VICTOR HAD THOUGHT his son’s attempt on his life would make it clear that Brad was innocent; a desperate act of a boy scared he’d be railroaded into serving a sentence among truly violent criminals, subjected to heinous acts Victor dared not entertain. That was why Brad had done what he’d done. But the cops had twisted it to use it against Brad, trying to say that Brad knew he was guilty and had no way out, that’s why he tried to kill himself.
Now, Victor feared, the state police detective was going to coerce Brad into a confession. All hope for bail was lost, as Brad was being held under strict suicide watch. Brad’s lawyer had begun to hint that Brad consider a plea bargain. Impossible. Yet, despite Victor and Fran’s prayers, the noose seemed to be tightening rather than loosening around his son’s neck.
Victor had to sacrifice himself to save his son. He thought all this as he set out of his house to walk into town to Merryfield’s office; where he’d tell Jon that he knew Jon had killed Jessica and why, and to tell him he’d never get away with it.
It was early morning, too early for Merryfield to be at his office yet. But Victor decided he needed time to think of every angle and to write down notes of what he would, and wouldn’t, tell the police.
The streets were damp and desolate in the early-morning gloom. The snow had already begun to melt here in town.
Victor stood across from the Beehive Diner now. From the alcove entrance of the library, his jacket collar pulled up against his face, he watched the usual suspects go in and out of the diner. He could see Larry Branch speaking to Gwynne. She laughed as Larry slid his coffee cup toward her to freshen. The seat beside Larry was empty.
Victor pushed onward and walked around the corner. As he crossed through the back part of the parking lot behind the Lamoille Bank, he saw a pickup truck idling. A plume of exhaust hung in the air around its back bumper, its odor noxious. The side and back windows of the truck were fogged but Victor knew who was inside. The license plate read IMKING.
What was King doing there?
The truck faced toward the home of Merryfield’s homosexual clients.
A couple days ago, Victor would have jogged over to see King, nearly desperate to be part of whatever it was King was up to, without a thought. Not today. For the first time it seemed in his adult life, he was thinking straight. He was seeing the world clearly.
He had no urge to speak to, or even look at, King. His back still ached where it had been punched by King. His stomach turned at the thought of what the man might be doing so early in the morning across from the gay couple’s house. Whatever he was planning would come back to him in ways he could not imagine. His schemes had left him twice divorced and alone, just as Fran had said. What Victor had seen as strength in King he saw now as arrogance and ignorance. And fear.
King was a frightened man. A frightening man. Who was King to judge others?
Who are you to cast stones, Victor Jenkins? Victor suddenly thought. After what you did.