False Accusations by Jacobson, Alan (great novels of all time .txt) 📕

silent moan. He balled a fist and shoved it between his front teeth. He did not want to further traumatize his son by losing control.

Now more than ever, Henry needed him. He needed him to be strong.

A DETECTIVE ARRIVED TWENTY MINUTES later. Dressed in a charcoal suit with a narrow tie and a black fedora tipped back off his forehead, he stepped into the kitchen through the back door and surveyed the room.

Henry was seated in his father’s lap on the floor, against the far wall. The side of the boy’s head rested against his dad’s chest, a gathering of shirt stuffed into the palm of his left hand.

“I’m Detective George O’Hara. You’re Walton MacNally?”

“Yes, sir.”

O’Hara knelt carefully beside the woman’s body and felt for a pulse. “So what happened here?”

“I came home about, about twenty-five minutes ago. Henry—”

“No,” O’Hara said. “Your son. I want to hear from your son.” O’Hara took a knee in front of the boy. “You okay, Henry?”

Henry’s eyes moved about the room, then finally came to rest on the detective. “My mom’s not gonna wake up.”

“I know. I’m sorry, son.” O’Hara glanced at MacNally, then swung his gaze back to Henry. “Did you see what happened? Did you see who did this to her?”

Henry sucked on his bottom lip. Dropped his gaze to his lap. Nodded.

“Did you know the person?”

Henry spoke without looking up. “He had a mask.”

“What kind of a mask?” O’Hara asked. “Like the Lone Ranger?”

“Bigger. All over his face.”

O’Hara nodded. “Did he say anything? Did you know his voice?”

Henry shook his head. “He didn’t talk.”

“How big was he? Was he—was he as tall as your dad?”

Henry twisted his lips. “Same.”

“Close your eyes for a second, son. Go on.” He waited for Henry to comply, then said, “Imagine the man is right here, right now. I’m here, so he can’t hurt you. Picture him, look right at his face. Can you tell me anything more about what he looks like?”

Henry kept his eyes shut but shook his head.

“If your dad was wearing a mask, would the man look like that?”

Henry nodded.

“What kind of a—”

“Quiet, Mr. MacNally,” O’Hara said. He rose, sucked on his teeth a second, and then looked over at the woman’s body.

Henry tightened his grip on his father. MacNally shifted his weight and cuddled the boy. It was now just the two of them. Henry had been such a blessing that he and Doris had started discussing another child. But times were tough, and he had lost his job as a welder for a commercial building contractor three months ago. They were existing solely on Doris’s lean secretarial salary, so they decided to put off the idea of another child, at least until he had found employment. He began drinking to escape the pressures and feelings of inadequacy.

Then came a break: a week ago MacNally heard of a shipping company that needed an able-bodied man to work the docks unloading cargo. It was a waste of his artistic talents, but he needed the money. Though it had only been six days, he hadn’t had one drink and his boss took notice of his work ethic. Tonight he was going to tell Doris they should consider that second child.

Those plans were now gone. Forever lost, like the life that had drained from his wife’s body.

2

O’Hara pulled a long, narrow pad from his vest pocket and jotted some notes. He clicked his pen shut, and then stole another look at the body of Doris MacNally. “I’ll be right back. Gotta go find out what’s keeping the coroner. Don’t touch anything. Best if you two go wait in the living room.”

The door swung open and closed, a blast of frigid air blowing against MacNally’s face. The police officer who’d been there earlier stepped back inside and folded his arms across his chest.

MacNally did as he was told, taking Henry into the adjacent room and waiting on the couch. He cradled Henry against his perspiration-soaked body, oblivious to the chilled draft that swept through the house...the cold emptiness mimicking what he was now feeling.

“What’s in your hand?” MacNally asked softly.

Henry splayed open his fingers, and an opal brooch stared back at him. It was the only keepsake Doris’s grandmother had left her, and it was something Doris cherished and wore often. MacNally knew it was Henry’s attempt to be close to his mother, to have something of hers that he could hold onto. Emotionally, MacNally could relate: he wasn’t prepared to let go of his life companion yet either.

O’Hara was gone for several minutes, during which time MacNally numbly stared ahead at the wedding photo that sat in a wood frame on the fireplace mantle across the room. He stroked his son’s back, an action that felt pathetically inadequate. But he didn’t know what else to do. He had just turned twenty-four—what could he possibly know about helping a young boy deal with the loss of his mother?

In the space of mere seconds, the lives of Henry and Walton MacNally were shattered beyond repair.

But MacNally did not—could not—know just how much of a difference his mate’s death would make in their lives.

DETECTIVE O’HARA WALKED BACK INTO the house. His cheeks and the tips of his ears were red from the blistering cold, and his face was stern. The creases were more prominent, the brow rigid, the lips taut.

But it wasn’t until O’Hara was fully inside the kitchen that MacNally realized that the man had his service revolver in hand, at his side, poking out from behind his thigh. Concealing it.

“Mr. MacNally, can you please let go of your son and come over here for a moment?”

MacNally’s gaze was fixated on the tip of metal peeking from behind O’Hara’s leg. Whatever the detective had in mind, it was not good. But MacNally had nothing to hide, so he gave Henry a gentle pat on the back. “Son, I need to get up for a second.”

Henry unfolded himself and flopped down beside his