“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You had your reasons. I’m disappointed, that’s all.”
“Thanks, for not making this any harder than it already is. Anyway, he just watched us, and then left. It was the last time I saw him.”
“What makes you think he’s in trouble? Does someone think he had something to do with the murder? Is he in danger?”
“I have no idea. I’m not suggesting anything. I know that it’s complicated; it’s bad. Recently there were two more murders. Wait—I’ll show you.” John left the room and returned with the front page of the St. Louis Post Dispatch. He handed her the paper. “I wish you didn’t have to see this.”
Grace gasped when she read the headline: “Jones Sought for Questioning in Three Murders.” There was a color photograph of James David sitting on a motorcycle.
“I hid this from you. I didn’t want you to know.”
“It says questioning.” She touched the image of her precious son. “It doesn’t say they think he did it.”
“The fact that they printed his picture on the front page says something. The police have done this to get the public’s help in finding him. I don’t think they’d go to all this trouble if they didn’t have strong evidence.”
“He couldn’t have done it.” She said adamantly. “He has a good soul, a sweet soul. Behind the rebellion, he was as gentle and compassionate as his father. He can’t have changed that much. He could never hurt anyone.”
“I agree, but there’s more.”
“More, what could be worse than suspicion of murder?”
“Grace, I saw her. She’s with him.”
She was unsure of his meaning; yet, a cold chill raced down her spine. “You saw her. You saw who?” She asked cautiously. She waited. It felt like an eternity before he spoke.
“The girl, the other child…” John’s words weighed heavily upon him. He sank to the bed.
“You can’t have seen her.” Grace’s voice cracked with fear. “It’s not possible. She is God-only-knows where. How could you have known it was her. When they left, she was just a baby—a baby.”
“It was so strange. You had to be there. The first time I saw her, I sensed something unusual. She seemed familiar, like déjà vu. It wasn’t in her face. She doesn’t look like her mother or her father. After I saw her three or four times, I realized that she walks like her mother and gestures like her father. “The first night I saw her was the night the man was killed. She was a brunette like her mother. After that, she was a blonde. I only knew it was her because of her walk and those striking movements. Grace, I’m convinced it’s her.”
“How could she have found James David? We did everything possible to make sure this could never happen. We spent our life savings. Do you think they know the truth? How did they meet, by chance?”
“A coincidence would be a stretch. She must know something. By now, she’s probably told him. Her mother swore to me if we gave her enough money for the move to California, she would never tell. I never should’ve trusted her. Why David chose her in the first place is beyond me. I have often thought he did it to irritate me. If that was the case, it worked.”
“No, John, he never wanted to hurt you. He talked to me about her. He loved her. In the hospital when he died, she seemed nice. I think she loved him, too. It was just that, after she lost him, she was out there all alone with a baby to feed.” Grace closed her eyes and tried to imagine herself as a single mother. “She made bad choices. She didn’t manage her life very well, but we’ve all done that. If I’d been in her place, I probably would have been bitter and felt deserted. In spite of everything that happened between us, I’ve been fortunate. You were always there. In your own way you accepted James David as your son.”
John gently squeezed Grace. “Now, we must decide what we’re going to do. How are we going to help our son?”
Grace reveled in his embrace. “Darling, do you have any idea how good it makes me feel when you say our son? It feels so real. Maybe we do have a chance as a family. Let’s find him; let’s help him.”
NINETEEN
The bold headline reached out from behind the scratched Plexiglas door of the newspaper dispenser and ripped Deacon’s breath from his lungs. He snagged the heel of his boot in a crack and stumbled into Doc who was just a step ahead.
“Hey!” Doc swung around and caught his arm.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
With a limp hand, Deacon pointed to the headline.
Doc read the banner aloud:
FOUR SLAIN, BIKER SOUGHT
“Four,” Doc’s voice trembled, “there’s no four.” He wiggled two quarters from his jeans and dropped them into the slot.
Deacon whispered, “What does it say?”
“They think you killed another woman.”
