Forgive Me, Alex

by Lane Diamond

  I almost hoped the answer would be no. That would leave open the possibility that Mitchell committed some of the murders. Something inside me still rages where he's concerned. It would give me an excuse to—

  "The real clincher," he continues, "are the notes we found in his desk. They're in handwriting like a third grader's, and they explain why he started killing."

  "You're kidding! He left notes?"

  "Yep. He thought his big brother, Mitchell, was the smartest man around. Furthermore, he thought Mitchell's intelligence improved not just after he started killing in 1978, but because of it."

  "Shit! Are you telling me that Tommy thought killing people would make him smarter? That he wouldn't be slow anymore?"

  "That's what he wrote. The last entry explained how much he hated it, and how it made him sick to his stomach. But he was sure the Reaper would help him as a result of his killing, and make him smart like his big brother."

  I remember the way he told Ethel he was sorry as he prepared to kill her. "Shit!"

  PART 9 – Closure

  Chapter 60 – July 4, 1978: Tony Hooper

  "The world turns aside to let any man pass who knows whither he is going." – David S. Jordan

  ~~~~~

  Summertime was the penultimate time of year in Algonquin, with no school and with weather second only to autumn. As the Fourth of July dawned—Why does nobody call it Independence Day anymore?—on this bright Tuesday morning, Algonquin rested easier and more relaxed. The serial killer that had plagued them was in custody at the state psychiatric facility, where he'd remain until his trial, and probably thereafter.

  For me this would be a day of relaxation after several days of packing, clearing and cleaning, selling and moving. The old house, which sold several days ago, was almost empty, with a few odds'n'ends straggling and more cleaning to do.

  The sale wouldn't close for a few weeks. Frank offered to help me put the money into a mutual fund. We'd have plenty of time now that I lived with Gramps, as I took to calling him.

  Dad had been well prepared to leave his financial house in order, with significant equity in the house, a generous life insurance policy, a burial plot already paid for, and a Last Will and Testament with every I dotted and T crossed. He'd made sure I'd have no financial worries, at least, and had provided enough to get me through college. There'd been some wrangling over the life insurance, as they'd suspected his death was a suicide, but with no note and no real evidence, the police eventually wrote it up as an accident.

  Dad had left work early that Friday, and stopped at a bar to drown his sorrows in Jack Daniel's. Then, while presumably driving home, he'd struck a bridge abutment at approximately ninety miles per hour. We'd never know if it had been intentional, whatever anyone's suspicions.

  I chose to believe it had been an accident.

  A relatively small group of people attended the funeral: a few of Dad's extended family, one associate from his work, a few of our neighbors, Ben and Naomi Komura, Chief Radlon and his wife Kathy, Frank and me. We gathered afterwards at the old house, where Frank had arranged for caterers to provide the appropriate fare. I played the sober host who accepted everyone's condolences with solemn nods and sad smiles.

  An utterly miserable day; I wouldn't have made it without Frank.

  It took several more days for the investigation to wind down, and toward the end they asked a few questions of Frank, who had loaned me his car the night I saved Diana and captured Norton.

  He responded in his usual manner, playing the innocent old charmer. "My grandson—he's not my true grandson; I sort of adopted him; unofficially—he asked to borrow my car. No, I didn't ask him why. I didn't need to. He's a responsible young man, which I should think is obvious by now. I trust him, so I let him borrow the car. That's about the nut of it, I reckon."

  Frank had mistaken several questions for threats against me, and fired back with both barrels. Quite amusing, though it was comforting to have someone around who'd protect me at any cost. I doubted the FBI agents had bought a single bit of his story, but they let it go.

  I contacted the admissions people at Duke and, with the assistance of Frank, Mr. Kozlowski and Chief Radlon, deferred my entry into school for a year.

  I needed a little more time to myself, to think things through and determine what I'd do with my life.

  I'd made it through high school graduation without too much excitement. Mr. Kozlowski managed, at the insistence of a stubborn neighbor and Chief of Police, to get me a pass on homework assignments for the two weeks of school I'd missed, provided I scored well on the finals. In the end, I maintained my standing and finished third in my class.

  I spent most of my free time at the dojo, where Master Komura trained me to the edge of my endurance, and where he and Naomi treated me as their own son. There was love there. Chief and Kathy Radlon, too, had practically adopted me, insisting I stop by once a week for dinner, conversation, games, a ballgame on TV—some simple, caring company.

  Despite the recent tragedy, I was not alone. Frank, the Komuras, the Radlons; together they constituted my new family, and I loved them all.

