Wings Of The Dawn

by Tracie Peterson

  “When the plane went down the night of the crash, my father turned to my mother. With sadness that was born out of the reality of what was about to happen, he said, ‘He’s done us in.’ My mother’s response was rather muffled, and for years I thought she’d replied, ‘In?’ Now I know that she wasn’t saying ‘in,’ but rather ‘Ben.’ My father nodded in affirmation. You see, he knew Ben had some part in it because he’d just talked to him before leaving the airport. He’d found cocaine on one of the O&F planes and Ben had told him to mind his own business, or threatened him, or whatever else you want to imagine. We’ll never know because my father carried it to the grave, and your father didn’t say a whole lot about it.”

  Cheryl refrained from demanding that CJ leave the house. She felt confused by her friend’s statement. It was as if forces were joining together to show her a side of her father that she’d never believed existed.

  “I don’t want you to feel bad or hate anyone, Cheryl,” CJ continued. “I really don’t. I no longer feel angry with Ben or, for that matter, Grant. To hate either one or to allow the bitterness of the past to take hold would be to give in to the evil of this entire situation. God doesn’t want that for me, and He doesn’t want that for you.”

  “I don’t know what to think anymore,” Cheryl finally said, laying her head back to stare at the ceiling. “Everyone keeps coming to me to show me these things about my father. Things that I can’t believe, yet things that are hard to deny. I just know how he felt about us. How much he loved me and my mother, and how much he loved your father. I can’t see him jeopardizing that respect and love for a few extra dollars in drug money.”

  “But Curt says that Ben explained his predicament, and while it doesn’t justify his actions, it certainly shows that your father wasn’t just in it for the money.”

  “And how is that?”

  “Ben accidentally fell behind in some bookkeeping, and when it was discovered, O&F owed the IRS over a million dollars in back taxes. The IRS didn’t know this, however, and when Grant found out the mistake had been made, he went to Ben and proposed a deal. Ben had little choice. Either he would bury the company in a financial crisis that would probably result in him having to file bankruptcy, or he could go along with Grant’s request. My thoughts are that he didn’t want to lose my father’s respect, nor did he want the public shame and humiliation that would be brought down on them. You know for yourself that appear-ance was everything to Ben.”

  Cheryl slowly looked back at CJ and nodded. “He wanted to make a statement to the world. I guess he’s done just that.”

  CJ crossed her legs and relaxed against the back of the chair. “Cheryl, please don’t shut me out anymore. I’m not the enemy, and neither is Curt. Don’t you want to know the truth? Wouldn’t you rather have all slates be wiped clean?”

  “Even if it means that my father’s name is forever tarnished?”

  “Do you think if you don’t cooperate and remain bitterly hateful that you will stop the progress of this investigation? Don’t you realize that with or without you, they will come to the truth?”

  Cheryl shrugged. “At least without me, I won’t be a traitor to Dad.”

  “How does being truthful make you a traitor?” CJ questioned softly.

  Tucking her jean-clad legs under her, Cheryl released a heavy sigh. “I don’t know. I don’t know much of anything anymore.”

  “Then know this. I’m your friend, and I care about you. I will al-ways be here for you.”

  Cheryl felt her eyes grow moist. I will not cry, she admonished herself. “I’m not worthy of your friendship,” she told CJ quite honestly. “The things I’ve done—the person I am. I don’t deserve friends or love.”

  “Nonsense,” CJ replied, shaking her head. “That simply isn’t true. There is no one whom God can’t forgive, and if we are to follow His example, then we must forgive each other and ourselves, as well.”

  Cheryl regained her composure before answering. CJ’s words so clearly mirrored the things Erik had told her that deep within she found herself actually hoping against the odds that they were true.

  “I don’t know if I can forgive,” Cheryl replied. “I don’t know if I want to forgive.”

  CJ nodded. “I think I can understand, maybe not in full, but at least enough to know that what you say is born of pain and loss. Just promise me that you’ll think about what I’ve said and that you’ll give God a chance to reveal Himself to you.”

