Tarnished Image (16 page)

David O’Neal and Kristen LaCroix, Aldo knew, would soon learn that.

“Mind if I sit here?” Long, slender, tan legs worked their way down the steps, making soft splashing sounds as they pushed aside the pool water.

Calvin Overstreet looked up at the woman from his seated position on the pool steps. She was tall, with short black hair, and vivid blue eyes. Those who saw the two at parties and social functions often classified her as the perfect trophy wife. What they could not know was that Calvin deeply loved the woman he had married twenty-five years ago.

“Actually,” Calvin said with a smile, “I’m waiting for a beautiful brunette to join me.”

“I am a beautiful brunette.”

“Well, this one happens to be my wife.”

“I am your wife,” she said playfully.

“In that case, you are more than welcome to share my seat. It happens to have a beautiful view of the water.”

Jenni laughed. “It happens to be
in
the water.”

“That explains why my feet feel so damp,” Calvin joked.

Jenni sat on the step next to her husband. “What’s bothering you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been sitting on this step in the shallow end of the pool for the better part of forty-five minutes. You’re starting to look like a prune.”

“It’s not the water, it’s my advancing years.”

“You’re not that old,” Jenni said. “What’s on your mind?”

A warm breeze blew along the surface of the pool, causing little ripples. Calvin gazed down into the water. “I’ve taken on the David O’Neal case.”

“The man from Barringston Relief? I saw the news report. Is it going to be tough?”

Calvin nodded. “Yes. Maybe impossible. Archibald Barringston sent a copy of the tape to me by courier. I’ve watched it a dozen times. The videotape is extremely incriminating, and such evidence has done well in court. The DA is going to have fun with this one.”

“Why did you take the case?”

“Old man Barringston asked me to, and O’Neal was a friend of A.J.’s. I felt an obligation. Besides, something isn’t right.”

“Not right?”

Calvin turned and faced his wife. The back porch light combined with the pool lights to reflect off her tanned face. She was an insightful woman and keenly intelligent. She had been a wonderful mother to their two children, who were now grown and gone. “I can’t put my finger on it, but all my legal alarms are going off. Everything is just too perfect.”

“You think he’s innocent?”

“I told him I did, and at the time I meant it. Now I’m having second thoughts.”

“Don’t,” Jenni said.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t have second thoughts, Cal. You have the best instincts possible. Your first impressions are almost always right.”

“Almost, but not always.”

“Don’t start that again,” Jenni said firmly. “No one’s perfect. You had every reason to believe that woman was guilty. Besides, all you did was arrest her; the courts put her in jail.”

“On information I provided and on testimony I gave.”

“You’re not in the FBI anymore. You have a successful and respected legal practice. I think you ought to stop beating us up over a mistake you made years ago.”

“Us?”

“Sure,” Jenni said. “Our love has intertwined our souls. When you hurt, I hurt.”

“I’m just tired, Jenni, that’s all.” He cupped some water in his hand and splashed it on his face. “And maybe a little afraid.”

“Afraid?”

Calvin nodded. “I’m afraid that someday I may do just the opposite of my last mistake and help a guilty person go free.”

“You think this O’Neal man is guilty?”

Calvin shook his head. “Not in my heart, but my head says to look at the evidence. I’m giving myself conflicting advice. At times I don’t know which to listen to.”

“When you proposed marriage to me, were you listening to your head or to your heart?”

Calvin chortled. “My heart, dear. I was listening to my heart all the way.”

“Well, that turned out pretty good, didn’t it?”

“More than pretty good,” he said leaning over and kissing her gently on the lips. “It was the best decision of my life.”

“Then learn to trust your heart more,” Jenni said, stroking Calvin’s damp hair. “By the way, how did Mr. Barringston get a copy of the tape?”

“Someone had it delivered.”

“Convenient.”

Calvin nodded, now lost in thought again. “Yeah, too convenient.”

“Do you want to take a few laps with me?” Jenni asked as she pushed away from the steps.

“Normally, I would jump at the opportunity,” Calvin answered, “but I’ve got a bail hearing tomorrow. I want to make sure I’ve got all my ducks in a row. One night in jail is enough for someone like David O’Neal.”

“Suit yourself,” she said and then began to swim the length of the pool with long purposeful strokes. Calvin watched as the woman he loved moved fluidly through the water.

“Well,” he said to himself, “maybe a couple of laps wouldn’t hurt.”

T
HE WIND NO LONGER MOANED—IT SCREAMED AND SQUEALED
like a banshee. The walls of the small Cuban house shook with each new blast, as did the heart of Angelina.

Angelina was perched on her father’s lap as he sat with the others waiting for the storm to pass. The electricity for the lights was already gone, and the storm, coupled with the plywood-covered windows, left the house dark and tomblike. The only light came from a single storm lantern in the middle of the room. It cast large and ominous shadows on the walls behind them. Ghosts. The ghosts Angelina was sure they would all become.

“I’m frightened, Papa,” Angelina said for the fourth time.

“Me too,” her father answered. “It’s all right to be frightened as long as we remain calm.”

Angelina nodded in silence. Some of the other children wept.

“This is a bad one,” Maria said as she drew her youngest to her. “Maybe the worst.”

No one answered; their silence was agreement enough. Heavy tropical storms and hurricanes were common in Cuba, but no one took them lightly.

