Kennedy's Keeper

By Aaron Philip Clark

The smoke curled from the barrel of the .38. It was still warm as Mara set the revolver on the bench rest and removed her ear plugs. The gun range was empty. Mara preferred it that way. She liked to only hear the sound of her gun, the lone ringing that seemed to echo through the complex. This was Mara's meditation, some women did yoga—Mara fired her .38 Smith and Wesson. The gun was a gift from her sister for her thirtieth birthday. Mara, who never cared much for guns, fell in love with the rush; the heft of the steel, the rubber grip snug in her palm, the click of the rotating chamber, the muzzle flash, and the bullets slicing through the air. She even liked the way her finger worked the trigger; the way her forearm tensed up and her back teeth clinched when she fired. It was all the therapy she needed. For hours, Mara could fire rounds at a blank target that often embodied all the frustrations, disappointments and stresses of her week.

“Closing in ten minutes,” the range supervisor said over the intercom.

Normally she was the only woman there on Fridays. She figured most of the female gun enthusiast had better things to do with their Friday nights than spend them breathing in gun smoke and smelling of Cordite. The men who frequented the range were often retired or active in law enforcement. Mara had nothing against law enforcement or men, but she found the police force attracted a certain type of man, the kind of man that could sweep a woman off her feet and make her feel safe, all while leaving out the tidbit he had a wife and two kids at home.

You live and you learn she thought as she locked her gun and placed it in her bag. Mara removed her targets from their hooks and line, taking a moment to examine her handy work. Her accuracy had increased. She was becoming a decent shot. Recovering from the recoil of the .38 and then firing caused her aim to be off by a few centimeters, but she had finally learned to adjust, landing a perfect sequence of kill shots to the head and torso of the silhouette.

Mara gathered her things and headed into the lobby. She popped into the restroom to fix herself in the mirror. The harsh fluorescent light did nothing for her russet complexion. She spruced up her hair, pulling a few loose strands behind her ears. She looked tired and her mind was on a bottle of red wine chilling in the fridge, and some left over pasta from the night before. She washed the Cordite from her hands. Starring at her reflection she was overcome with a feeling of regret. She still considered herself beautiful, with curly black hair and honey colored eyes, but she was getting older. She often created a beauty meter for herself. Some days she'd be cute, other days sexy, and for a few days in the month she was a stone-cold fox. Mara was convinced her upscale fashion sense made her supervisor, a woman past her prime, envy her so much that she inflated Mara's workload with extra cases. Although, Mara could handle it, she saw herself the outcast in the office. She had an east coast flare and carried herself in a manner that rubbed her southern counterparts the wrong way. She was outspoken and wasn't easily intimidated. She always thought she belonged in New York , that she'd be great in the fashion retail industry as a buyer or designer.

The Charlotte Department of Social Services was as far away from the world of high-fashion as she could get, but it didn't stop her from dreaming about it. She couldn't help but imagine what life would be like in New York , living in some Manhattan high-rise apartment—the high-society lifestyle. Growing up she dreamt of modeling. She dressed up in her mother's high-heels, skirts and church hats. On more than one occasion, applying her mother's best lipsticks, most of the shade smeared in jagged lines around her taut lips and all over her face. Her mother would come home and find her in the closet. Unable to contain her laughter, she'd scold Mara and then put her in the bathtub, scrubbing off the make-up and residue of her perfumes. Mara missed her mother dearly. It had been three years since she had passed, but for Mara the hurt in her heart was still as potent as the day she died.

Mara gave herself one last look before exiting the restroom. In the lobby, the range supervisor was shutting the register down and locking up the gun cases.

“Closing me out, again?” he said with a chuckle.

“Sorry, Tony. I guess I lost track of time,” she said.

“No problem. Have a good night,” he said.

Mara smiled and walked through the double doors that led out into the parking lot. Her car was the only one left. Parked under the amber street light, Mara approached the vehicle cautiously. The best part about dating a cop for a few months is that a woman learns a lot about protecting herself, and how not to end up a victim. Mara always parked under the street lamp and made sure she was in view of the entrance to the gun range, the mall, or the gym, whenever she found time to get there. Most women are attacked at places they frequent the most; places that give them a false sense of security. A parking lot with a sea of cars is just as dangerous as a parking lot with only yours.

