Red Hatchet Falls

by Susan Clayton-Goldner

  One of the most satisfying aspects of his job had always been that instant when the facts and evidence came together and he finally understood the how and why of a crime. It wasn't always a happy moment, but there had been satisfaction in the solving of the puzzle.

  Three murder cases were now closed, but there was no joy in it for Winston Radhauser.

  He stood and walked over to the pool at the bottom of the falls, then pulled Cooper’s broken body from the shallow water. Though he knew Cooper couldn’t have survived that dive, Radhauser checked his carotid. When he found no pulse, he sat on the ground and cradled the boy’s head in his lap for a moment. He brushed blood and wet hair from Cooper’s forehead and gently straightened his broken neck. Night had fallen and a crest of violet, maroon and gold clouds colored the western sky, the last remnants of a sunset.

  Unable to move, Radhauser hung his head and sat, stroking Cooper’s hair, until one by one the stars emerged from the vast sky above them. He thought he’d understood Cooper, but now realized no one could fully understand the intricacies of another person’s life. After he laid his hand on Cooper’s heart and said goodbye in the only way he knew how, Radhauser headed down the trail to a place where he had cell coverage and called Heron at home.

  * * *

  After helping Heron set up spotlights, photograph the scene and get Cooper’s body down the trail and into the van, Radhauser returned to his office. He told himself he needed to finish the paperwork and to let Captain Murphy know his three open murder cases had been solved. That the perpetrator had committed suicide in Radhauser’s presence.

  As he sat at his desk, his head in his hands, he dreaded going home and having to tell Gracie. And how would they explain this to Lizzie and the other kids on the Cardinals team?

  He was procrastinating and he knew it. No one would have blamed him for going directly home. But stopping by the office gave him a little more time to come to grips with the fact that he’d housed a serial killer in his barn and entrusted his daughter to him. Even as he entertained that thought, he knew Cooper would never have done anything to harm Lizzie.

  Radhauser wished he could find some life-affirming truth in what had just happened. But he couldn’t do it, despite all the platitudes and clichés that popped into his mind. People are what matters most. Life is precious. Kindness matters. Live in the present moment. Say I love you often. Radhauser could repeat them forever. But it took heartbreak to drive them home. The kind of heartbreak that cuts into your soul. And when it did, you probably wouldn’t be happier. But you would be wiser.

  When he was certain the kids and Gracie would be asleep, Radhauser drove back to his ranch and parked under the barn overhang. Gracie had fed the horses and brought them in from the pasture. He slid open the double doors and went through his evening ritual, scratching necks and offering each horse a handful of sweet feed. He couldn’t bring himself to enter the barn office and face Cooper’s things. But he couldn’t avoid his presence. He glanced at the perfectly organized tack area. All the silver on their saddles and breastplates polished. Blankets neatly folded and stacked on the shelves Cooper had installed as a surprise for Gracie.

  Radhauser shook his head. Such a waste.

  He walked up to the house. The night sky was black and littered with stars—the moon half full. It surprised him to see a light was still on in the master bedroom. Gracie was probably reading in bed. His gut tightened.

  After unlocking the door into the mudroom, he tucked his gun and holster into the cabinet, secured the lock, then hung his backpack and Stetson on one of the horseshoe hooks beside the door. He slipped off his boots and his blood-stained shirt and jeans, then tiptoed down the hallway, not wanting to wake the kids. Outside the master bedroom, he stood in the doorway and watched Gracie turn the page of her book. She wore a pale blue nightgown, with small blue forget-me-nots on the bodice. With the reading light attached to the headboard shining on her dark hair, she looked almost angelic.

  She glanced at his boxers and T-shirt. “I like your outfit.”

  When he didn’t respond, her gaze met his and lingered there. “What’s wrong?”

  Radhauser sat on his side of the bed, opened his mouth, then closed it. He swallowed back the lump of sorrow that seemed to have found a permanent place at the base of his throat. Sooner or later he was going to have to get a grip on himself.

  Gracie’s forehead furrowed. “You can tell me, Wind. No matter what it is.”

