Healing Grace (32 page)

“…and those poems on the walls written by that little boy… he wanted to be a cat, with claws so he could strike back, with sight so he could see in the dark, with agility so he could climb, and speed so he could run away, because even though he had them, he couldn’t make the claws come out…

“…he saw another boy at the schoolhouse fall and skin his knee. The teacher picked the boy up, wiped his tears, and that boy was loved, so he ran as fast as he could and tripped over a tree root. The teacher saw, but she turned around and went back into the schoolhouse…

“…the snake called him a fairy, but he didn’t understand why it was wrong to be a fairy. He thought it would be good to grant wishes, to make dreams come true, to turn ugly into beautiful. He wanted to be a real fairy so he could change all the love in the world into good love…

“…from the Bible he learned about God, and he learned how to pray. He asked God to take away his pain like he did for the crippled man, and to take all the bad inside of him away like Satan was taken out of the afflicted man. He believed and he had faith like he was supposed to. But God didn’t answer him, and he knew God wouldn’t…

“…he liked the scarred, crippled cats the most, because they were ugly and it was hard for anyone to love them. He believed he was like them. No one could love him either, because he was too ugly…”

The colonel put his hand on the center of the boy’s chest and said, “So much of that terrified little boy is still right here inside this extraordinary man. There is nothing bad or ugly here. The only thing here is pure, precious beauty. I read the same message a hundred times on those walls. The only thing that little boy wanted was for someone, just one person, to love him.

“During the war, night after night I held you close to me, and every single one of them, the words replayed in my mind, but I was too afraid to say them. It’s the only thing you ever wanted from me and I failed you. So I want you to hear me now and I want you to believe me. I love you. I always have and I always will.”

The boy’s eyes opened and filled at the same time. He couldn’t breathe.

“Shhh, love,” the colonel murmured, as he gathered the boy close. “I’m so sorry. So very sorry…”

The boy could do nothing, except shudder. The colonel rocked him just like he used to so many years ago, and all the while he whispered apologies and platitudes. It was more than the boy could handle. He was choking, sobbing, entirely overcome. When his throat unclogged enough, he gurgled, “I…I love—”

“Shhh,” the colonel cut him off. “No. You are not obligated to say that to me, and I don’t want you to. I want you to go out into the world and live. Find those dreams you buried long ago, and bring them back to life. You have so much potential. You can do anything you want, and I know you will succeed. Just remember, when hardships come—because they always do—you can write to me and I will help you. No matter when, no matter where. And if ever comes a time you feel like no one loves you, I want you to tell yourself that’s not true. You remind yourself someone does love you. Someone loves you very much. You remember that.”

The boy reached for the colonel, but before he could touch him, the colonel caught his hand.

“You can’t pretend to be someone you’re not. Right now, you may want to, but I won’t let you. We both know you’re not like me, and I love you too much to do that to you.”

“But I am—”

The colonel touched a fingertip to the boy’s lips. “Shhh… enough. Someday soon, you’ll see. All the love you’ve ever wanted, the love you deserve, the right kind of love for you, will be yours. I know you’re tired. I am, too. For now, we rest.”

Time stood still in the dimly lit room. The colonel said they should rest, but the boy didn’t close his eyes and neither did the colonel. They just lay there, in their clothes, with no part of them touching, except their eyes. When the colonel smiled, the boy didn’t think he could ever be more entranced.

“Colonel?”

“Yes, love?”

“Maybe you’re right, and maybe this is wrong for me. I don’t know. What I know is that when I’m with you I feel safe, and I haven’t felt safe for a long time. If you love me, please don’t deny me now… just this once… please… make the bad go away…”

This was the only thing the boy could think of to say. He didn’t know if it would work. He still didn’t know when he leaned close to kiss the colonel’s cheek, his forehead, his eyes. He didn’t know until their mouths fused and he heard the colonel’s breathless moan.

This time the colonel didn’t pull away. This time the colonel let the boy unfasten the buttons on his shirt. He let the boy’s hands roam his warm skin. Soon the colonel was stripping the boy as the boy had stripped him. Soon the colonel’s hands were caressing, coddling, stroking, too.

