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It seems to last forever, and yet is over too soon, as we’re walking again, the trees rustling, birds singing, and the sun beating down on my head and bare arms.
“They think I killed that man,” I say. “Did they accuse you helping me?”
He chuckles. “Kinda sorta. But they got nothing.”
“I didn’t do it,” I say, stopping in front of one of the side entrances to the park—a spindly, wrought-iron gate over grown with white roses. “I want you to know that.”
“I already know that,” he says.
“And you probably already know that I’ve been thinking I’m being stalked for years, but nothing has ever been proven, so everyone thinks I’m a little insane,” I blurt out, barely pausing for breath.
“And I believe you completely,” he says, smiling softly.
“Why?” I blurt out. “You hardly know me.”
“I actually feel like I know you very well for some reason,” he says and my stomach does that twisty lurch of fear. Is he my stalker? Is that why he’s saying this? Because he’s been watching me for years?
But no, that’s crazy. He’s been away, fighting a war on the other side of the world.
“I know killers, I’ve been around them for almost a decade, so I can recognize one. My father was a killer,” he explains. “And so was yours.”
If we weren’t already standing still, that would stop me dead in my tracks. As it is, I just sort of vibrate on the spot.
“What do you know about my father?”
He starts walking again and I follow him into the park. It’s made up of neatly mowed plains, interspersed by paved walkways, lined by white wooden benches. Rose bushes are the most numerous plants here, but so are leafy trees and even a redwood grove. My mom and I sometimes come here to admire all the different varieties of roses, from plain red ones, to more exotic multicolored one. But he’s walking in the direction of the redwoods.
As always, the park is full of dog walkers, joggers, older people strolling and readers. Most of the benches we pass are taken. He just keeps walking, not answering my question.
Once we finally reach an empty bench, right at the edge of the redwoods, I finally can’t take it anymore.
“Tell me,” I say. “No one’s ever told me anything about my father, not even my mom. I want to know.”
He looks around as though checking to see if we’ll be overheard, but we’re the only two people in this part of the park right now.
“Let’s sit,” he says and does just that. I join him on the bench.
“Well?”
He nods and turns to face me, his eyes enveloping me whole. “You know your father was part of a biker gang, right?”
I nod. “That much Mom told me. She said they were criminals and she wanted nothing to do with them. Especially after he died.”
“My father was part of the same gang, they were MC brothers,” he says. “And I heard the story of how your father died more times than I can count.”
I inhale sharply then have trouble letting the breath go. “How did he die?”
“He took the bullet meant for one of his MC brothers, a very important man, the president,” he says.
The way he says it sounds like it’s a very important thing indeed, but all it confirms for me is that my father died needlessly, in a way that could’ve been prevented. And I can’t speak, because that sadness is closing up my throat completely.
“The way I heard it told, the MC was on a mission, taking down a ring that specialized in abducting children and selling them off,” he says. “They’d cornered the last of them in a hut deep in the mountains of Utah, or Colorado, I can’t remember. It was the middle of winter, cold and snowy, and overcast. A miserable day. The plan was good, surround the hut and hit them from all sides at once. But as it is with all plans, eventually they fall apart.”
He pauses to clear his throat. The picture he’s painting with his words is making me shiver.
“This plan did, probably because the enemy fought like only cornered men fight, ferociously and to the death. Bullets were flying, the enemy had snipers hidden in the mountains and your father and his MC brothers walked right into the trap. But they were good at what they did, and soon got the upper hand.”
He pauses again and takes my hands in his. “It was almost over, the enemy was down, and the sun even broke through the clouds when a single shot rang out, the sound echoing off the mountains, growing louder and louder instead of dying down. Your father leapt in front of Cross, his president and his friend. The bullet pierced your father’s neck and saved Cross’ life. He must’ve seen the sun glint off the gun barrel second before the shot was fired. That’s what my father always said.”
