Kelley Armstrong - Exit Strategy

I looked into her eyes, trying to tell whether she meant that or was just spouting more rhetoric, but she turned back to her computer.

“Speaking of murderous families, time to move on to sons of Charles Manson…”

While we’d been at dinner, Evelyn had discovered there were more than a few. She showed me the list, and said she’d already contacted a source she described as a Manson freak. Then we had to declare the evening at an end and, like Jack, rest up for the day to come.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Or, I should say, where I assumed the ceiling would be if I could see it. Evelyn had top-quality blackout blinds, and I’d closed them completely, hoping the darkness might convince my brain it was time for sleep, but so far, all it had done was give my brain time to wander. Naturally it went to the place I’d been trying to keep it from since our discussion.

Justice.

I grew up with a very clear understanding of what that word meant. The concept had been formed at that early age where everything is clearly black and white. Right must triumph. Wrong must be punished.

From the time I was old enough to open a bag of potato chips, I’d played hostess to my father’s monthly poker games. As for whether it was appropriate for me to hear the conversations that went on over those games, I don’t think anyone considered that. They saved the darker talk, the angrier debates, for later, after I’d refilled my last bowl of peanuts and curled up on the recliner. There I’d pretend to be asleep, knowing this was what was expected of me. Eyes closed, I’d listen as the best stories came out, the tales of battles between good and evil, and the knights who fought them.

The beer, rye and Scotch would flow, the hour growing ever later, the importance of the game dwindling as the stories took over. Most times, that’s all it was: stories. But when the anecdotes didn’t have happy endings, the course of the conversation would change. They’d talk about miscarriages of justice, usually in another town, a bigger city.

Sometimes it would just be a head-shaking “can you believe it?” and a spirited discourse on how the case could have been handled better. Now and then, though, head-shaking wasn’t enough. If the miscarriage lay in some particularly heinous crime-a serial rapist, a thrill killer, kiddie porn-the talk took another turn, into the realm of biblical eye for-an-eye justice.

My father usually kept quiet during such debates. Then, one time, the conversation turned more heated than I’d ever heard it, over the case of a ten-year-old girl who’d been tortured and murdered. That time Mr. Weekes-a former law professor turned librarian-was the only defender of mercy. When my father had tried to squelch the argument, my uncle had turned to him.

“For God’s sake, Bill. Are you telling me if some sick bastard did this to Nadia, you wouldn’t want to shoot him yourself?”

Without hesitation my father said, in his usual quiet voice, “Of course I would.”

After Amy died, I wanted to sit in on her killer’s trial. My aunt-Amy’s mother-had tried to talk my dad out of letting me, but he’d only said, in that same soft way, “I want her to see justice done.”

I wasn’t allowed to stay for the whole trial-my father took me out during any parts he deemed unsuitable. But even from what I saw, I knew things weren’t going well. Everyone thought it would be so simple. The police had been on the scene moments after Amy’s death, giving her killer time to run but not to cover his traces or hide evidence. And they had me, an eyewitness.

Yet it hadn’t been that easy. Those police on the scene had included the father and uncle of the victim, not acting as investigators and sealing off the scene, but rushing in hoping to save her, hoping to catch her killer. Mistakes had been made. Accusations of tampering were lobbed.

And I wasn’t allowed to testify. As for why, I remember only whispered meetings behind closed doors-the crown attorney with my father, my father with my mother, my parents with Amy’s. Then came the shrinks. Two of them. First one, gently taking me through that day. More whispered conferences with my father and the lawyer followed. Then came the second psychologist. More questions. More prodding. After that, the whispering stopped and the decision was made. I would not testify.

I can only presume they were afraid to put me on the stand. I’d been thirteen, kidnapped, seen my cousin raped, then escaped…only to fail to bring help in time. At best, I was a traumatized witness. At worst, I was a liar, coached by my father and uncle to accuse an innocent man.

Drew Aldrich was acquitted.

At first, I blamed myself. I’d failed Amy once, by running away, then failed her again, by not convincing the prosecutor and the psychologists that I was strong enough to testify. But they had my statements. That should have been enough.

It might have been different if I’d been able to add charges to the case. But Amy had been the victim, not me.

It didn’t matter. Whatever I had done, or failed to do, justice would still be served. That was why I was here. To see justice. My father had promised.

Outside the courtroom, I watched Aldrich bounce down those steps, and I waited for the shot that would wipe the smug smile off his face.

It didn’t come.

Not then. Not ever.

Aldrich left town that day. A free man.

They let him leave.

Amy was dead, and her killer lived, and no one-not even those men I loved and trusted, who’d spoken so passionately about justice-ever did a damned thing about it.

I rolled from bed and padded downstairs, moving quietly so I wouldn’t wake Jack or Evelyn. I knew what I wanted, and I was sure Evelyn wouldn’t mind me helping myself.

In the kitchen, I opened the pantry and scanned the contents. Nothing. Now what? I didn’t feel right pawing through all her kitchen cupboards. There was tea and decaf coffee, but what I craved was cocoa.

That’s what my dad always made me when I slipped downstairs at night. Though I’d claimed insomnia, the truth was, I often came down just for the hot chocolate…and the time with my father.

Dad never went to bed before one. After the eleven o’clock news, my mother retired, and Dad would head into the kitchen, retrieve his briefcase from the back hall and spread his case files across the table. Then he’d work.

As a child, I always harbored the suspicion that he wasn’t really working, but was just taking advantage of some quiet time after my mother went to bed. I know now that his cases had kept him awake. He’d spend the next hour or two running through leads, twisting and turning them in his brain, struggling to fit the pieces together.

When I’d interrupt, he’d just smile, get up, fix the hot chocolate and we’d count how many mini-marshmallows I could cram in. Seventeen was my personal best.

If the case he was working on was child-friendly, he’d tell me about it and not only ask my advice, but act as if he took it seriously, jot down notes, promise to follow up and let me know what happened. He always did; solved or shelved, he’d tell me how it worked out.

I stood in the draft of the open fridge, staring at the milk container.

“Letting out all the cold air.”

I jumped, the door slipping from my hand. Jack stood behind it.

“Have you ever had warm milk?” I asked.

“What?”

“I was looking for hot chocolate mix, but Evelyn doesn’t seem to have any, so I thought maybe I’d try warm milk. They say it helps you sleep. Doesn’t sound too appetizing, though.”

“It’s not.” He skirted around me, opened a cupboard and took out two containers, one labeled cocoa, the other sugar. “Hot chocolate.”