He was Walking Alone

by P. D. Workman

  “No. He made a mistake that he’s paid for a hundred times over. Are you…” Mr. Peterson looked at Zachary and mouthed the words, asking Zachary rather than Devon, “your brother?”

  Zachary gave a tiny shake of his head. He wished he could explain to Mr. Peterson more clearly what was going on, but he wasn’t sure what would set Devon off. He needed to understand what was going on in Devon’s head, but he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it.

  “Are you friends with Zachary? I don’t understand how he hurt you.”

  “People like him ruin lives. They ruin the lives of everyone around them.”

  “Like Brandon?” Zachary asked. “Is that what you mean? Brandon ruined your life when he hit Hope? He prejudiced people against you and treated you like it was your fault?”

  Devon nodded his agreement. “He killed Hope and he messed up our lives forever. He should have just killed himself.”

  “He did.”

  “Not until it was too late. He should have done it long before then. People who do things like that should die. Why are they allowed to pollute our population? They should all die.”

  “You can’t kill everyone who makes a stupid choice,” Mr. Peterson pointed out. “Everyone makes stupid choices at some point.”

  “It wasn’t my fault!” Devon protested, his voice going up a note. “It wasn’t Fulton’s or Kyle’s fault. It was Brandon’s. You can’t paint us all with the same brush!”

  “I didn’t say it was your fault.” Mr. Peterson considered for a moment. “But maybe you’re feeling guilty about it.”

  The light went on in Zachary’s brain and he knew Mr. Peterson had hit the nail on the head.

  “Maybe you feel like you should have been punished for what happened,” Zachary said. “Maybe you feel like you never had to pay for your mistakes, and it’s eaten away at you all of these years. You went into law, hoping to bring criminals to justice, but it didn’t make you feel better the way you expected it to, and all you ever saw was your own guilt.”

  “For what? Because we rode with him? Because we were drinking and he wasn’t supposed to? How could we control that?”

  “You call a cab,” Mr. Peterson said. “You take away his keys. You make sure everyone gets home safely.”

  “He didn’t seem drunk. He only had a couple of beers. He wasn’t staggering or slurring. They called it a DUI, but he wasn’t drunk. He’d barely had anything.”

  “You still shouldn’t have let your designated driver have anything,” Zachary pointed out. “When you saw him drinking, you should have made new plans.”

  “I didn’t remember anything afterward. I don’t know if I saw him drinking. I don’t remember him drinking.” Devon gave a little shake of his head. His eyes were haunted.

  “You said that other nights, you had egged him on. Encouraged him to speed or stunt.”

  “Not that night.”

  “You can’t remember. Or was that a lie? Are you just afraid to tell anyone the truth about what really happened that night?”

  “Brandon was driving!” Devon’s hand moved in his apron pocket. “He’s the only one who is responsible for what happened!”

  Zachary took a tentative step forward, seeing if he could close the distance between them. “You feel awful about what happened. Whatever it was, you are sorry. You feel the guilt all the time, weighing down on you.” Zachary knew what that felt like. “It’s there all the time and you just want it to go away. You’d do anything to make it go away.”

  A nod from Devon. Zachary took a couple more slow steps forward. “You want it to end. You want someone to stop the pain. You think that maybe if you were punished properly, it would go away.”

  “I wasn’t at fault,” Devon whined. But Zachary knew better. Criminally liable or not, Devon was still guilty. He had taken that on himself. It wasn’t something that any outside force could wipe away.

  “You wanted Brandon to pay. You thought that if he had to pay more, you would feel better. Justice would be served.”

  Devon looked at him, his expression frozen.

  “But when Brandon killed himself, you didn’t feel better, you felt worse.”

  “It was his choice. I never touched him. We weren’t even in the same state. I’m not responsible for him killing himself.”

  He had stalked and bullied Brandon relentlessly. Brandon had served his time. He had a new name and a new relationship. He had been on the way to healing and a new life. But Devon had refused to let him off. What Devon had done contributed to Brandon’s death, as surely as if he’d put a gun into his hand and then badgered him to use it.

