The Crossing

by Serita Ann Jakes

  Why couldn’t she stop the panic attacks, the nightmares?

  Would she ever feel normal again?

  Victor

  Vic closed the dishwasher and set it to wash. He heard the front door open and close, and he felt a sense of relief——as he always seemed to feel these days when Claudia made it home safely and on time.

  Her face showed her dismay as she walked in the door from the gym. “Something happen?” he asked.

  She shook her head, but opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of wine. She poured herself a glass—a telltale sign she needed something to calm her nerves. She almost never drank on workout days. The calories weren’t worth the extra effort.

  She lifted the bottle toward him. “Want some?”

  Why not? After two hours of steady research and pouring over files, he could use a bit of a break. The red liquid flowed into the glass and she slid it across the countertop to him. “Thank you, honey.”

  She nodded.

  “How was your workout?”

  “Brutal.” She rolled her eyes, but smiled. “What have you been up to?” Her eyebrows rose in question as she sipped from her glass.

  “I’m looking over some documents.”

  Grabbing her glass, she walked past him toward the kitchen door. “Working a little late on a Sunday, aren’t you?”

  He followed her into the living room and took a seat next to her on the couch. “Just a little project I’m considering, actually. Not a current case.” He knew he was hedging, knew she would figure out that he didn’t want to tell her about the case. He glanced at the files on the coffee table, hoping she wouldn’t open them.

  “What do you mean?” She frowned. “Not a current case? Don’t you think you have enough to deal with without taking on something else?”

  He shrugged. “It’s personal.” Cringing, he knew he’d said the wrong thing. No self-respecting wife could let something that cryptic go unchallenged. He struggled. Should he tell her he wanted to solve the murder? Or would that send her further into that place where he’d never be able to help her?

  “Oh, I see,” she said, her attitude rising to her tone. “It’s personal. Well, excuse me for moving in on your personal space.” She stood. “I’ll just take my glass of wine and let you be alone.”

  Vic took her gently by the forearm and tugged her back to the couch. “Sit down. I’ll tell you.”

  “Well, not if you don’t want to.”

  Vic smiled. It had been awhile since he’d seen a true pout from his lovely wife, and just now the picture she made was incredibly cute.

  “I’m looking at BJ Remington’s murder.”

  Instantly her face changed and her guard went up. “Why?”

  “I’m curious about a few details I think might have gone overlooked in the investigation.”

  “Curiosity?” Her tone rose in incredulity and hinged on anger. “That’s kind of odd.”

  “Not the idle kind, but more like trying to fill in the holes that you can’t bear to discuss.”

  She stared at the files on the coffee table. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  Vic adjusted his position on the couch so that he could face her more easily. She ran her manicured finger along the rim of her glass, her expression almost morose. As he watched her, he decided not to venture into the conversation he had planned. Doing so would be more than she was obviously willing to discuss. And as fragile as she’d been lately about the past, he seriously doubted she would be receptive to his plan. Better to move forward without her knowledge.

  He reached toward the coffee table where he’d been perusing the documents and lifted the folders.

  “I think I understand better now.” He shoved the files into a box and closed it. “So maybe I can be more help to you when you’re struggling.”

  “I don’t see how you could.” She turned toward him and let out a sigh. Her face softened. “I saw another friend from high school tonight at the gym. Well, not a friend really. She was younger. The school mascot. But she was on the bus that night too.” She took another sip and swallowed, then met his gaze. “Don’t you think that’s sort of an odd coincidence that I would see two people from that time in the same week?”

  Everything inside of him wanted to remind her of God’s sovereignty and guidance, but Claudia’s resentment toward her mother had been growing lately along with her panic attacks and nightmares over the murder. All he knew was that if God was leading, he was following. He’d learned to trust God as a kid, and God had never let him down.

  For now he was going to look into that old investigation without her knowing. And if anything actually materialized that might lead to an arrest, he’d tell her. Until then, he was going to leave her in ignorance. And peace.

