Wings Of The Dawn

by Tracie Peterson

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I think some good things go on and on.”

  “Like your God?”

  Erik smiled. “Yes, for one.”

  Cheryl frowned and looked away. Erik didn’t want to do anything to cause her to put up her walls again, and so he directed the conversation back to her childhood. “What do you remember about your dad from when you were small?”

  The tension seemed to leave her face. “He was a very busy man, but he always took time out for me. He wasn’t perfect. I’m not one of those people who can only remember the good things about a person who’s died. He was often absent and often under a great deal of stress, but he was a good man, and I always knew that if I needed him, he would fly from the far corners of the world to be at my side.” She smiled. “Mother said he loved us best, but that we weren’t as demanding as a new business venture.”

  Erik chuckled. “I’m sure that’s true.”

  Cheryl went on. “He would make most of my school programs and dance recitals, and when the flying circus really took off and we started doing more and more air shows, Daddy would just pack us along and take us with him. That’s how I got to be such good friends with CJ and Curt.”

  She spoke his name again, only this time she didn’t stumble over it, and Erik thought perhaps it was losing its power to haunt her.

  They spent most of the afternoon in discussion, and only after noting that the clock was nearing five, did Erik suggest they call for some Chinese takeout and spend the evening together. Cheryl seemed to find this idea acceptable, and with that acceptance came Erik’s first real hope. She had opened up to him in a way that he’d only dared to pray for. When she got up to go wash her face, Erik found himself in immediate prayer. God, please help me to do the right thing. I care about this woman in a way that I hadn’t really expected, but now I know it’s true. I’m not in love with her, but I could easily find myself there. She doesn’t know You, however, and because of that I can’t give her the false illusion that such a thing could ever happen. I know it’s wrong to be unequally yoked, and I know from other people just how painful those relationships can be. Please guard us both in this, and don’t let us use the other for personal gain or glory.

  “Do you like sweet-and-sour chicken?”

  Erik looked up to find that Cheryl had returned with a cordless phone.

  “Sounds good. How about some cashew chicken as well?”

  “That would be fine,” she said softly, almost shyly. “I’ll go look up the number and call it in.”

  And with that, she was gone again, and Erik could only sit back and contemplate his next move. Don’t lose sight of what you intended to do from the start, he reminded himself. Show her the way to God. Show her the love of Jesus.

  eight

  Cheryl suddenly knew what it was to be truly paranoid about people and motives. Whenever the doorbell rang, she found herself cringing and seeking shelter in some remote part of the house where no one would see her. She’d admonished Mary, who now came three times a week, to let no one in and to leave the door unanswered.

  She also ignored the telephone except when Erik called. She’d allow the answering machine to pick up the calls, and whenever Erik’s voice sounded, a feeling of peace seemed to course through her. But the other calls left her frantic and worried. Multiple people called wanting information about her father. Others pretending to be some old friend of her father’s called on the pretense of making sure she was all right.

  Once, she’d thought the voice of an elderly man sounded familiar and picked up the call only to find that he was actually with one of the rag-mags, those paper tabloids sold in supermarkets everywhere. The man immediately offered her ten thousand dollars for her story, and Cheryl had crashed the receiver down, hoping that the sound had communicated her anger to the man.

  From the day of her encounter with the man from the Denver Post, Cheryl kept the heavy drapes drawn in every room and the door securely locked. She saw the way her home had turned into a prison of sorts, but it was better than being exposed to prying eyes and the heartlessness of journalists.

  Fridays were one of Mary’s days off, and with them came a kind of gloom that Cheryl dreaded. Saturday and Sunday were days she’d always spent with her father, and even when she’d been engaged to Grant, she’d tried to keep those days open to catch up with what her father was doing or learn what new adventure he’d involved himself in.

