Crusader (54 page)

He looked at me and smiled. "What do you mean, honey?"

"The Family Arcade. You and I packed that up, too."

"Oh yeah. That's right. You were there for that one, too, weren't you?"

I asked him, "What are you going to do now?"

"I think I'm gonna take it easy for a while. Maybe manage somebody else's store. Maybe something on the beach. You know? I'll let somebody else have all the headaches."

"It sounds like Suzie's going to need a new job, too."

"Yeah. Poor kid. She's really upset." When I didn't respond, he continued, "She's going to come over to the house and help me clear out my stuff."

I said, "I have stuff there, too."

"You'd better come with us, then. This is a day for clearing things out. Right?" Dad finished rolling up the cables. He got up, tossed them into the debris pile, and announced, "That's it. I'm finished, and I'm hungry. I'm going to get something for the road. How about you?"

I started to answer, but I suddenly became distracted by a flash of white in the mallway. I looked and saw a small, thin man out there. He was wearing black pants and a white, white shirt. He had long hair and sandals, like Jesus.

Dad said, "What do you say? A calzone from Brothers? A fajita from the Taco Stop?"

"No. No, Dad. I'm not hungry."

"No? Did you have breakfast?"

"Oh yeah. I had a big breakfast. Tell you what, I'll meet you back at the house."

The man in the mallway was holding a bag, a plastic supermarket bag. Dad must have followed my gaze to the guy, because he asked, "Who is that?"

"Who?"

"That hippie outside. Do you know him?"

"No. Do you?"

"No. He looks like he might be one of Devin's friends."

Neither of us said anything for a moment. The hippie wasn't going away, though, so Dad decided, "I'll get rid of him." He opened the glass door and called out, "We're closed. We're out of business."

The guy looked at Dad with piercing eyes, then he turned and walked away. Dad said, "Okay. He's gone. Last call, honey. Can I get you something to drink, at least?"

"No. Not a thing."

"Then I'll see you at home." Dad let himself out.

I kept watching the mallway closely. Just as I expected, the man returned. He walked up to the door and slid it open. I wasn't afraid, because I knew who he was.

When he entered I spoke his name. "Stephen Cross."

He nodded in a quick, jerky way. As he got close I could see that he did not look well. He was sweating; his leathered skin looked yellow; his lips were cracked. But when he spoke, it was with Stephen Cross's voice. "Are you Roberta Ritter?"

"Yes, I am."

"This tape is yours?" He reached into the plastic bag and pulled it out.

"That's right."

He looked at me with those fiery eyes, but his voice trembled. "I swear to you, before Christ my savior, that I did not remember that horrible scene. Not for all these years. Not until last night. And then ... I did remember."

I leaned back until I was resting against my elbows. I asked him coldly, "What did you remember?"

"Everything. I remembered putting on that Halloween mask, that demon mask. I could barely see out of it. I remembered running in there. I grabbed a bag and started to run out. I swear, I..." His voice trailed off. I could see the sweat ooze up on his forehead. I watched it, wondering if it would turn to blood.

He found his voice and continued, "A few seconds after that videotape came on, I was struck down. I fell to the floor, like I had been struck by a bolt of lightning. No one was there to help me. I lay there, paralyzed, while the tape rolled on, all the way to the end."

He parted his cracked lips and looked at me. I did not move. I scarcely breathed. He asked me hoarsely, "Do you know of my ministry?"

I nodded.

"I have made it my mission to find the truth. To find the truth—"

I completed the phrase for him, "To ask forgiveness. To seek redemption."

He closed his eyes, like he was praying. Then he said, "I have spoken to the police. They weren't interested in me, or my tape, or my story."

"They let you go?"

"Let me go? They made me go! They wouldn't listen. They treated me like a ... a nuisance. They told me that I was 'raving,' that it was only a dream."

Stephen Cross closed his eyes again. "That was what I had thought, too. I have had this horrible dream in the past. This recurring nightmare where I walk into a store in a demon mask, and then I—" He broke off, pale and shaking. "But now I know it was not a dream. Now I know that it was real. I remember it now. I remember everything."