Whether there are a lot of people around or not, a woman should always be alert. At least that's what David used to tell her. Detective David McBride was a liar and a cheat, but Lord how she missed him.

Mara tossed her bag into the passenger seat and got in. She started the engine of her silver coupe and headed home. The Charlotte streets were quiet, black and slick from the day's rain. She loved the southern summer nights—the windows down, the fresh air against her skin. It felt good to cruise the city, seemingly alone, only accompanied by the sounds of the crickets and nightingales. Mara was a Philadelphian by birth, but she had found much needed peace in the south. Charlotte was the only city she had ever lived that offered both city life and wild life. Moving to Charlotte was never her ideal choice, but after her mother's death she took over the payments of her home, a two-story Victorian in Matthews—a suburb just outside of the city. She refinished the hardwood floors and gave them a cherry stain, updated the appliances and put in energy saving windows. Working on the house gave her real comfort and helped her through her grief. But alone, at night, walking the empty Victorian, Mara couldn't curve the impeding loneliness.

For Mara, something was missing: a husband, a child, maybe even a dog. Clinging to the New York fashion dream was a way to keep her mind off something she craved so much—a family. Being single at thirty-two had wreaked havoc on her social life. Most of her girlfriends were married and in a matter of years their conversations had gone from discussing dating, shopping and good books; to diapers, formula and figuring out how to stay sexy for their husbands. Mara suspected at least one of her friends, Susan, had stopped inviting her to gatherings with her family because of Mara's single status and her husband's rumored infidelity. In the south, if you weren't married by thirty, something was obviously wrong with you. Mara couldn't imagine having a child at this stage in her life. “I'm too much of a mess,” she would say on the phone with her sister. Mara's job as a child welfare worker gave her insight into what a “bad” parent was and Mara desperately wanted to be a good one, when the time came.

Mara finished off the pasta and drank half the bottle of wine before deciding to take a bath. She placed her gun on her nightstand, took off her clothes and climbed into the bathtub. Her body had been longing for the warm lavender-laced soak all week. She took a few deep breaths and settled into the tub, resting her neck on the basin edge. She let the folded washcloth rest on her forehead and the water stream down her cheeks. The night was shaping up to be exactly what she needed: a little target practice and a relaxing bath.

Mara had dozed off when she was startled by her phone ringing. She listened for a moment, hoping it was her personal line as opposed to her work cell. Realizing it was her work phone; Mara hastily got out of the tub, wrapped herself in a towel and made her way into her bedroom, taking the phone from her briefcase just shy of the final ring.

“Hello, hello!”

“Ms. Mara?” the small voice cried out.

“Yes, who is this?” she asked.

“It's Kennedy,” the voice said.

“Kennedy, what's wrong. Where are your foster parents?” she asked.

Kennedy seized into hard sobs and shrills.

“They're dead,” she said.

Her voice was muffled and her breathing heavy.

“Kennedy, where are you?” Mara asked, fearing the answer.

“I'm here, in the house. I'm hiding in the closet. There's a man,” she said.

“Kennedy, don't move. I'm calling the police. Stay on the line.” She picking up her phone and dialed emergency from her land-line. Mara relayed what she could to the operator; all she knew was the address of Kennedy's foster parent's home in South Charlotte : Twenty-ten Oakridge Drive . The operator told Mara that officers had been dispatched and should arrive within minutes.

Mara slipped into a pair of sweat pants and a T-shirt, and put on her sneakers. She grabbed her gun and rushed to her coupe parked in the garage. With Kennedy still on the line, Mara reassured her everything was going to be okay.

“Kennedy, please stay as quiet as you can,” she said.

Kennedy answered with a nearly inaudible ‘yes,' before a deadening silence.

Mara put her Bluetooth device over her ear and listened intently to her faint breathing. It was her only comfort, as she revved the engine, reversed out of the driveway and disappeared down the residential street. Kennedy's foster parent's home was just north of the Victorian. It had always been Mara's practice to provide the children on her case load with her work cell and office phone numbers. But she could count on her hand the number of times a child called her on her work cell after hours, in her eight years as a D.S.S. worker, maybe twice.

