He didn’t say anything. Then he played with the whipped cream in his float, sucked it through the straw. He looked like the Parker she remembered, the seventeen-year-old boy who had been one of the best wide receivers their football team had ever had, who had tried out for the track team every spring for no other reason than that he’d loved to run.
“So how long have you been a detective?”
“I was promoted three months ago.”
“You’re kidding. Congratulations.”
He smiled, and for the first time since he’d walked through the door, she started to relax. His smile said he was the same old Parker hidden somewhere inside the new one.
“Thanks,” he said.
“You’re a rookie.” She punched his arm like she used to do.
“I’m a sucker for long hours and low pay.” He looked tired. His clothes were rumpled. She’d forgotten he’d been working all day and much of the night. He looked beat.
They both turned toward their drinks and sipped the cream, shoulder to shoulder, some of the earlier tension peeling away.
“But seriously, how did you end up a detective?”
“I worked patrol for a while. It was the next logical step. I guess I thought I’d be good at it, protect and serve the community where I grew up. Give something back,” he said.
His answer sounded rehearsed, generic. It was obvious there was more to it than he was saying, but he wasn’t willing to share it with her. She let it go. “So what happened today?” she asked. “How did the guy drown? Tubing? Kayaking?”
“Who told you it was a drowning?” He looked her over in the new cop way he’d acquired in her absence.
“I just assumed. Are you telling me it wasn’t?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”
“My dad never talked about his job either.”
“I’m sure he had his reasons.”
“I’m sure he did.” She played with the straw. Knowing cops the way she did, she knew she wasn’t going to get anything more out of him. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I do?” she asked.
“You’re a vet,” he said.
She was surprised he knew.
“I never said I didn’t go on the internet.”
Pam returned. “We’re closing up soon,” she said.
Parker reached into his pocket for his wallet.
“Let me get this,” Becca said and tossed a few bills onto the counter.
Instead of getting up to leave, they stayed where they were, and Becca tried to think of something else to say. She couldn’t come up with anything, and maybe Parker couldn’t either, because he remained quiet. Pam appeared with a mop and bucket.
“I think that’s our second cue,” he said.
Becca twisted in her stool to stand, her knees bumping into his. His long legs had always taken up more space than she’d allowed for.
Parker held the door open for her. They stepped outside. She became uncomfortable again, feeling awkward standing so close to him on the narrow sidewalk. She stared at her feet. She didn’t want to go home, but she couldn’t think of anything else to say. She couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. She was about to suggest they go for a walk, but he cut her off.
“I have an early day tomorrow,” he said. “It was good seeing you.” He turned toward his unmarked cruiser, calling over his shoulder, “You look good.”
“You said that already.”
“Then it must be true.” He smiled his old Parker smile, waving as he folded his long legs into the driver’s seat.
She watched his taillights head in the opposite direction, heading downriver, farther away from town. She wondered where he lived now. She should’ve asked him. She wanted to see him again, realized she had no idea how to contact him. And he’d never asked how to contact her, but if he wanted to, he could find her at her father’s house.
But she suspected he wouldn’t.
Maybe it was just as well.
Becca got in her Jeep. Before she started the engine, her cell phone vibrated. It was another text from Matt. I miss you.
She smoothed her brow, not knowing whether she missed him too. She’d been pulled in too many directions in the last two days for her to sort through her feelings, although some of her anger toward him had lost its edge. She was going to have to talk with him sooner or later, make sense of it all, but not yet. She typed a reply. We’ll talk soon.
She tossed the phone aside. Funny how she finally had his full attention now, when she wasn’t sure she wanted it anymore.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
John was sitting on the couch in front of the television. He was staring at a blank screen. He’d missed the morning news. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe it was better if he didn’t know where the cops were in their investigation. Ignorance was bliss, after all. He would only drive himself crazy watching, listening for information about what the cops did or didn’t know. Then again, maybe it was better if he knew. Maybe he could fix things before they got out of his control.
At least his head felt clearer than it had the last two days. He’d slept well, considering. His dreams had been mixed, visions of Beth, her cheeks full and sun-kissed gold, the way she’d looked before she’d gotten sick. She’d been talking to him in dreamland, her voice soothing to his ears. She’d been telling him about her dream, about drifting on the river, floating along the current under a clear blue sky. She’d been at peace, and this in turn had made him feel at peace. But every so often an image of a body, a man’s body, had flashed behind his eyes, the man’s insides hollowed out, the river carrying the corpse farther downstream.
“No!” John had screamed, unsure if he’d said the word out loud, or if he’d only hollered it inside the dream that had turned into a nightmare.
Still, he felt rested. And now that he was awake, his mind focused, he thought about Becca, seeing her at her father’s house the day before. He would have to decide how to handle her if he needed to, how her father had handled her the first time.
John remained staring at the blank screen on the television, deep inside his thoughts. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there, but long enough for his joints to stiffen. He ran his hand across his forehead. There was no mistaking Becca might’ve seen something. But how much had she seen? How much did she know about what had happened? And how was he going to find out?
