Grave Mistakes: A Deadly Vigilante Crime Thriller (Affair with Murder Book 3) Page 6

  I rolled the dial, pointing the needle to a set of numbers that seemed familiar, landing on a station that used to broadcast the top one-hundred. The speakers popped and hissed static. I turned the volume knob down and rolled again as if I were gambling, spinning randomly until I found something. An old tune came on that I remembered. It was a top ten before I’d gone to prison—a huge hit during the summer when my mother died. It wouldn’t have been my first choice, but it cut the silence and filled the office with the noise I needed.

  The last time I’d heard this song, my mother’s serial killing past has been discovered. Her murdering past had been discovered by the police, led by my husband who was the investigating detective on a thirty-year-old case. She’d never go to prison though, deciding in the late of a stormy evening to take her own life. I sat down and thought back to what my mother had done, how she’d killed all those men, and how she’d dragged me along when I was just a child. Like me, she was a killer, it’s in our blood. But she was one of the worst kind.

  The books and movies about her came later. I was already in prison by then, but rode a small bump in popularity and cred (slammer slang for credibility). None of the inmates could buy a copy of the book or see the movie. But somehow Wilma smuggled in a copy for me. I was glad to find the pages empty of my name. Soon after the movie, I had a thousand requests come in from every form of media, but I turned them down, leaving the interview requests go unanswered.

  I was a young child when my mother was active, taking me with her in the dead of the night, picking up her victims at truck-stops in the middle of nowhere. The smell of diesel fuel and cigarettes and sex filled our old station wagon while I stayed hidden in the backseat. Dozens of men had been killed, and their murders remaining unsolved. It was the oldest open case in our city, a particularly interesting case that my husband and his partner had studied like an ancient historic artifact. And when a key piece of evidence turned up at my mother’s house, my husband’s work over the previous years caught up to the present and he’d discovered that led to my mother as being the killer. From the forensics evidence, he’d always suspected a second person was involved in the murders and decided it had to have been my father. The memory of seeing my father’s name in the papers still hurt. He’d been blamed, labeled, but he was an innocent man. I suppose I should have set the record straight about letting my father take the blame, but the justice fed a small resentment I held for him—he knew. He knew what my mother was doing. He knew she was dragging me along. And yet, he did nothing. What kind of father doesn’t protect their own?

  Now I’m out of prison, so I’m sure the movie will resurface on some cable channels. And that old book will find its way online in a hundred different forms. And sadly, the interview requests will begin again. A guard had also mentioned a new series on a streaming service though I’d never heard of watching television online. It wasn’t a coincidence the release date for the series coincided with my own. But I didn’t care. The memory of my mother was dead to me, and I wish it was dead to the rest of the world too. Unfortunately, the world would never let a story like hers die.

  “That’s enough about her,” I muttered, feeling annoyed and anxious with having let the thoughts stray into my mind. The song on the radio played on, inviting with the hisses and pops from the old speakers. I hummed what I could remember, clouding the foul memories until my mind cleared of them. I focused on the now instead of the past and took in the sight of my old office. Brian had preserved it well, adding just the right amenities to make it a home.

  “His wife,” I said, nodding my head, knowing he’d had help. The office was a nearly perfect snapshot of what life was like twenty years earlier, but for me, it was yesterday.

  “Work can wait,” I said, having considered a new design, a plan for Wilma’s ex, Derek Robbins. I got up and ran my hand over the wall in search of the smooth touch of what was once a giant whiteboard, spanning from corner to corner and from ceiling to floor. It was where we’d developed and designed our hits—nothing permanent, always erasable—our designs reminiscent of the mousetrap board-game. I think the plans for Garret Williams has been the last, erased, the wall wiped clean with nary the faintest of marker to show. The edges of the whiteboard paint had dulled and turned a dingy yellow, but I could see a fresh coat had been applied.

