The Choir Director 2 (21 page)

Amazingly, Deacon Washington was able to get everyone to settle back in their seats after the drama of Tia's appearance. “People, out of respect for the departed, we are going to continue this funeral service. I would ask that you all remember we are in the house of God right now.” His announcement was enough to get everyone back in their seats, where the chatter died down to a minimum. The people would hold their gossip—at least until they were outside the sanctuary.

The rest of Pippie's funeral service was a blur to me. I couldn't concentrate on a word anyone was saying as people made their way to the podium to speak about how Pippie had touched them. When the choir began to sing, some people jumped to their feet, raising their arms high in passionate worship. I couldn't join them, though. I was too distraught, and had been since early that morning, when TK received some horrifying information from Jeff Watson. Jeff had promised to keep TK in the loop if anything new came up pertaining to the murder of Clifford White.

We were in TK's office preparing for Pippie's funeral service when Jeff came in. TK and I were still not on good terms, but just like when Clifford Jr. was killed, we came together as a couple to fulfill our responsibilities in the face of death. Little did we know that the two deaths had more in common than just bringing the two of us together.

“Bishop, I have some news I thought you should hear,” Jeff said.

“Can it wait until after the service?”

Jeff shook his head. “The department is working around the clock to solve these murders, so I can't stay around until after the service.”

“I understand,” TK said. “Well, I need to eulogize Pippie Nixon today, so any information you have on Clifford White's murder can wait. Just come back whenever you have a chance.” TK still had every intention of helping his friend find his son's murderer, but at the moment he was focused on one of our own flock who'd just lost his life.

“That's just it,” Jeff said. “This
is
about Pippie Nixon. And about the other two murders.”

TK sat down at his desk. Jeff had his full attention now. “What are you saying?”

I felt dread growing in the pit of my stomach.

“Just like the other two victims, Pippie Nixon was found with a red
R
on his forehead. The murders are somehow related.”

I stifled the scream that welled in my chest. How the hell had Pippie become involved in all of this? If the letter
R
did in fact stand for “rapist,” then did that mean Pippie was a rapist too? And then my mind went to an unthinkable place: Did that mean Tia killed Pippie?

Now, as I sat through Pippie's funeral service, I tried to consider every possible angle in my mind; tried to find another explanation for the coincidence, but I kept coming back to the same conclusion. Tia was a murderer. I was left to struggle with my own conscience. When I thought she had killed her rapists, a part of me wanted to protect her, to keep her secret. Now I wasn't so sure. I needed more details. I needed to hear it from her mouth why she would have killed Pippie. She was in the back office with TK, while I remained at the funeral, squirming in my seat. I wanted to know what she was saying to my husband. Was she confessing everything to him? And if she was, how would he handle it—especially if he found out I had been with her outside Vince Taylor's apartment?

When the service was over and everyone had cleared out of the sanctuary, I raced toward TK's office. Aaron was right behind me. He had his own obvious reasons for wanting to talk to Tia.

TK was just coming out of his office, closing the door behind him, when we arrived back there.

“Where is she?” Aaron asked. “I need to talk to her.”

“She's gone,” TK said calmly. “I let her go out the back door.” His expression revealed no emotion. I wondered whether he was struggling to conceal his true feelings, maybe of shock or disgust? Or maybe she hadn't told him anything.

“What do you mean she's gone?”

“I let her go out the back door,” he said. “She said she wasn't ready to talk to you yet.”

“Bishop, I can't believe you did that. I need to talk to her!” Aaron yelled.

“Not yet, Aaron. You have to trust me. She's not ready.”

Aaron started pacing back and forth in the small area. “Well, what did she say to you then? I need to know something. Anything.”

TK put his hands on Aaron's shoulders to stop him. Looking into his eyes, he said, “Son, you know I can't tell you what she said. That's between Tia, God, and me, her pastor.”

I had felt like I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown ever since Lynn dragged me away from the church when Tia showed up. We'd worked so hard to put our plan into place, and in one day, it looked like it could all be falling apart. It was bad enough that Pippie's death was affecting me the way it was; Lynn was totally pissed off about that, warning me that I'd be off my game if I let my emotions get in the way. Then Tia had the nerve to stroll into the church like the Queen of England or something. That bitch was supposed to be so far out of the picture by now that no one would even remember her name. Instead, she'd shown up and thrown a monkey wrench in my plans.