He turned his head toward the sliding glass door that led to the back porch and the view of the barn, the woods, and the mountain. He heard what sounded like dogs barking. He stood from the couch, went to look outside.
He saw movement behind the barn, flashes of orange and black. A herd of men, voices muffled, following the dogs’ cries, moving as a unit between the trees and brush. He counted at least a dozen of them and who knew how many dogs.
A sinking feeling almost dropped him to the floor. This wasn’t good. No, this wasn’t good at all. They were search dogs, and damned if it wasn’t the state police.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Becca knocked on her father’s door before stepping into the room carrying a tray. She set it on the nightstand. Jackie had given her instructions on what her father might eat—soup, Jell-O, pudding.
“I’ll be surprised if you can get him to take even one bite,” Jackie had said. “But you’re welcome to try.”
“He needs to eat. Otherwise, he’s going to starve.”
“It’s not unusual for him to stop at this point.”
Becca had shaken her head. “I’ll get him to eat something. You should get out while you can.” She’d insisted Jackie take a few hours off and get out of the house, reenter the world of the living for a while. She’d even gone as far as suggesting Jackie meet a friend or get her hair done or go for a walk in town. Becca hadn’t been thrilled with the idea of being alone with her father, but it was only right for her to help out when she could. “If I’m going to be here, you might as well let me feel useful,” she’d said. After much hesitation, Jackie had finally agreed.
&n
bsp; “And his meds,” Jackie had said, flustered. “I’ve given him a healthy dose for the pain. He shouldn’t give you much trouble.” She’d grabbed a notepad and written down his medication and dosage, and then they’d exchanged cell phone numbers. “Text me if anything happens, you know, if . . .”
“I will. Don’t worry. He’s not going anywhere while you’re gone.”
Jackie had surprised Becca by pulling her into a tight embrace. “Thank you,” she’d said. “For coming. For being here for him.” She’d pulled back to look in Becca’s eyes. “And for being here for me.”
Becca hadn’t known what to say. Her reasons for coming home had not been as altruistic as Jackie believed.
She forced herself to look at him now. She worked hard at keeping her face neutral as she gave him a quick once-over, tried to ascertain his mood. He’d slept much of the morning and afternoon.
He was sitting up in bed. He seemed to fluctuate from good to bad to worse and back to good again. Romy lay in the hall outside the bedroom door.
“I brought you some dinner,” Becca said.
He coughed the hacking cough.
“You have to eat,” she said in a tone she might’ve used on a child. “Jackie went out for a while, so I’m going to help you.”
He looked upset.
“She’ll be back soon.” She paused. “Give her a break. She deserves one.”
She turned on the news. Then she pulled up a chair and dipped the spoon into the split pea soup, one of her father’s favorites, held it to his lips. He wouldn’t open his mouth.
“Come on,” she coaxed.
He stared at the TV.
“Please, Dad. You have to eat, even if you don’t want to.”
He continued ignoring her.
“Please. If you won’t do it for you, then do it for me.”
She held the spoon to his mouth a second time. After a long hesitation, he opened up. He was like a little bird, stretching his lips like a beak, taking tiny slurps. She caught a drip on his bottom lip with the spoon, dabbed the corners of his mouth with a napkin. He watched her, his eyes never leaving her face. She continued to feed him through the local sports and weather, although most of the soup never made it down his throat. She wiped the green drops from his face. He pressed his cheek into her hand, his skin thin and dry. Dad. She yearned to tell him all the things she’d never been able to say to him, but she couldn’t find the words, not the right ones or even the wrong ones.
Breaking News flashed across the screen, and the moment for her to speak up was lost. The same female reporter who had broken the story about the body that had been found in the river was once again standing near the pedestrian bridge. The police had identified the victim, released a photo. It must’ve been taken by a family member or friend at some kind of outdoor gathering. The guy was sitting on top of a picnic table holding a beer. He looked to be in his early twenties. His head was shaved, his left eyebrow pierced. There was a barbed wire tattoo around his right bicep. A picnic basket sat on the bench by his feet.
The woman reporter spoke in a soft, sympathetic voice. But before Becca could feel too badly for the guy or empathize with his family over their tragic loss, another photo popped onto the screen. This one was a mug shot of the victim, Judd Cafferty, who went by the nickname Caff; he was a longtime resident of the state of New Jersey. The reporter’s voice became more businesslike as she dispensed the facts, how he’d been in and out of prison the last five years for mostly drug-related misdemeanors and one felony for armed robbery.
The reporter continued. It wasn’t another case of accidental drowning as Becca and the townsfolk in Portland had first been led to believe, although Parker had hinted this much to her already. The victim had been shot and gutted, his body dumped in the river. The Pennsylvania State Police were asking anyone who had any information concerning the crime to contact the number at the bottom of the screen.
Becca was so engrossed in the news report that the spoon in her hand with the split pea soup was left hanging in midair. Her father grabbed her wrist with his crooked fingers, spilling the green soup onto the white sheets, knocking the spoon out of her hand. It landed with a clatter on the hardwood floor by her feet.
