Familiar Lies (24 page)

“It’s all in Gabe’s confession,” Max said.

“It’s not. I wrote that confession.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Winehouse’s look of surprise changed to worry. “You’re lying.”

“Gabe turned on you. He knew you would try to kill him, the same way you killed my son, so he put together his own proof. It’s all there, your involvement in everything. He ratted you out.”

Winehouse now looked panicked. He’d been caught and couldn’t hide it anymore. “I never killed that girl. That was your boy. Motherfucker was crazy.”

“But you covered it up. You and Gabe and Josh. The three of you buried her body in the woods behind the cabin. And then you killed my son.”

Winehouse swallowed hard.

Max stared at Winehouse. It was all there in Gabe’s confession. Now all the puzzle pieces came together, forming a horrific image that Max would never be able to erase from his mind. Winehouse had been the mastermind behind it all; the movies, the underage girls, the distribution network, Josh’s murder and the cover-up of Amanda’s murder.

Winehouse was the one all along, not Caldwell. Not Smith. Not even Gabe.

Winehouse had to die.

Max pointed the revolver at Winehouse’s head and tightened his finger on the trigger.

“Max, put the gun down,” Liz said.

Max glared at Winehouse. “I have to kill him, Liz.”

Winehouse looked back at Max, all signs of his upper hand now obliterated. He didn’t try to argue. He could only sit in sober acceptance.

“Don’t do it, Max. It won’t change anything.”

“It’ll set this right.”

“Nothing will set this right.”

“I can’t let him go.”

“There’s enough evidence here to put him away for life, Max. The confession, the recordings, the documentation. It’s all here.”

Max swallowed hard, but his mouth felt like sandpaper. “I can’t.”

“You can, Max.”

Max’s head throbbed as his heart hammered in his chest. He could hardly breathe. All he could see before him was the monster who’d killed his son. The man who’d taken away everything Max had ever loved. Winehouse had ruined so many lives. Now Max had his chance, the only chance he’d ever get to make Winehouse pay for all he’d done. He couldn’t trust justice to a broken system.

Liz stood, balancing on shaky legs. “Put the gun down, Max.”

Max shook his head.

“Max.”

Max could feel the trigger under his finger, calling to him. It would be so easy; a quick flick of the finger and the man who’d caused everyone so much grief would simply disappear.

Liz took another step toward Max.

Max’s hand wavered.

She placed her hand on the revolver. “You don’t want to do this.”

“I do.”

Liz gripped the pistol lightly. “Give it to me.”

Max hesitated.

“Give it to me, Max. It’s over.”

Another hesitation.

“Max.”

Max looked at her. She implored him with her eyes, deep and blue and devastated.

He handed her the pistol before collapsing to the closest chair.

There he wept for what felt like forever.

Liz called Detective Jack Cook, who was still actively working Amanda’s missing person’s case. He arrived on the scene with additional officers who collected the evidence and arrested Winehouse.

Interviews followed, along with depositions. The truth trickled out after the police had ample time to sort through the evidence. Detective Cook led the investigation. Max found him to be a congenial sort of man; mid-fifties and seasoned. A man who got straight to the point. He had kind eyes, the antithesis of Jerry Winehouse’s black pits. Max found that he liked Detective Cook.

As the evidence was sorted, cataloged and chronicled over the next couple of weeks a story emerged; a nightmare recollection of horrific events that Max could scarcely believe was true.

Josh had lived a double life, another existence that Max completely overlooked and Katie had only glimpsed. The son he thought he knew was long gone by the time Josh Williamson strangled Amanda Potter after raping her at the cabin Max and Liz had found.

By then only the monster remained. The monster had dug that shallow grave. The monster had covered Amanda’s naked body with dirt and left her behind to rot while he came home and kissed his mother good night.

Winehouse had attempted to tie everything up in a neat little bow, at least until Gabe Harris’s conscience had a different idea. The confession and the evidence, Detective Cook assured Max, would put Winehouse away for three life sentences. It would also lead to the prosecution of more than two dozen others involved in Winehouse’s video distribution network. As it turned out, Winehouse had been gathering evidence on his own customers. Now the police had it.

