Justice (The Galilee Falls Trilogy)

by Jennifer Harlow

  “Oh.” She sips her drink with a slightly shaky hand. Mine stopped shaking on the drive over through sheer force of will. “A few members of the press, it seems, have already contacted Pendergast Industries in search of Justin.”

  “One of the neighbors probably told them who lived at the crime scene. I’d give it another half hour or so before the entire mess is leaked out. You should probably call a security firm and get them to guard the gate. This place is going to be a madhouse.”

  “For how long, do you think?”

  “Week, maybe two. Definitely at the funeral.”

  “Yes.” She takes another sip. “I don’t know where they would want to be buried. I doubt Marnie would want to spend eternity in Galilee. She didn’t like it here at all. Too dirty and loud. Though Rebecca and Daisy…should we separate them all? Maybe we should just have the funeral in Lake City.” She sips her drink. “And would they want to be buried or cremated? I just don’t know.”

  “Maybe they had wills. Might be in there?”

  “Perhaps.” She takes a final sip and stands up, going to the bar to fill up. “When will they release the bodies? They’ll have to autopsy them, I suppose.”

  “Yeah,” I say quietly.

  She nods a little, no doubt to shake out the image of them lying on the autopsy table missing organs. “I’m forgetting my manners. Would you like something to drink?”

  “No, thank you.” I’m never touching that shit again if I can help it.

  “The last time I had a drink in the afternoon was twenty years ago,” she says, pouring. “I had just been informed that I had inherited control of a seven billion dollar legacy and a thirteen-year-old boy I had only met five times before. If there was ever a time, right?” She sips. “As you may have figured out, I don’t like most people. I have no real use for them. I remember now why that is.” She walks back over to the window to watch the waves crash below. “Even after twenty years, I miss my old life. I was the head of the board at the Independence Museum of Art, you know. I made or broke exhibits. I went on archaeological digs all over the world. I even negotiated with the Louvre for a Monet. I had my cats, the occasional girlfriend, my committees, and I flew around the world on a whim. I never wanted to get married or, God forbid, have children. Freedom trumped all. It’s hard to get close to someone as fiercely independent as us. You know how that is.”

  I nod. I’d say something, but my input doesn’t matter. I just have to listen.

  “Then J.T. dies, and I’m responsible for a grieving child. Two total strangers stuck in a mausoleum. I had no idea what to say or do, and neither did he for that matter. He barely spoke the first few weeks beyond the polite pleasantries. I did the best I could. We soldiered on.”

  “He loves you,” I say. “And he knows you were the one who was there for him when he really needed it. Even though you didn’t want to do it, you came. You raised him. Who knows where he’d be without you?”

  She turns from the window with a small smile. “You’re good at this. It must make you an effective law enforcement officer. It’s a rare gift, knowing the exact right thing to say or do in a given situation.”

  I scoff. “That is so not the case.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Joanna. I know it may seem that I never liked you. At first, I didn’t. He had enough on his plate without a suicidal teenager following him around like a lost puppy.” A sip. “Then, as time went on, I saw how good you were for him. You gave him what I couldn’t. A purpose. Affection. Someone who made him laugh. I never did thank you for that.”

  “You didn’t need to.”

  “I’ve treated you badly. I’m a snob, and I know it. You’re uncouth, vulgar, and stubborn to a fault.” She scoffs. “And I see a lot of myself in you, if you can believe that. You have so much potential, and I hate to see it squandered. Though considering your upbringing, I’m amazed you’re as well adjusted as you are. A lesser person would be some type of addict, criminal, or emotional cripple. You should be proud of yourself.”

  One out of three isn’t bad. “I am,” I lie.

  “I do have a point to this ramble,” she says, stepping toward me. She sits in the chair next to me, back straight. “I know how you felt about Rebecca, because I know how you feel about Justin. You’re in love with him.” I open my mouth to protest, but she holds up her hand to stop me. “Don’t bother denying it. I could tell the moment you stepped into our limo that first night. You were all but drooling.” She sips her drink. “Do you know the reason he’s never reciprocated your feelings?”

