 
Fathers House: A Preview

C. Edward Baldwin

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 C. Edward Baldwin
Praise for Fathers House

"A resounding story of fatherhood, packaged as a tense thriller." - Kirkus Reviews

"The story is full of suspense and intrigue. The twists and turns, sub-plots, and the characters make it an interesting and compelling read. The plot and the characters are developed very well and the mystery and suspense keeps the book alive. The pace of the book will make readers want to finish it in one go. Assistant district attorney Ben Lovinson is a likable hero and the book also speaks about how he slowly grows up and moves from troubled young years to a happy married life." - Mamtan Madhavan, Readers' Favorite

"There is not just one hook, but several. At first they seemed disconnected and my interest level soared wondering how the author was going to stitch this patchwork quilt together. The answer is that C. Edward Baldwin does it with panache! Fathers House is well constructed and devilishly delicious reading." - Simon Barrett, Blogger Network News

"Throughout the book, Baldwin mischievously adds twist after twist, including suspicious suicides, witnesses who turn up missing, and gunfire during a funeral- a riveting action sequence." - Kirkus Reviews
Chapter 1

It was ironic, maybe even a little funny that every decision the agent had ever made in his entire life led to the two choices now before him. He sat at the table in the kitchen nook of his small apartment. The blinds were pulled tight, shutting out a gorgeous, bright morning. The sweaty palms of both his hands lay flat atop the surface of the table. Above his left hand lay his service revolver. Above his right hand lay his cellphone. He closed his eyes.

The irony was that either choice could be viewed as either bravery or cowardice. On the surface, putting a bullet to his head would take guts. The mere thought of metal blasting into his skull made his heart shiver. The pain would be intensely brutal, if only for a second. It was the thought of that second that gave him pause. Of course, after his body was discovered and people later found out what he'd done, they'd all say that he had taken the cowardly way out. No one would give him credit for withstanding that one brutal second. The funny thing was, if he chose the latter option it could eventually lead to him having to face the legal system. That could result in a lengthy prison sentence, but not the death he was so strongly contemplating now, which would anger the very people who would cry foul if he committed suicide. There was no pleasing some folk. Of course, that option would also mean continuing on as he had the past seventeen years, letting Father continue to control every aspect of his life. It would mean making the call to Father and giving the old man the information he'd requested.

It was cowardly not standing up to Father, not facing the music in the here and now. But it was surely an act of bravery to know that not putting a bullet into his own head today would ensure that one day he would have to publically acknowledge his past misdeeds. Sooner or later the agent would face the music. One day soon he would have to confess to God, and everyone else, all he'd done. That day would require great courage, all he'd be able to muster up. His heart trembled at the thought.

He squeezed his eyes closed tighter, and then his life flashed before him. He saw his mother in all her maternal splendor. Then, his father who was once there, then was gone, and then was there again. He saw his brothers, all of whom had been much older than he. It had always been as if he didn't really have any brothers at all. Then again, there was Ben Lovison.

Ben had been a friend, a best friend, a blood brother. Their relationship had been thicker than any blood connection. It had been years since the agent had last seen him. It was even longer since the agent's love and admiration for his blood brother had suddenly turned to envious thoughts and hatred. The agent quickly pushed that memory away, only to have it replaced with another painful one...Fathers House. Then he wondered if it was better to live in a house with invisible, yet obstructive walls, or if it was better to be trapped in a house where you could see the walls of your limitations. If one successfully, albeit unknowingly, navigated through a house with invisible walls, one would still have the sense of being free. But in a house with thick visible walls and locked doors, one would surely know that he was not free. Was blissful ignorance akin to freedom? Today the answer seemed so obvious. Trapped was trapped. And one day Ben Lovison would see the obvious. One day he was going to hit a wall and then realize just how trapped he'd been. At that time, maybe the agent would get his blood brother back. Shared pain always brought people together. Maybe then the two of them could figure out a way to get beyond the walls. That was, of course, if finding out the agent's most atrocious act didn't provoke Lovison to kill him first. Anyway, he had finally reached a decision.

He sighed, opened his eyes, and then after wiping his clammy right hand across the front of his shirt, he picked up the cellphone.
***

Maalik Jackson's breath was lodged in the middle of his throat like cornered wind trapped inside a balloon. He stood motionless at the top of the basement steps, staring into the blackness at the just slammed basement door. He listened intently, trying to determine if Uncle Mayo was still on the other side of the door. He could hear nothing. He could see nothing. No sound, total darkness, and no Uncle Mayo. Despite his fear, he wasn't totally surprised with his current predicament. He'd expected the old man to do something. After all, Uncle Mayo had warned him about the drugs. But Maalik hadn't expected this, whatever this was. What type of punishment did the old man have in mind?

Slowly his breathing returned. He swallowed hard, turned around shakily, and then proceeded down a couple of stairs into the darkness. There, he paused again and looked back up at the basement door. He could barely make out the outline of it, as it disappeared into the darkness. Only moments before Uncle Mayo had pushed him into the basement, the door quickly snapping shut behind him as if its hinges were taut rubber bands. He sucked in a long, nervous, deep breath. Once again, he turned his head back toward the basement floor. He goose necked forward, trying to peer beyond the darkened stairwell. After another breathless moment of indecision and uncertainty, he decided it was probably best to just keep moving. Haltingly, he continued downward.

Drugs are dangerous, was a refrain that he'd heard a thousand times before, at school, on TV, and here at Fathers House, a place where, ironically, most of its young inhabitants had more than a passing familiarity with most illicit drugs. Maalik had been under no illusions when he had chosen his new career path; he'd seen firsthand the ill side effects of drugs. But users and dealers generally accepted the high risk-high reward nature of the drug trade. For Maalik, it had been no different, even if it had meant jeopardizing his stay at Fathers House.

He had lived under the Fathers House roof for the past six months and had been a regular participant in the House's afterschool program eighteen months before that. There were seven other boys that also lived at the House, and another eighteen in its afterschool program. As far as Maalik could tell, at least four of the House residents dabbled in the drug trade. And unless the old man was totally clueless to the obvious, (which Maalik seriously doubted) those four had apparently been given a pass that wasn't being afforded to Maalik. "I don't want you doing drugs," the old man had said to Maalik on more than one occasion. "You know what drugs did to your mama." It had been a needless reminder. Of course Maalik knew what drugs had done to his mama. He'd been there. He'd suffered through it. But his mama had been a user, not a seller. Eleven-year-old Maalik understood the difference. In the drug game, you were either a taker or a giver. Users were givers. His mama had given all she had, including her body, and ultimately her life, to the drug game. But Maalik had no intentions of using drugs. He was going to be a taker. He was going to make that money. He needed to make that money.

However, he had to admit to himself that he hated disappointing Uncle Mayo. The old man had been good to him. Maalik truly believed that Uncle Mayo only wanted what he thought was best for Maalik. Maybe that was why he had been tougher on Maalik than those other boys. But Maalik had been born with his eyes wide open to the real world. In the real world, money was might, and might make right. In the real world, a safe penny-ninny job wasn't going to cut it.

It wasn't as if Maalik hadn't considered all his options. He had. But in his mind there were few, if any. He couldn't sing. He couldn't rap. So child stardom was definitely a pipe dream.
And as for society's favorite— staying in school and getting a quality education, well that only represented an even chance to potentially earn more than the minimum wage. And even if he wanted one of those so called respectable jobs, he'd most likely need to go to college to land one. Going to college would cost money and not to mention, years away. He needed money now, lots of it. Drugs equaled now money. With it, he could pay back Uncle Mayo for all he'd done for him. And more importantly, he could get his grandfather's farm back.

He reached the halfway point and paused again, dreading what he might find at the bottom of the steps. He had expected Uncle Mayo to do something drastic after the police had released him into the old man's custody. As far as he knew, none of the other boys had ever been snatched up by the po-po. That he had was probably justification enough for the old man to exact some form of punishment. It had crossed Maalik's mind that the old man may have considered giving him an old-fashioned whipping, or simply kick him out of Fathers House altogether, hurling Maalik into a careless childcare system. But now it didn't appear as if either of those things was going to happen. The old man hadn't even looked very upset when he'd picked Maalik up from the police station. Not a word was shared between the two of them the whole ride home. And when they got back inside Fathers House, the old man's words were few before he grabbed Maalik by the collar, pulled him to the basement door, opened it, and then threw Maalik inside as if he was tossing a lamb to the wolves. Now that Maalik remembered it, the old man had been calm the entire time, perhaps too calm.

In the six months that he'd lived at Fathers House, Maalik had never before been inside the basement. In fact, he hadn't known there was a basement. Now he was descending into the bowels of Fathers House. What did the old man have in store for him down here? He froze in place as a blanket of dread draped over him. He remembered that Fathers House was connected to Uncle Mayo's funeral business. It wasn't exactly a frightening thought as Uncle Mayo had never shown any ill will toward him, certainly not of the magnitude of causing his death or dismemberment. Still, right now, being in the vicinity of a funeral home where handling dead bodies was commonplace and its owner was more than a little upset with him was unsettling. After a moment he pushed the crazy thought aside and got his legs moving again, gingerly creeping downward as if trying to avoid possible landmines.

After a couple of steps, a smell assaulted his nose. The strong stench was almost recognizable, though he couldn't quite place it. The first thing that came to mind was his grandfather's hog farm. Those big, nasty hogs could be smelled from miles away. The hogs would spend the day rolling about in slop and their own crap, oblivious to their foulness, or simply uncaring. He had often wondered if a part of them, knowing their fate, had created such stinky chaos as a way of slinging one last odious shot at his grandfather.

He descended a few more steps. Then it hit him. He knew exactly what it was that he smelled. The thought made him as nauseous as the smell itself. Had a toilet overflowed down here? Was he expected to clean up the mess? As he continued timidly down the remaining steps to the basement floor, he began to feel somewhat better. Cleaning up crap was gross. But gross he could deal with.

He reached the last step and braced himself. He needed to stay at Fathers House and if this was what it was going to take, then so be it. But he wasn't going to promise not to sell drugs. He still needed the money. Besides, it wasn't something he planned to do forever. He just needed enough money to get his grandfather's farm back. That farm was his birthright. The farm hadn't made his grandfather rich. But it had made him free. He'd answered to no one but himself. It was the kind of life that Maalik had come to respect. He, too, would one day work his grandfather's farm—his farm. He would work his own hours, live his own way. But first, he needed money to make that happen.
As if on cue, an intercom crackled from somewhere in front and above him, issuing a deep voice that sounded birthed from a barrel. "Do not let your heart be troubled. Trust in Father. Trust in me. In Fathers House there are many rooms; if it were not so, I would tell you. A place is prepared for you. Come, trust in Father."

Maalik remained still. The voice stopped and the room returned to an almost eerie quiet, except for a muffled creak coming from somewhere in the walls. It sort of sounded like a mouse was caught in a trap. A desire to flee surfaced, and Maalik turned his head around, looking back up the stairs he'd just come down. He could barely see the steps in the darkened stairway. But it didn't matter, since he quickly dismissed the thought anyway. He'd brought this on himself, and he would see it through to the end. Besides, running back up the stairs to pull on a door that was surely locked would be a childish waste of energy.

Out of nowhere a bit of anger bubbled within him as his thoughts turned briefly to Cain. The older boy was just as much to blame for his current predicament as Maalik himself was. If only Cain would have allowed Maalik to work for him, instead of giving him that holier than thou bullshit about the dangers of selling drugs. Cain sold drugs. Cain made money. Why wasn't it okay for Maalik?

And it would have been, except Maalik got caught. If only Cain would have shown him the ropes, taken him under his wings, taught him the tricks of the trade. But Cain hadn't. But that was just pissing in the wind now, he thought, his anger flaming out as quickly as it had risen. He'd been busted, fair and square. "Luckily," Uncle Mayo had told him, "I know the officers that nabbed you. If it would have been anyone else, you could have been removed from this house and thrown into the system or worse...jail. Is that what you want?"

Of course it wasn't. He needed to be here at Fathers House. He needed the roof over his head, and if coming down here in the basement, facing whatever there was to face would ensure he could stay, well then, that was what he was willing to do. Uncle Mayo had added, "There will always be consequences for your actions. In the basement you will face those consequences. Accept them and you'll be allowed to stay here."

He stepped onto the basement floor.

His heart started racing. He sucked in another deep breath, this time rushing it out. He tried to calm himself, to steel his nerves. How bad could it be down here? Surely he wasn't the first to be sent to the basement. He was suddenly struck with the realization that the other drug-dealing boys of Fathers House had also been sent down here. He was not a trendsetter. No one had been given a free pass. And out of that realization was born another: the others had survived. He hadn't heard of any broken bones or seen any burn marks on their bodies. He hadn't heard of any kind of torture happening at Fathers House. That sort of thing would have surely gotten around. No, he was being indoctrinated into something. He felt it. This was an initiation of some sort. Of that, he was becoming increasingly certain. He was going to have to clean up crap or pass some other vile test. It would be nasty work, meant to be scary, but ultimately it would be harmless.

The deep voice returned, "Move forward two steps."

Hesitantly, Maalik did as commanded.

He found himself in some sort of hallway. Ahead of him, a row of dimmed recessed lights lined either side of the ceiling from where he was standing and ending at the other end of the hallway. He had the sense of being in a narrow tunnel. At the end of it, a flat screen monitor suddenly materialized on the far wall. Onscreen, a digitalized computer head appeared. The head's eyes glared at him. A few terror inducing minutes passed by before the digital head spoke. It was deep voice. "Turn to your left," it commanded.
Maalik turned to his left. The row of lights on the left side suddenly brightened. The sudden burst of light caused his dark-adjusted eyes to blink rapidly and water. After several seconds, his eyes re-adjusted to what was fast becoming welcomed brightness. He wiped away tears and looked. What he had assumed was a wooden wall was in fact the exterior glass wall of a room. He noticed to his right was a door slightly ajar. Inside the room, a spotlight flashed on, highlighting to his horror, Nas Robinson.

Nas Robinson was a flashy high roller, and though you couldn't tell by his current condition, an impeccable dresser. Inside the room, he was stark naked and dangling from thick braided ropes which ran through the pulley of a long metal crane which reached up to the ceiling. His body was tilted forward slightly in a hanging fetal position. His arms were banded to his chest while his legs were folded beneath him. A bucket was placed under his head and another bucket was placed beneath his buttocks. His midsection was encased in some type of metal contraption, that judging by the pained look on the young man's face, caused him an extreme amount of displeasure. His classmate Khali had introduced Maalik to Nas just last week. Nas was going to be his ticket to drug riches. Nas was awash in money. He drove a custom built SUV and never wore the same pair of sneakers twice.

"Do you know this man?" The digitized voice was eerily calm, but was nonetheless threatening.

Maalik blinked several times in Nas' direction as if trying to place him. Seeing Nas hanging like that made Maalik realize that he wasn't there to just clean up crap. His very life could very well be in danger. Suddenly he wanted to be a normal eleven-year-old kid. He wanted to be somewhere else now, anywhere else, somewhere where a young kid should be, at a friend's house playing videogames, or even at school recess playing what he used to consider a boring game, kickball. After a moment, a desire for self-preservation made him consider lying about any connection he had with Nas. But his lips wouldn't follow suit. He stammered, "Ye...yes sir. I do."

"How do you know him?"

"Kh..." he started to say Khali's name, but suddenly regained control of his lips. Khali had tried to help him get a gig, there was no need getting him mixed up in this. So he said, "I don...I don't know. Kids at school. Dey..dey... dey said he's a drug dealer."

