Chapter 11

Copyright 2000 by Elizabeth Delayne



"Call your mother."

Erica glanced over at the stranger, the man she had loved as dearly as she would have loved her own father had he lived. His eyes were wide and cautious as if he were driving through a downpour, instead a beautiful morning full of sunshine. The world slipping by outside her mother's luxury sedan seemed listless and faraway, as if it was only a moving picture in a groggy dream.

He held out his cell phone to her, his eyes as he met hers demanding and void of the easy love she'd grown to except from him.

The Lord, Erica prayed silently, her eyes on his, is my shepherd.

She didn't feel fear for herself, but for everything else she held dear. Someone—Baxley, she thought bitterly—had turned her world upside down once . . . had spoiled the love in the Caine family so that it burned painfully for 20 years.

And this same person wanted to change it all again . . . to take the possibilities away again.

"Erica. Call your mother."

Erica took Baxley's cell phone, her eyes steady and on him. Her knuckles were white around the phone.

She glanced down at the digits and swallowed. Baxley would kill her mother once he got those papers. He would killed Erica.

And if she didn't cooperate, he would still go for her mother, still seek to kill and destroy.

Either way, the possibilities were bleak.

And what of Jonathon . . . ?

"Now."

Erica quickly dialed Jonathon's cell phone number. She pressed the receiver to her ear and looked toward Baxley again.

"Mom—" she said when Jonathon picked up. Her voice trembled and she took an audible breath, "where are you?"

There was a pause, but Jonathon didn't hand the phone over to Lillian, "Something's wrong."

"I know that," Erica said, picking up his cue, and thanking God that he picked up on hers. "I need to know how far you are from New Orleans."

She covered the receiver after Jonathon told her, "She just past the roadside barbeque exit. That would be Dawsonville, so they must be—"

"Thirty minutes," Baxley supplied. "Ask."

"Baxley called and said that you have some papers for the factory. There is a rest stop about 45 minutes back this way from where you are . . . so maybe I could get them for you before you get on in to New Orleans," she said, reading the paper Baxley pushed toward her, "I'm 30 minutes away from the spot now. Do you know where I'm talking about?"

Erica cried out when Baxley wrenched at her hair. She looked at the fingers he held up, "You have 30 minutes."

He grabbed the phone and ended the transmission.

"You should have been an actress, Erica," he sneered, believing that he was leading Lillian into a trap...believing that Erica would have been willing to do that. "You must have gotten it from your mother."

Erica looked out the window and prayed, thankful that she finally understood her mother's exterior hadn't been an act, but a protection. A protection against the catalysts that had changed things before. * * * * *

"Jonathon," Lillian breathed as he turned the car onto the interstate's grassy median and picked up speed, sliding onto the road, "what wrong?"

"You know the number for those agents in New Orleans?"

"I have it in my purse—"

"Get them on the phone," he said, his eyes dark and intense, "then hand it to me."

"What is it, Jonathon? What's wrong with Erica?"

"I have a feeling someone wants that paperwork you're taking to New Orleans," he said, watching the speedometer hover just past 100. He'd been taught to drive in newer, faster models made for high speed chases. He prayed that the roads would remain clear. He needed to get close enough, fast enough, that they would have time for Lillian to switch places with him.

And he needed to think, feeling the panic close rise in his throat. He'd been trained in logistics and in patience. His father had analyzed and taught Jonathon what he knew about the criminal mind.

And right now, he was afraid that with all he knew and all he'd been, he wouldn't be able to save Erica. The image of Johnson, dying on a concrete floor nearly blinded him.

He took a deep breath and said a quick prayer.

He handed her his phone, "Check the call log. You recognize that phone number?"

Lillian pulled the business card from her purse as she checked. "It's Baxley. He's got Erica . . . Jonathon, he was Gordan's best friend. If he killed him and has been so calm all these years ...."

"We'll pray, Lillian."

"God's with Erica now."

"Yes He is."

