God Only Knows (24 page)

“Marcus Junior and I have discussed his account of Detective Whitlock’s shooting,” Brinker said now, his hard eyes conveying
a combination of confidence and emotional distance. “He wants to plead not guilty at today’s pretrial hearing, and I am supporting
that decision.”

Cassie and Marcus nodded, both of them too emotionally spent to rehash the details of M.J.’s account. After first finding
him two days ago at the home of an old girlfriend, they had driven around town for an hour before going home and calling the
authorities. They weren’t going to risk him escaping again and getting his head blown off by a vindictive cop. That said,
they weren’t going to turn him over without first hearing his side of what had happened.

Seated at M.J.’s elbow there in the courthouse conference room, Cassie’s scalp tingled with pain as she recalled her son’s
account.

If he was to be believed, he and Dante had walked up on Peter Whitlock in his mother’s driveway and threatened him verbally.
M.J. claimed to have observed primarily, punctuating Dante’s threats with occasional nods and ominous crossings of the arms.
It was Whitlock, in M.J.’s telling at least, who pulled a gun first, drawing on professional training and maybe a surge of
adrenaline meant to protect his family.

Having a gun to his forehead had apparently made Dante, who had faced down his share of gun barrels, more angry than before.
He had let Whitlock pepper them with insults for a minute before lulling him into a false sense of security, then retrieved
his own weapon. According to M.J., Dante had surprised Whitlock, shooting him in the knee before turning to tell M.J. to disappear.
That second gave Whitlock time to get off a shot of his own, one Dante appeared to take in the neck before whirling back around
and nailing Whitlock in the stomach.

“I didn’t have any choice,” M.J. had insisted as they drove him toward home that night. “With that shot he took, Dante was
bleeding all over the place. I could see in his eyes —he was getting more disoriented by the minute. If I had just run off,
Whitlock would have taken him out with no problem. I needed time to get Dante out of there, so all I did —I swear —was rush
in after Whitlock caught that one in the gut. I kicked his gun away, that’s it.”

Marcus had shaken his head, a boiling rage barely suppressed. “Was that it for the gunfire then? You’re telling me after that,
you and Dante went to the hospital, right? No more attacks on Whitlock after you kicked the gun away?”

Cassie had looked into the rearview mirror and met her son’s eyes, her heart darkening at what she saw there. “Dante could
barely see straight, had that river of blood running from his neck, but just when I got hold of him, he reached around me
and fired his gun at Whitlock again,” M.J. had said finally. “I’m not sure where he hit him. I just knew he hit him, ’cause
Whitlock cried out in pain. I couldn’t focus on Whitlock, though —it was all I could do to drag Dante to the car so we could
get to the hospital.”

“I understand you both are praying people,” Brinker said as he stood to shake their hands, “so I’ll ask you for one major
favor as these pretrial hearings move forward. Pray for the ongoing recoveries of both Dante and Detective Whitlock. We lose
either one, and this case tests my skills far beyond their usual limits. You don’t come back from murder charges when a dead
cop’s involved, and even with Whitlock alive, we need Dante —disastrous witness that he is —backing up M.J.’s account.”

Cassie gripped Marcus’s hand and placed her free one on her son’s slumped shoulder. She was so thankful that both Dante and
Whitlock appeared to be on the road to recovery. Although he was not yet well enough to be processed through the justice system
for his latest crime, Dante had been conscious long enough now to roughly corroborate M.J.’s account, so signs there were
hopeful. And although Peter Whitlock was the last person likely to help M.J. out of this jam, Cassie was now confident that
she had that avenue covered.

Once she and Marcus had exchanged hugs with M.J., shaken hands with Brinker, and excused themselves, Cassie checked her watch
as they stepped into the courthouse’s bustling hallways. “The hearing’s not for another two hours,” she said. “I can’t just
sit around here waiting on it, Marcus.”

Marcus placed an arm around his wife’s shoulder. “Let’s go over to that Boston Stoker by the Schuster. We can get a drink,
pray some, and you can return Julia’s call.”

