Sacrifice (3 page)

He typed in “DHD Reunion” on his calendar page for Labor Day weekend and tagged it to remind him a week and then again one day in advance. He looked at the papers spread out on his desk. What the hell was he working on here? Oh, yeah, Horizons Condominiums. Property valuations.
Damn it, Kenny, get it together.

Chapter Five

Dave Langdon looked deep into the brown eyes of the four-year-old boy. Fear darkened the child’s broad, almond face.

“Jamal,” Dave said. He flashed his million-dollar smile and his blue eyes twinkled. He had his shoulder-length hair back in a ponytail. A few flecks of gray in his goatee were the only things that testified he was pushing fifty. “I’m Dave and there’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m here to help you.”

Jamal gave him a doubting glance. He wrung his small hands together and shifted his weight from foot to foot.

This was the second call Dave had made to Jamal’s house. Back in May, Jamal’s school principal had called the Connecticut Department of Children and Families about Jamal when his teacher discovered bruises on his arms. Dave responded and the excuses were plausible and the parents were rock solid in their denials of abuse, though only marginally believable. But Dave had put the Williams family on his watch list and made sure if there was another report, he’d be the one to respond. Too many families had snowed different inspectors through multiple visits. That wouldn’t happen here.

The house was a mess, though he’d seen much worse here in Hartford. Dimly lit through dirty windows, clothes littered most of the furniture, and empty pizza boxes cluttered the filthy kitchen. The house had that stale, heavy odor that decay exuded. But he wasn’t here for infractions that small. With Dave’s caseload, he never was. He only had time for the life or death investigations.

“Now, Jamal,” he said. “I need to take a quick look at your leg. I won’t touch it.”

The boy looked scared. His eyes darted around the room to make sure no one else was there. Then he turned and lifted his shorts to show Dave the top of his thigh and revealed several red, raised, concentric circles.

Dave knew the mirror impression of a stove burner when he saw one. Jamal’s damaged right leg brought a special wave of sympathy from Dave. He snapped a few pictures with his phone. He turned Jamal back around.

“Looks like that hurt,” he said. “What happened to your leg?”

Jamal looked at his shoes, then gave a quick glance up through his eyebrows at Dave. His lips pursed and relaxed a few times.

“You can tell me, and I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again,” Dave said.

“It was Daddy,” Jamal said. His eyes never left the floor. “I was bad so I had to sit on the stove.”

Dave held his rage in check. “How were you bad?”

“I dropped my spoon. On the floor.”

A marginally motor-skilled four-year-old dropped something. What an offense. Dave’s blood boiled. “Stay right here.”

Using his cane as support, Dave pivoted and headed to the kitchen. A few stray fingers of pain did the usual drumming along his right leg. He shifted some of his weight to his left side without even thinking about it.

He hobbled into the kitchen. Jamal’s mother sat at the yellow Formica table. Her right eye was swollen shut. Tears streamed down her face, leaving trails of black mascara on her round cheeks. Her hair was wrapped in a blue kerchief, and there were drops of dried blood on her T-shirt.

“So have your reached the bottom, Latoya?” Dave asked. “Is it time to tell the truth and get out of this hell?”

She nodded. “Before, I couldn’t say nothing. He was standing right here. He’d kill me before the words got out of my mouth. I thought he’d change, but…”

Dave snapped open his phone and punched speed dial number two. A police sergeant answered on the first ring.

“You can pick up Dewayne at work,” Dave said. “I’ll have the complaint filed and a motion for a restraining order in front of a judge in an hour.”

It was several hours later when Dave finally made it back home. His wife was out attending to several of the weekly chores that backed up and had to be attended to on the weekend. She was great at understanding when he had to pick up a Saturday call for DCF. She was a Special Ed teacher, so she shared the call to help children.

He rolled the rubber band from his hair and shook it free. He pulled the heating pad out of the hall closet and plopped down on the living room couch. He plugged it in and wrapped his right leg.

