Closer Than Blood

have. It’s yours.”

“Get on your stomach now.” His eyes now filled with the solid black of his pupils, Pastor Mike complied.

“Hands behind your back.” He did so. Parker unspooled the bright red duct tape from the pocket of his hoodie. He climbed onto Pastor Mike’s back and started to bind him. It surprised him that the man on the floor didn’t fight. Didn’t he want to live? Had his own dad gone so willingly, too? Was it that easy to take a life? “Why are you doing this? There are other ways to make money, son.” Parker was doing his best to follow the plan but the walls were closing in on him. Fear was taking the place of the excitement of the moment.

“This isn’t about money. This is for love. And I’m not your son. My piece-of-shit dad is dead.” Parker plunged the knife into the side of the minister’s neck. Blood immediately started to shoot forth. It was a darker red than he imagined. Like the color of the wine that Tori had shared with him the first time they’d made love in his father’s bed. Parker pulled back and then shoved the knife into the minister’s side, then again. And again. The room was turning red.

“I’m sorry. But I have to do this. You are in the way.” Mike tried to speak, but he couldn’t. He was choking on his own blood.

“Help me,” he said, the words sputtering from his bloody lips.

“Jesus will help you. Jesus loves you,” the teenager said, without a bit of irony in his voice. He suddenly felt strong, empowered. He stood up and looked himself over. He was clean. There was blood everywhere, but not a drop on him. It was as if God had been watching out for him. For his love. For his soul mate. All of this was meant to be. As the syrupy pool of red spread over the floor, Parker stood there. Scared, happy, excited, and proud. It was all good. He was the man that she needed him to be. The money pouch from the week’s collection sat on the pastor’s desk. What he did was for love, not money, but the teenager grabbed the pouch anyway. A little cash could come in handy on the trip that would take him and Tori to their new lives. A little money was always a good thing.

Something wasn’t right. Laura Connelly knew teenagers either took inordinately lengthy showers—or none at all. But after Parker returned to Fircrest from a day at the skateboard park in Port Orchard, he’d taken a half-hour- long shower. He also loaded the washing machine and washed his jeans, T-shirt, and underwear. Clean was good, of course, but such devotion to helping around the house was out of character.

“Honey, what is it?” she asked Parker when she found him holed up in his bedroom. He was in bed, facing the wall.

“Leave me alone, Mom.”

“Parker, did something happen today?”

“No. Nothing.” He pulled the covers up over his head. Laura stood there a second, wondering if he’d been having trouble with his girlfriend. She’d considered asking Parker if he wanted to invite the girl over for dinner, but she doubted he was in the mood for that. When he said he wanted to be left alone, she didn’t doubt it.

“All right,” she said.

“I’ll have some dinner for you later.”

“I’m not hungry, Mom. I’m going to sleep.” When his bedroom door shut, he lifted the covers. Despite toweling off after his marathon shower, he was damp again. Sweat collected on his chest and beaded in the small of his back. He felt a wave of nausea come over him. He rocked himself, like a baby, gently and slowly. He remembered what Tori said to him the last time they made love.

“You will never understand the lengths people will go for true love until you do what needs to be done to keep us together. I’ve done it. I will never let you down.”

“I love you, Tori,” he said, as tears came to his eyes. Laura Connelly paced in the kitchen. She put his dinner into the refrigerator and wondered what she could do. She had worried nonstop about Parker after Alex’s murder. She had suggested counseling, but he’d insisted that he was working through it on his own. She assumed that, whoever his girlfriend was, she was a good listener. He needed that. Laura couldn’t reach him. She couldn’t seem to get him to open up to her. She went to the laundry room and unloaded the dryer. As she folded her son’s clothes, she considered if she’d been a good-enough mother. Had she given him what he needed to get through a difficult time? “I love you, Parker. I want to help you. It seems you are drowning here. I’m your mother, your lifeline. Give me a chance.” For the first time, she noticed a small vinyl pouch tucked into the bottom of the hamper. She picked it up and read its faded label.

LORD’S GRACE COMMUNITY CHURCH

Where did this come from? she thought, as she unzipped it. It was a packet of one- and five-dollar bills. Where did this come from? Her heart rate picked up. She zipped it fast, like closing it quickly would make the whole thing disappear. Parker, what did you do?

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Tacoma

The headquarters of the Tacoma Police Department was tucked amid strip malls and chain restaurants on a bleak stretch of South Pine, not far from the Tacoma Mall. And if it is true that all police departments have their own vibe, Tacoma’s was unique in its very blandness. One in Arizona could pass for a Mexican restaurant and one in Florida had a stream running through it that made it seem like a tourist attraction. Aside from the fact that the building was built and operated with green technology, Tacoma’s distinction was the fact that its Fleet Services division was housed in a renovated Costco warehouse store. That’s right. A Costco. One woman arched her brow while looking at the new three-story building that loomed above the old warehouse parking lot.

“I remember when I could get a hot dog and a Coke here for a buck fifty. I guess they must be dispensing justice in economy size here now,” she said. Eddie Kaminski chugged a tepid Mountain Dew in his cubicle on the second floor. Included among his many lifestyle changes after his wife dropped him was giving up coffee. It wasn’t good for him, and sipping tea seemed a bit fey for a police department’s must-have machismo. That the soft drink he was swilling was nothing but a citrus, caffeine-stoked version of coffee without the brown color wasn’t lost on Kaminski. He simply saw the drink as a small but necessary step away from a java habit that left him jittery and anxious.

“Like using a nicotine patch to wean a guy off smoking,” he told Lindsey when she caught him chugging the sweet stuff after a run along Ruston Way.

“Dad, that’s dumb,” Lindsey said.

“There’s tons of sugar in that and as much caffeine as a couple of cups of Charbucks.”

“Maybe so. But it’s one third the price.”

“It’s gross, and price isn’t everything.” You sound like your mother, he thought, but he didn’t say it. While he waited for Darius Fulton to show up, Kaminski tidied up his desk. The neighbor had seemed cautious on the phone.

“What I need to say to you needs to be said man to man.” The choice of words was peculiar.

A half hour later, he met Darius in the lobby. When they shook hands, the detective noticed that Darius’s hands seemed clammy. The weather outside was cool, unseasonably so. Sweaty hands usually meant nervousness or anxiety.

“Let’s talk in an interview room upstairs,” Kaminski said. Darius nodded.

“The lot was full. So I left my car in a one-hour visitor’s spot across the street. Is that going to be enough time?”

“That depends on what it is you have to tell me.” The interview room was as impersonal as could be, purposely so. It was, like all good interview rooms, set up to keep distractions to the minimum. It wasn’t an unfriendly place, just decidedly blank. Slate blue carpeting, nothing on the wall, blue molded chairs, and a mirrored viewing window.

“Take a seat,” Kaminski said.

“Need anything? Water?”

“You really drink that crap?” Darius said, indicating the can of Mountain Dew that the detective carried with