With a Tilt of My Hat

by Mary Matuskey

  Immediately she received his reply. Fike instructed her to leave Steven in the car with Heather. Have an officer guard both sides of the patrol car and meet me on the left side of the cabin.

  Jones opened the car door, and got out. “Heather, see if you can get this guitarist to talk the truth. I’m headed to the cabin; keep us posted if he tells you anything,” Jones told her, and then shut the door softly.

  * * * *

  I was shocked when I saw it was Heather sitting in the car when the officer pushed me inside. The lady I ran into at the coffee bistro near the waterfront on my first day in Seattle. She was such a sweet lady; she even went to one of my performances at the Blue Waterfront. The same Heather with whom I conversed with while we stood under a streetlamp after my gig.

  “Steven, I am so sorry to see you in this situation. Handcuffed and accused of murder,” Heather said.

  “I didn’t murder anyone. I don’t have any information regarding these cases. And I can’t imagine my brother George raping and killing people.”

  Heather took a moment, and then stared into my eyes with what looked like genuine sympathy. “So far the evidence against George is pretty concrete.” She began her questioning, “Could you please tell me about any tragedy that may have occurred in his life?”

  The tears streamed down my face, mostly I think from pure exhaustion than from memories of George. I collected my thoughts. “When my brother was fifteen he told me about a brutal incident he witnessed when he was nine. George took a walk to the convenience store; he wanted to buy some candy. It was dusk, you know, the minutes before darkness. After his purchase, he went behind the store to take the alley path home. That was when he heard scuffling sounds and two men talking. George stopped and peered around the wall. He said the two men were fighting with a lady. The lady’s mouth was covered with tape. One man was pushing her against the brick wall and raping her. The other man was cutting her arm, one little cut at a time. He was laughing at her while she bled. When the man finished his time with the lady he turned and slugged his friend in the face, causing the man to drop his knife. That’s when the man who was raping the lady picked up the knife and slashed his friend’s face.

  After that happened, George ran home terrified. He explained the incident to our parents. They called the police, but by the time the cops arrived to the alley, no one was there. The cops questioned the storeowner but he hadn’t heard anything. The investigating police found blood on the alley wall, however there was no evidence tying it to what George saw. That’s what I remember anyways, so it was never spoken about again.”

  Heather touched Steven’s leg with a caring gesture. “Do you know what provoked George to tell you this when he was fifteen?”

  “No, I really don’t, maybe he was sad, or maybe he wanted to protect me. You know, open my eyes to some of the harsh realities in life. Nothing was ever mentioned about it again. George explained to me that as he grew into a teenager and the years passed, of seeing that rape, that he became more excited when he thought of it. He said he was afraid of himself because he liked the sexual acts. I remember that I didn’t quite understand what he was talking about, but the expression on his face was kind of weird. George hugged me and told me to be safe before he left my bedroom.”

  Silent, we both sat for a minute, which allowed my words to become reality.

  Oh, my God, please, not George. “But yes, now I can grasp the idea that he may have done these killings,” I spoke in a whisper.

  “Steven, I want to believe you had nothing to do with these murders, or that you were involved with your brother’s actions. Now that we understand George’s behaviors and what the detectives are up against, would you feel comfortable going into the cabin to speak with him? Perhaps you could bring up a happy childhood memory about the two of you playing together into the forefront of his mind. Take him out of this danger by calming him down with brotherly conversation in hopes of persuading him to surrender.”

  Chapter 68

  Jones finally arrived and stood ready and armed beside Fike and their team. No changes; George still remained in the same chair cleaning his rifle. A handgun lay on a side table. Bullets had spilled onto the table and floor.

  “He just keeps rubbing the barrel of the rifle with a blue cloth,” Fike told her.

  “A familiar looking blue cloth, at that,” she said.

  “I think it would best for Steven to try to convince George to put down the gun and come outside. Our sniper in the tree has an easy shot. Captain Michaels’ orders are to shoot George in his leg first. I really would like to get this guy alive and have him endure a long painful incarceration in a mental facility,” Fike said.

