THE POET
Unedited Prologue-Chapter Two
Subject to change
Subject to change
PROLOGUE
1996
Georgetown, Texas
Tap, tap, tap, tap…
I jerk my gaze from the pretty girl in the corner, who just joined our class today, to the front of the room where Sister Marion is beating her desk with a ruler, her sharp features pinched with anger. She’s mad almost as often as my dad.
“Enough of this jabbering,” she reprimands. “We’re here to do our Lord justice by using our minds the way they were intended to be used. And how are our minds meant to be used, class?”
Me and the rest of the class, quickly recite, “To its fullest potential, Sister Marion.”
“That’s right,” she approves. “And we cannot do so if we are not listening carefully, which we are not doing when we’re running our mouths at inappropriate times. We must speak with thoughtful discipline.”
She moves behind her big wooden desk and sets the ruler down on top. Thank God. I hate that ruler.
“Today,” she announces, “we start our poetry series.” She flips open a book and begins reading a poem. It’s boring. I hate it. I don’t even understand the words coming out of her mouth.
My eyes are heavy, lids fluttering with the call of sleep. I fight it. I fight hard to stay awake, but somehow my chin wobbles forward and hits my chest. Oh God, no. Adrenaline surges, waking me with a sharp lift of my head. My heart races with the fear I might be caught. My eyes land on Sister Marion, who is staring at a book, not me, as she reads another boring poem. Relief washes over me, but I’m desperate to stay alert, so I do the only thing I know will keep me awake. I sneak another peek at the pretty girl again, her red curls waving around her freckled face. I frown. I think she’s much older than the rest of us. Maybe twelve or thirteen when the rest of us are ten and eleven. I wonder why she’s here. Did she fail a couple of grades? I wonder if her dad’s mean, too, and that messed up her school work like it has mine.
“Henry Oliver!”
My name is followed by the slamming of a ruler on my desk.
I jump, and my heart punches at my chest, the way it does when my dad yells real loud. Gasping, I look up to find the sister standing above me. “Sister Marion.”
“Good to know you’ve at least learned my name this year, Henry,” she replies.
The entire room erupts in laughter and tears of embarrassment pinch my eyes, but I can’t cry. My father says that crying is for babies. And babies get beat up. “Enough!” Sister Marion snaps at the room. The students zip their lips, and all the sound in the room is sucked away, but everyone is looking at me, including Sister Marion. “We are not here to watch pretty little girls, Henry,” she reprimands. “Yes, I saw you staring at the new girl.”
Oh god, oh god. Please no. Please no. Don’t do this to me. I fight the urge to stand up and run away.
“We are not here for that,” Sister Marion adds. “We are here to honor God with our minds. Do you understand, young man?”
“Yes, Sister Marion,” I agree quickly.
“Then make our Father proud,” she says. “You will read be the first to read a poem today.”
I quake inside. Oh no. “You’re going to talk to my father, Sister Marion?”
“Our Father, the Lord Jesus. You will talk to him now. Get up and follow me.” She turns on her heel and marches to the front of the room, waiting on me from behind her desk.
All eyes are on me and, afraid of losing my glasses, I shove them up my nose, my stupid hand trembling as I do. The kids saw. Of course, they saw. They’re all watching me, waiting to laugh at me again. Forcing my legs to work, I stand because I have no choice, curling my fingers into my sweaty palms.
Two steps forward. Three. I’m doing good. Yes. Four. I stumble on my unlaced shoe, falling forward, landing with a hard smack of my bare knees on the concrete floor. The room erupts into laughter once more and I imagine quicksand, like I saw in some movie the other day, sucking me under. That would be good, really good right now. I straighten and my ears are ringing, the room fading in and out. I can barely make out the ruler hitting Sister Marion’s desk again. Every step I take shuffles heavily, like when I walk through the water in the river down by my house after Dad comes home shouting and drinking his beer.
I’m almost to the front when Sister Marion loses patience with me like my dad does all the time. “Come now, son.” She grabs my hand and yanks me forward, placing me in front of the class and shoving a book into my hand. “Read,” she commands. “Give us the title and the author.”
I can feel my cheeks reddening, blowing up like apples the way they do when I’m upset. Next, the smear of red will spread to my neck and then I’ll look stupid. I need to get this over with now.
I clear my throat. “Dreams by Langston Hughes,” I announce and then I glance at Sister Marion to make sure I’ve said the name correctly. She gives a sharp nod of approval.
Someone snickers and a boy from the back of the class shouts out, “He’s too fat for his uniform and he looks like he’s going to poop his pants.”
“I’m not too fat,” I shout back. “It’s too small because my mom and dad can’t afford a new one.”
“Enough, all of you!” Sister Marion snaps and waves her ruler across the room. “One more outburst from anyone and everyone in this room will write one hundred Hail Marys after the bell.” She looks at me. “Continue.”
I suck in air and force it out, promising myself I will not cry. I’m not fat. I’m not fat. I look at the book again, ready to do anything that lets me just sit back down. I start reading, and I can’t dare say something stupid. I speak slowly, taking my time:
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
I can’t read a couple of the other words. They are too big for me so I just stop there. “Very good,” Sister Marion says, clapping. I puff out a breath of relief. She didn’t even notice I didn’t read all of the poem. “Class, clap with me!”
