Deadly vendetta, p.6
Deadly Vendetta, page 6
Before I could say anything, he jumped up so quickly his chair flew across the room, landing on its side and snapping in two as he rushed toward the door. I heard him running down the hall yelling at the top of his lungs for the deputies to stop because we had questions. And lots of them. And then there was silence. I cringed as I swung one leg over the side of my bed. Damn, I was wrecked—and not just physically. The emotional roller-coaster I was on had me upside down. Knowing I couldn’t lie there and wait for answers, I continued to maneuver my broken, bruised body slowly to an upright position. Was Osborne playing games with me, or had my Dad perished last night while I lay here wallowing in self-pity? This sure would explain where he’d been.
It was totally out of character for him not to be by my side. Drinking or not, he would be here. As I peered around my door, Luke was making his way back to my room. His head was hanging as his shoulders trembled. He reached up and wiped tears from his eyes before he saw me staring at him. I didn’t care that I was a grown man—I wanted to run into his arms and plead with him that this wasn’t true. But, instead, I started firing questions at him. One after the other, not even waiting for answers. I was afraid to stop because I feared reality would slap me in the face when I did. Knowing I couldn’t deal with the loss of my Dad made me continue as I made my way back to my room, reeling in pain. “Did you talk to the deputies?” I pleaded. “Did they find his body?” “Do you think there was foul play on their part?” “Is the house still standing?” “Do you think they’re making this up?”
Luke had his suspicions, and this gave me hope, even though my gut was telling me something different. Catching up to the deputies, he was unable to get more information. Either they didn’t know or they were making the whole thing up. I wanted to believe it was the latter, but I knew in my heart that would be wishful thinking. Bastards. I was convinced that they knew the whole story, but to find that out would require Luke to go in search of answers, again leaving me in more of a vulnerable state than I was at the present time. Without him here, by my side, I’d be alone and a sitting duck. We both decided this was their plan and went searching for answers elsewhere.
Even though I now lived in Portland and had been away from Mount Sierra for some time, I had maintained friendships back here. As luck would have it, one of those friendships happened to be with the editor of the local newspaper, the Pacific Sun-Times. As the phone rang, I started to feel anxiety creep in. I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear the truth—at least, if the truth was what I feared to be true. Luke had gotten up and began pacing back and forth in my tiny room. I was about to flip my lid when my call was answered after three rings.
“Pacific Sun-Times, a newspaper, not a snooze paper. How may I direct your call?” Her voice was much too chipper for the way I was feeling, and I wanted to yell at her to stop being fake, but I knew I was being unrealistic, and it wasn’t her fault I was tense and anxious.
“Tom Watson, please,” I managed to say on the verge of tossing my cookies. I leaned over the trash can, just in case, while I waited an eternity for Tom to answer. “Tom Watson here. How can I be of assistance?” I froze, and no words came out when I opened my mouth to speak. “Hello, hello. Is anyone there?” I heard Tom ask.
Knowing it was now or never, I answered, trying to sound cool and collected while feeling the exact opposite. “Hey, Tom, old pal—this is Jonathan. Jonathan Elliott from Mountain View High. Long time no talk,” I managed to reply.
“Wow, Jonathan—it’s so great to hear your voice, although you sound a bit muffled.”
Should I go into all the gory details of my latest shitshow of a life? I thought better of it, for no other reason than I didn’t have that kind of time. Best to be left for another time. I did plan on keeping Tom in my back pocket, though, because, after all, he was a news guy. Those kinda guys had a lock on the happenings that were worth knowing about.
“Hey, I heard about your attack out at the Travers’ farm. Are you okay?” he inquired.
He sounded genuinely concerned, so I dove into a tad of my backstory just to get him up to snuff. Saying it all out loud made it sound scary as hell—and to think I was living it!! After my Reader’s Digest version of my past week or so, I divulged that the real reason for my call wasn’t just to reminisce about the good old days, although it was nice to catch up.