“Now what’s your problem today, darling?” he asked his leg. “It isn’t cold and it isn’t raining.”

The answering machine next to the couch flashed at him. He hit the retrieve button.

“Well, Dave, bite me sideways. This is Bob Armstrong. We’ve got a Dirty Half Dozen reunion coming up. Give a call when you get home.” His phone number followed.

Dave’s leg delivered another twinge of pain. This time Dave knew exactly why.

He hadn’t talked to Bob since before the ambulance whisked him to the hospital with a shattered leg three decades ago. He hadn’t spoken to any of them since that night. Or more accurately, they hadn’t spoken to him since then. Through his summer of convalescence, none of them had contacted him. Bob had a reasonable excuse, but the rest of them could have overcome their guilt and provided some encouragement during his excruciating physical therapy.

He banked the fires his resentment stoked. After all, they were all seventeen back then. They had been through hell, and who was prepared for that at that age? There were more years to their friendship than that one night. However it all ended, he’d still never been closer for longer to anyone than he had been to those five friends from Sagebrook.

He’d long since reconciled himself with the direction his life had taken since that fateful night. Why not relive a few of the better memories with the Dirty Half Dozen?

He picked up the phone and dialed Bob’s number.

Chapter Six

Paul Hampton had to make the call. Bob’s invitation for the reunion was two weeks ago, and Labor Day weekend was next weekend. He couldn’t let it turn out this way.

The retired New York City police sergeant had upgraded to working private security, but somehow the hours hadn’t gotten any better. He’d spent all night covering the transfer of a traveling exhibit into the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He wasn’t even sure what the art looked like since it was all crated into enormous boxes. The truck rolled in at midnight and rolled out by five a.m. One of these nights used to be a lay down, but recent heists in Boston and Europe put an end to anyone’s complacency about art theft. With pre- and post-delivery sweeps, it had stretched into an eight-hour day, or night. So finally home at nine a.m., he was wiped. But he still had to make the call.

“Paul?” his wife Hallie asked. “Why aren’t you asleep by now?”

Hallie stood at the kitchen door, looking down at Paul as he sat at the table, cell phone in his hand. Hallie was petite with jet-black, shoulder-length hair and bangs. She was fifteen years younger than Paul, a point his other retired cop friends kidded him about mercilessly. But he knew it was jealousy that sharpened their barbs. He’d landed a hot one in his second marriage attempt. He’d waited until he’d left the force to even consider marriage after the way the police lifestyle eviscerated his first attempt. Hallie was worth the wait.

“No, Doll,” Paul said. “Got a call to make before I turn in.” He reached back and gave her stomach a caress. “How are you doing?”

“I’m only six weeks pregnant,” she said and gave his hand a playful slap. “I’m fine, and there’s nothing for you to feel down there yet.”

Paul had to admit he was terrified when Hallie had told him she was pregnant. Quick math said he’d be pulling Social Security when his kid hit high school, and memories of his high school years made him wonder how he’d survive the event. Plus, he’d never been a father. His experience with his own ended at age eleven when his father, Paul Sr., died on the job responding to a B&E. Parenthood was a rough sea to sail with an old creaky boat.

But Hallie’s enthusiasm had carried the day. She was thrilled, and told Paul he’d be a wonderful father. Her extended family was five minutes away, and they were ecstatic and ready to help. By now Paul was fully onboard.

“So, I’m going out for milk,” Hallie said. “What do you need?”

“Nothing, Doll.”

“You’d better be asleep when I get back,” she said. ”We’re bowling tonight and you’d better not be tired.” She kissed him on the bald spot on the back of his head and went out the door.

Paul carried his cell phone out to the back deck. It was a classic Long Island August day, already thick with humidity by sunrise. The forecasters had promised a mid-nineties scorcher. The sun felt good on his face. He sat in one of the old, vinyl, ribbed beach chairs on the deck. His stomach rolled over his belt and into his lap. He cursed himself for getting so out of shape. Too many crappy meals and too many hours in Crown Victorias had really taken a toll on his former football-player physique.

