The Uninvited

by F. P. Dorchak

  Tiger stared back at Harry with weary, bloodshot eyes. “I know you don’t believe me, but I didn’t lead anyone into anything. At least not that I know. I’ve already been through this with you folks, the cops—everyone. I have nothing more to say. I’m just....”

  Tiger paused. He could see his interrogators were annoyed, confused. One side wanted him up there, the other didn’t. Can’t please everyone.

  Tiger sighed, dropped his head into his hands, then ran his hands through his matted hair.

  “... I’m just... tired. I want it all to just be over. Whether or not I die, doesn’t matter. I just want to be done with this... thing... this... life.”

  “Why do you say that?” Benét asked.

  Tiger looked up to her, incredulous. “Why, so I can start over, again,” he said, “do things right for a change.”

  The suits chuckled among themselves.

  “Mr. Tiger,” Harry said, “or whatever your—”

  “That is my real name.”

  “When this is over... there’ll be no starting over for you. It’ll be the death penalty.”

  Now it was Tiger’s turn to chuckle as Gordon and Benét set to arguing. Tiger stared at Harry, allowing the wind to wash over him, through him—grow stronger, for it was still there, echoing hollowly in the recesses of his mind.

  Waiting...

  “Mr. Gordon,” Tiger said, smiling, “and I really don’t mean to be disrespectful, believe me, but you know as well as I about what I’m saying, don’t you? Hai? Harry Gordon san? Dore kurai kakarimasu ka? Mata itsuka o-ai dekiru desho.”

  Gordon, who’d been leaning across the interrogation table at Tiger, ready to no doubt lay into him again, suddenly shot back to an erect position, a mixture of fear and incredulity on his face.

  2

  Kacey once more found herself sitting in the gallery beside Sheila as the trial continued. She looked to the disparate group of people gathered here. What had brought them all to this one place and time? Were they the equivalent of ambulance chasers? Nothing to do at home, so, hey, let’s go on down to the courthouse and see us a hangin? Kacey’s gaze met Banner’s, and they nodded to each other. Banner. Genuine tough guy. Vietnam vet turned P.I. Must have had an interesting life. Now, he was just a quiet guy living the quiet, small-town existence—until one of his best friends met the wrong end of an angry blade.

  And to her left, Detective Tom Fisher. Now, this was interesting... how could she find him physically attractive, yet also be attracted to the woman she was presently holding hands with? Bisexual? As Sheila left her hand for her Blackberry, Kacey looked to her hand. She’d been holding another woman’s hand while her husband and daughter were up north wondering about her. None of this made any sense. None of it. And a ring from nowhere that seemed to have an emotional importance to both her and Sheila? A mass murder that involved a bunch of seemingly unrelated suspects? What the hell was going on, and how did she find herself in the middle of it?

  Then there were Mark’s voice mails. He never would have found her had she had her wits about her and kept her name out of the paper—or better yet, used a pseudonym. How stupid was that? Had she wanted to get caught?

  And now Mark was all hot on the trail to come on down to

  (see us a hangin)

  see her. Great. She was hoping he’d gotten her letter by now, but more importantly... she’d left him a message. That had been hard to do. She’d hung up on the first attempt. Her mouth’d opened but nothing’d come out. She’d froze. But he hadn’t been there to pick up, anyway, so she’d again tried, after she’d let her anger drain out of her—an anger with which she was quite surprised by its intensity—this time left a message. Calm—a little shaky, perhaps—but calm and collected. She said “hello” to her daughter, told her how much she missed her, apologized profusely, and then left a little white lie: that mommy was on a reporting assignment, and when things had worked themselves out (“worked themselves out,” that had been the phrase she’d used), she’d come home.

  What a laugh.

  And she was far from making any decisions about returning home. She had to make up her mind one way or the other. Sheila... or Mark and Emily...

  So, she’d left Mark a message. Honey, she’d started, closing her eyes and realizing she’d use the endearing familiar by habit, Honey, I’m not right yet. I’m still... confused. As much as I may want to return, I haven’t straightened things out in my head, yet, and I can’t return until I do—do you understand? I can’t have you and Emily coming down here in search of me—that won’t make anything better and might actually make things worse—do you want that? I’m so volatile right now, I’m not sure how I’d react, and I really don’t want to make things worse. Please, please, stay there; don’t come down. Give me my space... I need to do this, to see it to completion. I promise, once I make up my mind, I’ll let you know. I’ll be open and honest, one way or the other, and if I choose to return, I know we’ll need to do some serious talking, counseling, but... just not now—okay?

  That had been her message before she’d been decapitated by the beep. Once she’d started talking she found she’d wanted to keep talking... to spill her guts. And the familiar emotion did begin to weasel its way back in. When she realized she was talking into a machine she’d help Mark buy, in a house they’d both bought, in the kitchen they both made dinners and love in, well, the tears just didn’t stop—after she’d hung up.

  Why was life so damned hard?

  Why couldn’t answers to problems be easier? Problems are what they are, but shouldn’t the answers be easy?

  And, most of all—where had Mark been?

