Chapter Four

Kathryn stared at her cell phone, hesitant to call the police. The size of the department guaranteed she’d have to deal with Officer Gavin. The thought made her stomach knot. As a young recruit, he had been one of the first to respond to the 9-1-1 call regarding her father’s death. His incompetence at the scene left nagging doubts in a loving daughter’s mind as to the circumstances surrounding her father’s death. Or was it wishful thinking? She shook away the thought. Why bother with the police? They had already determined Johnny’s death wasn’t a criminal matter.

She read the note again. Johnny’s death no accident. Be careful. She pressed a hand to her temple. The headache from earlier threatened to return. A loud rap on the window made her jump.

The passenger window on her vehicle framed Benjamin’s concerned face. Her hand flew to her chest. She thought her thundering heart might explode. She flipped the automatic locks, then leaned across the seat and released the handle.

Benjamin pulled the door open and crouched down in the opening. “Everything okay?”

“Look at this.” She shoved the flyer into his hands.

He seemed to study it for a minute before looking through the front windshield. “That’s what Ed Smythe was up to.”

Kathryn narrowed her gaze. “I don’t understand. You saw who left this?”

Nodding, Benjamin gestured with his thumb toward the building next to the diner. “I was coming out of the drugstore when I noticed Ed putting something on your windshield. I thought it was strange that yours was the only car he tagged.”

“But why?”

Benjamin lifted his chin. “Mind if I get in? I was hoping to catch a ride home.” A hint of amusement gleamed in his eyes.

Kathryn laughed, a welcome release. A hint of embarrassment heated her cheeks. She had, after all, driven him to the diner. “Of course, get in.” He slid into the passenger seat and pulled the door closed behind him.

“Start the car. I want to take you somewhere.”

 

Fifteen minutes later, Benjamin and Kathryn pulled up a long gravel driveway leading to a small ranch sitting under tall pine trees. “Where are—” Kathryn stopped midsentence. He followed her wide-eyed stare to an old Volkswagen Beetle parked in front of the garage.

“The car you saw pulling out of the lot?”

She nodded slowly. “Should we be here?” Her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel suggested she’d rather be somewhere else. “Maybe we should call the police.”

“Park behind the VW. We’re fine.”

Kathryn complied, staring at the house through the windshield. Her clear blue eyes looked uncertain, a contrast to her usual polished demeanor. He climbed out of the car. A brisk autumn wind slapped his face, numbing his ears. He jogged around the front of her sports car, acknowledging—not for the first time—she must be doing well financially.

He mentally scolded himself for not asking more questions about her life. He had been so bent out of shape about his father’s will to even ask her what she’d been up to all these years. When would I have done that? Shortly after she arrived, Johnny was killed in the wash.

Then she made the crazy suggestion to sell Midport Industries.

Now this.

It didn’t leave a lot of time for idle chitchat.

Benjamin glanced at the house. A single bulb lit a small porch stoop. He met Kathryn on her side of the car. She had her shoulders hunched and her sleeves pulled over her hands. “How well do you know—“ she seemed to be searching for a name, “—this Smythe guy?” Uncertainty threaded her tone.

“Ed Smythe’s a janitor at the plant. Near retirement. He’s had a rough time of it.” Benjamin cupped her elbow and led her up the walkway.

Before Benjamin had time to explain further, Ed, dressed in a gray T-shirt and blue work pants, opened the inside door but kept the screen door shut. Time had not been kind to Ed. An ugly combination of pain and anger hardened his already sharp features. “What do you want?” he barked. Next to Benjamin, Kathryn flinched.

“I think you know what we want.” Benjamin used a soft tone, hoping the old adage was true. You catch more flies with honey. “Have you been out tonight?”

Ed pulled a loose cigarette from his T-shirt breast pocket. He had a hole near the collar that had probably been there for years. He put the cigarette in his mouth, lit it and took a long drag. “Nope, can’t say I have.” His words came out on a cloud of smoke.

Benjamin raised the flyer. “Recognize this?”

Ed’s face colored slightly. His expression remained hard.

