Chapter 6

Copyright 2000, 2006 by Elizabeth Delayne


"Where are you?"

Jonathon sighed. Lillian had offered him one of the guest bedrooms, but he felt more comfortable in a different place. It wouldn't take long for the tabloids to add to the hype around a twenty-year-old murder investigation, added to the publicity around his newest bestseller and a movie coming out in the next few weeks based on an older one.

Besides, it had always been an advantage to have his own space. Even when he was on the force, he did his best thinking when he could pace an empty room and work things through in his mind.

It was long after midnight, but that never kept either Paige or Amy from calling. Both liked to break into his private writer's sanctum. "Hiding from Amy."

"That wouldn't surprise me, but you were supposed to call me this afternoon."

"Something came up," he picked up the remote control and flipped off the television, casting the hotel room into the dim glow of the security lights outside.

"Does this have anything to do with grilling Paul about a twenty-year-old murder investigation?"

Paul was a contact he had with FBI from the old days. He was a database of cases. On slow days, Jonathon could call him, throw out a few ideas, and they could wrestle the implications … spar over the real cases … and beat the tail out of imaginary bad guys. Paul had gotten a kick when his character had shown up in three of his books.

And his information on Gordon Caine’s murder was worth more than gold. The FBI was very interested in this case.

"Somewhat."

"So you are in Louisiana."

"Maybe."

"Jonathon, it would be nice if you informed me of your whereabouts."

"I don't work under a badge anymore, Paige," Jonathon didn't try to hide the edge in his voice. He wanted to make sure that everyone remembered that he walked away from the precinct, and his current situation was voluntary. He wanted a firm line drawn—even more so now that Erica was in his life.

"Of course you do. You just don't get paid for it right now," she laughed slightly at her own private joke. She liked to tell him that his memories and imagination were granting him back pay he'd earned on the force. "Look, this is serious. You left your cabin yesterday?"

"Mmm."

"Such verbal strength you have. Amazing you can find the right words for those bestsellers. Your alarm went off last night."

"To the house?"

"Mmm-hmm. The good news is, it was your father that set it off. The bad news is, he noticed that someone had been around. Thought he would check things out."

Jonathon sat up straight. "What?!"

"He was a cop, Jonathon. Don't be surprised."

"Twenty years ago, maybe."

"Those of us that had him in college didn't believe it. You're father is still as sharp as a double edged Roman sword. Give him credit."

"He was supposed to stay away. This was supposed to be a trap."

"No kidding. Anyway, we checked it out. It looked like one of your fans just tried to visit you, then left."

"No one's supposed to know where I live, Paige."

"Maybe not in the circle's of most of your fans, but when we set the trap, we knew others might get wind of it."

"Are you sure it was just a fan?" Jonathon asked, scanning his memory to see if he'd left behind any trace of where he was heading this time. He didn't think so. It had been a point not to—not when the darkest part of his past was looking for him.

He wouldn’t let Erica be involved.

"Yes. Video records show man, thirties, scholarly look. Goatee. Horned-rimmed glasses. That trademark Burstin look."

"I shaved the goatee three years ago. Lost the horn-rimmed glasses when I stopped hiding from myself."

"Still—"

"And Paige, tell dad to quit the cop-act. He's retired."

* * * * *

"I'm not keeping you from writing, am I?"

Erica had spent the morning at home, working from her mother's home office while Lillian flitted around on her phone, both of them hiding behind the doors of their home. When Jonathon had called around noon, she'd invited him over for a quiet lunch. Now they were enjoying a lazy walk down Harmony's main street.

It was a muggy summer afternoon. Quiet, because most people were enjoying the coolness of indoors. Even the press seemed to be hiding out this morning.

"No—not since you worked when I slept. I was writing last night. Am I keeping you from work?"

"The luxury of having an assistant to move things around." It had addedto her already hectic flight schedule in the coming weeks. "I need to fly to New York, but that can wait until Monday. Mother has delegated me to vacation status until then."

"Wow. A whole weekend."

”It’s a lot for the Caine women.”

As they reached the crosswalk at the intersection of main street, Erica pressed the button for the crossing sign. She couldn't complain. It was her first weekend off in months—the first time in her life that her mother insisted she slow down.

They stood quietly at the curb until the red hand disappeared and was replaced by the green WALK light. Jonathon grabbed her hand as they jogged needlessly across and kept it when they were on the other side. Their pace was slow, thoughtful, the conversation weaving in and out as the minutes ticked by. Erica enjoyed showing Jonathon her own town, the old, family owned businesses, surrounded by the new, popular chains. Main Street still had the decor of the old days–when kids rode their bikes up and down the street not needing parental supervision.

