Absolute Liability

by Jennifer Becton

  “Yes, we got him.” He smiled. “Actually, you got him. He was too injured to get far.”

  “Is he…?”

  “DRT?”

  Dead right there.

  “I killed him.” The words felt odd on my tongue.

  “Yeah, you put that sad SOB down, Jules. You did a good thing.”

  I looked around the room. Back to Vincent. He was still there. I was glad to see him.

  “I think it’s best if we get you to the hospital,” Tripp said. “Let my team finish their jobs. I’ve already arranged things with Helena. You’re staying there for a bit afterward.”

  I thought to argue, but then I realized I didn’t want to stay at my house. I didn’t want to oversee the rest of the investigation or the cleanup.

  That probably makes me weak and frail. I was supposed to bounce up and start ordering people around as if I hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary. As if I hadn’t taken a life.

  Or as if killing a man was a normal part of my day.

  Well, I’m sorry, but it wasn’t normal, and I wasn’t used to it.

  “Bring the gurney over,” Tripp said, gesturing to the paramedic.

  “No,” I said. I might not be able to finish the investigation, but I could at least leave on my own two feet. I raised my chin. “I’ll walk.”

  He nodded. “Okay, come on,” he said, helping me to stand. “Don’t worry about the cat; he’s already at that old lady’s place.”

  I was glad Tripp had taken care of things. Glad I didn’t have to think. He put an arm around my waist and steadied me as I walked down the hall.

  As we passed, Vincent turned and regarded me with the same expression I’d seen when he was watching his son out on the dock that morning. A mixture of longing and regret. I wondered what he was thinking.

  But then we were outside and in the ambulance.

  I came home from the hospital a several hours later and stayed at Helena and Tim’s house for three days. I’m ashamed to admit I spent a lot of the time asleep, but I had a good excuse: I’d been shot.

  On the first day, Helena poked her head into my room and said, “Your family is here. Do you want me to send them in?”

  My family was here?

  After the previous night, I thought all capability of shock had been removed from my spirit, but I suddenly felt a little burst of anticipation. I sat up in bed.

  My family was here.

  Together.

  The little girl in me was overjoyed, but the pessimistic adult side of me knew the next few minutes would be awkward.

  Our whole family hadn’t been together in years.

  Well, what the heck. “Sure,” I said. “Send them in.”

  They came into the room softly, and my mother and sister piled onto the bed and hugged me. My father stood at my feet.

  “Oh, Sissy, are you okay? I was so scared.”

  I returned Tricia’s hug. “I’m fine, I think.”

  My mother leaned forward and tucked some hair behind my ear. “I just can’t believe my baby got shot.”

  “I can’t believe it either.” And I couldn’t believe I’d shot someone else. Of course, I’d been trained at the police academy to use my weapon in the course of my duties. I knew I’d been justified in the use of deadly force, but they also teach that the aftermath of a shooting can be traumatic, even for trained individuals. I had really hoped I would never have to deal with it.

  My mother was staring at my bandaged arm with a look of concern, so to reassure her I added, “The doctors say my arm will heal with barely a scar to show for it.”

  “Was it scary?” That was Tricia.

  “Yes.” I didn’t elaborate. Tricia didn’t need any more fear in her life, and I didn’t want her to know much about the night before. I didn’t want to remember it at all.

  “That man who broke into your house should be shot,” my mother said, her face red and her expression hard.

  I stared at her and then looked away. Apparently, she hadn’t heard the whole story.

  “I did shoot him,” I said quietly. I was almost too frightened to look at her face and gauge her response, but I did anyway.

  My mother didn’t disappoint. Her formerly hard expression was gone, and in its place was shock. Her mouth gaped, and her eyes fluttered. I thought she might swoon.

  Tricia tightened her grasp on me and whispered, “Oh my God.” I couldn’t tell if her voice registered shock, horror, or pride. Maybe all three. “You really shot someone?”

  “Is he…is he…alive?” my mother asked.