For the first time, Maalik noticed that Nas was not alone. There was another man, a rather large man, in the room with him. Though Nas, who was perhaps about ten years older than Maalik, wasn't exactly a big fella himself; the huge man behind the glass would have no doubt dwarfed most anyone. He was wearing a black, metal studded mask that looked similar to an executioner's mask worn by one of Maalik's videogame characters. The gigantic executioner obviously did not like Maalik's response to the last question, and he took it out on Nas. He turned a chrome handle that was connected by a long rod to the metal contraption. Nas grunted and then vomited in and around the bucket that was placed in front of him. At the other end of his body, Maalik saw the source of the horrid smell he'd first encountered coming down the stairs. Most of it hit the bucket, though drippings of it also dotted the floor around it. As Nas' bodily fluids trickled to stops at both ends, a ghastly moan escaped his lips.

"Did you sell drugs for this man?" the digital head asked.

"No," Maalik answered quickly with the thankful truth.

But the digital head's follow up question came just as quick. "Did you try?"
Maalik hesitated, again briefly considering lying, but then with reasoning that belied his eleven years of life, he realized that if he and Nas were both there at the same time then digital head most likely already knew the answer to that question. "I wanted to," Maalik answered in a quavering voice. "I tried to. But I was busted before I was able to make a sale. I just wanted to make some money. I just wanted to pay Uncle Mayo back for helping me, being so nice to me." He was talking fast and heard the shrillness in his voice. He knew he sounded like a scared little kid. But he didn't care. That's what he was— a scared kid. He hoped digital head would see that. Understand that. Maybe Digital head was Uncle Mayo, he thought hopefully. Maybe Uncle Mayo would let him go back to just being a kid.

Digital head said, "This man has no authority to sell drugs in Duraleigh. This is Father's territory. Understand?"

"Ye...yes sir," Maalik replied. Tears streamed down his face. "I'm sorry, Father."

For a few minutes, Nas's whimpering was all that was heard. Then, the digitized voice spoke again, "This fool has taken food out of my mouth and the mouths of my children. It's food I intend to get back one way or the other."

Inside the room, the huge man walked over to a table that was lined against the back wall. He picked up a book from it and flipped through a couple of pages. He arrived at a spot and tapped it with his thick finger. "Nas Robinson," he said as he stared intently at the book. "For the crime of encroachment into Father's territory, your name is listed in the Book."

Maalik shook uncontrollably as he watched the masked man hold the black, bible-thick book in his enormous hands. After reading Nas' charges, he placed the book back onto the table and then walked back over to the metal crank.

The fused sound of metal turning, bones crushing, and Nas' agonized shrieks soon filled the air, intensifying with each passing minute before abruptly ending, leaving only the sounds of Father's food being returned to him, drip by drip.

Maalik dropped to his knees and vomited. His childhood was now lost forever and he knew it.
Chapter 2

At four a.m. Monday morning, Ben Lovison's eyes popped open. Beads of sweat peppered his forehead. His breaths came in short, quick pants. He lay in bed for a few moments, listening. Finally, he heard her. She was lying next to him. The light sounds of her breathing dimpled the quietness of the bedroom. Thank God, it had only been a dream! It was not time. He stared off into the semi-darkness of the bedroom, allowing his eyes a chance to focus, and then closed them again. As they did, the overhead light fixture materialized. It was a three-light, gold-hued ceiling fan, almost as ostentatious as a chandelier. He always thought that it was a bit too gaudy for the bedroom. But April had insisted on having it. He was now staring at it because he'd conceded to her wishes. Seeing the fixture too clearly now, he turned away from it and closed his eyes again.

After another calming moment, he reopened his eyes, turned to his side, and looked at his wife. They'd been married two years, two of the happiest years of his life. She was so beautiful. Strands of her silky jet-black hair fell aimlessly about her face. She was sleeping peacefully, almost soundlessly. She was definitely not a snorer, he thought, unlike himself. His occasional nocturnal nose wailing was getting him dangerously close to being exiled from the bedroom. Curing that nighttime blasting was in the top five on his honey-do list. Still staring at his wife, he concentrated his gaze on her midsection. Her babies-mound was slowly, rhythmically, moving up and down. Perhaps nothing produced anxiety more than the realization that one was about to become a father, he thought. The babies weren't due for another eight weeks. Dr. Shepherd said everything was progressing on schedule. Still, Ben worried. He leaned over and gently pecked his wife on the lips. She did not stir.

Not able to return to sleep, and not wishing to disturb April, he moved from the restless quiet of the bedroom to the stillness of the kitchen. Ben stood comfortably over six feet tall. A broad shouldered man of thirty-three years of age, his face was lightly stubbled with a whisper of boyishness.

He made coffee, poured himself a cup, and then sat down at the kitchen table where the night before he'd left his county-issued laptop and a couple of file folders. He punched in his password and sipped his coffee as he waited for the laptop to finish its startup. After a few moments, the desktop was visible. He tapped the icon for the district attorney's office web system and signed in. A seemingly endless, orderly row of case numbers with names hyphened next to them appeared. He scrolled down the list until he reached case number 234455-Peyton Lars. He clicked on it.

The Duraleigh County District Attorney's office had gone green eight years ago. All its case files were digitally converted. Witness statements, police reports, plea agreements, discovery items, everything was virtually recreated, sending bible thick files the way of the dinosaur. The only hard files Duraleigh prosecutors carried around nowadays were just folders with yet to be converted file additions such as plea forms to be signed or witness statements taken outside the office. It was twenty-first century prosecution at its finest.

It had been Ben's first year in the DA's office, and with all that first year prosecutors were expected to do, adapting to a new system had been the least of his concerns. Besides, the system had been no newer than any other aspect of the job. Like the other newbies, he'd spent the majority of his time in the courtroom, handling a multitude of misdemeanor cases. The misdemeanors were mostly simple drug possession cases, DWI cases, simple assault and battery cases, and some minor domestic violence cases. Most had been easy to prosecute, but then most of the frustration felt by young prosecutors was seldom related to the level of difficulty of any particular case, but rather in the sheer number of the cases. Ben had found out in short order that crime never stops wasn't just an adage, it was a fact of life, as was the prosecution of that never ending crime. Prosecuting crime could be long, arduous, and oftentimes, thankless work. It could also be overwhelming and chaotic. Still, he loved it.
Organization was the key to having a shot at keeping on top of things. The DA's web system was a great benefit in that regard. It helped keep the DA's office neat and orderly. All files were within a fingertip's reach with all necessary forms easily accessible. Ben couldn't have imagined what life had been like before the paperless era. During his first year, there had been so much to keep up with, and the office had provided very little assistance. After a month long training period, that seemingly went by faster than the speed of light; he had been cut loose and literally thrown to the wolves. He'd later figured out that had all been by design. Counselors who couldn't handle the hectic, fast pace of the DA's office were weeded out early.

After scrolling through the Lars case summary, he turned his attention to the file folder that contained the plea agreement. He removed it from the folder and looked it over. Everything appeared in order. The deal had been offered and accepted on Friday: two years prison time followed by three years' probation. It was basically a slap on the wrist for the amount of drugs the kid had been caught with. But it would get him off the streets for at least a little while, and with any luck, the short prison stint might be just enough to convince the kid to try to do something more productive with his life.

I keep giving these boys the chance my father probably never had, he thought wistfully. Although he'd never met the man, or knew anything about him, Ben wanted to believe that his dad was locked up somewhere, a victim of the Man and the System, rather than the very real possibility that he was dead, or worse, alive somewhere and not giving a shit about him. Anyway, he thought, pushing that craziness aside, he'd better make sure Peyton Lars hadn't been the recipient of a prior plea agreement. He was scheduled to meet the teen and his attorney at noon today during the Storrs' trial lunch break. The meeting was to take place in the chambers of the Honorable Judge Felix Mannielo where they would formally attach signatures to the plea deal. Mannielo was a fair judge, but he wasn't exactly a big fan of second chances, and he sure as hell wouldn't be that fond of a third one.

He tapped a couple of keys, bringing up Peyton Lars' case history. A single case file appeared. It was from 2002, his first year as a prosecutor. He clicked on it. "Hmm," he mumbled as he scanned through it. He had been the handling prosecutor. But he couldn't recall a thing about the case. A fact that really didn't surprise him, that first year on the job had been a blur. Besides, except for the true regulars of whom there were a few, his brain shuffled most cases out of his mind as soon as the cases reached a resolution. As he continued reading through the file, he saw that the Lars kid's other crime had basically been small potatoes, relatively speaking. As a ten-year old, Lars had shoplifted some candy and a toy from a convenience store. For sure, any sane parent would prefer their children be crime-free. But for some parents that threshold had necessarily been raised to a line just short of strong-armed robbery.

Lars had received two months' probation. It had been a juvie crime, and therefore, it would not affect Lars' current plea arrangement. But as Ben started to close out the file, he paused. Something struck him as odd. He went through it once more and eventually pulled up the initial police incident report. He immediately saw it—1024 Holston Street. The address was that of Fathers House where Ben had stayed for five years after the murder of his mother. The home catered to disadvantaged, or otherwise wayward, boys.
That was strange, he thought as he continued reading through the file. Why hadn't he noticed it at the time? Slowly he scanned the file, looking to find an acknowledgement that he, the prosecuting attorney had a link to the house, but he didn't find one. There was no mention of the address or any potential conflict of interest. How could he have overlooked such a thing? Of course, he hadn't known Peyton Lars before that time, and he was of no relation to the boy. And the fact that the two of them had shared the address—1024 Holston Street, albeit separated by eight years was of no real relevance.

Fathers House was run by Mayo Fathers, who was somewhat of a father figure to many of the boys. But being a father figure wasn't the same as being a father. The boys weren't actually brothers. So there hadn't exactly been an ethical lapse. An acknowledgement that he and the boy had had a shared link, even a skeletal one, would have been the professional thing to do, but Ben hadn't broken any laws in not having done so. He'd had other cases involving boys from Fathers House and to his knowledge; he'd acknowledged his link to Fathers House in those cases or had recused himself. He would mention the previous Lars link to Etlzer later that morning. But since the previous case had been a juvie crime, there would be no need to bring it up with Mannielo. Juvenile records were generally kept sealed.

He closed out Lars' old file and reopened the current one. He rechecked the boy's current address and saw that Lars was no longer living at Fathers House. It was possible; he admitted to himself, that he was having reservations about the current plea deal because he didn't think for one minute that young Peyton Lars hadn't been in any other trouble over the past eight years. However, he quickly realized that in the final analysis, no one but Peyton Lars and perhaps the kid's inner circle knew whether or not Peyton Lars had really been a solid crime-free kid for the last eight years or so. But that was of no consequence now because Lars had managed to stay out of the system. And as far as the current plea deal was concerned, that was all that really mattered.

He closed out of the Lars file and returned to the home screen. He then keyed in the Cindy Storrs murder file. The case file materialized on the screen as he drained the last of his first cup of coffee. He went over to the counter and poured himself another cup.

No one could say with any amount of certainty what makes a particular crime a high profiled one. Everyday somewhere in the country, a child is abducted, killed, or has wandered off. A girlfriend or wife has been killed by her boyfriend, lover, or husband. Some people simply vanish, never to be heard from again. The latest crime statistics claim that a murder is committed every 30.9 minutes. But of all the horrendous crimes that occur basically every second of every day, only a small pittance of them will garner the public's collective imagination. One such infamous crime, at least amongst the citizenry of Duraleigh, was the brutal beating death of Cindy Storrs at the hands of her husband, Deacon Storrs.

A part of the fascination with Cindy Storrs' death could no doubt be attributed to the circumstances surrounding her murder as provided by her husband. Deacon Storrs claimed that he'd found his wife's bloody body that morning in their marital bed. She'd been beaten to death with a hammer that was found at the scene. Deacon Storrs insisted he'd had nothing to do with her murder. According to Deacon, he'd left the apartment the night before, after an argument he'd had with his wife. The argument had been a loud one and had been heard by at least three of the couple's neighbors. Deacon told police that he'd walked to a nearby bar, gotten drunk, and then returned to the couple's apartment around 11:30 or so. He believed the door had been locked when he got there. He sort of remembered fumbling around for his key. Once inside the apartment, he relocked the door and then stumbled over to the couch where he passed out, not even bothering to check the bedroom where he now believed his wife had laid, already dead.
Deacon Storrs was a very believable individual. He was thirty-one years old, medium height, medium build, a very unassuming figure. He looked his questioners directly in the eyes. He showed considerable remorse for the last argument he'd had with his wife. The argument, he'd said, had been a rarity. Although he'd had past disagreements with his wife, they'd never before reached the shouting phrase. His neighbors also attested that the Storrses had been a very quiet and friendly couple. Detectives could not find a single person to speak ill of the man. He was friendly, neighborly, went to work every day and was always on time, a very dependable employee. In fact, if not for his very implausible story, Deacon Storrs may have very well been left alone to mourn the loss of his twenty-nine year old, attractive wife in peace. But a ghost did not kill Cindy Storrs. A human did. And there'd been only one human locked inside that apartment with her. Deacon Storrs.

Ben was second chair on the case. The lead prosecutor was a twenty-year veteran of the DA's office, Jeff Stone. Stone was old-moneyed. His New England family had made its fortune in shipping. Stone had wanted no part in the family business. Though he stopped the line of renouncement at the monthly dividend check he received as part of his share of the family's vast holdings.

Stone rested the state's case early Friday morning and anticipated a quick end to what appeared to be an open and shut domestic murder case.

"When this gets to the jury," Stone had said confidently, "they should get back in record time."

However, Ben wasn't so sure. He'd remembered how Deacon Storrs had so cavalierly rejected the plea offer as if he'd had an ace up his sleeve. Still, Stone had insisted that Ben keep the plea form at the ready during the prosecutorial phase of the trial, as if Deacon Storrs would suddenly come to his senses after having heard the facts of the case repeated in the light of day in front of a jury. So Ben had dutifully brought the form, nestled in a thin manila folder, to trial with him every day. But he didn't believe for one minute that the form was in any danger of getting an attack of signatures anytime soon.

"I have no earthly idea," Stone had said in response to Ben's query of why Deacon Storrs would reject an involuntary manslaughter charge when the evidence clearly pointed to murder in the first degree. Stone, who had more than twice as much prosecutorial experience as Ben, had added, "I have long ceased trying to figure out the criminal mind. Maybe Storrs thinks killing his wife during a drunken rage doesn't count, or maybe his defense will be that while he was passed out dead drunk on the couch, a spook teleported through the locked door and bludgeoned his wife. I really have no earthly idea. But it's not my job to know. My job is to defend the rights of the people of this state. To speak for the victim who can no longer speak for herself. Deacon Storrs murdered his wife in cold blood. I believe we've proven that beyond a reasonable doubt. And the sooner the defense wraps up their bullshit, the sooner the jury can get the case, and the sooner we'll be able to go about the business of putting other deviants behind bars."

"Maybe," Ben said to himself in the empty kitchen. He took another sip of his coffee. Though he didn't have a heap of murder trial experience, he knew enough not to underestimate the ability of twelve people in a jury box to see things entirely different than the prosecution. Especially if the defense continued bringing forth character witnesses as credible as their lead witness had been on Friday.

The Reverend Ethel Storrs was an associate pastor of the First Faith Baptist Church. She was gray-haired and kind-faced with an old-fashioned grandmotherly demeanor. It was easy to imagine her preparing fruit bags on Christmas day for all of her grandchildren, even the grownup ones. Her entire manner, from her graceful walk to the witness stand, to the careful and deliberate way in which she spoke, screamed honesty and forthrightness. She wore an understated flower-print dress and her hair had been set back in a bun. She was a used car dealer's dream. If she said she'd only driven her now-for-sale car once a week and twice on Sunday, it would sell faster than a salesman's fake grin could disappear. As they watched her being sworn in, Ben sensed a sliver of Stone's over-the-top optimism evaporating. However, after the defense counselor, Keithan Jones, got deeper into his questioning of Rev. Storrs, Stone had perked up again. It appeared the reverend's total devotion to the truth and honesty could cut both ways, even if one way could prove potentially harmful to her son Deacon.
"Are you saying that you believed Cindy Storrs?" Keithan Jones had asked her. He posed the question delicately. Ben could only assume that Jones had covered this ground with the witness in his pretrial preparations. What he likely hadn't anticipated was the courtroom's reaction to the good reverend's statement that Deacon's wife, Cindy Storrs, had seen an omen predicting her own death at the hands of a stranger, and Cindy had consulted a psychic regarding it.

