by D. L. Hicks
‘I’m not,’ Joseph said, moving a step closer. ‘You know it – I can feel it; you know I’m telling the truth. I was wrong, I admit that, but wrong by neglect, nothing else.’
‘No!’ Jack yelled, stopping Joseph from closing the gap any further. ‘It’s not true!’ In an instant his frustration boiled over, and he finally cracked. Tossing Charlotte to one side, Jack lunged from the top step, the knife raised high above his head, poised to end Joseph’s life and reclaim his own.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
The shots rang out in quick succession in the night sky, cracking through the still air, orange flashes bursting out of the darkness.
Jack’s body crumpled, landing on the steps with a sickening thud. The bullets had ripped into his torso, and he was dead before he hit the ground. He rolled down to the bottom of the stairs, blood oozing from his wounds and pooling around him in a deep crimson arc.
Charlotte ran to Joe and held him in a deep embrace, sister to brother. He squeezed her tightly, his tears splashing down onto her bare head like raindrops.
At last, the nightmare was over.
CHAPTER 42
Her secrets revealed – and her case closed – Charlotte knew she had to take some much-needed time off, not just to recuperate from her treatment, but to process everything that had happened. The following day, exhausted, nauseous and still confused, she headed into the office one last time at Dash’s request.
She looked like shit, and felt like it too.
‘Morning all,’ she said softly as she entered the squad room, forcing a smile. Her colleagues paused at their desks, a mob of meerkats studying the intrusion – some with eyes full of pity, some curious, some even with a hint of disgust. Word had obviously got around that the serial killer had been her boyfriend.
Think what you want, fuckers.
She crossed the floor and rapped on Dash’s office door. The memory of the last time she had entered this room made her grimace, and she hoped she wasn’t about to walk in on anything untoward this time.
‘Yep.’ The voice was full of authority and impatience.
She opened the door.
‘Ah, Charlotte … Come in.’ Dash sat at his desk, pen in hand, scribbling furiously on a document as she entered the room. ‘It’s been crazy around here, as you’d expect. Please, sit. How have you been?’ He got to his feet and stepped around the desk, reaching out to hug her awkwardly. Taken aback, Charlotte remained still, arms by her side like a wooden soldier, her cheeks reddening. Finally released, she sat, relieved.
‘I’m … okay I guess,’ she said, resting her hands on the edge of the desk. Then, recalling the last time she’d been in here, she shot them back into her lap, resisting the urge to reach for some sanitiser. ‘As well as could be expected given the circumstances. I’ll just collect some of my things and tidy up before I take off for a while.’
‘Good, good,’ Dash said, averting his eyes. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’ll miss your professionalism around here, but we both know you need the break. Your health needs to be your main priority.’
Charlotte nodded. ‘Just go easy on J.D. – he’s the best you’ve got now I’m out of action.’
‘You’re preaching to the choir,’ Dash said, rising from his chair and offering his hand – a much more fitting gesture. ‘You look after yourself, Detective. Don’t rush back, but when you’re ready, your desk will be waiting.’
‘Thanks, Boss,’ Charlotte replied, shaking his hand. ‘Where is J.D. by the way? I need to say goodbye.’
‘In the soft interview room,’ Dash said. ‘Just cleaning things up with that Ben Willett.’
After putting the cardboard box of personal items on the back seat of her car, Charlotte approached the interview room. Squinting, she pushed her face up against the door, her right eye against the peephole. The fish-eye lens took in the entire room. The two men sat on opposite sides of a scuffed desk, one clearly distraught, his face blotchy with tears. J.D. sat before a computer, his fingers poised over the keyboard.
After a short internal debate, Charlotte took the bull by the horns, and opened the door. She poked her head into room as both sets of eyes swung her way.
‘Sorry … Um, Detective Darken, could I borrow you for a minute?’
