SINS OF THE MOTHER
A CAITLIN BERGMAN NOVEL
AUGUST NORMAN
To the mothers who bandage our wounds, kiss our boo-boos, and help us rise from our stumbles; whether or not we share the same blood, no one can judge your sacrifice.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The writing of this project coincided with the release of my first book, Come and Get Me: A Caitlin Bergman Novel. Therefore, any acknowledgment of the many people behind this title must also include the army of friends, family, and complete strangers behind the first book’s successful release—including the reviewers who took the time to let the world know about Caitlin, the independent bookstores and libraries that ordered copies, and every reader who took a chance on a debut author. Special thanks to David Bell, Lisa Brackmann, Christine Carbo, Simon Gervais, Steena Holmes, Lydia Kang, Gale Massey, Barbara Nickless, and Thomas Shawver for lending your names and reputations by contributing promotional blurbs. In addition, thanks to official publicist Justin Hartgett, and un-official publicists Ruthann Stevens and Tawnya Bragg, for getting the word out at every opportunity; Mystery Ink Bookstore (Huntington Beach, CA), Mysterious Galaxy (San Diego, CA), Barnes & Noble Booksellers (Burbank, CA, Bloomington, IL, The Villages, FL), LA Times Festival of Books, The Story Tavern (Burbank, CA), Books & Brews South Indy (Indianapolis, IN), Sisters in Crime OC (Orange County, CA), & Lit Up OC (Tustin, CA) for hosting events that brought me face to face with readers; the Santa Barbara Writers Conference, the Southern California Writers Conference, Thrillerfest, Magna Cum Murder, & Bouchercon for allowing me to speak on panels, teach, and hang at the bar; the International Thriller Writers Association, Mystery Writers of America (National and SoCal), & Sisters in Crime (National, Los Angeles, OC) for the support and resources; Mystery Scene Magazine, CrimeReads, Criminal Element, Suspense Magazine, the Bloomington Herald Times, the Thrill Begins, the Big Thrill Magazine, the Santa Barbara Literary Journal, Center Grove Magazine, Advice to Writers, Writers Read, KRL News, Michael Bradley, Elena Hartwell/Elena Taylor, PJ Bodnar, Gwen Florio, My Detective Stories Podcast with John Hoda, DIY MFA Podcast with Gabriela Pereira, & the Character Floss Podcast with Maddie Margarita for the interviews, reviews, and ridiculous fun. Every social media post, email, cover photo, and signing appearance made my heart stretch to its fullest, which I’ve been assured is a good thing. I’d be remiss if I didn’t single out Lauren Miller, JC Meunier, Tommy Bechtold, Mike Hughes, Janis Thomas, & Frank Gonzales Jr. for being the loving eyes at that first pre-release appearance, despite the hour and a half drive. Please let me know if you need anyone killed (in fiction).
My career began and continues with the efforts and support of my agent extraordinaire, Eric Myers, who fights for his clients like they’re his family, while maintaining a professional’s critical eye and bon vivant’s flair and style. I’m always honored to sit at your table.
Despite a world in flux, the team at Crooked Lane Books once again helped produce a Caitlin Bergman novel I love, starting with the hard work and dedication of Chelsey Emmelhainz and transitioning smoothly to the helpful hands of Melissa Rechter, with support along the way from Jenny Chen, Terri Bischoff, Ashley DiDio, Madeline Rathle, and Matt Martz.
My friends and mentors from the Santa Barbara Writers Conference also did their part through workshops, critique, and support, including but in no way limited to: Ara Grigorian, Trey Dowell, Chase Moore, Matt Pallamary, Lorelei Armstrong, Avery Faeth, Tawnya Bragg, River Braun, Jenny Davis, Andrea Tawil, Robin Winter, & Grace Rachow. Trey Dowell and Stephanie Gold actually flew to Los Angeles just for a signing, thereby winning the ultimate honor through personal expense … though Chase Moore and Kelly did house them …
This project’s core beta readers gave useful and necessary criticism without destroying my ego. Eternal gratitude to the keen eyes of this novel’s first line of defense: Ara Grigorian, Jeremy Kryt, Derek Miller, Hilary Ryan Rowe, & Rebecca Stevens.
