Behind The Veil: A Gina Harwood Novel Read online

  “I guess she was wrong.

  “I don't know why I'm still alive. I wish it had been me first, sometimes, but I wouldn't want to wish this suffering on your mother either. I wish we'd both died at the same time. They could have waited for me to come home. Why didn't they? Why leave me alive?

  “Why kill Harry?

  “I'm glad you came over, Jake. I've been wanting to tell you, ever since... tell the truth, get it off my chest. But I didn't, because I thought telling you would put you in danger.

  “Guess that doesn't matter now. Best you know. It's good to know what you're running from.”

  8

  Jake sat stock-still, staring at the frail old man. He cocked his head from left to right, cracking his neck, which had grown stiff while listening. He blew a hot breath out his nose. Jake was still thinking about the story.

  “How did you know, though, Jake? About Lillian and Freedom? We never used those names around you, around anybody, once we left.”

  Jake bit his lower lip and chewed on it for a minute. “When I was younger, I... I was sixteen, I needed a new amp, you wouldn't give me the money for it. Remember?” His father shook his head. Jake took a deep breath. “I found a stash of money in your closet and took it. For the amp.”

  Peter laughed. “We had little stashes everywhere in case we had to run again. I don't even remember where half of 'em are anymore.”

  “Yeah, well, this one was in a little wooden box on mom's side of the closet. On the top shelf. Took me forever to find it. The money was in the box, but so were two little leather bracelets, old and falling apart. They were twisted together. One said Lillian. One said Freedom.”

  Peter's smile faded and he looked down at his lap. “Ah,” he said. “Don't think I ever knew about that one. I threw those away years ago. She must have fished 'em out after.” He shook his head. “Wonder if they're still there?”

  “I think your story is a crock of shit, Dad,” croaked Jake. “You're telling me you and Mom were killers? I don't buy it. And you said our families were dead. Grandparents. No aunts or uncles. All dead. If that story isn't shit, you lied to us about our whole lives.”

  Peter met Jake's eyes fervently. “We did. We lied to you about your whole lives. Our lives. To protect you.” He leaned forward. “You have to believe me, Jake. I know it's hard, I know it sounds dumb. Those were dumb times. Lots of people did terrible, stupid, life-changing things. We weren't the only ones.”

  “So, what? Sunbear killed Mom and Harry? Fire? Who did it?”

  Peter grabbed Jake's hand and squeeze it. “I don't know,” he said slowly, his eyes alive with fear. “I think it was the black angel. The Unspeakable. I think it found us.”

  Tears welled up in Jake's eyes. “You're nuts,” he whispered. “Dad, you're crazy. Look, I need you and Jack needs you. Harry's dead...”

  Peter's temper snapped. “I KNOW she's dead! The police called, JACK called, YOU told me, and I KNEW before any of them told me. I KNEW she was dead. Dammit, Jake, are you even listening to me? Did you even hear what I told you? It's coming after all of us! Your mother thought it would just be the parents, just us, but it's gonna wipe out all of us. Sins of the fathers or something. It doesn't matter! You. Have. To. RUN!” Peter gritted his teeth and yelled through them. “Now, boy! Start running and don't look back!”

  Jake just sat there. He was afraid, he could tell his dad believed what he was saying, but that didn't make it truth. He watched as Peter started storming through the room, opening drawers and pulling off paneling to reveal hidden caches behind it. There were holes everywhere. That only served to cement it. His father was crazy. He'd gone off the deep end since his wife died. Maybe, before. Maybe he even had something to do with the deaths. Jake wiped at the tickle of tears streaming down his cheeks.

  “You need money?” Peter threw wads of recently hidden cash at his son. “Take it, Jake! Take it all! Just go! GO.” He dropped to his knees. “Please, go, please run,” he said, his voice cracking as tears resumed their familiar path down his face. “Please, if you ever loved me or your mother, or your sister, please run...”

  Jake put his arms around the old man, but he shrugged them off.

  “I don't need a hug, I need you to stay alive. Run, boy, and never stop.” Peter crawled back and hugged his knees. “Go away.”