  It was late at night, why hadn’t he been home? Why hadn’t he picked up the phone? True, when she’d initially called, she’d dreaded him being there, but once she got into the call, she’d hoped—prayed—he’d pick up, so she could hear his voice and actually get real-time responses, maybe even put her daughter (Emily, use her name, dammit!) on the phone so she could wail and cry and tell them both she would be on the next plane home...

  “This ought to be interesting,” Sheila whispered to Kacey, bringing her back to reality. Without looking to her, Shelia added, “You okay?” She turned to her, regrasping her hand. “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m fine,” Kacey whispered back. Just fucking fine...

  3

  Mark had taken the day off to sit before their TV and watch the Safe Harbor murder trials live on HLN. Kacey’s call had been too much for him to deal with. He’d been in the bathroom when she’d called, and when he’d rushed out and heard her voice... realized it was her talking... he just couldn’t bring himself to pick up the phone.

  Would it have done them any good?

  Would he just be a babbling idiot on the line and ball his brains out without getting in a word edgewise? Or would he unleash a fury of pent-up rage upon her? He didn’t know, and his body didn’t give him a chance to find out. He just stood there, Emily sleeping soundly in bed, unknown to her, her mommy on the phone. But what probably more than likely kept him from answering was her pleading with him to not come find her. To stay put. To not come. To allow her her space.

  Good God, how much more frigging space did she need?

  So, as much as a part of him wanted to pick up that phone, the emotional pleading for him to stay away (again, the words “not come,” “not” this, “not” that), and the ensuing verbiage that offered possible resolution to this whole, damned mess, all kept him at bay.

  And maybe just the pure, unexpected shock of having her on their phone late at night had also paralyzed him.

  He’d frickin’ woosed out.

  Perhaps a greater man would have been able to pick up the phone and bitch her out... but not him. He always did the right thing; was the one who gave up personal fun and excitement to change diapers and take on a desk job. He was the one who did what was necessary to change his lifestyle into that of a family. He was the one who’d caved while his wife had not.
She’d kept the adventure... and maybe that was part of what kept him from answering. She had guts. The guts to not give in, to not sell out. To stand up for what she believed in whether or not it was right or hurt other people’s feelings.

  He wasn’t like that.

  He actually cared about what others thought. Always did the right thing. When skydiving, did so conservatively. Scuba dived well within dive limits. Did everything by the book. Even when they had Emily. He’d read all the books, did all the research. Changed his mindset. For them. The family. It was no longer about him or her. It was about family.

  But Kacey had been able, however angry it made him, to stick to her guns in the face of adversity... of pissing him—and their families—off, and do what she wanted to do... and that was gutsy, and maybe, just maybe, that’s what really kept him from answering the phone: he was afraid of facing her.

  Of facing all the guts she’d had that he hadn’t.

  4

  “Your Honor,” Defense Attorney Frenchie Benét said, “We call Billy Williams to the stand.”

  Billy Williams glanced nervously about him as he came to the stand. Sworn in, he was directed into the box. He continued glancing nervously about him as Benét approached.

  “Mr. Williams, would you kindly state your full name and occupation for the record?”

  Billy shifted uneasily in his seat, cleared his throat, and answered, “Billy Raymond Williams. I’m—I was—a software engineer.”

  “Your first name is not ‘William’?”

  Billy shook his head. “No, ma’am, it’s ‘Billy.’”

  Defense attorney Frenchie Benét nodded pensively approaching the jury box. “And what do you mean by ‘software engineer’?”

  “I design complex operations systems for military space applications.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “No ma’am, I cannot. It’s classified.”

  “And you hold the proper security clearances and need-to-know?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What is that clearance?”

  “Top secret.”

  “I see. And is it safe to say that the government performed a detailed and thorough background investigation on you before granting you your clearance?”

  A little more at ease, Billy nodded. “Yes, ma’am. These clearances are very expensive and thorough. They don’t just hand them out to anybody.”

  “I see. So you’re telling this court that the government—our Federal Government—deemed you a low-to-nonexistent security risk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you. Now, Mr. Williams, what can you tell us about the events of March 10th, at approximately one a.m.?”

  Here, Billy again grew nervous, fidgeting in the box. “Not much.” He looked down to his hands.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I mean that it’s largely a blur to me. Foggy.” Billy shifted and twitched. “I... I don’t recall how I got here... or anything about entering that community. I-I have... vague images of entering homes, but all I really remember is being arrested.”

  “You have absolutely no recollection of your actions—of committing any crime?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “Objection!” Harry Gordon said, shooting to his feet. “We are not trying Mr. Williams on his memory, but on his actions.”

  “Overruled,” Stoker said.

  “Were you read your rights?” Benét continued.

  “I was.”

  “Did the police tell you what you were charged with?”

  “Murder.”

  “How did you respond?”

  “I was in shock—still am. I couldn’t believe I’d committed any kind of murder.”

  “Why is that, Mr. Williams?”

  “I’m what might still be called a conscientious objector.”

  As Kacey scribbled notes, she gave a surprised look to Sheila, who also looked to her.

  “I see.” Benét let the words hang in the air. “So... you’ve never hurt nor killed anyone?”

