Everybody's Daughter (24 page)

Michael stood on his toes and leaped up to push the small doorway open, prompting a small ladder to hurtle down, striking him in the head. “I bet your mother booby-trapped this.”

“She’d think about it but not do it,” she said. “Are you hurt?”

“I’ll survive. I’ve already been slapped a few times.”

“You deserved it,” she said, with a hint of amusement in her voice.

They climbed up into the middle of a floor flooded with old cardboard boxes.

“My grandparents were good at keeping themselves organized,” she said. “Look for a marking and let me know what it says.”

For several minutes they opened boxes, examined the contents and discarded almost all of the items packed inside. Michael located a taped brown box with the inscription –
John Tanner
―
What’s left of my life
.

“I wonder what this is all about?” he said, handing her the box.

Susan pulled the tape off the top. “Looks like life insurance policies,” she said, rifling through the contents. “He sure had a lot of coverage. Looks like my great-grandfather was obsessed with this.”

Buried underneath the pile of papers was a dusty silver box. She gazed at the oval shape, holding it up. “Never saw one like this.”

“Open it.”

They found several coins. She flipped them a few times in her hands. “Very odd looking money. I wonder where these came from?”

Michael stared at them. “I’ve seen similar ones.”

“On that antique show?”

He held out his hand. “Let me see it.” She handed him one and he played with it in his hands, turning it over several times, trying to decipher the faint images on both sides. He stood and dug into his pocket, pulling out the one he had retrieved from Judas. He went to the window, pulled up the shade and held the coins side by side – Judas’ blood money in his left hand and John Tanner’s coin in his right.

“Look,” he said, allowing the sunlight to hit the coins.

Susan gasped. “They’re identical.”

Michael’s phone rang and he answered it. “Connie, I’m busy.”

“What about Dad? Are you going to call him back?” she asked.

He sighed. “Look, I can’t worry about Jim right now.” He hung up.

“Everything all right?” Susan asked.

“Just dandy. Let’s see if your mother knows anything about these coins.”

Rita couldn’t recall how the coins were obtained by her grandfather. She told them that she never talked to her grandfather much, as he was a source of embarrassment to the family. “We were little kids when we heard all these stories,” she said. “We were scared out of our wits to even go near him.”

She went on and told them that other family members didn’t talk to him either and that her mother would visit him in that
place
only on holidays. She emphasized
place
several times during their conversation.

After they had said their goodbyes, Michael put the box of Tanner’s belongings in the back of Susan’s car.

“We should tell Pastor Dennis,” Susan said, putting the key into the ignition.

“Maybe we should figure out what all this stuff about your great-grandfather means first.”

She started the car. “Then where are we going?”

“Back to my place.”

Michael didn’t say much on the way home. He spun several theories through his mind as to why the coins he recovered during the last week of Christ’s life matched the ones Susan’s great-grandfather had.

The coins do look exactly the same. What does this mean though? Is this some sort of clue? Was John Tanner a fellow time traveler?

Michael dismissed the thought of taking Susan out to lunch for fear that people would stare. He was also irritated that she had slapped him. At the same time he could understand her anger. He decided to make lunch for her instead, serving her a tuna sandwich, a diet root beer and black licorice. She ate the sandwich quietly while he sat across from her.

“Did you see the licorice?” he asked.

She put the soda down and raised her eyebrows. “I’m not blind.”

“I remembered it’s your favorite.”

“Do you want me to throw a parade?” She took a small bite of her sandwich. “It would be nice for you to remember other things too.”

He flinched. “Your mom’s right,” he said.
The woman may be the biggest whack job in Northport but she loves Susan more than I ever will.

“Right about what?” she asked.

“About me. I never appreciated you.”

“Forget it,” she said, sliding out a piece from the package and taking a bite. “It’s delicious.”

He focused on her striking blue eyes, trying to break inside her thoughts. “I should have taken you out for lunch.”

She finished the candy. “This isn’t a date. I know where I stand.”

He cringed as she smiled, sliding two more pieces of licorice out of the package. “Thanks for the treat.”

After lunch, they watched Detective Brady’s press conference. A group of local reporters had amassed as he took the podium.