  “I have one more question,” said Jake, surprising himself. The question sprung to the forefront of his mind unbidden, well after he had spoken. “Why did you go to the bathroom? What happened to your face?” His voice was flat, uncompromising. Jake felt a flood of relief just by asking it, just by admitting to himself that he didn't believe the story his father gave them. Until this moment, he didn't realize how much stress he was carrying, until he felt some of it leave him. He sagged.

  “I don't know what you mean.” His father was no longer looking at him.

  “If you want me to run, tell me the truth.” Jake leaned forward, eyes boring into his dad. “Tell me what happened. And don't lie to me anymore.”

  Peter looked up, and that pleading expression was back. “You have to believe what I've told you, son. You do have to run,” his voice was husky, gruff.

  Jake just folded his arms stonily.

  Peter sighed. “Okay. Alright.” He took a breath. “I knew what had happened. I knew what did it. I didn't know what to do; why didn't it just wait an hour til I was home? We could have both ended our lives together. That would have been alright.” He was staring at his lap now, voice a muted mumble. “But it didn't happen that way. Susan was gone, horribly gone. The whole house smelled of blood.” Jake's nose flared, the memory of that metallic smell still in his nostrils. It still seemed to smell of blood, but he didn't want to interrupt his father's recollection. “I went to the bedroom first, to the closet. I have a gun in there, yeah. I loaded up the chamber and held it to my head. Then I thought I should be with her, so I walked back to the kitchen, but standing there, looking at her... it was too much. I wanted it to be over, but it felt like shooting myself in the head, that wasn't painful enough. She suffered. I should suffer too. I put the gun back and wandered around the house, looking for anything. I was weak, Jake. I couldn't bear to go back to where she was, otherwise I might have just used a knife. Poison wasn't hard enough. Nothing seemed to be painful enough, I wanted to inflict so much pain on myself, I wanted to hurt as much as she did, and then I wanted to die, to join her. I went to the bathroom to look in the medicine cabinet, see if there was anything I could use. There wasn't, but my body took over. I was crying and doubled over, so I just started beating my head against the counter, my face. Over and over. I saw blood, and my vision started to tunnel. I passed out at some point. I failed, and it didn't even hurt that bad. I felt numb.

  “By the time I woke back up, I hurt a little more. My face was all swollen and bruised, and my nose was broken, but it wasn't enough. Most of my hurt was inside. I made myself look at her again, and I promised her that I would live with the hurt of losing her, until my time came. Then I called the cops.” He looked up at his son. “I'm sorry I couldn't tell you the truth. There'd be too many questions.”

  Jake stood up, leaving the bills where they had landed, all over the sofa and the floor. “You...” he started, meaning to tell him what he thought of him, what he thought of his mental state, how crazy he had to be, but it wasn't worth it. Jake snapped his mouth shut again. He walked to the door and worked at all the locks. He could feel his father's eyes boring into his back, but he didn't turn around, and Peter said nothing more as his son walked away from him. Jake simply walked out the door, walked to his car, and got in.

  Crumpling against the steering wheel, he let the tears come. His family was destroyed now, completely. Mom and sister, dead. Father, out of his mind. He was the only one left. He couldn't handle this. He had to talk to somebody. And what if his dad really did have something to do with the deaths? It seemed more likely that Jake wanted to admit.

  Jake flipped open his cell phone a
nd stared at it. He fished out his wallet and withdrew Detective Harwood's business card; he dialed the numbers quickly, before he changed his mind. The phone rang once, twice, and then her sometimes-sultry voice answered, clipped and official. “Hello?”

  “Detective Harwood?”

  “Yes, this is Gina Harwood. Who's this?”

  Jake exhaled heavily. Did he really need to do this? He thought of his father heaving himself out of the chair at him, eyes wild, and that story... “I'm sorry, it's Jake O'Malley. Hey, do you have time to meet with me? I have... I have some information.”

  He could hear her scrambling for something on her desk. Unknown items clattered in the tiny room. The ghost of a smile passed over Jake's face. “Absolutely, Jake. I have some time today. Where is convenient for you? Do you want to come back into the station and talk?”