  “You felt so guilty over what you had done to Brandon, you needed a new target. You needed someone else you could blame for what you were feeling. You wanted to punish someone else, but you’re the one you think needs to be punished.”

  Zachary was almost within arm’s reach of Devon. Devon startled suddenly, jamming his hand deeper into the apron pocket. “Stop it. Stay there. Don’t you say another word.”

  Zachary swallowed. He had almost been there. He had almost reached Devon both physically and emotionally. He looked at Mr. Peterson, not knowing what to do. He couldn’t open his mouth again without endangering their lives.

  “Have a seat,” Mr. Peterson invited. “It’s been a long day. Why don’t you have a drink?” He nudged his own drink toward Devon. “I haven’t even touched it. Pat’s always trying to get me to eat healthier, but I’m really just not a wheatgrass kind of guy.”

  Devon looked at the cup. Zachary wasn’t sure he was even seeing it.

  “You need to let it go,” Lorne continued softly. “You’ve been holding onto this for too long. Hanging on to pain doesn’t help anything. It festers and gets deeper over time. You need to forgive yourself. You and Brandon didn’t intend to kill anyone that night. It was a horrible mistake. But hanging on to it all this time hasn’t made things better.”

  Devon put his hands on the back of one of the other chairs at the table, hesitating about whether to pull it out.

  “You can forgive yourself and let it go. Just let the guilt and the pain go. You were young and you made a choice that would impact your life forever. You couldn’t have known how it was going to turn out.”

  Zachary eyed Devon’s apron and the big pocket he had taken his hand out of. Did he have the gun or not? If Zachary tackled him, was he fast enough and skilled enough to get the gun away from Devon? Without hurting anyone else? The wrong choice could have an impact on both of their lives, just like the fire and Brandon’s MVC. Make the wrong choice, and someone in the room could be dead.

  “Sit down,” Mr. Peterson coaxed. “Come tell me about it.”

  Devon drew the chair out. Zachary took another step closer while Devon was looking away from him. Devon looked back, but didn’t catch Zachary moving. He hesitated for a moment before lowering himself into the chair. In his new position, Zachary could see down into the gaping pocket. He could see the gleam of the pistol inside.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Z

  achary swallowed, mouth as dry as cotton. He must have made some change in expression that Mr. Peterson caught. He looked at Zachary for a moment, then focused all of his attention on the young man who sat across from him. Elbows on the table, Devon covered his eyes and cradled his head.

  “How could anyone forgive me?” he demanded in a choked voice. “I can’t forgive myself, how could anyone else? That girl died. I saw her family in court every day. Her parents and her little brother and sister. They had to grow up without her. I knew I was responsible for what happened to her. I had to take some of the responsibility.”

  “It takes time, but don’t you think it will be easier to forgive yourself than it has been to beat up on yourself all of these years?”

  It was like Mr. Peterson was speaking to Zachary. They rarely spoken of the fire and Zachary’s part in it. Mr. Peterson knew what the social worker had told him before bringing Zachary to them, and littl
e else. But Mr. Peterson knew how guilty Zachary felt. He knew the pain that Zachary carried around with him and how he beat up on himself. Zachary had no idea how to begin to forgive himself. He didn’t deserve forgiveness.

  There was a buzz in his pocket. Zachary had picked up his phone and put it back in his pocket as he got out of the car. He stayed still, moving only his eyes to look around. Where was Kenzie? Had she managed to talk the police into getting them some backup? Kenzie was right at the edge of his vision. When his eyes met hers, she made a small motion, tapping her own pocket, then indicating Devon with her eyes.

  Zachary curled up the pinky and fourth finger of the hand that Kenzie could see hanging at his side, forming a gun shape with his index and middle finger and thumb.

  Her eyebrows went up. Are you sure? Zachary gave a nod, just a fraction of an inch.

  Kenzie moved silently out of Zachary’s vision, too far back for him to see.

