Side(H)arm

by James E. Abel

  When the last of the mourners drifted away, Judge Jim approached Jordan. There were tears in his eyes, and he held out his right hand. Jordan, who had not really spoken to his dad since the family arrived, turned his back. Jim dropped his head, patted Jordan twice on the shoulder from behind, and whispered in his ear, “I am truly sorry, son. Please know that.” The judge then walked back to Barbara, Jordan’s mom, who put her head down and cried into his chest, knowing that her husband and son were not about to reconcile on that day.

  Twenty minutes later, the family waited in the limo for Jordan and Molly as they placed the final roses on Casey’s casket. Jordan’s was red. Molly’s was white. Jordan motioned Tommy over to take Molly back to the limo while he remained behind. Alone, Jordan put his hands on Casey’s casket as he leaned forward and kissed it. Then he pulled back and held a long conversation with his wife.

  When Jordan finished, he gently tapped the casket, turned, and walked toward the limo. As Jordan drew near, Tommy realized he was looking at a different man than the one he had watched grieve for the past four days. Jordan’s eyes were no longer the unfocused eyes of someone lost in mourning. They had been replaced by the cold, steeled eyes of a man with a purpose. Jordan had made a promise to Casey, a promise to avenge her death. He had gone to a place darker than sorrow, and it was a place where he would reside for a long time.

  *******

  As the final shovels of dirt were thrown onto Casey’s grave, Raymond Wilkins was walking into his fishing cottage. When he closed the door behind him, he was standing on wide planked wood flooring inside a twenty-by-twenty-foot room covered with wood paneling—not the cheap stuff used in the seventies, but the older tongue and groove, knotty pine paneling from the fifties. At one time, it had been covered in shellac, but three walls were now painted over with a faded aqua blue color and the fourth wall with a light cream color.

  Directly across from the door, on the cream-colored wall, was a small stone fireplace with a piece of rough-hewn wood serving as the mantle. In front of it was a black wooden dining table and four chairs. Crumpled up Arby’s bags and old newspapers littered the table.

  To the right side of the front door was a hallway that provided access to a kitchenette, the only bedroom, and the bathroom. On the left side of the room were two old reclining chairs positioned in front of a green hutch with two cabinet doors on the bottom and shelving up top. Several of the shelves had been removed to allow space for an old, tube television set that now sat there.

  Raymond let out a sigh as he scanned the room. He was focused on the unopened cardboard boxes stacked all over the floor, fishing poles and tackle boxes thrown in the corners, and the oil paintings scattered everywhere. Some hung on the walls, several sat on easels, but most of them were stacked three and four deep, leaning against whatever was handy.

  Raymond walked over to the hutch and opened one of the cabinet doors. He reached in and pulled out the brown paper bag with the gun inside. He weaved his way through the cardboard boxes and sat down at the table. He unrolled the bag, took the gun out, and pointed it straight up in the air. Then he opened the cylinder, and slowly turned it. As he did, one by one the cartridges fell onto the table. When Raymond got to the last chamber, a spent casing fell out. He sat there a few moments, lost in thought, and then reached into his pocket and pulled out a cartridge. He compared it to one of the others lying on the table. Satisfied, he reloaded the gun and slammed the chamber shut. He sat there for several minutes before putting the spent casing in his pocket, throwing the empty paper bag in the trash, and then placing the loaded gun back inside the cabinet.

  Chapter 17

  Jordan stood next to Dr. Conley, looking out through one-way glass in an observation room, and asked, “Are they all under your care?” He was referring to the twelve children in the playroom that formed the centerpiece of a new wing at Savannah General Hospital, a wing dedicated to children with mental disorders. Inside the playroom were sliding boards, a playhouse, a kid friendly seating area for the younger kids, and interactive electronic games, flat screens, and computers along the walls for the older ones.

  Karen said, “Yes. They’re all being treated for post-traumatic stress disorder.”

  “Really? I thought that was just a soldier thing.”

