Forgive Me, Alex (33 page)

When the chief called a short time ago and asked if I'd be available, I already knew the purpose of his visit: Algonquin's serial killer of 1995 is dead at the hands of a mysterious stranger. This assumed Ethel Simmons adhered to the plan.

The chief has responsibilities, and he must go through the motions, though I'm guessing he'd prefer not to delve into my possible involvement.

It must have been almost two o'clock this morning when Ethel contacted the police.

I presume that shortly thereafter, Linda received the call in her car. I can imagine her unpleasant reaction, and I'm surprised that it's taken this long for them to contact me.

I slept long and mostly well this morning, though I will confess to a mild case of the jitters. It's almost three o'clock in the afternoon and Frank and I sit on the patio, where for the past two hours we've discussed last night's events. He drinks tea and watches over me with a modicum of concern. I suck down beers at a prodigious clip.

Last night was precisely what I'd anticipated, planned for, hoped for... and a complete shock. Nonetheless, I reduced the world's ranks of serial killers by one. How terrible should I feel about that?

I continue to unwind into an alcohol-induced blur.

The chief pokes his head over the fence and says, "Mind if we come in?"

He and Linda come through the gate and plunk down in the chairs I set up for them. The chief faces Frank, Linda faces me, and I face the judgment of two friends.

I hold up my beer and say, "I know you're on duty and you can't have one of these, but I assumed you'd love one of Frank's world famous lemonades. Those are yours." I point to the two glasses I set up for them.

They nod their appreciation and grab their drinks. Everybody is silent for a moment, hesitant. Nobody wants to talk about this.

I've never been sure how much the chief knows about me, about what I do, but he's a smart man and a professional. I wouldn't be surprised if he's figured it out.

Frank breaks the uneasy silence. "How is the bright and beautiful Linda today?"

She flashes a winning smile. "You're such an old charmer."

"And how is the bright and beautiful chief today?" Frank's grin is precious.

"Very funny, old man," the chief says. "You're a laugh a minute."

The chuckles recede to a nervous halt.

"So," I ask, "to what do we owe the pleasure of this visit? You made it sound important on the phone, Chief."

He goes on to explain last night's events, and all the while, he and Linda seem to be watching to see how I'd react to the news. I express the proper shock, of course, including the revelation that Tommy Norton was the killer.

"I shouldn't tell you about any of this," he says with a smirk, "but giving you details of an investigation is becoming a habit with me."

He looks at Linda, and she nods her approval.

"Ethel claims her guardian angel descended from heaven and smote the killer with his own knife. She says he was virtually invisible, her angel, with a voice like velvet and short, curly blond hair like a lamb's."

My goodness, she really went overboard.

"She said that after he rescued her, he disappeared like a puff of white smoke, or more like a cloud." He looks right at me. "What do you think of that?"

"I'm inclined to say the old girl should lay off the brandy." I almost chuckle. Almost. Nobody else seems amused. "Still, you must admit, she sounds awfully fortunate."

"Yeah," Linda says, "I could use a guardian angel like that myself."

She keeps a straight face, but I swear there's a smile in her eyes. The chief looks at her with the same puzzled expression he had for me a few seconds ago.

I shake my head. "Tommy Norton. Who would have thought
that
? I would have bet anything that it was Norton—Mitchell, I mean."

"Yeah," he says, "I imagine we all would have put our money on Mitchell. Tommy even managed to evade surveillance last night."

Linda flinches, though I doubt the chief meant it personally. "That's my fault," she says, "since I was the one on surveillance."

"No, no, I didn't mean to blame," he says hurriedly. "I meant that Tommy Norton, of all people, didn't strike me as someone who could slip surveillance. The whole situation is odd."

"Yes," she says, "very odd."

"And you're sure," I ask, "that Tommy was responsible for
all
of the murders?"

"Yes, at least preliminarily. We have solid blood evidence on his hatchet and some blood spatter on his ski mask. We have shoe impressions that will match, I'm sure, and we have some fibers that will probably match his clothing. Lots of testing still to do. Also, it turns out he did yard work for Ethel, Melody Nesmith and John Adams, so besides the obvious connection, he may also have had easy access to their homes. We think Lindsey Merkham's murder was unplanned. All in all, I'd say it's a lock."

