The Fall and Rise of Kade Hart: A Hart Brothers Novel Page 2

  After I checked in, I took a badly needed shower. Luckily enough, I had organized and packed my bags for vacation, so all my stuff was in one suitcase. After my shower, I got on the hotel internet again to check the New Orleans news. I was shocked to see there were no reports of my family’s murder. What was going on? Why wouldn’t someone have called it in? My dad owned a jewelry store and my mom worked there with him. Surely someone had noticed they hadn’t opened in the last day. What was going on? I came up with all sorts of weird explanations, but none of them were solid. And then there were my sister’s friends. Why hadn’t they come around and reported it? None of this added up. Maybe I was wrong to have run the way I did. Maybe I should’ve stayed and called the police. But Dad’s note was clearly meant for me. He wouldn’t have written it in his own blood as he died, if he didn’t think I was in danger.

  I needed a reality check. Was my mind lucid? I went back and ticked through the facts as I remembered them. Left school and all was fine. Talked to my mom that morning and texted her in the afternoon as I was leaving. Got home to a macabre scene. Found Dad’s note next to his body, telling me to hide. Left home and went to the storage unit to retrieve the contents of his safe. Then I hit the road. How could I not be lucid? I was as sane as ever.

  Then something nagged at me. I grabbed my computer and Googled Dad’s jewelry store. Nothing came up. That was odd. He’d had a website forever. I revamped it two years ago and would help him whenever he had issues with it. I just did maintenance on the thing a month ago. His business should’ve come up in a Google search. Next I entered his website’s address, which was only his business’ name. That directed me to a search page, as if the website didn’t exist. I knew the website existed, damn it. What the hell was going on here? So I tried it again and the same thing happened. I entered “Bressan’s Gems” into Google again. Nothing showed up. It was as if the store had never existed. I went to Yellow Pages to look them up. There was no listing. Okay, this was really weirding me out. How could that be? How could all this be wiped out in a matter of a couple of days? A business can’t just disappear. That’s not possible.

  Or is it? Whoever killed my parents must have ties to the government or someone really powerful to be able to do something like that. You can’t erase stuff from the internet like that. Not unless you know people. Powerful people. Shit. I’m in deep ass trouble. What the hell did my dad do? Who was he mixed up with? Was he involved in diamond smuggling or something? I couldn’t believe my dad would do anything like that. Dad was as honest as the day is long. He and Mom emphasized that no matter what, never ever lie. No, Dad wouldn’t do anything illegal. This was something else. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out.

  I slammed my computer shut, packed up my stuff, and left. I needed to get the hell out of there. If they were tracking anyone Googling the store, they could track the IP address where I Googled it from. I had no time to spare.

  Nine hours later, I pulled into Albuquerque, New Mexico. There would be no hotel for me this time. Instead, I headed to an outdoor and camping store and purchased a tent, sleeping bag, and sleeping pad. I also bought a bunch of other equipment, such as a lantern, cooler, and items one would need for camping. Dad used to take us camping when we were young, so I was familiar with the basics of it. Then I asked the sales clerk where a good campground was. He gave me several options and off I went. That tent became my temporary home. During the evening, I also devised a new a plan. I didn’t know if I could pull it off, but if I knew if I didn’t, I would most likely die because I had no doubt the people who killed my family would find and kill me too. It was a huge risk, and I would have to be as convincing as I’d ever been, but if it worked, it would be the key to saving my life.

  AFTER

  Two

  Present Day

  Kade

  The Narcotics Anonymous meeting is about half over. As I stare across the circle we have formed, I take note of the attendees’ faces. Some are apathetic; some are hopeless. It’s the faces with the hardened looks—as cold and unbending as the metal chairs on which we are seated—that I worry about the most. The others I can help. I’ve been there and can relate. The ones who know in their minds, who’ve constructed an impenetrable wall and have convinced themselves they’re right, are the ones that I have the most difficulty with. They never believe.

  One of them speaks up. His name is Drew and he tries to antagonize Jen. Jen is mild mannered and has been drug free for six months. Drew isn’t clean. He argues with her about some inane thing, just to upset her. It’s beginning to piss me off. This meeting isn’t about this. It’s about trying to help others beat their addictions.

  It’s time for me to step in. “Drew, is there a point to your comments?”

  “I think so. Jen can’t know about my suffering.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because it’s mine and not hers.”

  “That’s true, but Jen has dealt with a great many of her own issues. This is a meeting where we come to share and learn from each other, and not tear each other down, so we can put it to use—to perhaps help us either stay clean or get clean. It’s understandable that you feel no one knows your suffering. But do you know theirs?”

  His anger surfaces but he tries to hide it. He’s fighting an internal conflict that manifests as a clenching jaw and twitching muscles in his cheeks. How do I know this? I’ve experienced everything he’s going through. He’s dying to make some kind of remark, but he knows the rules and can’t.

  “Drew, why don’t you and I talk after the meeting?”

