The Incident (Chase Barnes Series Book 1) (25 page)

              I sat on my bed and thought.  I thought about how fortunate Lindsey and I were that we don’t have any other kids.  Would I be able to be a good father to them after what I did to Jake?  Would I live in such a state of fear of killing them too?  So much so it’d get to the point that I’d distance myself from them so far that they’d barely recognize me as their father?  Would Lindsey divorce me and refuse my other kids to see me or even talk to me? 

              It’s all on me.  It was all my fault.  Here’s Lindsey having to deal with my misery and allowing life to continue as I let her live in a lie.  She’s not to blame.  She wasn’t the one who handed Jake the keys to my gun box.  However, neither was I.  She didn’t show him how to load the gun and take him to the shooting range for the first time on his eleventh birthday.  That was me. 

              Shit.  Everything up to this point in our lives has been my fault.  The fact that she got pregnant in the first place- my fault.  How I convinced her to keep the baby- my fault.  How she couldn’t go to college- my fault.  Having to go to night school part- time to get her bachelor’s degree- my fault.  Why not put the cherry on the sundae and let her in on a little secret?  Jake’s death- my fault. 

              While Lindsey was still in the shower, I gingerly ventured across the carpeted hallway and stood in the doorway of Jake’s room.  I took it all in and immediately thought of my son.  A well- worn baseball glove reminded me of the way we used to play catch in the yard on the weekends.  The BMX magazines reminded me of how I taught him to ride a bike, which led to thoughts of him hating me because he was convinced I let him fall off his bike on purpose.  My eyes found a few loose movie ticket stubs strewn about his desks and I was instantly reminded of the countless times Jake would ask me for spending money after Lindsey already refused.  I saw his own New York Mets sweatshirt that apparently wasn’t good enough.  It was casually draped over his desk chair and brought me back to the numerous hours we spent on the couch watching the Mets blow late inning leads. 

              Lindsey crept up behind me and whispered my name.  It sounded like the faint whispers I hear in my dreams.  She bear hugged me from behind, gripping my chest.  I felt her chin resting as high on my shoulder as she could get it. 

              “Sorry,” was all she said. 

              I turned to face her.  We were both still standing in Jake’s doorway.  We embraced, knowing each other’s thoughts. 

              “There’s something I need to tell you,” I said.

SIXTY FIVE

Lindsey dressed in a pair of sweats and a t- shirt as I cautiously sat on the bed in our room.  All I could do was watch her.  My throat instantly caught fire and I could feel the bile bubbling in my gut like a simmering volcano.  My hands started to quake and I was bouncing the nervous energy out of my body through my feet.  Lindsey watched me in dire concern.

              “What is it?” she asked.  She sat next to me on the bed and gripped my hands in hers. 

              “I don’t know how to say this.  It’s about Jake,” I said.  Lindsey’s eyes quickly filled with liquid anytime I mentioned Jake.  This time was no different. 

              “Chase?  What is it?  You know you can obviously tell me anything,” Lindsey said.  I could see the words getting caught in her throat, afraid of what the answer to her question might be. 

              I looked down at our intertwined hands and felt them starting to adhere together with the combination of our own sweat and clamminess.  Suddenly, I shot up off the bed with an idea, still holding one of Lindsey’s hands.  She was too startled to speak.

              “Come with me.  I think it’s better you read it for yourself,” I said before yanking Lindsey off the bed and pulling her quickly down the steps to the kitchen.  There wasn’t a smidge of time for her to respond.  I sat her at the kitchen table and shoved my journal in front of her. 

              She looked up at me and said, “What is this?  Why are you giving me your journal?” 

              There was nothing else I could say but, “Read it.”  Then I turned the pages to the fifth and final entry.  Lindsey hesitated.  I could see the fear growing inside of her, burning her organs as if she were being burned alive in a crematorium. 

              “What the hell is going on, Chase?  Why do you want me to read your journal?  Truthfully, I thought you’d never even written a thing in here because you thought it was just a bunch of bullshit,” Lindsey said, still not looking down at the open pages. 

              “Please, just read it.”

              Lindsey slowly dropped her head and all she had to do was read the first line:

             
My name is Chase Barnes and I am the one who killed Jake.

             
Her eyes spoke enough.  They were creased with a cocktail of pain, shock, and most of all, anger.  My eyes fell into a state of hurt, sorrow and anger- anger at myself. 

              “
You?!  You killed Jake?”
Lindsey screamed like I’d never heard her scream before.  I couldn’t get myself to look at her.  I wanted to run.  Run into traffic.  Run to nowhere. 

              “Please, keep reading.  It explains everything.”

              She did.  She read in more detail than I’d ever seen before.  My heart felt like it was going to drop right onto the floor.  The pages suddenly became spotted with blurred ink as Lindsey’s tears dripped off her cheeks.  The more she read the tighter she folded her arms into herself and the more I feared the wrath of vengeance that Lindsey was about to unleash.  She finally pushed the book away from her and continued to stare at nothing.  We both sat in silence.  A look of shock on Lindsey’s face and a feeling of disappointment on mine. 

              “Please say something,” I finally muttered.  “I hope you understand from reading this.”

              “I don’t know what I’m madder at.  The fact that you are responsible for killing Jake or the fact that you kept this from me this whole time and let me believe something completely different,” Lindsey said.  She got up launched the journal into the wall and several beats later I heard the bathroom door slam shut.  