  “I’m uncouth, vulgar, and stubborn?”

  “Oddly, he likes those traits in you,” she says with a smile. “No. You lost him before you ever had him, my dear. The moment you stepped onto the edge of that bridge, any chance of romantic love was over. If you two had just met, say at a function or on the street, he would have fallen madly in love with you, without a doubt.”

  “Then why not then?”

  “Because you’re a symbol to him, Joanna. You are the first person he ever saved, and that saved him. You’re an extension of himself, and everything he stands for. You represent his whole world. All his pain and sacrifice for the greater good. He’d never let such a base thing as sex sully that. You have to go out in the world, live a good life apart from him, contribute, otherwise what is all this sacrifice for? And that’s what makes you the most important person in his life.”

  “What sacrifice? He talked me off a bridge. Nothing else.”

  She chugs her drink. “Then he met Rebecca,” she says, ignoring me. “She meant something different. A blending of both worlds. She needed him at first exactly as you did, but could provide him with normalcy free of the darkness, or so he thought. Sometimes there’s not enough light in this godforsaken world to keep the darkness at bay.”

  “I suppose,” I say for lack of something better. I’m confused as to half of what she’s said.

  She closes her eyes for a moment, probably to focus her thoughts. “My point is you saved him once. You gave him a sense of purpose, and now you need to give him a reason to continue. This is going to destroy him. Mind, soul, and maybe body. I know that’s a lot to put on you, but I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you were up to the task. I’m asking you to put your own feelings, especially the misplaced guilt you are no doubt feeling, aside. I’m asking you to be strong for him, no matter what.” She purses her lips. “I know you must have resented Rebecca for usurping your place at his side. I would have. But wishing a person dead does not make it so. Any guilt rests solely on the monster who killed her. This is not your fault, Joanna. Please believe me.”

  For a moment, mind you just a moment, if feels as if a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I can actually believe those words. Then that image of the photo on the door crashes me back to earth. Not that I’ll let her see any of this. “I will do whatever I can to get you both through this. I know you were fond of her. You lost her too. All of them.”

  Lucy looks away. “That little girl. She was…precious. Did she suffer?”

  “No. She was unconscious when it happened.”

  Lucy collects herself, and then turns back to me with an awkward smile. “That’s good,” she says quietly. She takes a final swig of her drink and sighs. “I believe I will go upstairs and have a lie down.” She stands and as manners dictate, so do I. “I’m sure you can handle any telephone calls that come.”

  “Of course.”

  She sets down the glass. “Wake me in two hours. I’ve already contacted the airfield. They won’t grant clearance until we arrive.”

  “Okay.”

  We face each other, neither wanting to speak. Then she does something I never thought she’d do. She leans in, wrapping her thin arms around me in a stiff hug. I’m too shocked for a moment to move, but quickly remedy that, hugging her back. It’s over in a second. She pulls away first, a little embarrassed by this show of emotion. “Thank you.”

  “Go rest.”

  On
unsteady legs, she totters out with her head up to maintain dignity. I’ve never seen her drink more than a single glass of champagne. I run my hand through my hair with a ragged sigh. If she’s reacting like this, Justin’s going to be inconsolable.

  My hands begin shaking again and I have the strongest urge to sit. Really, I want to run out of this house, hop into my car, and drive as far away as possible. Check into some random hotel, drink myself into oblivion, and sleep for a month. And I could. I really could. They’d be better off without me. Everyone would. I—

  The telephone rings, making me almost jump out of my seat. My nerves are shot. I could really use a drink. Or Valium. Or both. But no, I’m not touching the crap.

  Okay, I failed one job, I’m not going to do it twice. I’ll just do the best I can. Just show up. I can do it. I can.

  So I do.

  ***

  The ride to the airport is a quiet one. Dobbs sits in the front of the vintage Rolls Royce separated by a clear sliding partition. Lucy and I sit side by side in the back, looking out our respective tinted windows. Even with the car in relative darkness, Lucy and I wear sunglasses to help with our hangovers.