  He offers up a curt nod and then I smile. It eases the tension in the room some. Jen smiles back at me in gratitude. She’s a meek girl and is ill-equipped to deal with someone as forceful as Drew. He’s like a damn army tank, trying to crush her at every turn.

  “Would you like to continue, Jen?”

  “Well, I was just about finished. But I was going to add that I still get the urge. You know? Even after six months.”

  Everyone in the group nods and murmurs. I know I need to say something here.

  “That’s what a recovering addict is all about and that’s why you come here … to talk about it and find ways to deal with it. It’s why you came to a meeting every single day for the first thirty days when you left rehab. I’m twenty-four months out and I still get the urge. Not as often now. And it’s not nearly as strong. But some days I think how great it would feel to just have one hit. Or one rush of the stuff. And then I remember the end. When I was living on the streets. And I think there’s no way I want to go back to that.”

  The stench permeates everything at first, but after a couple of days, the haze that infuses what’s left of my warped and chaotic brain, I no longer notice it. At first I wonder about that, but then it never enters my mind again. I live in a constant state of filth, covered with the grime of the streets, subways, and God knows what else. When I’m clear enough to think of it, I know I’m better off here than with my dragon of a father. He was right all along. I’m worthless. Meaningless. I am nothing.

  I look around the circle and see nodding heads.

  “So lets talk about triggers. Who wants to kick this off?”

  That stimulates another discussion and the newer people get involved in this. Drew looks at everyone with intense hostility. I know it’s because he hears what they’re all saying and recognizes his own triggers. But he won’t stop using. Not yet. But the great thing is he’s here. And I’ll do everything in my power to keep him here.

  The clock on the wall lets me know the time is up, so I wrap up the meeting. Drew hangs back and after the room empties, I ask him if he’d care for a cup of coffee. He declines.

  “Let’s get this over with,” he begins. “I think this is bullshit and I’m only in here because if I don’t attend these meetings, there will be consequences.”

  “I’m aware of those consequences. I have one question for you. Do you want to stop?”

  He fidgets. Then
he looks at everything in the room except me. “Sometimes.”

  “What about the other times?”

  “When I’m with my friends, I like getting high and drinking. Having a good time with them.”

  “You can’t. Ever again. Once you decide to get sober, go clean, you have to give it all up. For the rest of your life. Until you decide to do that, you’re wasting my time and yours.”

  He still won’t look me in the eye. “But if I don’t come to these meetings…”

  “Let me stop you right there, Drew. There are people who come here that want to stay clean. They need an attitude in here that lends them to that. I’m not ever going to bar you from coming here. You’ll always be welcome. But I won’t have your antagonistic attitude fucking with my people. You got me?”

  His unyielding eyes finally lock with mine. There is no give in them so I continue.

  “Those people that were here, the ones you saw, come here with an open mind, looking for help and sometimes answers. They don’t want to have someone sabotaging their hard work and efforts. It’s tough to give up drugs, but it’s even tougher to stay clean. And personally I’m not sure you have what it takes to run that gauntlet.” My gaze matches his and it’s equally unrelenting.

  I’ve just crossed the line with him and I’m taking a huge risk, but I have to bust through his barriers first, and then bust his balls. A challenge may be what he needs. Or I may fail miserably.

  His head rises, chin inches forward, and bows up and says, “What do you mean I don’t have what it takes?”

  “You understand English don’t you? I don’t think I can be any plainer in my speech.”

  He walks up to me, puts his finger in my chest and says, “No one ever says shit like that to Drew Griffin. No one!”

  I grab his finger and push his hand down. “And no one ever puts their finger in my chest like that. You’ll do well to remember that in the future. If you want to continue coming here, fine, but if you do, don’t ever antagonize or intimidate any of the attendees. If so, you’ll have me to answer to. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Perfectly,” he snaps and starts to turn away.

  But my voice halts him. “And Drew, I sincerely hope you accept my challenge. Because it’s so much sweeter on the other side. You’ll lose friends, but the ones you gain are much more honest, faithful, and will have your back.”

  With sagging posture, he nods, and walks away.

  He’ll be back, but I wonder if he’ll be clean when he returns. I may have just made an enemy, or possibly a close friend. Either way, it’s okay. That’s part of my job as a counselor. I’m supposed to tear them down and build them back up. Drew may be particularly difficult. I challenged him, but he needed it.

  After I make sure the chairs are rearranged and the room is orderly, I pick up my things and head home. It’s Saturday and almost lunch time. I have to be at St. John the Baptist Catholic Church to give a group music lesson at two. That gives me time to go home and eat a quick lunch, grab my guitar and music books, and get to the church.