“That’s right, she did call when we were on our way out the door this morning.” Cassie was embarrassed at her nervous movements,
realizing she had placed the knuckles of her right hand into her mouth for a second. “I do need to call Julia, baby, but I’d
rather do that later. I know she’s praying for us in the meantime.” She left unspoken the other part of the truth; she had
to do something now, something that she had no intention of telling Julia about until it was done.

“Okay, then you’ll make do with my company,” Marcus replied, smiling at his own uneasy attempt to lighten the moment. He kissed
her cheek. “Let’s head on out, so we can get back early.”

“I’ll make you a deal,” she said, placing a hand to his chest. “Let me drop you off at Stoker and run a quick errand, then
meet you back there.”

Marcus frowned. “What errand have you got, Cassie? We’re both off work all day. M.J. needs us now; then we’re picking up the
twins early from school so we can brief them about everything.”

“It’s nothing big,” she replied, stroking her husband’s chest again. “Just something I can knock out quickly for work, and
distract myself for a bit. Okay?”

After she had spent time in prayer —time that included whispered requests for forgiveness not just from God but from Marcus
and her children —Cassie dried her tears and emerged from her car. Checking her watch, she crossed the main walkway leading
to the lobby of Miami Valley Hospital. In order to get back to Boston Stoker at a reasonable time, she had to get in and out
of the hospital within twenty minutes. Not much time to take one of the most monumental steps she had ever considered, but
Cassie was convinced God was at the helm of this decision —He would provide.

“Good morning,” she said as she stepped up to the information desk. “I’m looking for the room of Peter Whitlock, please.”

“How did you get in here?” Still immobilized in his hospital bed, but capable of lifting his own head, speaking, and eating,
Whitlock noted Cassie’s entrance with wary eyes.

“I was blessed,” Cassie replied, standing with her back against the closed door. “A couple of uniformed officers were walking
the other way as I came down the hall. Sounded like they were on a coffee break.”

Whitlock looked from his apparently immobile body up to Cassie’s gaze. “You here to finish off what your boy and his goon
started?”

“You’re speaking clearly,” Cassie said, intently keeping her tone soft and pliant. “I was told you were unconscious for several
days.”

“It wasn’t that dramatic,” Whitlock replied, one hand hovering over the call button to his right. “It’s been ten days anyway.
I’ll be out of here in another day or two.”

“To answer your question, Peter,” Cassie said, eyeing the call button, “I’m here to talk, that’s it. Will you hear me out
for a minute, please?”

Whitlock shrugged. “Say your piece, then get out. We’ll be settling up eventually, Mrs. Gillette.”

“I agree,” Cassie replied. She stepped toward the detective’s bed but kept a respectful distance. “I’m here to settle now,
actually, on terms I hope you’ll find favorable.”

“Oh, now you want to come clean about everything?” Whitlock shook his head. “If I’d known that, I would have had a shoot-out
with your brat kid months ago.”

Cassie shook off the crack and crossed her arms. “I’m going to finally tell you all the truth I know, okay? More important,
once I tell you, I am going to tell the authorities —no lawyer at my side, no games. I’ll simply confess to the truth of what
I experienced the night of Eddie’s accident. I have one question for you first.”

His cheeks reddening with what looked like hope, Whitlock attempted a painful shift upward in his bed. “What’s that?”

Cassie peered ahead with eyes saying,
Don’t lie to me.
“What have you told the investigating officers about how your shooting went down?”

“I’ve only been myself mentally for the past day or so,” Whitlock replied. “One of my detective buddies started taking my
statement this morning.”

Cassie rolled her tongue from one side of her mouth to the other before asking, “Is there still time to edit your statement,
Detective?”

Whitlock grunted suddenly, apparently overcome by the effort to sit up. Collapsing lower into his bed, he traded fleeting
glances with Cassie before saying, “That depends.”

J
ulia and Amber were rushing through their kitchen, shuttling to and from the car with grocery bags from Kroger, when Cassie
called. Catching her breath, Julia paused in front of her freezer as she grabbed her cordless phone from the wall. “Hey, girl.”

Cassie’s voice had a tinny, remote quality. “Julia, I need you to turn on the news in a few minutes. Channel two, preferably.
I know they’ll get it right because I had a long conversation with Marsha Bonhart this afternoon.”