  Casio

  Casio jolted awake, still hearing the cries and seeing the cold eyes of the gunman. The masked man stormed the bus and shot Hank Montrose, the assistant coach who happened to be driving the bus that night. Then the faceless voice screamed for them to shut up—Stop screaming, or so help him God, he would shoot every one of them. The bus swayed with the swoosh of bodies hitting the deck as four fast shots slammed into Miss Remington’s body and she fell.

  “No!” He heard the sound of his own voice, saw himself rush forward to tackle the killer, felt the pain as a bullet tore into his arm. He watched the blood spread across his blue and white football jersey.

  The killer stood over him. “You okay, kid?” he whispered. Casio ventured a look up. The gunman stared for a long couple of seconds, turned and fled the bus, leaving behind a comatose bus driver, a half-dead teacher, and him, wounded and wishing to God he’d been braver. What if he had grabbed the man’s legs while he was standing over him? Knocked him to the ground and overpowered him. Taken the gun and turned it on the killer. What if he’d been braver?

  In his fantasies, that awful night turned out a lot differently.

  Sweat beaded Casio’s upper lip as the memory replayed itself over and over. Always the same.

  He’d learned today from a friend at the PD that Victor Campbell had requested all the documents involved in the ten-year-old case. Casio understood. Claudia’s husband probably wanted closure for his wife. He understood wanting to protect the woman he loved. But Victor Campbell’s reinvestigation terrified him. As much as he wanted to find the killer and stop his own nightmares, the last thing he wanted to do was look into those eyes again.

  He stared, without seeing, at the TV. Some news show. He’d been there for hours, conjuring the memory of that night over and over, not that he had any choice. The images persisted as he tried to remember anything he might have blocked out. Anything that might give him the perp. What if he could remember something new? Something not in the original testimony?

  He’d been thinking about getting back to work. Blankenship’s investigation should be over soon, and he had no doubt they wouldn’t proceed with charges against him. The fastest way to worm his way into the hearts of this town would be to find the man who killed BJ Remington and help the ADA put him away. It couldn’t hurt Campbell either. If what Claudia said was true, he planned to run for DA when Slattery retired in the spring.

  He was dozing off in the La-Z-Boy when the phone rang.

  “Hightower here.”

  “It’s Burt. Gabe needs a ride.”

  Casio’s stomach dropped. “It’ll take me thirty minutes to get there,” he grumbled and hung up. At least it was Sunday night, lighter traffic.

  He headed for his truck. This had to stop. Dad’s every-other-night binges were getting old fast now that he was off the wagon. Finding out he had stage-four lung cancer had sent Dad off the deep end barely a month ago. He was meaner than ever, more sarcastic, and a nasty drunk.

  But he was still Casio’s dad, and who else was there to drag him out of a bar before he passed out? True to his word, Casio pulled into Burt’s at 9 p.m., thirty-five minutes after the phone call.

  The bar was practically overrun with o
ff-duty cops. Burt had retired from the force the year before Gabe and had bought the bar two months later. It wasn’t long before every cop in Dallas County, including those from Conch Springs, found their way here. Most nights were standing room only.

  Burt jerked his head toward the end of the bar. Releasing a hot breath, Casio walked over and took the stool next to his dad. He knew it would do no good to try to muscle the old man out. Especially drunk. He’d make a spectacle of himself and blame Casio. Casio had no choice but to sit for a few minutes and suffer through the drunk women, cops, ex-cops, and honky-tonk music.

  Burt slid a draft beer toward him and his dad glanced up. “Hey! It’s my boy.” He grinned, pulling his oxygen tubing from his nose. “Burt call you?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Watch your mouth with me. You got it?” He threw back the last drop in his mug. “Burt! Gimme another.”

  “Forget it, Gabe. Go home and sleep it off.”

  “You refusing a payin’ customer?”

  Burt placed his beefy hands on the counter and looked Casio’s dad in the eye. “The last three were on the house. Now go home with your boy here, before I refuse you service permanently.”