“Don’t worry about them,” Susan said. “Probably just a bunch of internet reporters.”

The detective adjusted the microphone and propped up Elizabeth’s picture next to him. “Blood was found in Michael Stewart’s car. Mr. Stewart is Elizabeth’s father and a resident of Northport. We found blood samples on the glove compartment, passenger side seat and door, and on a piece of tissue and paper. We also discovered a bloody sock in the Stewart’s house.”

“Bloody sock? I didn’t see that in the house,” Michael said.

Detective Brady then opened up the media event to questions.

One reporter asked, “Do you know where Elizabeth Stewart is?”

“Not at this time.”

“Are the police searching for her?” another asked.

Detective Brady nodded. “Yes. Several officers have been assigned to the case.”

Allison shouted out, “Are you treating this as a missing person case or is this a possible homicide?”

“What is
she
doing there?” Susan asked.

“Homicide? She isn’t dead,” Michael screamed at the TV.

Detective Brady held his hand up, halting the barrage of questions. “The main reason for this press conference is to appeal to the public for help.” The camera zoomed in on Elizabeth’s picture and Michael clutched his stomach. “If anyone knows the whereabouts of Elizabeth Stewart, please call the number on your screen. If you’ve seen this girl in the past forty-eight hours, we want to speak to you.”

“Is Mr. Stewart a person of interest?” Allison asked, shouting over the other reporters.

“Anyone who is close to Miss Stewart is a person of interest at this point.”

“The police found blood in the father’s car? Correct?”

“Yes.”

“And a bloody sock in the house?”

“Yes.”

“Why the delay in arresting the father?” Allison asked.

“Why is she asking those questions?” Michael yelled.

The detective picked up Elizabeth’s picture from the podium and held it up. “We have no reason to arrest anybody at this point in the investigation.”

“Is Mr. Stewart your prime suspect?” Allison asked.

The detective didn’t answer.

Michael grabbed his head, feeling like it was about to explode. “What is she trying to do?”

Allison continued to badger Detective Brady about Michael’s possible involvement. To his credit, the detective gave ambiguous responses followed by the standard “no comment.”

Susan pointed to the television set. “She’s some friend.”

“She was Vicki’s best friend. She’s no friend of mine. I know it now.”

“Now you know this?” Susan said, shaking her head. “You’re so dense sometimes.”

“I don’t care about her or what she says or thinks. I’m not going to waste my time or energy trying to figure out what she’s up to.”

“Oh. But I can.”

“No. Don’t. It’ll only incite her. I can’t worry about what’s going on inside her head.”

“This sounds like a witch hunt.” Susan pointed to the TV again. “And the head witch is leading the hunt.”

Michael shut the TV off. “I only care about getting Elizabeth home. Allison can have her fifteen minutes of fame. People are going to think what they want anyway. I know the truth. I would never hurt my daughter.” He flung himself on the sofa. “I’m not going to stop until I can hold her in my arms. I won’t ever stop looking for her.”

“I don’t know what we can do right now,” Susan said quietly.

“I’m going back to the church.” He shoved his grief aside. “I want to look through that book again. There has to be some clue. Maybe your great-grandfather was there too. Maybe he found a different way.”

“I’ll look through the box again.”

“See if your great-grandfather left any information about what happened to him, where he was, maybe people he met.”

“It sounds so bizarre though,” she replied. “My mom said he was never the same person after he was found in the church raving like a madman. Where could he have been? She said people gossiped, saying he tried to kill himself with a knife.”

“What do you believe?”

She rubbed her forehead. “I don’t know what to think.”

“Susan,” he said, standing up. “I did not hurt my daughter.”

“I know.” She hugged him. “I’m coming with you.”

“What about your mother?”

“I’m seeing her later for dinner. Do you want to join us?”

“I’m not exactly her favorite person.”

Susan smiled. “She just likes to act tough to show people how protective she is of me.”

“She’ll poison my food.”

Susan frowned. “She’s grumpy, not evil.”

“I’ll pass.”

She gave him a light punch on the arm. “She really gets to you, doesn’t she?”

“She’s a real kick. Even if she was friendly to me, I don’t have any energy left in me to waste on anything other than my daughter.”