“Oh, well, I’ll have to catch the eleven o’clock newscast,” Julia replied, her mind too occupied to catch the gravity of her
friend’s statement. “Amber and I are putting up groceries, then hustling to her dance lesson tonight.”

“Julia.” Cassie gave what sounded like a gasp. “You need to see the newscast, the five-thirty broadcast. Trust me.”

Julia frowned with fresh concern. “Cassie, I don’t understand. What are you talking about? What’s going on?”

“I love you, girl, please remember that.” Cassie sighed. “I have to go now. We’ll talk later, but first I have to explain
all this to Marcus.”

Julia opened her mouth to request another explanation, but she was met with nothing but the click of Cassie hanging up. “Your
aunt,” she said to Amber, who was cramming frozen vegetables into the freezer, “is acting very strange, honey.” She checked
her watch. “Amber, will you take your backpack upstairs, and go ahead and choose your outfit for tomorrow while you’re at
it?”

“Auntee,” her niece replied, shutting the freezer and looking past her toward the kitchen clock, “aren’t we going to be late?”

“I’ll explain it to Ms. Bell,” Julia said, referencing the dance instructor. “Go on now.”

The newscast was due to start in two minutes, so Julia’s wait was mercifully short. Instinctively, she remained on her feet
after turning on the television in her room, and as a result, she was still there when Marsha Bonhart, the iconic local anchor,
opened the broadcast.

“Dayton police tonight announced an unexpected break in a cold case dating back to the 1980s. Cassandra Gillette, a former
student at Christian Light Schools, has confessed to involvement in an altercation that ended in the incapacitation of fourteen-year-old
Eddie Walker, her classmate at Christian Light. . . .”

Julia dropped her purse; she felt the walls of her bedroom and every layer of clothing on her body fall away. She had never
felt so bare, so exposed. This was it, then? Despite her attempts to coordinate an organized confession of truth, in a fashion
that could ensure everyone’s ability to steer clear of unjust prison sentences, was this how it would end? With Cassie cracking
under the pressure and giving everyone up before they had time to ensure everyone had the same perception of the truth?

“. . . Mrs. Gillette,” an attorney —not the one that Julia had helped Cassie retain —was speaking, apparently for Cassie.
“Mrs. Gillette’s conscience moved her to clear the air finally,” he was saying, “but she is as much the victim here as was
Eddie Walker. She was attacked by the young man, and had to fend him off completely by herself.”

Julia looked down into one hand to see that she had already grabbed a phone and had begun dialing Terry’s number. Dropping
the phone, she decided to wait and see the rest of this report, as well as anything on the other networks. She may as well
give Terry and Toya the most complete information she could get.
Did she really edit us out of her account of what happened?

“. . . complicated dimensions involved here,” a police lieutenant was saying, “given that you’re talking about an incident
involving two minors and a claim of self-defense. However, anytime someone has confessed to shoving someone in front of a
moving vehicle, we have to conduct a thorough investigation, ensure justice is served.”

“What?” Julia’s exclamation was a roar, loud enough that within seconds Amber was at her side.

“Auntee, what’s wrong?”

“Come here, sweetie,” Julia said, wrapping her niece close and easing down next to her on the bed as the news moved on to
the next feature of the day. “I love you, do you know that?”

“Yes, Auntee,” Amber replied, her dimples revealed as she nuzzled in against Julia. “Why were you yelling, though?”

Julia felt her cell phone vibrate in her jacket pocket. Hugging Amber close, she checked the caller ID on the phone with her
free hand. “Let me take this,” she said, planting a kiss on her niece’s forehead. “We’ll need to talk on the way to your dance
class, okay?”

“Okay, but you have to promise.”

“Promise.” Julia continued smiling into her niece’s beaming face as she answered the phone. “Hello, Maxwell.”

Maxwell was quiet momentarily before saying, “You must be with Amber.”

“That would be correct.”

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Julia held to her smile, but answered honestly. “No.”

“Is this dance class night?”

“Yes.”

“Can I meet you there?”

“Yes,” Julia replied, gamely raising Amber to her feet and following the child down the hallway. “I would like that.” The
strength in her tone faltered as she admitted, “I need that.”

T
he news of Cassie’s confession changed everything. Julia wondered whether her life would ever be the same.