Redemption (23 page)

“That’s not written in stone,” Jane interjected.

“Oh, pull your head out of the sand! He
will
walk! That’s the way it works! You do everything you can in this world to live right and treat others like you want to be treated and then you get fucked over!” Barbara shrugged her shoulders. “That asshole didn’t just kill my daughter. He killed the whole family.” She choked on the words, fighting back her ragged emotions. “Speaking of which, where in the hell is she, anyway?” Barbara turned to the house just as Kit opened the front door and crossed down the brick path toward the car.

Kit started to get into the Mustang when she turned back to Barbara. “Please take care of yourself, darling. I love you.”

“Fuck you,” Barbara said in an offhand, discarding manner before she turned and walked into the house, slamming the door with emphasis behind her.

Kit got into the Mustang. Jane squashed her cigarette into the asphalt before taking her seat. They sat in quiet contemplation before Jane broke the silence.

“You okay?”

“It hurts.”

“Of course it hurts. To hear—”

“No. I don’t care what she says to me. You can’t hurt somebody unless they allow it. It hurts me to see her so torn up by her own hatred and grief. It’s going to kill her. Mark my words, it’s
going to kill her.” Kit stole a glance toward the house. “You know, Jane, I would have given my life to save Ashlee. It’s my one regret. There’s nothing original about death. People do it every day. But a death of purpose...of sacrifice...that would have made everything good in the end.” She looked at Jane. “Carl’s waiting for us. Let’s go.”

CHAPTER 15

Interstate 95 was clear sailing as Jane headed south for fifteen miles before connecting to Junction 165. The farther they drove, the more it became apparent that Cousin Carl lived in an extremely remote locale. The possibility that Carl liked the seclusion because he could grow pot with no intrusion from authorities crossed Jane’s mind. Checking her low gas gauge, Jane took solace when she found a lonely Texaco gas station and the Black Crow Liquor Store in what appeared to be the dusty, forgotten town of Jeffers. Under the neon glow of the Black Crow sign, Jane pulled her jacket tightly around her chest and braced herself against the sudden icy wind. She removed the gas pump just as Kit exited the car and headed for the store.

“I need to use the bathroom!” Kit yelled back at Jane.

“I thought you went at Barbara’s house,” Jane replied.

“Her toilet was backed up! I won’t be a second!”

Jane filled her tank and considered Kit’s answer. The bathroom light had never gone on in Barbara’s house. However, Kit had roamed freely in Barbara’s living room. Gazing at family photos? Checking out the house? Stealing a small memento to remember Barbara? Whatever reason Kit needed to get into that house, it sure wasn’t to use the bathroom. Jane’s thought process was interrupted by the sound of her cell phone ringing. Ducking into the car, she retrieved the phone from her satchel and flicked it open to check the number.

It was Sergeant Weyler. Again.

Jane waited until voice mail rolled over before checking her messages. There were two, both from Weyler. The first was a simple “Call me.” The second was longer.

“So, you’re skipping town, are you? That’s not like you, Jane. You don’t run away from anything. What in the hell are you doing
in Oakhurst, California? Do you need my help?” Weyler’s voice softened on the last question. He sounded genuinely concerned for Jane. “Don’t do anything stupid, Jane. You hear me? You know my number.” With that, Weyler hung up. Jane dug her hand into her pocket and nervously rubbed the three sobriety chips and the snakestone. A queasy feeling of approaching angst enfolded her. The wind pressed hard against her face, stinging her checks. For a moment, she was hopelessly held in an unsettled limbo, unable to ascertain whether her feet were touching the pavement. No matter how much she tried to block out the sensation and bring herself back into her body, it persisted, smothering her senses in a disquieting pall. Jane’s logical mind intruded, telling her that the feeling was due to being awake for than thirty hours with only coffee, a sugar cookie from Ingrid Bartosh, a tasteless spirulina ball, and a hurried lunch to fuel her spirit. But her gut told her this disturbing cloud of apprehension heralded something far more ominous.

“They have nuts!” Kit’s voice rang out from the darkness, lifting Jane from her stupor. “Pumpkin seeds! I got you a bag and a bottle of wine for Cousin Carl. I hope he likes merlot.” Kit started to get into the car but was taken by Jane’s distant visage. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Jane replied un convincingly.

