Chapter 3

Copyright 2002 by Elizabeth Delayne



My father is not a murderer," Amy pushed up from the chair in Captain Johnson's office and spun around to face him. He leaned beside the door, his arms crossed. His eyes were on her, but he said nothing.

The aged brown blinds on the windows to the office and deck were closed. The old air conditioner churned. No one could see in, but people knew she was in here. With Detective Miller, with Captain Johnson. It wasn't a normal meeting.

And she knew people wanted her in official meetings, involved with the law, on the other side of a set of bars.

Amy swallowed and glanced at the door then at Captain Johnson.

"Amy," Anna said, her voice steady. She had said the interview was unofficial, but there had been an open notebook on Derek's desk.

Amy turned back to look at her, emotions broiling. She took a deep, steadying breath, and then another one, and paced passed the desk, passed Anna, to the window. She parted the blinds. Outside was a blur of summer activity; surfing, swimming, splashing. It was the same scene anyone might see on any beach, nearly anywhere in the world. Tons of people and—if you were outside—waves of noise.

It was quiet inside, except for the air conditioner. Amy focused on that sound, wondering if it would, if it could, hide the anxiety in her voice.

She couldn't look at Anna right now. Too many times Anna had been on the other side of the line from her—not just when they stood on opposite sides of the law, but later, when she was just not on her side.

"Talk to Carl. You always valued his opinion on the situation before."

"This has nothing to do with your past, Amy—and I am aware now that your P. O. has been less than straight with you and the department. That's being taken care of."

Amy turned and looked at her. "What are you talking about?"

"All those times you were written up for violation—" Anna shook her head. "They weren't accurate. Carl has personal problems with your father. I didn't know, remember that. I didn't really know Carl in high school. Part of the problem is that your father really didn't know him either. You should have come to me, told me."

"Would you have believed me?"

"Maybe—" but her gaze slipped and she sighed, "no—I don't know. I guess I wish you could have come to me. That's as much fault mine as it is . . . other things."

Amy turned back toward the window and focused on a group of kids enjoying the last few days of summer splashing in the water. There had been a time when she had been that carefree ... and her mother had sat on the beach watching her. Ryan—strong, handsome Ryan—might have come up behind her, picked her up and run her, screaming, into the surf.

The memory flashed away, as quickly as it came. And with it came grief, and responsibility.

"If it wasn't Carl it would have been someone else who had personal grievances with my father. We went through two judges, remember?" Her father's reputation had proceeded her into the court room. "More than one counselor . . . dad got tired of it—I got tired of it. I wasn't looking for an easy route out of my punishment, but that's the way it looked to everyone. That’s the way it was starting to look to my own father."

There had been protestors, threats. How many nights had she lain awake at night afraid for her life? How many nights had she hated herself so much that she wanted the people with their threats to follow through?

And in the middle of all that, she'd made the daily, painful return to high school.

If it hadn't of been for Ham—or Andrea and her faith in Christ, her ability to love and forgive—she wasn't sure she would have made it through.

Behind her, Anna sighed. "Amy, I just need a few details—not for investigation, but for . . . assurance."

"You know him—you dated him."

"Yes, but this isn't about me. I can't ... use what I know."

"Why are you asking me? You know my father and I ... we're not ... estranged, but we ... he doesn't talk to me," she said at last, hugging herself with her arms. She closed her eyes, remembering. "He hasn't exactly been a great father, but that doesn't make him a murderer."

"No—but he does have a violent history with you."

"I was violent at the time. He’s hasn’t ... not recently and not often ... only—" she stopped herself from looping back into the cycle of abuse that could have started if Ham, the Lyons and her court appointed counselor had not intervened. There was no only. Her father had lashed out physically—part punishment, part frustration.

She glanced out at the beach and watched a group of boys playing football in the sand and water. How she longed to be out there with them. "I never reported it—not officially."

"It's common knowledge in the precinct, Amy."

"It's not on record, it can't be used."

"Then you would deny it? You would lie, Amy—haven't you come further then that?"

Amy spun from the window, her hands clenched at her sides, but something in Anna's eyes reached her. She took another deep breath and sighed. Her fingers slowly went slack.

"No."

Behind Anna, she saw Captain Johnson's slight nod of approval.

She speared Anna with a glance, "What are you doing? If this isn't official, what is it?"

Anna picked up her notebook from Captain Johnson's desk and shut it. She glanced at him and he stepped to open the door. When he shut it, he turned back to Amy.

"The assurance she spoke of—it wasn't for her, but for you," he told her, his eyes studying her.

"Why?"

"She was preparing you."

"Preparing me for what?"

"For the fact that it is very likely that your father is going to be questioned more thoroughly," Captain Johnson said and came back toward his desk. He leaned against it, facing her. His look softened a degree and for a moment she forgot everything else.