Before J.D. could reply, Ben shook his head, his eyes moist, a half-baked smile emerging on his tired face. ‘I’ve seen this in the movies. Isn’t this where you tell him some vital piece of evidence and suddenly I get arrested?’ He sniffed, running the back of his hand across his nostrils. ‘I didn’t do it, I swear.’
Charlotte grinned. ‘It’s nothing like that – you’re one of the good guys, aren’t you?’
Ben shrugged. ‘Who even knows what a good guy is these days?’
They left him alone in the interview room, his eyes downcast, thumbnails flicking together.
J.D. shut the door behind him. ‘Come here, you.’ He embraced her warmly, a genuine hug. ‘No bullshit now – are you okay?’
‘I’m fine,’ Charlotte said, rolling her eyes, but secretly thankful for his concern. ‘Why wouldn’t I be? Cancer’s got me by the throat, my boyfriend turned out to be a serial killer and my priest brother might be a paedophile … Aside from that, everything’s just dandy.’
J.D. leant back against the wall, shirt collar sweat stained and loose, red tie already dangling despite the early hour. It was more than likely he’d been up all night.
‘What’s that old Meat Loaf song?’ he said, his eyes twinkling. ‘“Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad”?’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I can’t do much about your shitty disease, nor your taste in men, but I can give you some good news. There’s no case against Joseph, Charlotte. I’m just about done taking Ben’s statement in there, and there’s barely enough to even interview your brother, let alone take him to court.’ J.D. took her by the shoulders, her eyes moistening as his words sunk in. ‘With both Jack and Father Watson gone – and no statements from either – it looks like we’re at the end of the road. As for Ben, his recollection of exactly what happened all those years ago is fuzzy at best – nowhere near enough for us to run with, particularly with a historical sexual assault like this one. We know that Joseph was there, but Ben can’t actually confirm he did anything. And there’s nothing at all that allows me to come to that conclusion. Listen, Joseph messed up – he could’ve said something, he should’ve said something. Morally, he’s failed himself, the church and especially those two little boys. But as I explained to Ben, it’s not a crime to work with a paedophile, only to be one.’
Charlotte opened her mouth, but no words came out. ‘You mean it’s over?’ she finally mumbled, lips quivering.
‘It’s over,’ J.D. replied, embracing her a second time. ‘Go home, partner. Relax, catch up on some sleep, make yourself better. You need a break, and God knows you deserve one. Don’t worry – I’ll hold the fort.’ He flexed his scrawny arms, extracting a stifled laugh from Charlotte.
‘Promise?’ she said, wiping her eyes.
‘Promise.’
Charlotte leant forward and kissed him gently on the cheek, her eyes closed. ‘See you soon.’
Waving behind her, she wandered down the hallway and left the building.
No fanfare, no parade.
No looking back.
EPILOGUE
Joseph stood in the rain, the umbrella he had raised against the elements providing him little comfort. The drops thudded onto the material like bullets, pooling before dripping from the edge and splashing onto the muddy ground. The sky above was an ominous grey, murky and swirling and, like most people present, both angry and sad.
Funerals always had a profound impact on him, whether he knew the deceased personally or not, and indeed whether the departed was the most loved person in the community or the most despised. Joseph had come to learn that even the most hated people were saints upon the time of their death; even those who had dwel
led in the murkier areas of society were treated like angels when the time came for them to meet their maker.
Maybe that’s why, he thought. Perhaps we give the deceased the benefit of the doubt here on earth because deep down we know they’re going to get their comeuppance when they stand at the pearly gates awaiting their fate, their life laid out before them.
Every funeral had a story to tell, every life was a gift that had been extinguished – and the grief was real, regardless of the circumstances. Somehow, he had managed to hold himself together on this occasion out of respect and admiration, but it had been one of the most difficult days of his life.
To be expected to preside over this funeral in particular was almost beyond him. Still, he had a job to do and his pact with God ensured that he would work his way through it all somehow – in his line of work, refusal was not an option.
