by BJ Bourg
In stunned silence, I watched Susan and my mom interact. I slowly lifted the photograph of Garvan Montana and studied this stranger, who was my real father. The implications were mind-numbing. The last name I was carrying wasn’t the one I was supposed to be carrying. I should be Clint Montana. It sounded awkward and weird inside my head, and I figured it would sound worse out loud.
“So, this man”—I stabbed an index finger over the man next to Crystal—“is my real dad?”
“No, he’s not,” Mom said through the tears. “I already told you that Ezekiel is your real dad, and nothing can ever change that.”
“Well, I think science would disagree.” I tilted the picture and placed my finger over Crystal’s face. “And she’s my sister…”
Mom nodded, her face twisting in agony as she stared at her only daughter.
“When was the last time you saw her?” I asked.
“She was almost five when Garvan kidnapped her from me. I haven’t seen her since.”
“He kidnapped her? Why didn’t you call the cops?” I wanted to know. “Why didn’t you fight to get her back?”
“He kidnapped her legally—he used the courts to steal her away from me.”
The three of us sat there for about ten minutes, no one saying anything. There was no sound but that of my mom’s silent cries and Achilles’ thunderous bark whenever he heard a coyote howling outside. It was clear he wanted to be in the back yard, so I finally let him out. I was lost in thought as I moved. Mom was right about one thing; Ezekiel Wolf would always be my dad. But, as I returned to the table and stared down at the picture of Garvan Montana, a strange curiosity came over me. I began to wonder what kind of man he was. Was I anything like him? Did I look like him? Had Abigail looked like him? Was he a good man? What if he was a criminal?
I rubbed my thumb over the baby in the picture. I’d never considered what it would be like to have a sibling, but now I learn I have a sister. She would be a few years older than me. What did she look like? Would I recognize her if we passed on the street? Did she have any children? If so, that would make me an uncle.
“Mom,” I finally said, breaking through the silence, “Whatever became of Garvan Montana and Crystal? Where can I find them?”
“What became of Garvan?” Her eyes clouded over. “I’ve spent half my life trying to forget that man’s name. I…I don’t know where he is or what became of him. I ran into his mother in the city a couple of years ago, but I didn’t even have the desire to speak with her. I don’t even think she recognized me.”
“Do you have any information at all?” I pressed. “Is he still in Louisiana?”
“I really don’t know. I’m guessing his mother still lives in the same place in La Mort. It was a family home. I saw in the paper that his dad passed away a few years back, and they mentioned he was a surviving member of the family, but I don’t know where he’s living. He always said he wanted to move to Mexico and start up a surf shop on the beach.” She grunted. “He didn’t know the first thing about surfing—I don’t even think he’s ever been on a surfboard—but you couldn’t tell him anything. He was as stubborn as they came and he knew it all.”
I stared down at my hands, wondering how I could locate Garvan and Crystal. If they were suspects, locating them would be easy, but I had to figure out how to find them without using my law enforcement resources. It was illegal for an officer to use state and federal databases for personal reasons.
“I want his mom’s address,” I said. “I have to head to La Mort tomorrow, so I’ll pay her a visit and see if I can find Garvan.”
Susan cocked her head and mouthed the words, Are you sure about this?
Mom clutched at her throat and her face turned paler than it already was. It seemed as though she regretted mentioning Garvan’s mother. “Oh, dear, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“Why not?” I asked. “He’s my biological father, so I think I’m entitled to meet the man. And if I find him, that would lead to Crystal. Wouldn’t you like to see her again—after all these years?”
Mom stared into space for a few long seconds and then slowly shook her head. “No, Clint, I just think too much time has passed. I hope you’ll reconsider. It’s a bad idea to go down that path. It won’t end well.”
“Why not?”
“We didn’t end on good terms. The custody hearing was vicious. He’s a vindictive man and he turned Crystal against me. I don’t want to face them and be forced to relive that painful experience.”
“I want to find them.” I said it with a finality that left no doubts as to my intentions. I was beginning to sense that my mom was keeping something from me, and I wanted to know what it was. “Where was his mother living when you and he were together?”
“I’d rather not…I don’t remember.”
I studied my mom. In all my years of living, she’d kept this information about Garvan and Crystal quiet. It suddenly occurred to me that she must’ve been under a tremendous amount of pressure and guilt. It was hard enough for me to keep a Christmas present secret from Susan, and I couldn’t imagine how it felt to keep a secret about your own child’s father and sibling.
Speaking of siblings, I’d always said I never missed what I never had, so it never bothered me that I didn’t have a brother or sister growing up, but now I found myself wanting to know more about her. Had Garvan told her about me? At the time he left my mom, did he even know that I would be a boy? If Crystal didn’t know about me, would she be excited to learn she had a younger brother?
“What about Crystal?” I wanted to know. “Where can I find her?”
“Clint, it’s not a good idea.”
“Mrs. Wolf,” Susan interjected softly. “I really think it’s important that Clint find the rest of his family. As you already know, family is the most important thing we have.”
