“I said get out!”
“The autopsy report showed bruising under her skin. She didn’t fall asleep; you held her down under the water and watched her die.”
Ben began to show fear.
“You’re a fool. You should’ve known I’d find out.”
“I didn’t—”
“You should’ve known I wouldn’t stay little forever. I grew up, got stronger…you really didn’t think about that, did you?”
“About what?”
The muscles in Drake’s face contracted as he said, “I’m going to kill you for what you did.”
Ben took a step back and defensively held out a hand in front of him. “You don’t know what you’re doing, Drake.”
“You knew what you were doing when you killed Mom,” Drake snarled, moving closer.
“I had no other choice! She was fine one day, and then the next she just…just changed. That wasn’t my fault though! I couldn’t stand hearing her talk about God and Jesus all the time. He wasn’t her husband; I was. But she wouldn’t listen. She never listened to me.”
“You were jealous over a Book she was reading? Is that it? Is that what you’re trying to tell me? I don’t know whether to believe this or call it insanity.”
“She wasn’t the woman I married. She stopped wanting to have fun after she got God.”
“No, it went deeper with you.”
“I had nothing to do with—”
“Then why not divorce her? Gah, you held her underwater? You sick—”
“It wasn’t supposed to go that far.”
“That’s why you sent me away to Grandpa’s that day. So you could perform your sick little murder while I was away without any problems. For twelve years, you thought you got away with it, but now you’re going to pay. And you’re going to feel every drop of pain like you made her feel.”
“Don’t try me, Drake!” Ben cautioned, stepping back toward the fireplace. “I’m warning you!”
Drake saw his dad craftily move his arm around his body. He immediately jumped back as soon as his dad brought down an iron poker on the spot where he was standing only a second before. Before his dad had a chance to raise the poker again and swing it at him, Drake made his move.
He swung his right fist around and let it sink deep into his dad’s cheekbone.
Ben stumbled and tried to maintain his balance. He swatted at the air as he fell.
Too late. Drake watched the back of his head land directly on the cold, hard stone of the fireplace hearth.
Thud.
Drake stood there guardedly, waiting for his dad to get up. “Stand up and fight! I’m not finished with you yet!”
Ben never moved. Drake wasn’t even sure if he saw him breathing.
Drake took a few steps back as soon as he saw the pool of blood begin to flow from the back of his dad’s head.
What have I done?
Chapter
5
FUGITIVE
Drake Pearson didn’t know what he was doing or where he was going, only that he had to get as far away as he could from his home. A murderer, he kept repeating to himself. I’m a murderer. That means prison, life, or worse…death row.
OK, back up, back up. It had started off all talk. Arguing. There were threats…he said he was going to kill him, but that was just an offshoot of his anger. From the beginning, he had never actually intended on killing his father.
A lot of good that does now. He had planned on a fight, though. A long, bloody fight, even if it meant just as many bruises on him as he gave his father. Anything to make his dad feel a percentage of the pain his mom must have endured as she gasped for air during the last moments of her life. He had had no idea what kind of shape his old man was in, but he certainly hadn’t planned on the fight being over in one blow.
Now there was a dead body. He had sentenced himself to this fate. The guilt had been shifted, and with the authorities after him, who knew if he would be able to get away? Stupid, Drake. Real stupid. You’ve really outdone yourself this time. Can’t you ever do anything right?
Drake slowed to a stop in front of the railroad tracks bordering the outskirts of town as soon as he saw whirling lights in the distance, warning him of an oncoming train. He struck his hand against the steering wheel but held his tongue from saying anything only because he knew it wouldn’t do any good.
Where are you going? He braced his forehead in his hand and realized he had no plan. Leave the state. Go anywhere. Isn’t much else you can do now.
His duffel bag was still in the passenger seat like a quiet companion. Hard to believe all this started from a few empty pages in a journal. One argument. One blow. It was never meant to lead to this.