The crowd was sizeable without being massive. Strangers had travelled some distance to pay their respects, and Joseph watched the awkward exchanges between distant family members with curiosity, as always. In times of grief, they banded together as human beings, but it was inevitable that the scar tissue from previous encounters always lurked below the surface, never dissolving completely, even in times of intense sorrow.
The service had been brief, and afterwards, Joseph had wandered among the crowd, a handshake here, a hug there. Condolences were traded, reassuring words of comfort shared by those still raw with grief, trying in vain to process their emotions. Death always threw up so many questions, but when it came so unexpectedly, the impact was even sharper. When so many unanswered queries hung over the extinguished life – when deep, personal secrets had been kept hidden from everyone – the wound their loss inflicted was even more excruciating.
None more so than this.
The congregation had followed the hearse on foot for the short walk to the nearby cemetery, a swarm of people packed together, umbrellas clashing every few steps. Joseph led the way, the hushed conversations of those who trailed behind him drowned out by the pattering of raindrops.
And so, it had come to this. Joseph now stood in drizzle at the gravesite, a large pile of freshly dug dirt softening beside him, waiting to be returned to where it belonged. Surrounded by people, Joseph felt the support that came with shared heartache, but still felt totally alone. Drawing in a deep breath, he perused the expectant sea of faces, each hoping for a miracle he could not produce.
‘I thank you all for coming along to farewell Charlotte,’ he began, the arm of his umbrella tucked under his elbow as the wind buffeted. The mob of mourners around the gravesite moved closer together, a colony of penguins bunkering down against the onslaught. A few stood unprotected from the deluge, the rain running down their faces mixing with the salt of their tears. The large police contingent was unmistakable, most of them in uniforms that sparkled in the frigid air, buttons polished and tunics pressed. They too had come to farewell one of their own, and were doing it in style.
Immense pride welled in Joseph’s constricting throat as he prepared to continue, every fibre of his being not wanting to complete what he knew he had to.
Six months was all it had taken – one hundred and eighty days from that fateful night when Jack Tolbert had taken them hostage. Since that haunting evening, Joseph himself had hardly slept, the recurring nightmares visiting him over and over, the putrid feeling of waking in a pool of sweat now a common occurrence. But the reality was nothing compared to the effect that night had on Charlotte. His brave sister Charlotte – the person he adored more than anyone in the world. She had survived that evening’s events relatively unscathed, or so it had seemed. But as the days and weeks had passed, she had begun to deteriorate, at first gradually, then with incredible swiftness, the beautiful woman she had been dissolving into what Joseph could only describe as a human skeleton, a living bag of bones. There was nothing he or anyone else could do – the cancer had resurfaced and metastasised in other areas of her body including her bones, her lungs and eventually her brain. Aggressive and unrelenting, it had drained every last drop of life from her body.
He had been with her when she passed – holding her withered hand as she drew her last breath and looked into his eyes for the final time. It was a nightmare he had yet to wake from – if indeed he ever would.
‘As the Good Lord himself taught us,’ Joseph continued, his voice booming around the cemetery, ‘ashes to ashes and dust to dust. And so it is, that our sister Charlotte returns to the earth, her spirit again at one in Heaven with God the Almighty. We are forced – albeit with heavy hearts – to bid her farewell, and remain thankful for every day that we were fortunate to have her in our lives, that little ray of sunshine in an all-too-often dark and desperate world. May we all carry her with us from this day forward.’
The coffin, a spectacular glossy dark brown with gold fittings, was lowered into the open ground. Several people broke down in the crowd, sobbing loudly. Joseph looked around, his hands clasped at his waist, and saw grown men – burly police officers who had seen the worst of humanity blubbering like children, their faces screwed up, tears flowing freely.
Many came forward, tossing white roses – as Charlotte had requested – which landed softly on the disappearing coffin. Finally, Detective Darken knelt beside the grave, the last person to pay their respects. He murmured words too soft for anyone else to hear as he tossed not a flower, but a handful of dirt into the hollow. Rising on unsteady legs, he was embraced by his colleagues and shepherded away.
