“I loved your father. You know that don’t you?”
“Loved?” Johnny asked, fear creeping into his voice.
“I loved him. I still do.”
“Then tell him to come back. Tell him that you love him.”
John’s mother shook her head and bit her bottom lip. “Oh, baby, your father didn’t leave us. He knew I was still mad. But he wouldn’t leave us, baby! Your daddy’s a lot of things but he’s no quitter. He wouldn’t quit us, and he sure as heck wouldn’t quit you or your sister.”
“Then why hasn’t he come back, Mom?”
“Johnny, you knew he did dangerous work, you knew something might...happen.”
“What happened, Mom?”
“I don’t know. God’s honest truth, baby! I swear I don’t know exactly what your father does. He wanted to protect us from all that. But he’s never gone this long without contacting me.”
“Is he dead, Mom?”
“I don’t know, but something’s wrong. Your father…I’m worried. And he left with me being mad at him. That’s never happened before and now…this. I could have taken it any other time…but…and now my son hates me too.”
John broke down. His sister heard the commotion and joined them. The three stayed up talking and crying till dawn. John no longer blamed his mother and realized her torment. Along with the agony of not knowing Ben’s fate, John’s mother suffered the regret of sending her husband off with a cold shoulder. A few weeks later, she received a phone call before informing her children their father had been killed in a training accident. She would never recover from her guilt.
Margaret Thorpe died two years later after being diagnosed with bone cancer. She’d been given six months but didn’t make it half that long. John believed she simply lost the will to live. During her funeral, he realized how much his mother had sacrificed; there was scarcely a soul in attendance, a testament to the devotion his mother had bestowed upon her family. She’d sacrificed her entire life for her husband and children.
Then, only thirteen months ago, his new family had been destroyed. The horrific images from that night poisoned his thoughts—Ella in his arms, her pale complexion, hair smoothed back on her head, cold to the touch. Dead. Thorpe pushed away the memory of his slain daughter. He couldn’t go through that again—not now. No wonder he was more than a little screwed up. Who wouldn’t be? But he worried about who he was becoming.
He identified himself as a Christian, but how could he justify his actions? The people he hunted were killers and preyed on the weak, but did their sins give him the right to be judge, jury and executioner? Thorpe hoped on Judgment Day he wouldn’t be standing in line with the same people he’d helped remove from this world. He hoped there were exceptions to the “Thou Shall not Kill” rule. Deep down, he suspected he was only justifying his actions.
Thorpe took the last drink of his last beer, patted his dogs on the head, and walked back inside his home. After brushing his teeth, Thorpe looked in the mirror as he slowly traced one of the scars on his chest with an index finger.
With moistened eyes, he spoke unconvincingly to his reflection, “You’re a good boy, Johnny, and you always will be.”
Tuesday
February 6
Late morning
THE NEXT MORNING, WHILE THORPE gathered fallen tree limbs near the front of his property, Al and Trixie tore off in a full sprint and disappeared into the thick woods. The dogs didn’t bark, and after a few minutes trotted back to where Thorpe worked. Several seconds later, the familiar form of Deborah Jennings came bouncing down the road. The woman was trouble with a capital D—the “D” in reference to her surgically enhanced breasts, which were on full display. Thorpe had stumbled into a one-hour relationship with Deborah just after he’d moved into the neighborhood. It was an encounter he’d instantly regretted and tried hard not to repeat. They’d met on an occasion much like the one repeating itself today.
Then, he’d only been in his new house for a short time. He didn’t know a thing about his neighbors, and with the large acreage, he figured the situation wasn’t likely to change. Thorpe had been clearing fallen branches from his newly purchased property on a day exceeding a hundred degrees. In a time when both fit and unfit men shrink-wrapped themselves in formfitting T-shirts, he went to great lengths to mask his muscular form.
“Don’t ever show the enemy your hand, son. Make him think your strengths are your weaknesses, and your weaknesses are your strengths,” his father used to preach. Mostly, he kept his body covered in an effort to conceal his collection of scars, some of which acquired the night his opponent produced a knife, but there had been other altercations as well. When people saw his old wounds, they wanted to know the stories behind them. If the inquiries came from strangers, Thorpe spewed a line of crap they couldn’t dispute. However, his fellow cops possessed the resources to sniff out a fabricated story—and Thorpe couldn’t exactly be truthful when relating how he’d sustained his mementos. If only he’d heeded all of his father’s advice, such as, “Don’t shit in your own sandbox,” then Thorpe might not have found himself in his current predicament with this woman.
The day they’d met, he’d dispensed with his usual precautions and discarded his shirt. Shimmering with sweat, he worked near the road in a pair of work boots and khaki shorts. Al and Trixie had yet to be trained, so the only warning Thorpe received was the sound of gravel crunching underfoot. Thorpe looked up to see Deborah running on the road. A tanned, toned, and pierced midriff was framed by black Lycra shorts and a black sports bra struggling to contain her ample bosom. The sight caused Thorpe to mumble, “Oh, my God.”
As the woman approached, she caught sight of Thorpe, and her pace abated. Thorpe’s body was void of fat with muscle striations popping in his chest, arms, abdomen and back. The woman slowed to a walk, altered her course, and sashayed over to the fence to introduce herself.
“Hi, neighbor…Deborah Jennings.”
Thorpe approached, shed his work gloves, and accepted her extended hand. “John Thorpe.”
Still holding his hand, Deborah broke eye contact and allowed her eyes to drift downward. “John, I hate to be so forward, but you have the most amazing body I’ve ever seen on a man.”
“I bet you say that to all your neighbors.”
“Hardly. How’d you get the scars?”
“I’m a cop…Tulsa PD. Stuff happens.” Not exactly an answer to her question, but not a lie either.
“Well, I feel safe knowing I have one of Tulsa’s finest living close by.”
“Which house is yours?”
“The big obnoxious one on the hill.”
“Nice to meet you, Deborah.”
“Yes, it is,” Deborah replied in full-flirt mode. She played with her hair and repeatedly touched Thorpe’s arm. “Sorry for being such a bad neighbor. I haven’t even brought you and your wife a housewarming gift.”
“Not married.”
“Divorced?”
“Not exactly.”
Deborah didn’t pursue the vague answer.
The barn’s double doors were open, and Thorpe’s makeshift gym was visible from where Deborah stood.
“You have a gym? Mind if take a look?” Deborah didn’t wait for his reply; in fact, she’d already been moving toward his gate while asking the question. Once on his property, she led the way to the barn. Visible from behind, her large breasts overtook her small frame. Deborah strutted through the garage door, paused at the punching bag, and threw a few punches. The scene was one of the most erotic Thorpe had ever witnessed. She’d successfully maneuvered onto his side of the board and used his own bishop to put him in checkmate.
“John, I think you’d be an excellent personal trainer. Though to be sure, I’d first have to try out your equipment.”