Drake’s eyes followed the train as it rumbled past. He listened to the tracks shudder and groan beneath the weight as he let his mind drift. He hadn’t been here in so long that he had almost forgotten its name. Though not official, this railroad was known by all the townsfolk as Penny Tracks, due to a legend almost as old as the scrub brush that had fossilized itself against the tarnished metal plates of the tracks.
For generations, a legend had floated around that over ten thousand wheat pennies had been mixed in with the concrete used for the crossties. Though no one ever knew for sure whether the myth was fact or fiction, the old-timers wouldn’t give it up just because it gave them something to talk about every Sunday afternoon at the gas station. Sometimes the story changed from wheat pennies to buffalo head nickels to occasionally even arrowheads, but every time it was told, it was like a new story engraving itself into the very history of Linhurst Peak.
But Drake was tired of legends. Tired of secrets. The only thing they were good for was bringing pain. And now look at him, the biggest secret of them all. Running away from a murder sure wouldn’t help things, but neither would going to jail. Either way, his life was fated to crash at some point, so the least he could do was prolong what little freedom he had left.
Freight cars rattled by as the train continued to make its lengthy journey across a stretch of tracks concealed by dense thickets of goldenrod, wild grapes, and honeysuckle. Drake hated living so close to the tracks. Every night, it was the same thing. The screeching whistle would blow—long, long, short, long—and shake him from his dreams at three-something every morning. Plus, the sight of the dingy rail cars slowly rumbling by was a constant reminder that he was still here as the rest of the world passed him by, trapped inside his miserable life. Now he was finally crossing over these tracks, but he had always planned to leave in hopes of starting a new life, not flee from a murder scene.
Drake glanced down to check his gas level and was relieved to find that he had slightly over half a tank. He killed the engine as he waited for the train to pass and dug through his bag for his wallet. He cracked it open and counted again what he knew was already there.
Fifty-two dollars. He shoved the wallet in his back pocket. Wouldn’t last long. He would have to use it strictly for food. Nothing else.
He sighed and pressed his head against the steering wheel. So I guess that means I’ll have to kick cigarettes…Man, that’ll be torture. But I’m doing it only to save the money. No cigarettes, no gas. Just food. When I run out of gas, I’ll just have to walk.
What a plan. When the money ran out—and boy, would fifty-two dollars run out fast—he would be stuck. Then, he would either need to find a job, hit the streets, or turn himself in. He knew he would never give himself up, regardless of what kind of life he would have to learn to adjust to. That was for the weak who were afraid to sleep in the rain or go a few days without a meal. He wasn’t like that.
Dad deserved it. I didn’t mean to do it, but it happened. Why should I be sorry for that? He rubbed his head and closed his tired eyes. What a day.
“Proverbs 21:13 says, ‘Whoever shuts his ears to the cry of the poor will also cry himself and not be heard,’” Pastor Don Bauer said earnestly from behind his glass pulpit. A congregation pushing sixty people sat d
rinking in his every word while fatigued children leaned against their parents with bobbing heads, wishing this man would say what he needed to say and close in prayer. Usually there was more of an attendance on Wednesday nights, but perhaps the heavy rainfall had deterred those living farther away from coming—as was apparently the case with the children’s teacher tonight.
“How can we ever hope to reach the lost if we aren’t even willing to reach out of our comfort zones first and show them Christ’s love?” Pastor Don said, straying away from his notes again as he walked the length of the platform. “Do you want to know why eighty to ninety percent of people who become saved fall away from the faith? It’s most likely because they got caught up in emotion during praise and worship or an altar call, but have never actually had a relationship with Jesus, because the Church as a whole is too afraid to tell them the truth.”
Andrew liked it when his pastor got this way. Once he began talking about witnessing and reaching the lost, it was hard for him to talk about anything else. His forehead would gleam with sweat as he paced back and forth, reaching out to the audience with excitement and passion in his voice. Of course, Andrew understood why his pastor was this way. It was because a friend of Don’s had been bold enough to share his faith with him that the gospel finally became clear to him, and he had immediately accepted Jesus into his heart. Ever since that day, Don had been a changed man and witnessing became his number one obsession.