Everyone claps but the redheaded girl and a boy in the back that I don’t think I know. He’s new, too.
The sister takes the book from me. “Return to your seat,” she orders.
I want to run back to my seat, but I’m afraid of falling. I walk. I walk really carefully and when I slink back into my seat, I slide down low, snickers erupting from behind me. My heart is pounding in my ears, my palms sweaty again. I’m going to get beat up after class, just like two weeks ago when that boy, Nicholas, took my lunch. Dad was mad, too. He said I was a pussy. I know that’s bad because mom screamed at him and told him not to call me that.
Sister Marion begins reading another poem and I plot my escape after class. One minute before the bell is to ring, my hand goes to my bookbag and when finally the bell blasts above, I launch into action. I dart for the door, determined to get out of here and just go home, hoping my dad won’t be drinking beer tonight. I hate it when he drinks beer. I push through the other kids to the door, and I ignore the hall monitors screaming for me to: “Walk, not run.”
I explode out of the school, running with all my might, looking over my shoulder, panting and wheezing by the time I reach the big tree past the playground. I drop my bookbag and sit down. I made it. I’m not a pussy today.
“Hello, Henry.”
I blink and Nicholas is standing above me, and five other kids all appear from behind the tree. I start to wheeze. I can’t breathe. Nicholas shoves his foot on my chest and now I can’t catch my breath at all. “Henry here almost pooped his pants up there today. Henry is a poo-poo pants.”
The kids start singing that. “Henry is a poo-poo pants. Henry is a poo-poo pants.”
“Read us some more poetry,” Nicholas says, and he holds up a book. “I took Sister Marion’s poetry book just for you.” He opens it and shoves it in my lap. “Read.”
Tears start streaming down my cheeks. Oh God, not the tears. “I—I—I can’t,” I sob.
“You can,” Nicholas says, and he yanks me off the tree, flattening me on my back. Then he’s sitting on my chest, holding the book, reading it for me. “Now you,” he says, shoving it against my face. I suck in air, but it won’t come. I start to push against the book and Nicholas. But suddenly, he’s gone. I scramble back and onto my hands to find the new boy punching Nicholas. Now Nicholas is on his back and the new boy is on top of him. I can’t watch. I scramble to my feet and take off running.
***
“Thomas Whitaker! Kevin is here! It’s time to leave for school.”
At my mom’s shout, I grab my bookbag and run downstairs. I head for the door only to have her call out, “Stop right there, young man!”
“Oh, Mom,” I moan, slumping forward and turning to look at her.
She wipes her hands on her apron and leans down, pointing at her cheek. I kiss her and she says, “Much better. Be safe and good.”
“Yes, Mom,” I murmur and she motions me onward, offering me my freedom.
I don’t wait for her to change her mind. I launch myself toward the door, and exit to the porch, where I find Kevin at the bottom of the steps, stuffing his face with a chocolate-covered glazed donut. Intending to take half of that beauty for myself, I dash down the steps and vault to a finish in front of him. He laughs and shoves the last bite into his mouth.
Grimacing in disappointment, I watch him lick his fingers. “Dad made breakfast,” he announces, “which means he brought home donuts. I love when Mom goes to work early.”
“Jerk,” I say.
He hands me a bag. “One for you.”
“Not a jerk,” I correct, hiking my bag on my shoulder and accepting my prize, while sirens scream in the distance. “Thank you.”
We start walking and the sirens grow louder. “Wonder what that’s all about?” Kevin asks, looking over his shoulder and then back at me. “Maybe Old Man Michaels who owns that corner store is beating his wife again.”
“Or the dog,” he suggests. “I heard he beats his dog, too.”
“No way,” Kevin gasps. “The dog?”
I nod and assure him it’s true. “That’s what I heard.”
“Man,” he says. “That’s bad.” I pull my donut from the bag. “That stuff after school yesterday was bad too, right?”
“I know, right?” Kevin eyes me. “I wanted to help poor Henry, but I didn’t want to get beat up too.”
“Me too.” I test the chocolate with a lick of my tongue. “That new boy helped and he’s big.” I take a bite. It’s really good. “I love this donut.”
“Right?” Kevin says. “Those are the best. So is the new girl,” he adds. “She’s pretty.”
I shrug and take another bite. “I guess.”
“Hey! Hey! Heyyyy!”
We stop walking and turn to find our next best friend, Connor, running toward us, arms flying around wildly. “What’s his deal?” Kevin murmurs.
“Probably mad because we didn’t ask him to walk to school with us,” I suggest.
“I only had one extra donut,” Kevin whispers. “What do I say to him?”
Connor screeches to a halt in front of us and leans forward, hands on his thighs, panting hard. “Class is cancelled.”
I finish my donut. “Sister Marion sick or something?” Now I lick my fingers.
“No,” Connor says, straightening, hands on his hips. “I heard my mom talking on the phone. One of the kids from class is dead. As in never coming to class again.”
Kevin and I both drop our backpacks and together ask, “Who?”