  “I don’t know where to begin.”

  She placed her book on the bedside table, stood, walked over to his side of the bed and took his hands. “Just start talking. We’ll find our way.”

  “I’m not so sure this time.” Radhauser had been through some difficult times in his life, but nothing since Laura and Lucas’ deaths had affected him like this.

  She gave him one of her sad, but still dimpled smiles. “You’re scaring me. Just talk, sweetheart.”

  When he didn’t respond, a terrified look came over her face, as if she’d been threatened or something had happened to one of their kids.

  Radhauser found the words. “It makes me sick to have to tell you this, but Cooper climbed to the top of the falls and dove into the rocks. He’s dead.” Radhauser’s voice cracked on the final word. Though he’d practiced saying this the entire way home from Red Hatchet Falls, it was harder than he thought.

  Gracie dropped his hands and took a step backwards. The light in her eyes darkened. “Why? What happened? Why in God’s name would he do that?”

  Radhauser stared at her, unable to form any more words.

  She pulled him to his feet, wrapped her arms around his waist and held on tight. “I know how much this hurts you. Cooper gave you something back you’d believed lost with Lucas.”

  There was an interlude of silence as her comment hung in the air. It was one of those moments when he felt something shift and he knew—not just sensed, but knew—a gigantic wheel had begun to crush him.

  Gracie gently pushed away and looked him in the eyes. “His mother did this.” Anger raised her voice.

  Radhauser was certain Julia had contributed to Cooper’s demise, but her abuse was no excuse for multiple murders.

  “She may not have been there, but she pushed him into those rocks.” Gracie’s face was stoic, unreadable.

  Radhauser took a couple deep breaths. “There’s more. And it gets worse. Maybe you should sit down.”

  Gracie waved her hand back and forth as if she somehow knew and could stop whatever he was about to say from being true.

  When she sat on the edge of the bed and hung her head, waiting, he wanted to make up a different story for her and his kids. He wanted to protect them and their good memories of Cooper. He tried to think of other scenarios, but being truthful had always been a no-brainer—even those little things people called white lies bothered him. He’d told a few, especially as a kid. But as he got older, he wanted truth. Maybe that’s why he chose to be a detective. When it came to right and wrong, good and evil, gray areas didn’t exist for him. But he now knew some truths were harder than others. This time he was so conflicted, words wouldn’t come.

  Gracie lifted her head, her gaze steady now and laser-like.

  It burned into him.

  “Tell me.”

  He told her everything.

  “Oh my God,” she said, still too shocked for tears. “You must be wrong. Cooper, he couldn’t do something like that. I trusted him with Lizzie and even Jonathan. Our horses. I believed he was a good person. No, I believed he was an amazing person. Gentle and filled with kindness.”

  “I thought so, too. And the crazy thing is, a part of me still does. Even though I now know he was a mon…” Radhauser stopped. How could he so easily judge another human being?

  “We all get dealt a life we didn’t choose,” he said. “Sometimes we can create something good from it. Sometimes we can’t.”

  Gracie stood, wrapped her arms around him again and buried her head in
his chest. “This is so sad,” she mumbled, her tears finally coming.

  Once Gracie had cried herself out, Radhauser hurried into the hallway bathroom, hoping to cut down on the noise so Gracie could get some sleep.

  He took off his T-shirt, boxers and socks, turned the shower pressure to full force and adjusted the temperature to as hot as he could tolerate, then stepped inside, closed the glass door, and stood under its spray for a long time. Needles of water stabbed his back and shoulders.

  He needed to feel the pain. When his legs began to tremble, he sat in the tub and allowed the water to beat down on his head while he sobbed. The water turned cold. He finally opened his eyes and turned it off. The Orca whales and other sea creatures on the tub’s ledge brought images of Lizzie and Jonathan in a tub full of bubbles. More than anything, he wanted to see his kids, wanted to hold them in his arms and tell them how much they were loved—how much they mattered to him.

  He dried off, slipped on a pair of clean pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, then tiptoed into Lizzie’s room. She wasn’t in her bed. He hurried down the hallway to Jonathan’s room. The crib was empty.

