“Mama, help is on the way. Papa is here.”
She does not waver. She does not go weak. Her fingers turn white from the force of her grip around my forearm.
“What is it? What are you trying to tell me?”
Papa’s voice calls out. Loudly. “Let’s go, child.”
I face my Father.
Behind me, a release.
In panic, I turn back to my Mother. Her eyes focus on Papa. And not with love as one would expect. Not with love or forgiveness. Mother’s eyes burn with heat. Hate.
I wait for her chest to rise. I count the beats. I wait for the lavender, purple and orange colors to dance. To sing. But they don’t.
One, two, three…
They have stopped dancing. I stop counting. I reach up and gently close Mother’s eyelids.
“Now!” Papa shouts, this time louder, urgency rattles in his voice.
Papa, my beautiful white angel.
Purple clouds hover, momentarily hiding the setting sun. A cool breeze rustles across the red dirt floor. I catch a chill. Goosebumps break out like a wild rash all over my legs and arms.
Mother…
She passes by me in Spirit. Past Papa, past the cottonsilk tree, past the whispering shadows, past her tortured past and flies free. Full of freedom and fierce independence. Out and over the abandoned terrain she soars, high above the parched, cracked land, higher still than the carrion circling overhead, waiting impatiently to feed upon her dead body.
Her final quest, to chase after the fiery sunset.
My omen is prophetic.
I am a Prophet, even at my young age.
Mother’s body lies empty. Still. Silent. Past Papa, past the doorway, I peer into a sky soaked with blood, and in that frozen moment, I too take flight. A part of me becomes one with the land, my land. Lifeless. Part of me dies with my Mother.
My Mother’s keeper…
“Take me, Papa,” I say without feeling. Emotion is something detached now. Something removed. As distant and as out of reach as the horizon. I cradle my small hand in his large fist. Papa pulls me outside toward his white man’s engine.
I never look back.
In all the confusion, I forget to cry…
Friday
7:52 AM
Fredericksburg, Virginia
14
When Harry Wright made the decision to be alone, he traveled to a sacred place. Interesting, it should be located so close to the Medical Center, a quick five minute jaunt by car. In no traffic. Nestled alongside the Potomac River’s edge, his special spot carried a lifetime of memories, dreams, disappointments and, more recently, despair. Even so, Harry continued to venture here. And remember.
On clear days, he can look out Susan’s window, located on the seventh floor of the hospital and see it. Out there. Patiently awaiting him and his return. Not to sound morbid, but when Harry dies, he wants his ashes to be scattered here. Why? He can’t explain it. There’s nothing fancy about the place. In fact, it’s a far cry from any park, the Battery, or even the seaport. It just holds something. Something special.
Standard park benches line the winding cement pathway. Distributed here and there are trashcans. During the season, an assortment of mobile, fast food trucks popped up and parked alongside the street. They did a gangbuster business, hustling their wares in the humid, Summer heat.
Harry parked his car in the empty lot. He strolled over freshly mowed grass toward the water. He inhaled the air. Intoxicatingly fresh. Crisp. The arrival of green buds blooming on the birch trees trumpeted Spring, its glorious arrival in full miraculous progress. Soon, his place (Harry could get very territorial) would be jam-packed. Everybody would be dressed up, or dressed down, in his or her new Summer swimwear, negotiating prime river front property.
“To everything, turn, turn, turn…
There is a season, turn, turn, turn…”
He sang silently to himself.
Morning sunlight filtered in and out of low threatening clouds. There could be rain.
Of course, Harry forgot his umbrella.
His quiet refuge, not far from the main highway, had been his sanctuary. He discovered the place by accident, returning home from one of his many travels. He couldn’t recall what struck his fancy. Was it the water? The grassy slope connecting the small two lane highway? Or the freedom he felt, that first day, returning fresh off a case that prompted him to stop and stand firmly on the wooden deck and unite with God and his glorious horizon? For whatever reason, he chose it. And, still did. Even though he now shared it, yearly, with millions of people. To Harry, it was his. Whenever his Spirit gauge sunk below half a tank, whenever he needed some quiet time all to himself to think, just get away from the world, be alone, like today, he’d return.
The actual structure had changed dramatically throughout the years. But the sense of serenity was constant and the river always seemed to welcome him back.
Runners were out early, keeping a steady stride in their pastel-colored jogging suits. Every now and then, a person brushed past him, picking out property, ready to explore the world through the eyes of The Washington Post or the latest bestseller. From open paper cups, the fresh roasted smell of coffee lingered, strong and steamy in their wake. Everybody wanted a kiss from the sun. Destroy the shroud pallor of winter. Sun kissed!
Today, Harry came to cry.
