Accuse Page 4

  My mother doesn’t like anything to disturb her “perfect” life.

  I know just how she feels.

  My life was just beginning to move in the right direction. But Dad’s death wasn’t accidental. The police now suspect he was murdered.

  While the airplane hums, I recall that night at the country club, years ago.

  I’d been on leave from the Army, before I was wounded and branded with facial scars. Usually, I prefer being alone, but that night I sought company. Wartime firefights and casualties had been too close in my thoughts. I had needed a distraction.

  My brother hadn’t met his now wife, Sky, back then. Alex and I found ourselves alone in a private place. I’d been drinking, but wasn’t drunk. Alex, however, had been smashed.

  I’m not one for social chit-chat—I never seem to have anything to say. My brother was the talker, but he only teased or made jokes.

  Two brothers, both isolated in our own way. Only two years apart in age, yet separated by a monstrous gulf—a black abyss of ugly secrets. We never confided in each other. Why would we? We had both been there.

  My thoughts return to the conversation we’d had at the time. I use the term “conversation” loosely. Alex had been speaking to me, but honestly, I hadn’t been listening. His voice had been reduced to a mere buzzing in the background.

  I suddenly tuned in when I heard Alex slurring, “… everyone loves him, but WE know he’s a real bastard.” It’s the word ‘bastard’ that catches my attention.

  “What?” I say.

  “I hate him so much. I dream of killing him,” Alex snarls, his voice a low growl.

  “Killing who?” I frown, coming out of my mental fog. Alex is never angry—but there’s something ugly and vicious in his tone. Am I imagining it?

  “I know exactly how to do it and get away with it,” he slurs.

  “Get away with what?”

  Ice clinks as Alex takes another long drink of his Crown Royal on the rocks, but he doesn’t answer my question. “There’s a drug called scopolamine, I saw it on CSI. You can get it anywhere.”

  “What are you talking about, Alex?” I ask, and stare hard at his face. Yet, my brother doesn’t seem to hear me. Is he angry? I don’t think I’ve ever seen him pissed-off at anyone before.

  I figure my brother is at least three times the legal limit. Dazed, Alex’s face looks haggard, his jaw slack and his eyes are at half-mast. The idiot’s talking horseshit. Who knows where his thoughts are?

  Alex unexpectedly starts giggling over nothing.

  Oh, yeah, that settles it. He’s dancing to the beat of his own tune all right. It’s a good thing he got a ride here—he’d kill himself trying to drive home.

  “Scopolamine is used for motion sickness,” he mumbles. “So you don’t chuck your guts up when you’re on a boat or a plane. It makes people suggestible.” He snickers. “I’ve got a few things I’d like to suggest to him.”

  I blink, stare and blink again. Is this the start of some silly joke?

  “Murderers usually try to kill without witnesses,” Alex adds. “I think the more witnesses the merrier!” He snickers suddenly. “I’ll simply tell him to go to the edge and then I’ll push him off.”

  Inhaling a sharp, surprised breath, I ask, “What are you talking about?”

  He peers up at me with eyes that suddenly understand he’s said too much. It almost seems as if he's surprised to see me.

  “What?” Alex asks.

  “I said, what are you talking about?”

  “Nothing,” Alex replies. He lies back in his chair and shuts his eyes. After that, I couldn’t get him to talk to me at all. Sound asleep, he began to snore.

  I open my eyes and take another sip of coffee. It’s still pretty hot, but the burning discomfort in my throat is soothing. There’s a sickness inside me—sometimes pain provides inexplicable pleasure.

  I’d completely forgotten the conversation with Alex, right until I found out my father’s body was being exhumed to be tested for drugs.

  Did Alex kill our father?

  I never even thought about it when the bastard fell off of that balcony. Dad was forever throwing things at the squirrels when he was outside on that veranda—everyone knew that. Sometimes he’d feed them. Sometimes he’d nail them with rocks when they got closer. He’d always laughed at the squirrels, especially when he hit them.

  If scopolamine is found in Dad’s body, I’ll know who killed him.

