Chapter Eighteen #2
Did she tell Gideon, be as honest with him as he’d been with her? Or did she keep that door shut and locked until what lurked behind it simply didn’t matter any longer?
Maybe the best choice was to do nothing for now, to see if what she and Gideon had begun together proved real, real enough to last.
As she closed her eyes, she found his hand, and linked her fingers with his.
Though he couldn’t explain it, Dustin felt the weight of the last few months ahead more heavily than the four years behind him. He lay in bed after lights-out every night, not relieved another day was behind him, but in despair of the days yet to come.
All the same, so much the same, when his life, his freedom, his needs and wants lay outside the walls. He imagined they waited for him, she waited for him, just as he waited for them and her.
Every night, he went over exactly what he would do when he walked beyond those walls.
He’d let his mother buy him his first real meal.
After that, she’d need to buy him some decent clothes.
He’d used the gym every day once he’d earned that privilege, so he’d kept in shape despite the crap food. He’d built more muscle.
Of course, he’d need a car, something that could handle the remote mountain roads around the cabin he imagined.
He’d need a fully loaded laptop, cell phone.
He’d need to gain access to her money as well as his because he’d want cash. Plenty of cash. He’d use it to buy the cabin once he’d found it. Somewhere people minded their own business, and a man could live off the grid.
Building it himself would take too much time, but he’d have plenty of time to make improvements. He’d need to put money, a lot of money, in an offshore account—or two—definitely needed a gun. And he’d need a fresh new ID for that.
He’d figure it all out.
Then he’d kill his mother.
He’d hunt down the lawyer, the judge, give them what they had coming. The cops? He’d take them out if he could; otherwise, he might have to let them live awhile. He could come back for them when they thought themselves safe.
Probably smarter.
Besides, he’d need to get Arden. As much as he wanted revenge, he wanted her more. If she resisted, he’d just have to remind her who was in charge.
In any case, she needed to pay a price for not telling the truth of how she’d led him on, how she’d wanted exactly what he’d given her.
He’d take care of that, then together, they’d drive west.
Those miles, those days remained a blur in his mind, but he could see them, always see them, in the cabin, in the mountains. Arden in the kitchen making dinner, him sitting by the fire enjoying the drink she’d fixed for him.
That image helped him carry the weight of those last months and survive the tedium of the days.
When his mother came to visit, he—as always—put a shiny smile on his face to cover the roiling hate. He’d gotten so good at it, sometimes he fooled himself into thinking he felt glad to see her.
Then she hugged him, and all the rage and disgust poured back.
“Dustin.” She gripped his hands, drew him down to sit with her. “I have some hard news. About your father.”
“He still hasn’t come to see me. Not even once. He doesn’t call or write either, ever. Doesn’t he know how much that hurts me? You’re the only one, Mom. The only one who cares about me. Can’t you tell him I’ve learned to be the man he tried to teach me to be?”
With some effort, he worked up a single tear and let it slide down his cheek.
“I know I’ve been a disappointment. I’m going to make it up to you, I swear. And to him if I can.”
“I’m proud of you, of the work you’ve done to get well. You needed help, and you accepted it. I’m sorry your father hasn’t…”
Trailing off, she took Dustin’s hands again. “Dustin, your father’s very ill.”
“What? Like the flu?”
“No.” Her hands gripped his harder. “It’s cancer.”
“That’s bad.” The breath backed up in his lungs. “That’s bad, but they have treatments. They can take it out, and he can do chemo, and—”
“Dustin, baby. By the time he went in for tests, by the time they found it, it was stage four. I didn’t know until recently when he contacted me.
They did all they could, but it had already spread.
It’s terminal, and he’s decided to end the treatments and stay home for … He only has two or three months left.”
He could have killed her for that alone.
“That’s not true! Why are you saying that? Dad’s strong. He’s the strongest man I know. He wouldn’t give up.”