I could tell in my mom’s eyes that she was in distress. There was something she didn’t want me to know, and it made me more determined to find out.
Susan was intrigued about this new revelation and began asking my mom questions about Crystal, attempting to steer the conversation toward happier times she would’ve shared with her daughter. It worked and my mom began talking about Crystal, telling fond stories of her first steps, her first birthday, and how she wanted to wear her pajamas on her first day of pre-school.
When it appeared my mom had begun to relax a little, I tried turning the conversation back to Garvan, but she remained tightlipped. When it appeared she was about to start crying again, Susan cut in.
“So, Clint, what kind of cake do you want for the wedding?”
“Chocolate on chocolate,” I said without hesitation, willing to change the subject for my mom’s sake. I would find Garvan and Crystal on my own, and in good time. “That double or triple flavored chocolate, too—not the weak kind.”
“You haven’t changed one bit, Clint Wolf,” my mom said, forcing a smile of relief that we were finally finished with the Garvan and Crystal subject. She turned to Susan. “It was so easy to make him happy for his birthday. I’d get him army men and a chocolate cake and he’d be content until the following year.”
“We can’t have chocolate cake for our wedding,” Susan said. “That would be ugly.”
I sighed and then leaned across the table and kissed her on the forehead. “You can pick the cake, the venue, the tux, and everything else about the wedding,” I said. “I’m just grateful to have you.”
I got up and refilled my cup of hot cocoa. When I returned to the table, Susan was talking about having our wedding on a cruise ship. She had a website pulled up and was looking at cruises to Jamaica and Cozumel, Mexico.
“Maybe I’ll find Garvan Montana down there,” I said, stealing a glance at my mom. “He might be running a surf shop on the beach.”
She didn’t even look at me.
CHAPTER 15
Sunday, November 20
It was a little after five in the morning when I met Mallory T
uttle in Northern Chateau and followed her down a long country road. It was paved, but bumpy and narrow. After driving for about thirty minutes, I finally saw signs of civilization when a middle school and a library came into view, but we were quickly swallowed up by trees again as we continued onward.
We eventually drove over a flat bridge that crossed a narrow canal, and Mallory pulled to the left side of the road immediately upon crossing the bridge. There was a wide area off the shoulder that was covered in shells, and it appeared to be where cars turned around. She whipped around and I pulled up on her driver’s side and slid my window down. A blast of cold air blew in and I shivered. It had dropped into the thirties overnight and I hated it.
Mallory shoved the gearshift of her unmarked Dodge Charger in Park and lowered her window. She shot a thumb over her shoulder.
“Chris Jenkins lives in a shed about three houses down.” Mallory brushed some strands of long brown hair out of her eyes. “Last time I arrested him, we parked in front of the shed and he broke out the back while we were getting out of our cars. We caught him, but we had to chase him about a mile into the swamps to get him.”
I nodded and stared straight ahead. My headlights were trying to penetrate the eerie fog that covered the area. “What do you propose?”
“His shed is in the middle of a large field and it’s built on solid ground,” Mallory explained. “Why don’t I drive directly to the back of the shed and you pull up to the front door? That way, we’ll have everything covered if he tries to run.”
I nodded and removed my seatbelt. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Mallory revved her engine and her back tires spun in the loose shells as she whipped around and headed for Jenkins’ place. I remained close behind her. When we reached this large lot with a tiny square object situated in the middle of it, she crossed over a dirt driveway and sped across the property. I smashed the accelerator and went wide to the right, driving around her and coming up behind the metal shed.
I was out of my Tahoe in a flash, but the back door was already open and a tall skinny fellow was jumping the steps to run. He landed in a stumbling run and that bought me some precious time to reach him. I smashed my shoulder into his thin ribs and he grunted audibly as I propelled him through the air. We both landed hard, but I was on top and his wind had been knocked out.
I flipped him onto his belly and jerked his arms behind his back. Before I could reach for my cuffs, Mallory was beside me and she put a boot on his neck.
“Make a wrong move and I’ll stomp a mud hole in your throat,” she said.
“What’s going on?” Chris wailed from the ground. “You can’t do this to me. You’re just mad that I was set free on good time, but my lawyer said that’s the law and there’s nothing you can do about it. He said if I get harassed even once by—”
“A condition of your parole was that you sign up with a parole officer and meet with him monthly.” Mallory bent over and grabbed his left arm while I grabbed his right arm. When we stood him to his feet, she looked up at him. “But you skipped your first meeting and now you’re going back to prison.”
“I didn’t skip my first meeting! I went to it and I signed up and we talked and he told me everything would be fine.”
“At that first meeting, when you signed up with him,” Mallory explained, “he told you when the next meeting would be, and that was last week. You didn’t show up, so here we are to save the day.”
Chris moaned as we stood him to his feet and walked him to Mallory’s car. After strapping him into the back seat, Mallory called for a patrol car to guard the place until Jenkins’ parole officer could arrive to search it. Once the deputy arrived, I followed Mallory to the detective bureau in Central Chateau, and we went about interviewing Chris.