  I blinked at her. “No. He died.”

  Everyone fell silent for a moment, absorbing.

  Then my father patted my foot. “I’m proud of you, girl.”

  I met his eyes. I was both proud of myself and horrified at what I’d done. I didn’t know how I felt.

  “Oh, Rick! What a thing to say. Can’t you see she’s upset?”

  “She’s not upset, Celia.” He looked at me. “Well, she shouldn’t be. She did what had to be done.”

  “Still!” my mother said. “It just sounds so crass.”

  “I’m taking care of the cleanup at your place. Don’t you worry about a thing,” my father told me.

  “Thanks, Dad,” I said, meaning it. It was a relief to know I’d never have to see that awful scene again, except in my mind.

  Through the lens of last night, I could now look back with more understanding on what had happened to my sister all those years ago. Her trauma was great and it affected her greatly. My trauma was so fresh that I had no idea how I would react. Would I try to forget by any means within reach the way Tricia had? Would I, like my mother, lose all touch with reality? Or would I shut down like my father? According to my genetic makeup, I could go down any of those roads.

  I took a deep breath and looked at my mother. She wasn’t happy. She wasn’t even on the path toward it. My sister was hovering somewhere just above rock bottom. And my father was still mostly shut down.

  I didn’t want to let myself be like my family.

  I had to keep my focus, keep my life on track. I would think about justice. I would find Tricia’s rapist. That would be my goal.

  I glanced at my sister. I wanted to tell her about the break in her case, but I knew it was not a good idea. At least not yet.

  While Tricia remained blissfully ignorant, I would turn my attention to the potential suspect in her case. I would think only about that lead, small though it was. But through it, I would discover his identity and location, catch him, and help Tricia prosecute him.

  That meant I wouldn’t have time to think about what had happened to me. I wouldn’t have to remember the moment of frozen terror I experienced when I realized there really was someone in my house. I wouldn’t have to think about the way it felt to see the intruder’s gun flash hot and bright in the darkness. I wouldn’t have to remember what Ron had looked like as he’d fallen from the wounds I’d given him.

  I wouldn’t have to think about that at all.

  While I was at Helena’s house, I did a good imitation of Scarlett O’Hara, not thinking of unpleasant things.

  But that could not last.

  On my first day back home, Tripp showed up, looking worse than I did, and he didn’t stay long.

  He sat on the sofa. “As it turns out,” he said, “you were right. Raleigh and Gerwalt had been working together on the water treatment facility’s fraudulent policy and on several others. They knew they were about to be caught, so it became every man for himself. Raleigh apparently covered his tracks by changing the inspection reports and making it appear that Sam Dwight had performed those inspections. But Gerwalt panicked. He came for you and got Amber instead. And that’s when Raleigh got roped in. He was probably responsible for setting up Roger McKade. The items taken from your office were discovered in the lockable tool chest in Raleigh’s garage, so he had access to all the data required to frame him.”

  “Who killed Amber?” I asked, desperately wa
nting to know which man was responsible for her death.

  “This is where it gets tricky,” he said, as he ran a hand through his already mussed hair. “We know that Gerwalt abducted her. His prints were on the stolen Altima and we found the location—a brick storage building on some property he owned out in the country—where he held her. Ballistics proved that the cowboy action revolver was used to shoot both Amber Willis and James Gerwalt, but only one set of prints was on the gun: Gerwalt’s.”

  “Raleigh’s weren’t there?”

  “No, but other physical evidence suggests that Raleigh did kill him. His prints matched one of the sets taken from Gerwalt’s car, so we can place him inside the vehicle. The crime scene techs theorize that the cowboy action revolver was in a plastic bag when Raleigh used it to kill Gerwalt, which explains both the shard of plastic in the bullet we pulled from the car and the fact that Raleigh left no prints on the gun itself.”

  “Raleigh was careful about his prints.”

