Baby Please Don't Go: A Novel (31 page)

47

Lock pulled up to Abby’s apartment a little while later and could still feel the effect of the scotch. The three-quarters-filled bottle sat on the seat next to him. Anyone could have seen it, but Lock paid it no attention. He had better things to think about—like the soon-to-be reunion with Augie.

Should I bring a toy or something? No, just me. That will be more than enough.

He sat there thinking. He didn’t want to go into Abby’s apartment still drunk, so he started the car again and pulled out into traffic. He began to turn on the radio but realized he had a lot to think about and didn’t want the distraction of the all-news station. All he could think about was seeing the baby.

Freel wouldn’t have the guts to lie to a man pointing a gun at his heart. He was afraid of me, and fear can bring out the truth from those generally reluctant to speak it. I will get to see Augie.
I know it.

Lock rolled down his window and took a deep breath of the cool autumn air. His mood soared.

He imagined himself holding Augie and kissing him, hugging him, enfolding him in his arms. It was all he wanted. His joy sobered him up. He had never needed anything as much as he needed to love that child. And he knew Augie needed the same.

As Lock drove, weaving slightly but not as badly as before, he saw a father pushing an infant in a stroller along the sidewalk. Lock, stalled in traffic, watched with genuine pleasure as the man stooped to pick up a toy duck that the child had dropped onto the cement. Lock smiled at his realization that he had done the same for Augie many times.

But something tugged at him and he couldn’t identify it. Then it hit him. No way would Freel have—of his own volition—made the effort to set it up so that Lock would be able to see Augie. That couldn’t be true. It was something Freel had thought of on the spot to diminish Lock’s rage and protect himself from Lock’s menacing behavior. Something that would give Freel a chance at survival.
God dammit
, he thought.
Too drunk. Stupid.

That was it. Sickening thoughts took over, and they made more sense to him.

Lock’s dream imploded and he dry heaved. He swerved into the first side street he came upon, pulled over, a tire up on the curb, and eyed the bottle. The chilling truth was exploding in his head.

He had had enough.

I’ll never see Augie. He’ll never reach out and grab my finger again. Never.

Lock dry heaved again.

He reached over and opened the bottle. In one desperate motion, he guzzled half of what remained.

He knew what he had to do, and turned on the ignition and headed back to the country club. He sped recklessly and arrived in less than ten minutes. How he kept the car on the road was anyone’s guess. The fresh surge of alcohol hit him hard.

Lock stopped the car haphazardly across three parking spots and stumbled out.

Through blurry eyes and double vision, right away he saw Freel and the others huddled next to the Lamborghini. They were absorbed in their conversation—probably talking about whether or not to call the police—and didn’t see him.

Lock got out of his car, walked over to Freel, stood at arm’s length, and shot him twice in the face with the .45.

Freel’s friends ran, but Lock didn’t.

He had nowhere to go, but, for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel bad.

18 YEARS LATER

48

Rockview, Pa.

Late one cold and overcast December morning, eighteen years after he had shot and killed Jerome Freel, Lochlan Gilkenney walked out of the State Correctional Institution at Rockview in Bellefonte, Pennsylvania, a free man at the age of fifty-nine.

Almost two decades earlier, as Lock’s lawyers prepared to argue that the shooting was a crime of passion, the Brandywine County District Attorney came to the conclusion that he might fail to secure a first-degree murder conviction. Instead of proceeding to trial, he offered a plea-bargain agreement that changed the first-degree murder charge—with its potential death sentence—to voluntary manslaughter and its twenty-year max.

Lock was advised by counsel to take the deal, and he did. Later, his twenty-year sentence for voluntary manslaughter was reduced to eighteen years as a result of good conduct during incarceration.

As he stood on the sidewalk in front of the prison waiting to be picked up, Lock shifted his weight from foot to foot and peered down the road for the car that would be there at any moment. He walked over to the Japanese maple trees that had been planted along the parking lot years ago. From his cell, he had watched a landscaping crew plant them, and after several years, he had been selected as one of the trustees who watered and pruned them.

Under his arm he clutched a cardboard box full of letters that, in recent years, arrived at his cell almost every week. One letter had come from Natalie, who told Lock that after her prison term she had moved into a studio apartment in northeast Philadelphia and worked part-time in a podiatrist’s office and every now and then taught a yoga class. She mentioned she hardly ever got to see Edwina, who married young, or Dahlia, who was in college. Natalie wrote that she lived a solitary life and was deeply sorry about everything that had happened and hoped that he’d someday find a way to forgive her. Lock never replied, and months later received a postcard from her that said, “I’m free and you’re still in a small room with steel bars—rot in hell.”

But most of the other letters in the box came from a teenage boy who had acquired an all-consuming interest in Lock’s case and who, beginning at age thirteen, started to correspond with him. The letters led to phone calls, and Lock and the boy’s lengthy conversations were genuine and candid. The boy confided in Lock, and Lock always responded with as much wisdom and advice as he could muster. The two soon grew to respect each other. When he was old enough to travel by himself, and with the blessings of his understanding parents, the boy made the four-hour bus trip from New York City several times to visit Lock in Rockview.

The boy—now a young man, who turned eighteen a month prior to Lock’s scheduled release—was adamant about driving to Rockview to pick him up.

Lock shivered and checked his watch, looking down the road again, eager to get out of the chill and away from the prison. Although his ride was twenty minutes late, he wasn’t worried in the least.

After all, if Lock could count on anyone in this world to be there for him, he could count on Augie.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Frank Freudberg is a journalist, ghostwriter and novelist. He has contributed to the Associated Press, Reuters, United Press International,
USA Today
,
Los Angeles Times
,
Der Spiegel
,
Christian Science Monitor, Newsweek, The Guardian
, and others. His novel of revenge
Find Virgil
has received international critical acclaim and is celebrated as a cult classic. Freudberg lives near Philadelphia.

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

You may not realize it, but book reviews from readers are vital to the success of a novel.  If you’ve enjoyed
Baby Please Don’t Go
, please consider rating it and writing a brief review on Amazon or Goodreads. Doing so will only take a couple of minutes. I genuinely appreciate your time – I know it’s valuable.

Also, if you liked this book, please check out my thriller,
Find Virgil
. It’s about Martin Muntor, a journalist who goes off the deep end when he learns he got terminal lung cancer from second-hand smoke. He vows to destroy the tobacco industry and thousands of its customers before he dies. He executes a lethal and ingenious campaign to achieve his goal. Muntor’s biggest problem? The private detective who’s pursing him may be crazier than he is.

If you’d like to get in touch, please go to
www.BabyPleaseDontGo.com
and contact me there. I welcome your questions and comments, and I’ll do my best to respond.

Thanks,

Frank Freudberg