Her Lost Alibi by David Berens (best memoirs of all time .TXT) 📗

so happy with their Mickey ears on top of their heads and ice cream from the Mickey bars dripping down their fingers.

The last few pages of the album were of her mother in her sick bed. God, she’d gone downhill so fast. Cancer is a bitch no matter how you look at it. The last page was a photograph of the beautiful flowers on her mother’s grave. Her tears spattered the clear plastic as she closed the book.

She put the lid back on the chest, but took the album downstairs with her. She wrapped her arms around it and fell back asleep as a chilly, dawn drizzle began to peck against the windows.

For the second time in as many weeks, she had a terrible, lucid dream. She felt like she was stuck between reality and fantasy, never sure what was real and what was imagined. She emerged from nowhere into a dark, rainy alleyway, bright city lights reflecting on the pavement. Her footsteps made no sound as she made her way toward the crossing street. Suddenly, a door opens and a man steps out. She freezes and watches. The man moves quietly into the shadows of a nearby dumpster and crouches into the darkness. She knows instantly, that it is Joseph Cross, her father. She opens her mouth to scream, but nothing will come out.

She tries to run toward his hiding place, but her feet are now frozen in place. She can’t move, she can’t breathe, she can’t make a sound. She is an unwitting witness to the scene unfolding in front of her.

The door across the street from the one her father had used opened. The clank of dishes, the bustling hubbub of a restaurant kitchen, and the echoes of dinner service blare out. Music is playing and though it should be a jazz band, or maybe even a piano player doing their versions of the hits from the 80’s and 90’s, it isn’t. It is demonic and reminds Amber of Satan’s lead section from the famous Charlie Daniels song, The Devil went Down to Georgia. A man comes through the door and Amber is confused. At first, she thinks it is Marcario Morales, but when the light hits his face, she is shocked to see that it isn’t. It’s Eric Torres—the man who Morales is in jail for murdering. In the crime scene photos, he doesn’t look much like Morales, but then again, he’s blue and has a hole in his face. But here, in the dream, he could be Marcario’s twin.

It’s an odd time to realize it, but both men resemble a young John Leguizamo. Eric Torres has a cigarette pinched between his lips and is carrying a six pack of beer. He sets the beer down, searches the pockets of his green raincoat for a lighter. He’s about to light up, when Joseph steps out of the shadows. Amber wants to scream again, but she is still frozen.

Strangely, Eric doesn’t see her father raise the pistol. He leans down, picks up his six-pack and steps off the curb. That’s when the gunshot deafens her. Torres goes down to one knee, his hand clutching his side. Her father walks up to him, raises the gun, then pauses.

He mumbles something … a Bible verse … or a prayer. Raises the gun, and fires one more time into Eric Torres’s head. He drops the gun and runs away. Amber tries desperately to run after him, to stop him, but before she can, the door opens again and Marcario Morales runs out. He splashes through puddles in the street to help his friend. Insanely, he sees the gun and reaches down to pick it up. Two more people come out. Somehow, in the dream, she knows they are the two eye witnesses that picked Morales out of a lineup for shooting Eric Torres—open and shut case.

Amber Cross jerked upright, tossing the photo album from her arms onto the floor, pictures sliding from their sleeves. She sobbed into her hands. She knew the murder probably hadn’t really happened that way, her mind had taken what she knew of the case and filled in the details with what she’d learned from her father. The bottom line was, Marcario Morales was an innocent man, and her father had violated the seventh commandment: Thou shalt not kill.

Somewhere under the bed, her phone, thrown aside with the photo album, began to ring … urgently.

16

No Time

Amber was certain that her piece-of-crap rental car was going to explode. It groaned in pain as the odometer climbed closer and closer to the 100 m.p.h. mark. It was nearing the top of the dial when the engine light came on. Screw it, she thought. I got the insurance.

She glanced at her watch, tears streaming down her face. The call had come about fifteen minutes ago at six a.m. on the dot. Not enough time, she thought.

“You’d better come right away,” the nurse, or the doctor, or whoever the hell had called told her. “He’s fighting, but…”

She didn’t wait for the end of the statement before hanging up, throwing on a jacket, and speeding toward the hospital. Memorial Regional Hospital South was less than thirty miles from her father’s house, but as she got into the city, the streets were busy with working people headed out to offices, fast food joints, convenience stores, banks, and auto repair places. Had the roads been clear, she would’ve ignored the red lights and could’ve made the drive in half the time.

She banged her hand on the dashboard, threatening to widen a sunbaked crack above the faulty radio. When she did, it lit up and Bob Dylan began to croon “Tangled Up in Blue”—her father’s favorite song.

It took her back to the time he had taken Amber and her mother out to Chapel Trail Nature Preserve for a picnic. Her mother had made half-a-dozen peanut butter and jelly sandwiches—all they could afford at the time—and three of those mini cartons of milk