“No, Uncle T. I’ve been clean for a month.” Max rubbed his arm again. “I met a faith healer named Amos Anderson. He got me clean.”
“A faith healer?”
“Amos Anderson told me to have faith in him, and he ran his energy right through me. It was a powerful experience. I haven’t used any drugs since. I haven’t even wanted to.”
Hunter waited for him to continue, and possibly explain that he was high on LSD when he met the man, but Max only waited in the uncomfortable silence.
His loose clothes covered his skinny frame, but they couldn’t cover his sunken cheekbones. This was not the promising young man that Hunter remembered.
“Why come to me for work, Max?”
“It’s hard to find employment when you’ve had problems with…” Max drew in a deep breath. “When you’ve got our family history.”
“I understand.” Hunter nodded and placed a hand on Max’s shoulder. “Come upstairs into the office. I’ll find something for you.”
Max shook his head. “Not an office. I can’t go in there. I’m not good in enclosed spaces.”
Hunter stared at his nephew, finally seeing his eyes, the sadness evident.
Some people are born into a life of turmoil, some achieve it all by themselves, and others have it thrown upon them. For Maxwell Hunter, it was all three.
When he was fourteen, Max was the best-looking kid in school—the perfect jaw, the square shoulders, the flowing black hair. He had the infamy of being the grandson of a serial killer, and his fellow students were in equal parts attracted to him and petrified of his presence.
With his family’s past came intense pressure, and the weight of anxiety built until he couldn’t take it anymore.
When he was offered a hit of heroin after school from some of the older kids, Max found his escape; his retreat. He thought it was so cool, something to be proud of, a badge of honor to wear, but rarely does a person escape the white powder without addiction. When he was high, when he was buzzing, he felt free of the pressure to perform, and free from the pressure to meet his father’s high expectations. His need for an extra hit grew every week, then every day, then every hour, until it was the only thing he could think about.
Before his father, Patrick Hunter, knew what was happening, his only son was already deep in enslavement to the artificial high.
As a single father, Patrick tried everything to save his son, but nothing stopped the spiral. Nothing stopped Max’s need for another hit, another moment of escapism. Their lives fell into a cycle of addiction—the more pressure that his father put on him to quit, the more he needed to escape that pressure, the more he needed another high. Patrick tried his best for the boy he loved, but little did he know that he was only pushing him further away.
When he hit his lowest point, Max disappeared. Ran away. Walked the streets. Did whatever it took to get the next hit.
That was over twelve months ago.
“I can wash your car.” Max nodded towards the almost spotless black BMW. “That’s got to be worth a twenty. I’ll do a good job, Uncle T. Make it sparkle.”
“We can do better than that.” Hunter nodded, pulling out his wallet. “Remember how you were always good at sneaking behind people when you were young? You were the ultimate hide-and-seek champion. I need you to do that again. I need you to track someone on the streets.”
“I’m good at that. The streets are my world now.” Max smiled, rubbing his dry hands together. “Who am I following?”
Hunter checked over his left shoulder, and then the other. No other cars. “His name is Robert Sulzberger.” He took a pen and small notepad out of his left pocket and scribbled a note on a piece of paper. “This is the address of his rented apartment, and his website, so you can find a picture of him.”
“What am I looking for?”
“Anything, or anyone else that’s following him, or lurking around. Any hint that someone is playing him. It’s for a case I’m working on, and if someone is setting him up, then they’re going to be keeping close tabs on him.” Hunter stared at his nephew. “And look out for anyone that looks like a killer.”
Chapter 25
The wind whistled through the cracks of the tall door as the woman stepped away from the dull northern sunshine into the subdued mood of the church. The candles flickered, the artificial lights were turned down to a dull tone, and the stained glass windows presented a soft yellow glow along the pews.
The Roman Catholic Church was not only grand in its stature, but also its presence in Chicago. Old St. Pat’s Church had stood by as Chicago developed, standing proud as its citizens looked for peace amongst the chaos. The church had stood strong during times of depression, fire, religious freedom, and abuse scandals. It was a place of worship, but also a place to ask for forgiveness.
The woman avoided the main door of the church; instead opting for a back entrance that led her to the calm area surrounding the confessional booth. Whether it was the cold in contrast to the outside warmth, or the presence of something more, a shiver ran up her spine as she stepped inside.
As she walked through the dimly lit hall, confused and disorientated by all the religion, she noticed a priest waiting patiently on a chair, resting in quiet calm with his eyes open.
“Hello, my daughter,” he said in a slow drawl. “Please, come in. You’re welcome here.”
There weren’t many places that she felt welcomed.
Uncomfortably, she stepped closer to the priest. The building felt damp, and she felt the dampness seeping into her skin, seeping a sense of religion into her as well.
“Hello, Father.” She bowed her head in respect. “I don’t know if I’m in the right place.” She brushed her hair over her ear. “I’ve come to confess my sins.”
“Please, sit down.” He opened his hands to her, gesturing towards the end of one of the long pews. “Tell me what’s troubling you, my child.”