“Oh, my, God!” Deacon buried his face in his palms. “When, why do they think it’s me. Why do they always think it’s me?”
“Says here it happened night before last. A hooker was killed in the street, shot in the head with your pistol.”
“That’s impossible. There’s no way they could match my gun to this. It has to be speculation.” He choked. “Besides, Star has my Glock.” The meaning of his own words reverberated through his mind.
“They searched your house and dug a slug out of the wall.” Doc synopsized the information as he read, “Ballistics match. It says she was allegedly shot in cold blood, and no one saw the shooter.”
“I’ve never fired a gun in my house. Star and I were in the motel that night, all night. Neither of us left.”
“Deac, you sure?”
“Are you askin’ if I’m sure I didn’t leave the room, or if Star didn’t leave? I still don’t believe she’s the one,” Deacon argued. “With me, shit, who knows. I’m always doin’ something I don’t remember. Even if I’m not crazy, if one more fucking thing happens, I will be. I swear to Christ, I’m at my limit.”
“You gave her the pistol. If you didn’t shoot the wall of your house, it has to be Star. After I confronted her on the phone, she took off and never came back. How much more fucking proof do you need? You gonna wait ’til they fry you for something you didn’t do, or until you actually see her kill someone before you believe me? The bitch is out to get you. I don’t know why, I just know she is.”
Frantic, they rode their motorcycles side-by-side. Less than a meter separated their handlebars. Deacon continually replayed recent events in his mind, searching for a reasonable solution, an alternative to the obvious. He wished it were all a bad dream.
Doc leaned smoothly into a deserted gas station. Where gas pumps had once stood, pipes and bolts protruded from the concrete. Only a window-height payphone mounted on a short pole and a dilapidated building remained. His engine coughed its last breath. He lifted the receiver from the switch hook.
*****
The connection crackled. Her voice was faint. “Edward, you okay?” Kat asked tearfully.
Doc watched Deacon limp to the back of the station. He must have to pee. He turned his attention back to Kat. “I’m okay. Shouldn’t I be? Do you know somethin’ I don’t?”
“There’s been another murder, a shooting.”
“We know. We saw it in the Post.”
“Edward, is it really James David? They say he’s the one.”
“No, I’m sure he’s not. He isn’t convinced, but I am. He’s always had the opportunity, and he’s so confused. He’s unsure of what he has, or hasn’t done. There’s much more to this than what we know, Kat. Somehow she’s in the middle of this. You should’a heard how she talked to me this mornin’.”
“She who, Star?”
“Star, Bridget, whoever the hell she is,” he answered sickened by the thought.
“Who’s Bridget? I haven’t heard anything from Star.” Kat changed the subject. “Guess what, I remembered where we saw the article about Sodium Amytal. It was in GQ. I found the magazine. It was in an article about Michael Jackson’s cour
t case. They said the dentist gave his own son the drug. After that, the boy began to remember he’d been molested. They said the drug could create false memories. They think the father planted the memories by suggestion.”
“Could Star have given Deacon the junk?” Doc wondered aloud. “Could she have slipped it in his drinks?”
“No, it has to be injected. He should know if he’s been injected. Does he have needle marks anywhere?”
“I don’t know. Have the cops been snoopin’ around?”
“Yeah, they wanna talk to you.” She said. He heard the distress in her words. “Edward, you don’t think they suspect you of anything, do you?”
“No, course not, but Deacon’s my friend. If they’ve been doin’ their homework, they’ve probably found the change in our partnership agreement. They might see that as motive.”
“They wouldn’t really, would they?”
“Deacon did with a little prompting from his so-called girlfriend. Katherine, I love you, but I wish you’d have never brought her into our lives.”
“I’ve thought a lot about that. I’m not even sure how it happened. I just looked up one day, and there she was smiling and talking to me, like we’d always been friends. I thought she was perfect for Deacon.”
“Deacon’s comin’, I’ve gotta go. I’ll ask him about the needle marks, love you.”