Andrew sneaked a peek at Ronnie as Pastor Don Bauer retreated behind his pulpit. “What do you think, Ronnie?” he whispered.
Ronnie sat like a still statue with his legs dangling over the edge of the pew, gathering his own thoughts about the church in stride. “I don’t know yet. I kinda like him. He’s funny when he starts talking fast.”
Andrew rested his hand on Ronnie’s knee and flipped through pages in his Bible as the pastor told everyone to turn to Matthew 25:34-40.
“Read with me,” Pastor Don said loudly, picking up his Bible. “Then the King will say to those on His right hand, ‘Come, you blessed of My Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world: for I was hungry and you gave Me food; I was thirsty and you gave Me drink; I was a stranger and you took Me in; I was naked and you clothed Me; I was sick and you visited Me; I was in prison and you came to Me.’
“Then the righteous will answer Him, saying, ‘Lord, when did we see You hungry and feed You, or thirsty and give You drink? When did we see You a stranger and take You in, or naked and clothe You? Or when did we see You sick, or in prison, and come to You?’ And the King will answer and say to them, ‘Assuredly, I say to you, inasmuch as you did it to one of the least of these My brethren, you did it to Me.’”
Pastor Don closed his Bible and stared out into the congregation with teary eyes. “These duties mentioned here—feeding the hungry and giving drink to the thirsty—are duties that anyone can perform. We have to remind ourselves that Jesus once did the same for us. I’m not saying that you give money to every person you see on the side of the road asking for it; God instructs us to use wisdom. Ask God to give you discernment and let Him use you. All the deeds mentioned here in these verses are deeds of love; not one of them consists of words, but involves action and even sacrifice.”
Andrew nodded his head softly in agreement.
“I’ll say that again, ’cause I don’t think you all heard me. Sacrifice. It means giving up something to God that hurts, something of personal importance to you. God has to see that He’s got your heart and your obedience before His anointing can ever enter your life.”
Pastor Don stepped down from the stage again and got personal with the congregation. “Believers, we’re going to Heaven. We have life and a wonderful future to look forward to. But it’s not enough to come to church week after week so we can feel like we’ve fulfilled some sort of a religious duty. What was it Jesus commanded us to do right before He left the world to go back to Heaven?”
“Go unto all the world and preach the gospel,” Andrew muttered under his breath.
“He told us to go unto all the world and preach the gospel,” Pastor Don said. “Yes, we’re going to Heaven. Yes, Jesus saved us. But let’s make sure we take as many people with us as we can. It hurts me to know that even one soul is in hell today. It can be avoided, but it’s up to us.”
He smiled in spite of his tears and said, “In conclusion, I’d like to remind you all of the verse in Hebrews 13:2 that says, ‘Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by doing so, some have unwittingly entertained angels.’ Live your lives as sacrifices to God and He will direct your paths. He’ll use you if you’re willing to be used by Him.”
Once Drake’s headache progressed into a migraine, he decided it was time to turn off the ’80s station he had been listening to for the past three hours of driving and give his head a rest. He rolled up his window and tried to relax in the silence, but his throbbing head made every effort impossible. His unyielding craving for nicotine was probably also a major contributor to his headache—especially because he usually took a smoke when he felt stressed.
He popped open his glove box and scanned the inside just one more time, in case he might have overlooked it. Surely he had just one cigarette left in there somewhere. He slammed it shut and shoved a piece of gum in his mouth. Cinnamon wasn’t the flavor he was looking for.
Several times, he had been tempted to turn into a gas station and buy a pack of cigarettes, but he had to keep reminding himself that he’d be thankful he saved his money later. Boloney, he thought. The only thing I care about right now is a cigarette and a lighter. He pressed his left foot hard against the floor and chewed faster.