  “No. It’s a mental health condition that can be caused by various kinds of trauma. Some of those kids have suffered ongoing physical or sexual abuse. Others, like Molly, have experienced a single traumatic triggering event.”

  “So, you’re telling me that Molly has PTSD?”

  “Not necessarily. In her case, it’s a little too early to tell. But that’s one of the reasons I have her here today. I want to see how she’s interacting with the other kids. So far, I’m not encouraged.”

  Jordan looked at Molly. She was sitting by herself on the floor, looking bored as she watched the other kids. Two girls, younger than her, were playing house in a miniature kitchen, one boy was climbing on a jungle gym, and three other kids were playing on the swings and sliding board. A couple of the older kids were playing some sort of video game on a monitor mounted on the wall.

  Dr. Conley turned to Jordan and said, “Anyway, I want to thank you for taking the time to stop by, Officer Nichols. My prayers are with both you and Molly. I know it’s difficult right now, but I’d like to familiarize you with our work here as well as the possible range of emotional responses that you may experience with Molly. I also want to give you a brief overview of the specific type of treatment I’m recommending, as well as what is needed from you over the coming weeks and months.”

  Jordan glanced at his watch and said, “Oh, brother, I didn’t realize that’s what you had planned for today. We…uh, we’re moving back into the house, and we’re on a pretty tight schedule.”

  Dr. Conley, taken off guard said, “No! You can’t! I mean it’s really too soon. I don’t think she’s ready.”

  “I know. But I don’t have any other options, and I figured that maybe it was important for both of us to get back to, you know, normal as soon as possible.”

  Dr. Conley put her hands over her eyes, deep in thought. It turned into an awkward silence.

  Finally, she said, “Well, I can’t stop you, and I don’t have an alternative at the moment that makes me comfortable.”

  Jordan said, “Yeah, we’re both at the same place. Out of options.”

  Dr. Conley glanced at Molly, still sitting alone on the floor, and then turned to Jordan and said, “Please, keep a close eye on her. If she withdraws any more, we need to be very concerned. You and I still have to discuss your role in helping Molly through all of this.”

  Jordan nodded and asked, “Love and support, right?”

  Dr. Conley shook her head and said, “No. It’s not that simple. It’s going to take a lot more than that. I’m sorry, but I need to ask: Are you working with a grief counselor of your own?”

  “Yes, of course. It’s police protocol. As for Molly, I have every confidence in your abilities.”

  “I appreciate that, but, moving forward, it’s important that I meet with both of you, together, on a regular basis.”

  “Okay. Just keep me posted. Now we really do have to get going.”

  “Fine. Wait here, and I’ll go get her.”

  Dr. Conley walked out of the office, reappeared in the activity room, and waved Molly over.

  Reunited, Jordan and Molly worked their way through the maze of hospital wings and hallways until they found the lobby and headed to the family minivan. Jordan hated driving it, but he needed it that morning to drop his parents, sister, and Casey’s mom at the airport after they checked out of the hotel.

  Once they were on the road, Jordan adjusted the rearview mirror so he could see Molly and asked, “So, how did it go today?”

  Molly said, “Okay, I guess.”

  “You seem to like Dr. Conley.”

  “Yeah, she’s okay.”

  “Does it feel weird heading back? You know, to the ho
use?”

  Molly shrugged her shoulders and said, “I don’t know.”

  “Well, it feels weird to me, so we’ll do this together, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Oh, and Tommy’s gonna be there to help, so don’t forget to thank him.”

  “Yes, sir. I will.”

  Jordan readjusted the mirror and didn’t talk the rest of the way home. Ten minutes later, Jordan drove past Tommy’s Camaro and pulled into the driveway and parked.

  He turned around and looked at Molly, letting the moment hang.

  Then he said, “Okay, honey. It’s time.”

  Jordan let the luggage behind and held Molly’s hand as they walked to the front porch and up the steps. When they reached the front door, Jordan took a deep breath, opened the door and said, “Tommy, we’re here.”