Mentioned twice already, mentor and mensch, Ara Grigorian continues to be both an amazing friend and guide, whether discussing writing or life. Similarly, journalist and author, Jeremy Kryt challenges me to strive for literary excellence, in both prose and concept. Actor and writer Derek Miller, despite the ocean between us, keeps the smile on my face and the dream in my heart.
Screenwriter, forensic specialist, and author of the Coroner’s Daughter series (also by Crooked Lane Books), Jennifer Dornbush, was kind enough to make sure my creepy dead body stuff was accurately creepy. Apologies to her expertise if there are parts that I didn’t clear with her.
The character of Caitlin Bergman began in a screenplay in 2007. While based on several of the strongest people this author has known, the part was written specifically for my college friend—and later Broadway, TV, and film actress, as well as wife and mother—Karen Walsh Rullman. While Karen’s life and problems did not parallel Caitlin’s, I hear her voice whenever I write a line of Caitlin’s dialog.
This novel deals with complex family structures, contrasting the families we’re born into with the families we choose. Unlike Caitlin, my own legal and biological family of Normans, Thoemings, Wensings, Rusnaks, Michaleks, Stevens’, & Burns’ continue to amaze me with their love and support, despite all the F words. As for the family I’ve chosen, which includes iOWest, Second City Hollywood performers, the cast of Opening Night: The Improvised Musical!, cruise ship friends, ADS employees, circus folk, authors, college buddies, and high school friends & teachers; an amazing motley crew continue to reach out and help in ways I couldn’t have imagined.
This novel also deals with religion, and cults in particular. While I consider myself a religious person and attend an organized church on a semi-regular basis, I understand the damage that a malicious manipulation of faith can wreak on the world, especially when coupled with the abuse of cognitive dissonance, as in the affirmation of ludicrous beliefs after they’ve been proven demonstrably false. For research, I turned once again to my personal therapist, Annie Armstrong, multiple documentaries, and several books; most notably When Prophecy Fails: A Social and Psychological Study of a Modern Group that Predicted the Destruction of the World (Festinger/Riecken/Schachter, 1956, University of Minnesota), and Apocalypse Child: A Life in End Times by Flor Edwards (2018, Turner). While informed by those works of non-fiction, in no way should this fictional account be construed as an attempt to downplay or profit from someone else’s traumatic experiences, or to be representative of any existing theology. Recovery from religious zealotry and manipulation, especially at the cult level, should be done under the supervision of trained mental health professionals.
In a similar vein, like Los Angeles and Pasadena, the towns of Coos Bay, North Bend, Bandon, and Coquille are all real locations in Coos County, Oregon, USA, and the sheriff’s department and office of the medical examiner are staffed with real people doing real law enforcement work. In no way is this work meant to disparage their worthy occupations or to insinuate any parallel to the hard-working people in those positions in that beautiful locale. As far as the white supremacy alleged in the area, while Oregon has a fair amount of documented history on that front, sadly that issue still pervades every state in the union, including my home states of Indiana and California.
Finally, this novel, and much of my life, couldn’t exist without my brilliant, gorgeous, generous, and hilarious partner-in-crime; my wife, Rebecca Stevens. The adventures we conquer together make even the most daunting task seem possible—and sexy for some reason. Between the writing of this story and the release by the publisher, we will have brought a son into our household. Of course, little Jamison will face his own stresses, pains, and sorrows as he finds his way in the world. I can only hope that we teach him to laugh as hard—and
love as honestly—as we do, and to always—even when the world seems to be ending—fight for friendship, honor, and the last French fry.
CHAPTER
1
THE WOMAN SELLING Johnny his daughter back had only asked for five grand.
Smart move.
One dollar more and he’d have headed to a hardware store for a tarp, a shovel, and lime chalk.
Instead, the stack of twenties in his hunting jacket slapped against his side with each step down the rough logging road. A lightning strike lit the sky. Thunder rocked the mountainside seconds later, but no rain fell.
Dry lightning. Great.