  Jones texted the officers who guarded the car and told them that it was time to bring Steven and Heather to the cabin. Upon arriving, Heather updated them as to Steven’s mental state along with the information he provided regarding George’s life. She felt confident Steven could handle the situation.

  Fike was apprehensive about Steven’s role in all this, but unlocked the handcuffs and wished him the best. He then gave Steven a brief summary of what was expected of him. “Don’t remain in close proximity to your brother. If we sense any danger we will have to take the shot. Do you understand what I am saying?” Fike asked.

  I nodded and made my way towards the front door. I knocked softly not to startle George too much. There was no movement, no sound heard. “George, hey, George, are you home, brother?”

  After one more knock, the door opened. George reached out to touch my face ever so gently. I felt like I was in a movie and it was playing in slow motion. He rubbed my cheeks, then my hair, and then held onto my shoulders, happy to see me.

  “May I come in?”

  George stepped aside, allowed me to enter the cabin, and closed the door behind me. George still didn’t speak. He just sat back in his chair. He picked up the rifle and continued rubbing the barrel. I felt sickened by how distraught my brother appeared. How dirty his clothes were, his face scratched and red with windburn. He appeared to have aged a good ten years.

  “Hey, George, I miss fishing with you, brother. We sure had great times at the lake. You always caught the largest bass, and bragged about the catch until you caught the next one. What do you say about the two of us going to the lake today? I am much older and wiser now, my brother, so I’m confident my bass will outweigh yours.”

  Tears rolled down George’s face. Sounds of crying came forth.

  I forgot about the orders Detective Fike gave me, and moved closer to comfort him. This was our caring way when we were young boys. There was tenderness that quickly transformed into wrestling on the floor, like many siblings.

  “Steven, I just want to thank you, man, for your comfort, I really need your comfort and familiarity,” George said.

  I froze, sickened to my inner core at what he said. I was in pain, and disgusted as the memories surfaced to the forefront of my mind. Those awful abusive acts, forced upon me in my late teens.

  “Comfort,” I said out loud. However, I cautiously moved further away from him. “You George, you and your awful friends were the ones who hurt me.”

  I think I’m sick. The fear those men instilled in me every time they abducted me. On that dark damp basement floor and the stench of naked bodies interwoven in sexual play. For months I tried to rid my mind of the evilness that engulfed me. I ran away from home, from my life in Washington! God, it was an awful struggle between that darkness and the light of my music. What were the words those men said to me. No, it was what George, my brother said; needing your comfort, wanting something familiar.

  “I never hurt you, Steven. I just wanted to be close to someone familiar, so I watched,” George said, through sobbing tears. “I told you I needed comfort, I deepened my voice and spoke to you in a low voice. The first time with you, I honestly felt sadness at the sight of you being tormented. I’m sorry, Steven, but feeling that depth of pain is what gives me euphoria in life. Observing a person
struggle from the pain I inflicted upon them fulfilled my happiness. I tried to feel the softness of love but always had a hard time understanding humanity. Why, I wasn’t allowed to feel that emotion betrays me, it’s a void and I’m confused.

  “Funny, do you remember, Steven, how I wanted to be in the military, but I didn’t have the courage to go into battle? I wondered sometimes how I killed people so naturally but was afraid to go to fight in a real war. I respect those soldiers, our American protectors. I wish I had joined the Army. With their structured discipline, and ability to kill, I may have turned out to be a great soldier.” George bowed his head.

  I was horrified and scared of him. I slowly walked to the front door. Tried to compose my posture, and with the energy I had left, I said, “Brother, it’s time to go. Let me walk you out.”

  George stopped crying. He became angry and raised his rifle. His eyes appeared to be dark as tar when he took aim at my head. He shouted, “Leave!”

  I was uncertain what to do, but I was certain I feared him. So, I opened the door, terrified, and stepped outside. I walked one slow step at a time to the side of the cabin, out of George’s view.