  Jordan and Molly walked in and found Tommy in work clothes, standing on the step where Casey had died. Tommy returned a warm, “Welcome home” greeting and walked down to meet them, leaving behind a bucket, a container of spackling compound, and a spackling knife.

  As Jordan took in the sight, he knew he had made a mistake. It was too soon. Faint traces of Casey’s blood remained on the wall, her guitar was still face down on the floor, and the Christmas decorations only made it worse. Father and daughter both struggled with their emotions. Jordan, tears welling up in his eyes, tried to give Tommy a man hug, but Tommy stopped him, putting his hand up and saying, “That’s okay. I’m pretty filthy.”

  Tommy stooped down to greet Molly and said, “And look at you…still the most beautiful girl in the whole wide world!”

  She managed a slight smile. Tommy stood up and motioned Molly toward the kitchen. “Come here! I want to show you something.”

  Molly looked at Jordan and, getting a nod of approval, followed Tommy into the kitchen.

  Tommy walked over to the refrigerator, stood proudly in front of it with a big smile on his face, and said, “The freezer. Open it up!”

  Molly slowly opened the freezer and found it stacked with tubs of chocolate ice cream.

  “Tada! That’s your favorite, right?”

  Molly nodded and cast her eyes to the floor as she said, “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  She turned to Jordan and asked, “Dad, can I go to my room now?”

  “Sure. Would you like me to go up the steps with you?”

  “No. That’s okay.”

  As Molly walked out of the kitchen, Jordan gave Tommy an apologetic look. Tommy shook his head and said, “Don’t even.”

  Jordan waited a few seconds and then followed Molly. He watched from the foyer as she stoically walked past the step where her mother had died, reached her bedroom door, and went inside. After the door closed softly behind her, Jordan walked back into the kitchen where Tommy asked, “She alright?”

  “Good as can be expected.”

  “How about you?”

  “Same thing, I guess.”

  Tommy opened the fridge, pulled out two beers, handed one to Jordan, and said, “Come on, let’s go out on the porch.”

  “Good idea. We should talk.”

  They walked outside, sat down on the rocking chairs, and drank in silence for a few minutes. Then, Jordan looked at Tommy and asked, “So, what have you heard? Any progress?”

  “Not a word. Sanders knows we’re tight, so he’s not gonna tell me squat. How about on your end? Did Molly see anything?”

  “Not sure. My gut feeling is that she did, but whenever I try to talk to her, she gets really upset.”

  “Maybe you need to let this thing go, for now at least. You could use some time to grieve. Molly, too.”

  Jordan finished the rest of his beer with a single gulp, keeping his eyes trained on Tommy the entire time. Tommy’s eyes dropped, looking for a place to hide.

  Jordan put the empty bottle down and said, “For the record, I’m done grieving. And letting it go is not in Molly’s best interests. She saw him, and even if she didn’t, he probably thinks she did. No, I’m gonna track down the bastard and end him. So…you with me or not?”

  Tommy looked up, slowly nodded, and said, “Sure, Jordan. I’m with you.”

  “Good. Now the way I see it, he’s gotta be a druggie. He broke in looking for cash, jewelry, or anything else he could pawn. Then, Casey came downstairs with the gun and…”

  Jordan looked down, shook his head, and finished, “It just went bad, so fucking bad.”

  “You’re probably right, but I don’t think there were any signs of forced entry.”

  “Yeah, I thought about that. But knowing Casey, she probably forgot to lock the door. She’d always say that nobody in their right mind would ever break into a cop’s house.”

  “Yeah, that was Casey alright. So…what do you need from me?”

  “For now, the best thing you can do is find some way, or someone, that will plug us into Sanders’s investigation. I need to know everything he’s got.”

  “That’s not gonna be easy.”

  “I know. But that is what I need from you. As for me, I’m going to look at every damn file I can find on perps who have been nailed for breaking and entering or drug violations from here to Atlanta, Charleston, and down to Jacksonville. Until I can pry something out of Molly, I won’t know what I’m looking for, but it’s not gonna stop me from trying.”