It was late, and even on a Friday night the streets were relatively still. It's something Mara was grateful for as she reached 70 miles per hour on the open street. As Mara approached Kennedy's neighborhood, she considered the fact she may reach the home before the police did. Glancing at her gun, Mara flipped open the chamber realizing it contained only four bullets. In hast, she had forgotten to bring more. She hoped the gun would be enough to scare off a potential attacker and she wouldn't have to fire.

Minutes later, Mara arrived at Twenty-Ten Oakridge Drive , parked across the street and moved quickly toward the home.

“Kennedy, Kennedy. I'm outside. Do you know where the man is?” Mara whispered into the phone.

“No, I don't hear him anymore,” she said.

Mara moved toward the rear of the house, realizing Kennedy was probably trapped inside her bedroom. Her room faced a wooded lot behind the house. The type of lot a killer could hide in with a good view of the house. She entered through a sliding glass door, which had been shattered. Fear set in, she could feel her chest get tighter with every step. The house was pitched black and smelled of alcohol. Mara felt her way through, using the walls as a guide. Her feet kicked broken glass. She couldn't see her hand two inches in front of her face. She fought to keep her knees from buckling. She kept telling herself: Four shots. That's all you have, just four shots . Mara reached the staircase with no sign of the man Kennedy reported being there. She crept up the stairs, keeping the gun cocked and pointed in front of her. She brushed against the wall, unaware of what was ahead or behind her.

“Kennedy, you still with me?” she asked.

The phone was dying and began to beep in the ear piece. Mara ended the call to conserve its life. She was close now, Kennedy would be safe soon. She reached the top of the stairs. Resting her hand on the banister, she took a moment to compose herself. What could have possibly been taking the police so long she thought? It took Mara a moment to remember where Kennedy's room was, not wanting to call to her, she tried to remember the notes she made during her original home study. She recalled Kennedy's foster parent's deciding that her room should be next to theirs. Their master suite was identified by double doors with brass French knobs, meaning Kennedy's room was located a few feet away to the right. With one hand on the door knob and the other clinched tight to her gun, Mara slowly opened the door. She took a step and a sharp pain shot through her shoulder and went down her arm. She let out a scream. Moonlight coming through a round paned window reflected against the blade as the attacker took another slice at Mara. She dropped to the floor, scooted across the carpet into Kennedy's room, and left a trail of blood and mangled flesh behind her. She slammed the door shut, bracing against it with her legs. The attacker pounded against the door, his breathing a heavy rumble like that of a growling bloodhound.

“Kennedy, it's me. I'm here,” she said.

“Ms. Mara?”

Kennedy appeared from the closet, a meek girl with braids and barrettes. Her eyes were red and tears streamed down her brown skin. She had been balled up in the closet under a pile of clothes and dolls.

“Hands over your ears, honey,” Mara said.

Kennedy gazed at the gun, then shut her eyes tight and pressed her hands against her ears.

Mara fired twice into the door. With every trigger squeeze blood spurted out of her shoulder and chunks fell to the carpet. Both shots were aimed high, maybe too high. She had hoped for a head shot, but neither shot seemed to slow the pounding mad man. She lowered the weapon, aiming for where she figured his torso to be, and fired again. Then she lowered it a few inches more and fired the final shot. The pounding stopped. Mara used all the strength she had to continue to keep the door braced, in case the attacker hadn't fallen.

“The police will be here any minute, Kennedy,” she said.

Her eyes were getting heavy and so was the bleeding.

“Ms. Mara, you're hurt,” Kennedy said.

“I know baby. Get me one of your T-shirts.”

Kennedy grabbed a shirt from the closet and held it up for Mara to see.

“Okay, now tie the shirt around my arm,” she said, with her legs and voice both suffering the strain. She could hear sirens coming from the front of the house.

Kennedy tied the shirt around the wound. In minutes the once white shirt was solid red and weighted with blood. Kennedy sobbed.

“The police are here. It's okay now,” Mara said, before collapsing.