She could still remember her father describing it to her—the way he would laugh—the way she had known that there were times he’d gotten into a little trouble away from home. Nothing serious—but even though they could ride through town on their own, everyone knew everyone … and parents knew everything.

She looked over at Jonathon, bursting to tell him, and found him looking around—every which way—picking as if he was trying to take it all in at once.

"Doing research?"

"Huh?"

"You just seemed to be thinking … so fast, I thought maybe you were researching."

He chuckled. "Just picking up some details."

"Do you usually write at night?"

Jonathon glanced from where he'd been watching through the front window of the hair salon, the interplay of two women, patron and stylist.

"I write when it comes to me. I write when I want to sit down," he stopped, glanced down at her and smiled with what she was coming to think of as her Jonathon's smile—not a Burstin trademark look, "and Erica, I don't want to sit down right now."

She laughed despite the serious sound of his deep voice and squeezed his hand. "Are you sure? We could stop by Millie's Food and Drugs and grab a milkshake, made with real ice cream and milk. They have a soda jerk and vinyl bar stools, just like the old days."

"Then can we get a milkshake to share? Just like the old days?"

* * * * *

They ended up with three milk shakes, since Millie's daughter, now in her fifties, convinced Jonathon that he needed to try them all. They settled in the back booth, out of the traffic and away from the windows. He sat with his back to the rest of the diner, hoping to avoid those that knew his face; she sat looking toward the diner, wanting to see those that came in so she wouldn't be caught unaware.

Erica laughed when Jonathon stuck his straw into the strawberry shake with hers and leaned in close.

"When I was in high school, when this guy Robert Ellington and I were going steady, he used to bring me here for a one milkshake affair thing."

"Affair thing?"

"Yeah. He wanted it to be this serious thing, you know, you're leaning in close, looking into the other person's eyes, and then you're just staring, I guess. But it always made me laugh when I was leaning in that close to him. He had these adorable freckles scattered all over his nose. I suppose I never took it seriously enough for him since the relationship ended after a couple of weeks."

She stirred her straw around and watched as he tugged the paper off of another straw and slipped it into the vanilla shake. Since he'd tried all three, including a good portion of the chocolate, she asked. "Which do you like best?"

"I don't know. Let me try this strawberry one again," he leaned in close and tried the soulful look with her. There was an intensity, sharp and distinct, Erica thought as she gazed into his brown eyes. For a moment, there was no time, small town drug store, or people nearby. It was just the two of them.

They both leaned back in the booth, laughing, breaking the moment.

Jonathon sighed and reached across the table for her hand, holding onto her fingers. "I haven't had a serious relationship since I started writing," he told her, toying with her fingers. "And before that, nothing was like this."

"I've never had a relationship with a writer, serious or not."

Jonathon smiled. "Then I guess we're both playing this thing by ear."

"Was it a real serious relationship?" Erica asked. He wasn't too much older then her, but he was past the thirty mark by a couple of years.

"It was a long time ago. I was on the force. She wasn't. We were both involved in activities at church and we were thrust together more often then not. So we decided to start dating, and we dated some more, until it started to look serious to everyone but us. It just didn't pan out."

"She couldn't take you being a police officer?"

"No . . . things just faded. I let them fade. She wasn't important enough after awhile," he shrugged it off, but his gaze, when turned on her was direct, "What about you?"

"There was a time when I thought I was . . . but I think that God rescued me. He was a nice guy, but unsettled, like he's trying on several different life-suits. First his parent's, then his friend's. He's already been through one divorce and he's into his second now. We were dating when I went off to school. He was my mother's pick. We were both Southern gentry, you know. His father was one of the big shots in the state senate and was about to run for the U.S. House. Then I met Amber and Amber introduced me to God, and then the relationship ended.

"I got so caught up in learning all I could about God, I ran right over him, which I found was not exactly what I was supposed to do. Two years ago I saw him again and we talked everything out," her phone chirped and she pulled it out of her handbag while she finished the story. "There was still nothing there, but the relationship needed to be mended."

"This is Erica," she answered and Jonathon watched her as the warmth slipped away for serious professionalism. While she rattled off some professional jargon, he listened, marveling at the kind of woman she was—bright, beautiful, funny. There were an endless amount of delightful expressions that passed over her face when she wasn't thinking about it. Most of the time she simply . . . refined, he thought, just as she was raised to be by her mother.