  “Can we meet for drinks? I mean, I know you're on the clock, but I need a beer.”

  They arranged to meet at a little bar in midtown, in a little over an hour. That was fine, it gave Jake time to go back and get Marcus; he'd dropped his friend off at his own house and asked him to wait. He wanted to talk to Marcus first, but he also wanted to arrange the meeting with the detective before he lost his nerve. Jake's hands were shaking as he threw the cell on the passenger seat, and turned the key in the ignition.

  ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼

  Morgan watched the young man drive off slowly, and waited until he was at the end of the block to start his own car, and move forward. His phone rang in his pocket, and he fished it out as he moved toward the end of the street. “Hello?”

  “Snyder, it's me.” Harwood, of course. Few people called him unless it was about work. He sighed.

  “Yeah?” he said, gruffly, irritated at himself. Why couldn't he have a life where normal people, friends, family even, called him? Nobody ever called him. He frowned into the handset, feeling unusually self-piteous.

  “Jake just called.”

  No sooner did she say his name then he glimpsed the aforementioned car turning left at the end of the neighborhood street. Morgan cursed under his breath and sped up in his brown sedan; the exterior was ugly and old – mid-90s – but the engine was top-notch. It growled under his urging and sped toward the intersection. “Yeah? He just left his dad's. He looked pretty upset. Almost had to break a window just to get in.”

  “Upset enough to call me, saying he has some information. Sounds promising.”

  “Really?” Morgan sounded as surprised as he felt. “When? Over the phone?”

  “No, we're supposed to meet at Zanzibar in an hour, said he'd tell me everything then.” Zanzibar may have been a kitschy-clever name, but it was really just a rundown little back alley joint. It did, however, serve as a common police meet-up, both with each other and with informants. The owners were happy to have the extra presence, in case any drunks made trouble. Morgan felt his mood lighten a bit. Melody worked there, a chesty young woman too many years his junior for a serious relationship, but always flirty with him anyway.

  “Great, I'll meet you there.”

  “I don't know about that...” she said thoughtfully. “I don't know if it would turn him off. I want him to talk freely. I don't think he likes you as much.”

  Morgan fought off a pout. “I think I should be there, Harwood. It could be a big break.”

  She laughed, a musical laugh with a cruel undercurrent that he could hear clearly. “I'm not going to steal your spotlight, Snyder. We'll listen to the tape together. I just wanted to call to let you know why you'd see him heading there soon. Or to call and let me know if he tries to run off.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he scowled, passing a few cars on the main road to get closer to the beat-up Toyota. A timely red light had prevented him from losing his quarry; luck was on his side this time. Harwood clicked off the line without even saying goodbye.

  Morgan kept his attention on the Chevy, at least peripherally, but his mind kept wandering back to a happy fantasy with an 8-5 corporate snooze-job, a nympho wife at home, and maybe even a few kids. And a dog. He didn't even have time for a dog. Morgan sighed and followed the car toward midtown.

  ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼ ⇼

  Marcus was still sitting by the side of the road when Jake pulled up and gestured for him to get in the car. He didn't do much in his life quickly, and this was no exception; he stood up slowly, unfolding his long arms and legs, and extended into a long stretch to crack his back. He yawned; the afternoon sun had made him a little sleepy. It had also given him a bit of a headache, which he wouldn't still have if Jake had dropped him back at his place, where all the weed was. But he wasn't upset about that. He didn't usually get upset. It took something pretty cataclysmic to upset Marcus Owens.

  When his parents had kicked him out, it was no big deal. He felt almost sorry for them; he knew he'd been a handful all his life, and that they hadn't ever really wanted him anyway. They didn't understand why he was still living at home at twenty-five. He hugged them both, tried to convince him mom that it was okay, really, it was. Not that it mattered much; he had his suspicions that she just wanted him out of the way as soon as possible so she didn't feel any pangs of guilt when she shot up. His dad just watched him with tired, hard eyes. They weren't very close. Marcus packed up his stuff and left without any fuss; he had some money from that week's gigs and knew some guys that managed an apartment building. He crashed with Jake for a while, some other friends for a while, just floated about. Life wasn't worth getting upset over. It all worked out, in the end – or it didn't. Whatever.