  “That much I can do,” Cheryl answered.

  Just then the doorbell sounded and both women jumped in surprise. Cheryl went to the window and saw that a dark- headed man in a business suit stood outside her door.

  “I don’t know who it is,” she said, coming back to where CJ sat. “I get pretty weird people from time to time. They want interviews or exclusive information about the case, and so most of the time, I don’t even open the door.”

  “Would you like me to answer it?” CJ asked, getting to her feet.

  “Would you?”

  “Sure.” CJ went to the door while Cheryl waited in hiding around the foyer wall. “Can I help you?” she heard CJ question.

  “I’m with the DEA,” the man said. “Damon Brooks is my name, and I’m here to speak with Ms. Fairchild. Is that you?”

  “No, I’m CJ Aldersson, her friend.”

  “I’m Cheryl Fairchild,” Cheryl said, coming into the foyer. “What do you want?”

  “I need to ask you some information.”

  “I just talked to Curt O’Sullivan last week.”

  The man seemed not in the least bit fazed by this information. “As I said, ma’am, I need to talk to you.”

  “Then I suppose you should come in,” Cheryl replied and turned to CJ. “Can you stay?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The three made their way into the living room, where CJ and Cheryl sat together on the couch, while Damon Brooks took a seat in one of the wing-backed chairs. He took out a pad of paper and a pen before turning a glaring look on Cheryl.

  “We need your father’s list of contacts,” he said abruptly.

  It was exactly what Curt had asked for when he’d been there, and Cheryl shook her head. “I don’t know about any list of contacts.”

  “Come now, Ms. Fairchild.” The man’s irritation grew quite apparent. “Withholding evidence is only going to dig you in deeper.”

  Cheryl felt her face flush. “I’m not in this thing, no matter how much you want to put me there.”

  “You can’t expect us to believe that. You were the mistress of Grant Burks, one of the key players, and you were the daughter of Ben Fair-child. We have enough information to see you sent to prison for a very long time.”

  “But I haven’t done anything, except perhaps—” she stopped and glanced momentarily at CJ “—except love the wrong people.”

  “I’m not playing games with you, lady. You may have thought you could get away with this kind of thing with O’Sullivan, but you are dealing with a completely different man now.”

  “Is that any reason to be rude and uncivil?” CJ interjected, eyeing the man with a look of severity.

  “You related to this case?” Brooks asked angrily.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. I’m CJ Aldersson, and my brother is Curt O’Sullivan. We are co-owners in O&F Aviation with Miss Fairchild.”

  The man noted this on paper, while posing yet another question. “Do you know anything about a list of contacts and exchange locations?”

  “No,” CJ replied flatly.

  Cheryl felt relief that the pressure was off her even for a few moments. She thought of the papers in the lockbox and realized that they had to be exactly what the DEA was looking for. She thought about producing the goods, then decided against it. What if the papers showed her father to truly have been the mastermind behind the entire drug operation? Could she bear up under that kind of truth? Could she stand by and see his memory forever scarred?

  “I don’t think you
’re listening to me, Ms Fairchild.” The man leaned forward aggressively.

  His action caused Cheryl to grow quite angry. No one came into her house and made threatening motions and got away with it. Stand-ing up, she proclaimed, “As I told Curt, I have nothing to say or to show or to share. You aren’t welcome in this house, and the sooner you get it through your heads, the better.”

  The man jumped to his feet and pushed Cheryl backward, shocking both women. He reached out as if to take hold of her, and Cheryl fought back by slapping the man’s arms until finally he stilled her with a vicious hold. His ironclad grip threatened to break her bones. Cheryl winced in pain, and he yanked her to her feet.

  “You’d better get it through your head that we mean business. You have something we want, and we aren’t going to lie down and play dead just because you tell us to.”

  “Leave her alone!” CJ declared. “You have no right to handle her in that fashion.”