"But God won't save her . . ." Lillian shook her head when Jonathon started to answer. "Let him lead you now, Jonathon. With whatever that spiritual thing is. Figure out how to save my daughter. I won't let Baxley have them both." * * * * *

"Why?" Erica stood alone in the shadows of the rest stop and watched the cars glide down the interstate, visible only through a few trees. The buildings were empty. The areas that once held snack machines behind heavy steel bars were open and desolate.

Baxley was behind her in one of them, gun in hand. One of the doors had been swept open, while the other was closed, allowing a shadow of bars to line the floor.

Baxley's hand was steady, she thought, and it was one that was not afraid of killing.

He'd been her father figure growing up. She'd never doubted that he'd loved both her and her mother. He'd loved her father as a friend.

She glanced down at her hands. Each held the other tight. Her wrist was bruised from Baxley pulling her from the car and into the shadowed area.

She turned to him, faced the man who had helped raise her, who had helped to turn both her and her mother's world into anguish. "Why Baxley?"

"It was a different time," he said, and it scared her that he suddenly seemed so normal—so like the man she had known her entire life. Except, she realized as she watched him, he was sweating profusely. A large wet spot had soaked his shirt across his chest. "You have to understand that."

"I don't have to understand anything. Murder is murder."

"It wasn't murder. You're trying to see things in black and white."

No, she thought, but he had, but racially, believing in a difference and a power he wanted to gain, "Then what was it?"

"You don't know who your father was . . . for everything you think you need to condemn me fore, you condemn him as well. Your father was riding on fear. He'd become afraid, irrational. He went away from here and forgot things and the elders thought . . . ." he looked away, then back at Erica. "He wanted to turn us all in. He wanted repentance for his wrongs. He would have ruined all of us, even then. He would have ruined this county and everything his father had helped mine to build. People would have been out of jobs, men would have been in prison. Good men, with good families."

"Men that had murdered?"

"You say that now, standing on your high box of self morals, but for all your honor you wouldn't have wanted your father in prison."

"I would have wanted him alive," Erica thought, and realizing that her father had been ready to tell the truth, he'd also been willing to go to prison.

"You say that now. It didn't have to be this way. Your father had been one of us. Then he went away," Baxley's eyes seemed unfocused for a minute. "He always talked of needing to escape—though he knew what he was running from. He left us. He forgot things. Your mother changed him."

"My mother loved him. He loved my mother. You took that precious gift away from her."

"What about what he was going to take from me? I worked my entire adult life to see that his money multiplied. And he wanted to dishonor his family, my family by putting some black man into management."

"And you killed that man too, didn't you?"

"It had to be done," he muttered. "I wasn't alone, Erica. Others, many others felt the same way as I did."

"Then where are they now? You don't have your protection now. You're here alone. You'll take my life, my mother's. Do you think it will end then? The FBI is already involved. The national papers are already looking into a twenty year old murder trial. My father's murder. Gordon Caine"

His composure was gone now, she thought. His eyes were bright, unrational.

"You can go now Baxley. Run . . . but if you take this any further, it won't stop this time. It won't be smothered. People aren't quiet about racial killings anymore. They don't have to be."

* * * * *

"We should have a few minutes lead time," Jonathon glanced down at the speedometer that hovered around ninety. "I'll get out, walk my way in. I don't know how long it will take me. Give me five minutes. If I can't make it in by then, head in. Go ahead, turn the sound off on the phones. Dial my number on your phone and answer mine. We'll leave the lines open."

Lillian watched him, intrigued by the change in his demeanor, even as she worried for him, feared for her daughter. His eyes were dark and focused. His hands were tight, but controlled on the steering wheel. His lips were pressed into a firm line.

He seemed much older, much wiser, then she had ever thought he could seem.

"He's taking risks he shouldn't be taking. He's obviously not thinking clearly. That's going to give us a wide berth, hopefully, for getting Erica out."

Jonathon pulled the convertible to the side of the road just before the turn off for the abandoned rest stop. The sign below the exit said closed in faded white letters.

