Stay of Execution (10 page)

 

Chapter Twenty-­Three

“H
OW'S MY FATHER?”
Cancini asked, holding the cell phone close to his ear. A waitress brought him a cup of plain, black coffee. No latte. No cream. No fancy name. The darker it was, the better. He'd long ago traded in a nicotine addiction for caffeine. He took a long, satisfying gulp. “How's he feeling?”

“He's doing well,” Father Joe said. “As well as can be expected anyway. He's getting stronger every day.”

Cancini closed his eyes and whispered, “Thank God.”

“Yes, I agree. Thank God.”

“Of course, you heard that.”

The old priest chuckled. “Bionic ears with this hearing aid, young man. I might even hear a prayer if you decide to say one.”

“Don't get carried away,” Cancini said, smiling. Father Joe was the closest thing he had to family outside of his dad, his voice a comfort.

“Michael, the nurses tell me you saved your father's life. If you hadn't brought him in when you did . . .”

“It wasn't that hard to figure out, Father. He was practically coughing up his lungs. Anyone would have done what I did.”

“Even so, he's a lucky man,” the priest said. “The nurses also told me you'd been spending a lot of hours with him before you left town. They're impressed with your devotion to your father.” He cleared his throat. “As am I.”

Cancini sipped his coffee, his brows furrowed. “We both know what kind of dad he's been and what kind of son I've been. The nurses might be fooled, but you and I know better.”

“Maybe I do, Michael, and maybe I don't.”

“Water under the bridge, Father.”

“If you say so. How are things in Little Springs?”

Cancini glanced around the diner. The waitresses now wore white polo shirts and pants instead of skirts with aprons. A gluten-­free special and a vegan dessert graced the menu. The outside had been painted, but, other than that, nothing much had changed. “The same,” he said. “Downtown's been spruced up a little and a few new stores opened, but otherwise, it's still a small town—­if you know what I mean.”

“I do. How are you, Michael?” the priest asked. “I worry about you. I don't know if it's a good idea you being there right now.”

“I'm fine, Father. You shouldn't worry.”

“Right. Have you seen Spradlin?”

“Only from a distance.”

“Maybe you should keep it that way.”

“Maybe. Look, Father, do you think you could go by and check on my dad again tomorrow?”

“Of course. I plan to go every day until you get home, but don't think I don't know when you're trying to change the subject.” Strains of organ music played behind the priest's voice. “When do you think you might be home?”

His captain and his partner had asked the same question. He hadn't had an answer for them, either. “I don't know. It depends . . .”

“I see.” The priest spoke slowly, his voice soft and low. “Michael, I'm concerned about your well-­being. I don't like you being there.”

“I'm fine.”

“You're not fine. You're getting involved. I have this feeling, one I can't explain . . .” Anxiety shook the old man's voice.

Cancini drank from the steaming cup. “You're making too much of it.”

“And you're making too little. You don't always have to be alone.” Seconds ticked by in silence and then, “I'm not going to apologize for saying that, Michael.”

“Okay.”

“Yes, it is okay. Whether you realize it or not, you and your father are more alike than you may think. His inability to deal with your mother's murder was difficult for you.” Cancini's shoulders slumped, and he held the phone close. “I know you think he forgot about you, abandoned you, and you had every right to feel that way, but you made choices, too. You shut the world out.”

“I was a kid.”

“You weren't a kid when you left the church.” Cancini flinched. He was eighteen then and unable to reconcile Father Joe's God with the God that allowed his mother to be shot and murdered in a convenience store robbery. “That's not a judgment, Michael.”

Cancini bowed his head. The priest had given him solace in the wake of the murder. He'd worked afternoons in the church office, spent Sundays as an altar boy. But none of it had erased the loss of his mother. Almost twenty-­five years later, Cancini still had not attended another Mass, but he visited the old priest on a regular basis; their friendship was one of the best things in his life. “I'm sorry, Father.”

“I care about you, Michael. Being back there . . . I know what it was like for you. I remember.”

“I'm not a kid anymore.”

Father Joe spoke again, his tone more insistent. “Maybe not, Michael, but what's done is done. You can't change the past. Maybe you should come home.”