Heavy rain pounded Susan’s windshield as she drove with caution along Ocean Avenue. The conversation was sparse as both were immersed deep in thought. Susan focused straight ahead as condensation fogged the windows. “I can’t see very well,” she said.

Michael grabbed a tissue out of his pocket and wiped her side of the windshield.

Bam
.

The car jolted and swerved. He fell head first into the steering wheel and sprawling onto her lap as the car skidded into some brush.

“Susan? Talk to me.”

“My head. Geez, my head. Oh no, my neck.”

The left side of the car was dented while the window was cracked. Pieces of glass scattered all over her back. She rubbed her head. Blood poured from the wound and onto the seat.

“My God, Susan. Your neck is really bad.” She closed her eyes, her face was pale and her breathing shallow. “No, don’t sleep. I’ll call for help.” He reached into his pocket for his cell phone to dial nine-one-one and pulled out the cloth Jesus had given him.

He stared at it for a second and wiped the wound with the cloth. “Stay with me.” He pressed harder while holding her head with his other hand.

She opened her eyes. “What happened?”

“We got hit.”

“By what?”

“A tricycle,” he said, shaking his head. “What do you think? A car.”

“You don’t have to be sarcastic.”

“The son of a –” He caught himself. “Whoever hit us took off.”

“What?”

“How do you feel?” he asked, taking the cloth away to see how bad the wound was.

“I feel fine.”

He stared at her neck. “Unbelievable.”

“What? Is it that bad?”

“No.” He paused. “It’s gone.”

He grimaced.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Oh Lord, I don’t know if I was supposed to save this for Elizabeth. Oh, no, what have I done?”

Susan gave him an incredulous look. “Gee, thanks.”

“No, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“Forget it,” he said, staring at the cloth and looking at the red stain.

“Where did you get it?”

“You won’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

“Jesus gave it to me.”

She placed her fingers on her neck, moving them up and down and then in a circular motion. She touched the cloth and leaned her head into his shoulder. “I believe you now.”

“Move over. Let me drive.”

“No, I’m fine. What about you?” she asked. “Shouldn’t you put that cloth on your head? That gash looks terrible.”

“I’m fine. It’s not that bad.” He pushed her hand aside. “Just drive. No time to waste.”

“What do we do about the car?”

“We can get a plastic bag or some sort of covering at the church for the window.”

He put the cloth back in his pocket, never letting go of it as they arrived at the church. Once inside, Michael ignored Dennis and Susan’s fussing over his bump. He went straight to the book while she filled Dennis in on what happened on their way over.

Michael read the first few pages, carefully handling the old, tattered paper. The handwriting was not as legible in the first section of the book so he took out a magnifying glass and examined the transcriptions.

Susan returned from talking to the police about the accident. “Where did you get that?” she asked.

“I bought it when I came back from Jerusalem. I wanted to see the detail of the coins.”

He continued to study the early portion of the book. “This is going to take a while.”

Dennis placed two bottles of water on the desk. “Is there anything else I can get you before I head out?” he asked. “I need to attend a wake.”

“Anyone from the town that we know?” asked Susan.

“I don’t think you’d know him,” the pastor said. “Mr. Farmer died. He and his wife always attended our morning service. They don’t have any family or friends. They always kept to themselves.” He shook his head, sadness etched in his face. “Mrs. Farmer will probably be the only person at the wake.”

“Where’s the wake?” asked Susan.

“McMahon’s, on Laurel Avenue.”

“I’ll see you over there,” Susan said.

“That’s kind of you,” the pastor replied. “There are times when I don’t understand my congregation. They’re so giving during fundraisers but nobody seemed interested in supporting Mrs. Farmer after I made the announcement of her husband’s tragic death.”

Michael remained quiet, focusing on the book.

“How did he die?” Susan asked.

“She found him dead, all bloodied. A terrible way to find your spouse.”

“Did someone kill him?” Michael asked.

“The police don’t think so,” Dennis said. “Susan, meet me there and we can discuss the book afterward.” He went to the door, then stopped and turned. “Michael, will you be joining Susan?”