  Diana had remained in the hospital for two weeks, after which she started to show improvement. She regained her memory, as Jackson had predicted, but she continued to be troubled and, much to my chagrin, refused to see me. Mrs. G. asked me to give her a little more time, promising that Diana would come around eventually.

  I agreed to be patient and understanding for as long as was necessary, and I meant it, but that was three weeks ago.

  My desperation overwhelmed me and I drove to their place last Sunday. I figured I'd at least speak with Mrs. G., even if I couldn't speak with Diana.

  A massive, white and red For Sale sign jutted from their yard. The house was empty. Their neighbor knew nothing more than that they'd moved somewhere out west. Mr. G.'s boss, also Dad's former boss, said he couldn't speak with me about it, adding that it was none of my business. Nice.

  This morning I returned to the old house to pick up the last of my clothes. I also checked the mail from yesterday, and found a letter with no return address on it, postmarked Denver, Colorado. It was addressed to me in handwriting that I knew as well as my own, and hinting at a perfume that made my head reel.

  Now seated on Frank's patio, as I soaked up the warmth of the late morning sun and drank a beer, I could only stare at the unopened letter on the table—scared to death to open it. I didn't know how I knew, but I knew that Diana was gone forever.

  I wouldn't see her again.

  I faltered, utterly drained after having barely slept the past two days, certain I hadn't the strength to read the letter. Yet I couldn't walk away from it.

  I downed the last of my beer, took a deep breath, let out a long sigh, and grabbed the envelope. A deep, pleasurable scent wafted up as I opened it.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  My Dearest Tony,

  My sweetest man, my knight in shining armor, my guardian angel, my hero, the one and only love of my life—how shall I begin? I think I should start with three simple words: I LOVE YOU! It's true, and I'm sure it will always be true. I wish that was enough, but I'm afraid it's more complicated. My ordeal has taken a terrible toll on me, and only I can heal me.

  I will need a lot of time, I'm afraid.

  It's not just that I can't put anyone else through that—such as you, my love—it's that I CAN'T do it unless I have the time to do it on my own, without distractions or reminders, or the many emotions that I must now fight.

  I am so mad at my father for blaming you! I've told him that, and that if it weren't for you I would have suffered the most horrible death imaginable. Believe it or not, he understands and he's sorry for treating you the way he did. As for me, THANK YOU FOR GIVING ME MY LIFE! I understand that you know what Mitchell Norton did to those people, including poor Jacque, but knowing and seeing are two different things. You truly have no idea what you saved me from. THANK YOU, MY LOVE!

  T
he truth is I feel guilty for all of this. I know it was Mitchell Norton's obsession with me that led to all the problems for you, including poor little Alex. He was innocent! He was so sweet, and Mitchell Norton found him while looking for me. I'm sorry.

  How do I live with that?

  The doctors tell me over and over that it's not my fault, that it was that terrible monster's fault. There's a part of me, somewhere inside, that knows that's true, but another part of me can't escape the guilt. I need time.

  There's much more to it, however. I'm not whole, and until I am, I can't be with anyone, even the most wonderful man ever. That's you, my love. My emotions are a mess. My outlook is a mess. Hell, my whole life is a mess.

  I am so, so sad to be apart from you. I cry day and night thinking about you. I'm crying right now. I can't stop. I still remember our last night together. It was the most amazing night of my life! Right up until that monster....

  I'll always cherish that night, no matter what. I know I'll never know love like that again, and it makes me sad. God, here come the tears again.

  Okay, I'm back. Maybe I'll stop crying long enough to finish this letter. I don't know how long it will take me to heal. I don't know what life has in store for me. I don't know if I'll ever see you again. I know only that I WILL LOVE YOU FOR AS LONG AS I LIVE! Wait for me, if you will, for a little while. Give me some time, but not too much. If I don't come around, then at some point you must move on. Promise me! I want you to be happy.

  Please promise, right now (I'll know), that you will be happy.

  God, how I long to kiss you. You are forever the love of my life,

  Your Diana

  Chapter 61 – August 10, 1978: Tony Hooper

  I'd been sitting in this damned parking lot for about an hour, staring at the sign above the door.

  I didn't come for this. I came for the bookstore, but the bookstore's next-door neighbor intrigued me. They might be my answer.

  I'd tried the past few weeks, without much success, to figure out what to do with myself.

  Now I knew.

  "Are you being a tad impulsive?" I asked myself.

  "Maybe. Tough shit!"

  I got out of the car and walked into the office.

  The sign over the door said, U.S. ARMY, Recruiter.

  Chapter 62 – June 28, 1995: Tony Hooper

  "I'm an idealist; I don't know where I'm going, but I'm on my way." – Carl Sandburg