Max didn’t mention what happened to Smith, but Liz had. Looking back, Max found it silly to think they could have avoided it. Liz’s gun was linked to the shooting and their account of Detective Smith had a gaping hole in it when he simply disappeared from the story.

It turned out that Winehouse owned the land and the cabin where Liz had shot Smith, and a simple record search would have led the cops there anyway. Liz confessed to the shooting, insisting it was self-defense. Max corroborated her story. The police believed them and considered Liz’s admission a form of good faith.

But the worst irony of it all, Max thought, was that Liz had been only yards away from her daughter’s body, buried just inside the tree line behind the cabin.

Cook assured Max that Liz wouldn’t face jail time. Smith had been on internal affairs’ radar for some time it seemed, as had the detective formerly on Winehouse’s payroll, Andrew Paul. The books would be able to be closed on Paul’s case now too, Cook assured them. They also found Amanda’s DVD in Smith’s car. Cook called the evidence “damning”. Max hoped the detective was right.

As the dust settled, Liz went back to her life, or what was left of it. She didn’t want to talk to him after she found out what Josh had done. Max didn’t blame her. And while the logical part of his brain assured him that he wasn’t responsible for Josh’s actions, it did little good. It was always there, haunting him, and not even the whiskey could get rid of it.

He definitely tried, though.

* * *

Three weeks after the arrests, Max received a call from Detective Cook. Cook smoked a pack of cigarettes a day and his voice said as much. “Mr. Williamson? Got a minute?”

Max told him he had a minute. In fact, he had all day. He’d been fired from his job when he disappeared from work and while Cook had offered to give a statement to Max’s employer, Max declined. He hadn’t liked the job anyway and by being fired he’d at least be able to collect unemployment.

Cook continued. “We found something interesting.”

Max had learned that when Cook said
interesting
, that usually meant
terrible
. Hopefully this new bit of information proved otherwise.

“Your son had a bank account that wasn’t included in the info you gave us.”

“I don’t understand,” Max replied. “He only had the checking and savings accounts we set up together.” He paused. He had to remind himself that there was a lot he didn’t know about his son. “To my knowledge, at least.”

Cook made a grunting noise, acknowledging Max’s response. “Looks like he set these up on his own. There’s another name on it: Julia Cavenaugh.”

“And you think that’s our Julie,” Max said.

“If I was a betting man, Mr. Williamson, I’d say I agree. The account’s empty, or basically empty. She cleared it out three days after your son’s death. I don’t see that as a coincidence, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” Max said. It seemed that he’d grown accustomed to revelations these days.

“Anyway, we sent a few local unies out there to the apartment you and Liz visited.”

“Unies?”

“Uniformed police officers. Anyway, the place is empty. Looks like that pair up and moved in a hurry, left the furniture and everything behind. We questioned Winehouse about it. Looks like he suspected your boy was skimming off of him, but couldn’t prove it. When we mentioned the account he figured that’s where Josh stashed the cash he took.”

“Julie told me she didn’t know anything about the money Josh mentioned in the letter,” Max said.

“Doesn’t surprise me. She didn’t want to get caught with it. Probably why she skipped town.”

“How much was in that account?” Max asked.

“About twenty grand. Not a lottery win, exactly, but enough to pay the rent for a few months.”

“That sounds like a lot of skimming.”

“Agreed. I’d say your boy got a little greedy and took too much. Probably how Winehouse found out about it.”

“Any chance you guys will track her down?”

“We’ll try, but I doubt it. She might have gone to Mexico, for all we know.”

Max wasn’t sure he wanted her to be found. Maybe she deserved a fresh start. “Thanks for telling me.”

“Oh, sure thing. Just wanted to keep you in the loop.”

“I appreciate that.”

Max hung up the phone. He stepped into the living room and looked around at the house. He’d barely cleaned up since he’d come back home again. Seemed no reason.