Michael placed a thin piece of paper in the old book to mark his spot.
“
I’ll see you there.”

“Compassion is a wonderful gift. Perhaps the greatest gift you can give to a stranger.”

Michael downed a bottle of water and hurried to the basement. He climbed back upstairs, dejected. As they drove away, Michael talked about Elizabeth. “She grew up so fast. Seems like it was only a few months ago that I was lugging around a diaper bag at the basketball games I was covering. She told me all about her dreams, how she wanted to marry and have kids. She wanted to be a writer too.”

“I know. She sent me some beautifully written poetry,” Susan said.

“I didn’t know that. When she came back from Jerusalem, she was a different person, so much stronger, more mature, assertive, and self-assured of what direction she wanted to go in her life. But I still had my own fears and reservations. I guess my fears were right.”

“No they weren’t,” Susan said. “Kids grow up no matter how much you worry. You couldn’t stop her from pursuing her dreams. Think back when you were her age and how you felt about the world and your life, your aspirations. It wouldn’t have been fair to suffocate her dreams. I know you didn’t like it when you felt your father was doing that.”

“You sure do have a good memory.”

She smiled. “Hey, we’re confidants, remember.”

“My own aspirations got Elizabeth trapped.”

“What do you mean?”

He knew he had to come clean about how he felt about Leah. “I have to tell you about someone I met when I went to Jerusalem.”

“Who?” She parked the car in the funeral home’s lot.

“I met Leah the first time we were in Jerusalem. I fell in love in with her. Or I thought I did. Heck, I don’t know what love is after I lost Vicki.” He winced. “When I went back this second time, it was the wrong time period and she didn’t recognize me. The first time I traveled there with Elizabeth, she was a widow. My real intention was to convince her to come back with me to Northport.” He paused. “I thought I wanted to marry her.”

She opened the door without looking at him. “Let’s go inside.”

The funeral home was empty; only one room was occupied. Michael’s mind surged with sad memories of Vicki’s wake. He had held his newborn baby close to his heart during those awful days, greeting friends and relatives and even strangers who heard of his plight.

It might have even been in this room
.

Tonight he sat in the last row, reflecting. He was uncomfortable in funeral homes. Yes, he would occasionally attend a service to support a friend or relative who lost a loved one. For the most part, he had done what he was most skilled at – he’d shove his grief and emotions into the far recesses of his mind and mentally run from reality.

He remained pensive, his stare pinned on the coffin where the old man lay. He watched a lone woman sit in the front row.

I don’t want that. I don’t want people gawking at me. I have to tell Elizabeth this.

He hung his head.

“Michael, are you okay?” Susan asked.

He shook his head. “Time is so short, even if it’s long.”

“I know.” She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Let’s go up.”

Mrs. Farmer wore a dark black dress and flat brown shoes. She was nearly eighty but strong and stable on her feet. Her white hair was neatly groomed, her hands folded, holding a small Bible with the prayer card stuck in it.

Susan knelt in front of the casket and Michael joined her, leaning against her for support.

He recalled his favorite memories of his deceased loved ones – the baseball games with his mother, playing with Sammie, the talks he had with Nana when he felt discouraged, the walks and dinners with his buddy Leo.

Lord, I’m scared. I’m worried about Elizabeth. Please give me a sign, anything that will help me find her. I’m begging you for your help. I’ll do whatever you need me to do.

He looked at Mr. Farmer, so peaceful.
Is he there with you, Lord? Is Mr. Farmer with his relatives and family members who have died too? Tell me, Lord, what happens when we die?
Goosebumps chilled his spine and arms and he shivered.
Eli
z
abeth? Lord, is my Elizabeth dead?

He closed his eyes tight.
No, Lord I take that question back. Elizabeth isn’t dead! She’s so young. She has so much life left to live. Let me trade places with her. Take me. Take me t
o
night, Lord. Let my daughter live.
Show me the way to bring Elizabeth home safely. I’ll be ready to do your work. I promise.

Susan gave her condolences and Michael followed. Mrs. Farmer asked if they knew her husband. He shook his head.