Cancini swallowed the lump in his throat. Of course, the priest was right. He couldn't bring those girls back to life or undo his arrest of Spradlin. He couldn't change what happened at the trial or erase the years Spradlin had spent in prison. He couldn't take back the years of peace Little Springs had enjoyed while Spradlin was gone. But if he could do it all over again, if he could change the past, would he?

 

Chapter Twenty-­Four

Dear Diary,

This is the first page of a new book. Can you guess why? It's because today is a special day—­a very special day. Today is my first day of college! I'm finally on my own! Dad is spitting mad, but nothing he says is going to make me quit. I'm eighteen, and as long as I can pay, I'm going to college. Thank God Mom encouraged me to take that job at the bookstore last year and work all summer. With my partial academic scholarship, I can swing it. I think Mom was secretly trying to help me so my life wouldn't end up like hers. She told Dad she was trying to teach me responsibility. That's one of his big words. He throws it around as though he knows anything about it. Ha! The only responsibility I've ever seen him keep up with is to drink a fifth of bourbon every night. The only reason he has a job is because of Uncle Jed. I guess I should be grateful. At least he's not mean like Sara Townshend's dad. Everyone knows he hits Mrs. Townshend, but they're too afraid to say anything. They say he keeps a gun under his shirt all the time. I don't know if that's true, but I guess no one wants to find out. Poor Sara. I guess in a small way, I'm the lucky one. Just doesn't feel like it sometimes.

But now I am lucky. I'm in college!!!! My dad thinks it's a waste of time. I'm a girl, he says, and my job is having babies. Then he says something like, “I sure don't see any boys around here, though. Guess you're too stuck-­up to attract any.” Doesn't matter. I'm here. Not everyone can say they're starting over, but I can. Today is the beginning of the rest of my life.

Julia put down the book, blinking in the bright sunlight. College students streamed past, strolling from class or to their dorm or maybe an early dinner. Some walked in pairs or groups and others alone amid the stately “bluestone” buildings. Old trees and fall flowers dotted rolling lawns. Fragrant pine filled the air. Laughter trilled from a group of students on the lawn. She watched their faces, envied their youthful expectancy, joy, and innocence.

Brenda Spradlin had once been one of these kids, her head full of hopes and dreams. Somehow, Julia didn't think Brenda's life had turned out quite as she expected. The woman who'd written these words had wanted to escape a difficult home life, an alcoholic father, and a future that promised little. She'd worked and studied and made her way to college on her own. The blue ink on the diary's pages might have faded, but the emotions were vivid and real. How did this bright and beautiful young woman end up alone? How did she come to be a cleaning lady at the same college that had once awarded her an academic scholarship? How had she felt when her son was accused and convicted of unspeakable crimes?

 

Chapter Twenty-­Five

T
HREE MILES IN,
only three to go. Geri Hallwell breathed easy, her stride strong. This was her favorite part of the run. She didn't know if she believed in a runner's high, but she did know running was like a drug for her. She ran every day, no matter the weather. Her sorority sisters called her the postal runner. Sweat dripped from her brow and between her breasts. She picked up the pace, her lips moving with the words to a song by Pink, thumping with guitars and drums.

She turned the corner and slowed her pace. Construction had started on the newest Blue Hill academic building. Trailers and equipment filled the adjacent parking lot. She groaned, knowing she would have to pay more attention or change up her route. Trotting in place, she looked behind her, then started forward again. She would stay the course.

As she ran, she appraised the latest expansion project. The new building would be huge. Typical. The sciences always got the best buildings at Blue Hill. Her roommate even told her the school was already lining up high-­profile speakers and guest professors for the grand opening. Not that it mattered to her. She would be long gone by the time it was finished. Besides, she was a theater major and would probably never step foot inside. At the moment, it was another big, fat annoyance.

The paved road ended as she approached the site. A light wind swirled, and she breathed the dust of the makeshift road. The site was quiet, the workers already gone for the day. Orange and pink ribbons adorned the early evening sky. She checked her watch. It was later than she thought. If she was going to make it to the sorority house before dark, she would have to pick up the pace. With a flick of her fingers, she changed the playlist and turned up the volume.