It was nice to get a bit of normalcy in my life, as I told him about my life in Portland. It hardly seemed possible that, two short weeks ago, I was living the good life, without a care in the world. Or so I thought. How naive had I been? Little did I know my life was about to take a turn into the Twilight Zone. I still had the question swirling around in my head and gaining momentum about how Brie’s death was the start of all of this mess. Or was it?
“Tom, did your paper report on a fire that resulted in a death from last night?” I managed to blurt out.
I was shaking and all consumed with fear that his answer would be “Yes,” and he would proceed to tell me the gory details, not knowing it was my Dad who had been burned alive. I held my breath and braced myself for bad news. Luke looked half-crazy as he paced and mumbled to himself.
I felt as if the weight of the world was on my shoulders, and I knew Tom’s answer would determine my next move. I would either crumble or rejoice. I had to stifle a nervous laugh, thinking If he only knew how close I was to losing my shit, he might decide to hang up the phone and never look back. But, thankfully, he didn’t know, and he spoke.
“Are you talking about the firebomb that was thrown through a window on the land adjacent to the forest? From my knowledge, there was a casualty, but we haven’t released the name yet. I do know the home was destroyed, but I don’t have any other details besides that,” he casually answered.
It was obvious he still didn’t know this was potentially my Dad who had been charred alive and, surprisingly enough, didn’t question why I was asking. As he put me on hold while he checked with the reporter in charge, I was held captive to random music from a couple of decades ago. I remember this song well—“Don’t Worry, Be Happy.”
It used to hold a special place in my heart, but today, at this very instant, I felt anything but happy, and trying to tell me not to worry was the same as telling me to enjoy filet mignon in my present state. Both were utterly impossible to accomplish. It didn’t look good, but I was holding onto a sliver of hope that it was another poor soul who had met their maker. I was on pins and needles waiting for answers, as Luke looked like he might barf. We might have to fight over the trash can.
Even though Tom was gone only a few minutes, I was positive I had aged ten years and had twice as many gray hairs. “Sorry, Jonathan, but all I could find out was what I told you before. The name has not been released yet, pending notification of next of kin. If there are new developments, I will be sure to share them. In the meantime, let’s grab a cold one soon and catch up further.” I told him that sounded like a great idea as soon as I was up and able. I was not interested, to say the least, but sometimes you have to tell small white lies and deal with the consequences if or when they present themselves later.
The only thing I was positive about right now was that something was screwy. An inchworm of doubt was wiggling its way into my brain, and I needed definitive answers ASAP, or I might lose my mind. As I replayed my and Tom’s conversation with Luke, I watched a myriad of emotions wash over his face. He first showed disbelief and shock that quickly turned into anger, followed by sorrow and pity. I felt the same way, but I also felt hatred—the kind of hatred that makes you think bad things.
Frustration got the best of me, and I threw Luke’s lunch across the room. I watched as spaghetti sauce splattered against the white wall, leaving ambiguous, meaningless splotches. It looked like a Rorschach inkblot test. I sat mesmerized while the spaghetti slithered down the wall like a parade of worms on a rainy day. It would have been more dramatic to throw my own lunch, but liquid wouldn’t have made the same impact. Add that to one more thing that I was frustrated about. A person does need the satisfaction of chewing once in a while, not to mention the taste of food.
I loved to eat and was pleased to admit I had become a decent cook through the years. All the years of Luke cooking for me had piqued my interest, and I had taken some classes to hone my skills. I was missing not only eating right now but cooking, too. It was very therapeutic, and I did some of my best thinking when I was concocting new recipes.
Although wallowing in self-pity was justified, I knew it was a waste of my time. Too many bad things were coming at me fast and furious not to react, but my hands were tied, figuratively speaking. Not only did I need to get out of medical jail, but I needed to get better. My mind was still so damn foggy from the drugs that I hadn’t been able to use my brain, and that was one of my better assets—another trait I thanked my Mom and Dad for passing on.