I wonder if once someone dies do they feel love? Anger? R
e
morse? Can they cry or laugh? Can they move around in hea
v
en? Can they come to earth sometimes and visit their friends and relatives? Can they touch them? Feel them? Hear their hearts beat? Hug them?

Michael closed his eyes again.
My Lord, please protect Elizabeth until I can find her. Please guide Mr. Farmer into your Kingdom. Have mercy on me and forgive my sins. I would give everything up for Elizabeth’s safety. Everything.

He rubbed his shoulder, hoping to work out the knot that sent pain shooting up to the back of his neck.

Dennis gave a short eulogy, talking about Mr. Farmer’s infectious smile and his unconditional devotion to his wife.

Michael patted Mrs. Farmer’s hand and paid close attention to his friend’s speech as he read a passage from the Bible. His voice was compassionate and energetic.

Dennis is amazing. He’s been through a lot of tragedy and yet he’s so positive about life and the community he serves.

Dennis spoke about Lazarus and how he was given a second chance to live. He compared that story to everlasting life. He said another prayer and closed his Bible. “I will see you tomorrow, Cecilia.”

Susan and Michael took Mrs. Farmer home. She dabbed her eyes with a hanky from her purse. Sitting in the backseat with her, Michael rested his arm across her shoulder, remembering what Vicki had told him in the cave. “How are doing?”

“My best friend, the love of my life....He’s gone.” She covered her face with the hanky. “He’ll never hold my hand again, or kiss me goodnight or ask me where I put the coffee beans every morning, even though I’ve never moved the can in fifty-five years of marriage.”

He placed his hand into hers, not removing it until they arrived at her house.

She held onto Michael’s arm. He noticed the cobwebs surrounding the door and the leaves scattered across the front porch. A motion detector flickered on, illuminating the final few feet of travel.

“George never did finish sweeping up. I don’t know what I’ll do if anyone stops by.”

“I’ll take care of that for you,” Michael said. “Where’s a broom?”

“In the garage.”

“One minute.” He grabbed the nearest broom and swept away the spider’s web and leaves.

“That’s kind of you,” Mrs. Farmer said, opening the door.

“We’ll walk you inside,” Michael said.

The door squeaked as she opened it. “You’re probably wondering why it isn’t locked.” She continued before Michael could voice his concern. “No one would try to break in to our house. People are afraid of us.”

Michael and Susan followed her inside.

“I can’t imagine why anyone would be afraid of you,” Susan said.

“They are.” Mrs. Farmer removed her coat and placed it on a wire hanger in a closet. “I’ll make you both a cup of tea.”

“I can’t stay,” Susan said. “Michael, do you want to stay with her for a bit?”

Michael hesitated and nodded. “Sure.”

“Okay, call me if you need a ride home.”

“Thank you for keeping an old woman company,” Mrs. Farmer said. “I have to admit, I didn’t want to be alone after the wake.”

“No need to thank me, you’re doing me a favor.” Michael hung his jacket next to Mrs. Farmer’s. “I won’t be able to sleep much anyway. So you’re helping me out as well, by keeping me company.”

She led him into a living room where two chairs were placed together in front of an antique phonograph. A small, grungy looking couch was to the right and a tall pink vase sat on a battered, warped brown coffee table. The dark hardwood floors were dull and a lone picture hung on the wall. She lit a small lamp placed strategically between the two chairs.

“Sit down. Please take George’s chair. He would be thrilled someone would be using it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’ll be right back.” She headed to the small kitchen off the living room.

He continued to take in the surroundings of the dim room. “Do you have a TV?” he asked.

“We’ve never owned a TV.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, people have called us strange. But we never saw a need for it. We’ve always had everything we wanted.”

The floor boards creaked as he took a few steps toward the picture on the wall.

“Oh, that’s something George started to paint many years ago,” she said, peeking in from the kitchen. “He said going to church inspired him to draw it.”

“It’s hard to see. What is it?”

“George had an incredible imagination. The funny thing about this particular painting was he kept on pulling it off the wall to paint more, like he was re-writing a novel. I always thought he was doing this so he wouldn’t have to rake the leaves or shovel the snow or go to the grocery store for milk.” She smiled, looking pleased to have an audience to share her memories.