He didn’t have to force the tears now. As they flooded his face, he yanked his hands free. “Why are you telling me horrible lies? Why are you such a bitch?”
“Dustin.”
As one of the aides moved toward them, Theresa shook her head. “No, please. I’m fine. We’re fine.”
She took a breath. “Dustin, I wish they were lies. For your sake, I wish they were. I know how much you love Paul. It’s not giving up, my darling. Please listen to me. It’s acceptance. It’s a very real need to spend what time he has left at home.”
“The doctors could be wrong. He needs better doctors. You need to get him better doctors.”
She wasn’t Paul Dubecki’s wife, and hadn’t been for a very long time. But she pushed aside the part of her that worried her son, still, refused to accept that.
“Sweetheart, I went to see him. He wanted to speak to me in person, so I went to see him last week. They’re not wrong, sweetheart.
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. He’s fought it for nearly a year, and that fight took its toll.
He is strong. Mitzi told me they’d given him six months, and he fought for nearly a year. ”
“Mitzi.” Dustin sneered out the name of his father’s second wife. “What the fuck does she know?”
“She’s gone through this with him. Whatever you think of her, Dustin, she’s gone through this hell with him.”
He’d kill her, too. He should’ve thought of it before. Kill that whore bitch and the little brat she’d pumped out to try to take his place.
“For all we know she poisoned him so she’d end up a rich-as-fuck widow.”
When she heard what she thought of as the old Dustin, Theresa pulled back.
“Stop that now. Stop it. I know you’re shocked and upset, but don’t talk that way. Your father has terminal pancreatic cancer, he’s fought as long as he could fight. He only has a little time. I hate this for you, Dustin. I’d spare you if I could. But he’s dying, and he wants to see you.”
The war raged inside him between the boy who’d worshipped his father and the one who’d hated and feared him.
“He never came. Over four years, he never came.”
“I know. And he knows, and regrets. Dustin.” She pulled tissues out of her pocket, handed them to him. “He’s not physically capable of coming to you now. His dying wish is to see you, speak with you, spend some of the time he has left with his son.
“I’m doing everything I can, and so is your father, to secure you compassionate release.”
“What do you mean?”
“You still have several months left on your sentence.”
“I know that!” His hands balled into fists. “You think I don’t know that?”
“The doctors are clear Paul won’t live that long. He wants to see his only son before he dies, and, as I said, he can’t come to you. We could arrange a visitation, but we’re both hoping to have the rest of your time commuted.
“You’ve accepted help, responded to treatment. It’s only a few months for you, but a lifetime for your father. We’re petitioning the courts, and your medical team has agreed you’re ready to leave. There may be stipulations, but we’re very hopeful we’ll get a positive ruling in a week or two.”
Calculation dried his tears, but he continued to wipe at his face.
This changed everything.
“I have to see him, Mom. I have to tell him I’m sorry. I have to say goodbye.”
“I know.” She shifted, enfolded him in her arms. “I’m going to do everything I can to make that happen.”
Of course she would. And so would he.
He wept in his therapy session, and read aloud the letter he’d written. Not with his father in mind, but his own freedom.
“I wrote this because I’m not sure I’ll have the chance to say this to my dad.
“‘Dear Dad, there’s so much I want to say. Before anything else, I want to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the pain, the grief, the embarrassment I caused you. I’m sorry I spent so long angry about what I thought I didn’t have, and didn’t appreciate enough all I did. I didn’t appreciate you enough.
“‘You showed me what it is to be a man, but I chose, for too long, to remain a selfish boy. You taught me right from wrong, tried to instill in me a sense of duty and responsibility, and I looked away, sought the easier ways until, through my actions—a childish rebellion, I see now, against the good and true standards you set—I caused you to turn away from me.’”
Holding up one hand, he looked down as if choking back sobs until he could continue again.
He’d practiced.
“‘For this, for a long, long time, I blamed everyone but myself.