  The police don’t have evidence on Alex, or do they? I lick my dry lips, focusing on this concern. What if he’s already been arrested?

  I’ve let my little brother down before. I can’t forgive myself for making no attempt to prevent his abuse. If he murdered our father, it's because of what I let happen. How can I let him go to jail?

  In my heart, I know I can’t.

  My body tenses as everything I am resists the thought of a trial, of a media circus and of the possibility of being locked up. If it looks as though they might convict Alex, should I tell the police I was the one who planned and executed the crime?

  The memory of Renata’s soft voice drags me out of my reverie. “It’s gonna be OK, Grant. Everything’s going to work out fine.”

  I turn to look at her, attempting to remain impassive in order to hide my despair. I'm wrestling with savage indecision. Should I? Shouldn't I? Uncertainty is a dull blade, hacking ragged edges into my soul.

  I know what I should do—but do I have the courage to do it?

  It’s not a matter of bravery, or a desire to sacrifice myself as if I’m some sort of martyr. It’s about making things right.

  I don’t want to go to jail.

  Especially not now, when my life is coming together. Just once, I’d like to be able to hold a woman without feeling sickened afterwards. Maybe even cuddle and sleep with Renata without freaking out. How much further can I improve before I’d have to turn myself in?

  Murderers are executed in Texas.

  If I tell them about my father’s abuse, perhaps I’d get a reduced sentence. Maybe nothing will happen, anyway. This might all be a tempest in a teapot. But if it isn’t, what will I do?

  I care about my little brother. He has a wife. More importantly, his son needs his father. Alex is a good dad—a great dad. I’ve seen them together. Alex will be the kind of father we always longed for our own father to be.

  I failed Alex in the past, but I won’t fail him again. If I have to, I’ll take the fall. Prison won’t be so bad. And just like that, my worries are over. I’ve made my decision.

  I will sacrifice myself for Alex.

  My body relaxes, all pressure disappears. Clarity empties my mind of all my problems. Right or wrong, making a decision wasn’t the problem.

  It’s indecision that totally messes with a person’s head.

  Now that I’ve made up my mind, I’m at peace. I take another drink of coffee. It’s cooled down so I can swallow easily. The taste is amazing. Everything looks different now that the roiling tension inside of me is gone. The world is brighter.

  It’ll be OK.

  Maybe this is what was meant to be anyway.

  Yesterday, I felt happiness, love and hope. Hell, for a very long moment, I felt as if I loved everyone, even myself.

  How did I get to that point in the first place? I shut my eyes, searching for that elusive optimism. I went from knowing I didn’t deserve anything good, to struggling and fighting for a chance to heal. Somewhere after that, I could only be grateful.

  Yes!

  A surge of pleasure flows through me as I realize exactly what first set me free. From my earliest memories, I thought I was evil. I thought I was a monster.

  As a child, I learned what I was taught by my abuser— that love is a twisted, shameful pretense that can’t be trusted.

  Yesterday, I accepted myself. I recognized and accepted the beautiful perfection of my own imperfections and I wanted to weep from the joy of it.

  I am NOT a monster. I am NOT a pe
rvert.

  I know this with crisp clarity. I’m glad to be alive.

  My gaze turns toward Renata, soaking up the sight of her as she sits beside me. Her long, golden-blonde hair is tied back in a ponytail; her white, short-sleeved blouse is tucked into a pair of blue jeans. Her face is heart-shaped, she wears very little make-up.

  Even without her good looks, she’d still be the most attractive woman I’ve ever known.

  I catch myself staring at her soft lips. A sense of awe and pleasure shoots through me as I remember exactly how it felt to kiss them. To kiss her. My pulse kicks up and my breathing increases. In a heartbeat, I become as hard as stone.

  I long to bury myself deep into her soft, wet heat again.

  She looks up at me, studying my face. Crystal blue with a vivid dark rim around her irises—her vibrant eyes captivate me. So, so lovely. She sees things I’m only just beginning to understand.

  A man could fall into those eyes—get lost in those eyes—be found by those eyes.