Luke was not himself. He had always been a shining light for me and had been upbeat in the darkest of days, but he was anything but that today. He was trying to busy himself cleaning up the mess I had created but succeeded only in creating a bigger one. The wall now looked like it had been painted red. He let out a big sigh, waving a white napkin in the air, admitting defeat. “Penny for your thoughts?” I casually asked. He didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to. His demeanor and face spoke volumes. If there’s one thing we had in common, it was our intuitiveness. And it’s the one thing I would change right now, too.
We sat in silence for a minute, both lost in our own thoughts. I didn’t want to talk. Everything going through my mind right now led back to things I didn’t want to accept or express. Was my Dad actually gone? I glanced Luke’s way, and he had his head bowed, quietly mumbling to himself when I saw a tear land on his jeans. It just sat there, refusing to be absorbed by the denim. I was fighting back tears of my own when there was a loud knock on the door, announcing the entrance of my nemesis.
Walking in was Deputy Osborne and one of his cohorts. It wasn’t the small guy from last time, but someone entirely different. The new guy didn’t share the pompous-asshole attitude Osborne had. His name tag read “Deputy Titus,” and when I looked him in the eye, I saw compassion and sorrow. Thank God he was the one who spoke. Hearing what I was anticipating would make it easier to hear from anyone but Osborne. I didn’t want him to have the pleasure that I was certain he would get from making me squirm and burst my happy-family bubble. The air was suddenly suffocating—but with a chill—while we waited for the other shoe to drop.
“Jonathan? Jonathan Elliott?” he questioned. I could see in his eyes that he was wrestling with how to form his next sentence. He hesitated before he began. “What I have to tell you is troubling, to say the least. The Sheriff’s Department got a call early this morning to respond to a fire on Prescott Lane. When we arrived, the Fire Department had extinguished the fire, for the most part. We are suspecting arson, and the preliminary reports point to a firebomb that was thrown through the front window as the cause.” He paused, asked if he could have some water and braced himself. “Unfortunately, we had the displeasure of finding charred remains within the house and have recently been given positive ID through dental records.” He stopped talking, right when I was going to find out my Dad’s fate. I wanted to scream “Come on, Buddy—what the hell?” but instead I sat patiently waiting while butterflies were fighting in my gut.
The deputy opened his mouth a couple of times to speak, but only a slight trail of spittle emerged. Finally, noticing the problem Deputy Titus was having, Mr. Asshole-in-the-Flesh sneered, “Payback’s a bitch, Elliott. Karma always has a way of coming back tenfold, and you got yours! I’m sure your Dad suffered a painful death, and you only have yourself to blame for the rest of your sorry existence.” Was he threatening me? The only other time I had witnessed such a villainous black-hearted person was when I had dealt with his father. It was clear the apple had not fallen far from the tree.
Before Luke and I could even begin to form a semblance of a meaningful question, they both stormed out, leaving the curtain around my bed fluttering in their wake. Deputy Titus at least had the decency to turn before he walked through the door. He mouthed I’m Sorry and then was gone like a puff of smoke.
The pain and anguish I had felt when my Mom passed years ago was back. What had just happened? How could my life have taken such an evil, twisted turn in the matter of ten days or so? I wasn’t even sure what day it was anymore, nor did I care. All I cared about was getting to the bottom of this and getting justice for my Dad. I hadn’t even gotten to say “Goodbye,” and that was unacceptable. I was afraid this was going to stir up a plethora of emotions I had since buried, and I foresaw more nightmares coming my way.
Luke was staring at me with a look of shock mixed with heartbreak in his tear-filled eyes. For the first time since I had met him, I could tell he was at a loss for words. What do you say to someone who had just become an orphan? Not only had I lost my Dad, but he’d lost his best friend, and I knew he was going to blame himself. That was who he was. He took the weight of the world on his shoulders, and, as my Dad’s Alcoholics Anonymous sponsor, he would feel like he’d let us both down.