“Don’t know,” Connor says. “But they found him down by the creek.”
CHAPTER ONE
Present Day
I sit in the back row of the theater-style Austin, Texas, speakeasy, the air conditioner cranked on high, soothing the heat of a hot August night. A stage sits in the center of the room, and there is whiskey in my hand—an expensive pour of a high-end Macallan—my preferred drink. I’m loyal to what I believe to be quality in all things. There are other more affordable whiskey choices, of course, but when I’m alone, without my family, I am no longer forced to play the frugal husband and father. A role that is cumbersome, but necessary to protect a higher purpose I must serve.
I glance at the attendees of tonight’s poetry reading, counting twenty heads, the ages varied; one young woman can’t be more than sixteen, while one man’s shriveled skin ages to sixty-plus.
This is a cozy little spot indeed and I sip my Macallan, oaky with a hot lick on the tongue, as Michael Summer steps to the microphone. He has thick dark hair, much like the look I’ve created for myself in this persona. He’s tall, six-foot-two, I imagine, a good four inches above my five-foot-ten, with glasses and a bow tie accentuating his button-down. I appreciate the attention to detail and considering his role as tonight’s poetry guide, I’ve now raised my expectations. Perhaps he’ll be good enough to continue in his role.
His gaze scans the crowd and finds me, “the professor” as he knows me from a prior event, one that led me to an invitation to this one.
He clears his throat and then says, “Good evening. I’m Michael Summer. Welcome to our poetry night, a night of literary delight. Now, to get started, I’ve placed a book of poems under your seat.” I hear nothing else. Poetry is the bible of words, not meant to lay on the ground, not meant to be dirtied and disrespected. Poetry is history to be protected, lessons to be learned, a path to change our society or prevent its demise.
And I am the chosen master—not the original, of course, but the chosen one nevertheless.
I sit back, sipping the luxurious whiskey that I now know to be a mismatch to a night where I watch one person after another step to the microphone to butcher the great works: Frost, Shakespeare, Poe. The list goes on, but I don’t blame the students. I blame the teacher and the teacher must pay. He will not continue in his role, but he will serve a purpose. I down my drink and slide my glass into my bag on the floor. The only part of me I ever leave behind is words and my decision is made. Tonight is the night. Summer is the one. He’s the one who will let her know it’s time to fulfill her destiny. It’s time for her to train, to prove her worth, to be tested. He’s the one who will bring her to me, my perfect student, the future master.
CHAPTER TWO
“Detective Samantha Jazz!”
At Captain Moore’s bellow, my gaze jerks across my desk to Detective Ethan Langford, my sometime partner, and desk mate. “What did you do, Lang?”
He laughs, a big hearty laugh appropriate for a man of six-foot-three that believes in “go big or go home,” and too often drags me along for the bumpy ride. The man doesn’t understand the principles of research and preparation. He holds up his hands. “I did nothing. Just say that. It’s perfect.”
I scowl because he enjoys batting back and forth with the captain. I do not, and with good reason. Every encounter for me with Moore includes a ghost in the room: the former captain, my father, whom we buried only three months ago today and not with the honor I would have liked. “Seriously, Lang?”
“I didn’t do anything. Not that he knows about. And come on, brains, you were the youngest detective in the precinct at twenty-five with the highest scores on record. You had some crazy-high IQ test. You can handle the captain.”
“You’re enjoying this,” I accuse.
“I kind of do. Maybe he wants to know why you’re thirty-two and won’t take the sergeant’s test.”
“You’re forty and you haven’t taken the test.” I counter.
“Because I’m a fuck-up.”
I love him, but he kind of is, and it’s always been interesting to me that my father partnered us up so often. “Well then,” I say. “I haven’t taken the test because I don’t want to manage people like you.”
“Jazz!” the captain shouts. “Now!”
I shove strands of my long, light brown hair behind my ears, and do so for no good reason. To a detective like myself, it might seem like a nervous gesture. So would the way I stand up and run my hands over my blazer, the likes of which I often pair with a silk blouse and dress pants. The jacket hides my weapon and badge and the silk says: “I’m female, hear me roar.” I’m not roaring now. My spine is stiff and when I glance at the spot on my desk that once sported a photo of my father–tall and handsome, with green eyes that matched mine, and thick brown hair, I’m sick to the stomach. I’m also ready to get this over with.
Turning away from Lang, I tune out his, “Good luck!” that starts a symphony of the same from various detectives in the pit of desks. The captain isn’t going to press me to take the sergeant’s test. I’m the daughter of his dirty predecessor, only three months in the grave, for God’s sake. And apparently, my desire to join Internal Affairs to be the better Jazz made me a worse traitor than my father.
Captain Moore doesn’t trust me. The fact that my Godfather is Chief of Police, and my father’s ex-best friend doesn’t help matters.
I reach his doorway and without hesitation, I enter his office. That’s the thing about being a homicide detective and my father’s daughter. Even in the midst of uncomfortable situations, I haven’t been bred to timidity. I know how to dive right into the bloody moment. And every moment with the captain, at least for me, is a bloody moment.
