Harry picked up the last letter he had received, the only one he hadn’t yet read. Each year he had to force himself to read her latest letter. This time it was taking longer than usual. But he knew once he read it, he would read it over and over again, sickened by the madness he would find there. He also had to force himself to read all the letters again, hoping he’d find enough in each to present a strong, clear argument to the parole board, something that would keep them from turning his mother loose.
His hands trembled slightly as he opened the letter. He looked at his hands and gave a slight shake of his head. There were criminals on the street who would love to see that hint of fear, that slight crack in will that they could pounce on, something that made him vulnerable, another potential victim rather than a threat. But they wouldn’t see it. He’d make certain that never happened. And if the day ever came that he could no longer hide his fear, he knew he would walk away from the job and never look back.
He removed the letter from the envelope. It was plain, prison-issue stationery, the writing paper lined, the return address on the envelope just a name and inmate number. It began as it always did; the same first line that never varied except for the number of years since Jimmy’s death.
My Darling Son,
Your brother Jimmy has been with Jesus for twenty-one years now. How I wish you were there too, sitting before Him in His everlasting glory, receiving the reward that comes to all who lead a life of goodness. I tried my best, but things don’t always happen the way God wants. I’ve learned that sometimes the evildoers have their way. Sometimes the devil steps in and stops even the plans of the Lord.
I have suffered here in man’s purgatory for twenty-one years now. But this year there is some good news, finally some hope. The doctor who they made me see says he will recommend that I be sent home. I had to tell him that I am sorry about what I did. For years I tried to tell people that I needed my sons to be with Jesus, to be there waiting for me when I arrived. But this was something very few people could ever understand. For the last few years I have stopped trying, except with my minister, who visits me often. He tells me it is alright to be sorry that Jimmy died and to also be happy he is with the Lord. So that is what I tell people now. The important thing is that I will soon come to you. I know they have been hiding the letters you have written to me. It is an evil act, but it is their way of punishing me for my sins. Maybe when I am sent home they will give me those letters they have hidden away. I promise, if they do, that I will read each and every one. I often wonder if you are married now, and if you are, if you have children of your own. I would like very much to be a grandmother who can sit with her grandchildren and tell them the story of Jesus and Mary and Joseph. It is what grandmothers should do. They should make sure that all children are ready to go to God and to sit before His wondrous goodness, to live in His house forever and ever. But we will talk about that when I see you. I pray to the Lord Almighty that it will be very, very soon. I miss you and Jimmy so very much.
Pray for me, my son,
Your loving mother
The letter had been written in a neat, precise cursive, each letter so small it was barely an eighth of an inch above the line on which it was penned. Harry stared at it, thinking about those small, precise letters coming out of that twisted mind, flying like insects to gather on the paper as she willed them to be. He remembered his mother from childhood, always affectionate, especially when he was younger, then later as he approached adolescence becoming strangely aloof, almost as though she were living in a world apart from him. He remembered when he was nine and she began standing outside the bathroom door whenever she knew he was inside, asking him what he was doing that was taking so long, warning him not to do things that were wrong. He had not known what she meant. Puberty was still years away. It was the madness slowly growing. He knew that now. But at the time he thought it was because he had come to displease her. He didn’t pay much attention to it. He thought it was something that would pass. She was his mother, and he therefore believed she had to love him. It was just the way things were. Jimmy had noticed the change in her as well. He had called it her strange time. But to him it was more of a joke. Mama’s in her strange time, Jimmy would say, and then he would giggle.
There was a light rap on the screen door, and when he looked up he saw Jeanie Walsh standing there smiling at him.
“Are you working?” she asked. “I don’t want to interrupt you if you are. I heard all about your new case on the news. That you’re heading up the investigation, I mean. It sounds awful.” She drew a breath. “God, I’m babbling.”
It was a bright night with a full moon high in the sky. A clear stream of moonlight illuminated one side of her face, making her short, curly blond hair sparkle; leaving the other side deep in shadow. It made her look beautiful and elusive, he thought; some pixie who had floated in on the gulf wind.
“No, it’s not work,” he said. “Come in.”
He gathered the letters, returning them to the shoe box where he stored them.
She took a chair at the round outdoor table where he was seated, her eyes going to the old box.
“My mother’s letters,” he said. “I heard today that she’ll be coming up for parole, and I wanted to be able to show the parole board that she hasn’t changed, no matter what the prison shrinks say.”
“Is that what you want… to keep her in prison?” Jeanie asked.
“That’s what I want.”
“It must be hard, coming at a time when you’ve got this big case.”
“It would be hard if I was on vacation on some quiet Caribbean island. I just don’t want her back in my life. I don’t want her to have any part in my life ever again.”
Jeanie looked at him and nodded slowly. Then her eyes drifted back to the box of letters. Oh, Harry, she thought, my sweet Harry. She’s here right now whether you see it or not, and she always will be whether you want it or not. And all the letters in the world, and all the parole boards, won’t be able to change it.
She spoke none of it. Instead she smiled and said, “Would you like to go for a walk on the beach?”
Harry nodded. “Sure. Just let me put these letters away.”
Jeanie smiled at him and wondered if he ever would.
The car was parked under a small palm just up the street from Harry’s house, the driver slouched behind the wheel, his eyes roaming the street before returning to the house. Not bad for a cop, the watcher thought. The house, old and inelegant as it was, would still be worth a cool million even as a teardown. He had wanted to see where the detective lived. He would be running the investigation and you never knew when an unexpected visit might become necessary. It had been easy to follow him home. Still, he had been cautious, had remained well back, careful not to give himself away. It had been more caution than had probably been needed. Criminals seldom go after cops for revenge, so it’s usually dirty cops who worry about being followed, and he had no reason to believe that Harry Doyle fell into that category.
He started the car and made a quick U-turn. No point in hanging around and risk being seen. He had what he needed. Now it was better to play it smart and blend back into the scenery. Just like always: the little branch on the big tree, too insignificant to be noticed, but there all the same.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Harry knocked on the door and waited for someone to answer. It was nine in the morning and the day was already beginning to heat up. It was expected to reach ninety by midday, and based on the trickle of perspiration he could feel under his shirt it already seemed well on its way. The house was a single-story rectangle, built close to the street so the small lot could provide some semblance of a backyard. Like most of Florida’s homes it was a cinder-block construction with the exterior walls covered in stucco, all of it a quiet nod to the yearly hurricane season. Of course, if a big enough hurricane hit, the cinder blocks would be all that was left. Once the windows were broken by flying debris the roof would be ripped away and everything inside the house would become part of the tempest.