  ~~~~~

  "Hey, Hoopster, it's been a long time. Sorry I haven't been around more often, but I was all wound up in my life. You know what I mean?"

  The staff has put out flowers, and color explodes throughout the cemetery, bursting from a green so deep, it gives the illusion they plucked the very land itself from the slopes of Ireland. Above Alex's headstone, a plastic pot overflows with blossoms and heavenly scents. Perfect. Mom and Dad rest nearby, and I said a quick hello, but I came to see the Hoopster today.

  A blanket of otherworldly silence shrouds the empty cemetery. I'm grateful, as it means I may speak aloud without appearing the fool. Speaking, as opposed to mere thinking, lends credibility to the proposition that Alex can hear me, as though it's inconceivable the dead can be psychic.

  "It's been quite an eventful time, Alex. They let loose the devil, I'm sorry to say, and the killing started again. That was no surprise, except, as it turned out, it is a surprise. The devil didn't do it. That's a long story, so maybe I'll save that for another time.

  "Frank is hanging in there, though he's wearing a bit thin these days. He still has that wit like a straight razor, and he still hides a keen intellect below that country charm. I'll be sure to tell him you said, 'Boo!' I know how much he misses his youngest grandson.

  "You wouldn't recognize the old house anymore. The folks that live there destroyed much of the side yard, which they use for storage, and it looks like a junk-heap compared to our time there. Whenever I look at it and remember our days playing in that yard, I'm struck by its puny size. It was an entire world back then."

  I sigh and shuffle my feet as I look around at the other graves, and continue.

  "I've met someone, Hoopster, and she's smart, successful, and quite the looker. Her name is Linda, and when I'm with her, the world makes sense again. We recently spent a couple weeks together, but she returned back east to the FBI. I always knew she would. The only question is what I'll do about it. How could I let her go without me? How will I survive without her touch, her smell, her smile and those devastating green eyes? I think she could save me, if only I would let her, but some final issues are holding me back.

  "I've tried to put all the tragedy and sadness behind me, to settle up old debts. I think of Diana often, even tracked her down a few years ago and found out where she lived. I checked recently—she's still there. It's relatively close, only a couple hours north, and I want to go see her but... I'm afraid. It scares the hell out of me, in fact. What will I say? How will I act? A simple 'Sorry' won't do the trick, but what will? I've been unable to figure it out, but I'll keep working on it."

  I kneel on the ground beside his headstone, careful to stay off him; that would be wrong. I'm out of gas, emotionally drained, yet this one last thing is important. Once again, I've let the devil go, the monster that killed my little brother, except that he's apparently no longer the monster I was certain he must be.

  Why am I so confused? God, I need some kind of closure.

