Andrew Kaufman - The Lion, the Lamb, the Hunted - A Psychological Thriller

The Lion, The Lamb, The Hunted

by

Andrew E. Kaufman

Copyright © 2011 by Andrew E. Kaufman

Published by Straightline Press

All rights reserved

Chapter One

Black Lake cemetery was a study in contrasts. A velvety lawn, vibrant and lush, shrouded by people in dark attire with vacant expressions—all aimed toward the focal point, a slick mahogany casket perched over a shadowy hole.

I allowed my eyes to settle there for a moment, along with my thoughts, but nothing good came of it, just a grim and sobering realization.

There wasn’t enough dirt on this earth to bury that much evil.

I forced my attention away from my mother’s grave, fidgeted with my tie to loosen the knot. This place was hotter than the hinges of hell, an oppressive blanket of humidity and temperatures climbing to heights so ambitious that even my eyelids were sweating. Summertime in Georgia, just as I’d always remembered. I hadn’t been back in years. I hadn’t missed much. Listening to the preacher, I felt like I was attending a funeral for a stranger—and in a way, I was. Dedicated and loving? I must have missed that day.

I moved on to the crowd, recognized less than half of them. An outsider looking in—that’s all I was—surrounded by sharp glares and astonished whispers : What’s he doing here?

Welcome home.

So nobody expected me to show. I got that. Not sure I expected me to show. Don’t know why, but I felt compelled to do it. I suppose some part of me needed to close the door on her once and for all, to see she was really gone.

Cancer of the spine. Apparently she’d complained of back pain for months but never bothered seeing a doctor. Typically stubborn, and she paid the price for it. Diagnosis to death: less than three weeks. I arrived just in time to see her go.

It had been at least fifteen years since I’d last seen my mother. I found a mere shadow of the woman I remembered: thin, frail, and conscious only long enough to hiss her parting words at me. All three of them.

“Fix your hair.”

That was it. That was her. With all the pain and suffering, her venom still managed to find its way to the surface one last time.

Then she drifted off. Never opened those joyless eyes again.

The crowd began to disperse. I turned from her coffin and began walking to my car. Then I heard a faint, familiar voice behind me. I glanced back and saw Uncle Warren doubling his steps to catch up. Too late to pretend I didn’t hear him.

“Doing okay, Patrick?” he asked, sidling up beside me, his tone a strange hybrid of disingenuous and awkward concern.

I forced a polite smile, kept walking. “Fine. You?”

“All right, I suppose.” He let out a long, labored sigh, as if the moment required it. “You know…it’s hard, all this.”

I half-smiled, half-nodded. Half believed him. And kept walking with my gaze on the pavement.

“So,” he said. The sudden, bright tone in his voice startled me. “How’re things at the magazine?”

“Great. You know…busy.”

A seemingly endless pause stretched between us, and then he said abruptly, “Your momma was a good woman.”

It sounded more like an argument than a fact. I gave no response. The comment didn’t deserve one. I also wondered when senators started using words like “momma.”

He continued, “You’re still coming by the house to take care of the paperwork? Right?”

I nodded tentatively. Apparently, he’d set up a trust account for me years ago. I didn’t need his money, didn’t want it, and I planned on telling him so. I just figured his sister’s gravesite wasn’t the place to do it.

“And I hope you’ll stay in town for a bit,” he added.

“Leaving tomorrow,” I replied, a little too quickly.

“Then maybe you can come by the house, see if there’s anything you want. You know, sentimental items.”

That stopped me in my tracks. I stared at him for a long moment, then said, “You just don’t get it, Warren, do you?”

“Get what?”

I looked away, shook my head.

He started to say something, stopped, then let out a quiet, exasperated sigh.

I reached for my car keys, fumbled with them, then felt his hand on my shoulder. I don’t know why, but something really bumps at my nerves when people do that, and Warren always did it a lot . It wasn’t the only reason I found him irritating, but it was one of them.

“Patrick,” he said, with a stern and level stare. The hand stayed on my shoulder. “I’d really like for us to have some quality time together.”

I thumbed through my keys some more without looking at him, my discomfort swelling to colossal proportions.

“You know,” he continued, his tone now bordering on preachy, “you could spare a little time for family.”

Then he paused and stared at me as if waiting for a response.

I gave none.

Instead, I got in my car, drove away.

I pulled up the winding drive that led to Warren’s mansion, a garish, white monstrosity on the edge of Lake Hathaway. Think modern-day Tara, surrounded by water and screaming “new money.” I’d spent a good part of my childhood here. My mother liked to drop me off under the pretense of having a weekend with Warren—male-bonding time, I guess—but really it was more a dumping ground than anything else, a way to get me out of her hair. Not that I minded. I came from a less-than-modest cookie-cutter bungalow, and Warren’s spread was like a trip to Disneyland. I swam, boated on the lake, and played on the twelve-plus acres. Warren was usually away on business, and it was like having the place all to myself along with a staff of ten waiting on my every need.

I walked into the living room, and swear to God, it was as if time stood still: every conversation killed, every head turned, and every eye trained on me. Awkward doesn’t come close to describing what I felt as I moved through the crowd, disapproval hovering over me like a menacing cloud. I pretended that I didn’t care, but inside I knew this was a big mistake.

What the hell was I thinking?

Actually, that was the problem; I hadn’t been.

Realizing it was too late to turn around, that I’d look even more foolish if I did, I got the hell out of there and headed toward the one place where I knew I could find refuge: the library.

I descended the steps, walked inside, and breathed in its distinctive scent, the one I loved: paper and binding glue, seasoned by time. The combination had a calming effect on me as a kid and was doing the same now. I felt my nerves untangle.

I loved it here, loved everything about it, the way it looked with the endless array of books stacked across all four walls, the feeling of running my fingers across the leather-bound spines. I’d often sit in the corner, sometimes for hours, lost in imaginary exploration. For me, reading was adventure, but most of all, reading was escape—escape from a life I never understood. Opening a book felt like taking a trip someplace else. Someplace better. Tom Sawyer, Huck Finn, the Hardy Boys—these were my friends. It didn’t matter that they weren’t real; they were there, always, whenever I needed them. And the best part: she couldn’t go with me.

I walked across the mirror-slick wood floors, then reached up to a shelf for Oliver Twist. Running my fingers over the words, I smiled and remembered.

“Patrick?”

I swung around to find Tracy Gallagher grinning at me. The sight of her made my heart speed up, but I wasn’t sure if it was the hormones or the nerves—probably both. She was older now, but man, she still looked great.