  Panic rushed down his spine as he raced back into the room he shared with Gracie.

  Relief spread through him when he found her fast asleep, their children nestled on either side of her in their king-sized bed. In the soft glow from the light she’d left on for him, he could see she was holding their hands.

  Radhauser pushed a lock of hair from his son’s forehead and planted a kiss on his warm cheek. He kissed Lizzie and then Gracie, who opened one eye and smiled.

  He crawled into bed, pulled the blanket up and turned off the light. This was love. This was his family. Something good happened when you experienced a love this pure. It stopped that gigantic, crushing wheel from turning.

  In the way Gracie mothered their children, Radhauser realized a cold and simple truth. Cooper Drake had never, not for one second, been loved like that.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Two days later, while gathering up Cooper’s things to take to his Uncle Rollins, Radhauser found an envelope with his name on it.

  He sat on the edge of the office bed and opened the letter. The date in the upper left-hand corner told him that Cooper had written it on the day he took his life.

  Sunday, June 2, 2002

  Dear Wind,

  I can only imagine the disappointment you must feel in me. And I know you well enough to realize how much you'd want to understand what happened and how I became the monster I am now. I don't know where to begin. I only know that I have to take responsibility for the man I've become. So, I'll start at the beginning and tell you who I am as honestly as I can. I owe you that much. I owe you more than an explanation. I want you to know that the time I spent with you, Gracie, and the kids has been the best of my life. I even started to enjoy playing the piano again.

  This is hard to do and I must write it while I have the courage to say what needs to be said. So, here goes. I probably told you some of this before, but in my current state of mind, knowing I’m about to end it all, it's hard for me to remember. So please bear with me.

  Radhauser stopped reading and closed his eyes. Cooper had been planning to die at Red Hatchet Falls that day with or without a witness. And he had never intended to kill Radhauser. Otherwise, why leave him this letter? His binding Radhauser’s ankles and threatening with the hatchet was an elaborate ruse to afford himself time to climb to the top of the falls to complete his mission. Radhauser shook his head and read on.

  Even my name, Cooper T. Drake, felt fake and alien to me. The T doesn’t stand for anything. It was just a letter my mother thought would resonate with Cooper and Drake. A little frosting on her multi-layered cake as she created me in the image she’d wished was her own. You see, my mother decided, long before I was born, that I’d be the concert pianist she dreamed of becoming, but never quite did. I was to be her salvation. Destined for Julliard, whether I liked it or not. It didn’t matter to her that, while I may have had the gift, being a concert pianist wasn’t my dream. With time, I grew to hate everything about it.

  Mostly because my practice sessions were accompanied by ridicule and severe beatings across my bare back with a thin leather strap. Yes, I lied to you about the beatings. I don’t know why. It probably doesn’t matter because I could tell by the look on your face that you knew the truth. And while I’m confessing, I lied to you about something else, too. I didn’t graduate from Julliard. I was expelled in my junior year and too ashamed to admit it, especially to someone I admire as much as I do you.

  I’d seen my great grandmother chop off the heads of chickens with a hatchet. She’d stretch their necks over a tree stump and swing her blade. And the headless chicken would run in pathetic circles until it finally dropped. I had no doubt my mother would carry out her threat to chop off my hands if I didn’t perform to her standards.

  For years, I had nightmares about an enormous, red-handled hatchet that had come to life and was chasing me through the woods. As a child, I’d wake up from one of those nightmares in a cold sweat, terrified and humiliated to have wet my bed. And my mother added to that humiliation by threatening to strip me naked and lock me in the bathroom at night. That way, she claimed, I might make it to the toilet in time to prevent wet sheets.

  Again, Radhauser had to stop reading and close his eyes. It was hard for him to imagine anyone treating a child so cruelly. But at least he now knew why Cooper had stripped Baker and stuffed him into the portable toilet. A part of Radhauser wanted to tear up the letter and not read another word. But Cooper must have wanted him to know these things, so he read on.

  What I wanted more than anything was for my mother to love me—not for my skill at the piano—but for the fact that I was her son, a good person, who longed to be a poet and songwriter.