The sidewalk and pavement resumed a few hundred yards ahead. Turning in that direction, she noticed the new wooden fence on her right. “Keep Out” and “Construction Only” signs were tacked randomly along the pickets. The song changed and her arms moved in time with the beat and her stride lengthened. She gasped when a man stepped through an opening in the fence, almost knocking her to the ground. She managed not to fall and realized he had caught her, keeping her upright with his arms wrapped around her waist. She pulled her head back to thank him when his arms tightened, pulling her off the ground.

“What are you doing?” she cried out, her arms flailing, punching him. He carried her behind the fence to the deserted construction site, his breathing heavy with the effort. When he reached the wooded area at the edge of the campus, he threw her to the ground, dropping on all fours. Wide-­eyed, she screamed, but he stuffed a handkerchief into her mouth. Bathed in sweat, she strained to push him away, to get him off, but he was too strong. He lay flat on her, pinning her arms to the ground, both of them gasping for air. She kicked her legs, but under his weight, it was futile.

“Be still,” the man hissed.

When his lips caressed her neck, she bucked, pushing up with all her strength. It was enough, and he let go of one hand. He tried to regain control, reaching for her. She kneed him, hoping she had done some damage, any damage. She scrambled to her feet, pulling the handkerchief from her mouth and throwing it to the ground. She stepped over him, back in the direction of campus, but after only two steps, his hand closed around her ankle and yanked her to the ground. Her body hit with a thud. A bone cracked, and her screams echoed through the empty site.

On the ground, she curled into the fetal position, pulling her broken arm in close. He bent down, tying her hands together with a rope. “Don't fucking scream again,” he said. “No one can hear you anyway.” Finished with her hands, he tied a single leg to the trunk of a small tree.

Wincing, with tears streaming down her cheeks, she looked into the face of her attacker. In the fading sunlight she recognized the man from somewhere—­but where? Then she remembered. But this man couldn't be that man. It didn't make sense. His eyes were wild and his hair flopped down over his brows. Her mind spinning, she thought maybe she was wrong.

He caressed her hair, brushing it off her face. Geri pulled her free leg in tighter, whimpering. He pressed against her, pushing her legs farther apart, using his weight. His hot breath burned her face. He pressed into her, his hands moving from her hair to her breasts and then to her running shorts. He wrapped one hand around the waistband and ripped the nylon shorts from her body in one swift motion. She started to cry.

After, he lay still, the weight of his body making it difficult for her to breathe. Her head lolled to the side, and she stared into the dark forest. Her raw skin stung with abrasions and cuts. Her arm throbbed, her body ached, and her mind was numb. Geri squeezed her eyes shut, willing him off, wanting him gone.

A voice, then another, floated across the empty site, too far away to decipher. Her eyes snapped open as he clamped his hand over her mouth. She waited. There it was again. Closer. She heard snatches of words, no clear meaning. Someone was near. Near enough to hear her if she could get him off. She began thrashing, forgetting the pain in her arm. His hand jerked away just as she was about to clamp her teeth on the flesh of his palm. The voices came again, closer still. It had to be now. She opened her mouth to scream, but the sound died in her throat. She never saw the man pick up the rock and never saw him swing it at her skull. She only felt the blinding pain and the loss of hope in the final seconds before consciousness slipped away.

 

Chapter Twenty-­Six

C
ANCINI PICKED UP
his beer and drained it. Throwing a few dollars on the bar, he stood, following the ­couple as they left the dining room. Baldwin's hand rested on the small of her back, his touch light. Trailing a few steps behind, Cancini took a position near the desk phones in the lobby, careful to stay within earshot.

The reporter faced the mayor, leaning in to give him a brief hug. “Thanks for dinner, Ted. I had a nice time.”

The mayor smiled broadly. “I hope that means you'd be willing to do it again tomorrow night.”

“Wow.” She looked down at the floor and shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

“Too pushy?”

“Maybe a little.”

“I'm sorry. Really,” he said, his words rushed. “I understand about your situation and I appreciate you telling me. I do.” She smiled weakly but said nothing. “How about if we have dinner strictly as friends? I won't pretend I wouldn't like it to be more at some point, but for now, I think we could both use a friend. You don't know many ­people in town, and hell, I know too many.”