CHAPTER 16
“This is Clint Wolf,” Mallory told Chris, indicating with her head toward me. “He’s from Mechant Loup and he’s got some questions for you about Mitch Taylor.”
Chris’s face twisted into a painful scowl. He was an ugly one, that’s for sure. His face was long and narrow. There were three or four wild tufts of hair sticking up from his bare dome and a long scar stretched from his left eye down to his chin. “I don’t know no Mitch Taylor,” he said. When he spoke, I could almost see his rancid breath float across the space between us.
Trying not to gag, and in the interest of officer safety, I eased a little farther back in my chair.
Mallory had caught a whiff, too, and she waved her hand in front of her face. “Damn, dude, what the hell crawled up in your mouth and died?”
Chris grinned, exposing a row of stained teeth. “It’s a defense mechanic. I used it in prison to keep the perverts off of me. I guess it works on cops, too.”
“Mechanism,” Mallory said.
His face fell. “What?”
“It’s called a defense mechanism.” Mallory brought him back to the subject at hand. “You remember Mitch Taylor. He’s the witness who identified you at your trial—you know, the one you threatened in open court. What were your exact words again?”
Chris’ eyes fell. “That was a long time ago. I didn’t mean what I said.”
“No?” Mallory cocked her head to the side. “You didn’t mean it when you said you would kill him once you got out of prison and that he would never sleep easy again?”
“No, ma’am. I’m a changed man. I swear on my grandmother’s grave.”
“Let’s leave your grandmother out of this.” Mallory pointed toward me. “Answer Chief Wolf’s questions.”
“You can start by telling me where you were and what you did Friday night,” I said.
“Friday night…” Chris stared up at the ceiling, as though trying to remember. “Is that the night it rained real bad?”
“That’s the one,” I said.
“Hmm, I don’t remember what I did Friday night.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“And you can’t remember what you did two nights ago?”
He shook his head. “I think I was home drinking. If not, I was down the road at Old Man Pat’s Place.”
I’d heard of Old Man Pat’s Place. It was a shoddy bar set back in the swamps where a man—or woman—could get more than a lap dance for anything south of twenty bucks. Old Man Pat was in the news not long ago for Letting Premises for Prostitution. If found guilty, his property would be seized and sold at public auction, but word on the street was that the witnesses were no longer cooperating with the district attorney’s office.
“Did you get rained on that night?” I asked.
“No. I was inside.”
“Who was with you inside?”
“Nobody.”
“What time did the rain start?”
“I don’t remember. A little after midnight, I think.”
“What were you doing when the rain started?”
“Drinking a beer.”
“Was Jack Billiot there?”
Chris scrunched his face. “Who?”
“Jack…the drunk from town.”
“From here?”
“No, from Mechant Loup.”
Chris shook his head rapidly from side to side. “I don’t know no Jack Billiot and I wasn’t in Mechant Loup on Friday.”
“No?” I cocked my head to the side. “When were you in Mechant Loup?”
“I haven’t been there since I got out of prison.”
I leaned forward, but carefully. “Do you own a handgun?”
“No.”
“You don’t own a nine millimeter pistol?”
His eyes darted around the room as he shook his head.
“You do realize your parole officer is searching your house as we speak, don’t you?” I asked. “He’s going through everything in your place. If you have a marijuana seed in your pillowcase he’s going to find it. You understand that, don’t you?”
Chris was looking for a place to hide, but there was nowhere to go. Twitching and shaking, he
finally pounded his fists on the table. “Okay, look, there’s a pistol in my house, but it’s not mine. It was there when I moved in.”
“What kind is it?” I asked. “Make, color, caliber?”
“I don’t know the brand name, but it’s black and I think it’s a nine millimeter.” He shook his head from side to side. “But it’s not mine and I never even touched it.”
“Where’s it located in the house?”
“It’s in the front pocket of a leather jacket in the closet. The jacket was there before I moved in.”
Mallory glanced at me for the okay to move in on the interview, and I nodded. She leaned forward. “Chris, when did you move into this shed?”
“When I got out of prison.”
“Had you lived there before?”
He shook his head.
“The only other place you’ve ever lived was with your mom on Sycamore?”
He nodded.
“And you say you found this pistol in the pocket of a leather jacket that was already in the shed when you moved in?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Chris said cautiously, as though he thought he was being lured into a trap.
“Does this leather jacket have a big eagle embroidered on the back?”
Chris nodded weakly.
“That’s your jacket,” Mallory said. “You were wearing it the night I arrested you for the carjacking. They gave it back to you when they released you from prison and you put that pistol in the pocket, didn’t you?”
Chris’s head was nearly resting on the desk now.
“Chris, where’d you get the gun?” Mallory asked. “You and I both know you didn’t find it, so stop wasting our time. Where’d you get it?”
“I found it in a car.” Chris was mumbling now and we could barely understand him.
“What car?” Mallory asked.
“Up the road from where I live.”
Mallory’s fingers drummed the desk and her eyes narrowed in thought. Finally, she grunted. “So, it was you who broke into the principal’s car at the school. You stole his pistol, didn’t you? That would’ve been a week after you got out of prison.”