  Renata’s lips part, her back straightens.

  I’ve gone from the misery of indecision, back to the buoyant high I experienced yesterday. I see surprise in her expression as she registers the obvious transformation of my mood.

  My pulse races as our eyes lock. We’re like two broken pieces of a complex puzzle that fit perfectly together.

  Yes! There it is again.

  Our incredible connection practically sizzles between us.

  We’re bonded.

  Linked.

  Renata’s breath hitches, an audible confirmation that she feels it too.

  I luxuriate in that intimate, almost palpable joining once more. I lost sight of it when I was stuck inside my head—but this mysterious bond we share never really went away.

  In all the confusion and madness in the world, two people with difficult and disturbing childhoods have found each other. Neither of us is perfect, but that doesn’t matter. Through Renata’s eyes, I’ve been able to see myself. Deep in my gut, I know this caring woman can teach me how to find peace.

  I don’t know the details, but I do know her childhood was shitty. Father in prison. Mother and brother both dead. How did she end up living on the street? Whatever happened, it couldn’t have been good.

  Renata is a miracle. She’s the perfect example of someone who refused to let a crappy childhood ruin her life. With her help, I can change.

  I can get better.

  I can be better.

  I can even be happy.

  I remember the time when Renata became upset yesterday, and how she told me a little about her past. Clearly, the woman still has her own demons. I wonder, can I help her, too? Can two damaged people work together to mend the betrayals of the past?

  “Forgive me for being a horse’s ass,” I say. “I’m OK now. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Thank you,” she says, but that’s all she says.

  Eyes bright, her face is alive with questions she’s deciding whether or not to ask. Now that I’m talking again, she’s probably afraid of upsetting me by accidentally saying the wrong thing. I doubt that Renata could upset me.

  I give her an easy smile, uncaring of my scars. In the scheme of things, the scars I wear on the outside are nothing.

  It’s the wounds inside I need to heal.

  “You’re right, Renata,” I tell her. “Everything’s going to work out fine.”

  Chapter 3.

  “Murder: the intentional and unlawful taking of another person's life.”