“Where you goin’ now, what’ll you do?”
“Don’t know exactly, into town and see what’s happenin’. Maybe it’d be best if we go to the police, and tell ’em what we know. I’m not sure. I’ll call as soon as we decide.”
“Edward, be careful,” she whimpered, “I need you.”
“Don’t worry, hon, Deacon and I’ll take care of each other.” He said assuredly as he drowned in doubt. “Nothin’s gonna happen. This will be over soon.”
Deacon draped himself over Widowmaker like a sloppily added accessory.
Doc faced him, “Deacon, do you have any tracks?” He blurted out.
Startled, Deacon catapulted off his machine like a cowboy thrown from a horse, and landed with both feet flat on the ground. “Doc, what the hell…tracks?”
“You know, needle marks.”
“Where do you come up with this shit? You know I don’t do drugs. The booze is bad enough.”
“Remember the drug that I told you about, Sodium Amytal? The lab found it in your system. Kat just told me it has the potential to alter memories. It has to be injected. Have you had any injections?”
“No, look,” Deacon slid out of his jacket, held out both arms, and twisted them to show his smooth unmarked skin.
“Where else do junkies shoot up? Remember that guy we threw out of the Club for usin’? He used to shoot up between his fingers.”
Deacon held out both hands, and spread his unmarked fingers. Doc scratched his head. “See, Doc, I told you, no marks. The lab must have made a mistake. ’Sides, don’t you think I’d know if someone was givin’ me shots? There would have been some soreness. Come on, let’s get movin’.”
Deacon walked to a nearby trash barrel, and spit out his gum. He pivoted on the ball of his right foot, and started back. He grimaced when his left foot met the pavement.
Doc watched intently as Deacon limped back to his bike. “Deac, where’d you say you hurt yourself? How’d you get that limp?”
A look of understanding flashed in Deacon’s eyes. “I said, I didn’t know. My toes on my left foot have been aching.” He limped to the curb and plopped down.
Gingerly he pulled off his boot and sock. A noxious blast of sweat-permeated leather caused Doc to screw up his nose and draw back. He disregarded the smell, knelt, and took Deacon’s foot in his hand. Between the big and second toe he found an inflamed area and several tiny marks. “Look at that,” Doc pointed, “son-of-a-bitch, needle marks! Deac, there’s only person who could have done this to you.”
He dropped Deacon’s bare foot, and wordlessly returned to his bike and the telephone.
“Now, who you callin’?” Deacon asked as he pulled on his sock.
“Thought I’d check in at the shop and see what they’ve heard. I don’t know what else to do. I’m at the end of my fucking rope.”
A familiar southern drawl answered after one ring. “Dawg,” Doc asked rhetorically.
“Yeah Boss, where ar ya, you awraight?” Dawg asked in his clipped syllable chop.
“I’m okay—is anything happenin’ there? Have the cops been around?”
“Nope, no law. Well, one a th guys thainks thar’s a plain wrapper wif a pig down the block, but who fuckin’ knows? Thar’s weerd shit goin’ on roun’ here. Deac wif ya?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Got a message fer ’im. Some Mexcan broad calt here bout arr or so ’go. She saed ta tell ’im ta come down to the Eads Bridge. She saed don’ be late. Saed he woon’t wanna miss the Rev an Missus. Saed twas gonna be a great show. Saed be thar at five-turty, tanite, shaarp. Slut pissed me off. Fuckin’ bitch saed I oughta fuckin’ laarn ta tauk. So I says, ‘look who’s fuckin’ taukin’, ya stupid cunt.’ Doc, what th hail’s goin…?” The line was dead before Dawg finished the question.
Fear thrashed through Doc’s chest and down both legs. “Deacon, saddle up.”
*****
Star heard the truck’s profound rumble several minutes before the headlights came into view. She stepped onto the shoulder of the highway and stuck her right hand high in the air. She pulled her carefully designed body up, straight and tall, and smiled broadly. She knew she looked fantastic in tight jeans and leather jacket.