He could be anonymous here. Nobody knew him. Nobody cared to know him. On occasion, when the children were younger, Harry would bring them here. Susan loved stopping by on the way home from Fairview Beach. They would scuff along the sandy boardwalk, hand in hand, shuffling their feet across the burning cement. They would buy the kids single scoops of rainbow flavored Italian gelato, sit on one of the many park benches and watch the sunset lazily set over Coppertoned shoulders. All they discussed was the future, tomorrow…
Well, tomorrow came. And quickly. All the children were grown now. Nancy, their youngest daughter lived in Phoenix with her husband, Terry and their two adorable girls, Justine, age seven and Sandy, age five. Nancy had her hands full, raising the girls and balancing a challenging teaching position at the University. To Harry, those two young ladies were the most precious grandchildren in the world. Of course, he was prejudiced. And then there was Thomas, their oldest son who stayed on in D.C. The perpetual bachelor. A lawyer now, he represented an international commodities firm out of Boston and was trying to break into the entertainment business. Why? Harry didn’t know. He was a handsome boy, quick-tempered and fiercely competitive. Thomas was having the time of his life. At his age, Harry was probably worse. Harry had softened some with age.
The family had gathered back in town this week. Not for a wedding, or a graduation, or a ceremony, although their family had had more than their share of joyous celebrations. No, they were getting together on a more serious note. Susan was dying.
One day, she’s fine, vibrant, full of piss and vinegar, and the next, she’s losing a terminal bout with cancer and playing with a dreadfully disadvantaged hand. Harry wasn’t prepared. How could he be? The warrior male believed he would be the first one to go. “Selfish, to the end, you men,” Susan would say. And she was probably right. But, Harry intended to keep on being selfish. To the very, very end.
Susan and Harry were planning a celebratory vacation in honor of his pending retirement. They were going to paint the town red. It took some convincing on Susan’s part. Harry had never been the profligate type. He prepared for a rainy day. Susan on the other hand, wouldn’t hear of it and stubbornly convinced him. “This time, Harry,” she said, grabbing his hand from across the table and making dizzy circles in his palm, “we are going all out! Just you and me. C’mon. Whadaya say? Let’s go fucking crazy for once!” Harry remembered the couple seated next to them at the restaurant, a conservative pair in their late sixties, glaring at them with intense disapproval. “We deserve it, Harry.”
God, he remembered the night so clearly. They were dining in one of those fancy resta
urants located in Williamsburg. The Historic District. Harry had reserved a Suite at the Colonial Townhouses. With a fireplace, even. Of course, the dinner had all the trappings of tapping the bottom on Harry’s wallet. White tablecloths, a delicious bottle of red wine waiting for them at the table, something Susan picked out, of course. Waiters prancing about in cumberbunds, white napkins floating across starched arms like matadors. Everything busy and distracting. Perhaps it was the wine. Harry was a Dewar’s drinker. White Label. Neat.
That night could have been New Year’s Eve, the way they celebrated. Instead of Harry wearing his usual boring, gray work suit, Susan insisted he dress up in his wool tweed jacket accompanied by a colorful new tie she’d picked out for him. She practically twisted his arm before leaving the room that night. She wanted everything to be perfect. And should he even begin to describe how ravishing Susan looked? Stunning! Her face was luminous, iridescent in the wavering candlelight. But then again, she had what to work with. Long, auburn hair tousled out of control, secured half-successfully by an overworked barrette on the top of her head. The sweetest and softest of smiles. Susan reminded Harry of a fifteen watt light bulb, warm and pink and so easy to get close to. And, Harry hated to admit it, but he loved it when she cursed. It was just so out of character for her.
Well, he learned his lesson. See what happened when you planned for a rainy day? It showed up when you least expected it too. At that dinner, they had exactly six months left until Harry’s retirement. They had planned to go to Tahiti. They had even bought the tickets. Unfortunately, they would never make the trip. Together.
Harry had already given the FBI twenty two years of their thirty three years together. Which didn’t even include the years he was enlisted in the military. But, Harry couldn’t complain. He loved their time. When the kids asked for advice about enlisting, Harry would be the first to say, “a little bit of intelligence and a whole lot of motivation can go a long way in the military.” It proved well by Harry.
The last few years in the Army, Harry worked for CID (Criminal Investigation Division). And, secretly had his heart set on working with the Bureau after his discharge, preferably the Behavioral Science Unit. At the time, back in the early seventies, that particular unit was undergoing some incredible changes in the technique of investigation. Particularly in the area of violent crimes, which had always held a curious fascination for Harry. Since he was a kid, even. He must have been seven or eight years old when a man from his neighborhood in Highland Park, a suburb of Chicago, was arrested and convicted for killing five women. When Harry heard about the slayings, even at that young age, he was intrigued. What kind of mind could commit not one, but five heinous crimes? Although he didn’t find out the gory details accompanying the deaths until years later, he knew he would be involved in the investigation and in the sentencing of people who mass murdered. With Harry’s military service behind him, an Honorable Discharge in his pocket and two years active duty working with the CID, it made sense the Bureau would be eyeing Harry for possible recruitment. They did, and Harry gratefully accepted and had been with the Agency ever since.