He’s behind his desk, a black man in his forties who is big in all ways; his presence is large and confident. His energy commanding. His office is cold, like the man, free of family photos. He’s also a man who clearly enjoys the gym and I know from my history with him that he does so far more than he ever enjoyed a day at the ice cream parlor. I, on the other hand, enjoy the gym and the ice cream parlor, but he’s just not that divided on anything. He doesn’t see the gray that I believe solves crimes. There is only black and white, which to me explains why, my father aside, I prickle every nerve Moore owns. We both know that I learned to see that gray from my father, who was inarguably a damn good detective in his day. He simply saw a little too much gray.
“Shut the door,” Moore orders without looking up from his file.
Wonderful. A shut door is not good.
I do as I’m told and once I’m sealed in the rather small office with this extremely large man, he lifts his intelligent brown, always cranky, stare to mine, judgment in their depths. Always the judgment but that’s not what comes out of his mouth. “I hear that you know something about poetry.” He taps his computer screen. “That’s what your employment record says. You ran a poetry club in college.”
I frown. Maybe this is about the sergeant’s test. “Why exactly are you looking up my college record?”
“I wasn’t looking at you, Detective Jazz. I was looking for someone who knows poetry, even if it meant searching outside the department, but it turns out I got a hit with you.” He slides a file across the desk and sets it in front of me. “This should explain.”
My defenses lower, and the detective in me, the one who thrives on impossible puzzles, sits down, eager to work. Work is good. Work keeps me sane. It took me sixty days after my father died to convince the department shrink just how true that is. A month later, she’s seen me solve cases and perform at my best. Now, she believes me. Now, I’m rid of her.
I open the file and I’m now staring at a naked man tied to a chair by his ankles and waist, but interestingly enough, his hands dangle freely by his sides. His head is dropped forward, a mop of dark hair draping his face. Vomit forms an unevenly edged pool on the floor to his right. In my mind, I imagine the moment that sickness overcame him, imagine that he tried to escape that chair, and noting the burn marks by his ribcage, perhaps violently. When unable to untie himself, in desperation, it appears that he most likely leaned forward and heaved.
I scan the information sheet on the inside flap of the file.
Cause of death: Poison. Substance undetermined. Pending toxicology reports.
My mind conjures up an old case. A husband who’d forced his wife to ingest a cyanide pill under threat of her children’s deaths. She’d never had a chance of survival. There’s no turning back from a substantial intake of cyanide, no chance of being saved. You’re dead in two to five brutal minutes. That mother was dead in two to five brutal minutes, never to see her children again.
That woman, that mother protecting her children, hadn’t been tied to a chair like this man, but her monster of a husband later confessed to having given her a choice. He’d told her to take a cyanide pill he’d snapped up from the dark web or he’d kill the kids. He’d wanted her life insurance. She’d taken the pill to save her kids, but he’d given the kids pills as well and then tried to make it look like a murder-suicide that left him alone and devastated.
I shove aside that morbid memory to focus on this new case, already forming a hypothesis. Perhaps something similar to what happened to that mother happened to this man. That’s why his hands are free. He was given a choice—freely submit to a poison-flavored death or an alternative that one can assume to have been worse.
For a moment, I believe that old case, and my history with a poison murder weapon, is why I’m looking at this file, but then I remember the captain’s reference to my knowledge of poetry. I flip the page and find a photo of a typed poem, much like an oversized fortune in a fortune cookie. There’s a note that indicates the poem to have been shoved inside the victim’s mouth, and yet free of the victim’s vomit. That’s interesting.
I set that thought aside for now and read the poem:
Who laugh in the teeth of disaster,
Yet hope through the darkness to find
A road past the stars to a Master
“We googled the poem,” the captain says, obviously following my review of the file. “It’s by—”
“Arthur Guiterman,” I supply.
His brows furrow. “The poem’s eight paragraphs. You have three lines. How did you know that?”
“Isn’t that why you called me in here? Because I have a knowledge of poetry?”
“Indeed,” he agrees. “I just didn’t expect—”
“That I really did? Well, I do.”
His eyes narrow. “What does the poem mean?”
“You could ask a handful of scholars that question and get a handful of disagreements.”
His lips press together. He didn’t like my honesty, which is relevant to how impossible the question is to answer. “What does it mean to you?”
“My interpretation: it’s about destiny.”
Apparently, I passed the knowledge test because he moves on. “The detective on this case made an abrupt decision to transfer to Houston, which leaves me re-assigning the case.”
My brows dip in confusion, my mind focused on the detective departing, not the case that’s obviously going to land with me. We’re a small department of twelve detectives who know each other at least reasonably well. No one has said a peep about leaving. “Who’s leaving?”
“Roberts.”
Now, I’m confused. I mean Roberts and I aren’t close, but I’ve known the man for years and he has roots here—a house, friends, an ex-wife he lives to fight with, a weekend football league. I shake my head with that confusion. “Why would he do that, Captain?”
“Personal decision.” He offers no further explanation. “I’ll let him know that he’ll be briefing you on this case. You’re taking it over. It’s your decision to pull in Detective Langford or fly solo. This case, as far as I’m concerned, is your destiny, Detective Jazz.”