"I believe in signs from God," Reverend Storrs answered.

"Would a sign from God necessarily be a white pigeon on the roof of a house?"

Reverend Storrs smiled. "Surely God is capable of using whatever methods suits his needs or desires to communicate with us." Her voice was strong and steady. Still, there was a measurable groan in the courtroom. Judge Henry McMichaels banged his gravel.

Jones altered his line of questioning. "Would you have recommended that your daughter-inlaw go see a psychic about the white pigeon she'd seen on the roof of her apartment complex?"

"No," Reverend Storrs said matter-of-factly. Jones smiled. But she quickly added, "I would have recommended that she seek the Father, as I would have recommended to anyone else who'd ask my advice. I would have encouraged her to pray and study his word." She glanced around the room as if speaking to everyone in it.

"Did you recommend she go to the authorities?" Jones asked.

"And tell them what exactly?" Reverend Storrs asked defiantly. "That she had a premonition that some stranger would break into her house and bludgeoned her to death? They wouldn't have believed her, just like the prosecution doesn't believe me now. But, it's true. Cindy saw her murderer, and it wasn't my son. But God's will, will be done. The truth will come out, one way or the other."

Ben noticed a couple of jurors nodding their heads as if in agreement. Evidently, Jones noticed it too and he took it as an opportunity to steer the reverend away from the supernatural, and toward stories of the defendant's upbringing. Her testimony ended the court day. Afterwards, Stone felt rejuvenated. He told Ben just before they left court that he was planning to revisit omens and psychics during Monday's cross. It would be fair game, Ben supposed. If the reverend was seen as willing to use any means necessary to free her son, including espousing the virtues of omens and psychics, then there was a good chance her testimony could be refuted as just blatant hogwash. Blame it on nature. Blame it on the rain. Blame it on psychics and omens. But please oh please don't blame sweet, innocent Deacon.

To Ben, a belief in omens and psychics was a complete waste of time. He could not imagine why anyone would spend their hard-earned money on psychics, soothsayers, or any other such nonsense. Crap in life happened, pointblank, end of story. Sometimes it happened for no reason at all. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, or even the right place at the wrong time, and something bad or good just happened to you. And you would have to deal with it. In other cases, crap happened to you because of you. For instance, if you didn't pay your light bill, your lights were turned off. Or if you didn't work, you didn't eat. Of course, those types of crap you could reasonably control. The others, you just had to deal with and hope that your share of potential crap would be as limited as possible. To him, these were simple truisms that needed no crystal ball. His single-parent mom, may she rest in peace, had taught him these simple facts of life. And Mayo Fathers had reinforced them. Why most people spent a lifetime in a wilderness of misunderstanding on such matters was a big mystery to him. Life wasn't that complicated. There was no man behind the curtain pulling strings, sending omens and white pigeons to hint about his intentions. It was only you and how you dealt with things. If the defense was preparing to blame Cindy Storrs' death on the ethers, open and shut may in fact be a distinct possibility.
He drained the last of his coffee and then closed out of the Storrs file. He looked at the digital clock on the stove. It was five minutes after five. He decided he had enough time for a jog before getting ready for court. Seven minutes later, he stood on his front porch, his breath forming intermittent fog-like wisps in the chilly January morning. He first looked to the east where the rising sun's rays began to push across the sky, and then he looked west, before slowly taking off in that direction, a nice and steady run into the retreating darkness.

His mind floated to thoughts of April. She'd still been asleep when he'd changed into his sweats, which was a good thing he told himself; especially since lately she'd had trouble sleeping. Everything on her body seemed to ache, her back, her legs, and just about every muscle. Her sense of smell had become acute. Most scents bothered her, including his aftershave. He'd had to switch to an unscented brand. She was nauseous most of the time. The doctor had assured him that all of this was normal during pregnancy. But it pained him to see his wife in so much discomfort. She had a routine doctor's appointment later that morning, and he wished he could be there with her. But she'd insisted he go on to court. That she'd be okay. He figured that she only wanted him to go to court because she knew that he'd insist that they leave for the appointment a little early. His routine was to leave for any appointment well before he was due to arrive. His mantra had always been be early, even way early, but never late. Which was completely opposite of that of his wife. Whose mantra was undeniably—no mantras, period, end of discussion

The two of them often jokingly wondered how they even fell in love in the first place, he of the rather be-an-hour-early-instead-of-a-minute-late-breed and she preferring late grand entrances over timely arrivals. But the chemistry between them had been instant, and the marriage, depending upon the onlooker's perspective, had either been whirlwind or shotgun. A baby was conceived on the night of their first date, and the marriage had followed suit two months later.

From the moment he'd first laid eyes on her, he was sprung. And when he'd found out she'd felt the same way, well that was nothing short of a miracle. They both had decided not to wait on the inevitable, electing to start their lives together immediately. The baby had miscarried shortly before the nuptials, but neither felt as though a mistake had been made. Their love was real and their feelings for each other were as strong as ever. And now, two years after having first laid eyes on her, they were going to have that baby after all, two of them in fact.

Lights dotted on just about every other house in the neighborhood as the neighborhood slowly stirred to life. He ran past three cars idling in their driveways, their engines warming up, their mufflers billowing grayish-white exhaust fumes into the coldness. So far it had been a typical noncommittal North Carolina winter. On Friday morning, it had been a pleasant and spring-like sixty degrees during his jog. Now just three days later, it felt downright arctic. He ran up and down the two streets parallel to his own and then returned home. There was no need catching pneumonia while trying to stay in shape.
After reentering the house, Ben went directly into the upstairs main bathroom for a shower. It was now 6:00. Fifteen minutes later, the steamy shower was completed and Ben emerged from it, dropping one wet foot after the other on a purple throw rug. Before April, the bathroom floor itself dried his feet. He smiled. Civilization had arrived in his life and it was a good thing. Considering all he'd been through in his life, losing his mother to a senseless crime, never knowing his father, and growing up in what was essentially a group home, he'd managed to accomplish a lot. He'd graduated college and law school. He was a rising star in the district attorney's office. To boot, he had a beautiful wife with two beautiful baby boys on the way. To be sure, Mayo Fathers had been an essential reason behind his success. Ben didn't know what would have happened to him if Mayo hadn't taken him in. And he didn't want to know. He'd overcome his past and that was all that mattered. His future was very bright.

He finished toweling off and then wrapped the now damp towel around his toned midsection. He reached under the sink and grabbed his electric razor. He picked up a folded newspaper from the wicker stand that was against the wall behind him. It stood next to a matching white wicker wastebasket. After lining the sink with the newspaper to catch falling stubble, he began the tedious task of shaving.

Despite the newspaper lining and his best efforts to avoid having them do so, fine black hairs still speckled around the edges of the white porcelain sink. After only completing one side of his face, he frowned down at the antlike hairy specks, and then heard the first of his wife's shrieks blazing into the bathroom.
Chapter 3

James Etlzer was a numbers guy. It was an obsession that had started in grade school with his first passion—baseball. The numbers didn't lie. If you wanted to know if a hitter was having a great season, you'd look at his numbers—his batting average, the number of home runs he'd hit, the number of runs batted in. Was a pitcher worth his salt? Well what did the numbers say? What was his earned run average? How many strikeouts did he have? How many walks? How many hits given up? The numbers didn't lie. Consult them and there were no mysteries.

In his current capacity as Duraleigh County district attorney, he believed not only in the prophetic capabilities of numbers, but also in their perception-setting abilities. The numbers always told the tale. Was Duraleigh the safest county in North Carolina? Why, just look at its ten percent decrease in the number of overall crimes from last year. While you're at it, take a gander at its twenty percent decrease in violent crimes over the last five years. In fact, look at all of the mind boggling statistics during DA James Etlzer's entire eleven year reign. His office's conviction rate was truly staggering. Why Mr. and Mrs. John Q. Anybody, don't you feel absolutely safe in Duraleigh? Of course you do, because the numbers didn't lie.

Etlzer sat at his desk in his office, partaking in one of his favorite pastimes—thumbing through the county's latest crime statistics. The stats were truly impressive, and the county had shown improvement in every major category for each year of his tenure. No small feat considering his predecessor, Bruce Waters, had himself touted obscene numbers. The thought of Waters brought a touch of sadness, as well as a feeling of concern. He put the statistics guide back into the upper left desk drawer and then looked expectantly at his desk phone.

As if he'd willed it, the phone rang. "Etlzer," he barked into the receiver.

"Have you heard?" asked the voice on the other end.

"Yes," Etlzer replied. "His wife called me last night. She's worried. She doesn't think he's going to make it. It was a massive heart attack. He had over ninety percent blockage." He paused, then, "It's amazing. I just saw Waters last week. He looked incredible, appeared in great shape. He was very excited about running for governor. I guess you never know."

"No, you don't," the voice answered blankly. "We have to move quickly."

"I don't follow."

"The governorship. You are going to run in Waters' place."

Etlzer leaned back in his chair. "Governor. That's a big leap from DA. AG is one thing, but governor..." his voice trailed off.

"It's makes perfect sense. Waters was popular because of how he'd cleaned up Duraleigh. That was the catalyst behind his successful attorney general's bid. You're his protégé. If the people can't have Waters, you're the next best thing. The campaign infrastructure is already in place. Money, donors, volunteers, everything is at the ready."

"What if Waters survives?"

"It doesn't matter. He's already lost the election. Heart attack equals weak candidate. He's done as a politician."

Etlzer rubbed his chin. "There are some other concerns."

"Such as?"

"Waters heard talk of a federal investigation into Fathers Disciples."
"I'll tell you as I'd told Waters. Any federal investigation into Fathers Disciples will be hindered. My people don't talk. And those who do, don't do so for long. In any event, if the feds want Fathers Disciples, I'm prepared to give it to them."

"I don't understand."

"You don't need to understand, counselor," the voice said calmly. "Just prepare yourself to become the next governor of North Carolina, and afterwards, well, dream big counselor, dream big."

"Alright, alright. But there is one other thing. The Leeson boy. The Duraleigh Standard is starting a narrative on the return of gang violence. Now it's possible that the police and mayor will take the immediate negatives on that. But there could be some blowback on my end as well. I mean ending gangs was one of the main issues I ran on."

"I admit we were a little messy,' the voice said with a trace of irritation. "But a fix is already underway. I'm sending someone over. He'll cop to it. He'll say that it was just a beef between friends."

"Can we sell that? I understand the Leeson boy is busted up pretty bad."

"It'll sell. Assign one of your regulars to it, someone who doesn't ask many questions, like Lovison. It'll go away."

"It's that simple?" Etlzer asked doubtfully.

"It's that simple, Governor," the voice replied.

"Governor," Etlzer repeated softly. It had a nice ring to it.

Calvin Leeson was having an O.O.B.E. He'd learned the term from his high school physics teacher, Mr. Egbert Moreland. It meant out of body experience. Moreland was a short, eager-faced man, with thinning hair that he combed over in a wasted attempt to camouflage his bald head. In describing his own O.O.B.E experiences to his students, Moreland said, "Oh little friends, I travel all over. Sometimes I even visit some of you. I just hover over your beds while you're sleeping."

At the time, Calvin had doubted that his teacher was being serious, or if such a thing was even possible. But here Calvin was, hovering over his own hospital bed, looking down at his badly bruised face. He studied his face for several minutes. His jaws were balled out as if he had a mouth stuffed full of chewing tobacco. His puffy eyes looked like little ant mounds. His complexion was now strangely purplish. In his current O.O.B.E state, Calvin struggled to remember what had happened to him.

Police car. He vaguely recalled a police car. Or was it policemen in a car? He wasn't sure. Cain Simmons. Yeah, Cain had been there. Cain and policemen in a car. How did it all fit? He struggled to remember. After a few minutes, he gave up. It hurt too much trying to remember. Mr. Moreland hadn't mentioned having headaches in his O.O.B.E state. If Calvin was out of his body, was he a spirit? Could a spirit have a headache?

He floated upward a little more, backing further away from the bed, taking in a panoramic view of the room. It was a tight little room, perhaps no bigger than a generously sized walk-in closet. He took the full measure of his body and then looked away. A flat screen television fitted snugly into the upper left corner wall. A Cosby show episode, its sound muted, played onscreen. At the front of the bed, near his body's head, there were three or four machines, each either beeping, or blinking, or both. An IV bag dangled over his head, its tube extending into his right arm. He scanned the rest of the room, then stopped suddenly as his eyes happened upon the body folded in the recliner at the other corner of the room.
"Momma," he cried out. He floated over to the recliner and hovered over his mother. Sarah Leeson looked extremely uncomfortable. She was fetal-curled into the crevice of the chair, her toes lightly scraping the edge of the leg rest.

Policemen. Cain. His mother. There was a connection. Remember, damn it, he commanded himself. Seconds later, an image surfaced—policemen. Slowly, the memory became clearer. A dark blue sedan pulled up alongside him as he walked home. A head had leaned out the window of the passenger side. Calvin hadn't known him. He'd never seen him before. It had been a young dude, in his late teens or early twenties. He was brown-complected with one long bushy eyebrow. "You're Sarah Leeson's boy," he'd said to Calvin. He didn't ask; he accused.

"I don't know you, partner," Calvin responded hastily and continued walking.

"He's cool, C." The voice came from the backseat. Calvin stopped and stooped down, peering into the car. It was Cain. "That's my nigga, Morant," Cain said. "He works for Father too. Get in. He just wants to holler at a brother."

Calvin hesitated. He wasn't sure. But Morant quickly jumped out of the front seat of the car, yanked opened the back door, and roughly shoved Calvin down into the backseat. After Morant got back in, the car dislodged asphalt, sped down the road, and eventually ended up on the south side of town behind W.H. Knuckles Elementary School.

Morant quickly hustled Calvin out of the car. It was no secret who was running things. Both Cain and the driver, a short man with a muscular George of the Jungle upper body attached to stunted but equally muscled legs, exited the car as well. Neither said a word.

"You're working for the FBI," Morant said. Again, it was an accusation, but this time, Morant flavored it with a punch to Calvin's gut, dropping him to his knees and leaving him gasping for breath.

Morant stood over Calvin. "You biting the hand that feeds you boy," Morant said menacingly, spicing it up with another blow, this time to Calvin's jaw, knocking him over on his side. He stomped Calvin's head into the ground and grinded it into the dirt.

Blinded by pain and confusion, Calvin trembled on the ground, struggling against the weight of the Nike on his head. He'd met the FBI agent only three times and had yet to give any information that hadn't already been known. Calvin was only a bit player in Fathers Disciples, a mere street hustler. He'd given the agent nothing because he'd had nothing to give. He didn't even know how the agent had gotten his name in the first place. But apparently, Father had somehow found out about the meetings and now Calvin was getting the shit beat out of him because of it.

Morant lifted his foot from the side of Calvin's head and readied it for another stomp when he paused knee-high at the crunching sounds of another car slowly moving across the gravel. Morant looked toward the car and let his foot fall harmlessly down, next to Calvin's head.

Through slightly closed and dirt-filled eyes, Calvin saw the white sedan with the blue siren on top. A sense of relief swept through him. It was the police. He watched the patrol car's driver side door open. Shiny black dress shoes exited the vehicle and walked over to the back of the blue sedan from which Calvin had been unceremoniously pulled. "What's going on here?" the officer asked. The question was directed at Morant.