She laughed. “Well . . .”

“Come on, I promise. Just friends.”

“Okay,” she said. “Why don't you call me tomorrow?”

Baldwin bowed his head. “Perfect.” He backed away with a little wave. “See you tomorrow.”

Cancini watched the mayor leave, then intercepted the reporter as she moved toward the elevators. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Wh-­what?” She spun around.

He held out his hand. “Detective Cancini.”

“Right.” She nodded, taking his hand. “We met the other night.”

Squinting, he studied her face. A sprinkling of freckles dotted her nose, and auburn hair complemented wide-­set blue eyes. She wore a fitted black dress, light makeup, and glittery, silver hoops. She was barely over five feet, but something in her manner, the way she held her body, told him she was stronger than she appeared. He couldn't guess her age, only that she was younger than he. Pretty in a girl-­next-­door way, she wouldn't stop traffic or quiet a room by walking in the way his ex-­wife did, but he liked her open expression, her direct manner. He dropped her hand.

One hand sat on her hip. “I got the distinct impression you had no interest in talking to me the other night, Detective. To be perfectly blunt, you weren't exactly polite.” He said nothing, waiting. “So, what's changed?”

He gestured toward the hotel bar. “How about that drink, and I'll tell you?”

Cancini watched her consider the invitation. It was clear she didn't particularly like him, but he hadn't expected otherwise. “I was thinking of turning in for the evening,” she said slowly. “Is this because Mayor Baldwin asked you to talk to me?”

“No.” Baldwin hadn't wasted any time cozying up to the reporter.

“Are you willing to answer questions about your role in the investigation?”

He stiffened. “No.”

Her hand dropped from her hip. “Then why should I have a drink with you?”

He was surprised by her curiosity, her stubbornness. She needed a reason and he gave it to her. “Spradlin.”

Julia inhaled sharply and looked away. He waited, knowing it would be impossible for her to decline now, no matter how much she might not want to sit with him. “Okay,” she said.

The reporter followed him back to the bar, where he took the darkest, most secluded booth. She slid opposite him, setting her bag on the table. The waitress appeared, and the reporter ordered a scotch on the rocks.

Cancini raised an eyebrow, then nodded at the server. “Make that two.”

They sat in silence until their drinks came. “Okay,” she said. “What is it you have to say about Spradlin? I know you were the original detective on the case. I've read the police and newspaper reports.” She seemed to consider her words. “I know Spradlin's release can't be easy for you.”

“A jury convicted him, Ms. Manning.” His long fingers tightened around the glass, but he kept his expression benign.

“They convicted him on the evidence you provided.”

“Yes, those seem to be the facts.”

“I also know about your reputation in D.C. You've closed more cases that anyone else in the division, but you're not management material. You've had multiple partners. I won't speculate on the reasons. You were married, briefly. Your ex is now married to your captain. You spend a lot of time alone.”

He sat back. He hadn't misjudged her. She hadn't wasted any time. “Learned all of that, did you? Your date was your source?”

She picked up her drink and took a slow sip. “It wasn't a date, not that it's any of your business. I do have my own sources, you know.”

He shrugged. “If you say so. What would your husband say?”

Her face flushed pink. “That is also none of your business, Detective.”

“Have it your way,” he said. “If you want to play that game, this is what I know. You were once a sought-­after young writer. The
Washington Herald
stole you away from the
Post
. Not long after you moved, you married the boss, and you've written less and less.” She bent her head and looked into her drink. “The last ­couple of years, it's been personality stories and stuff like that. I also know you're separated. Your husband has a certain reputation.” He cleared his throat. “I also know Baldwin has a crush on you. Maybe it wasn't a date to you, but it was to him.”

“Back to Ted?” Julia's color returned to normal and she stiffened. “This is a waste of time. I thought you brought me here to talk about Spradlin, not Ted Baldwin. Believe it or not, I don't like games.” She picked up her bag to slide out of the booth.

“How long did you meet with Spradlin today? In the library?”

She froze. “How did you know about that? The only person who knew was my editor.”

He shrugged again. “I have sources, too.”