For a moment the air prickled. It had never been easy between them. She didn’t want it to be—but it it led to this awareness ...

Finally, he cleared his throat and awkwardly shifted through a few papers.

"There were things she wanted to say that she could not say—not if she wants to stay on this investigation. Amy, you may be questioned officially—have your lawyer present. Say only what you are asked and nothing more—or have your lawyer say it for you. Don't hide the truth."

"I thought we were passed this," she said and turned away. After her mom's death she and her father had fought bitterly, but in both their mistakes, she was the one who knew what it was like to watch someone die.

Her father couldn't be capable of that. He wasn't.

She felt Derek come up behind her, felt his hands on her arms and his breath on her hair. She closed her eyes and for a moment focused on the strength that he offered—if only for the moment it was greater then the fear she felt when around him.

"Hold on to what you know, Amy. You've got God in your life. Don't forget that."

"The press are going to become interested again."

"If and when it happens, we'll work through it. You've got friends who will stand beside you," he squeezed her arms, then released her. "Do you have a good lawyer?"

Amy nodded. "They're really good—more than you know."

"Then give them a call."

"Did she listen?"

"She listened," Derek said, leaning back in his chair. Anna had come back in after Amy left. She was wearing another shapeless gray suit. "What is you relationship with her?"

Anna studied him for a moment, then with a sigh, rounded a chair and sat down. "A long time ago, before my high school days, I was friends with her father. We grew up in the same rough neighborhood, kind of followed each other through elementary school, junior high, high school. By the time he married Mallory, we were only distant friends, acquaintances really through his parents, but Mallory and I got on very well. And the friendship transferred."

"When Mallory and Ryan died, Lance pushed everyone away ... and I didn't know how to approach him—until, we just fell into dating, maybe a little too soon. Maybe I blamed myself a little when Amy started to get into trouble. Maybe I overreacted. I didn't know how to reach her."

"She's hard to reach."

Anna nodded and then smiled. "Yeah—but her tolerance level has increased toward you, I noticed."

"What scale are you using?"

"My own—from a lifetime of knowing Amy and her father. She didn't walk out today. I couldn't have kept her here. She had to know that you didn't have to keep her here, not without a lawyer—and her lawyers would do anything for her. She could and would have walked out—unless she trusted one of us. I'm inclined to think it was you."

Derek nodded, felt the stab of relief, and set it aside to think on later. Right now, he had a job to do—which included looking after said employee.

"If you're so close to her family—to her father—why stay on the case? Wouldn't the public be screaming conflict of interest?"

"With Lance Carpenter, three time National league MVP? Popular financial advisor—with broadcasts across the U.S.? You've got to be kidding. His success is a web for catching people who don't like him, some with valid reasons. Part of Amy's problem has always been that as many people in this town that love her father, there are as many who hate him."

“Including Carl Winters.”

“Apparently so. The same goes for the police force—and my own captain understands that. He's seen the evidence and knows that Lance shouldn't be high on the suspect list—but others could and would loose their focus. Carl isn't the only one who would love to hurt the Carpenters. Amy was right. Five years ago the investigation of that accident turned away from the kids who were driving the cars and turned on Amy—the one who stayed, the one who called the police, the one with the blood of the dead on her hands. She blamed herself, her father blamed her and the town blamed her."

"Two detectives got pulled from the investigation—and it never got the proper investigation. Jenny Lyons, Matt Barker—they never got the justice they deserved. If I leave this case—someone else will take over who has just as much history with Lance or Mallory or Ryan. At least I know he's innocent—at least I have that on his side."

"Jenny Lyons," Derek repeated, putting the information together. "She was one of the teens that died that night."

"Yes—and Matt Barker was a star senior quarterback. Colleges were fighting to get him. He had national press."

Derek held up a hand and pressed. "Lyons? Any relation to Andrea?"

"Jenny was her sister," Anna smiled. "And Andrea befriended Amy when no one else would. When you see those two together, you're looking at a miracle."

Amy dove into the waves, graceful and smooth as she parted the water. The waves rushed to meet her, the warmth of the water nearly as familiar to her as her own skin. She swam out to the buoy and turned back toward shore, her muscles aching.

It reminded of summers gone by—every summer. Racing, swimming, surfing, relaxing—making memories, and finding time to do so; letting go of every thought for so you could feel your heart race, your adrenaline churn.

For a moment, she could escape.

Her feet met the sand and she came up, showering the water around her, then raced for her towel. She plopped down on it just as Andrea came out of the water laughing. Cupping the water with her hands, Andrea jogged forward, flinging it in Amy's direction.

Amy did not flinch. A handful of water drops would dry in moments.

"Why do you always compete when we're in the water?"

"Because the last time we went in to swim for fun, you told everyone afterwards that you beat me," Amy said, and lay back, letting the sun dry her off. She watched as Andrea pulled out her sun screen and dribbled it over her skin.