  “Not careful enough,” Tripp said. “Still, we’re not sure who physically pulled the trigger when Amber was killed, and we’ll probably never know the truth, but they were both guilty. They planned that part together.”

  Tripp stayed a while longer, and we talked about anything other than Ron Raleigh. Then, after a quick hug and an admonition to keep my chin up, he left.

  When I was alone again, I stood up on shaky legs and crossed the room to look at the gifts Helena had arranged on my kitchen table. Tripp and the MPD had sent yellow roses with a card that was part get-well-soon and part congratulations on taking down the bad guy. My mother and sister had left a bouquet of wildflowers, and Southeastern had sent a huge vase of carnations and a fruit basket. I guess they felt especially bad. Surprisingly, my father had left a potted gerbera daisy. Bright pink.

  I reached out and touched the daisy. All the other flowers would wither, but I decided to plant this one in my yard. Right by the front door. I’d look at it every day and remember that I had survived. I was alive, and I would make my life count.

  I probably would have stood there all day if it weren’t for Maxwell, who demanded that I get my head back in the game and bring him some tuna.

  After serving Maxwell, the only thing left was to go upstairs.

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I had to face the room sometime. I climbed the stairs slowly, made my way down the hall, and peeked into my bedroom.

  It was all fresh drywall and carpet and bedding, but I still smelled the coppery tang and the gun smoke. I still saw Ron on the floor in his own blood.

  I forced myself to walk further into the room. To focus on what was actually there and not on the past.

  I studied the new carpet, tasteful and brown thanks to my father. I admired the fresh paint, a soft khaki green. And only when I got around to the spot where my bookcase should be did I realize it was gone. In its place were several cardboard boxes filled with the books that had been in it.

  I closed my eyes. I loved that piece of furniture. Had it been damaged beyond hope of repair? Had my father gotten rid of it already?

  I turned on my heel and went to the garage to see if he’d stored it there, maybe planning to haul it off later.

  I opened the garage door to let in the afternoon light and found that it was raining outside. Large drops fell from a bright sky, and the smell of freshly soaked asphalt hung in the air. It was a pleasant, clean smell, and I inhaled deeply.

  The bookcase was sitting in the space on the far side of my Explorer where I stored my cycling equipment, and I approached the piece of furniture slowly, as if it would reach out and grab me. I circled its perimeter, noting three sections of bullet damage.

  I stood there staring at those gouges in the wood for I don’t know how long, until I heard a vehicle pull into my driveway. I knew the sound of that engine. I knew it was Vincent. I didn’t bother to look.

  I just stared at the bookcase as he came beside me and set down the duffle bag I’d left at his place.

  “It’s ruined,” I said as I pulled a strip of wood off the side. “It’s all splintered. I don’t think it can be fixed.”

  “No,” Vincent said. “I don’t think so.”

  “It was the first thing I bought when I got out of the academy.” I remembered going to the store determined to fill my new apartment with beautiful, homey things. But furniture is expensive on a cop’s salary, so I came home with one piece. The mahogany bookcase.

  I’d filled it with books and youthful hope. I was a cop. I would solve my sister’s rape. Right all wrongs. I would save the world. That’s what I thought then.

  But what was the result of all those hopes?

  A tear rolled down my cheek, and I swiped it away. “This is stupid.” I was mourning a piece of furniture.

  There was a long pause in the conversation. I thought perhaps Vincent had gone back to his truck to wait until I pulled it together, but when I looked over my shoulder, I saw that he had actually stepped closer.

  I was losing it. I hadn’t even noticed him move.

  “It was your first,” he said.

  Somehow I knew he wasn’t referring to my first major purchase.

  “Yes.” It was the first time I had killed a person. “And I pray my last.”

  He didn’t say anything, so I peeked at him over my shoulder again. I don’t know precisely how I knew—his face was somber as ever—but I knew he understood.