Foliage grew up and around the exit, obscuring it from view. He had no weapon, except his training and experience. And faith. He could only pray that God would keep Erica safe.

He glanced briefly at Lillian, took the cell phone she offered, then got out, dashing into the leaves. Time, Jonathon knew, was his enemy.

* * * * *

Erica turned when she heard the gravel on the aged drive. Her mother was running a few minutes passed the forty-five minute mark and Baxley was getting nervous. She closed her eyes with relief when she only saw her mother.

Jonathon had a plan, was all she could think.

And she said a prayer. God, keep us safe. Bring this to an end.

"There's you mother. Late as usual."

Only, Erica thought, when she wanted to make a grand entrance. Only when Lillian desired control did she make the slightest spectacle of herself, Erica realized now. For too long she'd despised her mother for it, but now it made her want to smile.

He nudged Erica into the sunlight with the butt of the gun. Lillian pulled the car up and stopped, leaving the engine running.

"Get out of the car," Baxley called out, "and bring me what's mine."

Lillian opened the door of the car and slid out. She walk slowly around the hood, carrying nothing.

"Where are the papers?" Baxley asked from behind Erica. His voice teetered on a high pitch between stability and insanity.

"In a safe place," Lillian answered. "You kill Erica, you'll never get them. You kill me, and you won't either. The Feds will find them, unless you get to them first. You don't have much time, Baxley."

Baxley moved, stepping directly into Lillian's view. The sunlight poured over him, leaving him half in the bright light, half in shadows. Erica shifted slightly, heavy metal door or vertical bars. She curled her fingers around the rungs and breathed a sight of relief. She kept her eyes on her mother.

"Get the papers now."

"This is between you and me, Baxley. You took what was mine once." Lillian lifted her hand, holding it our in front of her. Only then did Erica see the palm sized pistole she carried.

"Drop your gun."

"You won't take my life from me," Baxley cried out, stepping fully into the sunlight. He held his gun out in front of him. "I've kept your empire for you."

"You kept your empire. The factory was certainly never mine, and it was never truly Gordan's. I've built my own." Erica had never seen such a hard light in her mother's eyes. "You think I'll hesitate to put a bullet in you, Baxley? I've waited 20 years for this moment. If I had known it was you, I wouldn't have waited this long."

He arm twitched, steadied and Erica fought the panic. She reached behind her and grabbed the metal edge of the bars and turn, using everything in her to swing the door closed.

Baxley turned, his gun going off as the metal hit him, knocked him back against it's counterpart. Erica grabbed the gate as it swung back and pushed it, pushing into the man that had murdered her father.

Baxley turned the gun, toward himself. His finger struggled with the trigger. The bars pressed into his thigh, his shoulder.

"No!" Lillian grabbed the gun, tossed it way. "I'll save your ending for the justice system. I want you to pay, in every way that matters to you. I want you to rot in the public's eye. I want your employees that trust you now, to see who you really are."

Baxley jerked against the bars that pressed him on either side. "You take me down, you take Gordan's memory down with you."

"Gordan made his own choices," Lillian said, her eyes deadly calm. "And we'll just see what people really believe coming from the lips of a murderer."

When Baxley jerked this time, Erica through her back into the hold, jerking the bars once more to hold him in place. The man cried out in pain.

Jonathon stepped forward, placed a hand on Lillian's arm. He took the gun from her, "I wouldn't move, Mr. Baxley. You might trust Lillian to kill you with this," he said in a deep, steady voice. "But won't. I know exactly where to hit where it will keep you down and alive."

He motioned Erica away from the bars.

She let go and her hands suddenly felt empty. She looked at her mother. A woman she had never understood until this one moment. A woman she found she loved more than she had every believed possible.

"Mamma?"

Lillian's face crumpled as she reached for her daughter. Erica stepped forward and clung to her mother.

"I don't guess either of you needed me," Jonathon muttered as he caught Erica's eye over her mother's shoulder.