Fire season didn’t usually affect coastal Oregon, but Coos County hadn’t seen rain in a month, and the Siskiyou forest, less than two hours south, had burnt like a furnace for the last week.
Not that he minded the threat of lightning-sparked wildfire or even trudging uphill in the middle of the night’s asshole, but had this bitch asked for one dollar more, he’d have brought Gunner and Stupid Tom along and taken care of her. Both of those boys were loyal enough, but you didn’t get a name like Stupid Tom ’cause you’d cured cancer. Five measly grand kept the whole thing a solo expedition.
It also meant Johnny’d get Promise back without having to clean some cult nutjob’s blood out of his favorite camo gear.
He left the rough road for the last fifty feet of Douglas fir trees before the firebreak, pulled out his monocular night scope, and swept the road behind him. Nothing but his truck.
He turned back toward the break, a hundred-foot clearing from the base of the hill to the peak, then checked his watch: 12:27 AM.
One minute later, two feminine figures moved from the opposing woodland edge toward the clearing, one guiding the other from behind.
On foot, on time, only two; just like they’d planned.
Pocketing the scope, Johnny reached to the small of his back for his .45 and racked a round into the chamber. He hadn’t killed anyone since guard duty at Abu Ghraib, and never a woman, but if this shit was gonna go sideways, he’d be ready. He tucked the gun into his waistband and walked toward the intersection.
Fifty feet from the clearing, he could see the pair approaching. Again he reached for his scope, but stopped when a flash of lightning showed them clearer. Promise stood in front, blindfolded and wearing bright-orange safety earmuffs. The older woman held a handgun down to her side.
He switched on a tiny flashlight and swung it back and forth.
Lady Handgun did the same.
They faced off at the opposite edges of the firebreak.
“What happens now?” Johnny yelled, competing with a roll of thunder.
The woman swung the flashlight to her left. “Put the money in the bucket.”
The light’s beam revealed a clothesline-style loop of rope strung from a tree at one side of the clearing to the other. At Johnny’s end, a plastic bucket hung six feet off the ground.
The woman lifted one ear of Promise’s earmuffs and gave a command. Promise reached up until her hand hit the rope and caught hold. The woman grabbed the other side of the loop and tugged.
The bucket on Johnny’s end lurched forward a foot. In turn, Promise moved one step closer.
“The money,” Handgun repeated.
“I get it,” he yelled back.
He tossed the pack of cash into the bucket, then yanked Promise’s side of the rope.
Everything moved another foot.
Then another.
A lightning flash cracked through the air, close enough that he could smell the ozone.
Johnny’s eyes went temporarily red, and his ears shook with the latest burst of percussion.
“Let’s get this done,” the woman called.
He tugged hard on the rope again. “Shit would move faster if we both pulled.”
She must have agreed. The bucket lurched forward times two. Now ninety feet remained between Johnny and his daughter.
Eighty-five, then eighty, seventy-five.
Then nothing.
Johnny pulled again, but no tug followed.
“What the hell?”
He let go of the rope, raised his gun, and reached for the night scope. The second the viewfinder met his eye, two bright flares blossomed across from him.
Muzzle flashes.
The bitch was shooting.
He dropped face first onto the logging road and returned two shots, careful to aim away from Promise’s last position.
Hearing nothing further, he scanned the area.
Handgun’s body lay crumpled where the rope loop met a tree. Promise remained in place seventy-five feet away, one hand still on the line.
A new figure, another woman, stood in the middle of the logging road facing Johnny, holding a gun in a practiced isosceles-triangle shooting stance.
Johnny dropped down, happy to eat a mouthful of dirt rather than face the volley of bullets that whizzed past. He shifted left, then fired two more times before yanking the scope up again.
The shooter was gone.
So was Promise.
He sprinted across the clearing.
Fifty feet past the firebreak, the road veered left. He stopped and scoped the area. Nothing on the road. He whipped around, caught the shooter and Promise running uphill through the woods, and started after them. The woman stumbled once, and Johnny saw a glint of light, like a reflection off falling metal.