  Until Susan died. That really pissed him off. And then Harry. Marcus felt something cold and hard inside him, something that had been deposited with his friend's mom's murder, and solidified with Harry. They'd grown up together. Harry was like his older sister too. And Susan, well, she'd paid more attention than his mom ever did. She even used to give him birthday presents. She'd been a really sweet lady.

  Marcus walked over to the car and carefully lowered himself in, rescuing Jake's cell phone from underneath him before shutting the door. He didn't bother with the seat belt. He never did. He read once that people got into more accidents with those things, not less, because they drove more recklessly. He didn't really consider that his own choice of wearing a seat belt didn't actually impact whether others drove recklessly or not. “What's up?” he asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

  “Got some tylenol in the glove box,” Jake said softly, glancing over at his friend.

  Marcus smiled at him gratefully and fished around til he found the packet. “Thanks, man. I owe ya. How'd it go?” He tore open the pills and swallowed them dry.

  About all Jake had told him before he'd gotten unceremoniously dropped by the side of the road in front of Jake's (locked) apartment was that he was visiting his father. Alone. And that he'd explain later.

  “Well,” started Jake, but he trailed off. His face worked and his eyes squinted. Marcus raised an eyebrow, waiting. “He's fucking crazy, Marcus.” They turned into a little bar down an empty side street that Marcus didn't recognize and parked in the lot. There were only a few other cars here, two of them were cop cars. Marcus noticed this, but waited patiently for Jake to continue. He wasn't high, and he'd been sitting in fresh air all afternoon, after a morning at the police station. He was probably as safe from the police as he was ever going to be, he reckoned.

  Jake turned the car off and proceeded to relay the afternoon's events to Marcus, from his father's unhealthy appearance, to his sudden attack that scared Jake half to death, to his “long-ass story.”

  Marcus listened quietly, nodding whenever Jake stopped talking, or took a breath. Jake ended the recounting with why they were at this bar, and who was coming in twenty or so minutes.

  Marcus nodded, and they were both silent for a few minutes. “Why do you think he's crazy?” he asked, carefully.

  Jake's eyes boggled. “What do you mean? He's out of his fucking gourd, if he thinks I'll believe all that!”

  “W
hy don't you believe it?” Marcus pursed his lips in thought. “I mean, yeah, it's kind of out there, but it explains why you don't have any grandparents. Or why you kept moving around til you were like, what, eleven years old? When did I meet you?”

  Jake was about to protest, but the question stopped him. “Uh... yeah, I think we were about eleven.”

  “And the bracelets, I mean, you found the bracelets, right?” Jake nodded reluctantly. “Dude, I think you just don't wanna believe it.”

  “I think you smoke too much fucking weed if you believe that shit,” Jake said angrily.

  Marcus closed his eyes and counted to ten. He didn't want to be upset with Jake, and he didn't want to say something rash.

  “She's here,” announced Jake, who sounded more tired than angry. And more than a little scared. Marcus opened his eyes again and watched the pretty officer walk in. She was in her uniform pants, but her shirt was a simple white blouse, and her hair was down.

  “Dude, I could use a drink. Want me to come in?”

  Jake nodded, but didn't look back at his friend. He opened the door and climbed out, slamming it behind him. Marcus leaned over and snatched the keys out of the ignition before extricating himself from the car, too. He jogged awkwardly up to Jake and tossed the keys at him. Jake caught them automatically, then stared down at them, surprised. “Oh. Thanks,” he muttered, smiling a bit.

  “No problem, man.” Marcus walked inside and up to the bar. It was true – he could use a drink. His head was spinning from Jake's story, Peter's story. He ordered two drinks, and walked over to the corner table where Detective Harwood was already prettily perching on a bar-stool; Jake was hovering near one but hadn't appeared to commit to sitting. Marcus wandered over and sat on the third bar-stool, across from the corner, which would eventually be between his friend and the policewoman – that is, if Jake ever sat down. Marcus placed one of the bottles in front of his friend's place.