  My mother’s maiden name was Wellington, but she changed it to Drake after I was born so she could share in the glory of all the successes she had planned for me. She told me almost nothing about my father except that he was a famous pianist who’d toured Europe and Asia many times. He was a married man with whom Julia had a brief, but productive, fling while under his tutelage.

  Given my mother’s aspirations for me (or were they for herself?) I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d seduced him with the sole intent of becoming pregnant with me. Once she’d achieved her goal, she moved as far away from New York as she possibly could. For years, she claimed her sperm donor didn’t know of my existence. But that wasn’t true either. He must have cared because I recently heard from his attorney that he’d set up a trust fund for me. I won’t be celebrating my 21st birthday. I’m hoping you will express my wishes to Uncle Rollins that the money be donated to Services to Children and Families. Maybe some good can come from my life, after all.

  My childhood consisted of homeschooling by my mother and her brother. Uncle Rollins has always been devoted to my mother. He supported her self-image of being from “the manor born” by keeping the Lincoln Town Car pristine and pretending to be her chauffeur. She never had a driver’s license and he drove her everywhere she wanted to go.

  I had private piano lessons most of my life and I was either studying or practicing all day long. I had no friends. No playdates. No trips to the zoo or Disneyland. Nothing that remotely resembled a “normal childhood.”

  My birthday parties, though sometimes lavish affairs, were attended by my mother's friends, most of whom were childless. Though I longed for a party at a video arcade with games of Pac-Man, I was present only to provide entertainment. I wanted to be like other boys—ride a bicycle, wear jeans and sneakers, and play baseball. And though I never set foot on a baseball field, I read every book I could find about the sport. I understood the rules. And theoretically, I knew how to throw both fast and curveballs, slide into home plate and the correct way to hold and swing the bat. It was only after I started at Julliard that I joined a summer league and took to the field for the first time in my life.

&
nbsp; For many years, I was her windup toy. I did as my mother wanted, followed her plan to the letter. By the time I was seventeen, I was six feet four inches tall. Reviewers said I looked pretty impressive in a tuxedo. I wore my dark hair long on top and parted on the right side so it slid over my left eye—artist style. Another of my mother’s demands. But I couldn’t take the constant pressure of the concerts and had a horrific panic attack on stage with the Philadelphia Philharmonic.

  Our visit to Red Hatchet Falls later today will be my final gift to you and me. And just so you know for sure, I didn't believe for one minute that you were abusing Lizzie. I had no intention of hurting you—though I know I have through my actions. I've seen your heart, Winston Radhauser, and you're not capable of deliberately hurting a child. I knew it was all a charade and you were setting a trap for me. One I will gladly walk into.

  Do you want to hear something crazy? My mother was always begging me to protect my hands—terrified I might get an injury that would prevent my playing. Ironic, isn’t it? Coming from the very same woman who threatened to cut them off. And now that I’ve cut off both her hands, I wonder if she knew she was the one who’d planted that seed in my mind as a small boy.

  Before I came to work with you, I’d wander the streets of Ashland or sit in Lithia Park watching mothers with their children. It made me happy to see kids doing the things I never had the opportunity to do. I guess, maybe, I was trying to recreate a happier childhood. I always had a sketchbook with me and I would draw or write poems to pass the time.

  As I already said, the best days of my life came when you allowed me to live in your barn. I’ve loved being with you all. You felt like a real family, and the more I was around you, the more I wished my mother was dead. I guess the psychologists are wrong. Not all kids want to love their mothers.

  When I left her house, I took the chicken-slaughtering hatchet she kept hanging in the garage. It was the bright red handle that attracted me. In the weeks before I decided to kill her, I thought it would be poetic justice if I cut off one of my hands and delivered it to my mother. Instead, I began to fantasize about cutting off both of hers. After all, she had failed at the very things she demanded of me. But I’m sure you are wondering what kind of psychopath murders his mother. I don’t know for sure, but her last visit, when she attacked me in your barn, sent me over the edge and I couldn’t think about anything else.