  “My parents were both heavy into the peace movement and raised us accordingly. I even hate killing ants or bugs.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Williams.”

  Benét returned to her seat. Prosecutor Harry Gordon got up from his table and approached Billy, who grew increasingly agitated, finding it hard to look Harry directly in the eyes.

  “Mr. Williams, it is true you work for the military?”

  “I’m subcontracted to the government, yes.”

  “Does your work find its way into satellites and other applications.”

  “I can say that my work has many applications, most of which I cannot discuss.” Billy again shifted in his seat.

  “Is it safe to say that your work finds its way into battlefield conditions, where men and women—possibly children—are killed?”

  “I create software, sir—”

  “There’re no software packages in fighter and bomber aircraft? Spy satellites? Equipment used to gather intelligence, to kill and maim? To allow others to do the same?”

  Billy grew silent. Looked to his feet. “I design software, not bombs—”

  “Answer the question, please.”

  “Yes.”

  “So, as a conscientious objector—a pacifist—your work is, in essence, more than likely used, all or in part, to help hurt or kill... whether or not it is in the defense of our country.”

  Billy gritted his teeth. “It could be.”

  “Now, were you or were you not found inside the home of Fran and Jeffrey Hubble, on March 10th of this year, at approximately one-twenty-five a.m., in the Safe Harbor retirement community, covered in blood, and holding a bloodied—”

  “Objection!” Benét argued. “This information is already a matter of record!”

  “Overruled,” Stoker replied.

  Billy nodded. “That’s what I’ve been told.”

  “Oh, right... because you can’t remember,” Harry said, spinning around and returning to his table. “But, correct me if I’m wrong,” he said, grabbing a folder, which he waved before the witness stand as he returned to him, “don’t you have a good memory? I mean a really good memory?”

  “Objection! Your Honor, Mr. Gordon has already pointed out we’re not trying my client’s memory!”

  “Mr. Gordon?” Stoker asked.

  “Your Honor, I am merely pointing out Mr. Williams’ own words. My direction will shortly come to light, if your Honor will allow.”

  Stoker nodded.

  Gordon placed a sheet of paper before Billy on the witness stand railing. “I have here Exhibit D. Mr. Williams, do you recognize this?”

  Billy winced as he leaned over to examine the document.

  “What is it?”

  “My résumé.”

  “Could you turn it over and read for us—”

  “I know what it says.”

  “Could you please enlighten this court as to what it says, then... verbatim?”

  Billy shifted in his seat like a cornered animal.

  “It says... ‘I possess a unique trait that would greatly benefit the company and national security.’”

  “And what would that trait be, Mr. Williams?”

  “A photographic memory.”

  “A photographic memory.

  “Let the record show Mr. Williams correctly recalled the phrase in question—to the word.”

  Harry retrieved the résumé and returned to his seat.

  5

  “Mister Magruder,” D.A. Benét began, “do you consider yourself a good man?”

  “Yes.”

  “A kind man?”

  “Yes.”

  “An honest one?”

  “I do.”

  “And,” Benét said, turning to the jury and smiling, “even though not gifted with a photographic memory, a fairly decent one?”

  Nervously, Paul Magruder answered, “Ah, yeah, pretty good. I guess.”

  “Now, can you explain to us where y
ou were and what happened in the early morning hours of March 10th?”

  Paul Magruder shifted in his seat on the witness stand. “Well, I can’t exactly say where I was up to a certain point—”

  “Why is that, Mr. Magruder?”

  “Because... I don’t recall it all.”

  “Why not?”

  Magruder paused before answering, fidgeting. “I... I don’t know. It’s like it was all... a haze—until I ended up here.”

  “In Sunset Harbor?”

  “In jail.”

  “And do you know why?”

  “No.”

  “Does it scare you?”

  Magruder nodded. “Yes.” He glanced toward the jury.

  Benét stood directly in front of Mr. Magruder.

  “Mr. Magruder, in your estimation, did you commit the crimes attributed to you on that aforementioned night in March?”

  At this point Magruder grew highly agitated.

  “No! I did not! I am absolutely not a murderer!”

  Benét raised her hands in a calming gesture. “Please, Mr. Magruder, it’s okay. Relax.”

  Magruder calmed down, but remained obviously edgy.

  “There’s no way I could have done any of those... things. I’m just not the killing kind.”

  Benét nodded. “So, you’re telling us that you don’t feel you’d committed these murders, you don’t know how you got there, or what you were doing there—just that you found yourself in jail at the end of the night—morning, early morning?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Mr. Magruder, were you administered a polygraph—”

  “Objection!” Harry said, “inadmissible except by stipulation! I’ve heard no such—”

  “Overruled, Mr. Gordon.” Judge Stoker said, “whether or not they are, in this particular case I am quite interested in the outcome. Proceed, Ms. Benét.”

  Benét nodded. “Again, Mr. Magruder, have you been issued a poly?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “The results?”

  “I was exonerated.”

  The court room erupted into agitated commotion. Kacey and Sheila exchanged looks.

  “Order in the court!” Stoker demanded, slamming his gavel. “Order!”

  “Thank you, sir. I have no further questions.”

  Harry approached Magruder.