  But now he was gone, and Saturday and Sunday were just haunting reminders of his death. Because of this, Friday merely became a prelude to the coming weekend. Sitting in front of the television, Cheryl found herself watching a commercial for baby formula. Tears slid down her cheeks. Once again she remembered what she’d lost.

  The only light that had been allowed into the room came by the way of the television, and with each changing scene, the shadows on the wall played tricks with Cheryl’s imagination. She thought the rocking chair had begun to move, almost as if a ghostly image had taken up residence to keep her company.

  “Daddy,” she whispered, then the television lighting changed again, and she could see that the chair was quite empty.

  Pressing her hands to her head, Cheryl thought perhaps she was going crazy. The sound of children laughing on the television made her stop up her ears and cry even harder. The sound of her heart pounded in her closed ears.

  Ba-boom…ba-boom…ba-boom.

  She imagined it slowing, weakening, growing steadily silent. She pictured it stopping altogether and of herself laying dead on the couch. There was no sense in existing when all she felt was pain. The misery threatened her by the minute anyway, so why not give in to it and end her life? Then they’d all be sorry they’d made her suffer.

  Cheryl sobered and switched off the television. It wasn’t like she hadn’t considered suicide before. Her father had taken that way out, so it seemed only appropriate that she do the same. After all, if she was expected to forgive him his choice, surely he would forgive her choosing the same.

  “Don’t hate me, Daddy,” she whispered, looking upward. “Don’t hate me because I’m weak. You were the strongest man I knew, and you couldn’t stand up under the pressure of life, so why should I have to?”

  “Cheryl!” a masculine voice called out.

  She started, not expecting to hear her own name being called. It was only then that she realized someone was pounding on the front door. The doorbell sounded, echoing through the silent house. This was followed again with the calling of her name. She strained to hear without leaving her sanctuary. The voice sounded vaguely familiar, yet she knew it wasn’t Erik.

  “Cheryl, open up. It’s Curt!”

  Her heart raced. Curt? Curt was here?

  She moved toward the threshold and gripped the wall for extra support. She felt her knees grow weak, and her legs felt all rubbery. Curt was here, and he wouldn’t leave until she opened the door and allowed him and his painful reminders to enter her privacy.

  The pounding sounded again.

  “Cheryl, I’ll break this door down if I have to. You know me well enough to know that I’m speaking the truth.”

  She found herself actually smiling at this. Curt would do just what he’d said. She had little doubt about it. Curt could get blood out of turnips, as the old saying was so fond of pointing out.

  Swallowing hard, she moved silently toward the door and put her hand out to touch the heavy oak. Curt pounded against it again, and Cheryl allowed the vibrations to shake through her. When it stopped, she turned the lock and knew that he would realize that once again he had won. She tried to imagine the look of sheer satisfaction on his face as they met eye-to-eye.

  Turning the dead bolt, she glanced down momentarily to find that she was a mess, as usual. She’d thrown on her father’s old, worn sweats and one of his T-shirts. The sweats had been cinched with their drawstring in order to keep them from falling off Cheryl’s slender frame, and they ballooned out in a bulky fashion. She hadn’t even bothered to br
ush her hair or put on makeup, and the thought of facing Curt in such a state seemed awkward. Not that she cared what he thought, but he knew how good she could look when she wanted to.

  With one last deep breath, she opened the door and squinted against the brilliance of the noontime sun.

  “What do you want?” she asked in a harsh monotone.

  “Good grief, Cheryl,” Curt said, without seeming the least bit concerned for her feelings. “What have you done to yourself? Or maybe I should ask, what have you neglected to do for yourself?”

  Cheryl looked at him hard and tried to put aside her rage. If she lost control, Curt would only use it against her. Of this, she was certain.

  “You aren’t welcome here,” she replied. “I think you know that, too.”

  Curt shrugged. “I’m on DEA business, and whether you like it or not, you have to deal with me.” He glanced behind him for a moment, then faced her again. “Unless of course, you have my nosey brother-in-law hiding out in the house, ready to whisk you away from this confrontation.”