The airbrakes hissed loudly as the massive Peterbilt rolled to a stop. Dirty-white chicken feathers protruded from every cage in the tall stacks that populated the long trailer. The condemned birds cackled and squawked loudly. The pressure from the abrupt stop compressed them even more tightly together.
“Thanks buddy,” she said with a sensuous smile as she climbed into the cab.
The middle-aged truck driver grinned. “My pleasure, babe, where ya headed?” Four lonely teeth protruded from his upper lip. “Name’s William,” he stuck a rough, callused hand across the broad console. “Bill, really.”
“I’m Bridget, Bridge, really.” She laughed mockingly.
The trucker laughed innocently. Star made sure her leather jacket hung open. He had a clear view down her black lace tank top. She crossed her arms at her elbows, pulled her shoulders in, and cast her eyes down. Perfect cleavage, perfect breasts, she thought conceitedly.
He seemed to hold his breath for a moment. There was a conspicuous stirring in his greasy jeans. My gift, she reminded herself.
He shifted the truck into second gear. “Where ya headed?” He asked for the second time.
“To the city,” She said seductively, “Central West End, Kingshighway and Maryland, you goin’ anywhere near there?”
“I’m goin’ sort a near there. Hell, I got time,” he said generously. “I’m ahead a schedule, and my log’s hot. That means I’ve been on the road too many hours,” he explained. “If a smoky checks me, I’m busted. I can drop you anywhere you want, so long as I can get my rig in and out.”
“I appreciate it, and I’m happy to help cool off those logs of yours.” Star leaned toward him, gazed into his eyes, and smiled. “I’m sure you’ll be able to get your big rig in and out.”
He followed her directions to the letter.
“Stop just up here. This is my building.” Star was pleased with the look of surprise on his face as they pulled up to the corner of the luxury apartment building. She knew this facial expression well. He suddenly realized, he was dreaming. She was way out of his league. “How ’bout I give you my number. You never know?” She said coyly.
He answered without missing a beat. “Oh yeah, sure, you bet.” He mined a crumpled piece of paper and a pen from the cluttered console.
Star scratched out the first set of seven random numbers that came into her mind. “Here ya go, Bill, thanks for the lift. She int
entionally grazed his thigh with her right hand, twisted, and slid out of the cab.
The uniformed doorman pulled the glass door open and bowed stiffly, a prescribed bend at the waist. “Welcome home, Miss Luna. It is very nice to see you.”
“Thank you, Fredrick. It is always good to be home. I will be going out in about an hour. Please have my Benz brought ’round.” She commanded.
*****
“I wish people wouldn’t drive so fast on our narrow road.” Grace commented to her husband. “I’m always seein’ some poor dead pet. People are reckless.” They sat side-by-side on their front porch reveling in the warmth from God’s burning-yellow eye as it increased the speed of its descent to the horizon.
From more than two miles away, the dark car came into view as it rapidly approached. The vehicle disappeared twice as it lunged into dips in the two-lane county road. Translucent waves of heat radiated from the saturated asphalt and quickly dissipated in the cool air. The speeding car created barely visible ripples as it sliced neatly through the thermal inversion. “Probably somebody lost,” she added, intently following its progress.
“In a big hurry, most likely goin’ in the wrong direction,” John contributed. He held his wife’s hand tightly.
One-hundred meters from their driveway, the navy blue car abruptly slowed and wheeled hard into the gravel. Skidding tires threw pebbles across the lawn.
Startled, the Joneses jumped to their feet.
Heavily tinted windows hid the occupant. Simultaneously, with the cessation of the vehicle’s forward motion, the driver’s door swung open and a tall, brown-haired woman sprang out.
“What the…” the Reverend began.
She did not let him finish. “You know who I am, don’t you old man.” She laughed. “I can tell by the look on your face. It’s lovely to see you both again after all these years, or should I say it’s lovely for you to see me. I don’t remember the last time. Don’t bother inviting me in. We’re not going to be here long enough to sit and visit.”
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