  "The truth is, this is difficult for me, Hoopster. Every time I think of you, every time I see a picture of you, every time I come here to visit, the damned guilt overwhelms me, knocks me right on my ass. I know it was my fault, and I've never been able to forgive myself."

  I fidget with the grass and take a deep breath to control my watering eyes.

  "Well, I think I need to. How else can I move on? I'm drowning here, Buddy, and I need your help.

  "So I thought... maybe... oh hell! Alex, I'm so sorry. You know that, don't you? Come on, Hoopster, all I need is one little sign. Find my mind. I know you can do it. You always were the one with the big heart."

  All these years later, I need one last thing from the boy who was my Shadow.

  "Forgive me, Alex."

  Chapter 63 – August 12, 1995: Tony Hooper

  "Character is that which reveals moral purpose, exposing the class of things a man chooses or avoids." – Aristotle

  ~~~~~

  Circumstances change, roads turn, and life occasionally heads off down its own path, like the impetuous child who turns and says, "Come on, hurry up!" That's how I feel, as if chasing after my own life, unsure where it's going but cautiously hopeful. Contentment remains hidden—my elusive desire. In my entire adult life, I've been unable to cast it from the shadows. It's there, I know—waiting, perfectly camouflaged in the vagaries and machinations of everyday life. I have merely to reach out and grasp it.

  Is it that simple? Perhaps, but I must complete one final task if ever I'm to find out.

  Interstate 43 runs north out of Milwaukee, parallel to Lake Michigan on the way to Green Bay, but I approach my exit long before then. The town of Mequon is behind me and I'm passing Cedarburg—won't be long now.

  I've chewed my fingernails to the edge of bleeding. My stomach is victim to a strange sensation, as if I've swallowed an army of tiny demolitions experts who've gone to work. I hope to keep it together, that I won't need to run to Diana's bathroom to evacuate all this pent-up anxiety.

  Nah, that wouldn't be embarrassing at all.

  I haven't felt this way since the first time I picked her up for a date. It's strange. I haven't seen Diana—talked to her or written to her—for seventeen years. The pain of that time was too much. I never understood why her father insisted on moving her out of Algonquin, far away from the horrible events, given that she survived. She endured unimaginable horrors, but she did endure.

  She made it.

  She underwent a lot of psychological counseling, which was hardly unexpected; one experienced such atro
cities with severe consequence. Still, she made it. Yet her father wouldn't let me speak to her. He forbad my seeing her and blamed me for everything.

  I accepted that at the time, up to my ears in guilt and prepared to accept responsibility for Alex, Diana, Dad, and for the terrible way limburger cheese smelled. The whole world had fallen into the shitter and it was my fault.

  Diana's letter explained the first few weeks, perhaps even a few months. But seventeen years? Forever?

  Grafton, Wisconsin, a bedroom community for Milwaukee, offers little by way of excitement. The homes are older than I expected, appropriate to a basic working middle class kind of town, not too pricey but quaint and clean. Diana lives on Sixth Street. I know from my source that she's unmarried and still using her maiden name of Gregario, but that she does have one dependent.

  Okay, she had a kid somewhere along the way—nothing surprising there. I didn't expect her to join a convent. Still, why does it bother me? Is it jealousy, all these years later, even now that I have Linda in my life?

  I park up the block from her small, boxy old house. It has light gray siding, darker gray roofing, a sliver of driveway without a garage, and a tailor's patch of front yard. Elbowroom is an excessive luxury in this neighborhood. A basketball hoop occupies the back end of the driveway, and a basketball rests in the grass beneath it. The bicycle that leans against the house looks like a boy's fifteen-speed.

  Although it's Saturday, I wasn't sure she'd be home. I wanted to surprise her.

  Right, good plan, Tony.

  The driveway is empty, but a car hugs the sidewalk along the street in front of the house, an old '88 Ford Taurus with dull paint and a small dent on the passenger-side rear panel—Diana's car, exactly as my investigator indicated.

  Okay, she's home. Now what? Boy, you sure thought this one through.

  My stomach cartwheels again. I'd feel better if I puked first.