Redemption
Prologue
I BRUSHED MY unruly hair for the fifth time, staring hollow-eyed at my reflection.
I hate you.
Revulsion filled me. The white pinstripe shirt I had picked up from the cleaners lay on the floor taunting me. The plastic bag shredded during a fit of anger and despair. I yanked the wrinkled top on and buttoned it slowly, observing my jerky movements in the mirror as if watching a horror show that wouldn't switch off. The cufflinks I had set out earlier lay on the nightstand where I had left them. Izzy had given them to me on our wedding day. I hesitated before reaching for them.
You never deserved her. Never.
It took three tries to push the gold-initialed studs through the buttonholes due to my trembling fingers. The new three-piece suit that Isabella insisted I needed for business hung on the closet door.
Business. Always the fucking business.
A knock at the door jarred me.
"Mac?"
"One minute." I pulled the pants off the hanger and tugged them on, tucking the shirt in as I went. "Okay."
The bedroom door opened and Sarah stood there clutching a hankie, her eyes red-rimmed from crying. "It's time, sweetie."
I removed the vest from the hanger and slipped it on. "This look okay?"
"You look fine," she said as she waddled closer and straightened my collar. Her hands were icy cold, and quivered against my skin, her eyes reflecting my pain. The tenuous third trimester of her pregnancy was being made more difficult by the events of the past week and today's tribulations were compounding the issue further.
"Why don't you stay home with Mikey," I suggested. "He's going to be scared and you—"
"I loved them too, damn it," she answered, her voice raspy. Her tears started anew; her bottom lip trembled. "I'm going." She shook her head and dabbed her eyes. "That's final."
I acceded. Sarah could be stubborn at times. The shoes I had spent an hour polishing lay by the dresser. I stepped into them and plucked my suit jacket from the hanger. "All ready."
"Will you be warm enough?" she asked.
"Not today Sarah, please."
She took my arm as we walked down the hall of the ranch-style home she shared with her husband and two-year-old son. We entered the living room, neither of us speaking, everything already expressed. Sarah's husband, Michael, stood before the picture window. When he glanced at us his eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep and spent tears. "We have a problem. The news vans are out front."
I went to the window. The entire street was lined with their damn vehicles, satellite dishes reaching into the sky assuring their ability to transmit the latest up-to-the minute news. Commentators clamored in the road, microphones in hand, interviewing anyone who would let them, anyone who wanted their ten minutes of fame. Cameramen jockeyed for a better angle and photographers lined up their shots. A neighbor crying, a mother calling her children in from the chaos or whatever would translate into tonight's glaring headline. Male and female television personalities vied for interviews, hoping for some big scoop. "How do you want to do this?" I asked.
"The judge sent two officers over to escort us. I say we let them help block the path," Michael responded.
"Okay, but let's keep Sarah in the middle," I said. "I don't want her jostled around."
"Thank you, I agree." Michael picked up Sarah's coat and helped her into it while I scanned the street a second time. A famous blonde from Fox News was questioning the neighbor on the left. The perpetually animated reporter tossed her blonde tresses and flashed her beautiful smile. The fact she'd never done any real investigative work was evident every time she opened her damn mouth. A police car pulled into the drive and all cameras immediately focused on the occupants. I could almost hear the clicking as the eager photographers competed for the money shot. I was determined they wouldn't get one of me. "Ready?" I asked.
"Ready." Sarah tipped her head once as she clasped Michael's hand.
I proceeded to the door, glancing back one last time before opening it. We all knew it would become a mob scene. It was better that I lead the charge and let Sarah and Michael bring up the rear. Two officers were waiting on the front walk as I opened the door and they rushed quickly to the stoop in anticipation of the crowd. Television, newspapers, and various AP services were covering my family's story and all surged forward as I walked onto the porch.
"Ms. Taylor, we're here to assist you." The small silver name tag read Pete Jenkins, but I already knew that. I had gone to school with his older brother.
"Thank you, Pete. Please make sure my friends are safe. Sarah's pregnant."
He motioned to the other officer as two more leapt from the second cruiser and we made a circle around Sarah before we trekked down the path to the waiting limousine. The driver held the rear door open for easy access. I kept my eyes averted as we maneuvered through the crowds of reporters screaming questions at me.
"Ms. Taylor, can you tell us how you feel?"
Like I'd been run through the planer in my shop, repeatedly…until there was nothing left but the sawdust of my soul. That's how I feel you prick, like there's nothing left, but that wasn't the answer he wanted. He wanted to know about my misery, about the emptiness I felt inside. He wanted to know what it was like to see my wife and child dead on a cold slab in the morgue. If I ached at their loss. He wanted me to describe the horror of seeing bullet holes in their bodies, or evidence of the torture they had both suffered. He wanted to see me bleed. They all wanted the fucking gory details to boost their ratings. Well, they could all go to hell.
"Ms. Taylor, are you angry with how this all played out? Will you be suing the police department?"
Angry? How could I be angry? It was my fault. I gritted my teeth to keep from responding.
"Ms. Taylor, any idea when the crime scene will be released?"
No fucking idea you asshole. Fortunately I never responded. It wouldn't change the circumstances and I never wanted this kind of notoriety. Next to the car, I waited for Sarah and Michael to enter first, then followed them. The driver closed the door and shut out the melee.
Once we were moving I stared out the blackened window not seeing, merely anesthetized by my grief, my mind struggling to deal with the events that had transpired over the last five days.