They drove through the wintry darkness and finally came upon the significant rusty weather vane Carl had mentioned on the phone. Exactly one mile later on the left, they found Carl’s single-story adobe abode. It was actually quite easy to spot, given the plethora of green and red chile lights that were strung around the house and atop the bevy of juniper bushes encircling the property. To Jane, it looked like White Trash Central, and she was almost certain that the lights were a permanent fixture rather than a once-a-year holiday display.

“How colorful!” Kit exclaimed. “It’s like a landing pad for an aircraft. I like Cousin Carl already!”

An angular figure emerged from the front door, reflected in the glow of the red and green lights. “You found the place!” Carl
yelled out as he walked toward the car. As he moved closer, Jane studied the man she had not seen in over fifteen years. Carl, who was pushing his late thirties, still had a shock of coal black hair that fell disheveled across his forehead and touched below his ears. While it seemed impossible, it looked as if Carl had actually grown taller than Jane remembered him. His slender six-foot five-inch frame appeared to be all legs as he ambled to Jane. Carl suddenly grabbed Jane, giving her a potent hug.

“How you doin’, cousin!” Carl said with a happy clip to his voice. “Damn, girl! You looked whipped!” Jane was not prepared for such a gregarious show of affection. She automatically took a sniff of Carl’s weather-beaten black canvas jacket. Nothing appeared to be there, but Jane speculated the cold winter air prevented the pot aroma from being detected. Carl turned to Kit. “Well, hello there! I’m Carl Perry!”

“So happy to meet you, Carl. My name’s Kit.” She extended her hand toward Carl, but he disregarded it and gave her a forceful hug.

“Shaking hands is for fucking dignitaries!” Carl said, patting Kit on the back.

They dragged the luggage into the house and Carl led them into the main room. The crisp sound of flamenco guitar issued from the four ceiling speakers. It was a spacious, Native American-themed room, with colorful native rugs on the walls, covering the two plush couches, and splayed erratically across the terracotta floor. On one wall, Carl displayed an impressive collection of Native artifacts, including peace pipes, arrows, tomahawks, and beaded leather bags that were securely framed behind clear glass. An oversized, open hearth with a roaring fire was the natural focal point for the inviting room as the intoxicating scent of piñon wafted through the air. Carl settled into a red rocking chair next to hearth. Kit melted into the couch closest to the fireside while Jane took a restrained seat in the center of the couch.

“Can I get you gals somethin’ to wet your whistle?” Carl asked as he removed his black canvas jacket.

Kit brought out the bottle of merlot from her bag. “I hope you like red wine.”

Carl took the bottle and admired the label. “Oh, I have a lot of memories of the burgundy and me.”

“Excellent,” Kit said, clasping her hands together.

“My cousin here will tell you there’s not a whole lot of liquor in my life that I’ve turned down,” Carl said with a soft smile and twinkle in his eye. “Thank you, Kit.”

Jane was quickly reminded of Carl’s penchant for knocking back five shots of tequila in one sitting and figured she’d better get on with the reason for her visit before he was too tanked. “So, about Clinton Fredericks—”

“Oh, that little fucker can wait!” Carl said as he got up and moved to the open kitchen area twenty feet away. “Can I pour you two a glass of wine?”

“Thank you, Carl,” Kit said as she motioned to Jane to take it down a notch in her eager intensity.

“How ’bout you, cousin?” Carl asked, removing the cork from the bottle.

Jane wasn’t in the mood to disclose her six months of sobriety. “No, thanks. I’m not a wine drinker.”

“I got tequila. And I got a helluva expensive whiskey I snuck back from England last year,” Carl offered, pouring a glass of wine.

An unexpected tension gripped Jane’s body. Her tongue tingled with the fleeting suggestion. Her answer came too slowly to be convincing. “No, thanks.”

Carl sauntered back to Kit, handing her the glass of wine. “How’s Mike doin’?” he asked, shoving a loose piece of piñon back into the open hearth with his boot.

Family talk. Not something Jane was comfortable discussing. “He’s fine. He’s got a girlfriend. I think it’s serious. He’ll probably get married.”

“Good for Mike!” Carl said earnestly, taking a seat. “I haven’t seen him since he was...what? He’s four years younger than Jane.
He must’ve been sixteen.
Damn!
Where does the time go? Glad to know he’s in love. How ’bout you, Jane? You seein’ anybody?”