I looked closely at his right arm. It bore no tattoo, but it was discolored, like with a blue bruise. So was his left. I said, "That was your arm in the tape?"

"God knows that was my arm. God knows that was my crime. The police don't want to hear it, so I've come to you. Tell me, Roberta, what can I possibly do?"

I told him. "You can answer my questions."

His head bobbed quickly, eagerly. "Yes. Yes. Of course."

I began, "Why did you murder my mother?"

He answered simply, "For money."

"Why did you need the money?"

"For drugs. All my money went for drugs."

"Why that night? And why the Family Arcade?"

He thought for a moment, then said, "I remember that I had to meet a man in a parking lot."

"What parking lot?"

"The 7-Eleven's. I met a man there who told me what to do."

"And what was that?"

"Walk into the arcade, reach behind the counter, grab the money bag, and run."

"Did you know this man in the parking lot?"

"Kind of. I knew him to see. I'd dealt him some coke."

"What's that mean? You used to sell him cocaine?"

"Yes."

I swallowed hard. I tried to speak evenly. "So why did you murder her? Why didn't you just push her away? She was a small woman. You already had the bag."

Stephen Cross's head dropped forward, like his neck could no longer bear the weight. He told me, "I reacted. I reacted like the animal that I was. I remember she came up behind me. I remember—lashing out with my knife. I remember running."

"Where was the man? The man who sent you in there? Was he waiting outside?"

Stephen Cross's eyes shifted to the mallway and then back. "I don't know. I don't think so. He was probably waiting for me in that parking lot, but I never went back there. I just kept on running, all the way up to Daytona."

"You never gave him the money?"

"No, I never gave it to him. I never gave him anything."

I stopped asking my questions. I had to think. I put my head down, too, to think about his answers.

But Stephen Cross interrupted my thoughts. He said, "I've been praying all night. This morning I received an answer from God. I was to come here and tell you the truth. I was to ask you for your forgiveness. Can I ask you, Roberta, to kneel and pray with me?"

I answered, "No."

"Will you forgive me?"

"No. I don't think so."

He looked away. "I understand." Stephen Cross placed the video on the floor in front of me. His eyes were red and runny. "All I can say is, 'I'm sorry.' I know that is pitifully, immeasurably short of what you need. I want you to know—I will do anything to help you through this pain. Anything you ask, including surrendering my own life."

I just shook my head.

He continued, "Anything. Anytime. For the rest of my life."

I told him, "You had better go now." I added, though only to myself,
Go find your redemption someplace else.

Stephen Cross got up and walked to the glass, but he
couldn't pass through the door. Not yet. He wasn't finished. He had one more thing to say. I knew that, and my heart started to pound. "Roberta, the man who hired me—"

I started to cover my ears, but I fought back the impulse. I put my arms down at my side and looked him in the eye.

"You know what I'm going to say, don't you? The man who hired me to steal the money ... He just left here. He's the one who told me, 'We're closed. We're out of business.'"

All I could do was nod my head.

His eyes looked at me with infinite pity. "Your father?"

I met his gaze. I told him, "No."

Stephen Cross knew a lie when he heard one, but he didn't speak again. He turned and left.

I sat alone on the stained mall carpeting. My mind started filling up with agony and terror. The void started to open beneath me, but I fought against it with everything that I had.

I grabbed the tape, struggled to my feet, and ran through the empty arcade, pushing my way through two doors to the back parking lot. I ran to the trash trailer and punched at it savagely. Then I ran past George the guard, shouting, "Shut up!" at him, just in case he was thinking about opening his stupid mouth. I didn't stop running until I threw open the door of #303. I yanked the phone out of its wall cradle and called Griffin's pager. I left my number and stood there, panting wildly, until he called back.

I shouted at him, "Griffin! I need to talk to you right now!"

"Roberta? I'm working an undercover. This'll have to be fast."

"It will be fast if you tell me the truth."

He started with his usual, "Hey, Roberta—"

But I cut him off. "I don't want to hear about your department regulations. I want to hear the truth. Do you understand me?"

Griffin tried to calm me down. "Okay. Okay. What do you want to hear?"

