Stuart Kaminsky: Bright Futures

The sky was almost black. Thunder from the north. Lightning flashes. The rain was light. It would, I was sure, turn heavy. It was a typical Florida rainstorm.

We had backup, two patrol cars running without sirens or lights, two armed police officers in each.

“Let’s get it done,” said Viviase, walking up the path to the door with one of the police officers, ringing the bell and stepping to the side.

Ames and I stood off to the side on the sidewalk, watching the other cops, two left, one right, circling around the building. Viviase rang again and then used a key to open the door and step in, his back against the doorjamb.

“You need a warrant,” a voice came from the darkness inside. “You have a warrant?”

“We don’t need a warrant,” Viviase said as a single small light came on, and Rachel Horvecki stepped forward inside the room. “This is a crime scene.”

“I want him,” I heard her say.

“Fonesca,” called Viviase. “You want to step in here a minute? The lady wants to talk to you.”

Ames and I stepped forward and through the door. The shades and curtains were all down and closed. The room was a funereal black.

Thunder rolled toward us. Then lightning, and in the flash we saw Rachel standing completely nude and carrying a shotgun that looked big and powerful enough to down a large, charging rhino.

We stood in darkness.

“Your husband confessed,” Viviase said.

“To what?”

“To killing your father,” Viviase said. “He says you helped him and it was all your idea so you could get your father’s money.”

“He didn’t say that,” she said.

“You’re under arrest,” Viviase said firmly. “Tell her, Fonesca.”

Imperative. An order. Tell the naked woman in the dark with the shotgun how you figured out she and her husband murdered her father.

“I came here last night,” I said. “You were out, looking for me. You were followed by Mr. McKinney. I found your father’s collection of shotguns and rifles in the back room and some photographs on the wall of you and him. You were about thirteen and cradling a weapon almost as big as you were. Your father has his hand around your shoulder in all the photographs.”

I could hear her move a little. I glanced at a shadow moving past the window to her right as she said, “If they shoot, I shoot.”

“No one’s shooting,” said Viviase.

“I found some of your poetry in a drawer in your room,” I said.

“You had no right,” she shouted.

“Crime scene, remember?” said Viviase. “Your father died just about where I think you’re standing.”

I knew there were still bloodstains on the floor.

“You tried to kill me,” I said.

“Why would I want to kill you? You were helping Ronnie.”

“You were afraid I’d find out that your husband really did kill your father.”

“Not true,” she said.

“True,” said Ames.

A slight tink of metal as I sensed the shotgun moving toward Ames.

“Ronnie, or both of you, killed your father early that night,” I went on. “You chose that night because you knew you had a nearly perfect witness. Essau Williams, a policeman or Jack Pepper, a minister, would be parked across the street watching your father’s house, wanting to be watched as they returned to that spot across the street, like men punching into work. It was Pepper. And what did he see? Hours after your father was already dead, the Reverend Jack Pepper saw Ronnie enter the house just as a man in a coat and watch cap came through a side window and run down the street. Almost immediately, Ronnie came back out the door and looked both ways for the man in the watch cap. He looked around and he went back inside. You had already called 911 and said there’d been a murder. There was a car there almost immediately. A bloody Ronnie was kneeling by the body. The police didn’t find you, because you were the man in the watch cap. There was only one problem.”

“What?” she asked.

I was sure the shotgun was getting heavier. It was probably pointing down at the floor.

“Jack Pepper didn’t immediately come forward about the man who came through the window and about seeing Ronnie in the house for only a few seconds. He didn’t want to explain why he was sitting in his car in front of your house. There was a restraining order against him. You waited a while before coming forward with your story about seeing a man in a watch cap kill your father and go through the window. Your father was already dead. You were the one in the watch cap. When Pepper showed up, you talked loud enough for Pepper to hear a muffled voice and something thudding, probably you hitting the wall.”

“Pepper should have come forward sooner,” she said.

“He’s come forward now,” said Viviase.

“Want to give me that shotgun, miss, and go put on some clothes?” said Ames gently.

There was a sound of movement and she turned on a shaded table lamp.

She looked dazed.

“Ronnie said I killed my father?”

“He did,” Ames said. “We heard him.”

“It’s on tape,” said Viviase.

“Ronnie’s not a bad man,” she said. “He likes my poetry. He’s so gentle in bed. I know he can’t stay away from other women, from girls, but he always comes back to me.”

And your father’s millions, I thought.

“This is unfair,” she said. “My father was a monster. He did things to me I… it’s unfair. The police could never stop him-him and his lawyers. He deserved to die.”

The shotgun rose and pointed directly at Viviase’s chest.

“Could I have a glass of water?” Ames said.

She looked at him.

“And could I maybe sit down?”

“Water?”

“Juice would be fine, too, but not grapefruit. Doesn’t sit well in me.”

“I like your poetry,” I said.

“You’re just saying that because you don’t want me to shoot you.”

“That, too, but I like your poetry. None of it is happy, is it?”

“No,” she said. “Never was. Looks like it never will be. I’ve got fresh orange juice. Will that do?”

She handed the shotgun to Ames, who said, “It’ll do just fine.”

“So,” said Viviase while a policewoman walked with Rachel to her room to dress. “One down. Which one killed Berrigan and why?”

Ames had removed the shells from the shotgun and handed it to one of the police officers who had come into the house from all entryways.

“That’s a mystery,” I said.

“You didn’t answer the question,” he said.

“I don’t have an answer.”

“You have a pretty good idea,” said Viviase.

I shrugged.

I drove to my place and let Ames out.

“Certain you want to do this yourself?” he asked.

“Certain.”

“I’ll be here,” he said.

I knew the odds of reaching the person I had called were slight, and I was right. I left a message saying we had to meet at four at Selby Gardens.

“Walk along the path till you see me. I’ll be sitting on a bench,” I had said.

It was almost one when I got to the Dairy Queen on Clark Street. There was a huge photograph on the wall of the original DQ with old cars and long-gone people around it. I didn’t order the Chocolate Covered Cherry Blizzard. I wasn’t sure why. Instead I had a medium Banana Chocolate Oreo Blizzard. I also ordered a burger and a large fries. When my order came, I put the fries in a bag and worked on the blizzard and burger. It wasn’t the DQ I had lived behind for almost four years. The owner was nice, but he wasn’t Dave.

By three I was at Selby Gardens sitting on a bench facing the water. A white heron landed next to me, its wings flapping to a close, searching for something from the human on the bench. I did not disappoint. I placed three fries on the bench. He gobbled them up and was joined by two other small, brown, iridescent birds. After the fries were gone, the birds lingered, looking at me. They left only when they were certain I would give no more. The heron was the last to go. He flapped his wings and flew off over the bay.