In the bliss that followed, the boy felt the ice that had built inside of him melt away. The whole of his life passed before him, and it meant nothing. Everything he’d done, seen, endured—none of it mattered. His last coherent thought before passion carried him away was that now the colonel would believe. They weren’t different. They were the same.

Much later, while lying quietly in the solace of the colonel’s arms, listening to the colonel breathe in slumber, the boy’s dreams of the future came to life. These weren’t new dreams. They were the same ones he’d had for sixteen years, though this night they weren’t faded and obscure, but bright and clear. In them, every detail of the cozy farmhouse appeared, from the front porch swing he and the colonel would sit upon each evening, to the bedroom they would share. He imagined meals, walks, reading books, conversation and laughter, kittens running about, and every other wonder the colonel’s presence alone could create.

The boy vowed to eat more, to regain his strength and the weight he’d lost, so he would be healthy for the colonel. Already he felt better, as though the illness itself had finally left his system. He owed it all to the colonel, the wonderful, magical colonel—who loved him.

The colonel loved him!

The only hurdle left to face would be convincing the colonel of his own devotion. The colonel, he knew, wasn’t going to listen, so to keep the colonel from interrupting, the boy decided he would cover the colonel’s mouth. And if he had to hold it shut, he’d do that too, until the colonel heard everything the boy had to say. Just imagining the morning to come brought on his smile.

He was too excited and too teeming with poems—poems about love, about the colonel—to sleep, so he slithered away. Because it was chilly, he grabbed a spare blanket and draped it around his shoulders. Then he went to the desk and lit one of the lamps. From the distance it wouldn’t be too bright to disturb his sweetly sleeping love.

The inn provided pen and ink, which meant the only thing he still needed was his notebook. Quickly he hunkered down by his satchel to retrieve it. The old thing—a gift from the colonel on one of his visits to the prison—was so worn it was falling apart, but that was okay. Soon he’d have a new one—a new notebook and the promise of a new, abounding life.

Settling in the chair at the desk, he opened the notebook toward the back, and the few remaining unfilled pages. Something fell out—a folded piece of parchment. The boy wasn’t fast enough to catch it, so he had to reach down and retrieve it from the floor.

Curiously he opened it. But he didn’t need to hold it close to the lamp to see the writing, or to recognize the penmanship of William Hughes. The boy’s heart began to race before he even started to read.

For nine years our Klan has awaited the opportunity for retribution. That time has now come. You, my dutiful puppet, have been chosen to infiltrate Grace Manor and dispatch traitors, Luther and Trent Emerson. The third and final target is our vilest enemy, the Major Julien Grace. Stored in the vault are funds to be utilized, as needed. I trust you recall how to access it. Upon reading this letter, you will destroy it. You will have until the 31
st
day of August, A.D. 1881 to complete this mission. If you fail or refuse, or due to your negligence, repercussions befall the writer hereof, a missive disclosing the name and crimes attributed to one you value dearly will be immediately dispatched. The result of which will be arrest and imprisonment. Understand that the Klan does not forget the Imperial Wizard’s grievous betrayal. Without raising defense of any kind, he allowed his most loyal followers to suffer. Once he is incarcerated, you can expect revenge in its most heinous form to begin. Make no mistake, darling, your precious Nathanial Stonington will be tortured unto death.

The paper fell from the boy’s hand, and he turned to stare at the bed—at the colonel. His heart was racing and his head spinning. The boy knew William Hughes well, and he knew what that despicable man was capable of.

Hastily he ripped a blank page from his notebook. His hand shook as he took up the pen. “Colonel, I made a mistake,” he scribbled. Imagining the colonel’s reaction caused the boy’s eyes to blur, but he didn’t stop writing. “You were right. I am not like you. Stay away from me.”

He didn’t sign it. He couldn’t. The pen fell from his hand and he jerked out of the chair. Somehow he found his clothes from the floor, somehow he put them on, all the while keeping watch to ensure the colonel didn’t awaken.

At the desk again, he reached into his pocket to retrieve the small square parchment he’d been carrying around for sixteen years, the same severely creased piece he’d been looking at in the prison yard. It had been the day of the colonel’s sixth visit, just hours after the colonel left. The boy had been alone when he’d taken it out, and he’d been too lost in daydreams to notice William Hughes’s approach.