  “You need help. You need to talk to someone,” Mr. Peterson told Devon. “A licensed therapist would be better, but since I’m the only one here, why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  Devon rubbed his eyes. He started to talk, telling Mr. Peterson the now-familiar story of the hit and run. Zachary looked down at the gun in Devon’s pocket. While he’d learned some pickpocketing, figuring it was a useful skill for an investigator to have from time to time, he hadn’t practiced enough to become skilled at it. The gun was heavy and Devon was likely to notice a shift in its weight if Zachary lifted it.

  He caught a glimpse of Kenzie again, approaching an older couple several tables away and speaking to them quietly. They got up and moved out of Zachary’s vision, toward the door they had come in. Zachary turned his head toward her. She gave him a tiny motion. Back up. Zachary slid one foot back, then the other, as silently and slowly as possible. Devon didn’t take his head out of his hands to see what was going on.

  A dark figure slid by Kenzie like a ghost. A black-uniformed cop. He crouched down behind the table Kenzie had just vacated. She moved back the direction she had come. The cop had everyone’s attention but Devon’s. He made a motion to indicate Mr. Peterson and Pat, and pointed to the floor. Get down. He held up three fingers, then two, then one.

  Mr. Peterson wasn’t as spry as he had once been, but getting down was easier than getting up, and Zachary was surprised at how quickly the two men hit the floor.

  “Devon Masters!” an authoritative voice boomed.

  Devon dropped his hands from his face and looked around, pale and wide-eyed. His face was wet with tears.

  “Put your hands on your head!”

  He didn’t obey immediately. His hands hovered as he tried to decide whether to go for the gun. Zachary was still close enough to grab him. If Devon went for the gun, Zachary could grab him, wrestle and hold on to him until the cops could get close enough to get the gun away from him and get him under control.

  Then Devon did the smart thing and put his hands on his head. Zachary breathed a sigh of relief. He made a motion toward Devon’s apron pocket. “Do you want me to—”

  “Just stay where you are, Goldman,” the voice barked. “Don’t move.”

  Zachary froze. He looked at the cop that he could see, sheltering behind a table, gun trained on Devon. He didn’t know how many others there were behind him and around the room. He didn’t want to step into the line of fire, so he stayed where he was, as motionless as possible.

  “Masters, lace your fingers together!”

  Devon did as he was told. In another moment, he was stretched out on the floor, belly down, as he was instructed. Finally, the police moved in, securing his hands and removing the gun.

  “I have a permit,” Devon protested. “You don’t have any cause to arrest me or to take my gun. I’ll sue you for false arrest.”

  “We’re responding to a call placed by a citizen. We’ll get all of the pertinent details now. If there’s no evidence of wrongdoing, you’ll be allowed to go,” the officer who handcuffed him said reasonably.

  He was removed from the room to be interviewed separately from the witnesses. The cop who appeared to be in charge turned to Zachary.

  “You’re Zachary Goldman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mind if I check you for weapons?”

  Zachary raised his hands. “I don’t carry.”

  They patted him down just to be sure. At the cop’s request, Zachary showed him the email message from Devon with Mr. Peterson’s face x-ed out. The cop compared it to Mr. Peterson’s face when he’d managed to get up from the hard tiled floor and back into a chair.

  “Well, that’s the first spa day I’ve ever had end that way,” he said cheerfully.

  “It’s your first spa day ever,” Pat pointed out.

  Zachary grimaced, thinking about how it could have been Lorne’s first and last spa day, if things had gone differently. He slid into the chair that Devon had vacated, across from his ex-foster father and longtime friend. It wasn’t until then that he realized how much his legs were shaking.

  “You’re okay?” Zachary asked Mr. Peterson.

  “The old ticker is apparently still working.” He was all smiles, as if the whole thing had been nothing more than an interesting diversion.

  “What did he say to you before I got here?” Zachary asked. “Did he threaten you?”

  “He wasn’t here much before you. Said he recognized me, was I Lorne Peterson, did I used to take in foster kids. I was trying to figure out if he was one of ours, but the face didn’t seem familiar. I take it… this is the guy who was emailing you? Harassing you?”