“‘I’ve learned, Dad. I’ve listened, I’ve atoned. My forever regret is not having the time to show you. To hold your hand as you once held mine. To be the son I should have been all along. To make you proud of who I can be.
“‘I don’t want to say goodbye. Instead, I’ll say please forgive me for the harm I caused. And please watch me from heaven so you’ll see I’ve finally become a man you can respect.
“I love you, Dad. Dustin.’”
He dried his eyes, prepared to talk through what he’d read.
He considered it a fine piece of fiction.
Just under three weeks later, Detective Brill sat in the courtroom. She’d report to Venmar, currently laid up with the flu, once they had a ruling.
But she had a sick, angry feeling what that ruling would be.
He looked harmless, she thought, sitting there, hands folded, head respectfully bowed, in his smart suit. He’d had his hair cut in a boyish style.
His mother sat behind him, perfectly dressed, perfectly coiffed. Brill had never quite decided if the woman was callous or simply credulous.
Did she actually not see the monster she’d birthed, or did she just not care?
Brill saw it. She saw through the average-to-ordinary looks, the good lines of the designer suit, the bullshit haircut. Not cynicism, she reassured herself.
She saw it.
He rose when the judge entered the courtroom, sat again, listening attentively as the judge spoke of the psychiatric evaluations and reports, the petition itself.
“Please stand, Mr. Dubecki. The woman you harmed isn’t in this courtroom today. I’d like to know what you’d say to her if she were.”
“Your Honor, I can’t ask her to forgive me because what I did was unforgivable. The harm I caused Arden Bowie, physically, emotionally, I…”
He trailed off, looked down a moment as if composing himself.
“I hurt her, and I wouldn’t ask her to excuse what I did because I was ill.
Why should she? I guess, if I had the chance, I’d say I hope she’s been able to put the harm I caused behind her.
That she’s happy and, um, fulfilled. She doesn’t need to know I’m sorry, Your Honor.
Being sorry doesn’t make up for what I did.
But if it would help her in any way, I’m very sorry.
“And, Your Honor? I’m grateful for having my mental illness addressed and treated.”
“Do you believe your treatment is complete?”
“No, sir. I believe it will never be complete. But I believe, absolutely, that I can and will continue that treatment through counseling and therapy.”
Practiced that, didn’t you? Brill thought. Just the right amounts of humility and conviction.
Son of a bitch.
It didn’t surprise her when the ruling went in his favor, or when the judge ordered weekly counseling through the remainder of his sentence.
She watched him embrace his mother.
When his eyes, appropriately damp, met Brill’s, the monster inside smiled.
That didn’t surprise her either.
She walked out, contacted her partner as she left the courthouse. In her car, she waited. The cold, gloomy day smelled of snow coming. The solid gray sky looked poised to open for it.
Christmas madness had already shoved leftover Thanksgiving turkey aside. She’d have to do some shopping before much longer.
The kids? No problem. They’d have lists. Her husband? He’d just shrug, smile, say he didn’t need a thing.
Big help he was.
Then her parents, her sister, her brother-in-law, two nieces, and a nephew. Jesus, her in-laws—but she’d lean on her husband, and hard, on all of those.
And he’d be the one hauling out the tree on December 1, as excited as the kids.
She let her mind wander until she saw Dustin come out.
He shook his lawyer’s hand enthusiastically, then added a quick guy-hug. With his mother, he walked out to a dark gray Mercedes. Brill already had the make, model, plate number.
She gave them some room, then followed. They didn’t drive to the two-bedroom house his mother had purchased—and either being careless or credulous had put in their joint names. Nor did they take the route to Upper Arlington and the Victorian mansion where his father lay dying.
Instead, the sedan parked at a local grill.
So a celebratory lunch, Brill thought.
She drove by, turned, and headed back to the station. She’d swing by the house where Dustin would live on her way home later.
Now, she needed to get back to her desk. She had to make the call she’d hoped she wouldn’t have to make for another five months.