Hometown Favorite: A Novel (39 page)

"Jake, tell me about my mother. What happened?"

This bridge had to be crossed, and it was best to be swift and
honest with his words.

"They said cardiac arrest. When I got to her, she was gone."

Dewayne imagined Cherie crumpled lifeless on the floor
and he began to sob, but his eyes did not supply him with any
tears. He emptied his sorrow in dry heaves, and Jake paused
from giving Dewayne his bath and put his arm over his frail
shoulders to support him until he had spilled his grief.

In the midst of his weeping, Dewayne marveled that the
one man who had shown him kindness by burying his dead
mother was the one he had been angry with and rude to the
last time they had seen each other.

"It was a nice funeral;" Jake said. "I cleaned her house and
closed it up and left the keys with the neighbors. I stayed drunk
for several days and got sober long enough to sell my barbecue
business to the first offer with hard cash, a barbecue chain
with eyes on a franchise in Springdale. Then I went back to
drinking and watching the news-it is a deadly cocktail-but
I got so mad watching reports about you, I couldn't seem to
stay drunk. I drank, but it did no good."

"Why did you come to see me?" Dewayne's voice was desert
dry.

Jake sat on the bed and dried off the water and suds on
Dewayne's chest. He pushed gently on Dewayne's skin, mopping the excess water, and each time he applied the slightest
pressure of the towel down onto his chest, it felt as if he were
pressing into mush.

"To give you a bath, I guess," Jake whispered, and Dewayne
laughed at the absurdity of the answer. But Jake continued.
"And for the memory of Jesse Webb. I turned my back once.
Won't do it again."

Dewayne's laughter turned to sharp tears, and he covered
his eyes with his bare arm.

"You keep crying, I'll never finish your bath."

"I killed my mama;" Dewayne said and lowered his arm
from his face.

"Cherie Jobe didn't raise a boy to kill nobody;" Jake said, a
sternness rising in his voice that neither man wanted to hear.
"Now I've been sober for a week, maybe a few days longer, hard
to tell, but it's been a good stretch since I've had a drink, so I'm grouchy if you haven't noticed. Patience is for monks, so don't
make me lose mine with stupid comments."

Jake stood and draped the wet towel over the railing at the
end of the bed. He collected the stuff he had used to give Dewayne a bath and left the room. A few moments later, he returned
with a smoothie.

"They don't know how to feed an athlete around here." Jake
set the cup and spoon on the windowsill. "When's the last time
you've been out of that bed?"

Dewayne just shrugged his shoulders.

"Then it's time to breathe those bed sores."

Jake hoisted Dewayne's naked body out of the bed and helped
him position himself against the windowsill, the dangling chain
connecting him to the bed as a constant reminder of his prisoner status. The air flowed around Dewayne's body like a cool,
soothing breath. His first taste of smoothie burned his raw
mouth and tongue, and he had to spit a portion of it back into
the cup, but he swallowed the rest. For the first time in weeks,
he felt the pleasure of something flowing down his throat.

As Jake finished making the bed, he fought to control his
anger about Dewayne's appalling condition. He squeezed ointment on each bed sore and then fanned the application with
the new hospital gown until it dried. He helped Dewayne put
on the gown and guided him back into bed.

"So now you've seen firsthand God's little morality play," Dewayne said. "Hope it was worth the drive from Springdale"

"Is that your way of saying thank you?" Jake asked.

"You can do me one last favor before you go. You can finish this now. You've cleaned me up for burial; now send me
to my Maker."

"That must be the smoothie talking."

"The door is closed. You've driven everybody out. I'm ready.
I'm chained up like my ancestors so I won't run off." Dewayne
jerked the pillow from beneath his head and tossed it to Jake,
belying his admission of weakness.

Jake felt a jolt of alarm. He knew too well what despair could
do to a man.

"Put the pillow over my head. Finish it, Jake. Finish it. Finish me."
"

I never thought I'd be asked to play God," Jake said, kneading the pillow.

"Why not? Why not play God, Jake? You're as good as anyone. The God I believe in has gone AWOL. `Surely goodness
and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will
dwell in the house of the Lord for ever' Who would write such
a thing? Why would God want that lie written about him?"

"I wouldn't presume. I don't know that much about-"

"You know what I know? I'm universally hated for something I didn't do, but the funny thing is, I despise myself more
than anyone ever could. I despise myself for ever being born.
I despise myself for believing God really cared about me, for
believing he watched over me. I feel like a fool, and I'm going
to my grave without hope"

"None of this is over till it's over;" Jake said.

"Well, there's the quote for the day." Dewayne yanked hard
on his prison bracelet. "Look at me, Jake. You may be the last
person outside these walls who ever sees me again, who ever
hears my voice. Take a good look. Listen real well. I'm never
going home again. I'm never going to see my wife or my child
or my mama again. I'm never going to play football. I'm going
to one place, my grave, and taking my bitterness with me. Do you know how scary that is? Do you know how frightened I
am?"

"I can only imagine ... I can-"

"No. You can't imagine. You haven't the capacity to come
anywhere near imagining the horror I feel. I think about what
happened to those kids. I dream about them so much, I sometimes think I actually did what they accuse me of, and that's the
worst horror of all. I actually can imagine doing the crime. So I
feel like I deserve all this ... this punishment. Why didn't I just
die at birth? Why couldn't I have been born with half a brain
or without arms or legs? I could have lived and died without
ever knowing God went around looking for targets. Who is
safe with this kind of God lurking about in the universe? Who
is safe? My child wasn't safe ... my niece and nephew. Who is
safe? Not even my innocent mama was safe. Her only crime
was bringing me into the world. Do you know how much I
hate God for letting her die with the last thought in her heart
that her son had killed those children? She went to her grave
believing her son was a murderer. I've never done anything ...
anything to hurt my mother"

Jake began to think this suffering was too much for one
person to bear. It would be merciful to see this pain end. This
was beyond human capacity to accept as life's offering with no
way to fight back.