  — Webster’s Dictionary

  ~~~

  Detective Bronowski

  Detective Roman Bronowski briefly wondered, would he have made Sergeant by now, if his parent’s grandparents had changed their last name to something less ethnic when they immigrated to America? Not that it really mattered. Mostly, he liked being a senior detective just fine.

  Holy Mother of God, I fucking hate these high-profile murder cases, Roman thought, as he steadily wandered up the stairs to the DA’s office.

  At thirty-eight years old, he’d put on a few pounds—OK, quite a few pounds, all in his rapidly expanding gut. He recently decided to take the stairs as often as possible, in order to avoid being mistaken for a younger Santa Claus by Christmas.

  He was still fairly lean and athletic, except for his newly acquired belly. He figured a few weeks of additional exercise would be all he needed to do to regain control of his paunch. Well, that and avoiding beer and donuts.

  Ann, an attractive brunette, walked down the stairs, passing him with a sunny grin curving her lips. Ann Whipple didn’t need to use the stairs—not with her figure.

  “How ‘bout those Cowboys?” she quipped.

  Roman nodded at her, returning her smile. “Early days, but it’s looking good for the Superbowl so far,” he replied. They’d won last night, which seemed to make everyone in Dallas that much more cheerful this morning. Maybe it would help the judge make up his mind about issuing the search warrant he had been waiting for.

  Reaching into his pocket, Roman rubbed the garish, multi-colored, beaded bracelet his seven-year-old daughter made and had given him out of the blue. ‘For luck, daddy,’ she’d said with a sweet smile.

  Lord in Heaven, she was the cutest little girl alive. He loved her to bits. He adored all three of his children, but Janice, the youngest, was still at the cuddling stage. Roman couldn't get enough of it. Sadly, youth was so fleeting. His kids were all growing up way too fast.

  Only slightly winded at the top of the staircase, he walked into the outer office.

  “He’s expecting you, Detective. Y’all go right in,” Janet, Brewer’s efficient, middle-aged secretary said.

  “Thank you.”

  “How ‘bout those Cowboys?” she said, with a bright smile.

  “Yeah, how ‘bout ‘em?” Roman said back, as he gave a perfunctory knock on the office door and walked in.

  Lee Brewer, the Dallas District Attorney, had short, dark brown hair and bushy eyebrows. His tall, muscular frame had turned to fat over the years. Roman wondered if his own physique might begin to mirror Brewer's unless he exercised more and ate less.

  Sitting behind a big wooden desk with a computer on it, the DA smiled when Roman entered.

  Detective Bronowski smiled back at him. “Cowboys won.”

  “They sure did.”

  The DA’s office had one big window, tinted to block out the intense summer sun. His personal space was homey to a large degree, as Brewer had been in office for the past five years. Pictures of his wife and kids adorned his desk, and a large oil painting of actual cowboys breaking in a wild horse hung on the wall behind him.

  “Have you heard from the judge, Lee?” Roman asked.

  “I’ve talked to him.”

  “What did he say?”

  His leather chair squeaked as the DA leaned back in it. “Well, as you can imagine, he’s not happy with the situation.”

  Detective Bronowski bit his tongue and waited for the DA to continue. When Brewer said nothing more, Roman couldn’t help himself. He asked, “Did he say what the problem is?”

  Brewer tented his hands. “As you can appreciate, we’re not just prosecutors, we’re also politicians. Chester Wilkinson has been dead for over three years. Other than finding proof the victim had a common, over-the-counter motion sickness drug in his system, we only have the word of one man—and he's playing his ‘get out of jail free’ card.”

  “Is the judge worried about third-party evidence?”

  “He’s more concerned about whether or not a Grand Jury would consider Stan Huber, a known cocaine user and possible dealer, a reliable witness.”

  “Tell me about it,” Detective Bronowski said. “I recently interviewed Huber again, you know.”

  “Oh?” the DA said.

  “Yeah,” Bronowski said. “His story hasn’t changed. Huber knew about the scopolamine and affirms Grant Wilkinson told him he intended to murder his father. Grant is the oldest child, and for all
appearances, he’s the beloved son of an all-American family.”

  The DA rubbed his face with both hands. “Why did it have to be him?”

  “Tell me about it,” Bronowski said. “This case sucks. Our prime suspect is a decorated war hero with a purple heart. Grant Wilkinson was a respected sniper with a record number of kills who served four tours of duty overseas. He’s financially well-off in his own right. I can’t figure out any possible motive. We need that warrant. Without more information, we can't go any further. What else can we do?”

  “We wait, but I don’t think we’ll have to wait too long,” the DA said in a consoling tone. “Let Judge Morrison think on it a bit and make sure you’re prepared to go forward.”

  “I’m prepared, all right.” Bronowski said. “I'm on the edge of my seat, just waiting for the go ahead. We’ll arrest him at the same time we move forward with the warrant. Give him a scare without tipping our hand. Maybe we'll get something from it. Whether or not we can hold him? Well, that’s another story.”

  “Fine,” the DA said. “When the judge signs off, execute search warrants for Grant Wilkinson’s home and place of business. Mirandize him and make the arrest. I sure as hell hope we can make it stick.”

  Chapter 4.

  “Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind.”

  ― Bernard M. Baruch

  ~~~

  Renata Koreman

  The stranger beside me is gone, as is the aura of oppressive tension. The Grant I felt so close to yesterday has returned. Thank God!

  My relief is comparable to sweltering in excessive temperatures, then diving into a cool mountain lake.

  He isn’t chatty—that’s not who he is—but neither is he a ball of unspent angst. I don’t know what’s changed, but for whatever reason, he’s himself once more. I exhale a thankful sigh, delighted beyond measure to have him back.

  Grant is moody, complicated and he’s been through hell—but I still find him to be the most attractive guy I’ve ever known. Why is that? Sure, he’s got a nice face and a smoking hot body. Strong and muscular with broad shoulders, narrow hips and a tight, sexy ass—Grant flips every ‘on’ switch I have.