I almost hoped the answer would be no. That would leave open the possibility that Mitchell committed some of the murders. Something inside me still rages where he's concerned. It would give me an excuse to—

"The real clincher," he continues, "are the notes we found in his desk. They're in handwriting like a third grader's, and they explain why he started killing."

"You're kidding! He left notes?"

"Yep. He thought his big brother, Mitchell, was the smartest man around. Furthermore, he thought Mitchell's intelligence improved not just
after
he started killing in 1978, but
because
of it."

"Shit! Are you telling me that Tommy thought
killing
people would make him smarter? That he wouldn't be slow anymore?"

"That's what he wrote. The last entry explained how much he hated it, and how it made him sick to his stomach. But he was sure the Reaper would help him as a result of his killing, and make him smart like his big brother."

I remember the way he told Ethel he was
sorry
as he prepared to kill her. "Shit!"

"The world turns aside to let any man pass who knows whither he is going." – David S. Jordan

~~~~~

Summertime was the penultimate time of year in Algonquin, with no school and with weather second only to autumn. As the Fourth of July dawned—
Why does nobody call it Independence Day anymore?
—on this bright Tuesday morning, Algonquin rested easier and more relaxed. The serial killer that had plagued them was in custody at the state psychiatric facility, where he'd remain until his trial, and probably thereafter.

For me this would be a day of relaxation after several days of packing, clearing and cleaning, selling and moving. The old house, which sold several days ago, was almost empty, with a few odds'n'ends straggling and more cleaning to do.

The sale wouldn't close for a few weeks. Frank offered to help me put the money into a mutual fund. We'd have plenty of time now that I lived with Gramps, as I took to calling him.

Dad had been well prepared to leave his financial house in order, with significant equity in the house, a generous life insurance policy, a burial plot already paid for, and a Last Will and Testament with every I dotted and T crossed. He'd made sure I'd have no
financial
worries, at least, and had provided enough to get me through college. There'd been some wrangling over the life insurance, as they'd suspected his death was a suicide, but with no note and no real evidence, the police eventually wrote it up as an accident.

Dad had left work early that Friday, and stopped at a bar to drown his sorrows in Jack Daniel's. Then, while presumably driving home, he'd struck a bridge abutment at approximately ninety miles per hour. We'd never know if it had been intentional, whatever anyone's suspicions.

I chose to believe it had been an accident.

A relatively small group of people attended the funeral: a few of Dad's extended family, one associate from his work, a few of our neighbors, Ben and Naomi Komura, Chief Radlon and his wife Kathy, Frank and me. We gathered afterwards at the old house, where Frank had arranged for caterers to provide the appropriate fare. I played the sober host who accepted everyone's condolences with solemn nods and sad smiles.

An utterly miserable day; I wouldn't have made it without Frank.

It took several more days for the investigation to wind down, and toward the end they asked a few questions of Frank, who had loaned me his car the night I saved Diana and captured Norton.

He responded in his usual manner, playing the innocent old charmer. "My grandson—he's not my true grandson; I sort of adopted him; unofficially—he asked to borrow my car. No, I didn't ask him why. I didn't need to. He's a responsible young man, which I should think is obvious by now. I trust him, so I let him borrow the car. That's about the nut of it, I reckon."

Frank had mistaken several questions for threats against me, and fired back with both barrels. Quite amusing, though it was comforting to have someone around who'd protect me at any cost. I doubted the FBI agents had bought a single bit of his story, but they let it go.

I contacted the admissions people at Duke and, with the assistance of Frank, Mr. Kozlowski and Chief Radlon, deferred my entry into school for a year.

I needed a little more time to myself, to think things through and determine what I'd do with my life.

I'd made it through high school graduation without too much excitement. Mr. Kozlowski managed, at the insistence of a stubborn neighbor and Chief of Police, to get me a pass on homework assignments for the two weeks of school I'd missed, provided I scored well on the finals. In the end, I maintained my standing and finished third in my class.

I spent most of my free time at the dojo, where Master Komura trained me to the edge of my endurance, and where he and Naomi treated me as their own son. There was love there. Chief and Kathy Radlon, too, had practically adopted me, insisting I stop by once a week for dinner, conversation, games, a ballgame on TV—some simple, caring company.