  The leather couch would be my bed for the night, the song and the memories and the long day pressing on my eyes. I needed sleep and turned the lights out. I was sure there were clothes for me, but didn’t bother to change. When the new phone jabbed my rib, I pulled it from my pocket, pinching the strange plastic, a curiosity stirring about the contacts Brian added.

  I tapped on my son’s name first: Michael’s name displayed and showed a map that zoomed in and gave me a picture of his house. The screen was bright, but in a way that freed me from squinting. I saw Michael’s home and could roll the image left and right and up and down, showing me everything as if I were standing there. It wasn’t the technology that impressed me, or that my little boy had grown into a man and had married. It was the millions. From the Team Two money, Michael was a millionaire many times over but chose a humble living as a school teacher. He was always much more like his father than he was me.

  Jennifer was the next name on the list, but I quickly changed that, editing the field to read the nickname we’d always used, Snacks. I felt an immediate reservation—afraid to find out who my daughter had become. Being a killer was like a disease in my family. It wasn’t something we became, but something we had always been. And unfortunately, I truly believed it was passed down from generation to generation. I was already proof of that and a terror gripped my heart—Snacks might be like us too. Before prison, there’d been small signs. Like me, there were childhood drawings, simple crayon sketches. But hers weren’t grassy hillside and bunnies with trees and stick figure people. Hers were Crayola designs, showing how she’d murder her brother. I knew what they were immediately.

  “Please God, don’t let her be normal?” I said into the darkness. “Not like my mother.”

  My hand wavered, my finger resting on her name, reluctant to swipe it toward the left and reveal who she’d become. The screen changed and showed me a picture of the White Bear Tavern. I shook my head, confused, certain it must have been a mistake. At once, my mind filled with horrible memories. Of all the places in the world why would my daughter be at the White Bear? I’d killed Todd Wilts in the tavern—the contract murder which led to the police shootout and Steve almost dying. The one act set things into motion, tripping unimaginable events that would later bring Garret Williams into our lives and ending with my going to prison. I was the mouse, and the mousetrap game had been my design.

  “This can’t be,” I exclaimed, sitting up, dread gnawing at my gut. I swiped through the phone’s apps, searching for what I thought was messaging or chat. I found it and found Brian’s contact information and keyed a question and tapped send. I waited for an explanation, but then his face filled the screen with a whoosh sound, surprising me—texting had become face to face. I hadn’t expected that.

  “Amy?” he asked, his hair disheveled, his eyes red and sleepy.

  The face of his wife peered over his shoulder before slinking away with a grumble, “You’re always working.”

  “Why the White Bear?” I asked, my voice in a whisper. He was awake now and I could read the uncertainty of his expression. His face pinched as he struggled to answer. “Brian, tell me?”

  “I’m sorry Amy, but it’s where she hangs out. She keeps to herself mostly, stays offline, almost entirely off grid, and that’s the way she wants it.”

  My heart sank. We were off the grid too, so to speak. What Brian was telling me was that Snacks had decided to live in the dark. And there was only one reason for her to do that. “You mean, she’s been . . .”

  He shook his head. “No. Nothing like that,” he answered for me. “She just hangs at the White Bear. She likes to hang with them.”

 
“Them? Who is them? There should be no Them, no Wilts gang at all,” I yelled, feeling enraged at the thought of the Wilts gang still existing after twenty-years. But it was that my daughter was with the Wilts family that infuriated me more. Did she know the history? Was that even possible?

  “I’m sorry Amy, but that’s where your daughter is. What we started didn’t finish the Wilts gang, it only strengthened them, it made them bigger.”

  I was going to be sick, feeling overwhelmed and revolted. It was about the most impossible and unexpected news I could have heard tonight. Brian should have said something sooner. He should have said something a long time ago. But what would I have done? What could I have done from inside a prison cell? Bile came up into my throat and I could taste a memory—it tasted like White Bear whiskey, the moonshine that built the Wilts family, the gang, making them one of the most powerful criminal forces in the city.

