Lie in Wait (17 page)

 

Chapter 35

A
MORNING MIST
rose from the Canaan River and shrouded the town's buildings.

Victor Jenkins hurried along the sidewalk, talking aloud to himself as he rehearsed what he would say to that woman detective and her superior. They'd get an earful. All night he'd waited, and still he'd not seen his son. The cops had told him he would not be able to see Brad until noon today. They told him at eighteen, Brad was an adult. Victor had insisted that either they release Brad or he'd hire a lawyer. One or the other. Not that he had the money for a lawyer. He didn't. The cops had said Brad had to request his own lawyer and so far he had not.

Victor had finally gone home to shower and to be with Fran.

This morning when he'd called the station, nothing had changed. Brad was still being held, and could be held for two more days without being legally charged. God was testing Victor. Testing his faith. Testing his resolve.

At the Church of Brotherly Love, on the corner, Victor slipped inside the side door across from the rectory, and stood inside. The silence was profound and he immediately felt at peace and certain all would work out well. The church smelled of melted wax and burned wicks from the lit votive candles, and of the sweet pine scent of the fir boughs that ringed the altar.

He stepped toward the bank of votive candles off to the side of the altar. Even his soft footsteps echoed in the empty space of the church.

As he did at the start of each weekday morning, he lit a candle and knelt and prayed.

He prayed now for his son. He prayed, as he did daily, for forgiveness of all his own and many sins and transgressions. He asked the Lord with sincerest humility to be forgiven all his trespasses. And he knew he was forgiven; he felt the Lord's forgiveness lighten and buoy him. Why the Lord had chosen to involve his son in this unholy violence, he did not know, and tried not to question. Already, he was ashamed for the way he had behaved in the foyer of his house when the detectives had come to ask questions. He should have listened with respect to their position in the community and with empathy for the heavy responsibility of their profession. He should have acted with grace and tried to understand what was happening as he welcomed them into his home. But. It was not always so easy to behave in a godly manner, to behave as the Lord would have him behave.

And the police. Still, to this day, all these years later, they sparked in him that old fear. He knew he was forgiven. Still. If the Lord worked in mysterious ways, so, too, did the devil.

Yes. He knew what had befallen his son was trial, a test of all their faith: he and his wife's and his son's. They must all demonstrate unwavering faith now. He knew how faith could transform a person, lift a person out of the muck, if one embraced it.

He prayed for his son to find the faith that had until now been absent in the boy.

He prayed again for forgiveness. Because in the back of his mind a seed had been planted: that what was happening now was linked to his sins of the past.

Forgiven or not.

O
UTSIDE, HE FELT
calmer and promised the Lord he would act on behalf of his son with forcefulness
and
grace. He'd speak his mind, but speak it without malice or disrespect. With God at his side. On his side.

He picked up his pace on the sidewalk.

Up ahead, a figure walked toward him, an apparition in the mist. It strode with confidence, arrogance, the mist spiraling about it, making way for it.

As the figure approached, Victor saw it was a man, his long black raincoat, worn open, flapping as he strode, the collar pulled up to the side of his face in the way of a vampire.

Victor's eyelashes beaded with condensation.

The man in the black raincoat came upon him. As he passed by Victor, he smiled broadly. “Coach. How are you?”

Victor blinked. He stopped and turned to watch as the man made his way down the street and disappeared around the corner.

Jon Merryfield.

Victor rushed toward the police station.

N
ORTH MET
V
ICTOR
in the hallway. Victor had expected the woman detective. She'd have been easier to persuade, he imagined.

North put his hand out for Victor to shake. Victor willed himself to shake it and give an agreeable smile. “May I see my son?” he said, bringing a tone of respect to his voice.

“Follow me.” North led Victor to a door. “You have a half hour.”

“My son didn't do it,” he blurted, as if someone else had spoken. He was simply unable to control himself.

“A half hour.” North opened the door.

Brad sat at the table, hands cuffed on his lap. His face was slack, the skin beneath his eyes swollen. He'd aged ten years in two days and no longer resembled the son in whom Victor had placed all his hope.