He spotted a gas station in the distance and felt his stomach churn. One couldn’t hurt, could it? What’s a few bucks outta fifty, anyway? In time, those few bucks would hold a greater value when he was searching the trash cans for food. But I need this.
Drake put his trembling hand on his seat and gripped a fistful of the padding, fighting the gut-wrenching urge to give in to his addiction. With only a second more to decide, he passed up the exit leading to the gas station and stared blankly ahead at the long strip of highway that lay before him. I can do this. I can do this. It feels like I’m dying, but I can do this. Withdrawal. Wonderful way to top off his day.
Drake felt stupid wasting gas like this. Driving in no definite direction was probably a mistake that would later come back to haunt him. He just wanted to get away. He had to get safe somehow; prison wasn’t an option as far as he was concerned. His past was covered in dirt like everyone else’s, and he sure hadn’t been a saint, but he had always hoped he would never cross paths with the law. Some thugs he knew blew off prison as if it were nothing more than a visit to the doctor. For some reason, it had always been a bigger deal to him. If for no one else, he had to live for himself. Speeding tickets were one thing. Electric chairs were quite another.
But maybe I’m doing myself more harm by running away. If I go back and confess, they might go easy on me and cut my sentence short. Drake squinted in the glare of the setting sun and bit the inside of his cheek. Nah. I’m not gonna go back and beg for their mercy. I stand on my own two feet. I don’t crawl. ’Sides, who knows if they’ll even be able to pin the murder on me? How do they know that someone didn’t break in, get in a fight with Dad, and leave? No, they won’t be able to find me here. I can escape. Maybe this is just the kinda break I’ve been looking for.
An alarm beeped and a red exclamation point lit up beside the gas tank level. “Oh, no,” Drake moaned. “Outta gas already?” He looked up just in time to see a large sign with the words “Welcome to Springfield, Illinois” printed boldly in white. “Springfield, eh?” he muttered to himself. He turned his attention back to the flashing red light and let out a long breath. “Might as well get used to it. Looks like Springfield’s gonna be my new home.”
Drake knew he had a little more gas left in his tank but decided not to chance it. He made a quick U
-turn and pulled into the small, used car lot he had seen a couple miles back. This old set of wheels probably isn’t worth a dime, but maybe I’ll be able to squeeze a few bucks out of it to give me some more food money. Won’t be no good to me anymore without gas.
He parked his truck and wiped the sweat off his face. Presentable and not guilty—that was the key. Just a guy who wanted to sell his truck. A face everyone would see, then hopefully forget. Easy.
Just as he was about to get out, he caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror and leaned back slowly in his seat. That’s…me? His whole complexion was masked in anger, as if his resentment had manifested itself into some sort of visible disease that had stained his entire face. And his eyes. They looked so strange, so different from ever before. Hollow. Cold. Like he would almost be willing to do anything to get what he wanted now.
What is it I want? The question took him by surprise. He put his hand on the door, ready to go talk to the salesman about this truck so he could hit the road, not be lectured by his conscience. I want to be free, that’s what I want. To be left alone finally. I want to live without being screamed at and hated. I want to prove to the world that Drake Pearson doesn’t have to live at the bottom anymore. That’s what I want, and I finally got the chance to get it.
He stepped out of his truck and jogged up the short flight of steps that led to the office building, but he stopped when he saw a sign posted on the door. “Some trust in chariots, and some in horses; but we will remember the name of the Lord our God” (Psalm 20:7). He read over the words again and wrinkled his brow. Whatever that’s supposed to mean. He tapped lightly on the door and hesitantly took a step inside. “Hello?”
A tall, black man in his late forties stood and greeted him with a glowing smile. “Hello! Guess I didn’t even hear you drive up.”
I ain’t here to buy any of your cars, pal. Drake forced a smile back and tried to remember to keep his words polite. Selling his truck might take about every trick in the book, so he extended his hand and kept smiling. “Good morning, sir,” he said, trying to sound as educated and respectful as possible.
Broken Identity Page 6