Violent Delights

by Helena Maeve

  “It ain’t her fault,” said Barnes. “Your father’s got all kinds of fans… Some of ’em are women. They can be pretty intense.”

  “Well, I’m not one of them,” I shot back, petulant and sick to my stomach. I didn’t want to think about my father having a girlfriend or two or ten. I didn’t want to imagine him living some star-crossed romance and writing soppy love letters while my mother’s face faded a little more from my memory each year.

  God, Ashley, why didn’t I ask you to come with me?

  Before Barnes could try to comfort me, the office door swung open once again, sparing us both the awkwardness. “All right,” Mattie announced. “We’re good. That little spitfire he’s been seeing looked none too pleased, but… He didn’t know you were coming, huh?”

  It took me a moment to realize that the question was meant for me. Barnes’ name was on my father’s approved visitors list, which was how we’d gotten past the checkpoints. It hadn’t occurred to me to ask if Barnes had taken the time to call ahead to let my father know I was in town. Makes no difference.

  “I thought he’d appreciate the surprise,” I drawled, my voice dripping with sarcasm. I was too nervous to care about making a good impression. Ten, twenty feet separated me from the visitation room.

  Mattie rattled off the rules as we walked down the cinder block hall. “You get one hug at the beginning and one hug before you leave. You will be frisked on your way out, so don’t let him talk you into smuggling contraband. No touching. You make a scene, we pull you out and Pops goes back to his cell. Understood?”

  I nodded. Mattie badged us through. The metal clang of the door echoed through my skull like a death knell. Then we were inside, in a room like the high school cafeterias I’d seen in movies. My feet instantly turned to lead, imaginary roots burrowing into the concrete.

  Barnes pressed a hand to the small of my back to get me moving. I progressed at a slow, shuffling pace between the picnic tables and chairs nailed to the floor.

  The faces around us were nondescript, unfamiliar. A few jumpsuit-wearing men looked up as I passed, but they were either too young or too swarthy to be my father. They didn’t give me more than a cursory glance.

  “Here we are,” Barnes muttered under his breath and I snapped my head around. Barnes nodded meaningfully to a man at a table right in front of us.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him stand—a splash of orange, a cornsilk beard. Long blond hair, like a rock star. Deep-set blue eyes, like mine but swimming with tears. This was Tracey Woodrow Kane, about twenty years older than I remembered him.

  I swallowed past the bile rising in the back of my throat. This isn’t for me. This is for Donna. This is closure for all of us.

  My father beamed. “My God… You look just like your mother.”

  Chapter Nine

  “You have her eyes,” Kane insisted as we sat down. “Ain’t anyone ever told you that?”

  “I’m not here to talk about Mom.”

  He folded his hands, one inside the other, in a gesture I recognized as my own. How was that possible, when I hadn’t seen him in nearly two decades? “That’s a shame. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for years now. Thought maybe if you’d let me explain—”

  “I’m not interested,” I said sharply. A uniformed officer glanced at us from the edge of the room and I pressed my lips together, abashed. Get a grip, Laure. You don’t want to have to come here again, do you? “Mr. Barnes said you’d tell him where his daughter’s remains are if I came to visit you. Here I am.”

  Kane raked his gaze over me as though peering into every pore, tracing every line writ into my skin. I felt naked under his stare—not in a way that frightened me, but I had to put conscious thought into not reaching across the table and grabbing him by the shirtfront. I’d never beaten anyone up before, but I’d gladly take a crack at my father’s aquiline nose if given the chance—another feature I’d happened to inherit.

  “Quit stalling,” I gritted out.

  “What’s the rush?” he shot back. “I don’t see you for nineteen years, six months and fourteen days—and now you want me to hurry up?”

  “You counted the days?”

  “’Course I did. From the trial all the way to this blessed moment… You didn’t think I’d forgotten about you, did you, Laura?”

  “It’s Laure, actually.”

  Kane shook his head, a pitying moue on his rough-hewn features. “Not when we named you. Your mother wanted something that’d be easy for your American friends to remember, something like—what’s her name…” He clicked his fingers. “Upstairs by a Chinese Lamp… Laura Nyro, that’s it! Your momma was a big fan. Looked a bit like her, too.”

