The Pale-Faced Lie

by David Crow

  “We have three days,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “Do you know if he’s in Hatteras or Bethesda?”

  “No. He and Mona drive back and forth all the time. I’m not sure where he was when he called. He might be in Hatteras. He told me to pick the two of them up at seven Saturday morning at their house there.”

  “Go stay with a friend, and don’t go home until I say it’s okay.”

  “I can stay with my friend Ellie, another teacher at my school. She lives in a trailer a few miles from mine.” Sally gave me her number.

  “Does Dad know Ellie or where she lives?”

  “No, she’s new. I just met her this year.”

  “Good. I’ll check in with you tomorrow after I figure out what to do.”

  “He made me swear not to tell anyone. He said he’d kill me if I did. But I didn’t know what else to do. Please, David. Stop him!”

  “I will, but get the hell out of your trailer.” I twisted the phone cord around my finger and swiveled back and forth in my chair. “I’ll have a plan soon.”

  “You better.” The fear in her voice made my heart ache.

  “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  Sally had always been fragile and emotionally scarred, but anyone would have been shaken by what she was going through.

  My plan would have to be bulletproof. But what could I do? How could I stop him?

  Slumping in my chair, I knew in that moment that it had all come down to this—all the anger, the beatings, the lies.

  How did I possibly think I could live a normal, happy life? I was lucky to have lasted twenty-eight years. It should never have gone this far—I should have done more to stop him. Whether it was about Mom or the senator or the body in West Virginia, all I had ever done was cower to his demands.

  Not this time.

  Dad’s logic was simple: He knew that if he involved Sally in a murder plot to kill Mona, she would ask for my help, even when she swore to keep silent. And he knew that I wouldn’t let anything happen to Sally. And he was right about that.

  But wait—what if Dad was actually using Sally to draw me into a trap? Mona might simply be the bait, though he wouldn’t hesitate to kill her. His plots always hinged on accomplices—George, the men in West Virginia, me, and now Sally. He reveled in the dilemma he created.

  Dad probably hated me more than he hated Mona because of my supposed position of power. Maybe he hoped he could kill us both, keep Mona’s property and money, and own Sally.

  Mona’s disappearance wouldn’t be easily explained or ignored. Her family was one of the oldest and best known in Hatteras. In spite of his intelligence, when he became angry enough, Dad didn’t worry about the consequences—or he figured he could talk or bully his way out of it, as he had done his whole life.

  And when he became angry enough, he easily justified murder if he thought there was something to gain. Oh my God. Instead of owning Sally, he might kill her too. No witnesses. The perfect crime. How many times had he told me?

  To think that as a kid, I’d felt sorry for him when I found out he had been sent to prison. He deserved a far harsher sentence. If I had been his judge, I would have kept him in the Q for decades, if not forever.

  What would my impeccably pedigreed political colleagues think if they knew my dad was planning to murder his family?

  I burst into nervous laughter remembering my fear that a hint of scandal would ruin my political career. What career? What life, for that matter? My only concern was to save my stepmother, my sister—and myself.

  DRIVING HOME THAT NIGHT, I felt a panic unlike any I’d ever known. I had no idea where Dad was—Sally was only guessing at his whereabouts. If I was the immediate target, he’d be watching me. Was he tailing me? I looked in the rearview mirror as sweat soaked my palms, making the steering wheel a slippery mess. I wiped my hands on my pants, but they were instantly wet again.

  My head felt like it was being squeezed, as though locked in a vise. I became dizzy and disoriented, my mind racing with thoughts that Dad might kill me before Saturday.

  Could I outthink him? Scare him? Set my own trap? Understanding his mind had been my mission since the first time he told me we had to get rid of Mom. But how could I scare a man who thought life in San Quentin had been a cakewalk? A man who enjoyed killing sons of bitches who richly deserved it? Not me. He understood my frailties, insecurities, and fears. He’d created them.

  Warning Mona wouldn’t work. She’d defend him until the moment he chopped her up and tossed her body parts into the swamp. Going to the police would be a waste of time. The police chief in Hatteras was Dad’s best friend. He believed Dad’s stories about being a full-blooded Cherokee orphan, a war hero, a prizefighter, and a man who saved his four children from an insane mother. Hatteras was one big safe house for Dad.