"Sweetie, look."
I gazed at Sarah, then the direction she was pointing. The drive to the funeral home was a mere ten blocks, about half the size of the entire town, but today it would take at least twenty minutes due to the number of men, women and children lining the streets crying or waving as we passed. Isabella was beloved by many and valued by all who knew her and they had come out to pay their respects—hopefully not in pursuit of the macabre. I felt the tears form and blinked furiously to stop them. I would not cry. I would not break down. I would accept this punishment as their final retribution.
At the funeral home, I detoured into the bathroom for a moment to myself before I faced the crowds. I entered the viewing room only to find it packed solid with friends, neighbors, and fellow citizens. I had ordered the casket be closed. There would be no gawking by curious looky-loos. No one searching for injuries. No comments about how peaceful they looked. They were not peaceful. They were dead. I especially didn't want pictures showing up in the tabloids as so often happened in cases like this.
It appeared the entire town had come out. Sarah and Michael greeted each and every mourner, while I sat numbly waiting for it all to be over. Initially I prayed it was a nightmare, one I'd wake up from. Now I accepted this was my reality, my life for eternity. My hell on earth.
Church doctrine wouldn't allow the bodies of sinners to be admitted into the cathedral for the usual Requiem Mass. Instead the priest would accompany us to the cemetery for a small graveside service at a not so small nominal fee. My anger made me choke on the hypocrisy, but I would tolerate anything to make sure Isabella and Bella received absolution through the priest's prayers.
The trip to the cemetery took us past the same people we'd seen earlier. Though the skies were clear, bitter winds driving down off the Rocky Mountains dropped the temperatures into single digits and frost bite became a real concern. Still, people willingly lined the streets to show their respect for my wife and child.
"It was a lovely turn out, don't you think?"
The priest addressed his question to me. I knew he didn't care about my opinion and I refused to disgrace Izzy by spouting it.
"Mac, how about some water?" Sarah gripped my hand and squeezed it tightly. I shook my head, unable to speak.
The limo glided through the gates of the cemetery and parked while the hearse and flower car drove ahead. I knew it was standard procedure, but I didn't want Izzy or Bella out of my sight. I felt the separation pulling them farther and farther from me. My chest constricted and my heart felt like it was tearing in two. "I need air," I rasped. I opened the limo door and quickly slammed it shut again. The media was waiting for us. Fuck!
"Michael, I thought the police were going to keep them outside the gates?" Sarah's quiet words belied her anger and pain.
"I'll check with our escorts." Michael hastily climbed out of the car, but not before one photographer managed to push his camera lens inside to get a shot of the occupants. Shortly, Michael re-entered the vehicle. "They've been ordered to stay outside the fence or chance arrest."
"With those lenses it doesn't matter." I scrubbed my hands over my face and through my hair. "They'll get their damn pictures in the end. The tabloids always do."
"Child—"
"I am not your child, Father, no disrespect meant, and honestly there's nothing you can say that I want to hear.
"Mac, he's only trying to comfort us." Sarah squeezed my hand.
"Let him comfort you then."
She twisted to face the priest. "You must understand the strain and shock of everything we've been through."
"I do, I truly do. I—"
I leaned forward, my fury exploding, "You understand? Have you loved a woman with all your heart only to have her murdered? Have you lost a child to a homicidal maniac's malicious and demented acts of violence? Don't you ever tell me you understand, not until you have your life snatched out from under you and you sit here, right here, waiting to bury your family, like I am today."
Michael slid next to me and placed his hand on my shoulder. "It's not Father Reilly's fault, Mac."
"I need air," I said again. I pushed past Sarah, opened the door, and lurched out onto the blacktop.
"Mac, please—" Sarah leaned out the door.
I gazed back at her. "It's okay. I'm gonna start walking up the path. I need to move." What I really needed was to be closer to my family.
"I'll come with you—"
"No Sarah, I have to do this alone."
The service was short once it got started. People huddled together, sharing warmth against the blast of arctic air. Sarah sat in a chair with a blanket over her lap while the priest droned on. People cried, some sobbed. Even Michael sported tears on his cheeks. I remained stoic, waiting for the moment when I could be alone with my family. Baby Bella was in the coffin with Izzy. I had her placed in Isabella's loving embrace. Mother and child would share eternity, as they had life. Some suggested separate interment, but I had angrily objected. My only wish was that I could join them.
After the service, after the mourners paid their last respects, I asked Sarah and Michael to give me a moment alone. I willed words to come. I wanted to beg Izzy to forgive me. To hold them both one more time. To tell Isabella how much I loved her and our child. Words failed me, just as I had failed them.
The hardest thing I had ever done was leaving my family's gravesite. Michael, Sarah, and I walked arm-in-arm down the path toward the waiting limo. A television crew had breeched security and they stood equipped as we approached. The videographer was filming our descent and the newsman waited with his mike in hand, a smile on his face. The closer we got, the more I pulled away from Sarah, trusting that Michael would protect her.
"Ms. Taylor, how do you feel?"
I motioned toward the open car door to indicate Sarah should enter first.
"Ms. Taylor do you think Ms. Sanchez is dead because her ex found out about your illicit relationship?"
Michael stilled, but I gestured for him to follow Sarah into the limo.
"Ms. Taylor, some people are suggesting that Isabella and her child are being punished by God because of your homosexual liaison with her. What do you have to say to that?"
I took one step and delivered my heartfelt response.