The wind hammered the house, driving the drops of rain with such force that it sounded as if a thousand children were outside throwing handfuls of pebbles at the walls.

“Look, Papa,” Angelina said, pointing to the front wall. Rivulets of water streamed down from the ceiling. “The house is leaking.”

“The wind is doing that,” her father answered. “It’s pushing the water under the eaves and through the wall.”

“I don’t like it,” she protested. Her father kissed the top of her head and held her even more tightly. Angelina knew that he didn’t like it either.

Seconds that would normally pass unnoticed now oozed by with maddening slowness, and with each tick of the clock the wind screamed louder, the walls shook more, and the fear grew thicker.

There was a new sound, a pounding, like shutters slamming against the house. Except the house had no shutters. Banging, slapping. Angelina drew herself into a ball on her father’s lap. “What’s that?” she asked.

“It’s the plywood,” her father said. “The wind is pulling it away from the window.”

“But you nailed it,” Angelina protested. “I saw you.”

“It wasn’t enough. Maybe we had better—”

The plywood was gone. A gust of invisible power peeled it from the window. Angelina watched as it sailed away. A second later the glass in the window reverberated to the beat of the storm, rattling, shaking, bowing with the pressure. Her father had started to stand when the glass gave way in an explosion of shards that filled the room. Angelina felt herself being lifted from her father’s lap and slammed to the sofa as he attempted to cover her with his own body. Maria and the children screamed.

Half a moment later her father was on his feet. “Everyone into the bathroom. Right now!” Before Angelina could speak,
her father snatched her up from the couch and carried her in one arm. He then seized one of her cousins. Her uncle did the same with two of the smaller children. Rain was pelting them as they raced across the room and down the hall toward the only bathroom in the house. “Inside, everyone,” he said as he set Angelina down.

“But, Papa, there’s not room for everyone,” Angelina said, stunned by the violence of the last few seconds.

“Get in,” her father commanded. “Put the youngest children in the bathtub. The rest of you sit on the floor.” Everyone complied. As soon as they were in, Angelina watched as her father and uncle stepped away from the door and disappeared into the house.

“Papa. Papa! Come back.”

No answer.

“Papa!” Angelina started to rise, but Maria put a hand on her shoulder. Angelina stared at the open bathroom door, wishing with all her might that her father would reappear. “Pa-paaaa.” Her scream was muted by the howling demon-wind.

Glass breaking. Another window had been exposed and had exploded. Still, no Papa. “Papa, come back. I need you.”

Nothing.

Tears raced down Angelina’s face and mingled with the water from the storm. Her heart ached. Instinctively she knew that her father was gone, like her mother. She knew that she was alone—orphaned.

She was wrong. A shadowy figure appeared in the door, struggling with a large rectangular object. It was her father. “Put this mattress over the bathtub,” he shouted against the invasive noise of the storm. “Cover the children.” As soon as
the mattress was moved into place with the help of Maria and two of the older children, he disappeared again, but this time for just a moment. They had another mattress. Angelina realized that he must have dragged them from the children’s bedroom.

Struggling, they lifted the mattress up and passed it into the room. “Cover yourselves with this,” he ordered, then stepped into the crowded bathroom and shut the door. Once seated upon the floor, he held up one end of the mattress. The other end was wedged on the tops of the sink and toilet. Children cried, and the wind screamed ferociously like some ancient beast.

It was dark in the room and the air was becoming stale, but Angelina didn’t mind. Her father was seated next to her, and that was all that mattered.

The wind continued its attack, as if it had will and reason and had selected this house to be the object of all its fury. The walls vibrated like the skin on a bass drum. There were snapping and popping sounds.

“What’s that, Papa?” Angelina asked in the darkness.

“The shingles on the roof are being torn away. We can expect to get wet soon.”

“Get wet again,” Angelina corrected.

“Yes, wet again. But we should be all right.”

Minute after minute passed, and the storm grew worse. The sound of the wind was maddening. It was as if the storm sought voice to speak of the evil it intended to do and of the lives it hungered to take. Pounding, thumping, slamming, pushing, the storm continued on. Angelina wanted to rest, to close her weary eyes and sleep, but she could not. Every second brought a new and frightening sound. The storm could
not only be heard, it could be felt as if it had a weight all its own. Water began to pour in through the ceiling in relentless streams.

As the storm’s intensity grew, all conversation ceased. The noise of the wind was too loud to allow even the fearful cries of the younger children. But Angelina spoke anyway. Not to anyone in the room, but to God. She prayed and prayed hard. She prayed for her life and her father’s and for the lives of her uncle, aunt, and her cousins. As the storm pounded the house, Angelina wondered if God was able to hear her petition over all the noise.

Minutes were hours, hours were days. Time seemed to cease its flow. Only the storm continued to move.

Then it stopped.

There was silence—beautiful, blessed silence.

Only the soft sound of water dripping could be heard.

“It’s over,” Angelina exclaimed. “It’s all over.”

“No, my little angel,” her father corrected. “We’re in the eye of the storm. When that passes, the winds will begin again, this time in the opposite direction. It’s not over. We have to go through it again.”

Angelina felt a sadness flood a heart already filled with fear. “Again? We have to go through it again? I don’t want to go through all that again.”

“I know, Angelina. I know. But we will.”