The parchment had been ripped from his fingers. Like a man gone mad, he’d begged, he’d pleaded, he’d even wept. He would have given anything to get that parchment back, and he did. By the time William Hughes returned it, the boy was branded, his reputation made, and William Hughes’s pockets grew heavier by the week.

After that, the boy had been more careful with his treasure. The only time he’d looked at it was when he’d been locked in his cell, where no one could see him.

As he laid that precious piece on the desk, next to the note he’d scrawled, the bitter irony struck him. Even knowing what he would bear in the years that followed, simply to keep that parchment safe, he would have done it again. And yet, he didn’t need it. His dear colonel’s image was indelibly burned in the boy’s mind. It had always been.

With one last look toward the bed, the boy grabbed his satchel and William Hughes’s note.

He had no choice.

To protect his beloved, he would do anything.

Sam and Sadie weren’t exactly where they’d said they would be. They were waiting by a parked wagon in front of the inn, not the train station, but Constance spotted them almost as soon as she and Etienne turned onto Main Street in town.

“I think I know where Archie is,” Constance called out to them before she’d even fully reined Izzy in. “This man named Oscar must be Oscar Anders. He’s Harry Simpson’s father and I know where the farm is. We can take you there.”

Greetings were exchanged, but soon enough, they were ready. Sam helped Sadie up onto the wagon seat, and Constance spun Izzy around, only to find Etienne’s fierce expression once more trained on her. He’d been like this, scowling and not saying a word, the entire way to town. Constance didn’t know what his problem was, but she’d had enough.

She clucked Izzy onward, glancing back several times to ensure Sam and Sadie were following. As usual Etienne was in step beside her. But she didn’t voice her pique until they reached the outskirts of town.

“There’s no reason to be such a bear,” she said, keeping her voice as quiet as possible so Sam and Sadie wouldn’t overhear. “Harry might not even be there.”

“Why wouldn’t he be?” Etienne growled. “It’s his home.”

“I don’t know why you’re carrying on this way,” she said. “There’s no reason for it.”

“No?” Etienne fumed. “This sure is convenient for you… this
unexpected
trip to Harry’s farm. Tell me,
chérie
, am I in the way now, too? Will Harry being lying in wait, revolver in hand?”

“What? This is ridiculous. You don’t have to be jealous of Harry. And Harry may be upset, but he’ll be upset with me, not you. He’s not going to shoot you, for goodness sake.”

“You know, this pretense of innocence works well on you. You certainly had me fooled… drew me in hook, line and sinker. Make no mistake,
chérie
, I’m well aware of how my presence has added a complication to your otherwise well-thought-out scheme. Not only did I foil the Independence Day massacre, but your time is almost up. You have less than three weeks. I’m guessing you’ll take out Sam and Sadie, just because they’re in the way.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Constance’s voice was louder this time than intended. Lowering it, she added, “You know what? Just go. Leave. I’ll help Sadie and Sam find Archie. If you want, you can go back to my house and wait. On second thought, don’t go to my house. If you’re going to act this way, then I don’t want you anywhere near me.”

“And to think,” he went on as if she hadn’t spoken, “you had me so besotted, I fancied myself in love. I wanted to marry you. Do you know I haven’t looked at another woman in ten years? After what I went through with Rose, I was determined to never marry. But you? You swooped in like a vulture. You stuck your claws in me and swept me right off my feet. And this week… you kept me so ensnared, I almost forgot about your treachery. Tell me,
belle
chérie
, is your fear of sex feigned as well?”

Constance gasped. But she didn’t have a chance to say anything.

Etienne kept on, “Will your lover start firing as soon as I come into his yard? Maybe he won’t shoot to kill, but merely maim. Once I’m tied up and out of the picture, you’ll be able to go to Grace Manor unheeded and finish your mission. Will you take down more than Julien and Trent? Will you go after Emily and Jessica and the children, too? Maybe then, you’ll come back to Simpson’s farm to torture me. Rest assured, you’ve already done so, a thousand times over.”

“Get away from me!” Constance kicked in her heel. “I thought you were a good man, an admirable man, but I was wrong. I want nothing to do with you. Don’t ever come near me again. Sam was wrong. You’re not just afflicted. You’re deranged!” she yelled, not caring anymore that Sam and Sadie could hear, or that she was leaving them in the dust.

