abomination. Staggering, I lunge for it, trying to tear it from the rusted support rod to which it is tied. The weathered twine catches and I notice the intricate knot securing it to the rod. I tug again but it does not budge.
I have a small Swiss Army knife attached to my key chain. Rachel, who travels all the time, tells me this is crazy, that I’ll never get through airport security. I never travel, so I have left it there for years. Now, I fish it from my pocket and pry open the thin, small blade. Reaching up close to the rod, I slice through the twine. The doll tumbles to the decaying leaves below. Snatching it up and tuckingthe rancid thing under my arm, I head to the car.
“It’s Doug’s.” I laugh to myself. “Jake would never touch a doll.”
Once the last word leaves my lips, I convince myself. I look around, afraid someone might hear me. I press the doll deeper under my arm, blocking it from view. It dawns on me that I am breaking a law, a very serious law. Rachel would say I am obstructing justice. It might be the second time that day.
When I reach the car, a warning flag waves in my head, telling me I should rethink taking the doll from the scene. At the same time, I think about the other evidence I have removed, the note. I pull it out and reread it. Could this doll be what Jake was talking about? If so . . .
“A crime scene,” I say, shaking my head.
I know what I am doing is wrong, but what would the police think if they found that thing hanging there? It would be bad enough if they found out Jake liked to hang out at some old cemetery. It would paint a false picture of him, one they would use to accuse him of this shooting. I can’t let that happen. It would ruin his life.
Taking a deep breath, I open the door to my wife’s car, throwing the doll into the backseat. I almost toss the note there as well, but stuff it back in my pocket instead. Getting in, I try to think, to decide where else Jake might be. The batting cages? He went there sometimes. I decide to head to the open space where Jake and his friends play football every Sunday afternoon. Maybe he’s there. Or maybe Max is. I could ask him. He would know where to find Jake.
Doubt creeps through my thoughts. If Jake was okay, why wouldn’t he have shown up? He had to have heard all the commotion. Not if he was on the run. I force the thought down, bury it where it cannot breathe life into other, more damaging considerations.
Absently, I push the key into the ignition. Her engine growls to life. It is a familiar sound. When the kids were younger, it was the sound I could not wait to hear. It harkened Rachel’s return, the instant in every day (at least the days she was not traveling) when Ino longer had to be responsible (at least not fully) for our children.
Jake Connolly .
My son’s name hangs in the air around me, confusing, frightening, until I realize the radio has turned on. My heart freezes as I listen, expecting Jake has been found.
Police now believe that Douglas Martin-Klein did not act alone. According to one source inside the department, another senior, Jake Connolly, was with Martin-Klein less than an hour before the shooting. Officers are in the process of searching the boy’s home. As we have reported earlier, unconfirmed reports are that the body of at least one of the shooters, Douglas Martin-Klein, has been recovered at the scene of today’s nightmarish massacre.
My hand shakes as I reach for the knob. I manage to turn off the radio as cold sweat beads on my face. There is no denial; no outrage; no pain; just utter, numbing shock. I cannot explain how it feels to hear something like that about your son because I have no idea how I feel. Instead, there is a void of feeling, a void of understanding, a void of action. There is nothing. Absolute but not final.
CHAPTER 11
JAKE: AGE NINE
My mother arrived at noon to watch Laney. I had already dressed in a button-down shirt and a pair of black Dockers. Rachel
I have a small Swiss Army knife attached to my key chain. Rachel, who travels all the time, tells me this is crazy, that I’ll never get through airport security. I never travel, so I have left it there for years. Now, I fish it from my pocket and pry open the thin, small blade. Reaching up close to the rod, I slice through the twine. The doll tumbles to the decaying leaves below. Snatching it up and tuckingthe rancid thing under my arm, I head to the car.
“It’s Doug’s.” I laugh to myself. “Jake would never touch a doll.”
Once the last word leaves my lips, I convince myself. I look around, afraid someone might hear me. I press the doll deeper under my arm, blocking it from view. It dawns on me that I am breaking a law, a very serious law. Rachel would say I am obstructing justice. It might be the second time that day.
When I reach the car, a warning flag waves in my head, telling me I should rethink taking the doll from the scene. At the same time, I think about the other evidence I have removed, the note. I pull it out and reread it. Could this doll be what Jake was talking about? If so . . .
“A crime scene,” I say, shaking my head.
I know what I am doing is wrong, but what would the police think if they found that thing hanging there? It would be bad enough if they found out Jake liked to hang out at some old cemetery. It would paint a false picture of him, one they would use to accuse him of this shooting. I can’t let that happen. It would ruin his life.
Taking a deep breath, I open the door to my wife’s car, throwing the doll into the backseat. I almost toss the note there as well, but stuff it back in my pocket instead. Getting in, I try to think, to decide where else Jake might be. The batting cages? He went there sometimes. I decide to head to the open space where Jake and his friends play football every Sunday afternoon. Maybe he’s there. Or maybe Max is. I could ask him. He would know where to find Jake.
Doubt creeps through my thoughts. If Jake was okay, why wouldn’t he have shown up? He had to have heard all the commotion. Not if he was on the run. I force the thought down, bury it where it cannot breathe life into other, more damaging considerations.
Absently, I push the key into the ignition. Her engine growls to life. It is a familiar sound. When the kids were younger, it was the sound I could not wait to hear. It harkened Rachel’s return, the instant in every day (at least the days she was not traveling) when Ino longer had to be responsible (at least not fully) for our children.
Jake Connolly .
My son’s name hangs in the air around me, confusing, frightening, until I realize the radio has turned on. My heart freezes as I listen, expecting Jake has been found.
Police now believe that Douglas Martin-Klein did not act alone. According to one source inside the department, another senior, Jake Connolly, was with Martin-Klein less than an hour before the shooting. Officers are in the process of searching the boy’s home. As we have reported earlier, unconfirmed reports are that the body of at least one of the shooters, Douglas Martin-Klein, has been recovered at the scene of today’s nightmarish massacre.
My hand shakes as I reach for the knob. I manage to turn off the radio as cold sweat beads on my face. There is no denial; no outrage; no pain; just utter, numbing shock. I cannot explain how it feels to hear something like that about your son because I have no idea how I feel. Instead, there is a void of feeling, a void of understanding, a void of action. There is nothing. Absolute but not final.
CHAPTER 11
JAKE: AGE NINE
My mother arrived at noon to watch Laney. I had already dressed in a button-down shirt and a pair of black Dockers. Rachel
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