  “This is nothing compared to what I’m going to do if she doesn’t come clean.”

  Now Cheryl was truly sorry she’d demanded Curt to send someone else in his stead. She was frightened by the dark eyes of the stranger. There was an underlying hatred in his expression, and he seemed to take great joy in hurting her.

  Twisting her wrists outward, Cheryl screamed in pain while CJ, unable to stand any more of it, got up from her chair and went to the phone.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” the man demanded.

  “I’m calling my brother. Your actions are unacceptable, and no DEA agent has the right to treat another person this way.”

  The man laughed in stilted amusement. “If you don’t want me to break your friend’s arms, you’ll put the phone down and sit yourself back on the couch.”

  CJ held the phone for a moment. She seemed to weigh the validity of his threat before returning the receiver to its cradle. “Very well. But you won’t get away with this, Mr. Brooks. I’ll see you brought up on charges of harassment and conduct unbefitting an officer of the law.”

  The man suddenly pushed Cheryl backward. She fought to regain her balance, but it was useless. She fell against the sofa and struggled to compose herself. Terror gripped her like an iron binding. She could hardly breathe for fear of what the man might do next.

  “I’m going to search this house, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

  “Without a search warrant,” Cheryl said, suddenly allowing her anger to make her brave, “you aren’t going to do anything of the kind.”

  Just then Mary could be heard coming into the house through the kitchen door. “Cheryl!” she called, “I’m here.” She entered the room and frowned at the sight. “Am I interrupting?”

  “Mary, call the police!” Cheryl declared, and the man seemed to realize he was suddenly dealing with more than he had asked for.

  “There’s no need for that,” Damon Brooks said. “I will return with your precious search warrant. Until then, don’t even think of removing evidence from this house. You’re being watched, and it would give me ex-treme pleasure to apprehend you for failure to disclose criminal evidence.”

  With that he left, slamming the door behind him, leaving the three women to stare after him as if they’d just witnessed some unbelievable apparition. Cheryl began to tremble, and her teeth rattled to-gether noisily.

  “I’m going to have a few words with Curt about this,” CJ said, getting to her feet. “If the DEA thinks they can come in and break people’s bones in order to conjure up confessions, they have another thing coming.”

  Mary stared at both women in complete confusion.

  “What happened?”

  “I…I…don’t wa…want to talk about it,” Cheryl stammered.

  “Suffice it to say, Mary,” CJ said, moving to the foyer, “the DEA got a little out of hand. Cheryl, I’d keep the door locked if I were you. I know you have to deal with these investigations, but I ‘d make sure some-one was here to protect you.”

  Cheryl immediately thought of Erik, but there was no way she was going to call him and ask him to camp out on her doorstep. No matter how appealing the thought might be.

  eleven

  Boom!

  Cheryl awoke just before dawn to a late summer thunderstorm in full progress. The flashes of lightning lit the room up as though it were daylight, and with each flash came an earsplitting crash of thunder. The windowpane rattled mercilessly and barely had time to stop vibrating before the next strike came.

  Sitting up and hugging her knees to her chest, Cheryl remembered how frightened she’d been of storms as a child. “Think of something pleasant,” her mother would say. But for Cheryl there were so many unpleasant things to dwell upon that the pleasant ones didn’t stand a chance.

  Glancing at the clock on her nightstand, she saw the red illuminated numbers and read 5:45. It will soon be light, she thought and decided to go ahead and start the day. The storm would surely seem less menacing if she dressed and busied herself. She went to find her standard wardrobe, T-shirts and jeans, but suddenly felt compelled to do something with her hair. She studied it in the mirror for a moment. The golden ash of her blond hair seemed dingy against her pale skin. When had she last washed it? She couldn’t remember.

  That determined her first order of business, and despite the fact that the thunderstorm raged on around her, Cheryl stepped into a steaming shower.