Having made their peace, the mourners turned, shuffling out of the cemetery gates in dribs and drabs. Joseph farewelled them all, once again hugging most and shaking their hands, until only he and the two altar boys remained. They had been with him throughout the service and the burial, tending to his every requirement, walking alongside him as they had led the short procession from the church down to the cemetery.
Now the three of them made the return trip alone, Joseph towering over his two companions as they strolled along, the silence broken only by the swishing of their robes. Within minutes they arrived at the church, their clothing drenched.
Joseph led them into his chambers, the moisture squelching in their shoes with every step they took. Muddy footprints accompanied them. He paused in the doorway, gesturing his two helpers inside, into the warmth and comfort within.
‘Thank you, boys,’ he said quietly, kneeling down and hugging them both. ‘I appreciate everything you have done for me today – and I know my sister would have too. It really means a lot.’
The youngsters nodded solemnly, their eyes downcast.
‘Now, let’s get these clothes off before we catch the death of cold.’
As the boys began to disrobe, Joseph rose and walked to the door. Quietly, and without conscience, he nudged it shut, sliding the lock into place.
Turning, he opened the cabinet just inside the doorway and withdrew the decanter and three glasses, which clinked together as he placed them onto the waiting coffee table.
‘Anyone for a drink?’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
While writing is a very personal and solitary obsession, getting from a rough story idea to a published novel relies heavily on input and support from so many different people in so many different ways. Publishing a novel of my own has always been a dream, and part of that hope was that one day I would be able to compile this list – my acknowledgements – to thank those who have helped me so much along the way.
First and foremost, a huge thank you goes to my mum and dad, Annie and Col Hicks, who provided me with one of the greatest gifts a parent can give a child: a love of books, for which I shall be forever grateful. Dad was never a huge reader himself but still regularly bought me books that he knew I would enjoy. Mum, in complete contrast, was and remains a voracious reader who constantly passes on recommendations to this day. Throughout my years – from Little Golden Books to Enid Blyton, Tom Clancy to James Patterson, Lee Child, Jane Harper and so many others – stories ha
ve kept me enthralled and engaged, and have had a huge impact on my writing.
To my Year 12 English teacher and all-time favourite, Miss Helen Murphy. In retrospect, ‘Miss Murph’ was one of those teachers you only see in movies: funny, supportive, knowledgeable, endearing and most of all, so full of belief in her students. She gave me an unshakeable faith in my ability to weave a story together, and to express myself on the page in a manner that others might also get some enjoyment from. It’s a testament to her influence that I haven’t seen her for thirty-odd years yet she still floats around in my mind, her big smile and shining eyes cheering me on. Everyone deserves a teacher like that.
To my good friend and fellow writer Jason Erwin. We’ve done it! Who would’ve thought through all those years of NaNoWriMo that our ridiculous dreams of one day seeing a book of our own on the shelf would finally come true? You have played a huge part in this book becoming a reality, and your unwavering confidence that I could reach this point kept me going when it seemed like all was lost. Thank you so much for all your help and assurance along the way, and for always being among the first to read anything I write – and giving such positive and valuable feedback. It’s your turn next.
To all of my friends – both old and new, from school, work and social circles – I thank you all for making those occasional and simple enquiries which helped keep the writing fire burning. Those seemingly innocuous questions meant a lot with a project that was so long-term.
Special thanks to my best mates Jason Lindeman, Phil Yardin and Brett Evans for over three decades of steadfast friendship and support. We have grown up and lived through a lot together in that time, but your excitement with each step of this process has been priceless. To have you guys on my side in life is a true privilege.
Special mention to my friend Melinda ‘Min’ Johnson for her magic with the camera, and her ability to make my author photo lie. It took a lot of laughs, but we got one!