Jackson's efforts to drive a wedge between Aaron and Ross had been just about as unsuccessful. Everyone was talking the next day at church about how Pippie's death had brought the two of them back together. They claimed it was God's divine plan to make something good out of something so sad, but I sure didn't see it that way. Nothing we had planned was working. At this point, I wasn't even sure if destroying Aaron's support mechanism was realistic anymore.

That's why I'd driven over to Jackson's office. I was so frustrated by our lack of progress that I was ready to give up. If anyone could reassure me, it was him.

When I entered the office, nobody was there. I didn't even bother to turn on the lights as I sat down to wait for him. The darkness seemed appropriate for my mood. I had phoned him and asked to meet at his office, so I hoped he wouldn't keep me waiting too long.

Twenty minutes later, I heard the doorknob turn, and he entered the room and turned on the light.

“What are you doing in my chair?” he snapped.

“Nice to see you too,” I shot back. “You're late.”

He gave me a smirk that let me know he had kept me waiting on purpose. It was typical for his arrogant ass to do something like that. Coming around the desk, he stood so close I could feel his breath on me when he spoke. “Can you get out of my chair?”

“Technically, it's my chair, since I paid for it.” I sat back, rocking a few times for effect. He might have come up with most of the plan, but clearly I had to remind him who the boss was in this little arrangement of ours.

“In principle, you're right,” he said, “but technically, for it to be your chair, I'm gonna need you to give me that next payment you promised.”

“At least you're consistent.” I chuckled, though I was not feeling the least bit amused. “All you care about is money, money, money.” I stood up and moved out of his precious seat.

“I wouldn't say it's the only thing I care about, but it's up there on my list of priorities.” He sat down in front of his desk then leaned back and put his hands behind his head. “So you wanted to talk, let's talk. What's on your mind?”

“Ross Parker's on my mind.”

“Ross Parker's a nonissue. I got rid of him like the amateur he is,” he said confidently. “I drove a wedge between him and Aaron that brought them to blows. You told me that yourself. I am now not only the agent for Aaron Mackie and the First Jamaica Ministries choir, but I manage them too.”

“Well, Mr. Manager, I guess you don't keep up with current events.”

I have to admit, I liked his look of confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Aaron and Ross made up last night at Pippie's funeral. They are the best of friends again. That can't be good for our plan,” I explained.

He looked a little rattled by the turn of events, but covered it up quickly. He was too arrogant to admit failure. “A minor setback. Don't worry. I'll take care of Ross. I deal with chumps like him on a regular basis.”

“Please do. And what the hell are you doing with the first lady?” I asked. He would never admit it, but I was starting to think he was smitten by her. Maybe my feelings for Pippie as a friend were troublesome, but his desire for Monique was ten times worse. I was worried he wouldn't be able to complete his mission if he was developing feelings for her.

“When I'm ready to seal the deal with Monique, it will be done,” he said. Just as I expected, there was no way he would admit that he liked her. He was really starting to piss me off.

“What the fuck's that supposed to mean? I'm not paying you to work on it. You're so busy trying to romance and impress the woman that now the whole plan is falling apart. Why don't you just bed her so we can send the pictures to her husband? He's already on the ropes.” I stared him down until the smug smile dropped from his face. “You're sitting there acting all nice and shit. That's not helping me. I want all the people in Aaron Mackie's inner circle destroyed so that he doesn't have any of them. And I want it done soon.”

“Fine. I'll deal with it. But I find it interesting that you're getting on me about handling my business, and you haven't come close to handling yours.” He sat back in his chair and smirked because now it was my time to squirm. “Why haven't you slept with Aaron yet? It's the reason you came up here to New York to begin with, isn't it?”

“I'm pretty close to getting what I want from Aaron.” I lied, and I was pretty sure he knew it.

“No, you're not. You should have screwed that guy a long time ago,” he snapped. “If you want to make sure Tia doesn't come back in the picture, then you better hurry up and get some video of him in bed with the new church secretary.” Suddenly the tables were turned; he was in charge, and I looked like an incompetent fool, despite the fact I was the one paying the bills.

“It isn't that easy,” I pushed back at him. He knew that Aaron was a devoted fiancé who'd been faithful to his future bride. “He's not like most guys. He's more stuck on her than I thought.”

“Well, then find some other way to get her out of the picture,” he said. “Hell, for the right price, I'll get her out of it.”

“No, I think it's best if Lynn takes care of Tia. She already has a lead on where Tia might be staying.”

“Okay, but do me a favor and try not to let her handle Tia the way she handled Pippie. I've got a feeling Pippie's death is the reason Aaron and Ross are back being buddies.”