"Have pity on me, Jake ... have pity. The hand of God has
touched me, and this is what is left of me. I'd just like to know
what God has against me ... and if all that's happened brings
him some kind of perverse pleasure. I can say I'm innocent all
day long, but who would believe me?"

"Maybe me," Jake whispered. "Maybe me"

As Jake began to shuffle toward Dewayne with the pillow pressed against his chest, an uncanny eagerness mounted
within Dewayne, an eagerness to see the end.

Maybe Jake is going to grant my wish after all, he thought.
Maybe he will take pity on me. There would be such relief by
so kind an act. For all the bluster from the outside world demanding justice and revenge, there would be more relief than
disappointment were he to quietly breathe his last.

Jake raised the pillow toward Dewayne's head. It was coming.
Jake was going to do it, and Dewayne closed his eyes, prepared
for the soft synthetic folds to conform around his face. He was
calm. Fear had departed. He felt Jake's hand slip in behind his
back. The agony was about to end. He resisted the instinct to
preserve his life and blew out all remaining breath. This would
make the passing quicker.

But the course was reversed at the last minute. Jake's firm
hand eased Dewayne forward and wedged the pillow behind
his head. Jake placed his hands on each side of Dewayne's face
and kissed the top of his head.

"Find someone else to be God," he said and walked toward
the door.

"Jake ..

Jake paused at the door and turned around to face Dewayne.
"You had strength enough to toss me the pillow and strength
enough to rail against God. Those are signs that let me know
you have strength enough to live"

Jake slipped out of the room, allowing the door to close on
its own.

Hathaway sat in his rental car in the parking lot of the Costa
Rican National Bank in Dominical and checked his appearance
in the mirror. Appearance was important when dealing with
bank executives, especially when he was including them in a
criminal investigation. Not only was appearance important but
also timing. Surprise the executives early before the day gets
started, and they cannot blow you off with the excuse of tight
schedules. So Hathaway gave one last glance in the mirrortweaked the tie, brushed the dandruff off the suit coat, cocked
his hat just so-before he walked toward the bank entrance
just as the doors were being unlocked for the first customers.

The bank executive who handled all international transactions was not a gracious or accommodating man and did
not appreciate unannounced visits to ask troublesome questions regarding clients he knew very little about. All he cared
about was holding and managing their wealth. When the executive's assistant informed him a Detective Hathaway all the
way from Houston, Texas, would like to see him regarding a
recent transfer to his bank of a significant sum, he bluntly told
her the detective would have to wait. When Hathaway asked
how long the wait might be, she smiled and offered him a seat,
a selection of beverages, and his choice of reading materials, including English language magazines and newspapers. So
much for Hathaway's theory of appearance and timing giving
him an advantage, but he turned this minor obstacle into an
opportunity-all a part of the constant need to adjust to any
condition of the job. His line of work was not for the faint of
heart, the impatient, or the easily frustrated.

For Detective Hathaway it was time to use the charm offensive
on Ms. Rachel Almendarez. It began with the verbal appreciation for playing the hostess when he accepted the coffee she
handed him-she must be way too busy for such niceties-and
then moved to the plea for knowledge of the interesting places
one should visit while in Dominical, which then flowed into
questioning her about where she and her husband went when
in the mood for entertainment. There was no Mr. Almendarez
or significant other, and with this discovery, the charm offensive
intensified. He did not go beyond the good taste of complimenting her youthful appearance, which he purposefully estimated
to be well below her actual age, but it got the desired response
of a blushing smile and a sly admission he had been well off the
mark. If he couldn't read clues better than that, he must not be
a very good detective, she told him, and Hathaway went right
to the edge of going overboard when he laughed at her goodnatured but personal jab.

The door of the bank executive's office opened just as Hathaway and Almendarez were finishing their enjoyment of her
joke. After a brisk handshake, Hathaway saw the executive
would not indulge in chitchat nor was he about to invite him
to bring his coffee into his office. He had hoped to be able to
show the executive pictures from the crime scene and one of
Tyler, always a good motivator for compliance. But this was
not to happen, so he had to make his request in front of Ms.
Almendarez. His conversation with her had been frivolous and flattering. His words now turned to murder and thievery,
and he hoped this might work to his advantage since he was
forced to raise this subject in her presence.

Hathaway handed a piece of paper to the executive with
the exact numbers, date, and sum he had received from his
friend at Treasury and asked if the executive could verify the
accuracy. He could do this without compromising international law; however, he knew the executive did not have to
acquiesce. When the executive asked why, Hathaway explained
the importance of such a transaction to his murder case. The
executive remained disinterested in Hathaway's explanation,
but he handed the paper to Ms. Almendarez and instructed
her to fulfill the detective's wish. While Ms. Almendarez typed
in the correct information, the executive spent the time looking alternately at his watch and objects on his assistant's desk,
feigning interest in personal trinkets he had long since forgotten even existed.

Once the computer screen verified the accuracy of Hathaway's information, the executive considered he had finished
his obligation and denied the detective's plea to reveal who had
received the funds and where he might find him. Hathaway
took one last stab, showed both a picture of Tyler, and asked if
they might have seen him in the bank at any time. The executive was quick to respond with a curt no, but Hathaway was
not looking at him. His eyes fixed on Ms. Almendarez.