1996
Georgetown, Texas
Tap, tap, tap, tap…
I jerk my gaze from the pretty girl in the corner, who just joined our class today, to the front of the room where Sister Marion is beating her desk with a ruler, her sharp features pinched with anger. She’s mad almost as often as my dad.
“Enough of this jabbering,” she reprimands. “We’re here to do our Lord justice by using our minds the way they were intended to be used. And how are our minds meant to be used, class?”
Me and the rest of the class, quickly recite, “To its fullest potential, Sister Marion.”
“That’s right,” she approves. “And we cannot do so if we are not listening carefully, which we are not doing when we’re running our mouths at inappropriate times. We must speak with thoughtful discipline.”
She moves behind her big wooden desk and sets the ruler down on top. Thank God. I hate that ruler.
“Today,” she announces, “we start our poetry series.” She flips open a book and begins reading a poem. It’s boring. I hate it. I don’t even understand the words coming out of her mouth.
My eyes are heavy, lids fluttering with the call of sleep. I fight it. I fight hard to stay awake, but somehow my chin wobbles forward and hits my chest. Oh God, no. Adrenaline surges, waking me with a sharp lift of my head. My heart races with the fear I might be caught. My eyes land on Sister Marion, who is staring at a book, not me, as she reads another boring poem. Relief washes over me, but I’m desperate to stay alert, so I do the only thing I know will keep me awake. I sneak another peek at the pretty girl again, her red curls waving around her freckled face. I frown. I think she’s much older than the rest of us. Maybe twelve or thirteen when the rest of us are ten and eleven. I wonder why she’s here. Did she fail a couple of grades? I wonder if her dad’s mean, too, and that messed up her school work like it has mine.
“Henry Oliver!”
My name is followed by the slamming of a ruler on my desk.
I jump, and my heart punches at my chest, the way it does when my dad yells real loud. Gasping, I look up to find the sister standing above me. “Sister Marion.”
“Good to know you’ve at least learned my name this year, Henry,” she replies.
The entire room erupts in laughter and tears of embarrassment pinch my eyes, but I can’t cry. My father says that crying is for babies. And babies get beat up. “Enough!” Sister Marion snaps at the room. The students zip their lips, and all the sound in the room is sucked away, but everyone is looking at me, including Sister Marion. “We are not here to watch pretty little girls, Henry,” she reprimands. “Yes, I saw you staring at the new girl.”
Oh god, oh god. Please no. Please no. Don’t do this to me. I fight the urge to stand up and run away.
“We are not here for that,” Sister Marion adds. “We are here to honor God with our minds. Do you understand, young man?”
“Yes, Sister Marion,” I agree quickly.
“Then make our Father proud,” she says. “You will read be the first to read a poem today.”
I quake inside. Oh no. “You’re going to talk to my father, Sister Marion?”
“Our Father, the Lord Jesus. You will talk to him now. Get up and follow me.” She turns on her heel and marches to the front of the room, waiting on me from behind her desk.
All eyes are on me and, afraid of losing my glasses, I shove them up my nose, my stupid hand trembling as I do. The kids saw. Of course, they saw. They’re all watching me, waiting to laugh at me again. Forcing my legs to work, I stand because I have no choice, curling my fingers into my sweaty palms.
Two steps forward. Three. I’m doing good. Yes. Four. I stumble on my unlaced shoe, falling forward, landing with a hard smack of my bare knees on the concrete floor. The room erupts into laughter once more and I imagine quicksand, like I saw in some movie the other day, sucking me under. That would be good, really good right now. I straighten and my ears are ringing, the room fading in and out. I can barely make out the ruler hitting Sister Marion’s desk again. Every step I take shuffles heavily, like when I walk through the water in the river down by my house after Dad comes home shouting and drinking his beer.
I’m almost to the front when Sister Marion loses patience with me like my dad does all the time. “Come now, son.” She grabs my hand and yanks me forward, placing me in front of the class and shoving a book into my hand. “Read,” she commands. “Give us the title and the author.”
I can feel my cheeks reddening, blowing up like apples the way they do when I’m upset. Next, the smear of red will spread to my neck and then I’ll look stupid. I need to get this over with now.
I clear my throat. “Dreams by Langston Hughes,” I announce and then I glance at Sister Marion to make sure I’ve said the name correctly. She gives a sharp nod of approval.
Someone snickers and a boy from the back of the class shouts out, “He’s too fat for his uniform and he looks like he’s going to poop his pants.”
“I’m not too fat,” I shout back. “It’s too small because my mom and dad can’t afford a new one.”
“Enough, all of you!” Sister Marion snaps and waves her ruler across the room. “One more outburst from anyone and everyone in this room will write one hundred Hail Marys after the bell.” She looks at me. “Continue.”
I suck in air and force it out, promising myself I will not cry. I’m not fat. I’m not fat. I look at the book again, ready to do anything that lets me just sit back down. I start reading, and I can’t dare say something stupid. I speak slowly, taking my time:
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
I can’t read a couple of the other words. They are too big for me so I just stop there. “Very good,” Sister Marion says, clapping. I puff out a breath of relief. She didn’t even notice I didn’t read all of the poem. “Class, clap with me!”