  The name didn’t ring any bells.

  “I told you. I’m not here to talk about Mom.” My voice shook. Part of me wondered if he was right. Had my grandparents changed my name when they adopted me? Not that I recalled. He was just messing with my head.

  Preacher’s son, indeed.

  Kane sighed, like I was the one being difficult. I recognized the serpentine attempt for what it was—manipulation of the kind I’d used in multiple failed relationships. It was hard-coded into my DNA, too.

  “You want to talk about Donna?”

  Beside me, Mr. Barnes stiffened. “You promised,” he murmured, something raw and painful raking the inside of his throat. “You promised.”

  I felt compelled to touch his veined hand, to clutch it tightly in mine, but his grief was nothing I could assuage. I didn’t move.

  “So I did,” Kane agreed. “You’re right, I did… The thing is—”

  Barnes gripped the edge of the table, sucking in an audible breath.

  I heard it, so my father must have heard it, too. That didn’t stop him shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t actually remember.”

  “What?”

  “It’s been twenty years, man. And I made my peace with the evil shit I did. Can’t keep that kind of darkness bottled up inside. It’s like a cancer.”

  I thought Barnes might lunge over the table he looked so livid. But he didn’t. A wet sob tore out of his throat. “You son of a bitch. You fucking—” He couldn’t finish.

  The table shook when he stood, more than a few heads turning our way, but he didn’t make to hit Kane. The nearest guard couldn’t even grab him before he tore out of the visitation room.

  “We got a problem?” the guard asked, nearing the table with a scowl.

  I glared right back. “No. Am I being thrown out?”

  The CO swept a glance over my father and me perhaps detecting the resemblance, and shook his head. “Keep it down or you will be.”

  “Thanks, man,” Kane drawled, flashing the guard a smile.

  “Friend of yours?” I asked once we were left alone.

  “After a fashion. He’s a good egg.” Kane crooked his eyebrows at me. “For someone who doesn’t want to be here, you’re missing out on a golden opportunity to bolt. A little curious after all, huh?”

  He looked so smug, so pleased with himself that I wanted to lob my shoe at his face. I could see how he might have been charming twenty-nine years ago. He had a movie star smile, his teeth so white and even. He wasn’t very tall—one trait I’d inherited from my mother’s side of the family, thank God—but he had presence. Charisma. Orange wasn’t his color, but I could picture him in a white shirt, sleeves rucked up and an arm draped casually around my mother’s trim waist.

  Was that my imagination or a picture I’d glimpsed growing up? I didn’t trust my memory anymore.

  “You still livin’ in Paris?” Kane asked.

  “Yes.”

  “With your grandparents?”

  I nodded.

  “No wonder you haven’t come to see me… Long distance and those people.” He shook his head as though he pitied me.

  “Those people raised me,” I pointed out testily. Normally I was the one slinging mud in their direction. This might have been the first time I’d ever spoke
n up in their defense. The occasion called for it.

  My father backtracked, putting up his hands in mock surrender. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m sure they did a good job.”

  “I’m not the one in lock-up.”

  He flashed me a grin. “You got that whip-sharp wit from me, you know. Your momma was too nice for that kind of talk.”

  I didn’t tell him not to mention her again. No point in it—the more I asked him to lay off, the more he would poke and prod that wound until I cried uncle. That mean streak I’d inherited? It came from him.

  “You got a fella?” he prompted, when I didn’t rise to the bait. “You ain’t married, are you?”

  “No.” Partial truths were better than wholesale lies.

  “Pity. You better get me some grandkids soon,” he chided with a smile and a wagging finger.

  It was my turn to snicker. “You think your blood should be passed on, do you? Not enough that you screwed up my life, destroyed countless families… No, you want to sink your claws into the next generation? Barnes was right. You are a son of a bitch.”

  “Insulting my mother, Laura? That’s not very nice of you—”

  “You killed mine,” I recalled. “Turnabout is fair play.”