After a series of phrases, a short staccato-like conversation, she slipped the phone away.

"Sorry."

"No problem. I'm just glad that I've gotten you this long by myself," he watched as Erica's attention was interrupted when someone called her name and she lifted a hand and smiled in greeting, her eyes coming immediately back to his. "We haven't talked about Monday, yet."

"Monday?"

Jonathon placed his index fingers together side by side then drew them a part, as in separated. He could not say it.

Erica looked away and frowned. "Do we have to? We both know what's going to happen."

"Do we? I don't think we're thinking the same thing. Hey," he reached across the table and cupped her chin in his hand, turning her eyes back to his, "I know when I left the last time, I left you hanging. I know that I hurt you. This time when I leave, I'm leaving you with a promise. I need to see you again. I really need to see you again."

”That’s some guarantee.”

”I don’t make them easily.”

She looked at him, silently assessing the quiet promise in his eyes. "I haven't made specific plans for Monday, yet.”

He dropped his hand from her face so he could hold hers, and she watched as their fingers merged, so much easier, she thought, than their lives would. "We could fly to Chicago together, then I could go onto New York and you could go home."

"We could," he agreed. "And Sunday . . . do you have plans for then?"

It didn't go past her that Jonathon did not mention Saturday, but skipped to Sunday, knowing that their relationships with Christ were what made her relationship with Jonathon special—that, and the fact that they knew and understood each other so well. It always amazed her when they talked, how easily he could talk about God, challenge her and at the same time admit that he didn't know how to challenge himself right now. They both realized they had some growing to do.

They were stopped when they left Millie's Food and Drugs as a small crowd gathered for a Burstin autograph. Erica bit back the irritation, not because the people were interrupting their time, but because when Jonathon Burstin appeared, in all the confident, aloof, intellectual police drama savvy, her Jonathon disappeared. The irritation contrasted with the admiration that she felt for him.

* * * * *

"Mother, I—" The next day, Erica stopped at the threshold of the parlor when she saw that her mother was entertaining. No—not entertaining, but answering questions, looking poised and … empty. The normal charm and strength in her eyes was missing. Baxley stood at her side, his hand on the top of the chair where her mother sat so gracefully and tired.

"Erica," Lillian stood and held a hand out to her daughter, clasping it as if she needed courage when Erica stepped near. "This is Agent Paren and Agent Roy from the F.B.I."

"F.B.I.?" Erica glanced at the two men sharply. Their expressions were as blank as her mother's had been. "What—"

"They've been brought in to help out the local police. Twenty years is a long time. F.B.I. technology far surpasses that of Harmony and New Orleans."

Agent Paren stepped forward and held out a hand. He was tall, thin, with an angular face and grey, emotionless eyes. Erica shook his hand, wondering why she suddenly didn't want to trust him. Wondering why her mother didn't trust either one of them.

"We just came by to ask some questions."

"I think they were about done," Lillian added, her eyes dark with warning. "If you'll excuse us, gentlemen, Erica came to get me because we have a guest over for lunch."

The two men nodded, and moved to leave. When Lillian held her ground, Erica's upbringing came in and she followed the men to the front door.

"We didn’t mean to upset your mother over this," Agent Roy said as they stepped outside into the summer heat. He was a shorter man, robust. His eyes, a clear blue, apologized. "Nor, do we want to drag either one of you back into this."

"Why should it matter? It happened 20 years ago."

Surprised, Agent Paren's hand halted on the way up to slip his sunglasses on. He frowned and stepped forward. "I would think justice for your father, in his memory?"

Erica shrugged, looking past them, down the long front drive. "I . . . I'm sorry. You're right. It's just hard," she stepped out, closed the door behind her, and walked to the standard white rental, formulating her words. When she reached the passenger door, she turned, faced the agents and the past. "I've never wanted to open these doors . . . because they were so hard to close. I loved my father. It's not always easy to remember that his death . . . was untimely."

"Because you don't want to?" asked Agent Roy.

"Because I don't want to," she admitted and glanced up at the house, scanning the tall pillars. "I didn’t just lose my father … I lost a large part of my mother. All I can remember from my childhood . . . is being happy. My parents were so in love with each other, they were so in love with me. We were all happy . . . and when my father . . . when he was killed, everything changed. Nothing's been the same."

Nodding toward the two men, Erica left them at their car and headed inside, away from the heat and the memories she knew they wanted her to generate for them. She closed the front door and stepped inside the parlor to find her mother at the window, her head bowed, her hands locked behind her back. Baxley was gone.