This tiny subdivision backyard was the only one he had ever known. This was the house he grew up in with his two younger siblings. The swings were long gone, and the grass had grown back where a succession of plastic wading pools had killed it. After his mother died, he’d moved back in. The price of decent real estate on the Island had ballooned to the point where his cop salary minus alimony couldn’t swing a mortgage, so the old homestead was a viable option. Plus, it didn’t hurt that he had a comfort level here, a retreat from the non-stop scumbags in the city.

He punched the eleven digits into his phone. Yeah, it would be six a.m. in Washington state. Too bad.

“Hello?” Marc Brady’s voice was scratchy and confused answering the phone so early.

“Marc Brady?”

“That’s me.”

“It’s Paul Hampton from Sagebrook.”

Silence. This was going to be harder than Paul had thought.

“Hey,” Marc said. “What’s happening? Are you still out on Long Island?”

“Still at the same address,” Paul said. “The house you and I painted the summer of ’76.”

“No kidding. Your Mom?”

“She passed in 2001.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Look,” Paul said. “I’m calling because I spoke to Bob. He told me about the reunion and that you aren’t going.”

“I appreciate the invitation and the effort,” Marc said. “But that is such a bad weekend with school starting up the next week…”

“And how did Bob sound to you?” Paul said.

“I don’t know, a little tired.”

“Yeah, well he’s way past tired,” Paul said. “He’s dying. Stage four lung cancer. It doesn’t work into your schedule but, well, sorry. He wants to see us all.”

Another pause.

“Paul, we haven’t seen each other in thirty years,” Marc said. “After graduation, we all ran like hell from home and for good reason. It took me a shitload of therapy to get my head screwed back on straight. I’ve got a good life going out here. Why should I toss all that and rush across the country?”

“Because Bob would do it for you,” Paul said.

Marc gave no answer.

“You know he would,” Paul added.

More silence. You can’t argue with the truth, Paul thought.

“You going to give me a ride from LaGuardia?”

“I’m warning you now, I drive like a cop,” Paul said.

“I’ll rent a car,” Marc said. “I’ll see you at Bob’s.” He hung up.

Paul guessed that Bob would be pretty pissed if he knew anyone else was aware of his illness. It had taken some serious badgering to get Bob to admit it to Paul.

Paul had met Bob a few weeks ago, for the first time in over twenty years. They split a lunch pizza at Brother’s Trattoria, their old high school hangout. Bob looked like crap—drawn, ashen skin, dark circles under his eyes. He had a deep, persistent cough that was more than the usual smoker’s hack. He told Paul about the reunion idea. Paul volunteered to use his police contacts to help locate some of the harder to find former Half Dozen members. He was exceptionally proud to have delivered Jeff Block’s personal cell number. Only near the end of the conversation had Bob admitted his illness.

So Paul had to pull the dying friend card to get Marc on board. Life’s tough. Marc needed to be here. He owed Bob. They all did.

Chapter Seven

1980

The night of the tower lightning strike, Ken’s parents were asleep when he snuck back into the house, which suited him fine. After midnight was no time to do a few rounds of Twenty Questions with his father. He had a pounding headache, and the nerve endings of his right foot and left hand tingled like they were coated in ants. He guessed that was the path the charge took as it went through him. The idea made him shudder.

When he finally fell asleep, he instantly began to dream. He stood at noon by the Sagebrook millpond, a relic of the 1700s in old Sagebrook just blocks off the village green. The mill was there, but it looked newer and the road in front of it was just a narrow dirt rut. The houses that ringed the pond were gone, replaced by a forest of trees taller than he’d ever seen in Sagebrook. Children wandered around the pond. Hundreds of them. Some played with each other, some fed breadcrumbs to the ducks. They wore a mishmash of period clothing from colonial era knickers to elaborate Victorian suits to modern jeans.