  Kane narrowed his eyes at me, the first inkling I had of the man behind the civilized, charming veneer. Scratch the surface and there he is—the wolf draped in sheep’s clothing. I had no desire to malign his mother, although part of me couldn’t help but wonder what kind of genetic alchemy could birth such a monster.

  It was Kane I wanted to hurt, the venomous half of me.

  “What happened to not wanting to talk about your momma?” he queried. “Change your mind?”

  I dug my nails into my palms. “Is that why you wanted me to come here? So you could explain yourself?” I’d learned how to dodge questions when I was nine years old and he had me convinced that the cops were the bad guys. I saw clearer now. “Well, I’m not interested,” I said and slowly, like treading water, I found the strength to stand.

  Kane rose with me. “Laura, wait—”

  I didn’t pay him any heed as I spun on my heel and turned to leave.

  “What I told Barnes?” he pitched at my back. “It weren’t the truth.”

  I took another step forward, the reinforced door within my sights.

  My father’s voice rose, his panic audible. “I can tell you where I put Donna!” From the corner of my eye, I saw the guards make to intercept him and wondered if Kane was stupid enough to try to follow me. I wanted him to try—and get punished for it.

  I wanted him to cry like I’d cried when they’d ripped me out of his arms.

  I swiveled around, aware that the commotion had attracted attention, conscious that Kane didn’t have more than seconds before he was dragged away. I flashed my most winsome smile.

  “Go to hell.”

  I didn’t stop walking until I was out of the penitentiary, nothing but blue skies and cotton candy clouds above my head, a child’s version of a blissful morning. I wiped at the salt on my cheeks as I made my way down the stone steps, around the flagpole, into a parking lot teeming with cars.

  The space where I’d left Barnes’ sedan was empty, no sign of the man or the Ford. He had taken off and left me stranded.

  * * * *

  The officer I’d asked for help at the gate had told me that I could take a bus into Lansing, but that he didn’t know how I’d make my way from there to Kansas City. In the end, I managed to coax them into calling me a taxi. The drive ended up setting me back some eighty dollars, but it beat walking to the hotel, so I didn’t make a fuss.

  I tried Barnes’ number twice, but he didn’t pick up. In his shoes, I’d probably be incommunicado as well. My father had done a number on him.

  With my duty more or less accomplished, I realized I had nothing else to do in Kansas. I stood on the sidewalk in the noonday heat, hugging my sides. Well, I’d faced my last living parent and I hadn’t buckled. That was a point of pride right there.

  Now what?

  I spotted an IHOP across the street from the hotel. Might as well. I’d skipped breakfast, so pancakes for lunch seemed like the way to go. It beat locking myself in with my misery.

  The restaurant’s Wi-Fi came in handy as I waited for my food—I emailed Ashley to let him know I’d finished at the prison and he could call me whenever he wanted. I refrained from texting or calling him myself. I didn’t want to make him worry and I couldn’t be sure that I wouldn’t burst into tears again.

  I sent Melanie a short email, too, mostly to ask how she was doing and if the baby was kicking. It was a whole lot of nothing in long form. I hoped she wouldn’t mind.

  The urge to cross the street to the hotel and hide under the covers dimmed as I wolfed down the pancakes. The coffee was too watery for my tastes, but I drank it anyway, going as far as to ask for a refill when the waiter swung by.

  “Hey,” I asked, leaning my chin in my hand, “you wouldn’t happen to know any record shops around here, would you?”

  The waiter scratched his ear. Dad always said that meant people were lying. “There’s an indie place couple of streets down. Bit of a walk, though…”

  “I don’t mind.” Anything to keep my thoughts away from Kane.

  Armed with directions, I left the IHOP behind and made my way down Minnesota Avenue. The breeze that rolled in from the river stirred the folds of my trench coat. I shrugged it off at the third crosswalk and raked a hand through my hair. Chin up. I’d done what I came here to do. Now I could go back to Paris, see Ashley—figure out what I was doing with our relationship.

  The thought buoyed me as I cut through the side street I’d been told to look out for. The GPS on my phone helped, but even so, getting around Kansas City was pretty easy. The way the town was laid out, I might as well have been walking down a grid of tic-tac-toe.