Despite the recent tragedy, I was not alone. Frank, the Komuras, the Radlons; together they constituted my new family, and I loved them all.

Diana had remained in the hospital for two weeks, after which she started to show improvement. She regained her memory, as Jackson had predicted, but she continued to be troubled and, much to my chagrin, refused to see me. Mrs. G. asked me to give her a little more time, promising that Diana would come around eventually.

I agreed to be patient and understanding for as long as was necessary, and I meant it, but that was three weeks ago.

My desperation overwhelmed me and I drove to their place last Sunday. I figured I'd at least speak with Mrs. G., even if I couldn't speak with Diana.

A massive, white and red
For Sale
sign jutted from their yard. The house was empty. Their neighbor knew nothing more than that they'd moved somewhere out west. Mr. G.'s boss, also Dad's former boss, said he couldn't speak with me about it, adding that it was none of my business. Nice.

This morning I returned to the old house to pick up the last of my clothes. I also checked the mail from yesterday, and found a letter with no return address on it, postmarked Denver, Colorado. It was addressed to me in handwriting that I knew as well as my own, and hinting at a perfume that made my head reel.

Now seated on Frank's patio, as I soaked up the warmth of the late morning sun and drank a beer, I could only stare at the unopened letter on the table—scared to death to open it. I didn't know
how
I knew, but I knew that Diana was gone forever.

I wouldn't see her again.

I faltered, utterly drained after having barely slept the past two days, certain I hadn't the strength to read the letter. Yet I couldn't walk away from it.

I downed the last of my beer, took a deep breath, let out a long sigh, and grabbed the envelope. A deep, pleasurable scent wafted up as I opened it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My Dearest Tony,

My sweetest man, my knight in shining armor, my guardian angel, my hero, the one and only love of my life—how shall I begin? I think I should start with three simple words: I LOVE YOU! It's true, and I'm sure it will always be true. I wish that was enough, but I'm afraid it's more complicated. My ordeal has taken a terrible toll on me, and only I can heal me.

I will need a lot of time, I'm afraid.

It's not just that I can't put anyone else through that—such as you, my love—it's that I CAN'T do it unless I have the time to do it on my own, without distractions or reminders, or the many emotions that I must now fight.

I am so mad at my father for blaming you! I've told him that, and that if it weren't for you I would have suffered the most horrible death imaginable. Believe it or not, he understands and he's sorry for treating you the way he did. As for me, THANK YOU FOR GIVING ME MY LIFE! I understand that you know what Mitchell Norton did to those people, including poor Jacque, but knowing and seeing are two different things. You truly have no idea what you saved me from. THANK YOU, MY LOVE!

The truth is I feel guilty for all of this. I know it was Mitchell Norton's obsession with me that led to all the problems for you, including poor little Alex. He was innocent! He was so sweet, and Mitchell Norton found him while looking for me. I'm sorry.

How do I live with that?

The doctors tell me over and over that it's not my fault, that it was that terrible monster's fault. There's a part of me, somewhere inside, that knows that's true, but another part of me can't escape the guilt. I need time.

There's much more to it, however. I'm not whole, and until I am, I can't be with anyone, even the most wonderful man ever. That's you, my love. My emotions are a mess. My outlook is a mess. Hell, my whole life is a mess.

I am so, so sad to be apart from you. I cry day and night thinking about you. I'm crying right now. I can't stop. I still remember our last night together. It was the most amazing night of my life! Right up until that monster....

I'll always cherish that night, no matter what. I know I'll never know love like that again, and it makes me sad. God, here come the tears again.

Okay, I'm back. Maybe I'll stop crying long enough to finish this letter. I don't know how long it will take me to heal. I don't know what life has in store for me. I don't know if I'll ever see you again. I know only that I WILL LOVE YOU FOR AS LONG AS I LIVE! Wait for me, if you will, for a little while. Give me some time, but not too much. If I don't come around, then at some point you must move on. Promise me! I want you to be happy.

Please promise, right now (I'll know), that you will be happy.

God, how I long to kiss you. You are forever the love of my life,

Your Diana