  Cheryl stepped back from the door and walked away. “Do what you have to,” she called over her shoulder.

  Curt followed her into the living room, and the first thing he did was throw open the drapes.

  “Don’t do that,” Cheryl protested. “I don’t need to have people spying on me.”

  “It’s as dark as a tomb in here,” Curt answered, allowing light to pour through yet another window.

  “That’s the way I want it.” She plopped down into a wing-backed chair, giving him no chance to sit close to her. “My house. My tomb.”

  “There, that’s better,” he said, seeming to ignore her.

  Cheryl noticed for the first time that he was dressed in navy slacks and a beige and navy pullover shirt. He looks rather nice, she thought. Just like he always did. Not at all like a murderer.

  He caught her staring at him and smiled. “I’m still the same old Curt, if that’s what you’re wondering. I didn’t suddenly grow horns and a tail, just because of what happened.” He sat in another of the wing-backed chairs and leaned forward. “I want you to know how sorry I am that things have to be the way they are.”

  Her defenses went securely into place. “No, you aren’t,” she barely whispered. “You are on a personal vendetta, and I can only hope that your series of killings will eventually include me.”

  Curt’s mouth dropped open, but no words came out. Good, Cheryl thought, let him think on that one for a while.

  “Did you never happen to think about the pain you were inflicting? Didn’t you ever wonder what the results of your meddling might be?” she questioned, looking at him with an unemotional expression. “Poor Curtiss O’Sullivan. He had to be a big man and prove to the world that his father was still a great flyer. No pilot error could be attributed to the great Douglas O’Sullivan’s crash. No, better to make up a story about cocaine and corrupt business partners. Better to push old men into death and eliminate anyone else who got in the way, including unborn infants. No telling what that baby might have grown up to do for his or her own method of revenge against the O’Sullivan family.”

  She fell silent and crossed her arms against her chest. She watched Curt, with a need to memorize everything about him. Her anger needed to be fed with the vision of the man who had caused her misery.

  “Are you done?” he asked softly.

  “Are you?” she countered without missing a beat.

  Curt shifted uncomfortably and shook his head. “Not until this is completely resolved.”

  “What’s the matter? Your list of victims still too short?” Her voice was heavily laden with sarcasm. The anger was surfacing against her will. “Hey, did you bring your gun? Maybe you could just go ahead and do me in right now. You want me to run? I could run,” she said, getting to her feet. “That way it will look just as justifiable as the other killings.”

  “Sit down, Cheryl, and knock it off.” Curt’s voice was demanding, and his expression had changed to one of determined purpose.

  “Oh,” she said, sitting back down, “do you need a more steady target? That’s right, Grant wasn’t running when you killed him. Hey, neither was I. I just happened to get in the way. It really is a shame that you had the paramedics so close on hand. You killed my baby, but just didn’t have enough luck to take us both out at the same time. Now you have to waste another bullet. Pity. Do they cost a lot? Maybe I could reimburse you.”

  “Stop it!” he exclaimed, getting to his feet. He crossed the small space between them and leaned over her, putting his hands on the armrests on either side of her. “Stop it now! I’m not going to listen to this anymore. I’m here to do my job and investigate you like I would any other suspect.”

  “So I’m a suspect now?” she said, staring him in the eye. Blink for blink, she kept her expression fixed.

  Curt calmed a bit and straightened. “Yes.”

  Cheryl could see the anguish in his eyes. She’d really hurt him and it was easy to see that it had taken its toll on his composure. Good. I hope it hurts a lot, she thought. I hope it hurts you like it hurts me.

  Curt retook his seat before continuing. “There are things that I hope you can clarify for me. Things that actually might take the heat off your father’s involvement.”

  “What, and put it on Grant?” she asked angrily. “Of course, both men are dead so you might as well blame one as blame the other. Neither one can defend himself.”