  “How about it, Pop?” Casio chose his tone and words with the care of a witness for the defense. “I have my new truck. We can come back for yours tomorrow.”

  His dad scowled and pushed back from the bar. Casio took another swallow of his half-downed beer and wrapped his fingers around his dad’s arm to steady him while he stood up. Predictably, the old man jerked away. “Ain’t a day yet where I’m too drunk to walk out the door without the help of a punk like you.”

  They both knew that was bogus, but Casio turned loose anyway. He followed his dad as closely as possible until they stopped outside of the men’s room. “You gonna hold my hand?” his dad asked through twisted lips.

  “I’ll be here when you’re done.”

  Man, he was sick of this. Sick of cleaning up after Pop. Sick of being treated like this. Sick of everything. The dim, smoky bar was filled with more women than men. Any other night, he might have cozied up to one of the desperate women on the prowl for a man in uniform. But now wasn’t the time to venture out. Not when he wasn’t convinced Harper was through with him for good. No sense in hooking up with someone else yet. He just needed to give her a few more days, maybe a couple of weeks to cool off. Lose the marks that stood out as a reminder of what he’d done.

  He shook aside the image that followed. The memory of shoving the ring on her finger, yanking her to him. Tasting her tears.

  Mercifully, the door opened and his dad staggered out, wheeling the oxygen tank behind him, walking toward the exit sign. He glanced over his shoulder. “Well? I can’t drive myself home in this shape.”

  The highway was calm and quiet. His dad stared out the window. Casio could only imagine the rush he felt as the lights sped by him.

  “So, what happened to the arm?”

  “Knifed.”

  He glanced over, looked impressed. Casio squirmed a little. If only Pop knew, he wouldn’t be. It sort of felt like getting an A on a test, only you know you cheated. Pop’s pride didn’t count unless he came by the A or, in this case, the wound honestly. “Did the guy get it worse than you?”

  “Something like that.”

  The sound of Pop’s laugh tightened Casio’s grip on the wheel. Great, he’d set him up. “You little woman-beating punk. Lucky for you she got your arm and not your heart.”

  “So why the setup if you already knew how I got stuck?”

  “Just wanted to see if you’d cop to it. I guess not.” His sneer was so much more pronounced and cruel when he drank.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Pop.” And could he be any more in denial? Casio flashed back to nights at home, listening to his mother scream while Pop slammed her around their bedroom. He’d always despised him for that.

  “Yeah, right. I don’t, huh?” He shook his head. “So you have some time off. Want to go camping?”

  That was Pop. Rip him a new one and then ask him to go on a vacation together. That would be punishment worse than sending a cop to prison. “I can’t.”

  “Why?” His tone mocked. “I hurt your little feelings like a girlie?”

  “No.” Casio refused to give in to the baiting. Shame and manipulation only went so far. He wasn’t a kid anymore. “I heard this morning that the ADA is reopening BJ Remington’s case. I want to get in on the investigation.” If anyone deserved to help with the case, it was him.

  “My case?” Gabe let out a string of curse words that ended in a fit of coughing. “Now they think I didn’t do my job?”

  Casio handed him a wad of takeout napkins sitting in the seat. “Victor Campbell’s wife was one of the cheerleaders on the bus.” He turned on his blinker and slowed down for the red light.

  “Which cheerleader?”

  “Claudia King.”

  “The preacher’s daughter?” He gave a lecherous laugh that made Casio want to puke. “You tapped that for a while, didn’t you?”

  Casio gripped tighter on the steering wheel and didn’t bother to answer. Pop didn’t expect him to. He was too drunk to stick with any one emotion for long. Now he was back to indignation.

  “At least she wasn’t hurt like you were.” He cursed again. “Don’t they think I did everything I could to find the perp who shot my boy? It’s an insult. I should slap them with a lawsuit.”

  “Sure, Pop. Slap the DA’s office with a lawsuit for trying to find the most notorious killer in Conch Springs history.”