  Jordan made a fist and held out his forearm for Tommy to tap. Tommy did the same and Jordan coldly said, “X factor.”

  Chapter 18

  Cayden James’s Fine Arts and Curios Shop was stuffed full of expensive wall art, one-off pieces of antique furniture, large statues, gargoyles, and Persian rugs. It was the kind of store more likely to be found in the East Village of New York City than downtown Savannah—the kind of store that lured in visitors with exotic statues standing outside of wide open doors, only for them to later regret the money they spent on something that looked completely out of place when they got it home.

  Toward the back of James’s store, shielded from view by large ferns and two seven-foot-tall guardian lions, was a seating area that James used to negotiate with potential buyers. It consisted of two ornate, eighteenth-century winged-backed chairs sitting on an Oriental carpet, an equally ornate hand-carved oak coffee table, and a serving bar off to the side. Under the server, out of sight, James kept some top-shelf liquor and crystal glasses.

  Tonight, Lucien Baxter was sitting in one of the chairs and nursing a glass of fine Cognac. James stood by the server, raised his own glass, smiled at Lucien, and asked, “So, do we have a deal or not?” Lucien waved him over to the empty chair and said, “Please. Let’s not rush the moment. Sit down and enjoy.” As James sat down, Lucien asked, “Did you know that Cognac dates all the way back to the sixteenth century?”

  “No. Can’t say as I did.”

  “Yes, indeed. Dutch traders refined the drink, almost by accident when they were trying to find a way to ship it from the Cognac region of France.”

  Glancing at his surroundings, Lucien continued, “So, tell me a little about your shop here. I find it very much to my liking.”

  James shrugged his shoulders and said, “It serves its purpose, providing, you know, the proper setting for the type of business we have at hand.”

  “No, Mr. James, it does much more than that. In fact, I’m disappointed that you don’t have more of an appreciation for what you have here.”

  “Well, I guess I’m just not as smart as you are.”

  “Understood. Very few are.”

  James fought his instincts, biting his lip as he said, “Please then, explain to me what I’m missing.”

  Lucien smiled, motioned with his hand around the shop, and said, “What you are missing, sir, is just how much we have in common with the paintings and sculptures surrounding us here. Us humans, we are all forms of art, an infinitesimal part of the cosmic energy comprising an ever-expanding universe. Of course, they appear to be inert, but are they? Or is it just the limitations of our intellectual capacity that
don’t allow us to see things as they really are?”

  “Yeah, maybe they come to life after dark. Hey, let’s make a movie!”

  Lucien gave James a dismissive look and said, “I think you just made my point.”

  Lucien paused for a few seconds before resuming, “Now, to continue…quantum physics has shown that we are no more than unique compilations of cosmic energy. In your case and mine, that energy happens to be temporarily hosted inside a human body—a form that, as Shakespeare once noted, we only get to enjoy for but the briefest of moments. But what if, in those brief moments on stage, we’ve been charged with a specific purpose, a raison d’ être?”

  “You’re saying that someone, or something, has charged us with an assignment?”

  “But, of course. Why else would we be given the abilities to think, to talk, to move, and most importantly, to remember?”

  “Okay then, what’s your assigned task?”

  “Ah, that is the question, isn’t it?”

  “You really are into Shakespeare, aren’t you?”

  “Touché, Mr. James, touché! I believe that each of us has a unique assignment. In my case, it to provide a means for others to expand their own minds so that, much like me, they can see beyond the constraints of the human body.”

  “Hmmm, interesting. So, what happens if you don’t complete your assignment, your purpose?”

  “Then, when your flesh breaks down, the cosmic energy housed inside will be dispersed to the universe, never to be housed in the same form again. You may become an inert statue, cosmic dust soaring out into space, or…” Lucien broke out laughing as he finished, “…nothing more than a pile of camel dung!”

  “And if you do complete your assignment?”

  “In that case, the cosmic energy remains intact, inside a new host, a child being born at the same instant the energy leaves your dying body.”