“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to free her wrist from his strong grasp while using her other hand to pick up the spoon. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
He yanked on her arm.
“Ow,” she said as he continued to pinch her skin with his tight grip, forcing her to look at him. There was a look of desperation in his eyes, a kind of panic in his glare. It frightened her.
“What is it, Dad?”
His grip weakened. She pulled away from him, rubbing her skin where his fingers had left red marks.
His words came out deep and slow, as though every syllable uttered was a tremendous effort. “There’s something you need to know, decisions I made a long time ago.”
Becca leaned back in the chair, turned her head away. She didn’t want to hear a deathbed confession, if that was what this was. She didn’t want to know the intimate details of her parents’ marriage, his reasons why he had done what he’d done to her mother, why he’d sent Becca away. And yet a deep down part, a buried part, longed for an explanation.
“Dad,” she said. But before she could continue, the phone on the nightstand rang, the one from the landline. “I’ll get it.” She sprang from the chair.
“Becca?” Parker asked.
She rushed from the bedroom, closing the door behind her. “Your timing couldn’t be more perfect,” she said as she made her way down the hall and stairs to the kitchen, Romy at her heels.
“Oh, yeah? Why is that?”
“It’s my dad, but never mind. I don’t want to talk about it. I’m just glad you called. I was hoping we could get together again.” She was talking fast, aware of a nervousness she wasn’t used to feeling, not since she’d first met Matt. But this was Parker, and right now, she needed a friend.
“Okay.” He hesitated. “I’ll be fishing off my dock tomorrow morning. I’m a couple miles down the river from town. It’s the first cabin on the left about two miles after Dead Man’s Curve.”
So he lived close by. It made sense since the commute to the police station was less than thirty minutes. The entire time she’d been living in New Jersey, Parker had been just across the river. It brought a smile to her lips. She didn’t see the river as separating them, but rather as the very thing that connected them.
“I’ll be there,” she said.
There was a long pause on the other end, as though he had something else he wanted to discuss, the real reason for his call. When he didn’t say anything, she asked, “What’s going on?”
“You know what? Don’t worry about it. It can wait until tomorrow,” he said. “See you then.”
She was about to hang up when he said, “Oh, Becca. I start at five a.m.”
She groaned. But she’d be there.
She let Romy outside, and then slowly she made her way back to her father’s bedroom to clean up the mess she’d made with the soup. She pushed the door open. He was staring at the TV, watching some commercial about erectile dysfunction.
“Let me clean this up,” she said, scrambling to wipe the dried pea soup off the sheet. When it was clear the stain wouldn’t come out without a good washing, she hurried from the room and returned with a clean sheet. In a flurry of activity, she changed out the dirty sheet with the clean one, then picked up the dinner tray. “Do you want me to leave the pudding?” she asked.
He didn’t respond, keeping his eyes on the screen, avoiding looking at her. She could tell he was angry with her for not listening to what he had to say earlier. Well, she was angry with him, too, for wanting to tell her things she wasn’t ready to hear.
“I’ll check on you later,” she said and walked out of the room.
Becca was ten years old, lying awake in bed, staring at the dark ceiling. It was after midnight, twelve hours since her father had l
eft the house after the two detectives had come looking for him, twelve and a half hours since her father had snuck a woman into her parents’ bedroom. She heard her father’s car pull into the driveway. She wondered if her mother was awake, if her mother was waiting up for him like Becca was.
She leaned on her elbows and listened. The garage door closed. He was in the house, making his way quietly up the stairs. His boots clicked on the hardwood floor in the hallway. She lay back down but kept her eyes on the bedroom door. He paused outside her room, his silhouette visible in her doorway. She closed her eyes, hoping he would think she was asleep and go away and, at the same time, hoping he wouldn’t. She didn’t open her eyes again until she heard the tapping of his boots, the sound fading as he walked away.
“Hell of a night,” her father said, which meant her mother was awake too. “The state police were all over my ass today. That’s why I’m so late getting home.”
Becca sat up, straining to hear.
Her mother didn’t respond.
“You know,” he said, “I always thought Russell and I were so different, that the only thing we shared was a mother. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe we’re more alike than I ever wanted to believe.”
“He’s in a motorcycle gang. You’re chief of police,” her mother said. “You couldn’t be more different.”
“I suppose,” he said. The mattress squeaked. It sounded as though her father had sat on the bed to take off his boots, get undressed. “But I did something today I thought I’d never do as chief.”
“What is it, Clint?” her mother asked. “What did you do?” Becca didn’t believe her mother was asking about his job or Russell or what the state police had wanted from him, but rather her mother was asking about the other woman she’d smelled in their bed.
“I can’t tell you. But if there’s any trouble, I mean if anything happens to me, I want you to know I did what I had to do. They left me no choice.”
“What are you talking about? Who left you no choice? What could happen to you? I don’t understand.”
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