  As I approached my neighborhood, it occurred to me he might ambush me outside my house. Why hadn’t I thought of that earlier? Or was I being paranoid? No. He was capable of anything when he fell into a rage.

  I slowed the car and parked about a mile away. My street was well lit, and he’d easily spot me if he drove by. Before getting out, I ripped off my jacket, tie, and shirt—it would be much easier to run in my undershirt. Cautiously I walked through the yards in the shadows, looking over my shoulder and turning around in case he sneaked up on me, which in my frightened state of mind would have been easy to do.

  After running from pursuers a good part of my life, I was used to hiding in the shadows. But now, I was trying to save myself from the ultimate bully, my murderous father.

  When I reached my block, I slipped into the neighbor’s yard across the street from my house and fell prone onto the grass, looking for signs of Dad. The temperature was dropping, but it had been sunny all day, so the ground was still warm. Half an hour must have gone by before I rose and crept to the house. Standing on my tiptoes, I peered through the living room window. It was still and dark inside, no sign of anyone, but if he was lying in wait, that’s exactly what he would want me to think.

  I crouched down and made my way around to the back door leading into the kitchen. My hand shook as I fumbled to fit the key into the lock, cursing myself for making enough noise to alert Dad if he was inside. Fear gripped my throat as I opened the door and turned on the light.

  A stack of cans shaped in a pyramid sat on the kitchen table. There had been nothing on the table when I left for work that morning.

  A warning message from Dad.

  I jumped back, knocking the door open, and stumbled on the landing. Afraid he’d leap out and shoot or stab me, I scrambled to my feet and bolted down the street to my car.

  My hands trembled so badly it took several attempts to open the door. Inside my Mustang, I felt strangely comforted behind locked doors. I hit the gas pedal and the car shot forward, the wheels squealing as I weaved recklessly down the street, nearly hitting several parked cars. After driving a few miles, I pulled into an unfamiliar neighborhood and parked in the dark, far away from a streetlight.

  What had I been thinking, going inside the house? Big mistake—it could have been fatal. And then driving like a maniac? No more. I needed to calm down and think clearly.

  Reclining the seat, I leaned back, closed my eyes, and crossed my arms against my chest to stop shaking. I flashed back to the bullies in Mud Flats—the red ants, Coke bottles, BB guns—child’s play compared to this—and then I thought of Gilbert, how I had trained with Dad and took the fight to him.

  I shot upright. Dad probably thought I’d drive straight to Hatteras to wait for him there. He’d think I was too scared to stay after he broke into my house. My instincts told me he was in Bethesda and wouldn’t go to Hatteras until Friday.

  Within thirty minutes, I had made it to Bethesda and parked in a neighborhood a half mile from Dad’s house, the split-level where I lived at the end of high school. I was on familiar turf.

  I knew the yards of the other three houses, the location of the one streetlight, and, most i
mportantly, the escape routes through the woods and the time it would take me to plunge into the dense patch of trees from the side of the house. Cutting through the next-door neighbor’s yard, shrouded in large oaks and pines, I crept on my stomach to the edge of the yard and stared at the carport.

  I’d been right. His red Ford Capri was there, pointed toward the street, the way he always parked. Mona’s car was missing, which meant she was probably in Hatteras helping her mother—Mona never went anywhere else. It was just past midnight and Dad planned to murder Mona on Saturday, so I needed to attack him within the next twenty-four hours. The thought made me vomit the way I had after seeing the decapitated man on the reservation—and the body in West Virginia.

  He would never expect me to make the first move.

  CHAPTER 53

  AFTER LEAVING DAD’S HOUSE, I was exhausted and needed a safe place to sleep. An hour later, I checked into the Harrington in DC, a cheap tourist hotel where Dad would never think to look for me. I used their underground parking to keep my car off the street.