This house is dead
, Max thought. Everything around him represented the death of his marriage and the death of his son. The death of Liz’s daughter.

The death of innocence.

Max packed a bag and left the house, renting a hotel room that night.

The following day he put the house up for sale.

The better part of a year passed and Max found himself sitting on the deck of his new home, overlooking the grassy common area behind his house with a cold beer in hand. He hadn’t moved far, just far enough to get away from the old place and all the memories it held. The house had been a trap; like being stuck in quicksand and slowly drowning.

He got a new job. It didn’t pay what the old job paid, but that really didn’t matter. It was easy and low stress. He didn’t bring the job home with him, not anymore. He’d learned his lesson about that, albeit a little too late.

Max tipped the bottle back and took a long swig as his cell phone rang. He picked it up and checked the number.

Katie.

Max answered.

“Hey, stranger,” she said.

“Hey, yourself,” Max replied. Although he’d fucked up their marriage, Max had done his best to patch up their friendship. They’d never be lovers again, but that was okay. What they had was gone, but what they were now wasn’t entirely all bad. Max had even put down a few beers with Denny, but he still struggled with not calling him
Danny
.

“You got any plans tonight?” Katie asked. “It’s Friday, you know. Denny and I might go bowling and we wondered if you wanted to be a third wheel.”

“Nah, it’s okay. I’m just going to hang out here, I think.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

She paused. Max knew why she called; the anniversary of Josh’s death was just around the corner. He appreciated that.

“You go,” Max said. “Have fun.”

“You’re positive?”

“Yep,” Max said. “Thanks, though.”

“If you change your mind—”

“I’ll be sure to let you know.”

Katie laughed. “You can still finish my sentences.”

Max smiled. “Goodbye, Katie.”

“Goodbye, Max.”

Max hung up. He grabbed another beer (his taste for whiskey these days seemed to be souring) and headed back out to the deck again to stare at the grass. Boring, maybe, but after everything that happened it suited Max just fine.

The anniversary of Josh’s death came and went with little fanfare. Max didn’t even have a drink on the day. He didn’t look through Josh’s stuff, or what remained of it after he’d given the bulk away to Goodwill. Outside of a few keepsakes from Josh’s childhood, Max found little reason to keep much else. He didn’t need any more reminders of the monster he’d created. Everything Max needed to remind himself of the boy Josh had once been remained sealed up in a single, large box sitting in the corner of the basement of Max’s new house.

The event came and went and Max’s life went on.

The following Saturday came and began like any other day. He took his time getting started, showering and catching up on some reading before taking an afternoon nap. The sun began to dip toward the horizon as Max helped himself to a couple of beers while sitting on his back deck once again. The deck had become a place of introspection, a place where time seemed to slow down to a crawl. He’d put on a few pounds over the past year now that he ate regularly. The occasional back deck beer also did its part to expand his waistline.

Three beers in, Max heard the doorbell ring. He hadn’t been expecting anyone, so it struck him as odd. Even though Winehouse had gone to prison, Max couldn’t seem to relax completely. He watched his back in parking garages. He installed an alarm system in his new home. He flinched each time the phone rang. He didn’t know whether or not Winehouse had the power to exact revenge from jail and he didn’t want to find out.

Max got to his feet, considering whether or not to get his gun. He’d purchased a .38 caliber revolver six months earlier that made him feel a little safer. Ultimately he decided to leave it in the nightstand drawer and take his chances with the door.

He looked through the peephole.

Liz Potter stood on the other side.

Max felt a shock run through his body. He hadn’t seen Liz in nearly a year, not since the police paperwork had all been filed and the waiting for Winehouse’s trial began.

He opened the door.

Liz smiled at him. “Are you going to invite me in?”

Max realized he’d been staring. “Sure. Come on in.”

Liz stepped inside and looked around the living room. “Nice place.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re a tough man to find, Max Williamson.”

“I moved.”

“No forwarding address. And you changed your phone number.”

Max shrugged. “I figured it was time to start over.”

“Are you going to offer me a drink?”

“Absolutely.”