"What
aren't
you telling me? What did you start to tell me in the guidance office? You'd better tell me now, Griffin. If you don't, here's what I do: I call nine-one-one. I tell them it's not an emergency, but I need to speak to the platoon sergeant. Then I tell him how you 'back-door' evidence out of the sheriff's department."

Griffin broke in. "Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!" He let out a grunt, like a trapped bear. Then he asked me, "Okay—do you remember the blue smocks?"

"Yes."

"Well, guess what? They confiscated three blue smocks from the Family Arcade that night—a small, a medium, and an extra-large. You didn't get the extra-large one back, did you?"

"No."

"That's because the extra-large one had a problem. It tested positive for cocaine."

"Cocaine? For drugs?"

"Powder cocaine. A very popular drug back then."

I stammered, "You're telling me my dad used drugs?"

"Yes, ma'am. An expensive drug. A drug for people with cash to spend."

I covered the receiver, fighting back a wave of nausea. I finally managed to say, "So ... so what is the whole truth, Griffin? What really happened that night?"

"I only know the detective's theory of the truth. Here it is: The detective figured the Family Arcade robbery was bogus. It was an inside job. He figured your father owed big Sonny some big money. Your father went to his savings account to get the big money out and discovered that it wasn't there. Why? Your mother had other plans for it, and she had already withdrawn it."

I knew what those other plans were. I answered dully, "The
Florida Prepaid College Program. It cost her five thousand dollars."

"That's right. So your father panicked. He didn't make a bank deposit for two days. Instead he put a large amount of cash in a deposit bag; then he got some street kid to go in and grab it. He planned to give that cash to Sonny, to avoid personal injury, and then collect it all back from the insurance company. It's a common scam. We see it all the time. But usually nobody gets hurt."

My ear was still next to the phone, listening. But my mouth was hanging open in horror, thinking about my dead mother. Griffin finally said, "You okay, Roberta?"

I wasn't, but I muttered, "Yeah, thanks," and hung up. I stood frozen like that for a long time. Frozen in horror. Then I remembered something. I thought very hard about my mother. I formed a picture of her, alive and strong, and I asked her what I should do.

I don't remember much about my walk to Sawgrass Estates. I traversed the mall parking lot, the highway, and the side road with an intense, singleminded purpose, never pausing until I had reached the carport. My father's Malibu was parked there. I listened carefully through the wall and heard the noise of the TV.

I eased open the door and walked quickly through to the bathroom, unnoticed. I reached under the sink and pulled up Kristin's makeup bag. I dumped the contents—bottles and tubes—into the sink basin. Then I set to work on myself with toilet paper and a brush.

At last, when I had finished, I cracked open the bathroom door. I could see my father now. He was seated in the living room, watching something very noisy and loud. I slipped quietly across the hall into my bedroom. I reached into the back of
my closet and pulled out the medium-size blue smock. I put it on, zippering it up just as we all used to do.

I listened to the sound coming from the living room—a chaotic sound. Then I picked up the videotape and went in there, treading as lightly as a ghost.

I passed by my father on his right. He was seated on the couch watching a car race. I kept my back to him as I reached the VCR.

He remarked, "Oh, Roberta, you're here."

I didn't answer. I pushed the tape in and changed the car race channel to Channel 3. He must have been curious by now, but his voice barely showed it. He asked me, "Honey? Did you want to watch something?"

I said, "Yes. Can I?"

"Sure. I'm not really watching this. I've got the car packed. I'm just waiting for Suzie."

I pressed Play, stepped to the side, and said, "Then I'd like you to watch this with me."

I could hear the blip as the tape interrupted the show on Channel 3.

He asked, "What is it?"

But still I would not turn around.

He asked, "Did you just comb your hair or something?"

Then he stopped talking. The evil taped played out its evil story just for him—the lightning; the fearful look; the man, the mask, the tattoo. He muttered to himself, troubled and confused, "What? What is this thing?"

I answered, "You know what it is."

"No, I don't. Is this—is this another prank, Roberta? Suzie told me what you did to Mr. Lyons."