She was mounted sidesaddle, which would make outrunning Etienne impossible, but she tried. It didn’t take much for him to catch up. And his ranting didn’t end.

“Your tactic to use the spook to lure Julien out at night didn’t work, did it? Because I stopped you. The blankets in the barn loft belonged to you, didn’t they? You and your lover met there. That’s why you didn’t want me to go up there. And when I did, that’s why you didn’t want to go up, too. You surely misled me, pretending to find that note. No wonder it was so easy for you to put it together again. You already knew what it said. When we left that night, you purposely forgot the note, but then went back for it later. Where is it now, I wonder? Or did you finally burn the remaining pieces?”

Even if Constance could come up with words to refute him, which she was too disconcerted to do, she knew there would be no point. All she could do was try to move faster, and hope that once they reached Harry’s farm, she could get away. Harry wasn’t formidable like Etienne, but he would protect her, or at least try to.

“The letter may be gone, but I haven’t forgotten a word of it. What I want to know is who wrote it? Did Harry? Or is he the one you’re protecting? Is he the one the Klan will torture and kill if you don’t complete your mission? Tell me, Constance. Tell me now, or I’ll spend the rest of my life ensuring you spend the rest of yours behind bars.”

“Stay away!” Constance shouted. Their horses were neck and neck, and she couldn’t go any faster. “Stay away from me!”

“You gave the ruse away, you know. I’ve known everything since last weekend. You said it when you were delirious. You thought you’d already done the deed. You said, ‘Juh… did I kill him?’ You were talking about Julien.”

“What?” she screeched. “I wasn’t talking about Julien. I was talking about my husband… about George!”

“It’s over,
chérie
,” Etienne barked. “You’re finished… your husband’s name was George?”

Whatever else he might have said was drowned out by the sound of a strap striking, and not just once. Those deep-toned splats were all too familiar to Constance, and so was the shrill wail that followed, though this time it didn’t come from her own throat. She flinched as the strap struck again.

They were so close, the only thing preventing them from seeing who wielded that strap, was a small thicket of trees and bushes. Oscar Anders’s farm was just beyond them.

“Take that, you little cunt!” a man bellowed.

THWACK! Swiiiiiish. THWACK! Swiiiiiish…

Constance kicked in her heel and burst ahead of Etienne. Just as she rounded the thicket, the barn came into view. Situated on the road the way it was, although they couldn’t see within, they could hear everything. Boots pounding on the dirt. A scuffle in the hay.

“Whoa!” a man yelled. Then more sedately, he said, “Where did you get that? You ain’t gonna shoot your daddy over that kid, are you? You know, I only wanted him because he reminded me of you. I wanted another little blond boy to love, the way I used to love you. He just wasn’t as docile as you used to be—”

BOOM!

The deafening blast from the revolver was followed immediately by the man’s wail, “Ahhhh! You fuck! I’ll kill you for this!”

Constance didn’t know what propelled her off Izzy. Any normal person wouldn’t run toward gunfire, but that’s what she did. She supposed too, that her abrupt move surprised Etienne, because it took a moment for him to dismount. Then his rapid footfalls were right behind her.

The barn door was hanging wide, and there, as the scene inside unfolded before her eyes, Constance abruptly halted. Even in the darkened shadows, there was no mistaking Harry’s pale hair. He was on his feet, his back to her, a still smoking revolver held in both hands, was poised and ready to fire again.

The other man—Oscar Anders—had fallen back against a stall fence, and he was cradling a bloody arm. The ball had hit him in the left bicep. The strap he’d been wielding moments before was on the ground by his feet.

“That’s for what you did to my mother!” Harry hollered.

BOOM!

Oscar Anders slammed into the wood planks behind him as the ball pierced his left thigh. He screeched and doubled over, but didn’t go down.

“That’s for the colored boy!” Harry bellowed.

“Help me!” Oscar called out as he straightened and spotted Etienne and Constance. “He’s gone mad. My son’s gone mad!”

BOOM!

Harry’s third bullet was identical in height to the second, on his father’s right thigh. “That’s for Archie Murphy!”

The big man hollered in agony, but still didn’t fall. Perhaps the fence behind him held him up, Constance wasn’t sure. When he looked up, he cried out again, “Please, help me! Please! Don’t you see what he’s doing? He wants to kill me! My boy’s trying to kill me!”