  He understood the strange thing I had done. I had taken a guilty life to save my own innocent one. But I was the one who felt guilty. Guilty for the death. Scared of the whole incident. Yet proud that I had survived. I managed to be nervous, jumpy, and easily startled, but I felt safe at the same time. I didn’t know how to process the conflicting emotions. I just wanted to go back to normal.

  Whatever the hell that was.

  “When will this go away?” I asked.

  “It takes time. Your body has to purge itself of the adrenaline. You’ll have nightmares and be moody. You’ll have to stay away from caffeine. It keeps you buzzing and you don’t need any more adrenaline in your body. Drink plenty of water. That will help.”

  Vincent’s advice sounded almost scientific, detached. It made sense. It was nice to be reminded that this was normal. I wasn’t losing it. At least not completely.

  He continued, “Your mind will replay the event. It’s a survival mechanism. You’re processing what happened so you’ll be ready for the next crisis.”

  I looked at him. Another crisis like this? I certainly hoped not.

  “And you’ll wonder if you could have done anything different.” He said this with a touch of sadness in his voice.

  “I already do.”

  Vincent gestured at the bookcase. “He fired six of his seven rounds. Three went into the dry wall.”

  I swallowed hard at the memory of the flashes of light and the bullets whizzing overhead.

  Vincent pointed at the damage to the corner of the bookcase. “Three hit here.” The splintering began at roughly chest height and descended lower.

  “If you hadn’t fired, you would have died.” His voice was grim. He stepped in front of me and looked at me hard. “Raleigh decided someone was going to die the night he came into your house, Julia. You made sure it wasn’t going to be you.”

  I nodded, but tears slipped down my cheeks anyway. I didn’t bother wiping them away this time.

  I just stood there crying until I felt Vincent’s fingers wrap around the back of my hand and his thumb press into my palm in a show of solidarity.

  He began to remove his hand almost immediately, and as I felt the contact slipping away, I realized with surprising urgency that I needed human contact, his touch. I was desperate for it. That desperation hit me like a charging horse, and without thinking, I threw myself into Vincent.

  I’m not sure which one of us was more surprised.

  I wrapped my arms around him, and he hesitated only a second before I felt him return the embrace. His shirt wa
s damp from running through the rain into the garage, but still, he was warm and comforting.

  I’m not sure how long I stood there and sobbed into Vincent’s shoulder, but it was probably an embarrassingly long time.

  After a while, my sobs quieted, and I realized that he was whispering something, his lips gently brushing my hair as he spoke. His voice was pitched low, his tone calm and even. I let myself sink into those words, let them caress my soul. “I’ve got you. You did the right thing. You’ll be okay.” He repeated these phrases like a litany.

  The tears slowed and then stopped. I felt weak and headachy, but better. I was still in Vincent’s arms.

  I took a deep breath, and, feeling foolish, I stepped away from him. “I’m sorry.”

  He shook his head. “It’s fine.”

  I turned around and looked at the bookcase once more. The memories felt a lot less powerful this time. Perhaps Vincent’s words had permeated my psyche, and I was able to contemplate the possibility of moving on despite the awful things that had happened.

  What awaited me upstairs was new carpet and new paint, but in a larger sense, what was before me was the prospect of a new life.

  I would always carry the burden of Amber’s unwilling sacrifice on my behalf, and I would always carry with me the life I had taken to save my own.

  But I knew right then that I was going to do whatever it took to restore my soul, and that meant continuing my quest to repair the damage that had been done to my sister and the rest of my family. Only then would I be free to choose my own path.

  I could travel the world, buy a pony, become a chef, or follow whatever whim I desired. Or I could just lie on the beach all day with a man to apply my sunscreen on demand.

  I glanced at Vincent. He was an intriguing candidate for my fantasy cabana boy.

  I smiled. He’d been studying me, and I could feel a new pull between us. I knew he’d never settle for the role of cabana boy. He’d want more. He stepped forward and then stopped, as if he wanted to take me in his arms again but had decided against it. Something in the vicinity of my heart seemed to awaken, and I just wanted to slide into him.