“Wait, before you say anything more, what if I told you we saw you?” Benjamin didn’t want to cause the older man further embarrassment by a long denial that would eventually be disproved. Kathryn tensed under his touch.

Ed appeared every bit the broken man as he leaned against the doorframe. He turned the handle on the screen door and pushed it open with his foot. “Come in. Talk to my wife.”

Ed led the way through the house. Instinctively, Benjamin took Kathryn’s hand in his—was surprised when she didn’t pull away—and they followed the older man through the living room and kitchen to a small sunroom of sorts in the back of the house. Thick drapes covered all the windows. He sensed it had been a long time since sun had warmed the room.

A thick haze of tobacco smoke filled the cramped space. Ed’s wife sat on the couch stroking a cat curled up on the ottoman in front of her. She stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray resting precariously on the arm of the couch She flicked a nervous glance at her husband, then back at Benjamin, her eyes sparking to life. “I know who you are. You’re his son.”

Benjamin stopped short, confused by the woman’s harsh words. The man went to his wife’s side and touched her shoulder. “They know we sent the note,” Ed said, his voice soft, as if he owed her an apology.

Kathryn squeezed Benjamin’s hand, drawing his attention. “Look over there,” she said, gesturing to the corner of the room. Scissors rested on a pile of magazines tucked under a table adorned with candles and photos.

The older woman hitched a shoulder. “You already know we sent the note. Now what are you going to do about it?” She laughed, a mirthless noise punctuated by a wet, popping sound. A smoker’s laugh.

“Why did you put that note on my car, Mr. Smythe?” Kathryn pulled her hand free from Benjamin’s.

“They killed Johnny Beck. Just like they killed my Nicholas,” Mrs. Smythe answered for her husband, her angry eyes pooling with tears.

Ed squeezed his wife’s shoulder.

Between the cloying smell of cigarettes and the flickering candles, the walls grew close. Too close. It reminded Benjamin of his father’s bedroom as he lay dying. Now he was eager to get answers and get out of here. “I am sorry for your loss, Mrs. Smythe, but didn’t your son die in Iraq?” A fist tightened in his chest as he thought of his brother in Afghanistan.

“My son had to go to Iraq because he couldn’t find another job. The management at Midport Industries—including your father—are directly responsible for his death. If they hadn’t fired him, he’d still be home working at the plant.”

Benjamin’s stomach hollowed out.

“I’m sorry.” Kathryn was talking to the Smythes, but she met Benjamin’s gaze as if to say, It’s okay. She touched the corner of a picture frame sitting on the table. “May I?” After Mrs. Smythe gave a subtle nod, Kathryn picked up the photo and sat next to the older woman.

“This is my son, dear,” Mrs. Smythe said. Benjamin took notice of the images in the photos decorating the small table. One was of a baby-faced boy in a military uniform. The other photos captured their son in various stages of his life.

A young boy, no more than five or six, with a cardboard mortarboard on his head waved at the camera. Kindergarten graduation, no doubt. A Boy Scout uniform. A toothless child with a crooked helmet. His first bike. The photographs in the makeshift shrine had preserved a few fleeting moments in time forever etched on a grieving mother’s soul. Benjamin could only imagine the depth of the grief consuming her.

Benjamin’s throat tightened while tears flowed freely down Kathryn’s cheeks. Rumor had it Mrs. Smythe had suffered a nervous breakdown after her only son was killed in Iraq. As much as it pained him, he had to find out why the Smythes found it necessary to send an anonymous warning note to Kathryn.

“Why did you leave the note?”

Mrs. Smythe looked at her husband. He nodded his approval. She shifted her attention to Benjamin, her eyes holding barely veiled contempt. “Your father fired him.”

“Why?” Benjamin crossed the room and sat on the couch next to Kathryn.

“I’ll tell you why.” Mrs. Smythe leaned toward him, her eyes snapping with anger. “My Nicholas said they wanted to cover up some shady goings-on in the warehouse at Midport Industries.” Blinking hard, she bent over the photograph in Kathryn’s lap and ran a hooked finger down her son’s cheek.

Benjamin plowed a hand through his hair. He didn’t remember Nicholas Smythe. The young man must have worked at the plant prior to Benjamin’s return. But he had learned of his tragic death in Iraq. “What did he think was going on in the warehouse?” The question came out harsher than he had intended.