  The water ran down over her head, penetrating the layers of dirty blond curls, saturating her dry, abused skin. It felt better than Cheryl could ever remember a shower feeling. She lathered her hair and scrubbed until her head ached from the attention. She rinsed this out and lathered again—determined to wash away even the remotest particle of dirt. With this accomplished, she poured on expensive conditioner and massaged her hair the way her hairdresser Michelle had told her to do. Good grief, she thought, Michelle must think I fell off the face of the earth.

  “I guess in a way, I did,” she mused aloud. Some people sang in the shower, but Cheryl had always been given to having full conversations with herself.

  “I should make an appointment to have my hair cut.” She held up the limp lengthy curls and sighed. There had been a time when she’d been a regular every week at the beauty salon.

  “What have I done to myself?” she questioned, knowing full well the answer. She’d given up on life, but slowly through the efforts of her friends, and even her enemies, Cheryl realized that just because she wanted life to end was no sure sign that it would. She picked up a plush washcloth and soap and began to wash her body, thinking as she did that she needed to somehow find her way back among the living.

  “But I don’t feel alive,” she said and passed the cloth over her stomach. She remembered the baby, something that happened at the strangest moments. As usual, tears came unbidden to her eyes. Why was this so hard to get past? It was just a baby. An unborn fetus without a name or, for all she knew, sex.

  But wait, didn’t her obstetrician tell her that the sex of the baby could be determined early on? She had been well into her fourth month when the shooting took place. Why had she never thought to ask about the sex of her miscarried child? Beyond that, what had happened to her baby? She shuddered to think of it joining a pile of aborted fetuses. Those babies had also been murdered, as far as she considered it, but they hadn’t been wanted, and hers had been.

  So many questions came to mind, and her thoughts blocked out any fear of the storm. She would call her doctor as soon as the office was open and see if the records showed what the sex of her baby had been. It seemed to comfort her to imagine that within hours she would know if she’d lost a son or daughter. These thoughts made a normal progression to the desire to name her unborn child and maybe even erect a memorial stone beside her father’s grave in honor of the baby no one would ever know.

  Cheryl finished the shower with a new, determined purpose. It wasn’t until she’d stepped out and was toweling herself off that she noticed the tile that safely hid her father’s lo
ckbox. She pulled on her robe and went to pry open the tile. The need to review the contents of the box was strong. Mary had been able to cash her check, but Cheryl wondered how long those funds would hold out. She couldn’t have more than six or seven thousand dollars in that account, and there was no way of knowing whether she could access money from any of the other accounts.

  She pulled out the lockbox and took it to the bathroom vanity. Since she’d pried the lock once before, it now wanted to stick and refuse her admission. She opened the drawer and found a pair of styling scissors, which she immediately lodged between the metal frame of the box in order to force it open once again.

  Pop! The noise startled her as the lid sprang back and slapped against the countertop.

  The money stared up at her like a faithful reminder of her father. Maybe he had known all along that she’d have need of this money. Maybe he’d figured he might need it himself. She fingered it gently, reassuring herself that she’d not be destitute if the bank refused her more withdrawals. Next she took up the paper lists and this time began to read them more carefully. The one with symbols and abbreviations still made little sense, but the one with addresses made Cheryl feel suddenly self-conscious.

  Her skin felt prickly, and the hair on her neck stood on end. She felt her heart pounding within her chest and knew that this had to be what the DEA so badly coveted. She licked her lips nervously and tried to decide what to do. From the sounds of it, the storm had died out or at least moved off in a direction away from the city. She looked at the first address and realized that she was quite familiar with the location. Getting there would be a breeze.

  Getting there.

  Since the shooting she’d not been out on her own even once. Now she was contemplating getting into her car and driving to a location where she had no idea what she’d come up against.

  It can’t be helped, she thought. She stuffed the list in her robe pocket and had started to replace the lockbox, when it dawned on her that she might need the keys. She reopened the lid and took out the keys as well. Replacing the box, she carefully used the toothpaste once again and secured the tile in place. Satisfied that it looked identical to the others, she hurried to get dressed.