The woman rested gently on a wooden seat, treating her surrounds with delicacy. Four generations of her family had been through this church, and she could almost feel their presence. Leaning forward, looking at the ground to avoid the gaze of the bearded man in his seventies, she went to open her mouth, but nothing came out.
As a man with time, the priest waited.
“I’ve…” She sighed, staring at the carpeted floor. “I’ve come to confess my past sins, and ask for forgiveness of my future sins.”
The priest continued to wait, acknowledging what was clearly a large amount of effort for the woman to be there. “Would you prefer to go somewhere quieter?”
“I think so.” She nodded, eyes still focused on the floor, and followed the priest until she reached the dark confessional booth; a skinny wooden cubicle with two doors, no windows, and no lighting.
After she stepped inside one of the doors, her eyes took a few moments to adjust. A trickle of light came through a small gap in the door, closed behind her, and a wire mesh separated her from the next booth, reserved for the priest.
“Do I kneel?” She noticed the kneeling pad in front of her. In contrast to the grand main chapel, this booth was small and calm, a place of refuge.
“Only if you want to.”
The priest ambled into his booth on the other side of the wire mesh, almost floating under his gown, providing the woman with the peace and solitude that she desired. Hitching up her business skirt, she leaned her body forward, first coming down on her right knee, and then moving her left knee onto the pad with the assistance of her hands. She couldn’t see the priest through the wire mesh, creating a sense that she was alone.
The thoughts of her childhood, the prayers every evening before dinner, flooded her mind. The moments when she refused to pray—when people shouted that she was a sick child—made her fists clench. Her family was so obsessed with the church and its traditions, but except for Sunday mornings, they weren’t people of faith.
She couldn’t remember the last time she went to church. She couldn’t remember
the last time she had faith in something bigger than her. She couldn’t even remember the words to the Lord’s Prayer.
When her depression snuck up on her, when she found herself alone in the world, she had time to question her mortality over and over again. With all that time alone, she questioned more than she had ever questioned before. Life, or maybe death, caused her to think deeply, and she didn’t like the answers she gave herself.
“I have sinned more than most, Father. I have sinned more than I can remember.” She drew a long breath, filling her lungs with cool air.
“Go on.”
“I’ve killed,” she began. “I didn’t mean to kill, but it happened that way. The last time, it was a young woman. I knew her, but she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s all it was. It was an accident. No, not an accident. Fate. That’s it. Fate. I’ve admitted that to myself now. I’ve accepted that.”
The priest didn’t respond.
“I didn’t want her to die. I didn’t expect that. She was only supposed to pass out. I hit her, but I thought I only hit her hard enough to knock her out.” She paused and looked at her hands, the ones that killed an innocent girl. “There are times when you have to accept your past, and I’ve done that. I’ve forgiven myself. I only wanted to set him up with a woman tied up in the basement. She was supposed to survive. She was supposed to tell her side of the story, and nobody would have believed her. She was too drugged up to remember much anyway. It was all so perfectly planned. She was supposed to survive, and his life was supposed to fall apart. The girl was alive when I left that night.”
It took a long time before the priest responded, “My child, have you told anyone else about this?”
“Nobody else would understand, Father. They would all try to persecute me. But can you understand that I didn’t want to do that? Can you understand that I tried to tie her up, not kill her? She was supposed to wake up in his basement, struggle out of her ties, and yell for help. The neighbors were supposed to find her. Then his world would come tumbling down. My revenge was on him, not her. Do you understand that?”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” the priest replied in a low tone. “But I understand that if you’ve come to ask for forgiveness, you have come to the right place.”
“I’m not asking for forgiveness for that act. No. That was an accident. I don’t need forgiveness for that because the blood is not on my hands. I’m free of that guilt,” she stated. “I’m here, in this church, to ask forgiveness for what I’m about to do.”
“For what you’re about to do?”
“Yes. I’ve dug myself such a hole that the only way out is to turn that hole into a tunnel and keep digging until I come out the other side. People, they’re starting to ask questions. They’re getting closer to me. They’re asking the questions of the right people. And the more questions they ask, the closer they come to me. I don’t want them to come any closer. They’re already too close.”
“Forgiveness doesn’t work in the future. You cannot build up a bank of forgiveness for what’s about to transpire. The Good Lord doesn’t work in that way,” the priest replied. “We all make our own choices, and we must pay and repent for our decisions. If you know your actions are wrong, and you willfully chose that path, then you cannot expect forgiveness. You mustn’t walk down the path of evil. You must choose the right path.”
“You don’t understand, Father. If I don’t do this, then I lose everything. Everything. They will find out who I am, and what I did. His lawyer—he’s already snooping too close to my business. He’ll find out what I did. They all will.” She sighed. “And the only way I can stop them is to get rid of the man at the center of all this. With him gone, nobody will continue to hunt for me. They’ll forget about what happened, resign it to history. I’ll make it clean. Make it so they don’t find me.”
“Are you saying that you are going to murder someone in the future? If so, I must report this to the police. I can’t be an accessory to murder. I cannot watch idly by while someone loses their life at the hands of another.”
Abruptly, she stood. “Thank you for your time, Father.”
After exiting the cubicle, she hurried out into the main area of the church, dwarfed under the large chapel ceiling. Before she reached the main doors, she stopped, looking back to the chapel, back at the altar in all its glory.
