Authors: Carolyn Arnold
Shane Fields was an older version of Kent. His eyes were a brilliant blue and stood out in contrast to his light complexion. His eyebrows were nearly white with a tinge of blond, while the hair on his head was mostly gray.
He lived in an esteemed neighborhood and the house made me think of Jenna Simpson
’s.
Shane hesitated to let us in, but eventually did and led us into his living room.
“Why are you interested in Kent?” he asked, as he lowered into a stiff-looking reading chair.
He directed us to a matching sofa.
“Before we get into that, we have some questions about his childhood,” Jack said.
Shane angled his head.
“I don’t understand why that would interest the FBI.”
It was apparent we
’d have to provide this man more information to get him to open up.
“You’ve heard about the murdered men in the news, I’m sure.”
Shane didn
’t say anything, or nod. If it wasn’t for his rapt attention on Jack, I wouldn’t even be sure he heard what Jack had said.
“Your son is a suspect.”
Shane
’s face paled to a point I wouldn’t have imagined possible. He sat up straighter, pulling himself upright using the arms of the chair. “You’re telling me that my son killed those men?”
“I said he’s a suspect.”
“And why would that be the case?”
“We believe it all began with a childhood event—”
“Stop right there. I’m not going to allow you to come into my home and tell me that I raised a killer. And that I’m who made him that?” A tint of color was back in the man’s cheeks.
“We aren’t saying that. Your son reported on cases of animal abuse when his career started out.”
“That makes him the killer?” Shane glanced at me. “This is insane.”
“Do you know where you son is?”
“Excuse me?”
I was thinking the same thing. Jack had diverted the conversation with a sharp turn.
“He seems to be on the run.”
“Or missing?” Shane glowered. “Maybe the real killer has him.”
The angles of Jack
’s features sharpened.
“I have no idea. We’re not really close.” The last sentence was spoken in a lower volume.
“Yet you’re certain he isn’t a killer.”
Sometimes I wondered if Jack said things to elicit a reaction.
“He bought me this house after his first Pulitzer. Said it was for raising him. It’s ironic how many parents give their kids money and gifts to offset being absent from their lives, and here, my son did that to me. Just thought of it that way.”
“We understand that you had a dog when Kent was young.”
“Yes, a Lhasa apso. Furry thing. This one shed like crazy and had a wild grin. Its bottom teeth protruded over the top.”
“What happened to it?”
“It died,” he looked between us and added, “of natural causes.”
“It was convenient timing with moving in with Bowen’s mother,” I said. “She had allergies and didn’t want the dog.”
“You think I killed the dog? That Kent knew about it? And then what? He became traumatized and is taking it out on other people? Is that why I’ve noticed a squad car outside my house more than once?”
Apparently we had been too late in giving the updated direction to PD to hang back.
Shane’s arrogance gave way to a nervous expression. “You think he might come after me?”
“We think it might be a possibility,” Jack said. “But if you had nothing to do with the dog’s death then—”
“I never killed that damned dog. It was already dying from heart failure. Kids don’t realize this but dogs don’t live forever. Checkers was eleven and had a heart murmur from the time she was a pup. I told Kent she went to heaven. In reality, heaven cost me a fortune.”
I stated the obvious. “You never killed the dog, but that’s not how a young boy might see things. To him you could have been responsible for its death.”
“Ridiculous. There was nothing that I could be done for it.”
“Where did you have it put down?” Jack asked.
Shane pushed into his chair
. “Paws and Claws Veterinary Clinic. Check it out if you have to.”
Shane
’s jaw slid askew. “Now, is that all?”
“One more question for you. Do you know of any places your son might go to get away from things?”
Shane shook his head.
“Like I said, we haven’t been real close. I know he liked Railyard Dog Park when he was young.”
“We’ve been there and there’s no sign of him.”
“Well, I don’t know what else to say.”
Jack
’s cell phone rang.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Fields.” I stood up and so did Shane.
Jack stayed seated and answered his phone.
Shane passed Jack an odd glance, impatience blanketing over his features. He wanted his solitude back.
“And you’re certain?” Jack asked his caller. His eyes latched with mine. He nodded, obviously in response to the answer he was receiving.
It was as if a stone weight had been cast into my stomach—the caller didn
’t bear good news.
Jack put the phone down and addressed Shane.
“Please have a seat.” Jack glimpsed at me, but I had a feeling what he had to say.
Shane complied and did as Jack directed.
“We’ve found your son.”
That
’s all it took—four words.
Shane’s face contorted. His chin quivered and he covered his mouth.
“There was an accident and—”
Shane let out a moan of grief and his hand shook.
“He died at the scene. We are sorry for your loss.”
The sadness that had stamped all of Shane
’s features was replaced by a veil of anger. “You thought my son was a killer and now he’s dead.” He shot to his feet, his face a bright red, and his pointed finger thrust toward the door. “Get out of my house!”
With each stride, I exhaled all the negative energy that threatened to swallow me whole. This afternoon had been one of the toughest notifications I had ever been a part of, and I wasn’t even the one who delivered the message. I suspected it wouldn’t matter if it was my one hundredth time—it would still bring with it the same substantive blow.
Kent Fields had been confirmed dead on scene about three hours away from Denver. He was on the way to his lover
’s bedside. Henry had been rushed in for emergency heart surgery and Kent had wanted to be there for him. By the time he’d arrived, his friend had gone into cardiac arrest and died.
Responders on scene found a bottle of whiskey in Fields’s lap. Two thirds of it was gone.
The only comfort from the sad story was that Fields didn
’t take anyone else out along with him.
I increased the treadmill’s speed and elevation. With each increment it beeped as if warning me, but I welcomed the exertion. Sweat ran down my back and my muscles strained.