Everyone claps but the redheaded girl and a boy in the back that I don’t think I know. He’s new, too.
The sister takes the book from me. “Return to your seat,” she orders.
I want to run back to my seat, but I’m afraid of falling. I walk. I walk really carefully and when I slink back into my seat, I slide down low, snickers erupting from behind me. My heart is pounding in my ears, my palms sweaty again. I’m going to get beat up after class, just like two weeks ago when that boy, Nicholas, took my lunch. Dad was mad, too. He said I was a pussy. I know that’s bad because mom screamed at him and told him not to call me that.
Sister Marion begins reading another poem and I plot my escape after class. One minute before the bell is to ring, my hand goes to my bookbag and when finally the bell blasts above, I launch into action. I dart for the door, determined to get out of here and just go home, hoping my dad won’t be drinking beer tonight. I hate it when he drinks beer. I push through the other kids to the door, and I ignore the hall monitors screaming for me to: “Walk, not run.”
I explode out of the school, running with all my might, looking over my shoulder, panting and wheezing by the time I reach the big tree past the playground. I drop my bookbag and sit down. I made it. I’m not a pussy today.
“Hello, Henry.”
I blink and Nicholas is standing above me, and five other kids all appear from behind the tree. I start to wheeze. I can’t breathe. Nicholas shoves his foot on my chest and now I can’t catch my breath at all. “Henry here almost pooped his pants up there today. Henry is a poo-poo pants.”
The kids start singing that. “Henry is a poo-poo pants. Henry is a poo-poo pants.”
“Read us some more poetry,” Nicholas says, and he holds up a book. “I took Sister Marion’s poetry book just for you.” He opens it and shoves it in my lap. “Read.”
Tears start streaming down my cheeks. Oh God, not the tears. “I—I—I can’t,” I sob.
“You can,” Nicholas says, and he yanks me off the tree, flattening me on my back. Then he’s sitting on my chest, holding the book, reading it for me. “Now you,” he says, shoving it against my face. I suck in air, but it won’t come. I start to push against the book and Nicholas. But suddenly, he’s gone. I scramble back and onto my hands to find the new boy punching Nicholas. Now Nicholas is on his back and the new boy is on top of him. I can’t watch. I scramble to my feet and take off running.
***
“Thomas Whitaker! Kevin is here! It’s time to leave for school.”
At my mom’s shout, I grab my bookbag and run downstairs. I head for the door only to have her call out, “Stop right there, young man!”
“Oh, Mom,” I moan, slumping forward and turning to look at her.
She wipes her hands on her apron and leans down, pointing at her cheek. I kiss her and she says, “Much better. Be safe and good.”
“Yes, Mom,” I murmur and she motions me onward, offering me my freedom.
I don’t wait for her to change her mind. I launch myself toward the door, and exit to the porch, where I find Kevin at the bottom of the steps, stuffing his face with a chocolate-covered glazed donut. Intending to take half of that beauty for myself, I dash down the steps and vault to a finish in front of him. He laughs and shoves the last bite into his mouth.
Grimacing in disappointment, I watch him lick his fingers. “Dad made breakfast,” he announces, “which means he brought home donuts. I love when Mom goes to work early.”
“Jerk,” I say.
He hands me a bag. “One for you.”
“Not a jerk,” I correct, hiking my bag on my shoulder and accepting my prize, while sirens scream in the distance. “Thank you.”
We start walking and the sirens grow louder. “Wonder what that’s all about?” Kevin asks, looking over his shoulder and then back at me. “Maybe Old Man Michaels who owns that corner store is beating his wife again.”
“Or the dog,” he suggests. “I heard he beats his dog, too.”
“No way,” Kevin gasps. “The dog?”
I nod and assure him it’s true. “That’s what I heard.”
“Man,” he says. “That’s bad.” I pull my donut from the bag. “That stuff after school yesterday was bad too, right?”
“I know, right?” Kevin eyes me. “I wanted to help poor Henry, but I didn’t want to get beat up too.”
“Me too.” I test the chocolate with a lick of my tongue. “That new boy helped and he’s big.” I take a bite. It’s really good. “I love this donut.”
“Right?” Kevin says. “Those are the best. So is the new girl,” he adds. “She’s pretty.”
I shrug and take another bite. “I guess.”
“Hey! Hey! Heyyyy!”
We stop walking and turn to find our next best friend, Connor, running toward us, arms flying around wildly. “What’s his deal?” Kevin murmurs.
“Probably mad because we didn’t ask him to walk to school with us,” I suggest.
“I only had one extra donut,” Kevin whispers. “What do I say to him?”
Connor screeches to a halt in front of us and leans forward, hands on his thighs, panting hard. “Class is cancelled.”
I finish my donut. “Sister Marion sick or something?” Now I lick my fingers.
“No,” Connor says, straightening, hands on his hips. “I heard my mom talking on the phone. One of the kids from class is dead. As in never coming to class again.”
Kevin and I both drop our backpacks and together ask, “Who?”