* * *

Mara was placed on a stretcher with an oxygen mask over her mouth. Kennedy had to be pried away from her by an officer; hysterical and in shock she fought the cop with every ounce of strength she had. They carried Kennedy downstairs, covering her eyes so she wouldn't see the hell below. Mara flickered in and out of consciousness, her eyes taking in glimpses of what she had walked through to get to Kennedy. The house was ransacked, blood dripped from the walls and ceiling. The bodies of the foster parents, Mr. and Mrs. Randle, were nearly unidentifiable—an older Caucasian couple, the only thing recognizable was silver and brunette hair on beaten scalps. Their bodies thrown about on a couch, stacked on top of each other like rag dolls. Mara couldn't imagine life after this ordeal, neither her life nor Kennedy's would ever be the same.

The body of the killer had already been removed by the time Mara was loaded into the ambulance.

“Where's Kennedy?” she asked the EMS .

“Don't worry ma'am. She's fine. We're going to get you fixed up. Just breathe easy for us,” he said.

At the hospital Mara underwent surgery for six hours. She had significant blood loss and the surgeon told her she would probably suffer from nerve damage in her arm for the rest of her life, but she was going to live. The nurses attempted to call her sister in Philadelphia , but were unable to reach her. Mara wasn't surprised when they told her this. Her sister was younger and still a bit of a wild child. She was rarely home. The party lifestyle had claimed her long ago.

“Where's Kennedy?” Mara mumbled to the nurse who had come to give her pain pills.

“I'm sorry sweetie. I don't know. But you just rest. I'm sure the police have it under control,” she said.

“The damn police, Kennedy and I would have both been dead had they taken any longer,” Mara said.

She took the two white pills down with water and fell asleep. When she awoke, Detective David McBride stood over her, his sleeves rolled up, his tie loosened and pushed to the side. He was an attractive man, dark brown, good bone structure—a nice square jaw. He was bald and well-built, but had horrible fashion sense. His shirt never matched his tie and nothing ever matched his slacks, and he always wore the same dull shoes that were in dire need of polishing.

“You're a hero Mara, you know that?” He lifted her bed up with a button on the controls and propped a few pillows behind her back. Her arm was in a cast and sling.

“What the hell took you all so long?” she asked.

“The street was blocked off coming from the first responder's direction. It was a traffic accident or something. They had to come around on South Boulevard ,” he said.

“Country cops,” Mara said with disdain.

“Oh, come on, don't start that mess. It happens.”

“That little girl isn't going to be all right, David. Lord knows the things she's seen.”

“I know, but apparently the girl has no one. We have her down at the station. We've notified your D.S.S. supervisor. They're talking about putting her in a temporary placement.”

“The girl needs to be evaluated. She can't be in a standard placement. She's in shock for Christ-sake!”

“She hasn't said a word since we picked her up,” he said.

A tear fell down Mara's cheek and David patted it dry with a tissue.

“What the hell happened in that house, David?” she asked.

“Looks like the killer knew the house. We found cash and jewelry on him. You're some shot. They pulled a slug from his stomach, the kill shot. There wasn't much left of his midsection,” he said.

“And the Randle's?” she asked.

“You really want to know?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“They were cut and beaten pretty bad, nearly made it impossible for an ID. We're investigating his connection to them. It looks like he could have been a hired worker, a plumber or something of that sort.”

“They had just had their backyard landscaped. They were planning to put in a swing set for Kennedy. They wanted to adopt her. She was happy there. This is a goddamn nightmare.”

A nurse entered and interrupted their conversation.

“Time for your medication, dear,” the nurse said, prepared to administer antibiotics.

“I better get going,” David said, before kissing Mara on her forehead.

“Thank you for coming, David.”

David smiled. For a moment he seemed like he wanted to say more, but instead somberly left the room.