“What? What are you talking about?” I demanded.

A look passed over his face that I couldn't interpret, but it was quickly replaced by his usual arrogant smirk. “I guess you and Lynn don't talk as much as I thought you did. Oh, well. Every relationship has its secrets,” he said, and I was left wondering what he was trying to say. Was he saying Lynn had something to do with Pippie's death? Or maybe he was just trying to stir shit up between me and Lynn. For some reason, he got a kick out of seeing us fight.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I asked a second time.

“Why don't you talk to Lynn about that? Right now we got more important business to deal with.” He shut me down quickly. It would be useless to keep pressing him. If there was one thing I knew about him, it was that he did things only when he damn-well pleased.

“More important things like what?” I asked.

“My money!” He held out his greedy hand. “There's a small balance in the amount of twenty-five grand you owe me.”

“Haven't I paid you on time so far?”

“As long as you owe me money, then we have a problem. Now, did you bring the check?”

“And what if I didn't have your money? What would you do then?”

“Remember, I know every single detail of the plan, so if I were you, I wouldn't forget who you're talking to and what I can do to you.”

“Uncle Willie, I know exactly who you are.” I smiled as I lifted my purse and took out my wallet, writing him a check for the payment I owed him. Thankfully, there was only one more payment due when this whole thing was over. I'd be thrilled to write that last check, and I'd be happy to put some distance between me and my uncle. Family or not, he was one giant pain in the ass—an expensive one, at that.

He snatched the payment out of my hand. “Nice doing business with you. You know you're my absolute favorite niece.” He grinned as he raised the check to his mouth to kiss it. “And anytime my niece wants to sit in my chair, it's fine with me.”

It's not going to be easy, but one day we're all going to have to put what happened on Washington Street behind us.

Clifford White's words had been echoing in my head ever since the night I confronted him, but even more so now, as I came to one dead end after another in my search for Mark King. Other than his picture in the old yearbook, I had no information on him. No Facebook profile, no number listed in the phone book. All I had to go on now was one small clue: Washington Street. When I left the club that night, Mark King had taken me to a house that he said was his. If he was telling the truth and he did in fact own it, then maybe he was still living there now. Based on what Clifford said, it was safe to assume that house was on Washington Street. The problem was that I had no idea what town it was in. Back then, when I was innocent and trusting, I hadn't even paid attention to where he was driving when I went home with him. The only thing I knew was that we were somewhere on Long Island.

A quick Internet search told me that just about every town on Long Island had a Washington Street. I was pretty sure the drive to his house had only been about half an hour, but it wasn't like I'd been timing it. To be safe, I decided to check every Washington Street in every town within an hour's drive from Queens.

I started my search in Huntington, on the western edge of Suffolk County. I would drive down every Washington Street until I found the two-story colonial that at first had impressed me and then had become the setting for every nightmare I'd had since then.

I drove all day long, stopping only long enough to put more gas in the car and get another cup of coffee. Eight hours later, I was exhausted and frustrated as I drove into Elmont, one of the last towns before Nassau County becomes Queens. This Washington Street was a tree-lined street filled with modest single-family homes that all looked alike. To be honest, it looked like most of the other Washington Streets I'd driven on—until I spotted the house.

“Holy shit,” I muttered, my heart pounding. “That's the house.”

I stopped in the middle of the street, stunned that I'd actually found it, and that it looked exactly the way it did in my nightmares. The thing that made me scream, though, was the car in the driveway. It was definitely his. The car was the one detail I'd paid attention to that night—his expensive foreign car that impressed me so much it blinded me to the foolishness of my actions.

I felt a shock wave of emotions. Like an avalanche, where one loose rock gives way, and then everything comes rushing at once. And I lost it. My body released years of pain and sorrow and regret. Apparently there is no end to grief; it lies dormant under the surface, until the day it reappears, reminding you that you will never be truly free from it.

I imagined Mark inside the house, lounging on his couch, watching a game and drinking a beer without a care in the world. He didn't think about me. I was nothing to him. Less than nothing.

I must have circled the block fifty times before I finally stopped about five blocks away after the sun went down. I watched that house for the next hour, standing across the street in the shadows, wondering about how I would get myself in there. There was no way I could walk up to the front door and announce my presence. I'd done that with the first one and it hadn't ended too well. I'd barely gotten out alive.

“Tia, you can do this,” I said, gathering the nerve to move closer to the house. I pulled the gun out of my purse and headed across the street.