“Nicholas wasn’t quite sure. Sometimes guys would come back after the shift and move parts around. He wanted nothing to do with it. He knew something shady was going on.” Ed came around to his wife’s side of the couch and stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. Moving the ashtray aside, he sat on the arm of the couch.

“The next day—” Mrs. Smythe’s eyes grew wide, “—Nicholas would always find cracked AC units.”

“The plastic on the air-conditioning units was cracked?” Kathryn asked.

“Yeah, and I don’t imagine those things are easy to crack,” Mrs. Smythe said. “I used to be a quality control inspector there myself.” She drew herself up, lifting her chin. “Those things don’t just crack.”

“Did Nicholas have any idea why there was damage?” Benjamin couldn’t recall any complaints from customers. And he was still trying to figure out what all this had to do with Johnny and Nicholas’s respective deaths.

“Nicholas started to ask a lot of questions.” Mrs. Smythe lowered her eyes. Her lower lip trembled. Then she met his gaze with a look of determination. “We always taught him to do the right thing. To be proud of his work.” Her last words broke on a sob.

“Shortly after he started asking questions,” Ed continued for his heartbroken wife, “he was fired.”

“I find it hard to believe he was fired for asking questions.” Benjamin pushed to his feet. Sweat dripped down the center of his back. The walls closed in around him.

“They had some alleg—”

Ed’s wife raised her hand to cut him off. “My Nicholas always did the right thing. Ed and I tried to meet with your father, oh, I’d say a year ago. He’d have nothing to do with us. Even that Peter Hill dismissed us.” Mrs. Smythe’s words tumbled out one after the other as if she had rehearsed this conversation over and over in her head.

Benjamin suspected his father’s lack of response had more to do with his illness than apathy. He’d rarely seen anyone outside the family in the last year of his illness. George Nowak had been a proud man. He hadn’t wanted anyone to see the shell of the man he once was.

“Even Bud Farley was useless.” The anger in Ed’s voice was palpable. “Claimed there wasn’t much the union could do to help. Claimed it was out of his hands.” He shook his head in disgust. “I’ve seen that guy move mountains for his union brothers. He wouldn’t touch our son’s case with a ten-foot pole.”

“What about Johnny?” Kathryn asked, apparently trying to get the conversation back on track. She scooted forward on the couch and gently touched Mrs. Smythe’s hand. “Why the note?”

Mrs. Smythe caught Kathryn’s hand between hers and sobbed.

“Nicholas worked with Johnny in the warehouse,” Ed spoke again for his wife. “He knew something was going on too. Our son hoped Johnny would come forward and support his claims so he could get his job back.” Ed gently worked his wife’s shoulders. “Or at the very least, to clear his name.”

“Johnny spoke to Mr. Hill initially, but then he backed off pretty quick. I think he was too afraid. But after our son died in Iraq, I know Johnny had a change of heart. And now they’re both dead.” Mrs. Smythe released Kathryn’s hands. She patted her husband’s hand resting on her shoulder. “Someone killed Johnny to keep him quiet.”

“I left a note on your car because we figured if you knew the warning came from us, you’d dismiss it.” Ed lifted his eyes and seemed to study Benjamin. “Based on your look, Mr. Nowak, we’re right. You think we’re a bunch of fools. Grieving parents.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss, but there is nothing illegal going on in the warehouse. Johnny’s death was a terrible accident.”

“How can you be sure?” Ed pulled out a cigarette and lit it, never taking his gaze off Benjamin’s face.

Something niggled at the back of Benjamin’s brain. Johnny had been anxious to move out of the warehouse. He claimed with a baby on the way he needed the overtime the assembly area afforded. Was that really it?

Benjamin touched Kathryn’s arm. “Let’s go,” he whispered in her ear.

Kathryn patted the woman’s knee and stood up.

“We’re sorry for your loss, but we wish you had talked to us directly.” Benjamin turned to leave.

 

 

Kathryn lay in bed replaying the events of the day. After what seemed like hours, exhaustion finally overwhelmed her, bringing sleep, and with it a recurring dream.