  Sleep came only in snatches, my dreams more vivid than usual—panting, gasping, sprinting away from an invisible pursuer I somehow knew was my father. I ran into blocked escape routes, ambushes in blind alleys, and dead ends. I couldn’t breathe. And there was always the sweat. The sheets were soaked.

  Jolting awake for the fourth or fifth time, I wondered if all sons of murderers faced being murdered for not following their fathers’ codes. What an awful thought. But had I ever really stood a chance? No. It was the Crow legacy, the stench from birth.

  You’ve betrayed me after all I’ve done for you, boomed Dad, standing over me with a wrench in one hand and a gun in the other. I taught you, molded you, and formed you into my image, but you failed me. For that, you must die.

  My eyes snapped open and my heart pounded. I looked at my watch: four-thirty.

  When the light seeped in under the curtains, I got up and called in sick, claiming a migraine, and then grabbed a quick breakfast at the buffet. The room was full of noisy kids visiting the capital over Easter vacation, a distraction I didn’t need. After buying underwear and running clothes at a local Hecht’s department store, I went on a five-mile run to clear my mind and formulate a plan. By the time I got back, I knew what to do.

  Before leaving work the night before, I’d stuffed several legal notepads into my briefcase, along with the ubiquitous government pens found in every office. I spread everything out on the desk in my hotel room and started writing.

  My first letters were to my bosses at the USDA, saying I planned to resign because of a family issue that would create embarrassment for the department.

  Then I wrote a letter to the Hatteras police chief, describing Dad’s plot—the location of the swamp, the tools to be used in the murder, and Sally, his getaway and alibi. I made it clear that she was Dad’s hostage, not an accomplice. I wrote similar letters to the Coastland Times, the North Carolina State Police chief, and three nosy Hatteras residents, including a local minister Dad hated.

  I didn’t intend to mail any of those letters, but Dad wouldn’t know that.

  Next, I gathered everything and walked to a nearby copy store. For the next half hour, I used their Xerox machine to make multiple copies of everything. Before leaving, I bought a mixture of large and small envelopes.

  In my hotel room, I laid everything out on the bed and started assembling packets of the copies I’d made. The first would go to my friend Fran at work. I inserted a note, asking him to mail all the letters if anything happened to me. Since we worked together every day, it wouldn’t take him long to figure out I had disappeared.

  Before sealing the packet, I tossed in another letter about Dad’s murder plot addressed to a Sigma Chi fraternity alum who had a job with the FBI, and a second one to another fraternity brother who was an undercover narcotics cop. This served two purposes: first, Dad hated the FBI and Sigma Chi, and second, if I was found dead, my fraternity brothers would make certain justice was served.

  I assembled three more packets, one for Dad and the other two as backups. It took me most of the afternoon to finish, calling information for the correct addresses and making sure everything was neat and legible, but the letters were my insurance policy against Dad getting away with his horrific plans if he did kill me, or Mona.

  It was close to four when I dropped the packet off at work with the guard and asked him to deliver it to Fran. As I drove off, I took a deep breath for the first since Sally had called, knowing now that Dad would be punished if his plan succeeded. But there was still plenty for me to do. I stopped at a grocery store and hardware store to pick up the supplies I’d need that night and filled up at a gas station.

  Back at the hotel, I had one more letter to write.

  I forged a confession from Dad for the murder of Mona Tully Crow, his wife of Hatteras, North Carolina. He explained that he forced his daughter Sally to help him under the threat of death. The next paragraphs detailed how he tried to kill Mom by cutting her brake lines in Gallup, how he bludgeoned Cleo’s skull, the way he betrayed George, how he beat the guy to death in New Orleans when he was in the navy, the body dump in Wheeling, West Virginia, and the plan to kill the senator. The letter ended with “I’m a pathetic human being, hell-bent on destroying the lives of my children and all who inadvertently threaten me because of my profound inferiority complex.”

  I wrote it with a red marker, adding a dramatic flair. I had a special place in mind for that letter.

  Finished now with my preparations, I called Sally.

  “Ellie says I can stay as long as I need to,” she said through muffled tears. I could hear dogs barking in the background. “Do you have a plan yet?”