 

Chapter 36

T
EST GRABBED A
cup of coffee from the pot in the lobby and brought it into her office, shut the door and plopped her weary head on the desk. Claude had been right: she should have gone to bed and not gone for a run. It was harder than ever now to think straight with four hours' sleep in nearly fifty hours. Her obstinacy had gotten the best of her. Even if she'd lain awake obsessing about the case and about Charlie, it would have been better than running at four in the morning.

Her phone rang. She picked it up, stifling a yawn. “Detective Sonja Test.”

“They killed Sally.”

Test jolted awake now, scrabbled for a pencil and pad. “Who is this?”

“Gregory Sergeant, I'm—­”

“What's happened? Have you called nine-­one-­one?”

“No. I—­”

“Call them as soon as you get off with me. Who is Sally?”

“My lab.”

“Your what?”

“My dog.”

Test stared out the window as her blood drained from her face.

She spoke slowly, in a manner meant to calm herself. “Why do you think someone killed your dog?” She tried to focus on the pencil in her hand but her vision was uncertain, doubling.

“She was frothing blood and I found hamburger she'd eaten and—­”

The voice went as muddy as her vision and the pencil dropped from Test's fingers and hit the floor, far, far away.

“He's got to pay for this,” the voice said, coming back to her through the clouds.

“Who?” Test said, her voice a whisper.

“Who? That redneck bully who just about knocked me down in the street yesterday. Purposely.”

“Who?”

“Didn't you hear who I said? King. Jed King.”

“He knocked you down yesterday?”

“I just told you he did. What's the matter with this line?”

“I don't know. I apologize. I've been awake most of the past fifty hours. Why didn't you report him attacking you yesterday?”

“He was careful about how he did it. I can't prove it was on purpose. I scalded my hand with coffee but otherwise I'm OK. I've learned that by not reacting to bullies, it defuses them more often than not.”

“Not always.”

“No, not always,” he said.

“You want me to swing by there?”

“Please.”

 

Chapter 37

T
ES
T KNELT BESIDE
Sally the same way she'd knelt beside her own dog just hours prior. Gregory Sergeant knelt on the other side, stroking his dog's head.

Scott Goodale stood with a hand on Gregory's shoulder.

Sally lay in vomit that appeared to consist mostly of raw hamburger.

“She's been poisoned, hasn't she?” Gregory said.

Test nodded. Her assurances to Claude now seemed misplaced. He'd be angry with her, accuse her of patronizing him, and he wouldn't be that far off base. Sally being poisoned in the same way indicated more calculation and premeditation than just an asshole bigot behaving in a knee-­jerk fashion.

“Who does such a thing?” Gregory said.

“Homophobic bastard,” Scott said. “I'll kill him.”

Test shook her head, looked at Gregory. “King knocked you down yesterday?”

“Slammed into me. I scalded myself with hot coffee, coming out of Ha Ha's.” Gregory showed Test the back of his left hand, along the thumb. It was red and blistered. “King said, ‘Be careful.' The man is a menace.”

“A menace?” Scott said. “He's a fucking asshole.”

Or a murderer
, Test thought.

“I told Greg,” Scott said, his face red with anger, “let me pay that fucker a visit and get a hold of him myself and—­.”

“Do
not
do that,” Test said. “Do not antagonize him.”

“
Me
antagonize
him
? There's one way,
one way
, to handle a fucking bully.”

“I'll speak with him,” Test said.

“I hope you do more than that,” Scott said.

“I'd like to. But without proof.”

“Get proof,” Scott said. “You get some goddamned proof. It may be just a dog to you, but Greg's had her since—­” his voice tailed off.

“Believe me,” Test said. “I know how you feel.”

Goodale and Scott eyed her, puzzled.

Test would get proof. And figure out how King fit into this whole mess.

“Get that hand looked at,” Test said. “And contact your attorney.”

 

Chapter 38

V
ICTOR SAT AT
the table and crossed his arms over his chest and stared at his son. He sat staring for a long time. He needed patience now, to practice his own form of forgiveness.

Brad kept his eyes downcast. “Where's Mom?” he whispered.

“We thought it best to split our time,” Victor said. It was a lie, and he silently asked forgiveness. He'd convinced Fran to stay home, wanting to spare her. This was a matter for a father.