Down the beach a group of guys paused in their game of volleyball and watched. Amy stuck her tongue out at them.

"You're getting attention," Amy warned.

Andrea barely glanced at the guys, "Why do you always assume that they're looking at me?"

"Because they know who we are. I'm the bad evil chick, and you're the rich, beautiful lady of their dreams."

"I am not," Andrea said, rolling her eyes.

"You always are. One of those guys comes over here——he won't even look at me."

"If you don't stop looking at them, one of them is going to come over here and then we're going to have to make conversation or something," Andrea shut the cap to her sun block and handed it across to Amy, her look pointed. "I need my beauty rest. Saturday is a big day."

"Which reminds me—one of the guys from Laufman County called this morning and left a message on the machine at the station. Mitch played it back for me. Basically, it says they're going to whoop our tails."

"They are certainty welcome to come and pay their entry fee to try. I think we have our best relay team we've had in years. And Mitch as been working with Steve Hammond. You should see that kid move in the water."

"Isn't Steve Hammond one of the ones I pulled out of the water earlier this summer?"

"As I said, Mitch is working with him."

"He's probably a better swimmer for it."

"Quite possibly a better teenager because of it," Andrea pointed out, slipping her sunglasses on before laying back on her towel. "He reminds me of someone."

Amy snorted, "I was never that bad a swimmer."

"You better not be on Saturday," Andrea pointed out.

The adult lifeguards had their own races, endurance challenges against the other counties. The games were spirited, passed down by surfing and lifeguard legends. The preparation for the end of summer events kept them in top shape.

"I have to be. Did I tell you Ham was going to be here?"

"Only about twenty times," Andrea responded. Ham had been released from the rehab center and was currently at home, checked on daily by a nurse and any lifeguard that dropped by. "Mitch told me Derek's picking him up."

"Mmm."

"Then I guess you knew," Amy felt Andrea's eyes on her, but kept her own closed. "Amy, you should be glad they're friends and that Derek's working with Ham. It certainly must be hard on Ham to have to let go of everything so quickly."

"What do you want me to feel?" Amy asked, thinking about the meeting in his office that morning. For once he'd nearly been the calm in her inner storm, his touch on her arms holding her steady. "I certainly don't know. I respect him, he's my boss. I follow directions."

"But you don't accept him."

"Accept him as what?"

Andrea growled. "As family. We're all part of the same family."

Amy stared at Andrea for a moment and tried to process the words. Across the sand the group of guys had started a volleyball game. Beyond them was a lifeguard hut, it's construction simple, coated in whitewash.

The lifeguard stood as a silhouette against the sun.

It was John, a nine year lifeguard, a graduate of the police academy and expecting father. John was family.

Captain Johnson was ... maybe the problem was, she didn't know. She didn't want to know.

Amy lay on the sand and closed her eyes, enjoying the heat of the sun on her skin, listening to the sounds of summer around her: the surf lapping the sand, the shrieks of children. Apparently, the group of guys had resumed their volleyball game, because she could hear their shouts.

The numbers on the beach had peaked and would slowly fade away. Once kids were back in school the vacationers would level off. The life guarded beaches would be narrowed down. Soon the faded white washed signs with a fresh coating of "No Life Guard On duty" would be posted. Only a few lifeguards would stay on.

Amy was one of them.

Soon winter would approach. They were north enough along the coast to get cold winds and a rare light snow during the winter. The water would be freezing. Only a few surfers would strike out to catch a wave.

Amy was also one of them.

The almost panicked giggle drew Amy's head around and she watched as Andrea struggled to push herself to a standing position. Amy glanced at her watch and was on her feet in one smooth move.

Andrea had already gained attention.

"Get down," she said, nearly pushing her friend back to the ground. Andrea shrieked then pressed a hand to her head.

"Amy—" her voice shook.

"I know," Amy said, already digging in Andrea's bag. Across the sand, the group of guys had stopped to watch. Turn away, she wanted to yell at them, pulling out a sugar packet. She tore it open and knelt beside Andrea.

Andrea shifted away—confused, disoriented. She flailed her arms and cried out. Her eyes were wide open, panicked.

"It's all right," Amy said as a woman came over. "She's hypoglycemic. I know what to do."

Amy reached out again, caught Andrea, and gently urged her friend to open her mouth. The group of guys were watching, as were others, and it wrenched Amy's heart. Andrea would feel the shame of it—as loving as she was—Andrea would beat herself up over it.

She poured the sugar on Andrea's tongue, keeping a firm hand on her jaw to make sure she didn't spit it out.

Andrea's eyes slowly slid closed as the sugar entered her system. She gently shook her head. Amy let go and watched as Andrea lay back on the towel, wallowing in humiliation.

"Is everything okay?"

Amy looked up at John and nodded. "Help me get her to the car."


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