Morant squared up and slightly nudged Calvin's head with his foot. "Nothing officer. This is Father's business."
"Hmm," the officer said. He lowered his voice as if sharing a secret. "You guys should be more careful. People called in. Said some young boy had been kidnapped. Ya'll are going to have to get the hell out of here."

Morant said, "We got to finish this up."

The passenger side door of the police car opened. Another shiny black shoe hit the gravel.

"It's okay, Peters," the first officer shouted towards the patrol car. "I got this."

The shiny black shoe stayed planted for a long moment, before hesitantly rising up again and returning to the patrol car. The passenger side door of the patrol car slammed shut.

The first officer faced Morant once more. The volume increased slightly and the range lowered. "Hurry the fuck up. People saw. I've got to call the ambulance."

Morant glared at him for a full second. "Calm your nerves, man. We got this. He then turned to Cain and George of the Jungle. "Let's get to it." The blows came in abundance, courtesy of fists, feet, and elbows. Calvin curled up in a fetal position in a futile effort to protect himself. His hopes for protection, so strong just a minute ago, evaporated into a mist of comprehension. Father was too powerful. He even had the police under his thumb.

Calvin drifted in and out of consciousness. During his fleeting moments of wakefulness, an understanding of his situation had sunk in. He faced death. He could see it across the way where his father stood in its midst, open-armed and beckoning Calvin to come join him. He surely missed his father. It had been almost three years since the elder Leeson's death. The wound it had caused still hadn't sufficiently healed. Their potential reunion would be sweet.

Calvin smiled. Death could be a good thing. But then, Calvin turned his head away and looked in the corner at his mother. She was still asleep in the recliner. She needed him alive. He remembered Morant's initial greeting, "You're Sarah Leeson's boy." Maybe they had something on her too. He had to warn her.

"Momma," he cried out. She didn't answer. He called out again and again; and again and again, there was no answer. Suddenly he felt himself being pulled up from the hospital bed. He looked down at the bed that was changing form. It now sported grass and weeds as if it was becoming part of the earth. He tried reaching for it, but could only grab the top edge of the inclined mattress. It turned to a fine dust in his hands. "Momma," he cried out again.

"Calvin." The voice came from above him. He turned to face it. It was his father with outstretched arms.

Calvin waved him off. "I got to go back. I've got to warn Momma."

His father waited patiently as Calvin continued ascending toward him.

"I got to go back," Calvin said.

Finally, Calvin reached his father who gently pulled his son into his embrace. "It's over son," he said gently. "It's over."

***

Everything was a blur, seen through a sleep-fueled haze, and leftover tears induced from a just interrupted dream, a dream that had unfortunately been based on an unfolding reality. Calvin was dying.

Sarah Leeson stood, wedged between the recliner she'd been sleeping on and the wall on which her back was now pressed. In front of her, her only child lay on a bed, doctors and nurses scurrying about him. There were beeps, pings, and wails from various machines mingling with the frantic verbiage of medical personnel fighting what she knew to be a losing battle.
She'd seen this scenario play out before.

Nearly three years ago her husband suffered a heart attack. The heart attack was the merciful ending to Pete Leeson's courageous, albeit unsuccessful battle against cancer. He'd fought the disease for eighteen months, running up a mountain of false hopes and medical bills before the heart attack had mercifully brought what cancer had threatened all along. It was life's irony, she'd thought then as she'd watched the doctors and nurses frantically try to save a man who was dying anyway.

Now here she was again, losing another man from her life, a young man who'd had so much promise and who had desperately tried to fill his father's shoes. It had been a desperation that had undoubtedly contributed to her son being here. No, she said to herself, pushing the thought away. She would not blame Pete's death on this. Still, she needed to lash out at someone or something.

The maddening activity soon trickled to a stop. A restless and uneasy calm fell over the room, washing over her as the cacophony of death battling medical noises morphed into a single elongated ping. She shifted from behind the recliner and slid down the wall onto her backside, pressing her thighs up against her bosom. "Why, God, why?" her anguished screamed slashed through the hospital room.
Chapter 4

Ben had known Dr. Gordon Shepherd literally his whole life, the good doctor having delivered Ben thirty-three years ago. Shepherd was a throwback, an old fashioned family doctor still apt to making house calls, and who still took pictures of every baby he delivered. He knew his patients intimately, taking great pride in remembering a lot of their birthdays, anniversaries, and graduation dates.

When Ben had called Shepherd early that Monday morning, Shepherd was already at the hospital making his rounds. At seventy-two years of age, the doctor had no intentions of retiring anytime soon, and Ben had no doubts that Shepherd accomplished more in a half-day than most doctors half his age accomplished in an entire week. When Ben had found out he and April were expecting a baby, he'd instantly thought of Dr. Shepherd. April had been skeptical at first, but it had taken just one consultation with the doctor for her to change her mind. His mind was as sharp as a tack, and as he told her, "I have over forty-one years' experience delivering babies. I think I am quite capable helping get these two into the world."

"Two?" Ben had asked, not quite trusting his ears.

"Two," Shepherd repeated. "You two are having twins."

Now it seemed the twins had been just as anxious to get here, as their parents had been to see them. A bit too anxious, Ben thought now as he stood outside the neonatal intensive care unit, watching as his newly arrived boys were each placed into an incubator. "This is all standard procedure," Shepherd had assured him earlier as the boys were being weighed, measured, and prepared for transport to the NICU. "At thirty weeks, we have to make sure the babies are getting the right amount of minerals and fluids. We also have to monitor their body temperatures. And make sure they're not losing too much fluid."

"Are they going to be alright?" Ben asked nervously.

"I'll be honest with you," Shepherd told him. "This is not an ideal situation. Nothing takes the place of a mother's womb. Right now the odds are about 40-60 that we could lose one or both of them. But we've been here before. We have experience in these situations. In addition to that, premature care has advanced a lot in the last few years."

It had been an honest assessment. Ben expected no less from Dr. Shepherd. The doctor was an eternal optimist, but he was also a realist. If the situation was hopeless, Shepherd would have had no problem saying so. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd had to give Ben sobering news.

When Ben was thirteen years old, he'd returned home from school to find his mother lying near death on the sidewalk in front of their home. A puddle of blood from a single gunshot had widened in her chest. Despite seeing his mother in such a horrific state, he'd remained calm enough to go inside their home, dial 911, and afterwards, the number of Dr. Shepherd; a name his mom had scotch-taped to the door of the refrigerator.

Shepherd made it to the emergency room fifteen minutes before the ambulance. As the paramedics rolled Lizzie Lovison into surgery, Shepherd pulled Ben into a waiting area and found a spot on a bench near the back of the room. "They will do everything they can for her," he assured Ben. All around them the emergency room teemed with activity.

A little boy, perhaps five years of age, had accidently stepped on a rusted nail at his school and now complained loudly about having to get a tetanus shot. Meanwhile, a young mother, her head wrapped in a red scarf, rushed in, carrying a child in her arms and a little brown plastic bottle. She yelled at the attendants that the child had accidently swallowed prescription pills. One nurse grabbed the baby from the woman's arms, taking it through double doors in one direction while another nurse led the woman down the hall in the opposite direction, all the while trying to calm the hysterical woman. Next, an elderly man came in complaining of chest pains. It was one thing after the other, some major, some minor, and all seemingly happening at one time. It was an ordinary Wednesday afternoon and it wasn't even quite suppertime. Ben, with blood-speckled shirt and pants, sat stock-still next to Dr. Shepherd who had his arm around him, lightly patting his shoulder.
Thirty minutes later Shepherd said, "I'll go back and see what I can find out." A little while after that, he returned and motioned for Ben to follow him to a private room down the hall. Once they were inside the room, Shepherd closed the door, looked Ben squarely in the eyes, and said simply, "She's gone."

Ben stood at the glass window of the neonatal unit, quietly staring at the two newest Lovisons.

"...tably," He turned his head around in the direction of the baritone voice. It was Dr. Shepherd, still wearing his scrubs.

"Sorry, doc," Ben said. "I didn't hear you."

"I said April's resting comfortably," Shepherd repeated.

"Good. May I see her?"

"By all means," Shepherd replied. "I need you as upbeat as you possibly can be. Assure her that everything will be alright."

"Will it?"

"The odds are as I told you before. But you're her husband and your love and support will give her better odds. She's still weak, and I need her fighting to get stronger. So you need to pray for whatever strength and courage you need before you go in to see her. Okay?"

Focusing on the tubes attached to their babies, and becoming increasingly aware of the two of them lying in what looked like little metal coffins, Ben mouthed silently, "Okay."

The walls in the hospital chapel were decorated in a hodgepodge of religious imagery. There were images of crosses, crescents, Buddhas, stars, moons, suns, Bibles, and all sorts of religious depictions in a harmonious display of spiritual tolerance. It had been a compromise on the part of Lincoln Memorial's senior administration staff after there had been an uproar against the decision to remove all religious imagery from the hospital, including all Bibles, crosses, Korans, and anything remotely related to any religion of any kind.

Ben knelt on a mat at the front of the chapel in a place where an altar used to be. Now there was simply a table with candles and a bowl containing written prayers from anyone who'd felt compelled to write one. He hadn't felt so compelled and for that matter, he wasn't exactly sure what he wanted to say. For the longest time he just stared at the candles. His tenuous belief in God was only there at all because his mom had believed. However, in Ben's mind, considering the way she'd died, there wasn't exactly a compelling reason to believe in a higher power. And if he added in the fact that the so called higher power had allowed his father to abandon him and his mother, then God Almighty wasn't exactly batting a thousand. At the very least, he hadn't always shined so favorably on one, Benjamin Clyde Lovison.

Still, he loved his wife and their new family, and he wanted them all healthy and home, so he closed his eyes and prayed. He prayed for the wellbeing of his two little babies. He prayed for his wife April to get better, both mentally and physically. He prayed that he'd be a better man and a better father, much better than his own father had been. Finally, he prayed for the strength to face April with confidence, optimism, and knowledge that everything would be okay. After meditating silently for a few moments, he opened his eyes, thanked God for his time, and stood up. When he turned around, he stared right into tear-filled eyes.
She appeared to be in her mid-thirties. Her face was pleasant, but tired-looking. She looked as if she'd spent a night or two at the hospital. Her hair barely held form, strands of it popped out of place like weeds. She wore a knee length white skirt that sported the haphazard creases of having been slept in, as did her blue blouse. She fingered a small cross attached to a necklace which hung around her neck. Ben smiled. She managed to return a half-one as she eased past him to the spot he'd just vacated. He was almost out the chapel when he heard the crash behind him. He turned around. It was a chaotic mess. The woman had fallen over the table, knocking it over, sending the candles and the prayer bowl along with its contents hurtling to the floor. Tiny bits of paper flickered to the floor like disinterested snow.

***

Sarah Leeson had just lost her only child. She babbled that to him after he'd helped her up from the floor. She was unsure of what she was going to do now that both the men in her life were gone. What had she done wrong, she sobbed. "Why am I being punished," she asked into the air, winging her arms out flamboyantly as if to punctuate the rhetorical question. Ben had no answers for her, so he simply and quietly escorted her to the cafeteria where he offered to buy her a cup of coffee, which she accepted, and some breakfast, which she declined.

At ten o'clock, the crowd in the cafeteria thinned. A few tables were randomly occupied with an assortment of visitors and hospital personnel. The conversations were varied and muffled, like those in a library before some bun-haired lady ordered complete and absolute silence. There was no such noise-monitor here, but sometimes circumstances beckoned silence. Ben led her to a table near the back, and then quietly and patiently sat with her.

Eventually he learned that the other man she'd lost had been her husband. He'd been stricken with cancer, though it had been a heart attack that delivered the fatal blow. Her son had been the victim of street violence. Ben vaguely recalled skimming an article about the incident in last week's Duraleigh Standard. He listened without interruption, interjecting only when her pause seemed interminable, and then only to gently nudge her along. He asked her son's age. Seventeen, she said. What a wonderful age that was, he said without thinking. She smiled and apparently understood he'd meant no harm by it. After all, her son's death was still fresh to her as well. She asked his name, and afterwards if Ben was short for Benjamin. "Yes," he answered. "But please call me Ben." She repeated his name, "Ben." It slid comfortably from her lips as if she'd known him longer than twenty minutes.

He thought about sharing his story about his mom. How he'd lost her to senseless violence as well. But the thought made him remember how he'd really felt after his mom had been killed. He'd wanted neither sympathy nor empathy. He'd wanted revenge.

"I'm an assistant district attorney," he blurted out as if that fact alone was a sword to be used against any and all perpetrators.

She jerked ever so slightly and looked genuinely puzzled. Then, she abruptly pushed back from the table and started to get up. "I'm sorry," she said, clearly flustered. "I didn't mean to impose."

Ben reached across the table for her. "Impose? You're not imposing. Hold on a second. I'm one of the good guys."
She pulled back beyond his reach and made it to her feet, snatching up her handbag in the process. "I'm so sorry. I've got to go. I have so much to do. I'm sorry." She spoke rapidly and avoided looking at him as if she'd just found out his embarrassing secret.

"Sorry about what?" Ben asked following behind her. He had to break into a light jog.

"Please Mr. Lovison," she said in a quavering voice. "Let me go. I have things I need to take care of."

Mr. Lovison? Just a few moments ago, he'd been Ben. Why was she acting so formal all of a sudden? He stood a few feet back from her and watched as she entered the empty elevator. She punched the call button and then turned her gaze to her shoes as the elevator doors closed.

In Ben's experience, some people on the low rungs of education and income held a deep distrust of the law and the people sworn to enforce it. That distrust often manifested itself through unreasonable fear or unfathomable hate. As one moved up the income and education scales, distrust gradually became understanding of the rules of law, and with that understanding, often came a deep respect for those individuals entrusted with defending and enforcing it. Of course, amongst the extreme upper end of the income scale there was sometimes a feeling that the rule of law could sometimes be a nuisance, and that policeman, prosecutors, and judges were mere lowly public servants, apt to overstepping their bounds from time to time.

Sarah Leeson's behavior had been surprising only in the sense that she had appeared to be an educated woman of at least modest means. But then again, there were always exceptions to every rule. As he approached the hospital room where his wife had been moved, Ben dismissed thoughts of Sarah. He paused at the closed door. He heard voices inside the room.

He opened the door to find Mayo Fathers standing over April's bed, smiling widely. April, though she looked a little feeble, smiled too. She had a new mother's glow and she seemed... happy. Tired, but happy.

"There he is," she said in a high whisper when she noticed him standing in the doorway.

Mayo turned around. "Congratulations, Ben. Twins, huh?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Mr. Fathers told me what a decent and honorable young man you were growing up. He said our boys will be fortunate to have you for a father."

"I appreciate the compliment, Mayo."

"Well, it's the truth. I never had any trouble out of this one. He always had a deep respect for authority." He smiled at April. "And you sweet one. Call me Uncle Mayo. We're family."

April smiled weakly, "Sure, Uncle Mayo." She closed her eyes and seemed to nod off.

"I called your office and they told me what happened," Mayo said to Ben.

"You didn't have to rush down here."

"I had someone else here to visit anyway."

"Anything serious?" Ben quizzed.

"Nothing you should be concerned about," Mayo deflected. "How are those babies?"

"Fine," Ben said hurriedly also wanting to deflect. He nodded ever so slightly toward his wife.

Mayo caught the hint and smiled awkwardly.

"What did you want?" Ben asked rather harshly before softening it with, "You said you'd called my office."

"Uh, right," Mayo said, appearing somewhat surprised at the tone of the first question. "I wanted to confirm your participation at next week's conference. But I guess in light of the arrival of the babies, you probably won't make it."
"No, I can make it. It's an opportunity to give back."