  Pop muttered something unintelligible and reached into his pocket for his flask.

  “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

  “If I did, I wouldn’t be drinkin’ more.”

  “Fine, Pop. Drink until you pass out.”

  “Don’t talk to me like that.”

  “Listen, Dad. I need your help with something.”

  “With what?” he gruffed out. “You don’t come around for two weeks, now you want my help?”

  “I showed up to take you home, didn’t I?” As he had several times over the last two weeks. But apparently his dad didn’t remember the puke he’d cleaned up, the abuse he’d taken, and the bar bill he paid each time.

  “I didn’t ask you to.” Gabe swigged back the flask and turned. “What do you want from me?”

  Casio almost told him to forget it, but he would probably get more out of his dad in this condition than he would sober. So he shoved down his anger and went for it. “I need to convince the ADA to let me be part of the investigation into Miss Remington’s death.”

  Casio kept his eyes on the road, but he could feel Gabe’s gaze drilling into him. “So ask him.”

  “I have a possible case pending against me. The ADA isn’t going to let me near him until the investigator sends her findings and recommendations.”

  “You think Harper might testify against you?” A deep cough rendered him speechless for a minute while Casio considered the question.

  “I don’t think so. I don’t know. She’s really mad.”

  “How bad did you beat her up?” Gabe’s voice was angry and again Casio wanted to introduce pot to kettle. He knew Gabe had always liked Harper. Who wouldn’t? She coddled Gabe, cooked for him, lightly chastised him when he smoked or drank too much. Gabe wanted her for a daughter-in-law. But if anyone had taught him to punch a woman, it was Gabe. His mother’s bruised face and body flashed through his mind in an unsettling but familiar way and melted into Harper’s image.

  “It was bad, okay? It’s been bad lately with the flashbacks and nightmares.” He expelled a heavy breath and brought his hand across his forehead.

  “Excuses,” Gabe spat out. “Be man enough to admit she made you mad so you went after her.” His words slurred and he slouched.

  “Okay, fine. Whatever you say.” Gabe was just about done for, but Casio needed him to stay lucid for just a little while more, so he
allowed him to semi-win the argument. “What I need to know is whether you can think of one thing I can bring to the table so Campbell will let me join the reinvestigation.”

  “No.” He snarled the word, and Casio knew the conversation was over.

  After he pulled up to the house, his dad was nearly passed out. Pain seared Casio’s arm from the struggle of getting him out of the truck and inside the house. He felt the wet, telltale sign of the wound reopening, and his shirt was soaked in no time.

  As they stumbled into the old man’s bedroom, Gabe seemed to perk up. He pointed toward the gun cabinet.

  “I’m not getting you a gun, Pop.” Casio lowered him onto the bed in a sitting position.

  “Idiot.” Gabe shoved the oxygen tubes back up his nose and breathed in. When he had enough breath, he pointed again. “Taped behind the cabinet. Get it and take it to the ADA.”

  “What is it?” Casio walked to the corner and struggled to push the heavy oak cabinet a few inches away from the wall. His arm screamed with pain, but he found a ten-by-thirteen office envelope taped to the back. He looked at his dad, who had closed his eyes, then tore the envelope open. Inside were what appeared to be only a few pages of an autopsy report for BJ Remington.

  He skimmed the documents, trying to wrap his head around what he was reading. Pregnancy? “What is this? And why isn’t it with the rest of the documents?”

  “The autopsy showed she was pregnant. I had to take those pages.”

  Casio sucked in a cold breath. His dad was making no sense here. “I don’t get it. Why …”

  Gabe grunted and stretched out on his bed. His eyes were closed and Casio could see he was about to pass out. “Pop!” He walked back to the bed and bent over his dad. “Don’t leave me hanging like this. What am I supposed to tell Campbell?”

  “Tell him you found it behind something.”

  “You want me to lie?”

  “I had to let the case go cold. She was pregnant.”