“Forgive me, Lord, for I must sin once more.”
Chapter 26
“A package arrived for you.”
As Hunter walked into the office, Esther smiled at her boss, pointing to the box sitting on the edge of her reception desk. The parcel was tattered and faded, in contrast to the clean and sleek office. In the two months since they took on the Sulzberger case, they’d received numerous threatening letters, all with varying degrees of danger.
With the trial due to begin the next morning, the case pushed through the system by the prosecution, the letters and phone calls had been coming in thick and fast. Whenever their office took on a big case, they could almost schedule the delivery of letters. First, it started with media requests, then came the letters of outrage, and now, packages with no return addresses.
Arriving like clockwork.
“I thought we might’ve made it through this trial without a threat,” Esther stated as she stood up behind her long desk. She peered over the two computer screens on her white desk, looking at the package that rested on the coffee table. Next to the entrance to the lawyer’s office was a comfortable three-seat couch, an almost fluorescent green indoor plant, and a wooden coffee table made from the carved slab of a Californian Redwood—a gift from a grateful client. “We were so close to making it through this one. If only this threat were delayed by a few days; it would’ve been a record for us on a big case.”
“Are you sure it’s a threat?”
“There’s no return address, and it’s the day before a huge trial. I’d bet your house that it’s not a love letter.” She walked around her desk, coming closer to the package.
“That’s nice of you to bet my house.” Hunter smiled. “What’s in the package?”
“I’m not sure yet; I thought I should wait for you to arrive first. The delivery person wasn’t one of the usual guys. He looked kind of rough, too, like he’d spent the night sleeping on the street. He was missing a few teeth and had the sort of skin that made him look twenty years older than he probably is. I had to watch him walk out to make sure he didn’t steal anything as he left.”
“Good luck to him if he decided to steal anything from you.”
Esther Wright had a history of fighting. She’d spent most of her teen years as an awkward, gangly girl, outcast from the popular groups at school. She was picked on for her clothing style, height, and voice, but when one girl cut Esther’s hair as a prank, her father dragged her to self-defense classes.
There, she found acceptance.
Her love for fighting grew and grew, and she was once crowned female underage boxing champion of Illinois, but she tried to keep that a secret now. Most potential boyfriends didn’t appreciate the fact that she could beat them up with the snap of her fingers.
Hunter moved cautiously towards the box. With the trial due to start the next day, he didn’t have the time to pull open letters, but he was wary.
“Is there a problem?”
“I can’t remember ordering anything, and there’s no information on the outside of the box.” Muscles tight with anxiety, he picked up the small box and put it to his ear. “At least it’s not ticking.”
“I’m pretty sure most bombs don’t tick these days. This isn’t the eighties; you know?”
“I’ve always thought of myself as MacGyver. If this were a bomb, I’m sure I could use your hairclip to defuse it.”
“You think of yourself as MacGyver? No way. MacGyver was sexy, smart, brave, tall, funny, charismatic, and intuitive. You’ve only got one of those things.”
“I’ll take sexy.”
“I was going with tall.”
He grinned. “But if this is a bomb, I want you to start calling me MacGyver.”
“I’ll tell you what. If there is a bomb in there, I’ll call you MacGyver, because if it’s a bomb, and you try to defuse it, I’d say we have about sixteen seconds to live.”
Hunter placed the small box on the wooden cabinet next to the entrance, away from Esther, and slowly pulled back the tape to open it.
He had never received a bomb threat before, but the thought was always in the back of his mind. He formulated a plan—grab Esther, run for the door to the office, then to the fire escape. Not much of a plan, but it was his way to calm the nerves.
It’s not heavy enough for a bomb, he reasoned.
He moved the top flap, looking inside.
“There’s nothing here.” He searched the box. “Who sends an empty box?”
“There’s a note,” Esther pointed out, coming closer to look over his shoulder.
Reaching in, Hunter pulled out the small note handwritten on a white piece of paper. He slowly unfolded it.
‘Robert is a criminal. He betrayed his own. If he doesn’t pay in court, then I will make him pay. If you continue to defend that scum, then I will make you pay. Drop the case now, or pay the price.’
“Looks like it’s from one of the people that hated him in politics.”
“Or from the person that set him up.” Hunter’s statement was flippant. He looked inside the box again. Nothing else. “It’s not too bad though. We’ve had far worse threats here.”
“Are you going to call the police?”
“There’s no need.” He shook his head. “I don’t think it’s a serious threat. Besides, there’s no actual risk here. How’s the person going to make him pay? Via credit card? Perhaps PayPal?”
“I think it’s designed to be a physical threat.” Esther smiled. “But at least it’s not as bad as that six-page letter those hippies sent us when we took on the Dampier murder case.”
“Ha!” Hunter laughed. “It was only once I’d read through to page six that I realized they were the ones that broke into my house the night before.” He took a deep breath, looking underneath the box for any clues. “There’s nothing to worry about here. It’s only an idle threat. If they wanted to really threaten us, then they would have done something real—perhaps sent us a photo of the office.”
Power and Justice Page 14