* * *

Mara was released four days later. When her sister called and asked if she needed to come down from Philadelphia , Mara told her it wasn't necessary and reassured her that she was fine. But Mara wasn't fine. Day and night she thought about Kennedy, about how she suffered and how she had nobody left. She needed to know the little girl was going to be okay. She desperately needed to look into her big brown eyes and see that spark once again. It was the reason the Randle's fell in love with her. Kennedy was full of life, and the thought the spark may be gone caused Mara to lose her appetite, to stay up at night with her .38 resting in her lap, gazing out the window, memorizing every car that passed, every unfamiliar face in the neighborhood. A prisoner in her own home, she would only open the door for David, but she wouldn't let him stay long. It pained her that he had to see her that way. David had shot a man on the job once and had gone back to work the next day. He was strong like that, but she was a mess—beyond a mess. How was David able to do it? Able to kill a man and go on like nothing happened, when for Mara, a bullet from her gun ended a man's life, and in many ways altered hers forever.

One morning, Mara answered a knock at the door. Mara's supervisor stood with Kennedy next to her. Mara was still in her bathrobe and slippers.

“Anne?” she asked.

“She needed to see you,” Anne said.

Mara moved aside to let Anne and the little girl in. She couldn't keep her eyes off of Kennedy, as she quietly walked around the house running her fingers over knick-knacks and studying Mara's artwork; mostly fashion designs she had sketched, that hung in the family room. Mara watched Kennedy for a bit and then offered her to a few coloring books and crayons. Mara and Anne had a seat at the breakfast table in the kitchen while Kennedy colored.

“How are you holding up Mara?” Anne asked.

Mara wasn't sure what to say to Anne. Sure, she was her boss, but Mara never thought Anne had much concern for her outside of making sure her dictation and reports were in on time. She had always appeared somewhat cold and distant. But Anne appeared genuine, and was overcome with emotion as Mara recounted what happened to her and Kennedy.

“I'm so sorry, Mara. I really am. Had you not been there, who knows what could have been,” she said, tears flowing.

“It's going to be alright, Anne,” she said.

“I don't know Mara. We haven't been able to find anyone to take Kennedy. Everyone's read about the murders in the newspaper and don't think they can take her on. She's staying at a temporary center for trauma patients. But I don't know how long we can keep her there and the poor girl has nobody,” she said.

Mara wasn't surprised that no one wanted to take Kennedy. Most of the foster parents D.S.S. worked with weren't trained to handle the type of trauma Kennedy had suffered. She was already experiencing night terrors and angry fits. There were only a handful of facilities that dealt with children who had suffered such ordeals; children who had witnessed murders, rapes, fires, and in many cases had been the victims of all three.

D.S.S. was a county organization and each of the workers was up to their necks in cases. Kennedy was Mara's problem, this happened while she was in county custody and she felt a responsibility to the little girl. When children die or get hurt in D.S.S. custody there's always an outrage. Two years ago a child was beaten to death in a group home and for weeks people picketed outside the county offices. Mara and other workers' cars were pelted with garbage: rotten fruit, feces and trash. The community felt D.S.S. failed, that they should have screened the group home better. But Mara and every worker knew it was always a gamble when they placed a child. They investigated the home, ran background checks, interviewed previous placements, but in the end it was an outsider, an older cousin of the group home's owner that beat the child. It was something unforeseen, just like the murder of the Randle's. Their deaths had made the front page of the Charlotte Observer. People held candlelit visuals outside their home. A journalist featured community responses in a running column. Charlotte hadn't seen a crime that horrific in decades. And at its center was a broken little girl, a girl nobody knew what the hell to do with. Mara knew she was going to have to pull herself together, because Kennedy needed her and in many ways she needed Kennedy.

“I can take her,” she said.

“What?”

“It's alright. I'll take her.”

“But don't you think that's too much. I mean, given what you've been through?” Anne asked.

“I have some comp time I can use. During that time we can both adjust and get accustomed to it. I'll make sure she sees the best therapist. I'll provide for her,” Mara said, looking back at Kennedy who was still coloring. She had worn the red crayon down to a nub; deep red strokes covered the paper.

“Are you sure, Mara?”

“I'm sure. I've never been surer about anything in my life. That little girl needs me and I truly think I can help her.”

Mara got up and moved toward Kennedy. She bent down, brushing the girl's bangs from her eyes. She kissed her on the cheek. Kennedy was detached, as if she didn't feel Mara's lips brush against her skin.

“It's going to be alright now, baby. I promise you that,” Mara said resting her hand on her shoulder.

Kennedy looked up at Mara. She brushed a few strands of hair from her face and smiled.