"Great," Mayo said. "I also got a confirmation from Caleb."

April opened her eyes and perked up a little at the mention of Caleb's name. "Caleb Dawson, Ben's old friend?"

"One and the same," Mayo said. "The Bureau is giving him a couple of days off and he agreed to do it."

"I can't wait to meet him," April said. "I've heard so much about him."

"I don't talk about him that much," Ben said, obviously embarrassed.

"They were two peas in a pod at one point," Mayo offered. "Then Caleb's father came back and moved the family away. But Caleb has always said the time he'd spent at Fathers House helped make the difference in his life. He and Ben are what the home is all about. Next week I plan to showcase both of them. Fundraising will go through the roof."

"Anything I can do to help, just let me know," Ben said.

"Just show up," Mayo said as he walked toward the door.

After Mayo left, April looked warily at her husband. "Why don't you call him Uncle Mayo?"

"Huh?" Ben asked.

"Uncle Mayo. I have never heard you call him that. But he says family calls him that. But you don't. Why?"

Ben thought about her question for a moment. The answer was simple really. When he'd first started going to Fathers House he'd called Mayo, Mr. Fathers. After moving into Fathers House, he'd tried briefly calling him Uncle Mayo like everyone else had. But it felt uncomfortable to him doing that. Mayo wasn't his uncle. He was of no blood relation, kind deed or no kind deed. So one day, Ben dropped the uncle moniker and started calling him Mayo. But he didn't tell April any of that, instead he said, "I don't know."

It didn't matter. It wasn't a pressing concern for April. She yawned and asked, "How do our babies look?"

Ben kissed his wife on the forehead. "Beautiful. Both of them are simply beautiful."
Chapter 5

Maalik drained the last of his milk and threw the empty carton into the trashcan. He grabbed an apple from the bowl and walked to the former butler pantry/library. The wall separating the two rooms had been knocked down, and the combined room was now the study hall. Some of the books from the old library, a few of which were almost a hundred years old, were squeezed tight into a bookshelf built into the wall. To protect the books, the temperature in the room was kept low even in the winter, which gave the room a hint of the authentic dankness of an old bookstore.

Maalik didn't acknowledge the other boy sitting at the table. Instead, he grabbed his math workbook, a notebook, and a pencil from his book bag and sat down at the opposite end of the table. With his eyes fixedly on his workbook, he felt the other boy's eyes on him.

After a few moments of awkward silence, the other boy got up and moved to the chair across the table from Maalik. "It's been two weeks man. How long are you going to keep this up?"

Maalik didn't look up. "Keep what up?"

"This, the silent treatment."

"Dude, I ain't being silent. I just ain't got nuthin' to say."

"Is that right?" The other boy said. "I know you got busted by the police. I know Uncle Mayo picked you up from the station. I know you were punished somehow. And now you're acting strange. It's like you're in some sort of fog. What did he do to you?"

"Ain't nobody done nuthin' to me, Prodegee. Alright? Nuthin'. I'm cool. Okay? I'm cool."

"I ain't buying that," Prodegee said. "Something happened. I see who you've been hanging with now too. What if I want to get down?"

Maalik smirked. "Get down. You? Man, please. You're just a kid."

"A kid? I'm the same age as you."

Maalik looked up at Prodegee for the first time. He licked his lips and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'm telling you this for your own good. Stay away from me. Stay away from Nathan. And stay away from Joe-Joe. Cain knows what's up and he'll tell you the same thing. Just be a kid."

"Nah, man," Prodegee said. "I want to...."

"What the fuck are you doing?" The angry voice rushed into the room from the hallway. Prodegee looked in that direction. "Cain, what's up?"

"Don't what's up me," Cain said. "I told you to stay away from him." He faced Maalik. "What're you doing Maalik?"

"I ain't doing nuthin', man," Maalik said. "You need to check your boy."

Cain glared at Maalik. "Get your stuff Prodegee." And then to Maalik, "Stay away from him."

Maalik went back to his workbook. "Whatever," he mumbled.

Outside the study hall, Cain jacked up Prodegee by his shirt. "Either you down with him or you're down with me."

"But I see ya'll hanging out. You down with him," Prodegee charged accusingly.

Cain ignored that. "I'm serious Prodegee. If you're going to kick this music thing with me, you can't hang with him, or with me when I'm hanging with him. And I ain't got to explain it to you. You got a choice. What's it going to be?"

"Alright, man. Damn. I'm with you. Alright."
"Good. Meet me at my house at about six-thirty."

"You're staying at your house tonight?"

"Yeah," Cain said.

"Your old man's not going to be there?"

"He's not my old man. He's my mother's boyfriend. And no, he's not there."

"Well bet, let's go kick some music now."

"I can't right now," Cain said. "I got to go downtown and handle some business."

***

"Judge Stanley Kilroy is an asshole," Frank Vass said. He stood at the defense table in an emptied courtroom, talking in a hushed voice to his assistant, Sue Bobbins, as he angrily stuffed papers into his briefcase. The judge had long since left for his chambers, but Vass still glowered at the empty bench.

"You say that every time he's assigned to one of your cases," Sue reminded him.

"That's because he's an asshole every time he's been assigned to one of my cases."

Sue harrumphed, shook her head, and finished collecting the remaining papers from the table, placing them atop a computer tablet in Vass' briefcase.

"Don't give me that look, Sue. You know I'm telling the truth. That man has it in for defense attorneys."

"Frank, Frank, tough break, eh," the voice crawled into the room from behind him. It belonged to Adam Banks, a snarky little prosecutor from the Attorney General's office. Banks was five feet five inches of pompous bullshit.

"Put a sock in it, Adam," Frank said without bothering to turn around.

"You sound upset," Adam teased.

Frank turned around, facing him. "No, I'm not upset. I'm just surprised that you and the honorable Judge Kilroy have such a total disregard for fairness."

"Really now," Banks said. "You feel that allowing in knowledge of one's past run-ins with the law is somehow unfair."

"What I feel is that knowledge of what may or may not have been embezzlement committed over twenty years ago by my client when he was a nineteen year old impressionable college student will prejudice a jury hearing his fraud case today. But I see the State will stoop to anything to try to prove its case."

"Don't give me that nonsense," Banks said, the cheeriness now out of his voice. "The fact that Jamison Pittman stole money from his employer twenty years ago is very relevant to the charges of bribery and fraud that he faces today. I think it's very beneficial for the jury to know that the conduct leading Mr. Pittman to misappropriate DOT funds, while accepting bogus bids for the state's road projects, had been nurtured during the whole of his adult life.

Vass responded sharply, "Adam, you know full well that twenty years ago Jamie accepted a plea deal to avoid any embarrassment to him and his family. His father had been battling cancer for god's sake. A trial would have been too much for the family."

"The fact remains, missing money wound up in your client's possession. And he copped to taking it."

"Adam, you know..."

"Gentlemen," Sue said, cutting him off. "The judge has already ruled on the issue." To Frank she said, "You have a client meeting at 4:30."
"Smart lady," Banks said and winked at her. "How about coming to work for the other side?"

"Thanks, but I'm perfectly content working for this side," Sue said.

"Well, if you ever change your mind..." He looked at Frank. "I know you were hoping to get Mannielo on this one. He always seems sympathetic to the defense's plight."

"If by sympathetic, you mean fair. Then yes, I could have used him on this trial."

"I bet," Banks said, and then turned to leave.

"Asshole," Vass muttered.

Vass and Sue left the courtroom. She headed toward the elevators while he decided to take the stairs.

After reaching the first floor landing, he thought he heard a familiar voice. He opened the stairwell door just in time to see Ben Lovison and a few other people board an elevator. He called out to him, "Ben."

Ben turned around and looked curiously at him for a moment, before the look of delayed recognition crept across his face just as the elevator door closed.

***

Ben walked hurriedly into his office where Cain Simmons and his attorney, Melvin Wallingford, had been waiting for about thirty minutes. He apologized for being late to the meeting that he had only learned about five minutes before when he'd stopped in Etlzer's office.

After shaking hands with both the counselor and his teenaged client, Ben went behind his desk and plopped down his briefcase. Then he opened the file folder he'd just received from Etlzer. He sat down in the leather straight-back chair and pulled out the plea form. He stared at it for a minute before calmly placing it back into the folder, which he then moved to the left top corner of his desk, out of the way. He moved the briefcase to the floor down by his knee. He looked from Wallingford to Cain.

The teen met his eyes for all of ten seconds before awkwardly turning away. There was no sense in prolonging this, Ben thought. "Calvin Leeson died this morning." His interlocked fingers rested atop his desk. He swiveled his head from Wallingford to Cain. "He's dead," he reiterated. "I listened to his mother as she described to me how she'd been in the room, helplessly watching her son die before her very eyes. I studied her face as she talked to me about how her son died slowly, in pain, while she was able to do nothing about it. It wasn't a booboo she could kiss and make better. It was real, and it was permanent. She also told me about his dreams, his hopes, and his life. Now, there is nothing neither she, nor I can do about his hopes and dreams."

Wallingford cleared his throat noticeably, indicating his disapproval at what he obviously considered an unnecessary spiel. But he wasn't prepared to do more than that.

Ben ignored him just the same and continued. "What I can promise is that I can give him justice." He stopped and stared hard at Cain. "Son, there's going to be justice. You know more than what you've shared thus far. It's time to give that up." `

"Wait a minute," Wallingford said. "My client has already admitted to the altercation. He has no more to say."

Ben leaned back in his chair and exhaled an exaggerated flow of air. "Okay, okay." He looked for a moment at the folder he'd placed on the left top corner of his desk and then turned back to Wallingford. "This is what we've got—one kid dead, one kid admitting to beating dead kid. Witnesses confirm that the dead kid got into a car with this same kid, who, I repeat, has admitted to administering the beating that ultimately led to the first kid's death. I'm looking at first degree. I can argue premeditation. Your client here picked up the soon-to-be-deceased and drove him to a location for the specific purpose of killing him. But, if I'm feeling particularly charitable, I may give the jury the option of second degree which still carries the option of life in prison without the possibility of."
Cain jumped up. "Man, you're kidding! I told ya'll what went down, and ya'll try to pull this crap. I didn't commit no first degree murder or second degree!"

"Sit down," Wallingford said firmly.

Cain hesitated before dropping back down in the chair like a scolded six year old.

"Look," Wallingford said coolly. "Witnesses may have seen Calvin Leeson get into the car with my client. Kids jump in and out of cars with their friends all the time. Kids also have disagreements. And, unfortunately, sometimes those disagreements lead to fisticuffs. I believe it can be demonstrated that my client did not have a gun, or a knife, or any weapon of any sort. And the facts are both my client and Calvin Leeson are seventeen-year-old kids. Both are approximately the same height and weight. My client's fists aren't registered as weapons of destruction. Surely, even with the boldest vision of grandeur, my client wouldn't have assumed he could have ended a fellow teen's life with only the use of his fists. So premeditation is your wet dream at best. Same with second degree. Now if the state wishes to waste valuable court time and public money pursuing an unwinnable case, then by all means, have at it. But in the best interest of all parties involved, we will accept a charge of simple assault."

Ben confidently drummed his desk with his fingers. "Leeson's skull was bashed in. His eyes had literally been pushed into their sockets. If your client's fists aren't registered weapons, they most certainly should be. But I believe I can prove to the jury's satisfaction that fists alone weren't used here. The deceased's wounds are consistent with those caused by a blunt object. And it's possible that the deceased could have fainted, fallen, tripped, or had otherwise somehow become temporarily incapacitated. At which time, your client took full advantage, ultimately beating Calvin Leeson to death. Even if I acknowledged the difficulties in proving first degree, second degree would be a slam dunk."

Cain fidgeted in his chair, but didn't utter a word.

Wallingford shifted ever so slightly in his chair, a minor, almost indiscernible concession that the prosecutor had a valid point. "Your case is still sketchy counselor. But humor me. What do you want?"

"I want names. Witnesses have placed at least two other people in the car. I want the names of those individuals. It's clear that one person did not cause the injuries that led to the death of Calvin Leeson."

"And if those names are provided?"

"I'll go after them. Your client signs that plea form." He nodded at the folder. "It's a simple assault charge and carries only a few months of probation, no time."

"And if they aren't?"

"We go to trial with first degree at the top of the ticket."
Chapter 6

Loud music blared from two large speakers and shook the walls of Betsy Simmons's smallish three-bedroom, white wooden-frame house. The speakers were located in the tiny back third bedroom that Betsy had allowed her son, Cain, to turn into a makeshift studio. The room contained all the essential equipment for twenty-first century basic music making: a synthesizer, computer, microphones, and a camcorder. In here, Cain and Prodegee created rap songs and underground mix tapes that they burned into CDs. Sometimes they would also create homemade videos and put them on YouTube. It was all part of Cain's strategy. He wasn't going to wait to be discovered. He was going to make shit happen, and Friday night's show was going to go a long way towards that end.

Framed pictures of Prince, Jay-Z, and several other past and current hip-hop and pop stars, all representing Cain's varied influences, vibrated rhythmically to the thumpety-thump beat of Cain's current YouTube offering—Enuff.

Cain bobbed his head and rapped into a microphone, "This is the right stuff. This is the rough stuff. This is the kinda stuff—you know you can't get enuff." This particular song was one of his mind-candy songs, something for the people to enjoy just for the love of music's sake, no thinking allowed or necessary. He'd written it strictly to showcase one of Prodegee's beats. He planned to start Friday night's show with it. It would definitely get the crowd into a partying mood. The lyrics were easy-to-remember rhymes and that type of rap always seemed to get the crowd up. He had some more substantial shit to hit them with too—some make-them-think shit, but he was going to have to be careful how he played that. After finding out about Calvin's death, and his own butt possibly facing murder-one charges, he didn't want to do anything or say anything that would pour gasoline on a fire that Uncle Mayo clearly wanted doused.

He was thankful that Uncle Mayo had hooked up Friday's show, making it part of some anti-gang festivity bullshit. The irony of Mayo Fathers spearheading such an event was not lost on him. But he chose not to think about that part of it. Right now, he wanted to focus on his upcoming performance. He was only one of several acts on the agenda, but in his mind, it was his gig, his time to shine. He prepared as if he was going to perform at Madison Square Garden.

Out the corner of his eye, he saw Prodegee take off his headphones and turn off the synthesizer. For a moment, he pretended not to notice and continued bobbing his head as if the music still played.

Prodegee was undeterred. "Dude, there ain't no coming back from murder-one time." His voice was stern and paternalistic despite the fact it hadn't an ounce of bass and was accompanied by the dropped-ice-cream look of despair on the kid's face.

Cain closed his eyes and did not respond.

"Dude," Prodegee said louder as if the reason for Cain not answering was a sudden case of deafness. "There ain't no coming back from murder-one time. They're going to lock your butt up and throw away the key."

Prodegee's real name was Jamal Morris. But Cain had christened him Prodegee after he'd seen how the eleven-year-old wunderkind could create beats. It was Beethoven-type shit. The kid really had a gift for sound. In Cain's mind, if there were truly such things as child prodigies, then Jamal Morris was their poster child. He was such a little fella, he didn't quite look eleven. But he was hood-tough and walked with a swagger. Cain had first saw and heard him on the turntables at one of the talent shows that Fathers House always put on. It was musical-love at first sight.
Right then and there, Cain had made up his mind that wherever his rap destiny was leading him,

he'd get there a lot faster with Prodegee by his side, hooking up his beats.

"We got a show to get ready for man," Cain said nonchalantly. "Turn my shit back on."