For Jane, these kind of personal chats were more painful than a root canal. “No. I’ve got a pretty full plate right now, what with going out on my own and—”

“Shit, life ain’t worth livin’ if you ain’t got someone to share it with.” Carl leaned back in his rocker and snatched a framed photo from a side table. He handed the photo to Jane. “Her name’s Kyoto. I met her in Japan when I was working on a story a few years ago. We’ve been together ever since.” Jane handed the photo to Kit. “Ain’t she a beauty? She’s in Japan right now, seeing her family.
Jesus
,
I miss her!
” Carl’s face softened as he thought about his lover. Kit handed the photo back to Carl. He traced Kyoto’s face with his finger, lost in thought momentarily.

Jane wondered when and how she could turn the conversation back to Clinton Fredericks. She was just about to speak when Kit beat her to the punch.

“I guess you’re not a merlot drinker, Carl?” Kit asked.

Carl gradually came out of his lovesick gaze and replaced Kyoto’s photo on the table. “Well, the truth is, I stopped drinkin’ about eight years ago. Stopped dope, too. I found somethin’ else to fill in the blank spaces.”

Jane was stunned. Her tequila drinking, doobie-tooting cousin was clean and sober. She felt an unexplained rush of resentment toward him. “Don’t tell me you found God,” Jane said, allowing her bite and bile to override her self-control. Kit flashed Jane a look of censure.

Carl broke into a toothy grin. “Good one, cousin!” he said completely unaffected by Jane’s remark. He stretched his long, thin legs outward, clasping his narrow fingers behind his head. “I found my heart. So, yeah, I guess I found God.” Kit smiled. “It wasn’t about having this profound, enlightened moment of sobriety,” Carl continued, “It was more like I was so tired of trying to control the outcome of everything. I found out that being vulnerable wasn’t goin’ to kill me after all. In fact, being vulnerable was
the only way I was goin’ to embrace the truth and move forward. I could sit around and blame everyone around me for my fucked-up life or I could forgive it all and find freedom for the first time ever.” Kit snuck a meaningful glance at Jane, who shifted uncomfortably in the couch.

“If you’re sober, why do you keep tequila and whiskey in the house?” Jane questioned him in her best detective voice.

“Just because I’m dry doesn’t mean my friends have to be!” Carl stated with a mischievous tone. “I own the bottle but it doesn’t own me.” He rocked forward in his chair, clasping his hands together. “When I started trusting in what I couldn’t see...but felt in here,” he tapped on his heart, “instead of here,” Carl motioned to his head, “everything became so clear to me.” Carl glanced at the freestanding bookshelf next to his chair. Amid the crush of books, he located the one he wanted and handed a crimsoncovered paperback to Jane. It was titled
The Occult Significance of Forgiveness
by Sergei Prokofieff, an obscure book Carl had found in a Russian bookstore. The book was a thought-provoking series of stories about people who had gone through hellish experiences and forgiven those who hurt them. “He doesn’t preach the morality of forgiveness,” Carl said, settling back in his rocking chair. “He presents spiritual awakenings that speak for themselves. What struck me was that the importance of forgiving was not just for one’s personal redemption, but for the advancement of all humans. Just to repeat the same hatred again and again serves no country, no culture, no religion, no person.” Carl recalled a story in the book about an attorney who lived in a concentration camp with his wife and five children. The Germans killed his wife and children in front of him. He begged them to kill him, but when they found out he could speak German, they decided to keep him as a translator. That night, he had a spiritual awakening; he realized that if he chose to hate the men who killed his family, it would destroy him. So he resolved that whether he lived another day or another fifty years, he would love every person he met. Years later, when the Germans were defeated and the camp was freed, this
man emerged looking the picture of radiant health, while everyone else looked near death. “The author says that forgiving can’t be a passive process,” Carl stated. “It has to be done over and over in a very conscious manner. The negative memory goes through a spiritual death and leaves an empty space into which our God self can work.” Carl chuckled to himself. “I guess when the Biblethumpers talk about Jesus filling that empty space in their heart, they’re saying the same thing.”

Jane’s mind reeled with a million acerbic remarks. There had to be a quantum of muscle left in holding on to resentment. “That lawyer sounds like a modern day saint,” Jane offered, handing the book back to Carl.