He reached in his pocket and ended the transmission still open on his cell phone. Then he called the Fed's. Told them to move on in.

* * * * *

Jonathon turned the convertible onto a dirt road Lillian had directed him to. Erica sat beside him. She'd been quiet for the last two days. The world around her had circled fast as her mother handled the press and she handled the business . . . or businesses.

He stopped the car as the road ended with a view of the lake. He cut the engine and turned to watch her.

"I don't know how not to be sad, Jonathon," she said at last. "Why should I grieve now?"

Her arms were crossed, her hands tucked in the crook of each elbow. Jonathon reached out, took her hand and brought it to his lips.

"I want to hate my father. I want to love my father. I can't seem to do either, not fully. I need to forgive him, isn't that the way it goes, so I can have peace in myself? Is that what God wants? Me to forgive such a hateful act?"

"Forgive the person, don't accept the act."

"Is one separate from the other?"

She was in so much inner turmoil and pain, Jonathon thought, standing between two emotions as strong as the steel bars she'd pressed into Baxley.

Getting out of the convertible, Jonathon rounded the front and pulled her out into the night air. He wrapped his arms around her, felt the stiff breaths she took as she fought against the pain.

He kissed the top of her head, drawing it to his neck. He felt her take a deep, shaky breath, breathing him in.

"I love you, Erica," he whispered.

The dam broke. The pent of emotion spilled out in breaking sobs.

She clung to Jonathon, holding on as if he would keep her steady.

And meanwhile he prayed.



If she cried for an hour, Erica wouldn't have been surprised. She stood limp, so very weary, in Jonathon's arms. "I don't feel anything," she whispered.

"That's enough for now."

He stepped back, cupped her face in his hands, "I love you so much."

"I love you, too."

"You can't know what you did to my heart yesterday when you took Baxley down. Do you realize how close that bullet came to you?"

She shook her head, her eyes wide with surprise. "I forgot he fired the gun."

"Yeah. You mother hadn't even told me about hers. She sent me out bare handed," he ran a hand over her hair. "But I guess she knew what she was protecting."

"My mother despises guns, Jonathon. I think it shook her that she ever had to use it. That gun is twenty years old and has been in her safe since she put it there when my father gave it to her. She's not even sure if it would have worked."

He stepped away, glad to see the faint smile on her face. It was over, was all he could think.

He took her hand in his and laced his fingers through hers as he walked toward the lake.

"This reminds me of my home."

"Do you miss it?"

"Some. I seem to be a hermit sometimes," he shrugged, glanced at her. "But I've found recently that I can write anywhere."

"Are you thinking of going back?"

"Soon. I haven't ever told you that I'm working with my old precinct, on a case several years old."

She looked at him, understood that it was something he needed to do. "If you want to go back, Jonathon, and it's a police officer you want to be, I don't have an objection to it."

"I might . . . but they've approached me to be on a task force to look at the needs of teens and programs, etcetera. I wouldn't have to be there all the time," he shrugged, glanced down at their joined hands. "I need to meet with Amy. I have a book to give her."

"A book," Erica repeated, then her eyes widened with understanding. "You finished your book."

"I had time over the last few days," he said with a small smile. "I do have one more scene to write. Peter found Whitney. They saved each other. It was much more gallant for Peter the way I wrote it."

"So Whitney couldn't have saved herself?"

"It worked at the time," was all he said and smiled. "At the end of the book, I have this scene that I want to put in . . . there's so much of you and me in it. It's a different plot, a different love. It's fiction, but I wanted to see how this felt before I put it into the story."

He dropped down on one knee and still holding her hand, used the other to draw the ring out of his pocket.

"I love you Erica. It doesn't matter where we love, or where we work, or what has happened. God's given you to me as a gift. Will you be my wife?"

Erica just stared at him. Her Jonathon on his knee in front of her, his eyes so serious.

All she could think to do was laugh.

She dropped down on her knees before him and cupped his face in her hands. "I love you so much."

"Is that a yes?"

"It's an always," she whispered. "I want our possibilities."


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