  * * * *

  With the door remaining open, the sniper had a clear shot at George. However, George remained frozen, still pointing his rifle at the spot where Steven had stood.

  Fike yelled to George, “Come out. Put down the gun and come out where you will be safe. I promise you will have your comfort.”

  George stood up, stretched his head back and looked upward with a sigh. He grabbed the handgun from the table. He now held guns in both hands, and walked towards the door. In a whispered voice, he spoke to the loneliness around him, “I’m going out like a soldier, without fear or hesitation, both guns a-blazing.” George fired both guns in the air above the officer’s heads when he stepped outside the door.

  The officers had no choice but to shoot for their own protection. Shots fired off from every angle, creating holes at the front of the cabin and eventually gunning down George. His body was literally riveted with bullets when he fell to the ground. George never fired at an officer, though it clearly was his intent.

  When the area calmed, Detective Jones knelt beside George and listened to his final words. He spoke through the blood that gurgled in his mouth, “I am not a soldier, I am a murderer, I want you to know that I did kill those people and I liked it.”

  Chapter 69

  Myrna stroked her hand across Detective Fikes’ back while they danced together to the sound of light jazz music. The promised dinner came through, and it was just as magnificent as she had fantasized for months. Their bodies ground onto each other; his eyes drowned in hers when he kissed her lips.

  The evening flowed like hot oil as they ascended Fike’s staircase and into his bedroom for the final dessert of the night.

  Back in Tillamook, Paul and Joanne packed their suitcases in preparation for a family weekend with Steven and Kari in Washington.

  Elizabeth settled her affairs with the realtor after she sold her main residence. She realized the property was just too large for her to handle by herself anymore. Along with the dark, unwanted loneliness she couldn’t escape.

  She purchased the cabin four houses down from her family one. She’d had her eye on it for many years. It was quaint, almost like an Irish cottage. Vines grew along all three sides, leaving just enough opening to expose the windows. The front was made of brick, and logs accented an arched door. Below each window were planter boxes filled with flowers. After living there a couple months, Elizabeth soon regained her happiness. Once in a while, officer Bob visited her and they had coffee.

  I expressed how I felt about George. “The past is past. Let’s renew and grow from this wound, from this ground we once cherished as a family. The love and strength is still here, the breeze of wind can bring hope. For my new family it will be our beginning of only new adventures as we move down this path.”

  Kari and I were married in Tillamook on her family ranch. It was a beautiful small ceremony with less than a hundred guests. Bryan was my best man. We purchased a two-bedroom house in Seattle and made it our primary home.

  Bryan flourished in his career as a marine biologist, and held residence in Cabo San Lucas.

  Kari was pregnant, which made our life complete. She and I enjoyed living part of the year in Washington and part of the year in Oregon. Kari’s parents offered her the guesthouse for her six-month stay while we were all in Oregon.

  VitalWinds continued to perform in Seattle and Portland; the band was currently working on their second music composition, which was soon to be recorded. However, home for VitalWinds remained in downtown Portland, where the hearts of John, Bo Bo, and Steven Gypsy Jazzman soared at the Bygone Era Club. Vibrations of sound could be heard on the streets as their jazz played on.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Mary Matuskey

  Born in the snow, raised in the dust, and thrilled about blood. Mary Matuskey is an intense novelist who draws inspiration from her life of health and family struggles, and blends them with her love of music, romance, oceans, and suspenseful movies.

  Mary grew up in Lower Michigan; severe asthma kept her indoors way too often for a child. Daydreaming and reading kept her imagination well-nurtured. Her family of seven moved to a drier climate, and it was the Arizona desert that set the stage for her to meet the love of her life, raise three musician children, work at a ten year Medical Assistance career, and start a homecare business.

  Unfortunately, her first spark of inspiration to start writing came when her youngest sister committed suicide. She wrote her first novel as a healing tool, which lead to her fiction writing endeavors, and her first published novel, With a Tilt of My Hat.

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