I broke the ice and addressed the elephant in the room. “Luke, please don’t blame yourself for this,” I pleaded. “If anyone is to blame, it’s me, but I can’t go there right now because, honestly, I don’t have the first inkling of an idea or where to start.” As anguish consumed me, all I could think about was I wished I could turn the clock back. Back to when there was no evil in the world and people loved one another, but, then again, I wasn’t even sure a time like that had ever existed.
Tears streamed down our faces for the man who was so much to so many people. But most importantly, he was my Dad. We had been through hell and back after my Mom passed, and I loved him with all my heart. The thought of him suffering was more than I could wrap my head around, and I paged the nurse into my room to temporarily put me out of my misery. Maybe that was a cowardly thing to do, but I wasn’t in the right headspace to deal with anything right now.
My eyes felt like they had tiny weights attached to their lids, pulling them down and making it near impossible to concentrate or keep them open. As I drifted into a drug-induced sleep, I started fighting demons I thought had been buried years ago. My Dad stood before me but not seeing me. His brow furrowed as he scratched his head. To say he looked concerned would be an understatement of major proportions. He was self-absorbed in a conversation he was having with two men, who had their backs to me. They were both tall and dressed head to toe in black. Hoods adorned their heads, and gloves covered their hands. One was standing totally still, while the other appeared to be doing the talking, as he became animated. I noticed a gun in his right hand. I crept closer so I could hear what was being said. They were all standing in front of my Dad’s house, so I took cover behind some overgrown shrubs. Note to self: Help my Dad get some gardening done before I return to Portland.
As I moved in closer, there was something about the man doing the talking that seemed familiar. Where did I know him from? He was pissed and warned my Dad that, if he didn’t get me to back off, there would be hell to pay. My Dad stood looking confused. He was pleading with them as he rubbed his face in frustration. I was bound and determined not to let them have the upper hand and freak my Dad out like this, so I took matters into my own hands. Or so I thought. I jumped out from behind the bushes and yelled, trying to sound intimidating but feeling anything but. “Hey, thugs—whatever beef you have with me, I’m here. Now leave my Dad alone, and back off with the threats.” Nothing. Not a bat of an eye or any type of recognition. They went about their conversation with details on what would happen if things didn’t change in their favor. I cried out to leave my Dad alone. Still nothing. I reeled back, and, with every ounce of energy I could muster up, I punched the tall, animated one square in the jaw. It went through him, and that’s when it hit me that I was invisible.
I woke up drenched in sweat, swinging my arms in the air like I was in a fight. Luke had nodded off but was jolted awake and now on top of me in a flash trying to gain control before I hurt myself. It was like I was thirteen years old again in his arms, being comforted. I was wailing incoherently about threats and men clad in black before I realized I was awake and despondent.
The reality of the present situation was beginning to set in, and I was losing my shit. I lay there being comforted by Luke, feeling completely hopeless and helpless. I still didn’t have the first clue as to who was behind these dastardly attacks, and I was in no shape, mentally or physically, to find out. I said a silent prayer that my Dad had been wasted out of his mind and unconscious, so he hadn’t felt pain or was not aware of what was happening—the only time I can ever recall that I actually wanted my Dad to be drunk. That was saying a lot, if this is what it had come to.
Luke looked like I would expect. Someone who had just lost their best friend. He had noticeable bags under his eyes, and the twitch that he got in the corner of his mouth had returned. I couldn’t blame him. I was afraid to look in the mirror at what might stare back. I was positive it would be frightening. As I lay there heartbroken and hurting, I couldn’t stop thinking about my dream. Why did one of the black-clad men look so familiar? Was he the one responsible for my father’s death and behind all the latest craziness? How was Brie’s death related—or was it?
My mind was spinning out of control with images of the past two weeks. So many things had happened, but nothing had really changed—at least pertaining to the fact that I was at square one and perplexed about which way to turn to find answers. And I needed so many of them, because my mind was in overdrive with questions. My mental state was so fragile that I was afraid if I talked about my Dad, I would cry, and I didn’t want to cry. I found crying cleansing for the most part, but I was fighting it back mainly for the reason that I knew once the floodgates were opened up, there would be no closing them.