New lightning, further now, revealed a moss-covered footpath leading over a ridge. Johnny gave it everything he had. No way he’d let his special girl go back to that cult. Two feet from the crest, he kicked something metallic. The shooter had dropped her gun.
He reached down with his left hand.
A jagged, solid object struck his right arm and spun him backward, sending his own gun into a clump of crisp ferns. He grabbed his wounded forearm and backed against a tree, warm blood trickling from elbow to hand.
A woman dressed all in red, maybe fifty or sixty years old, stepped in front of the fallen gun, holding a three-foot tree branch.
Despite the searing pain, Johnny brought both hands up in fists. “She’s my daughter, you goddamned dog.”
The woman pulled the branch back like a Louisville Slugger. “Then stop trying to touch her, you sick son of a bitch.”
CHAPTER
2
CAITLIN STARED AT the mausoleum’s white marble columns and tried to recall the major earthquakes the century-old building had withstood. Northridge in ’94, which she’d missed by two weeks while away at college; Sylmar in ’71, four years before she’d been born; and the hundreds of tiny temblors that rattled the Los Angeles basin on a daily basis.
Either the Abbey of the Psalms had been built well, or the star power that had been laid to rest inside demanded the illusion of unfading glory. Since the cemetery’s biggest names included Valentino, Chaplin, and other actors with credits mostly in silent films, the Hollywood Forever Cemetery received more tourists annually than family members of the deceased. Still, Caitlin’s father had loved the quirky garden spot located less than two miles from the LAPD’s Hollywood Division station, the cop shop where he’d spent most of his career, and had made plans for his interment there years before his passing.
“The good thing about cremation, Slugger,” he’d said, over a bowl of kreplach soup at Canter’s Deli, “is that there’s always room for one more. And who doesn’t want to hang out with Charlie Chaplin?”
Caitlin didn’t need to check a directory or trace the plaques on the walls. She stepped into the Sanctuary of Hope, walked to the fifth panel, and sat on a stone bench.
“Happy birthday, Daddy,” she said, reaching into her bag for the pack and lighter. She hadn’t smoked a cigarette in four years, but her fingers still slipped the plastic wrap off the Marlboro Reds like a master violinist tuning a Stradivarius and brought the lit bit of death to her lips with the same steadied hand.
She took a single drag without inhaling to stoke the fire, then blew the s
moke upward, waving the cloud with her fingers and watching the wispy tendrils ascend to wherever.
“Not much news to report, I’m afraid. Still not married. No kids. No current beau, nor belle, in case you’d made any assumptions.”
Her words echoed in the chamber of polished stone.
“Had a second book come out, and that went well. Still writing for the LA Voice, though can’t say how much longer that’ll be a thing, especially with my newest editor. Paper’s taking a weird direction, and our advertisers are mostly nightclubs, prostitutes, and pot shops. Oh yeah, pot’s legal in California now, so one less thing to roll over in your ashes about. I’m also running a lot—well, more than I was. Up to ten miles a day, when I have the time.”
She extinguished the cigarette on the marble bench.
“Quit these things, of course. I just miss you.”
She took a deep breath and studied her father’s plaque.
Matthew Bergman, 1953–2005, Father and Police Officer.
Rather than the words of the dull brass plate, she saw her dad on the back porch of the West Hollywood apartment they’d had when she was a sophomore at Fairfax High, and she could almost smell his end-of-watch sweat and cigarette smoke merging with the annual jacaranda bloom.
A harsh female voice brought her back to the present. “There’s no smoking in here.”
Caitlin turned and saw a woman in her seventies dressed in old-fashioned mourning black, veil and everything. She slid the open pack of cigarettes behind her leg. “You smell smoke too? Someone must have just passed through.”
The woman’s pursed lips softened as she looked Caitlin up and down. “Dear, do you need help?”
“Help?” Caitlin smiled. “No, just talking to my dad on his birthday.”
The woman nodded, reaching into her purse. “I’m sorry for your loss. I have five dollars.”
It took Caitlin a second before she remembered that she was wearing a threadbare Army surplus jacket over a pair of oversized work pants. Even at nine in the morning, it would look like a heavy load in the middle of July. “Oh, I’m working on a story.”
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