“Good God.” She gaped at him. “Are you following me?”

“No.”

“You followed Leo?”

“On a first-­name basis, are we?”

Julia's eyes flashed. “Did you follow him?”

“No.”

She leaned back against the cushioned booth, letting out her breath, and laid her purse back on the table. “Okay. I give up. Do you want to tell me how you knew?”

“No. It doesn't matter. Will you be meeting with him again?”

She folded her hands together. “I'm surprised you're not asking me what we talked about.”

“If I were to ask, would you tell me what he said to you?”

“No.”

“Right. So, I won't waste your time or mine. Do you plan to meet with him again?”

She frowned. “Why do you want to know?”

“I want you to be careful. You don't know who you're dealing with.”

“And you do?” she shot back. “If you know him so well, why did you put him away for crimes he didn't commit?”

“The evidence pointed to him.”

“The evidence was wrong.”

“I've heard that before.”

She toyed with her drink. Pinched lines punctuated her mouth and new frown lines stretched across her forehead. Maybe talking to her wasn't a good idea, but a lot of things he did weren't a good idea—­like his marriage. He didn't like reporters on principle, but this was different. When she met with Spradlin, she put herself in a situation she didn't understand. She was strong but not tough. Behind the outward confidence, the persistence, lay something fragile. Maybe it was her separation. Maybe it was something else.

He cleared his throat and spoke. His voice was flat, but his eyes burned with suspicion. “Everything I say is off the record. You cannot use it.”

She nodded.

“Although the evidence says Leo Spradlin is an innocent man, you—­”

“Although?” she interrupted.

“He's not all he seems. Spradlin's a complicated man. No one who has ever known him would say he was an innocent. He wasn't then, and I'm sure he isn't now.”

Julia's brows drew together. “If you're saying he was wild or got into some trouble as a teen, so what? Lots of ­people go through rebellious stages and grow out of it. Leo Spradlin didn't get that chance.”

Cancini leaned in, his tone grave. “Spradlin wasn't rebellious. He didn't have to be. He did what he wanted and got what he wanted.”

“That sounds like jealousy, Detective.”

“Call it what you want. The man I knew didn't have a conscience. He didn't treat ­people right. In more conventional terms, you would say he was a taker. There was never any emotion from him—­even when he was arrested and then convicted. As though he didn't care one bit about any of it. The girls or being arrested. Nothing.”

“No. That doesn't sound like the man I met today, Detective.”

“It probably doesn't. Spradlin can say anything he wants because he doesn't care about the truth or what's right. He says and does what he needs to, and that includes lying in that speech he gave the other day.”

“At the press conference? What lies?”

“Why don't you ask Spradlin?”

Julia shook her head. “Maybe he was like that once. He was in prison a long time. Maybe he's changed.”

“He hasn't.”

Julia flopped back against the chair, her expression doubtful.

“If you don't believe me, ask yourself why the ­people of this town, the ­people who've known him since he was a child, weren't shocked by his arrest. Ask yourself why he doesn't have a friend left. Then ask yourself why no one wants him back here even though he's an innocent man.”

“I already know why they turned on him. It was fear, plain and simple,” she said. “They wanted someone arrested. They wanted the rapes and murders to stop. He was the scapegoat.”

“Okay. Let's say that's partly true. How about now? He's innocent, right? So, there's nothing to be afraid of, and still, no one wants him here. So, if fear isn't the reason no one wants him here, what is?”

Julia blinked. “I don't know.”

“Maybe you should take the time to find out.”

She spread her small hands across the table. “Don't you think I've tried? Most ­people won't talk to me.”

“That's not my problem.” He glanced toward the bar. Both the waitress and bartender looked away. He gulped the last of his scotch. “Look, I can only warn you to be careful. If you meet with him again, I'll probably know about it, but knowing might not be enough.”

“If I didn't know any better, Detective, I'd say you were worried he's dangerous.”

He stood, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a card. Sliding it across the table, he said, “My cell phone number is on the bottom. Think about what I said. Think about what the ­people here are telling you. Think about what made Spradlin a suspect in the first place. Keep your eyes and ears open.” He touched her gently on the shoulder. “Sometimes, ­people aren't what they seem.”