Constance didn’t know why she just stood there frozen. Etienne, she guessed, was as stunned as she, because until then he’d said nothing, either. Then again, everything was happening too fast.

“Simpson!” Etienne called out. “Stop!”

Harry whipped around, but only for a second. It was, however, long enough for them to see the tears pooled in his eyes. In the next heartbeat, he was facing his father again. He said, “And this, you son of a bitch, is for what you did to me! I was just a kid—” His voice broke. “—a little kid!”

BOOM!

Oscar screamed as both his hands covered his fly. Clutching the wound didn’t stop the flow of blood. It spilled out from behind his fingers to trail down his trouser legs. Only then, did he go down.

Oscar Anders writhed on the ground and Harry moved to stand over him. “And this… this is for my cat. For Toby. He was the only thing in this world that loved me, and you… you killed him. I hate you. I hate you!”

“Don’t you dare! You fucking cun—”

BOOM!

The bullet pierced Oscar Anders in the middle of the forehead.

Harry’s arms lowered, but he didn’t let go of the weapon. He just stood there with his head bowed and the revolver dangling from shaking fingers.

“Harry,” Etienne said, his tone uncannily calm. “It’s over. He’s gone. He’s dead.”

Constance wanted to hold Etienne back, to tell him it was too dangerous, Harry was out of his head, but she was too late. Etienne’s arm slipped right out of her grasp. Silently he moved in, closing the gap.

“Harry, it’s okay. Give me the gun,” Etienne coaxed gently.

Constance’s heart was in her throat as Harry turned around. If her count was correct, Harry had fired five times. That meant there was one bullet left. He didn’t hand the gun over, but at least he didn’t raise it. His eyes were full, brimming over.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whimpered. “I got here too late. Oscar killed him.”

“Oscar killed who?” Etienne asked.

“The boy you’re looking for—Archie Murphy. Oscar killed him. I’m sorry.”

“Where is he, Harry? Where’s Archie?” Etienne said gently.

“Up there.” With his free hand, Harry pointed to the loft and repeated, “But I got here too late.”

Etienne turned, but didn’t look at Constance. She didn’t know what caught his attention until she glanced back as well. Sam and Sadie were there, stopped short in the yard. Their expressions were so stricken, there was no question they’d heard what Harry said.

“Harry, will you let Sam and Sadie go up to see to Archie?” Etienne asked.

“Yes,” Harry whispered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to kill him.”

Constance assumed Harry meant his father, and she guessed Etienne thought the same.

“It’s okay. I know you didn’t,” Etienne murmured, while subtly gesturing for Sam and Sadie to go ahead up the ladder. To Harry, Etienne said, “Will you give me the gun now?”

Again Harry ignored the request. He didn’t even look at Sam rapidly climbing, or Sadie following on his heels. Through choked sobs, he mumbled, “They said he would go to prison if I didn’t do it. They were going to turn him in… tell them he started the Klan. In prison they were going to hurt him. They were going to kill him.”

“Who is
he
, Harry? Who are you protecting?” Etienne asked.

“The colonel,” Harry whispered.

Constance glanced sharply at Etienne, thinking for a second he was ‘the colonel’ Harry meant. That, however, wouldn’t make sense. From up in the loft, she heard Sam and Sadie talking, but their voices were too muffled to make out what they were saying.

“Will you protect him? Will you keep him safe?” Harry asked, but his words were so interspersed with sobs, he was hard to understand. “I didn’t want to kill Luther, and I’m sorry. Will you tell them—the Emersons—I’m sorry? Don’t let them put the colonel in prison. They’ll hurt him. Please.”

“Do you mean Colonel Stonington?” Etienne asked. “Harry, Stone can’t go to prison for his part in the Klan. The government already knows what he did. He was given amnesty nine years ago. Stone won’t ever be charged for what happened.”

“What?” Harry gasped. He squeezed his eyes shut, and tears fell from them. When he opened them again, he murmured, “Will you tell him I’m sorry? Tell him… tell him the note I left wasn’t true.”

“You can tell him yourself,” Etienne said.

“I can’t go back,” Harry whispered, his voice so faint Constance wasn’t sure she heard him correctly. Then in an instant, he raised the revolver, pointing the barrel firmly against the side of his own head.