  ELEVEN

  MY HEAD WAS SPINNING with images from the day before. But the missing dank smell of my prison cell forced me into the morning light. I peeled myself from the office’s leather couch, feeling as if I’d just had the worst and best night’s sleep of my life. I was free and told myself to wake up and to get busy living. I had a lot of years to make up for and I wasn’t about to waste it sleeping away the day. I needed to see my children.

  Brian’s wife had left me a decent collection of clothes, none looking like the prison outfit I’d worn the day before. Styles might have changed some, but the fashion seemed mostly the same. I ate and changed and freshened up my face before slipping past the downstairs salon. Outside, I found a brand new car parked in front of my building—a red bow on the hood, sitting limp in the breezeless heat. Beneath the bow was a note though I knew of only one person who’d leave such an extravagant gift. The car was from Brian and his note mentioned that he hoped I remembered how to drive. I felt a buzz of nerves with queasy apprehension while I rehearsed the motions in my head—the shifter to the right, steering is steering, and the brakes and gas pedal—just like riding a bicycle. I looked up and down the street for any cars. It was still early, and the road was clear.

  “You’ll remember,” I assured myself.

  Had cars changed that much? Brian’s note was also signed with an LOL and included a smiley face, but I didn’t understand the joke.

  One thing that hadn’t changed was the smell of a new car. While the smell was familiar, everything else was different. The place where there should have been a speedometer, was replaced by a blank display and the entire center console was a slate of black glass.

  “The keys?” I questioned, searching around the bow and the front seat, and finding none.

  I eased in behind the wheel. It was when I closed the car door that my phone chimed, lighting up and filling the screen with a giant, green button.

  Humored, I pressed the start-car button and waited for the engine to roar to life. Instead, I heard another computer chime, and the car lit up like a casino display. There were screens everywhere, filling the inside. And not just the obvious displays for checking the speed or for turning the heater on, but even the ceiling was one giant screen, showing me the sky and the outside my office.

  And there was a vibration. I could feel it in my feet—a soft whir as a gentle computer voice asked for a destination. The center console listed the contacts I’d seen on my phone, and I realized my phone was the car key, or rather, it was a part of the car. I wasn’t sure which came first, but didn’t care.

  “Destination please,” the computer stated. Uncertain of what to do, I tried tapping on my son’s name, selecting Michael from the list and watched as the console display changed to show a picture of his house and a map with a highlighted route. “Thank you. Auto-mode has been selected. We will reach your destination in ten minutes.”

  Ten minutes before seeing my son? Nerves barreled into my chest and squeezed the breath out of me. What would I say? I had ten minutes to figure it out. More nerves and the thought of calling it off, maybe give it another day or three. Why hadn’t I thought of what to say before? It’s not like I didn’t have the time.

  “This is a bad idea,” I said aloud and felt the first tear. Doubt grew like lava rising to the mouth of a volcano. “He will not welcome me.” I glanced back over to the hair salon beneath my office and searched for the lights to be on. If Carlos was still in business, if he was inside, I’d run in and rethink what it was I was doing.

  “I’m sorry, I do not understand the question,” the computer answered for me.

  “Rethink what, Amy?” I asked.

  “I do not understand the question,” the computer absently replied.

  “It doesn’t matter how you look,” I stated.

  “Please restate the question,” the computer said.

  I took hold of the wheel, ignoring the computer’s question and reached for the gear shift while pressing the floor where the brake pedal should have been.

  “Vehicle controls retracted while in auto-mode,” the computer said, repeating the earlier instruction.

  “Drive?” I asked, uncertain of how to make the car move. I needed to move before I lost my nerve. “Please?”

  “We will reach your destination in ten minutes,” the computer reminded me, lurching forward and rolling to the end of the street.

  Auto-mode. I understood Brian’s joke about remembering how to drive and let out a soft laughed.