As I stepped near, I saw that the same beige drapes with blue stripes were hanging in the front window. Sneaking around the side of the house, I peered inside a window and saw that the kitchen was just as outdated. A movement inside the house startled me, and I ducked down, but it was too late. Someone had seen me.

I heard a woman's voice, calling out, “Who's there?”

Crouching beneath the kitchen window, I was trying to figure out my best route for escape when a light came on, illuminating the entire backyard. I had lost the cover of darkness. There would be no escaping without being seen.

The back door opened and she came outside. “You there. Stand up, young lady,” she said. She had his face. This had to be his mother. Her tattered robe and headscarf had seen better days.

For a moment we just stared at each other.

“I knew eventually one of you would come.” She didn't seem the least bit surprised to see me, a stranger, standing in her backyard.

“One of us?” I said.

She pointed to the gun clutched in my hand. “You're here to kill him, right?”

“How…how do you know that?” I asked, confused and scared.

“I've seen the tapes,” she said. “I couldn't believe my eyes. That my own son would do the things he did to you girls…No mother wants to believe that her only child could be a monster, but he is who he is.” There was no emotion behind her words. This was a woman who had resigned herself to the awful truth a long time ago.

“You know what he did?” I asked, horrified.

“Yes,” she answered. The weight of it must have been so heavy, because she dropped down to the ground and sat leaning against the house. Staring straight ahead, she began her explanation. “I had moved away to take a job in Tennessee, thought about staying and eventually retiring one day. He stayed here, rented out the rooms to his college friends, and paid the mortgage. One year after they all graduated, I thought about selling the house, so I came back to clean it out. Started going through closets, cleaning things out, and I found a box of videotapes. They were all neatly labeled and numbered in his handwriting.

“It seemed so unlike him to take that much care with anything, and so I got curious. I started to watch the first one and I got so sick that I almost gave up; but then I realized I needed to watch them all. I needed to see exactly who my son was, so that I couldn't make any excuses for him.”

I was crying now, and although her expression remained blank, she had tears running down her face too. “Oh my God. It wasn't just me?”

“No, it wasn't. And I don't blame you for wanting to kill him. I'm going to take you to him.” She got up and went over toward the stairs. I thought she was going to climb them, but instead she went to another door that opened into a small room, separated from the rest of the house.

He was in there, watching television like I'd imagined, but he looked nothing like the man who had seduced me and then raped me. His body was slumped over in a wheelchair, his head tilted to one side. Drool traveled down his face and onto his shirt.

“Oh.” I didn't know what else to say.

“God does not like ugly. He did all those things to you women, so it had to come back to him. He has Lou Gehrig's disease. He can die in a couple of years, or live like this for the next ten.” She walked over and turned off the television. “Go ahead, tell him how you feel. His body may not work, but he understands everything you're saying.”

I stood there staring at this semi-vegetable. The man who had brutally torn my soul apart couldn't go to the bathroom by himself.

“Go on,” his mother prodded me. “You've come this far.”

So I went over to him.

“Daaah,” he murmured, nodding his head in jerky little movements as if he was already protesting whatever I was about to say. His blue eyes, strangely alert, watched my every movement.

“You took something from me that I will never, ever get back. My innocence. I used to believe that people were basically good, and you changed that for me,” I said in a shaky voice. “What gave you the right to touch me without my permission? To violently abuse me. To rape me!”

“Daah! Daah!” He tried to scream, but his body failed him. He might as well have been neutered, and I was glad.

“You could have walked away when I told you that it was my birthday. When I explained that I had never done anything like this, going home with a stranger. But you still did it. And I hated you. Every moment of every day, I have hated you.” I raised the gun and pointed it at him.

“I don't care if you're in a wheelchair. I want you dead. You deserve nothing. Not even the air you're breathing.”

His breath became more labored as he twitched his hands, trying in vain to move his wheelchair. He was powerless. He had no choice but to listen to what I came to say to him.

I pressed the gun to the side of his head. This useless motherfucker had hurt too many women. I needed to do this not just for me, but for all the other women he had raped.

His mother caught my eye, and for a full minute we stared at each other.

“Just know that taking a human life isn't something you can change,” she said. “I agree that he deserves to die, and he will, but are you willing to destroy your life to do it?”

“So, are you gonna tell on me? After what he did?”

“No, I'm not your maker. That's who you're gonna have to answer to.”

As I considered her words, I turned back to look at this drooling, helpless man in the wheelchair. Regardless of what he was now, this was the man who had raped me. My life was already destroyed. I had already traveled too far down this dark road to change things.

“Good-bye, you bastard.”