  The adrenaline that was keeping mine at bay wore off soon after Lucy left me to field a thousand phone calls from concerned friends and business associates. I told the truth, which turned out to be a mistake. Bitsy even began to sob, blubbering for close to five minutes. I let the machine pick up after that, only answering those which needed immediate response. The aspirin helped with the headache and a sandwich settled my stomach, but I’m still exhausted. My body feels as if I’ve just run across the country.

  I rest my head against the cool window, watching my city go by. The airport is on the mouth of the river where it meets the ocean, though Justin has his own hangar across the street from the real airport. To my left is the urban jungle, to my right the dark water of the Andalucía River with huge boats parked at the docks. Longshoremen in yellow hard hats unload crates with cranes and mill around chanting to their colleagues and drinking coffee. In the distance, a line of trucks wait to leave the port terminal. Overhead planes begin the descent, engines roaring. If I didn’t already have a headache, the noise alone would give me one. Lucy presses her temples to help assuage hers. What a pair we are. Justin would be better off with a hyena to comfort him.

  Dobbs pulls into the private airport with my police escort following behind. The guard at the gate lets us pass. Justin does a lot of traveling and gives a mean Christmas bonus, so they all know the car. The rich people airport, as I think of it, is nothing more than five hangars, two air strips, a small terminal where they bring your plane to the door, and tiny access roads. Normally we’d wait at the terminal, but since the plane’s only here to refuel we drive toward the hangar itself. It’s fairly deserted except for the fuel trucks, tiny prop planes, and bigger private jets scattered around with mechanics tinkering on them. The hangar that Justin shares with the Pickering and Lockwood’s is the last on the tarmac. We’re just in time as Justin’s jet lands when we pull in.

  “Should I tell him or do you want to?” I ask Lucy.

  She takes off her sunglasses, revealing red eyes. “Want is in no way is associated with this endeavor.” She places the glasses into their case. “We’ll play it by ear.” Dobbs opens Lucy’s door, but I don’t wait for him.

  This isn’t the first death notification I’ve done. They come with the job. Ask any officer what their least favorite part of the job is, and they’ll say death notification. You become the most important person in the worst day of their life. Some people burst into hysterical tears. Some throw things. Some just stare blankly as if you’re speaking a foreign language. You never can tell.

  I remember my first. It was around three in the morning when I heard the knock on our apartment door. At first I thought it was Mom in the kitchen looking for another bottle, but the second knock woke me fully. I got up thinking Pop had forgotten his keys, but when I saw the two officers in the hall my stomach dropped. I’d seen enough detective shows to know something bad had happened. The patrolmen were both young, early twenties if that, and visibly uncomfortable. Sands and Webb were their names. I made it a point to remember them in case they were lying. I’d sue their butts if they were. I was grasping at straws, working very damn hard at denial at that moment. When I joined the force I sought them out. Sands had quit, but Webb was a fraud detective. He remembered me after a little prompting. Like I said, it’s hard to forget your first notification.

  Sands, the taller of the two, asked if my mother was home. Too stunned to talk back, I ran into her bedroom. Mom was asleep, or should I say passed out on the top of the bed. I shook her for a few seconds to no avail. She’d fallen off the wagon a week before for no conceivable reason, and would never climb back on again. This was an especially bad night for her. Pop threatened to leave her, taking me with him, if she didn’t start attending meetings again. I was overjoyed. We’d finally be free of her drama and bullshit. Before I went to bed I got the newspaper and began circling possible apartments we could move into.

  After slapping her face, she jerked awake. I told her the police wanted her. Still half asleep and drunk, she stumbled to the front door. The officers exchanged a glance, one I’d seen on neighbors and family members’ faces when she was like this. They asked if she was Maeve Fallon, wife of Sean Fallon. When she asked why, they ignored her, asking if there was anyone else at home. I found out later this is standard in case one person flips out, there’s another there to calm or comfort her. Otherwise the officers could be there for hours, especially with a fainter. Mom said no. Having no choice, they told us what happened. Pop was shot three blocks from the apartment in an apparent robbery.

  “I’m sorry, but he didn’t make it.”