The pre-recorded Enuff beat was stored on the synthesizer. Prodegee did not turn it back on. Instead he stared long and hard at Cain. For several moments, the two stood in silence, staring at each other. Cain knew the kid was right. There was no coming back from a murder-one conviction. The sentence would be either life without the possibility of parole or death. But he refused to allow himself to worry about that now. One reason why and perhaps the most important reason—he hadn't committed murder-one. He hadn't so much as laid a hand on Calvin. He had been there and had thrown some phantom punches as his consistent nightmares since that incident could strongly attest to, but he had been a bystander, an innocent and reluctant bystander.

For reasons still not clear to him, he was to cop to an assault charge and keep his mouth quiet about the true assailants. Calvin had gotten himself into some shit that he'd been unable to get himself out of, and had somehow gotten Cain caught up in it as well. Someone had ratted to the cops that they'd seen Calvin get into a car with Cain and some other people—who, the rat conveniently could not identify.

Cain knew what Calvin's shit was, but at this point, he didn't care. Cain had done what he'd been told to do. He'd followed orders. He was taking one for the team. It was f-upped that he had to do so. But that was hood-life. He had no choice. Snitching was not an option.

The second reason why he was not concerned was because of the assistant district attorney —Ben Lovison. Despite the man's pretense otherwise, he had been a hood kid, a resident of Fathers House even. And when push came to shove, Cain was confident that Lovison would remember his origins and take care of his own, if not for him—Cain, then for Father. Father had a way of being persuasive—very persuasive.

The way Cain saw it, Lovison's threat about seeking a murder-one charge was only that—a threat, an illusion, smoke and mirrors. There would be no murder-one charge. Lovison knew that. And Cain knew that.

Call it wishful thinking or a feeling in his gut, but Cain did not believe he'd spend a day in jail or prison. Finally he broke the silence. "I got some very important people backing me. Important people who know other important people. So, it's all good. So what I'm going to do is get ready for my show." His voice was strong, confident, and convincing.

Prodegee smiled. The look of panic that had strongly gripped his face only moments before, suddenly vanished. He knew important people could change the dynamics of most situations. So, if Cain was unworried, then things truly were all good. Prodegee flipped a switch and his original artistic beats once more roared from the speakers. And once again the walls reverberated.

***

A light throbbing pain had methodically pushed its way up the back of acting Special AgentIn-Charge Tom Ram's head. Apparently the tension he'd felt at the base of his neck that morning had accomplished its goal of becoming a full-fledged headache by late afternoon. He pulled open his top right desk drawer and grabbed the aspirin bottle. He looked across the room at the coffeemaker. Popping two pills in his mouth, he stood and walked over to it, and then washed the pills down with the last of the morning coffee.
He was a tall man with a moose-thick neck that sat upon wide muscular shoulders. His facial features were friendly and familiar. People always assumed that they knew him from somewhere, though never quite able to pinpoint where exactly. He always reminded them of an uncle or cousin, or some other erstwhile male relative or friend. Or was he an ex-pro football player? Or was he perhaps a TV weatherman?

No one had ever successfully guessed that he was a twenty-four year veteran of the Bureau, having served capably in a variety of capacities from recruitment, to counterterrorism operations, to heading task forces investigating such varied crimes as child prostitution and gangland violence. He'd never played professional football, but he did in fact play one year of college football at Virginia Tech before sustaining the proverbial knee injury that had effectively ended his playing days.

He had no doubt that but for the knee injury, he could have made a successful run at the pros. However, he also strongly believed things happened for a reason. He'd long envisioned attending law school after his playing days were over. After the injury, he'd been able to keep his athletic scholarship. Once freed from the endless commitments that were the life of a college athlete, he doubled his study efforts and worked almost full-time hours at a local convenience store, enabling him to save a good portion of his impending law school tuition.

It was that stint at the Shop-N-Save that had gotten him interested in crime fighting in the first place. He'd been held up twice in a nine-month period by an organized crime syndicate that operated across several states and had targeted gas stations and convenience stores. The syndicate had specialized in holding up lone workers during third shift hours. A smooth-talking, thorough special agent had interviewed him after the second incident, and Ram became hooked on all things Bureau.

Although he'd kept his desire to pursue his law degree, he never lost his fascination with the FBI. After graduating law school, he immediately applied for employment with the Bureau.

He loved being a part of the Bureau. To think that he most likely would not have considered it as an employment option if he hadn't blown out his knee. It was a rewarding career and it had eventually led him here to Charlotte as an Assistant Special Agent-In-Charge. After three months in his new role, SAC Charles Summers had abruptly resigned his position, and the Director quickly named Ram as acting head honcho.

After flushing down the pills with the ancient, over-warmed, and now bitter tasting coffee, he placed his cup next to the finally empty pot, and returned to his desk. Unsure if the two pills would respond to his headache quickly enough, he considered popping two more. He was a chronic migraine sufferer and sometimes the headaches were exacerbated by troublesome problems, of which the drug cartel—Fathers Disciples, was one.

Though he didn't know what to make of his latest headache-enhancing problem, he decided against taking any additional pills right now. He would wait out the pain.

Now seated back at his desk, he recalled the morning's briefing from the agents investigating the cartel. Either Fathers Disciples were the luckiest sons-of-bitches on the planet, or the Bureau, more specifically his part of the Bureau, had been cleverly, thoroughly, and effectively compromised. Four potential witnesses dead, two of which were inside prison walls. An undercover agent was missing. There were no apparent connections between any of the events to each other or to Fathers Disciples, but these had been very fortuitous occurrences for one very ruthless drug syndicate.

The consensus amongst the agents was that the investigation had been dealt a serious blow. It had already been slow-sledding getting even a soupcon of evidence against the crime syndicate, and just when they'd been able to move forward a half-step: bam! They were roughly
shoved back to square one.

He rubbed his temples again. The syndicate was definitely troublesome.

From what the Bureau had been able to piece together from very reluctant witnesses, Fathers Disciples had operated clandestinely in Duraleigh, North Carolina for at least the past twenty years, enjoying a ghostlike existence. Outwardly, the city had none of the earmarks of an illicit drug organization operating within its borders. Its violent-crime rate was exceptionally low ,and instances of gang-fueled violence were practically nonexistent. Occasionally, the local authorities held drug busts, arresting a few peon hustlers and dealers, but nothing out of the ordinary, and certainly nothing unusual. For a city its size—just under four hundred thousand residents, Duraleigh had topped the Bureau's annual list of America's safest cities for the second year in a row. Its crime rate was an astounding 85.6 per cent lower than the national average, a complete reversal from its high-crime heyday of the mid-eighties when it had consistently ranked amongst the nation's most dangerous cities.

He tapped a key, bringing his computer out of sleep mode. He reentered his password and then tapped the icon for the FBI's Automated Support System, ACS, and when prompted, he entered another password. Once inside the secured website, he went directly to the Fathers Disciples' case file.

The investigation was still in its infancy. Information about the cartel was piecemealed from Bureau drug busts, some of which were conducted hundreds of miles away from Duraleigh. The connections were as varied as the ocean was wide. The initial connections were veritable slips of tongues. Several drug suspects in unrelated investigations had mentioned a "Duraleigh Father" when drilled during interrogations, but when pressed, the suspects refused to go into any further detail. In other instances, the connections were just receipts found in the cars, homes, or on the persons of people suspected and/or indicted for trafficking in illegal narcotics. The receipts were from Duraleigh gas stations, stores, and hotels. At first, the receipts had simply piqued a curiosity. Why were so many drug dealers frequenting the sleepy city of Duraleigh, North Carolina? It was a mid-sized city, that according to FBI statistics, didn't cotton too much to any crime, much less major drug dealing. It seemed the perfect place to raise a family. So why was it garnering so much interest from drug mavens? Initially, none of the suspects was willing to answer the question. By themselves, the receipts amounted to nothing more than very curious occurrences. But when information from various drug cases was placed into the FBI database and then cross referenced, a very different picture of the city of Duraleigh emerged.

Ram frowned as he brought up a chart the Bureau sketched of the syndicate's organizational structure. The information had been gleaned from two of the now dead witnesses, although none of it had been confirmed. Listed at the top of the chart was the suspected head of the syndicate, Mayo Fathers. Fathers was a respected Duraleigh business man who owned a very profitable funeral home business and had, in what the Bureau had originally thought a head-scratcher, turned his home dubbed Fathers House into an orphanage. But Fathers was not the charitable philanthropist he appeared to be. There were indications that Fathers House was simply a breeding ground for young hoodlums-turned-foot soldiers for Fathers Disciples.

The next two names on the chart—Lucas McCain and Jermaine Bledsoe were also high-ranking members in the syndicate. Although the Bureau hadn't been able to gather much additional information on either two, it was assumed that the three of them, Fathers, McCain, and Bledsoe operated as a triumvirate in the syndicate's hierarchy.
At the bottom of the chart was the list of names of potential witnesses against Fathers Disciples. Part of the list had been compiled by the two deep cover special agents who were in close proximity to the syndicate. The word deceased had been hyphenated next to four of the names on the list, including the two most recent deaths: Cindy Storrs and Calvin Leeson.

At best, their deaths had been unfortunate coincidences. Calvin Leeson had been approached by an agent, while Cindy Storrs had personally contacted the Bureau. Storrs had agreed to provide incriminatory evidence against Fathers Disciples. Leeson hadn't been so forthcoming. But there'd been promise. Other than the special agents directly involved in the investigation, no one knew about Operation Heaven Sent. Not even the local authorities. There had been, so far, unsubstantiated rumors that Fathers Disciples had a few Duraleigh officials, including several in law enforcement on its payroll. A couple of convicted drug felons claimed that Fathers Disciples operated above the law. In light of the rumors, the Bureau didn't want to potentially tip off the syndicate about the investigation, and had therefore blacked out the local authorities. Local law enforcement would be brought in only when the Bureau could be certain that they were clean.

If the Leeson and Storrs deaths were not accidents, but rather planned executions, then the worst case scenario had already been realized which meant not only that the next name on the list was in grave danger, but also that the Bureau had a serious leak.

The syndicate seemed to know every step of the investigation. And it seemed willing to kill relative minor players in the game in order to encumber those steps. Though Storrs could have potentially provided very incriminating evidence, Leeson was a bit player at best. His death, if syndicate-ordered, was simply a fingers-up at the Bureau.

He looked away from the computer screen for a moment and lowered his still aching head. He was a deeply religious man. In this line of work where he saw firsthand the destructive capabilities of his fellowmen, a belief in a higher power was comforting. As always, he prayed for the health and wellbeing of his family and the men under his charge. He prayed for wisdom and understanding. And lastly, he prayed for the safety of the investigation's one remaining listed witness. Though Cain Simmons was possibly no more than a foot soldier that could only provide information about Fathers House's link to Fathers Disciples, the syndicate had demonstrated that it considered no individual too unimportant to be taken out.

Finished with his prayer, he lifted his head, picked up the phone, and dialed Washington. If there was a leak in the Bureau, it needed to be plugged immediately.
Chapter 7

Late Friday afternoon, Melvin Wallingford finally returned the assistant DA's phone calls. Yes, he'd gotten the messages. No, he hadn't been able to get in contact with Cain either. He'd also tried his home, Fathers House, and had contacted Mayo Fathers personally. No, he didn't have any cellphone numbers for his client. And yes, the kid was being very cavalier about this.

When Ben hung up the phone after speaking with Wallingford, his first thought was—forget it. If the kid didn't care about his own future, then why should Ben care about it? If the boy wanted to face a murder-one charge for a crime he swears he didn't commit, then so be it. But after taking a deep breath and slowly exhaling, his second thought was calm down counselor; the boy hasn't flown the coop. He knew where to find him.

Ordinarily he wouldn't have responded so well at being blown off, especially in a capital case. Ordinarily, he would have gotten an arrest warrant and young Cain would have been snatched up by a uniformed officer and then placed in a cell where he'd stay unless and until he could post bail.

But there wasn't anything ordinary about the Cain Simmons case. The case had been handed to him with a prearranged outcome, which wasn't normal procedure. The assigned prosecutor to a case generally worked the case rooter to tooter, deciding if and when to offer plea deals. Of course, Etlzer had the authority to weigh in, but for the most part, he let his prosecutors dispose of their cases as they saw fit. Initially, Ben had bought Etlzer's rationale for having him assigned to the Simmons case. With the premature birth of his boys and April being in the hospital, a little lightening of his workload was welcomed. An open and shut case here and there would be helpful, and he could cut back some on his hours without officially having to take any time off. Any time off not used now, could be used later. With two newborns currently in NICU for an indeterminate length of time, banked paid time off and open and shut cases were more valuable than money. But in Ben's mind, the death of Calvin Leeson meant that the Simmons case was no longer an open and shut one. But for some reason, Etlzer didn't see it that way. The DA was still insistent on a simple assault plea deal, and had indicated to Ben that he wouldn't back any charge against Simmons greater than that charge, despite the dead kid lying in the balance.

An arrest for an arrest's sake, especially in this case, would be a time waster, Ben admitted to himself. Cain Simmons would be back on the street quicker than Ben could clear his throat. Besides, his murder-one bark was worse than the bite. Despite the chest-beating display he'd put on Monday for Simmons and his attorney, he had a weak murder-one case, and it wouldn't exactly be a slam dunk getting convictions for murder-two or manslaughter. If Cain stuck to his story, and there wasn't a compelling reason for him not to do so especially since Etlzer and the police were satisfied with it, then Ben would never find out the truth about those involved in the beating death of Calvin Leeson. Everyone would continue to believe that what had happened to Calvin had been just a matter of beef between friends. A belief aided in the fact that no guns or knives had been involved. Since Cain was not much bigger than a flea himself, any potential jury would likely disregard the possibility that he'd used a rock or a bat in the course of things. It wouldn't take a jury long to set Cain Simmons free.

But Calvin Leeson was dead. And Ben was convinced that one runt-sized teenager was not solely responsible. Ultimately, this wasn't about Cain Simmons, was it? It was about Calvin Leeson. It was about justice. It was about two murderers out there roaming the streets and for all he knew, planning to strike again. So despite Cain's apathetic attitude toward his own life, toward Calvin's life, and toward the wheels of justice, and despite Etlzer's nonchalant attitude toward the case and over the district attorney's objections, Ben was going to be a thorn in Cain Simmons' side. The boy had a responsibility to himself and to his community. And Ben had a responsibility to Calvin Leeson and to the dead teen's mother. And he was going to make sure that Cain Simmons damn well understood that.
He looked at his wall clock. It was five-fifteen. He'd gotten a tip that Cain Simmons fancied himself a rapper and was scheduled to perform tonight. The show at the Britt Heights Community Center was scheduled to start at eight o'clock. He had some time to tidy up a few more files. "I'll see you in a bit, young Cain," he said to himself as he punched in his password on the computer and then clicked on the Matherly file. For the next hour or so, he put thoughts of Cain Simmons on the backburner.

***

At fifteen minutes to eight, the Britt Community Center was awash in teenagers. The loud music could be heard from outside the center, blasting from speakers in fits and starts. Ben stood just outside the entrance to the gymnasium, dutifully asking a pock-faced gatekeeper for early entrance into the center and without having to pay the ten-dollar cover charge.

"You're not allowed to enter now," the gatekeeper said blankly.

"Do I look like I'm here to party?" Ben asked, expanding his arms outward and upward. "I just need to speak to one of the acts before he goes on."

The gatekeeper was unimpressed. With his stoic expression unchanged, he took quick measure of Ben. "Look mister, I've seen all kinds. You can't enter now."

Ben stared at him for a moment. "I thought the show started at eight."

"It was supposed to," the teenaged gatekeeper said.

"It's almost eight now. "Why aren't we being allowed in?"

"There's been a delay," the gatekeeper said in a matter-of-fact of tone.

"When are you allowing us in?" Ben asked.

"In about fifteen minutes," the gatekeeper replied. "And you're going to have to pay the cover charge. All the money is going to help fight gangs, you know."

"I didn't know we had a gang problem in Duraleigh," Ben said.