The classic rock coming through my ear-buds fed my soul, its beat propelling each step. Its message, which alluded to freedom and the ability to be promiscuous without consequence, had Paige entering my mind. She merged with memories of my wife.
I upped the incline.
Purge the negative.
Even with the thought, I had to find a balance, a compromise between releasing the memories and appreciating them for what they were. Right now, the wound was still too fresh. People talk about divorce as if it
’s not a big deal, it’s a natural stage one advances to after marrying. It was almost up there with the getting married and having a baby—an expected conclusion. In that sense I didn’t disappoint.
By the time we headed home, I
’d be a free man.
Free
…there was a concept. Something people longed for all the time but once they tasted supposed freedom, usually they would exchange it for some restriction. Restriction confirmed someone cared about you. Maybe I was crazy for expecting more out of my life.
Tingles pulsed through my arms and face. My heart rate was getting too high. I returned the settings to where they had been.
Paige stepped in front of the treadmill, her mouth forming the word,
Hello?
The arch of a question was implied by the aggravation written on her face and the way her brow pushed up in irritation.
I took out my ear-buds and smiled.
“Couldn’t hear you.”
“I figured that.” She let her eyes scan over me. “What’s up?”
“What do you mean? I’m working out.”
She smiled, the kind that told me she realized there was more to this than trying to work off extra calories.
I stepped to the side plates, straddling the tread, and hit
stop. “Rough day.”
“Yeah, it was.”
I realized then that she wasn
’t in workout wear. “What’s up with you?”
She ran her hands down the front of her thighs. She had paired blue jeans with a cream colored knitted sweater that had her belonging beside a fireplace sipping on a red wine.
“What do you mean? The outfit? You don’t like it?”
The spark in her eyes had me getting off the treadmill and walking around to meet her.
“We can’t get caught.”
“I know.”
I looked past her, around her, and behind myself. No one was in sight.
I cupped her chin and angled her face upward and took her mouth. For the brief time we were connected, all the negativity melted away. I could have remained in that moment forever.
Her eyes were still closed when I pulled away. They opened slowly, regret filling them.
“I’ll have to change first, but do you want to go have a drink?” I asked.
She licked her lips and it had me wanting to do the same. She was savoring my taste and I didn
’t want to let hers go either.
*****
The hotel’s bar was quiet and I figured it had more to do with the vicinity of the hotel than the hour. It was only nearing midnight.
We sat in a quiet, dimly lit corner, having passed other couples who were too caught up in their drinks, and each other, to pay us any attention. I wondered how many of them were with their mates and not their mistress. My guess was none of the ones here. The hunger emanating from each of them was tangible. They were here for a forbidden rendezvous.
The waitress took our drink orders and I looked across the table at Paige. She was beautiful in any light, both physically and as a human being. I knew her better than I did myself. At least I thought I did.
A melancholy thought of Deb passed through. Paige deserved someone better than me.
“You’re thinking of her.” Paige had a way of reading my mind.
Our waitress returned and she set a white wine in front of Paige and a glass of Scotch in front of me.
“Don’t think of denying it.” Paige gave me a soft, knowing smile. “You were thinking of Deb.”
“I was, but it’s nothing.” I took a sip of the Scotch and let it coat my mouth before swallowing.
“Your divorce is final this month, isn’t it?” S
he asked the question, but her eyes revealed she knew the answer.
She took a draw on her wine; her eyes broke from mine, and she glanced over at another couple who sat so close to each other it was probably best they call it a night, head upstairs, and finish the deal.
“Hard to believe that Fields is dead.” I desperately needed a change of subject.
She closed her eyes briefly.
I continued. “You know when Jack and I spoke to Fields, he told us he didn’t drink. That was obviously a lie.”
“Not necessarily. He was grieving and heartbroken.” She leaned on the table, her arms folded, one hand pinched around the stem of her wine glass. “People act differently under those circumstances.”
I don
’t know why I was avoiding the one topic of conversation she wanted to have. Maybe it was because I knew giving in to the situation, one I wasn’t able to pursue, hurt too much. It was like losing Deb all over again. It was best that I not let myself get involved. Or was it too late?
Soft curls of red hair framed Paige’s face. Her green eyes seemed dull and I witnessed pain in them, but what was I supposed to do about it? Risk my career? Risk hers? I couldn’t be responsible for that.
My mind went to the case—safe ground. Fields’s prints didn’t match the partial on the silver tape pulled from Ellis and there was no missing chrome from his truck’s hitch. Our killer was still in the wind.
“Seems we won’t be headed home anytime soon.” The words came out and I assessed their value—mindless chatter. We were better than that, weren’t we?
She took another draw on her wine without responding.
I hated seeing her this way. “You’re sad because it’s almost Christmas and you’re here?”
“What makes you say that?”
“The way you’re being.”
“And how is that?”
“You seem upset. I know you love Christmas.”
“There are other things I love besides Christmas.” She took a sip of wine.
“Listen,” I took a deep breath, “I know how you feel about me.”
“Ha. You know how I feel? About you?” She sank back into the booth. “I don’t even know why I bother trying to hold on, Brandon. What’s the point? Tell me, would you?”
I took a gulp of the Scotch. It burned all the way down but I was too stubborn to show any indication of it.
“You send me mixed signals. First, you push me away, then you pull me in, and the cycle repeats over and over again.” She drew circles in the air, then dropped her hand. “Do you love me?”
Her question punched me in the gut. Fuck, yes, I loved her! Were we meant to be together? I didn
’t believe in that crap right now.
I took another sip.
“I’m tired of hanging around waiting for you to see if something better is coming along, Brandon. I’m letting you go.” Tears welled in her eyes as she stood up. “I have to.” She swigged back the rest of her wine and tossed a ten dollar bill on the table and walked away.