“Don’t know,” Connor says. “But they found him down by the creek.”
CHAPTER ONE
Present Day
I sit in the back row of the theater-style Austin, Texas, speakeasy, the air conditioner cranked on high, soothing the heat of a hot August night. A stage sits in the center of the room, and there is whiskey in my hand—an expensive pour of a high-end Macallan—my preferred drink. I’m loyal to what I believe to be quality in all things. There are other more affordable whiskey choices, of course, but when I’m alone, without my family, I am no longer forced to play the frugal husband and father. A role that is cumbersome, but necessary to protect a higher purpose I must serve.
I glance at the attendees of tonight’s poetry reading, counting twenty heads, the ages varied; one young woman can’t be more than sixteen, while one man’s shriveled skin ages to sixty-plus.
This is a cozy little spot indeed and I sip my Macallan, oaky with a hot lick on the tongue, as Michael Summer steps to the microphone. He has thick dark hair, much like the look I’ve created for myself in this persona. He’s tall, six-foot-two, I imagine, a good four inches above my five-foot-ten, with glasses and a bow tie accentuating his button-down. I appreciate the attention to detail and considering his role as tonight’s poetry guide, I’ve now raised my expectations. Perhaps he’ll be good enough to continue in his role.
His gaze scans the crowd and finds me, “the professor” as he knows me from a prior event, one that led me to an invitation to this one.
He clears his throat and then says, “Good evening. I’m Michael Summer. Welcome to our poetry night, a night of literary delight. Now, to get started, I’ve placed a book of poems under your seat.” I hear nothing else. Poetry is the bible of words, not meant to lay on the ground, not meant to be dirtied and disrespected. Poetry is history to be protected, lessons to be learned, a path to change our society or prevent its demise.
And I am the chosen master—not the original, of course, but the chosen one nevertheless.
I sit back, sipping the luxurious whiskey that I now know to be a mismatch to a night where I watch one person after another step to the microphone to butcher the great works: Frost, Shakespeare, Poe. The list goes on, but I don’t blame the students. I blame the teacher and the teacher must pay. He will not continue in his role, but he will serve a purpose. I down my drink and slide my glass into my bag on the floor. The only part of me I ever leave behind is words and my decision is made. Tonight is the night. Summer is the one. He’s the one who will let her know it’s time to fulfill her destiny. It’s time for her to train, to prove her worth, to be tested. He’s the one who will bring her to me, my perfect student, the future master.
CHAPTER TWO
“Detective Samantha Jazz!”
At Captain Moore’s bellow, my gaze jerks across my desk to Detective Ethan Langford, my sometime partner, and desk mate. “What did you do, Lang?”
He laughs, a big hearty laugh appropriate for a man of six-foot-three that believes in “go big or go home,” and too often drags me along for the bumpy ride. The man doesn’t understand the principles of research and preparation. He holds up his hands. “I did nothing. Just say that. It’s perfect.”
I scowl because he enjoys batting back and forth with the captain. I do not, and with good reason. Every encounter for me with Moore includes a ghost in the room: the former captain, my father, whom we buried only three months ago today and not with the honor I would have liked. “Seriously, Lang?”
“I didn’t do anything. Not that he knows about. And come on, brains, you were the youngest detective in the precinct at twenty-five with the highest scores on record. You had some crazy-high IQ test. You can handle the captain.”
“You’re enjoying this,” I accuse.
“I kind of do. Maybe he wants to know why you’re thirty-two and won’t take the sergeant’s test.”
“You’re forty and you haven’t taken the test.” I counter.
“Because I’m a fuck-up.”
I love him, but he kind of is, and it’s always been interesting to me that my father partnered us up so often. “Well then,” I say. “I haven’t taken the test because I don’t want to manage people like you.”
“Jazz!” the captain shouts. “Now!”
I shove strands of my long, light brown hair behind my ears, and do so for no good reason. To a detective like myself, it might seem like a nervous gesture. So would the way I stand up and run my hands over my blazer, the likes of which I often pair with a silk blouse and dress pants. The jacket hides my weapon and badge and the silk says: “I’m female, hear me roar.” I’m not roaring now. My spine is stiff and when I glance at the spot on my desk that once sported a photo of my father–tall and handsome, with green eyes that matched mine, and thick brown hair, I’m sick to the stomach. I’m also ready to get this over with.
Turning away from Lang, I tune out his, “Good luck!” that starts a symphony of the same from various detectives in the pit of desks. The captain isn’t going to press me to take the sergeant’s test. I’m the daughter of his dirty predecessor, only three months in the grave, for God’s sake. And apparently, my desire to join Internal Affairs to be the better Jazz made me a worse traitor than my father.
Captain Moore doesn’t trust me. The fact that my Godfather is Chief of Police, and my father’s ex-best friend doesn’t help matters.
I reach his doorway and without hesitation, I enter his office. That’s the thing about being a homicide detective and my father’s daughter. Even in the midst of uncomfortable situations, I haven’t been bred to timidity. I know how to dive right into the bloody moment. And every moment with the captain, at least for me, is a bloody moment.