  The record store was little more than a dusty hole in the wall, easily distinguished by the six-string propped against a wobbly-looking stack of vinyls. I stepped over the threshold with all the trepidation of a kid in a candy store, tentatively calling out, “Hello?”

  “Be right there!” a low baritone echoed from the back. Seconds later, the owner of the voice emerged in all of his six foot tall, dreadlocked glory. “Can I help you?”

  “I think so… Have you ever heard of Laura Nyro?”

  To my surprise, the clerk nodded. “Sixties songstress, right? Jazzy voice, haunting lyrics? Sure, sure…” He waddled between the cramped stacks, a man with a mission, and produced an LP with a faded black and white sleeve. The woman on the cover was raven-haired, her head tipped back into a breeze that stirred up her locks.

  I told myself that she didn’t look a thing like my mother.

  “You don’t have any CDs?” I asked hopefully. I figured I could buy a player somewhere in town, pack both into my suitcase when I left.

  The clerk hummed, his voice like molten tar. “Don’t think so, but I might have a couple cassettes, if you’re interested.” I told him I was. “Let me check.” He disappeared into the back of the store, behind a bead curtain where I didn’t dare follow. I still wasn’t quite sure I hadn’t stepped into some kind of temporal anomaly, or else a meeting point for ghosts and wizards. I decided not to risk it, either way.

  I occupied myself with reading the track list on the back of the record sleeve. You Don’t Love Me When I Cry was the first number. I imagined a piano track grounding a powerful voice, angry lyrics about love and loss—my mother’s skirt swishing with me in her arms, salt soaking into my hair.

  Was it memory or fantasy?

  “You’re in luck,” the clerk said, wrenching me from my trance. He waved the cassette triumphantly, like a flag. “It’s a greatest hits kind of thing, but it’s all I’ve got.”

  “I’ll take both,” I decided, on impulse, and made my way slowly to the till. “You don’t sell Walkmans, too, do you?”

  The clerk flashed me a grin.

  Five
minutes later, I walked out of the shop with two Laura Nyro records and a bulky Walkman in a plastic bag. I got a pack of batteries at a convenience store on my way back to the hotel. As soon as I was safely inside, I slotted the ‘Do not disturb’ sign onto the door and pulled the curtains shut.

  My hands were steady as I pilfered the minibar of all its tiny bottles. I didn’t bother with the soda water or the peanuts and crackers, much less glasses. I kicked off my shoes before crawling onto the bed. No TV. I wanted no distractions for this. I even muted my cell phone before slotting the batteries into the Walkman and wrestling with the cassette case. It had been ages since I’d used anything more complicated than an iPod. A few minutes passed as I struggled to figure out how to operate the antiquated device.

  “Let’s see what you’ve got, Laura,” I muttered to no one in particular and hit ‘Play’.

  It took a moment for Wedding Bell Blues to start, harmonica and tambourine gearing up to accompany a breezy female voice. It wasn’t quite foreign to my untrained ears.

  A few sips of Jim Beam and I was falling under the dizzying spell of showy tunes and lilting verses I’d heard a long time ago.

  * * * *

  Ashley picked up on the first ring. “Laure, Christ, where have you been? I’ve been calling you—”

  “I know.” As soon as I’d seen the seven missed calls, I knew I was in trouble. I scrubbed a hand over my face. “I’m sorry…” But Ashley wasn’t interested in excuses.

  “What’s going on? You sent me that email and then you dropped off the face of the earth like… What happened with your father? You said Barnes bailed—”

  “Yeah,” I croaked. My throat was the consistency of sandpaper. “Hang on, I need water.” I hunted in the minibar for a bottle of Evian, which of course I didn’t find, so made do with a Coke instead. It fizzled into my nose, rousing me a little more. “Better,” I sighed, dropping back to the edge of the bed. “Barnes didn’t get what he wanted. Turns out my father was just screwing with him. Surprise, surprise, right? Serial killer turns out to be a pathological liar.” I snorted. “Stop the fucking presses.”