"We don't," the gatekeeper said. "And with positive events like this to keep the kids occupied, we won't. Now if you don't have ten dollars, I'm going to have to respectfully ask you to step aside."

It had been a long day and he was too tired to continue arguing the point. Charity is as charity does, he thought as he pulled out his wallet and fished out a crisp ten-spot. Handing the bill to the gatekeeper, he asked, "Has Cain arrived yet?"

The gatekeeper took the money and grabbed Ben's hand, pressing a stamp against it. "A fan too, huh?" Ben pulled his hand back and frowned at his newly pressed marking which looked like a glob of mud. "I guess you could say that. Is he here?" "Doubt it. He's the last scheduled act. And knowing Cain, he's going to come late and make an entrance. He's a showman." "Can he rap?"
"The best," the gatekeeper said. "You ought to check out his videos on YouTube. Man, he's..." He was interrupted by an eruption of loud music from inside the gym and by someone standing in the line behind Ben shouting, "We're going to miss the start of the show!"

"Just go to YouTube and type in the real Y-U-N-G (he enunciated each letter) Cain featuring P-R-O-D-E-G-E-E."

"First chance I get," Ben said.

Inside the gym, the overhead lights were on and music roared from two huge onstage speakers. A convergence of teen-speak followed Ben to a spot in front of the stage that had been roped off. The stage was without the benefit of curtains to hide the behind-the-scenes activity, a crew was still setting up for the first group's performance. Ben pulled out a concert flyer from his inside coat pocket. It was all local groups with Yung Cain, featuring Prodegee listed as the headliner. Jessie's Other Girl was the first scheduled act followed by Deal Raw. Our Time Too would be the last act before Cain was to hit the stage.

The gym itself cleaned up rather nicely. The floor sported a spit-shine quality gloss. Even the walls seemed cleaner, whiter than Ben could remember ever having seen them. The Britt Center had been one of his favorite places to go as a kid. He played in countless basketball games, both pickup and league-play in this very gym, though now you wouldn't know from the smell and look of the place that basketball had ever been played in it. Instead, a concoction of body wash mixed with various perfumes and colognes bandied about. On the bleachers that had been folded back into the sidewalls, were decorative colorful images of young people in various modes of play. On the back wall, opposite the stage and covering nearly the length of the wall was large graffiti-style lettering which read, Make Play Not War.

After the first two performances finished and the show was between acts, Ben gingerly moved through the crowded gymnasium, walking as if there was a scratch-cake in the oven, ready to sink at the slightest vibration from his footfall. As he made his way to the other side of the gym, hordes of teens in low-hanging baggy jeans and way-above-the-knee skirts parted slightly to allow him through. He suddenly felt conspicuous and aged—an old man in a sea of youth.

He scanned the place, half looking for Cain, half wishing for a fellow adult. He saw neither. He did see two security officers walk near the entrance he'd just come through, but he doubted if either one of them had counted twenty-five birthdays.

As he continued walking, he noticed that some of the boys looked older than the security officers. A few had full beards or thick goatees. And their shoulders, my God, what were kids eating these days. It was as if they'd already spent time in County—three hots, a cot, and hundreds of daily pushups. They were broad-shouldered and thick-muscled. Baggy and sagging jeans, over-sized T-shirts, gold necklaces, and tats ruled the night.

But in comparison to the girls, the boys' dress was actually conservative. He saw more than any male should be allowed to see of anyone's teenaged daughter. The clothes were barely there. Skirts barely covered bottoms. Jeans were little more than an extra layer of skin. Tops were either too low on top—exposing too much boob or two high from the bottom—exposing too much midriff, or both.

Finally and gratefully, he spotted Mayo. He was accompanied by two men, one carrying a notepad, the other had a camera draped around his neck. The three of them had come in through a side entrance. As Ben started to make his way towards them, the lights lowered, a heavy synthesized drum roll boomed out of two large speakers, and the host jumped on staged and loudly spat, "Our Time Too," into the microphone.
***

An hour later, Yung Cain featuring Prodegee finally took the stage. The crowd had grown restless and anxious. A single shout of, "We want Cain!" quickly dominoed into cascading waves of "We want Cain! We want Cain! We want Cain!" And just when the anticipation had reached its crescendo, the lights went out, casing the gym into complete darkness. Everyone fell silent and looked anxiously toward a stage that was no longer visible. A computerized voice counted down, rushing from the large speakers, "Five...four...three...two...one." A blast of music ripped from somewhere on stage, quickly leading into the obviously familiar beats of Enuff. Bomph-bomph. Bomph-bomph, boom-dum-boomph. A sea of teen heads started bobbing in rhythm with the song's beats. A spotlight beamed on the center of the stage, revealing Prodegee furiously playing an electric keyboard. A rush of applause and delighted screams erupted from the gymnasium floor. By the time Cain's voice exploded from the two large speakers, the gym was in total pandemonium.

For the next thirty minutes, Cain owned the stage and the moment. He worked the room like a born showman. He strutted back and forth across the stage, rapping songs that every kid in the gym seemed to know. He artfully plucked towels from a stack that had been placed near the back of the stage. He wiped his face with each before tossing it into the crowd. The girls shrieked with delight. Wherever the towels landed small skirmishes popped up before quickly dissipating, leaving one girl gleefully hopping in place while tightly holding her newly acquired prized possession.

After his last song, Cain stood in the middle of the stage, basking in the glow of perfection. His face beamed; he was clearly enjoying the moment. The crowd screamed for an encore. So he'd ripped Enuff again. The underground song had amassed a great number of YouTube hits. Many of the kids knew the words by heart, and again, rapped along with him.

Cain looked over at Prodegee. Sweat was rushing down the kid's face. His eyes were rolled into the back of his head. The kid had totally lost himself in his beats, really feeling them. He didn't look like himself. He looked otherworldly. To Cain, he was looking at Jimi Hendrix reincarnated. The whole moment was surreal. If he could have, Cain would have stopped time, freezing the moment into eternity. At that exact moment, he could not imagine anything sweeter.

He gazed out at his sea of adoring fans. He thrust his arms high in the air. He felt triumphant, confident that he'd just treated them to a glimpse of greatness. He wondered how many of them had truly understood what they'd just witnessed. Really, how many people who'd seen LL Cool J or Lil Wayne perform early on, say at a house party or a block party, had realized that they had been watching future rap legends? Very few, he imagined. Most of those witnessesto-greatness probably couldn't even see past their own hoods, much less one of their own ascending to points well beyond them. But the naysayers and disbelievers hadn't stopped either LL or Lil Wayne, and nor would they stop him.

There was a smattering of adults in his sea. Any other time this would have pleased him, as he considered himself influenced as much by the music of his mother—artists like Prince, New Edition, and Run-DMC, as he was by his own favorite hip hop artists. He had visions of being a generational star. But he was weary of these particular adults, and he seriously doubted that any of them were there for his music.

He stared for a moment at Uncle Mayo who looked as uncomfortable as ever in an expensive suit. He was standing at the back of the gym with the reporter who'd written the news article on Calvin's beating. Cain knew why the guy was here and it wasn't for the anti-gang message that Uncle Mayo was pushing. He wondered how Mayo could be so blind. Cain frowned at the reporter's photographer who was lurking nearby and was spending considerable time looking at the girls rather than looking through his camera lens.
Then he saw them. The two of them were standing together at the opposite end from Uncle Mayo, near a fire exit, both looking like they hadn't a care in the world. And he supposed not, it was his butt that was on the line, not theirs. The fact that they were there concerned him. He dropped his arms—the signal for Ronnie to cut the lights which he did promptly, casting the room back into complete darkness. Thirty seconds later, the lights flicked back on, and Cain and Prodegee had disappeared from the stage.

***

After the metal air vent cover dropped semi-noisily onto the tile floor, a spray of golden light easing in through the bottom of the room's closed door ricocheted off it like tiny pin-shots of fool's gold. Prodegee came through the air vent first, followed closely by Cain. As soon as both gathered themselves onto their feet, Ben flicked on the light.

Seeing their astonished, sweaty faces, he explained, "I practically grew up in this gym. I know all the nooks and crannies."

"Cool," Cain said sarcastically. "So ya know that Cain and Prodegee aren't magical." He reached for the duffel bag that was next to a metal desk. He opened it and pulled out two towels, one of which he handed to Prodegee. He wiped his face while Prodegee did the same.

"Still," Ben said. "It was a great show. Someone said you were a showman. And you are. I must admit. I got to give you your props."

Prodegee finished wiping his face and begin to relax a little, apparently relived that Cain seemed to know the unexpected stranger. "Thanks man," he said to Ben. "You really liked the show, huh?"

"Yeah, I really did," Ben said.

"But I bet you weren't waiting to ambush us in order to congratulate us on our set," Cain said.

"Well, I wasn't exactly waiting in ambush. But you're right. I wasn't here waiting just to congratulate you. I need to talk to you."

"I told you before, I've said all I've got to say."

"You think you can just blow this off. You think it's just going to go away."

Cain glanced at Prodegee, and then turned to face Ben. "You can make it go away."

"It doesn't work that way. You got to give me something."

"I told you man. I ain't got nuthin' to give. I don't know nuthin'."

Ben stood back, casually looking around the room. There were two metal desks with matching metal chairs squeezed against a side wall. The room was a little bigger than an average-sized dorm room. It hadn't changed at all since he'd last been in it, over fifteen years ago. Britt Center used it as a little study cubby for the kids, especially the ones that hadn't been able to study well with others.

Prodegee grabbed a seat in one of the metal chairs and looked from Ben to Cain.

Finally Ben said, "Calvin is dead. His future is over. You're still here. You have a future. Are you going to allow them to take that future away as well?"
Cain sighed and dropped his head. No one spoke for several minutes. Muffled voices and music coming from the gymnasium seeped into the room. The concert after party had started. Finally, Cain said in a near whisper, "I can't snitch."

Ben grimaced. He had just about enough. He was sick and tired of these so called gangster rules, hood rules, where no one talks. No one snitches. Kids dying, lives ruined, that's acceptable, the cost of doing business. As long as no one talked, everything was okay. "I don't want to hear that," he said sternly. "You call it snitching. I call it doing the right thing. You owe Calvin the right thing. You owe your hood the right thing. You owe your future the right thing. Pay your debt. You owe."

After several moments, Cain looked at Prodegee. "Yo man, get out of here."

"I need to stay," Prodegee protested.

"Nah, you don't. I don't want you involved in this. It's going to be alright. I'll see you back at the house."

With an air of reservation, Prodegee stood up. "Are you staying at Fathers House tonight?"

Cain forced a smile. "Fo show, dude. We got to revel in our greatness."

"Alright, bet," Prodegee said. The two touch fists and then Prodegee left the room, leaving his damp towel on the metal desk, and closing the door behind him. Cain locked it and turned to face Ben. "You know I'm dead, right?"

"No, I don't know that. We can protect you."

"You didn't protect Calvin."

"We didn't know Calvin needed protecting."

"The FBI did."

Ben held his hands up. "Whoa! The FBI? What do they have to do with Calvin?"

Cain cocked his head and stared at Ben for a long moment before answering. "The FBI is the reason Calvin's dead."

Ben pondered the accusation for a minute. He pulled the other metal chair away from the desk, making a high-squeak sound like a nail being scraped across a chalkboard. He sat down. "Maybe you should start from the beginning." He pointed at the chair Prodegee had sat in.

Cain waved it off. "Nah, I'll stand." He glanced nervously about the room. "Have you ever heard of Fathers Disciples?"

"No."

Cain released a nervous chuckle. "I guess you never got into trouble while you were at Fathers House."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Any kid that gets into any type of serious trouble while staying at the House will get sent to the basement. And if you ever got sent to the basement, then you would know about Fathers Disciples."

"You're saying Mayo Fathers is running some type of illegal operation at Fathers House."

"No, I ain't saying that. And I ain't saying anything about Fathers House."

"Okay, fair enough. Then, what is Fathers Disciples?"

"I'd rather not say."

"Alright. What does the FBI and Fathers Disciples have to do with Calvin's assault?"

"Fathers Disciples got word that Calvin was talking to the FBI. How they got that word, I don't know. But Calvin shouldn't have been talking."

"How did you get involved?"
"I was told that some guys were going to come and pick me up and then we were going to go pick up Calvin. I was just a means for Calvin to get into the car."

"Who told you?"

"I can't get into that."

"Then who were the guys that picked you up?"

"I told you. I don't know them. I hadn't seen them before and I haven't seen them since. But, what I do know is that they were cops."

"How do you know that?

"Because some uniformed cats showed up and they knew them."

"That's it?"

"Yeah, you must've forgotten what it's like living in the hood. I can spot a cop."

The kid was right. Even back when Ben had lived in the neighborhood, a favorite pastime was diming out the undercover policemen, the unmarked cars, and the out-of-place bums on the street corner. To be sure, there had been some successful busts stemming from narc-work, but most of those had been aided greatly by informants, aka snitches. It was what made undercover work increasingly difficult and dangerous for law enforcement. A discovered undercover agent would pay dearly with his life. "Alright, so they were cops."

"Yeah, they were," Cain said matter-of-factly.

"And..."

"Someone called 911 when Calvin got snatched up. A witness saw me in the car and told the police. So I was told to take the heat for it. They said that I would only get an assault charge; no time, as long as I kept quiet about the other two."

"But Calvin died."

Cain blew out a long breath and said silently, "Yeah, he did."

Ben leaned back in the metal chair, held up one hand, and ticked off fingers one at a time. "Okay, so what we got is the FBI, some supposedly notorious bad asses named Fathers Disciples, dirty cops, and one dead teenager. Does that about sum it up?"

"Yeah, it does," Cain said.

"Is there anything else you'd like to add?"

"You don't get it. Do you? I've already said enough to get me killed."

"I don't see how you've said anything. I still don't have the names of the killers."

"You have more than you did before I started talking. It's on you what you do with it."

"Yeah well," Ben said. "We'll see."

"What about the murder one charge?"

"Like I said, we'll see."

Cain took off the damp shirt, and retrieved a dry one from his duffel bag. He wiped his chest and face with the towel, and then pulled on the new shirt, before stuffing the old one plus the two towels into the duffel bag. He looked at Ben and then shook his head slowly as if to say "My life is over. I hope you're happy." He left the room without saying another word.

Ben stayed in the room for another twenty minutes before deciding to leave. He wanted to make sure no one saw him leave so soon after Cain, lest they'd ascertain that the two of them had been together. Knowledge of the meeting would sprout a cascading amount of snitch innuendo. He turned off the light and opened the door slightly, peering out. The hallway was empty. He looked back in the room and spotted the vent cover lying on the floor. Leaving the door cracked, he went over to it and firmly snapped it back into place over the vent.
If he'd taken an extra moment to look into the air vent before snapping the cover back over it, he would have stared straight into the eyes of the second person who'd been privy to Cain's forbidden snitching. Instead, he left the room, blissfully ignorant to the fact that the walls truly had ears.
Chapter 8

On Saturday morning, Ben awoke with a jolt, breathing heavily. He had the weirdest dream, a nightmare really. He'd dreamed about the twins. One of them had somehow taken the umbilical cord and wrapped it several times around its brother's neck, strangling him, all while inside April's womb, and all very much visible on the ultrasound. Yet, no one—the doctors, nurses, April, or himself was able to stop it. All of them simultaneously yelled at the screen, "Stop that! Let your brother go! Stop that now!"

He lay on his back for a few moments, looking hazily up at the gaudy ceiling fan. A bit of morning sun eased through the blinds' partially opened slats and reflected nicely off the golden crystal, making it appear as if three golden mystic images dangled from the ceiling. Eventually, his breathing slowed and his eyes fully adjusted to his awakening. Still, he could feel his heart drumming along at a fairly good clip. He looked to his left where April would have been had she been at home and not at Lincoln Memorial. The dream seemed so real. But thank God, it wasn't.

He looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was six o'clock. Today promised to be a very eventful and tiring day. He was scheduled to pick up April from the hospital by eleven, and he hadn't made a single dent in his housecleaning. She would be totally astonished if not clearly disgusted at the amount of mess a single man could generate in five days. He had infiltrated every room in the house with an unconscious blitz of untidiness, and now he didn't quite know which room he should clean first.

Droplets of dried urine outlined the base of the master bath's toilet, compliments of a couple of mornings' worth of missed aims. Scanning the shower, he noticed how the white porcelain finish was now a dusty-gray. If he truly wanted today to be the last time April set foot in their home, then let her happen upon this monstrosity. Even he was disgusted by it. It suddenly became a no brainer; he would clean the bathroom first. He reached under the sink and grabbed the Comet, Soft Scrub, some sponges and an old rag.

The bathroom took about forty minutes. When he finished, his thoughts turned quickly to the kitchen. He frowned, remembering that it was a total wipeout. Fast food wrappers and two pizza boxes littered the kitchen table. The sink was filled to the brim with dirty dishes, which was amazing because he'd been too tired to cook anything substantial. He'd basically spent the week, living off instant grits, scrambled eggs, and takeout. But he couldn't muster the effort to clean pans, plates, bowls, and eating utensils, so he just kept reaching into the cupboards and drawers for clean ones.

As he stepped inside the kitchen, a strange odor—sharp and semi-putrid greeted him. He immediately spotted the possible culprit—a half-eaten container of shrimp fried rice, left on the counter since Tuesday. It wasn't that strong of a smell, yet. But April's feminine powers could detect the faintest of such odors and the source of their issuance from a half of block away. Pulling a trash bag from the pantry, he methodically went about the business of getting the place in order. The kitchen took nearly an hour and a half because he was slowed by his disdain for doing dishes. He was able to put the bulk of them in the dishwasher, but he still had a sink load to do by hand, including pots and pans. Finally, the kitchen was presentable.

By nine o'clock, he'd made great headway and the house was almost once again ready for female occupancy. He stood in the master bedroom, having made the bed and putting away the last of the clothes he'd flung on the floor over the past few days. Not too coincidently, the old Seven Dwarfs' tune, Whistle While You Work wafted through his mind. He loved the Snow White story as a child, and he supposed that through the years, the tune had probably helped many souls get through many unpleasant tasks. But he hadn't whistled at all during the past three hours and the time still flew by. For as he cleaned, scrubbed, and put away, Cain Simmons had consumed his thoughts.
He'd kept asking himself one main question. Had Cain been truthful? Rogue cops. Fathers Disciples. FBI. The boy had told one fantastic tale. One, Ben wasn't afraid to admit, had left him skeptical at best. A major crime syndicate in Duraleigh, policemen acting as enforcers— killing one of the city's youth, these were very serious accusations. For which, the boy hadn't provided one shred of proof.

But he'd been scared. There was no denying that. Ben had seen it in Cain's eyes. He'd seen it in the way the youngster had trembled ever so slightly as he was talking, constantly shifting his eyes about the room as if he was being watched by unseen, but treacherous forces.

It could have been an act. But Ben didn't think so. Cain had appeared genuinely frightened. Besides, the indisputable fact remained—Calvin Leeson was dead. And Ben did not believe for one minute that Sarah Leeson's only child had died at the hands of Cain alone, if at all. But at whose hands had he died? Fathers Disciples? Duraleigh's finest? It was still too fantastic a story to believe. But fantastic did not mean untrue.

But if it was true, then a couple of other things had to be true as well. Namely, Calvin Leeson had to have been involved in some illicit behavior. Otherwise how would the FBI have known about him, and why would they have deemed him of some importance? Important enough that this supposedly dangerous outfit—Fathers Disciples, had found it necessary to have the kid eliminated. He considered that scenario as he plugged in the vacuum cleaner, clicked it on, and heard it noisily come to life.

Duraleigh had a sordid past. That was common knowledge. What was also common knowledge was that the city had been cleaned up. All thugs, goons, gangsters, aka the Fathers Disciples of the world had been shown the door. Gone were the drive-by shootings, violent shootouts, and the out-in-the-open prostitution and illicit drug sale transactions that used to plague the city's streets. It was the stuff of legend how the city's leaders had finally had enough and had literally taken the fight directly to the hoodlums. Getting rid of them, totally rid of them had been long, arduous, and ugly work. People had been lost on both sides, good and bad, but eventually it had been done. Now, nationally, Duraleigh was the model for what a city could do if it set its mind to it. It was highly unlikely that a "Fathers Disciples" was operating within Duraleigh's city limits.

But what had disturbed Ben more about Cain's fantastic tale was the part about Fathers House. "Any kid that gets into any type of serious trouble while staying at the House will get sent to the basement. And if you ever got sent to the basement, then you would know about Fathers Disciples." Ben had lived at Fathers House for five years, from the age of thirteen, after the murder of his mom, until he graduated high school. He'd participated in its afterschool program for a couple of years before that. He had fond memories of Fathers House. It had been there when he'd needed it. Sure, there'd been some bad kids there. Mayo Fathers specialized in helping all kids, especially the bad ones. Ben refused to believe that the basement talk was true. But why would a kid make something like the basement up, especially knowing Ben could simply ask Mayo Fathers about its existence? And if it was true, then why wasn't Ben introduced to it? Growing up, he hadn't been a hoodlum, but he hadn't been a saint either.

As he methodically pushed the vacuum cleaner back and forth across the living room carpet, he debated about whether or not to ask Mayo Fathers about it. He didn't for one minute believe Mayo Fathers could be involved in anything that would harm the very boys he'd taken in. It would contradict his life's work. For a man who'd inherited a big house and successful family business, and who'd, for reasons known only to himself, had used both to help underprivileged kids, it didn't make logical sense to then turn around and harm those very kids. But Ben's training as a lawyer and his own natural instincts forced him to look at an issue from all angles.
Cain's story could be true. And if so, what kind of danger would Ben subject the teen to if he went asking Mayo Fathers tough questions about the basement. And without a shred of proof to warrant law enforcement involvement, life could become very difficult for Cain and there'd be no way to protect him in that scenario. If Cain was ousted as a snitch, he wouldn't see the light of another day.

He unplugged the vacuum cleaner and pulled up the cord. He would do a quick sweep of the upstairs master suite and hallway. As he dragged the vacuum cleaner upstairs, he thought about Mayo's conference next week and suddenly realized that there was one person he could ask about Fathers House and an outfit called Fathers Disciples.

After hitting the second floor landing, he heard the doorbell. He uttered a profanity under his breath. He left the vacuum cleaner in the hallway and went back downstairs. He was not expecting anyone and didn't care much for the interruption. He almost had all his chores completed, but almost did not equal complete. He wanted everything perfect for April's return home. The last thing he needed or wanted was interruptions—unplanned, schedule-altering interruptions. Looking through the peephole, he thought, oh God, not now. Standing on his front porch, carrying insistent and worried expressions, were his in-laws: Stephen and Patricia Ellison.

Perhaps it was an overstatement to say Ben didn't get along with his in-laws. After all, he didn't really know them. He'd only seen them twice in the two years since he'd met and married April. The first time had been after April's hastily planned meet-the-folks drive to her childhood home in Charleston. It was right after the two of them had decided to get married. She had thought it'd be a good idea if her folks met him at least one time before he actually showed up on their doorsteps as her husband.

"They're old fashioned," she'd said. "They believe a courtship should see months of moons before even the hand holding stage. They will think we're getting married only because I'm pregnant."

Ben said, "People don't do that sort of thing much anymore. For some women it's a conscious decision to start bearing children before matrimony."

"I know that and you know that, but why force my parents to worry needlessly. Besides, I want them to meet you without prejudice. I know they'll love you as much as I do."

"I love you too," Ben said. After pausing a heartbeat, he asked, "What do you imagine they'll say when the baby's here in seven months?"

"I don't know," she answered and then appeared to not give it another thought. They continued the drive to Charleston in contented silence. Occasionally, Ben would steal a glance at his bride-to-be who'd fallen asleep a couple of hours into the drive.

Stephen Ellison seemed more interested in Ben's family history, or rather his relative lack of knowledge about it. Mr. Ellison—who could trace his family's history all the way back to a slave-holding black man, could not fathom how Ben's family tree essentially started and ended with Ben. For Mr. Ellison, despite African-Americans' numerous historical examples of it, the idea of someone not having even one minute piece of knowledge about their paternal ancestry was unconscionable.
"So, your mother died without bothering to tell you about your father," Stephen Ellison had said after Ben's response to his insistent probing into his future son-in-law's family history. It seemed not a question, but an accusation.

"That's correct," Ben had answered stoically, which would be his last meaningful response that evening and the remainder of the meet-the-folks weekend.

The doorbell rang again.

With a sense of dread that he sincerely wished was not there—for he truly wanted to get along with his in-laws, Ben opened the door and quickly stepped back. Without speaking, Stephen Ellison walked anxiously into the house. Almost instantly, Patricia Ellison—with a whiff of a gardenias fragrance floating alongside her, rushed in behind him and darted in the direction of the downstairs bathroom. "Hello Ben," she called out. "I've been holding it for two hours." She disappeared around the corner.

"Phobias about public johns," Stephen Ellison said apologetically, his eyes trailing behind her. "You could line that thing with Jesus' shroud and she still would not sit on it." He cleared his throat, abruptly signaling the end of his commentary on his wife's restroom preferences. "So, how are they? April? My grandsons?"

"They're all fine," Ben said. He didn't bother asking how they'd known.

Stephen Ellison walked toward the living room. He was a short man and extremely light-complected. He had a thick meaty head, the sides and back of which carried the remains of what used to be a gorgeous jet-black curly mane. He was wearing a white, long-sleeved turtleneck and brown corduroys. He moved with the assured air of a man who was very much used to the benefits of having lots of money. Ben closed the front door and joined his father-in-law in the living room. "I'm due to pick up April in about an hour," he said. "Hopefully the boys will be home in another week or so."

Stephen Ellison sat down on the white suede-leather couch. "Good. Good. Mrs. Ellison and I would have gotten here sooner had we known." He tilted his head at Ben. "Thank God, April felt well enough to call us on yesterday."

"I'm sorry about that," Ben lied. Truth was that with everything that was going on, the emergency caesarean, the premature births, the last thing he wanted for himself and the situation had been additional irritation. And for all the love that the Ellisons no doubt had for their daughter and would have for their grandchildren, they still caused Ben significant irritation.

Stephen Ellison went on. "It's not right for Ellisons to be brought into this world alone."

Ben bit his lip, clamping down the irritation. Though his sons were indeed part Ellison, he understood exactly what Stephen Ellison's veiled statement implied. But now was not the time to correct Papa Ellison on his grandsons' paternal bloodlines. When his wife and sons were safely home, and their newly shaped family structure was firmly in place, that would be the time to remind the Ellisons and anyone else needing reminding, that his boys were indeed Lovisons. And that even though there were probably only three blood-connected Lovisons left in the free world, it did not matter. He blew out a quick breath and said, "Listen Mr. Ellison. I have to finish up some things here before I go to pick up April. Please make yourselves at home. There are all sorts of drinks in the refrigerator. You can—"

"—don't worry about us," Stephen Ellison interrupted him. "You do what you have to do and when you're ready, we'll ride with you to the hospital. It'll give us a chance to see our grandsons."

"Sure," Ben gritted his teeth. He left, hard-footing it upstairs. When he reached the second floor landing, he angrily snatched up the vacuum cleaner. Seconds later, it roared back to life.
***

At 10:30 that same Saturday morning, all the inhabitants of Fathers House had finished their chores, showered, dressed, and had exited the house. They were headed to Calvin Leeson's eleven o'clock funeral service. Everyone that was, except Cain, who because of his involvement in the boy's death, had been excused by Uncle Mayo from attending the funeral.

The funeral was at Hope Christian Church-of-God-In-Christ, which was about a fifteen-minute drive from Fathers House. After the boys left, Fathers House was devoid of its usual assortment of voices and myriad activities. It was unusually, eerily, and completely, earplug-quiet.

Earlier when everyone was getting ready, Cain had feigned sleep, partly because he hadn't wanted to talk with anyone, but mostly because he'd felt like a traitor and hadn't wanted to look into the eyes of those he'd betrayed. Now that the house was empty, he sat up on the top bunk of his sometimes room, letting his feet dangle off the sides of the bed.

He was in the rare position of having a bed here as well as one at his mother's house, which was about a ten-minute walk from Fathers House. His mother was a recovering addict. Back when she'd been deep in the throes of crack cocaine, Uncle Mayo had rescued him and brought him to Fathers House to live. It was an early success story when his mother eventually twelve-stepped her way back from the depths of drug despair and managed to hold onto her inherited house in the process. She'd sent for Cain immediately, claiming she'd needed him home with her.

However, his mother had cleaned up too nicely and had attracted a few suitors in the process. One in particular, Marcus Stevens, quickly nosed his way to the front of the pack. Marcus had a chiseled frame courtesy of three hots, a cot, and plenty of free time. He'd spent three years upstate on various drug charges. He was a recovering addict as well. Right from the start, Marcus and Cain had posted up on opposite sides of the ring. Cain didn't trust the ex-con's newly acquired soberness. But mostly, Cain just didn't like Marcus. He was a rude, brash, know-it-all. But for whatever reason, Marcus made Cain's mother happy and so, Cain tolerated him. But whenever he came around, Cain would get ghost. An understanding Uncle May kept an open bed at Fathers House for him which Cain would use occasionally, as he had last night.

He slid down from the bed and stretched, casually looking up at the ceiling fan. He wasn't sure exactly what he was going to do about last night. In a moment of weakness, he'd felt sorry for Calvin and even sorrier for himself. So, he'd snitched, telling House and Disciple business to someone who wasn't privy to that information. Yeah, he could rationalize it to himself, by repeating that Lovison wasn't really an outsider, that he was family, that he'd been raised at Fathers House. But he knew that rationalization wouldn't hold water. For one thing, according to Lovison, he had never been sent to the basement, and therefore, should have never been exposed to information concerning Fathers Disciples. And secondly, Lovison was so far removed from Fathers House and this neighborhood that he was no closer to either than any complete stranger would be. Yeah, Cain had fucked up and he knew it.

Whatever punishment Calvin had gotten, up to and including his death, had been deserved. You didn't snitch. Not ever. Cain should have remembered that last night. He should have trusted Father to handle things. But he hadn't. Now, there would be consequences. His only saving grace was that no one knew about his indiscretions except Lovison, and if it came down between Cain's word and Lovison's, Cain would just have to deny his ass off and claim that Lovison was somehow making all that bullshit up, that he'd probably gotten pieces of information from the FBI and was only trying to incriminate Cain to make him talk.
For awhile that idea seemed the reasonable route to take. But he soon realized that Father had a way of finding out things. No, Cain was going to have to confess his sins and hope and pray for the best, taking whatever punishment Father would deem appropriate. Besides, Cain had held back some information. He didn't tell Morant's or Jones' real names. Sure, he had been partially truthful. The two of them were members of Duraleigh's finest, but what police department didn't have its fair share of rogue cops? In his mind, he hadn't said anything that wasn't true of just about every police department in America, if not the world.

Still, he felt uneasiness. Father knew. He always knew. It was a reality that Cain understood far too well, and so it was of no real surprise to him when his bedroom door slowly opened, revealing a man he knew he would have to face sooner or later concerning this situation.

The man walked casually into the room. Cain didn't attempt to offer any explanations. At this point, he understood it would be of no use. His punishment had already been determined. His only hope was that it wasn't the ultimate.

Unfortunately, it was.

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