He’s behind his desk, a black man in his forties who is big in all ways; his presence is large and confident. His energy commanding. His office is cold, like the man, free of family photos. He’s also a man who clearly enjoys the gym and I know from my history with him that he does so far more than he ever enjoyed a day at the ice cream parlor. I, on the other hand, enjoy the gym and the ice cream parlor, but he’s just not that divided on anything. He doesn’t see the gray that I believe solves crimes. There is only black and white, which to me explains why, my father aside, I prickle every nerve Moore owns. We both know that I learned to see that gray from my father, who was inarguably a damn good detective in his day. He simply saw a little too much gray.
“Shut the door,” Moore orders without looking up from his file.
Wonderful. A shut door is not good.
I do as I’m told and once I’m sealed in the rather small office with this extremely large man, he lifts his intelligent brown, always cranky, stare to mine, judgment in their depths. Always the judgment but that’s not what comes out of his mouth. “I hear that you know something about poetry.” He taps his computer screen. “That’s what your employment record says. You ran a poetry club in college.”
I frown. Maybe this is about the sergeant’s test. “Why exactly are you looking up my college record?”
“I wasn’t looking at you, Detective Jazz. I was looking for someone who knows poetry, even if it meant searching outside the department, but it turns out I got a hit with you.” He slides a file across the desk and sets it in front of me. “This should explain.”
My defenses lower, and the detective in me, the one who thrives on impossible puzzles, sits down, eager to work. Work is good. Work keeps me sane. It took me sixty days after my father died to convince the department shrink just how true that is. A month later, she’s seen me solve cases and perform at my best. Now, she believes me. Now, I’m rid of her.
I open the file and I’m now staring at a naked man tied to a chair by his ankles and waist, but interestingly enough, his hands dangle freely by his sides. His head is dropped forward, a mop of dark hair draping his face. Vomit forms an unevenly edged pool on the floor to his right. In my mind, I imagine the moment that sickness overcame him, imagine that he tried to escape that chair, and noting the burn marks by his ribcage, perhaps violently. When unable to untie himself, in desperation, it appears that he most likely leaned forward and heaved.
I scan the information sheet on the inside flap of the file.
Cause of death: Poison. Substance undetermined. Pending toxicology reports.
My mind conjures up an old case. A husband who’d forced his wife to ingest a cyanide pill under threat of her children’s deaths. She’d never had a chance of survival. There’s no turning back from a substantial intake of cyanide, no chance of being saved. You’re dead in two to five brutal minutes. That mother was dead in two to five brutal minutes, never to see her children again.
That woman, that mother protecting her children, hadn’t been tied to a chair like this man, but her monster of a husband later confessed to having given her a choice. He’d told her to take a cyanide pill he’d snapped up from the dark web or he’d kill the kids. He’d wanted her life insurance. She’d taken the pill to save her kids, but he’d given the kids pills as well and then tried to make it look like a murder-suicide that left him alone and devastated.
I shove aside that morbid memory to focus on this new case, already forming a hypothesis. Perhaps something similar to what happened to that mother happened to this man. That’s why his hands are free. He was given a choice—freely submit to a poison-flavored death or an alternative that one can assume to have been worse.
For a moment, I believe that old case, and my history with a poison murder weapon, is why I’m looking at this file, but then I remember the captain’s reference to my knowledge of poetry. I flip the page and find a photo of a typed poem, much like an oversized fortune in a fortune cookie. There’s a note that indicates the poem to have been shoved inside the victim’s mouth, and yet free of the victim’s vomit. That’s interesting.
I set that thought aside for now and read the poem:
Who laugh in the teeth of disaster,
Yet hope through the darkness to find
A road past the stars to a Master
“We googled the poem,” the captain says, obviously following my review of the file. “It’s by—”
“Arthur Guiterman,” I supply.
His brows furrow. “The poem’s eight paragraphs. You have three lines. How did you know that?”
“Isn’t that why you called me in here? Because I have a knowledge of poetry?”
“Indeed,” he agrees. “I just didn’t expect—”
“That I really did? Well, I do.”
His eyes narrow. “What does the poem mean?”
“You could ask a handful of scholars that question and get a handful of disagreements.”
His lips press together. He didn’t like my honesty, which is relevant to how impossible the question is to answer. “What does it mean to you?”
“My interpretation: it’s about destiny.”
Apparently, I passed the knowledge test because he moves on. “The detective on this case made an abrupt decision to transfer to Houston, which leaves me re-assigning the case.”
My brows dip in confusion, my mind focused on the detective departing, not the case that’s obviously going to land with me. We’re a small department of twelve detectives who know each other at least reasonably well. No one has said a peep about leaving. “Who’s leaving?”
“Roberts.”
Now, I’m confused. I mean Roberts and I aren’t close, but I’ve known the man for years and he has roots here—a house, friends, an ex-wife he lives to fight with, a weekend football league. I shake my head with that confusion. “Why would he do that, Captain?”
“Personal decision.” He offers no further explanation. “I’ll let him know that he’ll be briefing you on this case. You’re taking it over. It’s your decision to pull in Detective Langford or fly solo. This case, as far as I’m concerned, is your destiny, Detective Jazz.”