  “Music,” I exclaimed, catching on to the basics of voice commands. The center panel flicked on and sound surrounding me as if I were standing in the center of a concert hall. I got curious and added, “Display?” The outside disappeared and was replaced with a concert hall like the kind I’d seen in my head. It wasn’t an exactly the same, but it matched the music playing.

  “I could get used to this,” I mumbled, but decided on some quiet to think of what to say to my son. “Music off.”

  The car became silent, save for the whir of the electric motor and the tires passing over the road. The displays returned images of the outside, turning the ceiling into a collage of passing trees and buildings and a pinkish hazy sky that told me it would be a hot summer day. We were coming up on what I’d once called my hometown and the bridge over Neshaminy Creek, the watery highway that led to the bay and then to the ocean. Nearly all the Team Two evidence had met its watery grave in Neshaminy Creek. It was almost ceremonial to stop on the bridge and throw anything incriminating into the fast moving water.

  “Slow,” I requested and felt the car seize on the speed, coming to a crawl as we reached the apex of the bridge. I scanned the road in front and behind me, finding we were alone. “Stop.”

  The car did as it was told. I wanted to get out, but headlights in the distance kept me inside. The creek wasn’t at all like the creek I’d remembered. Today it was only a mere trickle of what it had once been. The roar of passing waters had been quieted by footpaths cutting across a partially deserted creek bed. A large sign at the end of the bridge caught my eye, blinking a message that the bridge had been scheduled for demolition.

  “Times have changed,” I said, wondering what had happened. A new road . . . a diversion upstream maybe?

  “The time is—”

  “Oh shut-up,” I said, interrupting the computer. “Resume.”

  We were less than a few minutes from Michael’s house and I still didn’t know what to say to my son. What could I say? But I had to see him. Seeing him was the only thing I knew.

  TWELVE

  I’D KEPT MY EYES CLOSED for the rest of the drive to my son’s home, but still knew when the car had pulled up to the house. My hand clamped around the car’s door-handle and that is where I stayed, sitting motionless. Afraid. I was a statue, stuck in a bubble of trepidation and uncertainty.

  “Maybe this is a bad idea,” I argued, leaning back, my grip loosening. “He’s been better off without me all this time, anyway.”

  “I’m sorry, I do not understand the question,” the computer exclaimed.

 
; “Shut it!” I demanded, clutching the handle. “Amy, you’ll think of something.” I hoisted the handle, swinging the car door open.

  The smell of fresh cut grass tickled my nose as I stepped around a short, stout machine while it circled the lawn trimming the grass. The small robot sensed I was near and slowed, then stopped and waited for me to pass. A flurry of amber and gold lights blinked in response as I walked around it before turning back to green and continuing with the chore. Michael’s was a cozy-looking home—a perfect home for a small family. He could have bought a mansion, but that wouldn’t have been the Michael I knew. I wish I’d seen him more while I was in prison, but the thought of him having a memory of me inside was too much. But still, maybe there would’ve been an opportunity to have a relationship . . . any kind of relationship.

  “Now is your chance,” I said and knocked on the door, hesitating for another moment, but then committing. I heard the patter of tiny feet running over wood floors, the sound reminding me of Snacks running along our upstairs hallway. I heard the door next, a computer chime and a beep in place of what would have been the sliding metal of a deadbolt back in my day. “Here we go.”

  The door crept open, the hinges sounding a soft creak. A boy around six appeared from inside the dim light, his eyes squinting from the light. When he saw me, his face turned a quizzical look and caught me off guard. My heart thumped a huge walloping beat, and I clutched my chest in my hand. The boy was the spitting image of Michael at that age—a head of sunshine blonde hair in place of Michael’s brown curls. It was as though I’d stepped back in time, as though nothing had happened and Michael was still a little boy. Instinctively, I dropped to my knees, my breath taken, the sting of a tear making me blink.

  I cleared my throat, and said, “Well, hello.” I took his small hand in mine, miming a handshake. Michael used to do that, greet everyone with a handshake. It was a natural reaction—muscle memory.