said.
“Right,” Harlan said. He couldn’t very well stand here and declaim like some kind of B actor, so instead, he said, “Show me where those chairs are, Dyma.”
“I’ll open the wine,” Blake said, and got up to do it. “I’ll set the places, too. I had no idea this dinner would be quite so interesting. I’m reserving judgment, but if you’ve messed with Jennifer, Kristiansen, I’m going to have something to say about it.”
Shame the Devil (Portland Devils Book 3) Page 31