Brad rubbed his eyes. The boy looked haggard and scared.

“Please look at me,” Victor said.

Brad lifted his head.

Jenkins studied his boy's face. The confident light in his son's eyes was extinguished.

Jenkins got up and paced in front of the room's tiny, wired window. He looked out on the town green. A few rusted leaves clung yet to the uppermost crown branches of the oaks. The Civil War cannon's muzzle was aimed right at him.

He came to the table and looked at Brad. “I need you to be straight. Dead straight. Understand? Tell the truth as God would have you tell it.”

Brad rolled his eyes.

“Do not mock me, or the Lord,” Victor said. His son's insolence, his arrogant dismissal of God, would undermine him in the end.

“No lies,” Jenkins said. “No matter how hard it is. You are my son. I will get you out of this. With God's help.”

Brad refrained from his mockery, though Victor saw it shimmering just below the surface.

“I have to know the truth,” Victor said. “Did you hurt that girl?”

“No.” Brad said, anguished.

“We've all made mistakes. If you hurt her by accident . . .”

“I didn't
touch
her. Not like that.”

Jenkins studied his son's eyes, shot through like bad egg yolks with bloodied veins.

“OK, I'll find a way to make this right.” He held his hands out to Brad. “Pray with me.”

Brad refused his father.

A thought passed through Victor's mind like the shadow of a bird. A single wingbeat of thought. He tried to capture it, but it flew away, gone.

“Dad?” Brad said, concern creeping into his voice. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” The thought was gone. “Why did you refuse a lawyer?”

“I'm innocent. I don't need one.”

“Your fingerprints are all over the house.”

“I've been to the house before, a ton of times.”

“I'm getting you a lawyer. I don't know how we're going to pay for it. I may have to use a public defender.”

“I'm innocent. You believe me, right?”

The thought passed through Victor's mind again, a veil of smoke that vanished as he tried to grasp it.

“Dad?”

“You had sex with that girl?”

“So?”

“You tell them you want a lawyer.”

“Why, if I'm innocent?”

“Because you're innocent. But you're still
here
.”

Jenkins cursed himself. He'd erred. Brad being eighteen or not, Victor should have called a lawyer, straightaway. He was ignorant of the intricacies of law. But as a father, he'd let his son down. If he'd brought in a lawyer, perhaps Brad would not be here now. “The lawyer will figure it out. If you didn't do it—­”

“I
didn't
.”

“Then we have nothing to fear.”

Victor tried to keep his voice firm, yet doubt soured his blood at the thought of the evidence against his son. It seemed overwhelming. Who else would have known the girl was alone in Jon's house? The shadowy thought fluttered through his mind, stirring a memory that dissolved away.

“What?” Brad said. “Why do you keep looking like you've seen a ghost?”

“I don't know,” Victor said.

A rap came on the door. North poked his head into the room. “Time's up.”

“Pray,” Victor said to Brad as he left the room.

He closed the door quietly behind him and stood in the hallway.

His head pounded. He needed to think.

Something's going on that I don't understand
, he thought.
And I need to understand it.

He walked down the hallway feeling disassociated from his body.

At the dispatcher's desk, he glanced toward the corner of the waiting room. Fran sat there. Victor stopped abruptly.

Fran stood up.

Victor took her by the elbow and guided her to the corner of the lobby.

“I thought we agreed you were to stay home,” he said.

“He's my son,” Fran said. She'd left the house without makeup. What used to be a sprinkle of youthful freckles across her cheeks had become a blight of age spots. How lovely she'd once been. How he'd thought she was going to be his salvation.

Her eyes were red, her hair in a bun, the way she wore it when she'd not showered. She attempted a smile, but failed. He was a stranger to his wife and she did not know it.

She put her hands on his. He could not recall the last time they had embraced. She squeezed his hands. “He didn't do this,” she said. “I'm not just saying it because he's my son.”

Jenkins nodded.

“Did you get him a lawyer?” Fran said.

“I'm working on it.”

“Get one. Today. Whether he wants one or not.” She let go of his hand. “I want to go see my boy.”