SIXTY SIX

I expected her to throw more things and tell me how much she hated me, which I would have accepted much more than the agonizing silent treatment.  My attempts to console Lindsey failed when she ignored my knocks and didn’t answer the door.  There was nothing else I could do.  I needed to take one of my tension headache pills and lie down for a while.  I must’ve dozed off because I still hadn’t heard a peep from Lindsey in over an hour.  For all I knew she was still in the bathroom.  My thoughts attempted to drift back to what our life was like before Jake died.  It was an impossible task.  I couldn’t do it; it was all a blur now as if it were all a dream or never even existed.

              I got up and trekked up the stairs only to find Lindsey getting dressed for church as she did every other Sunday.  I thought it was only fitting that she was on her way to prayer.  I knew she was going to say a prayer for Jake as she always did; hopefully, she was going to say a prayer for me, too. 

              “Hey,” I whispered.

              “Hi,” she replied, still not looking at me.  I attempted to feel for even the slightest touch of her skin but she shrugged me off, stepping further away.

              “Please talk to me,” I said. 

              “What the hell is there to say?”

              “But don’t you understand.” I said.

              “Understand what?  I think I understand why you shot him.  You were doing your job.  You’re a cop and cops are trained to shoot at the first sight of a threat.  You didn’t know it was Jake because of the hooded sweatshirt and how dark it was.  I get all that.  The part that I think I’m more upset about is the fact that you lied to me and kept this from me for so long,” she said, speaking in a much softer tone now.

              “I’m not sure.  I think I was trying to protect you,” I said.  We were both sitting on the bed nearly in the same position we were in before I dragged her downstairs to begin this firestorm. 

              “Protect me?  From what?” she asked.

              “The truth.  I guess I was afraid that if you knew that it was the bullets from my gun that killed our only child that- that you would hate me and leave.  Especially during a time when I needed you most.”

              I could see Lindsey was in thought.  What she was thinking about I had no idea.  She let out a deep, deep sigh and said, “Look, Chase, I miss Jake like no mother has ever missed their own child but I think I would miss you just as much if I lost you too.  I’ll never get over the fact that Jake is gone but I think in some strange way I’m glad that you were there that night.  I’m sort of glad that it was you and not some strung- out drug dealer or some rapist.  Or even another cop.”

              “But I
shot
and
killed
him.  How could I have
not
known it was him?  I’m responsible for his death.  He’s not here because of me,” I said.

              “I know all of that now and it’s going to take some time for me to get over the truth and the fact that you hid it from me but understand that it doesn’t mean I love you any less.”

              I wanted to believe her but my mind kept telling me she was lying.  It must be the pessimism festering inside of me since the day Jake died.  Lindsey inched closer to me, grabbed both of my hands in one of hers and rested her head on my shoulder.  No words were spoken for a few minutes until she told me that she loved me.

SIXTY SEVEN

I left Lindsey to continue getting herself ready and wandered back into Jake’s room with surprising ease.  Before I realized it, I was sitting on his bed for the first time since the funeral.  Walking through the doorway and into Jake’s room wasn’t even an issue.  Had a subliminal burden just been lifted?  I sat on the bed, absorbing the sights and sounds into my mind and the smells into my nose.  I closed my eyes and recalled hearing quite the variety of music blaring from the speakers of his stereo, even some of the similar artists I enjoy myself.  Looking around, seeing everything left just as they were the last time Jake touched them, I stared at nothing in particular.  I wanted to just stay in Jake’s room and be him even for just a little while.

              After the emotional morning and the cocktail of anger, sadness and grief I overlooked and disregarded the sense of relief I was feeling.  Relief that Lindsey finally knew the truth about Jake and I didn’t have to live a lie any longer.  Relief that Lindsey didn’t want to kill me dead after reading about the truth in my journal.  Relief that she still wanted to be with me and somewhat understood my rationale.  For the first time in months I was able to take a deep breath without feeling like it should be my last.

It took me a few hours to motivate and get my day started.  Once I was able to get a grip on my mind and regain control I pulled up my iPad and stared at my list of unfinished business regarding Esteban.  I reviewed what I had written down the other night and suddenly had an idea.  It was about noon when I finally set out and spent a good chunk of the afternoon sitting outside Klein’s house again.  I idled for a few minutes to see if he was home or not and when I saw he wasn’t, I cruised around the neighborhood a few times.  Didn’t want to seem too inconspicuous to the neighbors.  A little while later I saw Klein turn on to his street and cruise up the desolate road and pull into his driveway.  I wondered where he was returning from.

              When Klein pulled up to his house and entered the driveway I continued past his house and watched him as he walked to the mailbox to retrieve the contents and casually strode up the driveway, sifting through the bills and miscellaneous junk that only comes through the mail nowadays.  He had on a neutral colored pair of khakis and a burgundy short- sleeved polo.  Klein had a three- day old stubble working on his cheeks.  His clothes and appearance looked so disheveled as if he hadn’t been home in a couple of days.  On most days Klein entered his house through the side door off the driveway but today he had a package waiting for him at the front door.  He padded up the cobblestone steps and unlocked the front door.  Everything was in place when he entered the living room.  The coffee table still held the mug he drank out of before leaving the house this morning.  The family photos remained as life- like as Klein had last seen them, perched atop the mantle above the fireplace.