David Handler - The Blood Red Indian Summer

No one had the real story. And that was as it should be, as far as Des was concerned. No one outside of the family needed to know that Kinitra’s own father had raped her and gotten her pregnant. It was no one else’s damned business. Kinitra’s privacy was being zealously protected by the family. And Yolie had made it very plain to anyone who’d come in contact with Kinitra at Middlesex Hospital or Shoreline Clinic that she’d land on them super-hard if they ever breathed a word about her. The Jewett sisters didn’t have to be told. They always kept their mouths shut.

The murder-suicide rampage was one more giant blot on Tyrone Grantham’s troubled reputation. Even though Tyrone wasn’t personally responsible, the NFL commissioner wasn’t happy. The events of that night brought just the sort of “unsavory” attention to the league that he’d warned Tyrone about when he suspended him. Consequently, it was no longer a sure thing that Da Beast would be back on the field next season. A lifetime ban from the league was a distinct possibility.

Not that Tyrone was thinking about his career just now. He’d returned to his hometown of Los Angeles to lay Rondell to rest in the cemetery where their grandparents were buried. Lay his soul to rest, that is. There were no earthly remains-Rondell’s casket was empty. But Tyrone wanted to give him a proper burial. Chantal and Clarence went out there with him, as did Monique. And more than a dozen of Tyrone’s teammates flew to L.A. for the funeral, which Des thought was very nice of them.

Jamella, who was entering her thirty-fourth week of pregnancy, stayed behind. Her blood pressure had gotten a bit high and her doctor didn’t want her to fly. Plus, she had Kinitra to take care of. And, after the Medical Examiner released the body, she had to arrange to have Calvin cremated. There was no funeral service. She and Kinitra simply stood together at the end of Tyrone’s dock and scattered their father’s ashes into the Connecticut River.

Jamella told Des this when Des dropped by the estate on Turkey Neck at her request. Actually, Kinitra’s request. “My sister has something to say to you,” was how Jamella put it to her on the phone.

It was a blustery, slate gray day, the temperature in the upper forties. Indian Summer was now officially over. And Des now had on her normal cold weather wool uniform and a Gore-Tex jacket. A skeleton crew of tabloid TV cameramen and paparazzi remained camped outside the estate.

It was moving day. Giant vans lined the long driveway. Justy Bond had won out. He was getting his precious neighborhood back, although the proud owner of Connecticut’s highest volume G.M. dealership could hardly be called a happy fellow. June had sailed off for the Florida Keys on the Calliope just as he’d promised he would-and taken Bonita with him, much to the giddy delight of the village gossip hens. Justy was devastated. He also needed to find himself a new Bond Girl. Callie Kreutzer had informed him that she did not intend to utter the words “Just Ask Justy” aloud on TV, or anywhere else, ever again for as long as she lived.

A dozen or more movers were busy loading the vans with furniture and boxes. The front door to the house was braced open. Des found Jamella standing in the living room gloomily watching a crew from the aquarium company perform the delicate task of transferring Tyrone’s precious sharks to temporary holding tanks and disassembling the giant tank, coral reefs and all.

“Taking them with you?”

“Moving them next door,” she answered softly. “Tyrone wants Mr. Lash to have them. A bunch of electricians are over there right now rewiring the whole downstairs. Tyrone told them to just put it on his tab.”

“That was nice of him.”

There were dark circles under Jamella’s eyes, which had a haunted look in them. “Things got so crazy that night that I forgot to thank you.”

“For what?”

“Trying to help my sister.”

“I was just doing my job.”

“And I wasn’t. I was supposed to be looking out for her. I let her down. Popsy was doing those horrible things to her all that time and I didn’t know. I should have known.” She looked at Des accusingly. “Did you know?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Is that for real?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Jamella. That’s not how I roll. How are you feeling?”

“I don’t feel anything. I’m just about keeping busy. Tyrone’s lawyer rented us a big apartment near Lincoln Center. We’re going to try the City for a while. I want to hook Kinitra up with Julliard. If not enrolled there, then at least taking private piano lessons from somebody who’s on the faculty. She has to get back into her music. And she has an appointment tomorrow morning with a therapist who has an office on Central Park West. I’m meeting with my new obstetrician tomorrow, too. I’ll be having my baby in the City.”

“Is Kinitra planning to have her baby?”

“We’ll talk about her options when she’s ready to have the conversation. She… isn’t ready yet. She’s just so filled with guilt. Blames herself for every single thing that happened.” Jamella glanced at Des hesitantly. “I’m kind of beating myself up, too.”

“Why’s that?”

“Tyrone swore to me that night-swore to all of us-that he didn’t do it. I-I didn’t believe him. And he knows that. He saw it in my eyes. I don’t know if we’ll survive this. I can’t hardly blame him if he doesn’t want me anymore. I don’t deserve his love. And I sure don’t like myself very much right now.”

“I’m not real proud of myself either. I was standing right there when Rondell drew his Glock on your father and I didn’t react in time to stop him. None of us did. We’re all pretty down on ourselves.”

Especially Yolie. It was her case. And the Internal Affairs fallout for Calvin’s murder, if there was to be any, would land on her. But the sad truth was that not one of them, not even the Deacon himself, had considered the possibility that little Rondell might be armed and dangerous. Yolie had attempted to determine if there were any weapons in the home. Clarence had coughed one up. True, she hadn’t asked Rondell if he owned one. But if she had, he would have lied and said no. True, in an ideal, perfect world, he should have been patted down. But it wasn’t an ideal, perfect world. Real world? Not one law enforcement person in the entire state would have patted Rondell down for a weapon that night. You could replay it a million times and it would always turn out the same way.

It shouldn’t have happened, but it did.

Des had been drawing like crazy ever since it happened, working off of the grisly crime scene photos. Stewart Plotka and Andrea Halperin dead in the front seat of her Mercedes. Calvin Jameson lying on Tyrone’s living room floor with his head blown open. If there’d been any photographic evidence of Rondell’s remains, she’d have been all over that, too. It was the only way she knew how to cope with her overwhelming sense of powerlessness with a chain of events that had outpaced her ability to grasp them and act upon them. In that ideal, perfect world, Rondell wouldn’t be in smithereens at the bottom of the Connecticut River right now. He’d be holding Kinitra’s hand and telling her in a soft, reassuring voice what a terrific person she was. Instead, he was gone.

It shouldn’t have happened, but it did.

And so Des drew, deconstructing the horror one stroke at a time, knowing that this one would stay inside of her for keeps.

“My sister’s anxious to talk to you,” Jamella said. “Are you ready?”

“I’m ready.”

Kinitra was stretched out in a lounge chair on the patio by the pool. She wore a chunky wool turtleneck, fleece pants and UGG boots. She was staring out at the river. Upriver, actually, at the blackened but structurally sound railroad bridge. Amtrak service between New York and Boston had been restored that morning.