  Curt sighed heavily. “I’m not trying to assign blame. I’m looking for the truth.”

  “Your truth,” she replied, this time lowering her voice. “The kind of truth that wipes out the innocent and destroys all hope.”

  “Cheryl, I never meant for you or your unborn baby to get hurt. I never meant for Ben to die. I won’t apologize for Grant, however. He pulled the gun first and shot first, and he put your life in danger, as well as Christy’s and his own daughter’s. Why is it so impossible for you to see that he didn’t care who he killed or hurt, so long as he protected his shipment of cocaine?”

  Cheryl remembered what Erik had pointed out about Grant deliberately shooting her in the stomach. She felt some of the fight go out from her as she noted the sincerity in Curt’s eyes. This was Curt, the man she’d once loved. A man she knew better than many. She shook her head. No, she didn’t know him at all. He was a killer, and he had ruined her life.

  “Cheryl, I’m not without feeling, and if you’ll recall, the first deaths related to this case were my own mother and father. You can deny that possiblity all you want, but the evidence was there and in place. Ben managed to get the matter swept under the rug in order to protect himself.”

  “Stop bad-mouthing my father,” she said coolly. Forcing a calm to counter Curt’s sympathetic speech, she continued, “You know very well that I cared greatly what happened to your parents. You are the one who shut me out and left for parts unknown after breaking our engagement. You were the one who deserted CJ when she needed you most, so please don’t tell me how much you care.”

  Curt ran a hand through his hair. “Yes, I did desert you both when you needed me, but I couldn’t deal with the situation, and I had to find a way to expose the truth. In my own youthful exuberance, I thought it might honestly be the only way to make things right again. I know now that it doesn’t matter how people hate or how much anger they allow to control their actions. It doesn’t bring dead bodies back to life. It didn’t for me, and it won’t for you, either.”

  Cheryl felt her breath catch at the truth in his words. She didn’t want to listen to any more. She didn’t want to believe Curt really cared.

  “So why are you here? What is it you expect from me? If it’s a confession, I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t have one.”

  “I’m here to ask you about what you do have. You have memories of things your father might have said or done. You may even know where he’s left vital information. We both need this matter settled, Cheryl. In case you didn’t know it, th
e assets for O&F Aviation are frozen, and it’s only a matter of time until you find yourself without any means of support.”

  Cheryl instantly thought of the fifty thousand dollars hidden in the lockbox. The lockbox! Eyeing Curt suspiciously, she questioned, “What kind of information do you mean?”

  Curt seemed to relax a bit. “We’re hoping there’s paperwork. You know, something that might list buyers, sellers, drug exchange locations. Do you have any idea where such information might be kept?”

  “Why should I?”

  “I thought maybe Ben might have a special place in the house for keeping things he didn’t want anyone else to get ahold of.”

  “You’re that certain my father was the mastermind of your little drug ring?”

  Curt shook his head. “I’m not certain of anything except what Ben told me.”

  “Which was?”

  “That Grant forced him into the situation. It seems Grant found problems in the accounting department and threatened to expose O&F Aviation to the Internal Revenue Service if Ben didn’t cooperate.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Cheryl said flatly.

  “I don’t much care. I know what Ben said, and I know, too, that he had a part in the plane crash that killed my parents. He told me so.”

  “No way!” she yelled, getting to her feet. “There is no way my father had anything to do with that. He wouldn’t have been able to live with himself all these years.”

  Curt, too, got to his feet. “Cheryl, didn’t it ever dawn on you that it was that which caused your father to act so strangely after the crash? By your own admission, Ben changed after my parents died. He took the crash very hard, you said. Isn’t it possible that it wasn’t just because friends had died, but because he had a hand in their death?”

  “How dare you! Get out of my house!”

  “You have to listen to reason, Cheryl, or you may find yourself behind bars. I’m having this house searched from top to bottom, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “Did you forget your buddies already took care of that while I was in the hospital?”