  Mom clutched her stomach as if stabbed, gasping and doubling over. The officers helped her to the couch as she burst into tears and wasn’t able to stand on her own anymore. Until that moment I thought she hated him. They fought constantly, especially after she’d been drinking. I can count on one hand the times I saw them be loving to each other or even hug. I think the only reason they married was because of me. But in her way she loved him. After his death she never seriously dated, instead choosing one night stands with other alcoholics. She was so distraught she couldn’t even handle the funeral arrangements.

  Mom was a crumbler. I just went into shock. Those words came out of Sands’ mouth and it was like a two-ton iron door shut inside me. Everything just closed. My emotions, my ability to think, my belief in anything decent and fair. It only opens on rare occasions, usually to let one of the demons out that can’t be contained anymore to wreak havoc on my life. Like last night.

  I think I was catatonic for a minute, floating outside myself for that time as my brain assimilated the information and prepared me for my new life. Then Sands touched my shoulder and I snapped out of it. He asked if I was okay, an insanely stupid question. I looked into his eyes and told him I needed to call my uncle for my mother. Mom sobbed even louder, resting her head on Webb’s shoulder. He later told me that I looked at her with such utter contempt he got a chill. I went into her bedroom to make the call as her cries were too loud to hear over. This would be my life until I emancipated myself when I was sixteen. Mom falling apart and me having to handle everything from paying the bills to doing the repairs.

  It was twenty years ago, and I remember every detail, down to the pajamas I was wearing. Justice t-shirt with purple shorts. My first next-of-kin notification. Now, I have to take center stage on the worst day of my best friend’s life. The day when all of his hopes and dreams are shattered with a few words. Will he fall apart? Take a swing at me? Never look at me the same way again? I’m about the find out.

  As the jet taxis into the hangar, three mechanics hop to, grabbing tools and the fuel hose. I walk around the car to join Lucy and Dobbs. Her arms are folded across her small chest, already defensive. Dobbs has his hands crossed in the back and chin up, e
ven now the proper servant. I don’t know what to do with my arms, so they stay at my side, the shakes that started again when we pulled in controlled by balling my hands into fists.

  Justin peers through one of the small windows, smiling but confused. Shannon, Justin’s assistant’s, head bowed, lifts her cell phone to her ear. She better not tell him before we do. The plane stops and one of the mechanics opens the door. After saying something to Shannon, Justin stands to deplane. I sigh before starting toward the plane with Lucy behind me. I can do this.

  As Justin comes into view at the door, Shannon’s face falls. She looks at us, stunned, her mouth gaping open. I keep walking but glance at her, lightly shaking my head to signal her to keep her trap shut. Her tiny mouth closes.

  “This is a nice surprise. What are you doing here?” he asks with a chuckle as he steps down.

  I have no idea what to say. He’s smiling. Smiling. I keep my face neutral as I keep walking. His grin grows as I approach, but so does the confusion. He tries to read me, but I’m not giving anything away. Lucy isn’t either. “Seriously guys, what are you doing here?” We keep walking. His smile wanes. “Jo? Aunt Lucy? What’s going on, you guys?” He tries to meet my eyes. When I don’t let him, the smile disappears. A dumbstruck Shannon appears in the plane door, trying to stop her oncoming tears. “Jo, you’re starting to scare me.” I’m only a few feet away, and I can’t not meet his gaze.

  We know each other too well. Confusion changes to fear when our eyes lock. “Jo, where’s Rebecca?” This is one of the few times I’m glad for my walls. The look on that handsome face, the abject terror and sadness, would kill me otherwise. He grabs my upper arms, shaking me. “Joanna!”

  I do my job. “I’m sorry to inform you that Rebecca Thornton, Daisy Thornton, and Marnie Holt were found dead this afternoon in their residence. I’m so sorry.”

  My face is pressed against the glass as my best friend’s heart breaks. Fear turns to anger which becomes unfathomable sadness. He clutches onto me with quivering arms so tight I want to wince. I don’t. I accept the pain. “Daisy?” he asks, voice cracking.