  That I ended up giving music lessons at a church is pure irony. My family never attended church. And a Catholic church, no less, is even more ironic. It’s like the devil teaching a saint. Who knows? Maybe it’s divine intervention. Maybe God realized I needed His hand in something, after having been tarnished by my dragon of a father—the demon of a man who raised me, if that’s what one can call him. To me he was the monster who drove me to drugs. And I almost lost my life because of him. Now he’s dead and I’m recovering, but the damage he did throughout the years can’t be expunged, no matter how hard I try.

  ~~~~~

  The massive structure of the church looms in front of me. I tilt my head to get a solid look at its spire. It rises far into the blue sky, with a large cross on its peak. Huge wooden doors, worn smooth from the elements, greet me as I climb the steps. When I enter the narthex, the scent of incense invades my nostrils. It always lingers in here, left behind from the morning Mass. I don’t know why, but I love the smell of it. Inhaling deeply, I stand here and take it all in. To my left is a stairway that leads to the choir loft. The choir director has asked me several times to join them, but I always decline. What I would really love is to play that majestic pipe organ that sits up there. The thought makes me chuckle as I think about what my brothers would say to that. Kolson and Kestrel would probably roll their eyes and then some kind of smart comment would follow.

  The sanctuary is empty, so I decide to take a seat in the last pew. The church is beautiful with its stained glass windows and marble statues. The window I love the most is the one at the front of the church. It’s in the shape of a cross, and it’s magnificent with all its colors as the sun strikes it. The sense of peace that flows through me when I’m in here is indescribable. It always amazes me. Given my history, I would’ve thought the walls themselves would try to exorcise me from its sacred chambers. But it’s the opposite. I feel welcomed here. A warm sense of peace washes over me, like God Himself is greeting me. I’ve never been a religious person. The truth is, until I quit using drugs, I doubted God’s existence. I’m still not sure of it. I don’t know a thing about the Catholic Church, other than what I’ve learned since I’ve been volunteering here. Father Anthony has become my friend, and we have some very interesting and heated theological discussions. He has taught me a little about the Catholic Church and its beliefs so I’m not as much in the dark anymore.

  A voice interrupts my thoughts. “Kade! What a surprise. Saying some prayers to a God that doesn’t exist?” It’s Father Anthony. He has a big grin on his ruddy face. He’s a large man with a rounded belly. When I first met him, he reminded me of Santa Claus, minus the white hair, beard, and red suit. He’s fifty years old and quite jolly at times. Father Anthony is no stranger to Irish whiskey either. And he makes no effort to hide it, but he doesn’t drink around me, out of respect for my addiction issues.

  I chuckle. “Not exactly, Father. I was actually admiring the stained glass and the marble statues.”

  “Ah, yes, they are spectacular, aren’t they?”

  “Fit for the house of the Lord.”

  “Come with me a minute.”

  I follow him as he leads me to a side room in the front of the church.

  “This is the sacristy. It’s where all the priest’s vestments, chalices, cruets, and other things we use at Mass are kept.”

  “Ah, the secret room,” I say.

  “No, not as much secret as it is sacred.”

  The room is filled with all sorts of robes. Some are white and some are colored. He explains the significance of some of the colors. For example, he says that white and gold are celebratory and what they wear for Christmas and Easter. Purple is the symbol for penance and sacrifice and is worn during Advent and Lent.

  He rearranges some things, drops off a book, and then asks, “Are you giving lessons today?”

  “Yes, and I’m probably late.”

  “All my fault,” he laughs as he replies.

  “Hey, it was worth it for a glimpse at this.”

  “Why don’t you come to Mass tomorrow, Kade?”

  “Um, yeah, I don’t think I’m ready for that yet, Father. But I appreciate the invite.”

  “I hope you know the doors are always open whenever you are.”

  We walk together to the school and I lead us to the room where I’m to give my lessons while we chat about football. Father is a huge Broncos fan. The room is full when I arrive and Father takes the heat. Sister Helena purses her lips and shakes her head. She’s the head of all the nuns here and also is in charge of the music program at St. John the Baptist School.

  “Father, I’m trying to teach these errant students music. Mr. Hart is kind enough to donate his time and now you’re responsible for his tardiness.”

  “Oh, Sister Helena, don’t worry so. I was giving him a tour of the sacristy, trying to persuade him to convert to Catholicism. And you know how wonderful he is. He’ll make si
ngers out of these students in no time.”

  “He’s not supposed to teach them how to sing! He’s supposed to teach them how to play the recorder, Father!”

  The group of ten-year-old girls breaks out in giggles. They’re all armed with their recorders. I have my guitar. No one told me a thing about recorder lessons.

  “Um, sister, do you have an extra recorder?”

  “Mr. Hart!”

  “I’m sorry. I was only told music lessons, which meant singing to me.”

  The kids all giggle again. Sister Helena stomps off, her black skirts swishing as she waddles, reminding me of a very angry penguin. Then I start laughing. Father Anthony shrugs and leaves and I’m standing in a room filled with ten-year-old tittering girls. What the hell am I going to do with them? I have zero experience with little kids. And I mean none.

  I lean toward them and whisper very loudly, “Do you think I’m going to get a detention?”

  “Mr. Hart!”

  I make a face and mouth, “Oops. Busted!”

  They all cover their mouths as they snicker again. They are pretty cute, now that I look at them.

  Sister Helena takes a yardstick and slams it on a desk. Shit, this woman is a tyrant!