Life had been fair to Harry. To both of them, Susan and himself. Life had been good. Now life was throwing the unexpected monkey wrench into the pot and Harry was pissed off. Angry. Hurt. Susan and Harry had intended on spending many more years together. Hell, they’d planned it, right here, at this park, together on this bench, looking out over this dull and turbulent water. Not only was Harry entering back into the world as a retired older gentleman, but now a widower. Harry. Single? After all those years. Very few things in life scared him, and in his line of work, with what he’d seen over the years, you’d be hard pressed to find something that could, but freedom… that word scared the living be-Jesus out of him.
Freedom.
Clouds moved in swiftly above Harry. He took another breath of damp, spring air and tried not to remember. A few random raindrops fell. Heavy and weighted. He watched the cloud pattern dance, reflected in the green water. He wanted to strike a deal with God, possibly even with the devil.
“Memories are all one has left at the end of a life,” he once heard somebody say. And as Harry stood on the boardwalk, holding himself upright, his legs weak with sorrow and anticipated loss, his futile attempt at arresting his emotions felt twisted and bleak. Stop the mental snapshots of Susan, their life, the years spent together! But, how could he? Really. How could he possibly do that? And, why would he want to?
His cell phone beeped. He reached for it in his front coat pocket and checked the number, hoping it wasn’t the Hospital. Praying that his selfish need for privacy was not ill timed.
Thankfully, it was Quantico. And urgent. And being the workhorse he was, and always had been, and he guessed, always would be, Harry took the call.
Friday
7:42 AM
Battery Park
Charleston, South Carolina
15
You will burn in hell for what you did, you stupid, stupid bitch…
Playing God for a fool can only result in one thing.
Yet, how could I have been so careless? So foolish! What went wrong? How did that little whore escape? I planned it all so well. So tidy. So perfect. Right down to the minute details. To the absolute second.
No mistakes.
The knots, the ropes, the ritual… everything. All of it went flawlessly. No mess.
Or, so I thought.
Then, to wake up this morning and read the papers. The shock! What a surprise to find out the stupid bitch lived…
Well, Angie, “Beautiful Angie”… it’s not over yet.
Now is not the time to belabor the situation. Beat myself up. Shit happens. I must concentrate my attention on my newest Princess. Focus all my energy on my current priority. This one will be different. Definitely.
It had better be…
Trust me, not one mistake. Absolute perfection… all the way. This will send those clowns on a wild goose chase for sure. Guaranteed.
I’ve been sitting on this park bench across the street from her house, inconspicuously watching for almost an hour now. Taking mental notes. Her rich Daddy left earlier. A car service picked him up. He ran out the door with his cell phone attached to his ear. Soon, she’ll be leaving, usually fourteen minutes before the hour, give or take a few. She has a history of being unpredictable, oftentimes running late for her morning babysitting job. I don’t mind. I make exceptions for perfection.
Sixteen minutes before eight. Still, no sign of her.
I grab my copy of the Post and Courier neatly folded beside me. I feast my eyes on the cover page. The headline story reads:
One Dead, One Survives the Grisly Attack of The Mutilator.
The Mutilator?
Couldn’t they come up with something better than that?
It has been interesting though. Sitting here, observing other people’s reaction to the story. It takes on surreal proportions. Nonchalantly, they come, strolling into the park, casually purchasing a paper. As they continue, slowly immersing themselves in the story, their mood changes, and their disposition varies. Some sit down, some hurry off, others just shake their heads in disbelief. They have anything to worry about.
Trust me.
People never know how to respond to fear. Especially in Charleston. Everybody maintains a certain level of southern hospitality. Not to mention superficiality. Keep it quiet. Don’t talk too loud. Not here.
So, in an effort to sell papers, the media -- God bless them -- rattle people awake. Take full advantage of the situation, any situation, target the news into the public’s already television- viewer mentality and scare the living “shit” out of them. Secular to the bone. Everybody’s afraid to go to sleep at night for fear the “boogeyman” might come out and get them. You would think I was camping out in their backyards, waiting for darkness to fall.
It’s not personal in the least. Unless, of course, I choose you…
Back to the paper. Below the h
eadline, taking up the entire left quadrant of the front page is the ubiquitous black and white photograph, which truly turns the entire thing into tabloid. Right out of The Enquirer. Two men, clad in parkas, heroically lift a stretcher carrying the dead girl’s body across a wide gully while rain pelts down upon them. Crowds of onlookers watch on in horror. All very dramatic. It starts the terror train rolling. I’m witnessing the aftershocks now. I can tell the difference. Mothers, who previously allowed their children to run wild, like feral animals, now begin trailing behind them. Everywhere. Like they suddenly care. Young girls, on their way to school, dressed up in uniforms, begin walking together in packs, continually looking over their shoulders. Teenage boys, eager for an opportunity to play at being real men, wait on the street corners, hoping for the opportunity to escort the young women to safety.
Ruin them.
I shake my head. The world is truly a ghetto.
Nothing Sacred (FBI Agent Dan Hammer Series Book 1) Page 11