  Zachary nodded. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “But he’s not your brother.”

  “No.” Zachary frowned, looking in the direction they had taken Devon. “So… where did he get the picture?”

  “Maybe from the photographer. I don’t know how he would track it down, but…”

  “He was teaching criminal investigation at the university, so he’s had some experience… and with a concealed carry permit, maybe he’s been a private investigator. I ran an initial background on him, but I thought he was just a lawyer.”

  “If he’s been an investigator himself, he knows how to cover his tracks. Do you remember where that picture of your family was taken?”

  Zachary steadied himself on the table. Thinking back was dangerous. It could open a whole floodgate of memories that would quickly whirl out of his control. He tried to keep narrowly focused on the night of the Christmas party and not let his mind slip to Christmas Eve, a few nights later.

  “I think it was a company Christmas party. For my dad’s work.”

  “They might have kept a historical archive of some kind.”

  Zachary nodded. “Yeah… I guess they must have.”

  He’d never gone looking himself. If he had, maybe he’d already have had that picture. Maybe others. Maybe even social network pictures his siblings had posted of their growing-up years, so he could find out how they had done and whether their lives had been as traumatic has his, or whether they’d had good lives and grown up happy in stable foster homes.

  “That was really amazing,” Pat told Mr. Peterson. “I’ve always known you could talk to anyone, but it was really something to see you connecting with him.” He smiled proudly.

  “I dealt with a lot of damaged kids when we were fostering.” Mr. Peterson met Zachary’s eyes and gave a sad smile. “Deep down, they all want the same thing.”

  Zachary tried to swallow the lump in his throat. Mr. Peterson had been the one constant through his rocky growing-up years. The one place he could go for acceptance and a shared interest. When he was with Mr. Peterson, he wasn’t a broken kid anymore. He was a photographer. A friend. Mr. Peterson was someone he didn’t have to prove anything to or be anyone but who he was.

  “You were sad when you had to stop fostering,” he said. “You should get back into it… or Boys and Girls Club or another organization that mentors kids. You’re so good at it.
”

  “Unfortunately… I still don’t think we’re to the point where gay men are accepted in organizations with access to children. Even an old guy like me is still seen as a potential pedophile, just looking for my next victim.”

  Anger flared in Zachary’s chest. He’d experienced his share of predators in foster homes and institutions, but Mr. Peterson had never been like that. “That’s not fair. You’re really good with kids and you’d never hurt one of them.”

  “In today’s world, even a pat on the back is interpreted as a sexual advance. You’re not allowed to touch kids. Hugs are out of the question. Kids with disrupted lives need physical touch and reassurance, but they’re barred from getting it.”

  Kenzie was allowed to join them at the table. There were still police everywhere, but without any actual drama going on, the other spa customers and employees were going back to their own conversations.

  “Hey,” Kenzie smiled. “Everyone okay?”

  “Kenzie,” Zachary motioned for her to sit in the fourth chair. “This is Lorne and Pat.”

  Everyone nodded and exchanged handshakes.

  “I’ve heard so much about you,” Kenzie said. “I’m glad to finally meet you.”

  Mr. Peterson smiled. “I could say the same. Good to actually meet one of Zachary’s friends.”

  Zachary’s face heated. While Mr. Peterson had always made it clear he was welcome to bring anyone along with him on visits, Zachary never had. Except for Bridget. Lorne had met Bridget at the wedding, and there had been one or two visits in the time they’d been married. But in spite of Bridget being polite and friendly to his surrogate father, Zachary hadn’t felt comfortable mixing those two lives.

  “So…” Pat looked at Zachary and Kenzie, his brows down slightly. “How did you two happen to come here? For that matter, how did your friend know that we would be here? It wasn’t just chance, was it?”

  Zachary scratched his ear. “Uh… no.” He turned his phone back on and slid it over to the space on the table between Pat and Mr. Peterson so they could both see the threatening email with Mr. Peterson’s face crossed out.