The look in her eyes was one of loneliness and heartbreak, rimmed with moisture as if she was on the verge of tears.

"Mother?"

"No," Lillian shook her head and turned away, "I'm sorry," she whispered, wiping at her tears with brisk flicks of her middle fingers across her cheeks. "I need some time, Erica. Have lunch with Jonathon."

"I—"

"Please." Lillian turned, forced a smile. "I need … some time. I'll see if I can join you later this afternoon. Give Jonathon my regrets."

Erica nodded and started to step out, leaving her mother as she had always been asked to do. But her heart, wrapped up in memories of what her parents had been, stalled her. She didn't know how to reach other mother, what to say, or how to say it. Please, God , she prayed, hold onto my mother. Hold onto her .

* * * * *

"Sometimes I feel . . . separated. I don't know how to talk to my mother. I don't understand her," Erica sat across from Jonathon. They were seated at the narrow breakfast table in the sun room, her plate barely touched in front of her. "Jonathon, I've never seen her so broken, so lonely. She's rarely sad and when she is, she handles it. She handles it. And she’s not this time.”

He sat across from her, in his silent way. Listening. “Jonathon … she’s not handling it. She’s taking the brunt of the calls and questions to protect me. I don't know what to do to help her," she sighed, lifting a bread stick from her plate and absently swinging it as she thought.

He reached across the table and took the breadstick, set it aside, then reached for her hand. “You love her. She knows it.”

"There was a time I didn’t think I did … but I do. I know I haven't prayed for her like I should have …I haven’t even talked to her like I should have. I wanted so much to talk with her about you after we first met, but I just didn't know how to bring it up. And then all this happened … and I wish I did. I wish I knew how …”

He squeezed her hand. “We’ll pray—“

She pulled her hand back. ”But that’s the worst. I’m leaning on all I believe. That’s about all I can do right now is trust that God is bigger then all of this … and my mother doesn’t know. She doesn’t know what I believe. I’ve never told her—not the way I should have. I was too young in my faith, too … judgmental. I had broken things off with the man she’d picked out for me and she was unhappy with me … and I was unhappy with her. Jonathon, I want her to have His comfort. I want her to have His peace."

The words didn’t come quickly. For a moment, he just sat there—so very quiet. She sensed, somehow, that he was praying.

"I don't have any answers for you, Erica, but I know that if you're praying for her, the words will come eventually, in God's time."

"I wish that I had been praying for her all along. I wish that I hadn't given up so easily. I wish …"

Jonathon leaned his elbows on the table, his fingers interlocked and pressed thoughtfully to his lips. "It seems to me that if you're praying now, you're doing what you're supposed to do. Don't get so caught up in regret that you miss today."

* * * * *

Their time together flew by, until it was Monday, and their flight into Chicago was over. Erica, who had the first flight out, walked beside Jonathon on the way to her gate, quiet. He held her hand, quiet as well.

"Want something to eat before you head out?" he said at last.

She shook her head. "I don't think I can eat anything."

"Well, I need something," he pulled her into a nearby lounge and settled at a darkened table near the back, pulling his chair around the table beside hers.

"I told you that I was going to leave you with a promise, Erica."

"I know," she tried to smiled, somehow finding the strength to laugh at herself when she couldn't smile right. "And I know you'll keep it. I've just gotten used to having you around."

"You'll call me, if you need me."

"I'll call you." She watched as Jonathon waved the waitress away absently. "I thought you wanted something."

"I do. Your complete attention."

"Why?"

"Because that's something I like to have when I kiss a girl. Especially for the first time."

Erica reached up, her hand a bit unsteady as she placed it against his heart. "Are you going to kiss me?"

His only answer was a smile; or rather he smiled as he answered her question, capturing her lips with his.



Erica felt her heart fly with the plane, still wired from Jonathon's kiss. He'd prayed with her as well and handed her a list of verses that she could read if she needed something to hold onto. She pulled it out, held it like a school girl to her heart, not caring as the man beside her stood, and nearly smacked her with his newspaper as he took off his sport coat.

Could I have ever thought to pray for such a man? she asked God, dreamily. Bless Emma Dumont today. Thank her for me in Your own special way.

She glanced over as the man walked down the aisle abruptly heading toward the lavatory. The newspaper caught her eye, the headline spearing into her heart.

Louisiana Unsolved Murder Cases Connected to KKK


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