  “Yes, he’ll be stopped in his tracks.” I pressed a pen hard on the notepad next to the phone, tearing a hole in it.

  “You can’t scare him.” Her voice broke. “He’s smarter and stronger than any of us, even you.”

  “My plan will work. After tonight, he won’t bother you or Mona again.”

  I hung up, closed my eyes, and rested before my next move. My body shook violently, as though I were being electrocuted, no doubt the same way Dad’s victims felt when he had them cornered. I was suddenly afraid of chickening out and running away. But if I did that, I might as well be dead along with Sally and Mona.

  A sudden surge of strength came over me, and I knew to act on it at once. After all, it was a miracle I was still alive.

  THE ASSAULT BEGAN SHORTLY AFTER MIDNIGHT. I came armed with the essentials in my line of work: a crescent wrench, a valve core remover, a pocketknife, a screwdriver, a potato, a funnel, tape, glue, and rags—all in a brown paper bag—along with a five-pound bag of sugar and copies of the letters. The weather was on my side. There was a slight breeze and no rain.

  I staked out an area in the woods closest to the carport to stash my gear and watch the house. Fortunately, Dad had turned off all the outdoor lights. A shadowy light came from the streetlight at the bottom of his driveway, making it easy for him to see any motion. But if I was careful, I could perform most of my work in the shadows.

  Leaving everything behind, I crawled to the carport, hid behind the Capri, and studied the wall of windows across the front of the house. Dad’s bedroom was in the back. There were no curtains—they had fallen apart years ago and hadn’t been replaced—so if he turned on any lights, I’d see them. The front door was warped so badly it was difficult to open and made a loud, scraping noise. Still, if he was waiting in the front of the house with a loaded gun, it wouldn’t take him long to yank open the door and fire a shot.

  But I had a much bigger concern. The back door of the house wasn’t visible from the carport. If Dad raced out that door, he could cover the ten yards to the carport in mere seconds and fire an unobstructed shot. I’d be a dead man.

  He wouldn’t hesitate to use a gun on me. Many years earlier, when we lived on Kingston Road, he and I were the only ones home when he thought he’d hea
rd a prowler in the basement. He yelled down the stairs, “Come out now or I’ll shoot.” I begged him not to, thinking a frightened teenager might be hiding, but he said anyone who broke into his house deserved to die.

  Charging into the basement, he unloaded a full clip from his German Luger. The bullets ricocheted off the cinder-block walls. I stood at the top of the stairs with my eyes closed, expecting to hear screams.

  As Dad climbed toward me, he said, “The bastard must have gotten away. I’m sorry I didn’t get him.”

  I couldn’t take any chances—I had to set a trap.

  Staying low, I crawled around the backyard until I found a large piece of flagstone—about three feet tall, two feet wide, and an inch thick—one of the many rocks Dad had dragged with us from the reservation. In a catcher’s crouch, I slowly wobbled the rock toward the door, staring at the narrow panel of glass alongside it. In seconds, Dad could turn on a flashlight and see me. And seconds after that, he could shoot me at point-blank range with his Luger. Execution style, right through the forehead. The bullet wound would make Yazza’s shotgun feel like a pee shooter.

  I inched closer, my mouth so dry I couldn’t swallow.

  Finally, I reached the back door and propped the stone against it like a lean-to, careful not to make any noise. When I thought I saw Dad move behind the glass, I almost passed out from fear. I managed to get to my feet and then ran into the woods. Dropping to my knees, I listened and watched.

  Nothing.

  Now if Dad tried to burst through the back door, the flagstone would fall in on him, making a hell of a racket and most likely tripping him. That would buy me enough time to get away.

  Sweat poured out of me. Even my pants were soaked. I shifted my weight slightly, and the light rippled across the front windows like a slow-motion wave. Was that Dad moving toward the front door? Was he watching my every move?

  This wasn’t the time to lose my nerve. There was too much at stake. The Window Rock hayride scene flashed in my mind, followed by the assault on Query Man, calming me. No one could be better prepared for this. Under different circumstances, we’d laugh at the poor fool who got the full Crow treatment.