“Hi, Dad.” Kathryn tossed her tote by the side door. Her beach towel spilled onto the wood deck. She jogged to where her father worked in the garden and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. He smelled of hair tonic and earth.

“Hi, honey,” Dad said, touching her cheek with a muddy hand. “Want to help me with the planting?”

She jerked back, swiping at the dirt on her face. “Yuck. I have to get ready to go out.” She tried not to notice the hint of disappointment in her father’s eyes and turned to walk away.

“I remember a girl who used to love gardening with me,” Dad said in his usual playful manner.

Kathryn didn’t slow her pace. “Maybe another time.”

The dream always started the same. Kathryn stood outside herself, as if watching a movie, analyzing the familiar plot, even in her dream.

Why hadn’t she looked at his face longer? Would she have seen his anguish? Would she have known his desperation? Had he already made up his mind?

Every time she had a dream about her father she never acted surprised to see him. As if she saw him every day. As if she thought she always would. Yet a voice deep within always screamed to her dreaming self, “Stay with him. Talk to him. When you wake up he’ll be gone.”

And the dream played out the same. The last day of her dad’s life. He had planted his precious garden and filled the boxes adorning the small windows of the yellow shed.

Were those the actions of a man about to end his life?

A familiar pang of regret and guilt haunted her. Why had she been in a hurry? If she had stopped, spent some time with her father, could she have changed the course of history? She’d lived with that guilt for more than ten years. Ten years of if-onlys and what-ifs. It was enough to put her on edge every time she returned to her hometown.

Even in her dream she couldn’t change the course of events. Like an impartial observer, she watched herself dismiss her father to get ready for her big night out. Her heart longed to reach out. Hug him. Tell him she loved him. One last time.

She scooped up her tote and shoved the damp towel back in. She looked up. Not a cloud in the clear blue sky. The warm sun beat down on her face that spring day. Her heart was light. Not a care in the world.

Kathryn reached for the doorknob and turned it. Her father called, “Watch the company you keep. Someone you know will hurt you.”

She grew confused. Her father had never spoken to her in the dream beyond the exchange by the garden. She turned to face him. But he was gone.

She crept to the shed, her heart thundering in her rib cage. Her mouth went dry. She had never gone into the shed in her dream. Or in real life. Not after that day.

“Stop!” she yelled to her naive, dreaming self.

Kathryn swallowed hard as she approached the shed. The image before her changed in the magical way only possible in dreams. The yellow paint had faded. The marigolds in the planters had wilted. Dandelions were the only sign of life. The door stood slightly ajar. She raised a hand and tapped it. It swung open.

“Dad,” she called out in a shaky voice. “Dad, are you in there?”

Millions of pinpricks blanketed her scalp. “Dad, are you—”

The open door unveiled a horrid scene. Her father lay in a pool of blood. A scream rose in her throat. But no noise came. A rifle lay by his side. His lifeless eyes stared accusingly.

Kathryn shot up in bed, throwing back the covers. Her hand flew to her chest to settle the frantic beating. A dream. It was just a dream.

Who was she kidding? It was a nightmare. One she relived even in the light of day, especially now she had returned to Midport.

Kathryn hugged her knees to her chest and buried her face. Think beaches. Quiet lakes. Cool breezes. She had to cleanse her mind of the horrible memory of Daddy’s body. The familiar pain and anger swirled in her gut. Why did he do it? And why hadn’t he thought about who might find him?

Kathryn took a deep breath and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She wouldn’t be able to sleep now. Same old story. She stuffed her arms into the sleeves of her robe and crept downstairs to make some tea, trying hard not to wake her mother or sister.

Tea in hand, she stood by the sink and peered out the window. The shed cast a black shadow in the darkened yard. How could something so small loom so large in her life? Icy ribbons of dread coiled around her heart. She strained to distinguish the obscure outlines in the yard. Was someone out there? Or had the landmarks of her past come to life to haunt her?

Kathryn rinsed her cup in the sink. The first pink of morning painted the sky. She tilted her head from side to side, trying to work out the kinks. Looked like she’d have to start the new day as drained as she ended the last.