The Greatest Gift (13 page)

A lone cross hung from the top of a wooden door, shaking from the breeze that jettisoned off the Long Island Sound. The smell of the ocean tickled Hewitt’s nose as he walked around the house. A small playground lay dormant in the backyard, dirt covering a short blue slide.

Disgusting. How do these people live like this?
He noticed a shed in the corner of the yard, its door slightly ajar. Hewitt peeked in and opened it wider. He saw a huge plastic cover, pulled it up and saw old baseball bats and a deflated dirty basketball inside. Hewitt wiped the outside of the stroller with a handkerchief, picked up the doll and cleaned its face with slow, soft touches. Walking back and forth a few times, he began to do his own time traveling, thinking of Hailey.

A brisk wind rattled the shed, shaking him out of his trance. He pushed the stroller back into the corner, covered it and closed the shed, making sure the door was secure from the ocean wind. Hewitt cleaned his hands off and knocked on the front door.

A woman looked through a small window at the top. Her eyes pierced through his. “What do you want?”

“I’m Special Agent Hewitt Paul. Are you Cathy Evans?” He showed his badge.

“Yes, I am. What’s this in regard to?”

“I want to ask you questions about your ex-husband.”

“Go away. I have nothing to say about him.”

“Do you care he’s been hurt?”

“I know all about the shooting at the church.”

Hewitt looked down, forced a deep breath from the salt-filled air. He steadied himself and stared at Cathy. “It’s worse than that.”

“How much worse?”

“Please let me come in,” he said.

Cathy continued to glare and unlocked the door. “This way,” she said, leading him into the living room. “Sit down.”

“Thank you.”

“How bad is he hurt?”

Hewitt fingered the side of the wooden chair. “He’s passed on.”

Cathy didn’t give a reaction. “How?”

“The injury from the shooting.”

She faced him. “He was fine only a week ago. I know.”

“I’m not sure what triggered the wound to regress,” Hewitt said, “but it did.”

Cathy was silent and walked into the dining room, stopping at the table and holding onto a chair.

Hewitt stood and noticed a nurse’s outfit lying on a dark, wooden table. “Are you okay, Ms. Evans?

“It’s Mrs. Evans. And I’m fine.”

“I know you must be in shock.”

She stared at him. “I don’t believe it.”

Hewitt took a few steps toward the dining room. “I understand. It’s hard to accept death at any time about anyone, especially a loved one.”

“He didn’t die. Not from that wound. No. I don’t believe it.”

This is going to be tougher than I expected
, Hewitt thought. “I would like to ask you a few questions.”

Cathy remained in the dining room, holding the chair. She was staring at pictures inside a credenza. Hewitt joined her. “You have a beautiful family,” he said.

She removed one, a portrait of her, Dennis and two boys. “We have great kids,” she said, touching them. “They went through a rough time, especially when they were very young. Kids can be so mean to each other.”

“How is that?”

“When we divorced, kids teased my boys. It seemed like every day one of my boys came home upset. Dennis didn’t help matters.”

“I’m sorry. That’s just not right.”

“Not right? You know what’s not right? I’ll tell you. One night my husband is the greatest man in the world, my soul mate and all that lovey-dovey nonsense. Then he’s a drunk, telling me his world was ending and life was pointless. Out of nowhere this happened.”

Hewitt grimaced. “I don’t know what to say.”

“He drank and drank until I had to tell him to leave. The guy fell off a mental cliff.”

“Do you remember the night it started?”

“Of course,” she said. “I don’t want to.” She paused. “Christmas. Christmas night.”

She clenched the picture. “He shouldn’t have been working. But, people need their food for the holidays. So he was working overtime that night, making sure everybody else was taken care of for Christmas.”

“He was a truck driver. Right?”

“Yes. A good one for many years. Always made his deliveries on time. Never a day late for work. Wouldn’t call in sick even when he had a one-hundred-three-degree fever. Always made it home to help set the table … until that night.”

“He lost his job, didn’t he?”

She nodded and handed him the picture. “Our lives collapsed that Christmas night.”

“What did he say after this all happened?”

“He wouldn’t say. He was like a brick wall. I could never reach him again.”

“How old are your boys now?” Hewitt asked.

“Twenty and twenty-four.”

“Do they still live at home?”

“Yes. They have jobs. They’re doing well despite the last fifteen years or so. I also remarried and had a girl. She’s doing well in high school.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” He paused. “I saw the cross outside. Do you go to church?”

“Why do you need to ask about that?” Cathy asked, taking back the picture.

“I’m just trying to understand how you truly feel about your faith.”

“What does an FBI agent care about faith?”

Hewitt didn’t answer.

She placed the picture inside the credenza. “So you want me to honestly express myself? Like I’m talking to some therapist sitting on a couch? Okay then, I will. I don’t go to that church. Why would I? To see Den talking about love and forgiveness? To see people smiling and shaking his hand, telling him how much they love him? Why must he choose to be a pastor in a church so close to the kids and me? Why?” She looked away. “Sometimes I wonder if he’s trying to torture me.”

Cathy walked back into the living room and sat down. Hewitt followed. “I don’t mean to upset you,” he said.

“Well, you did.” She looked up at him. “I have so many emotions going through me, even after all these years.”

“You mentioned you spoke to him last week. What was your relationship like?”

“Why are you in my house asking me that question?”

“Because I think you might be able to help me find that missing Stewart girl.”

She gave him a look of disbelief. “How would I do that?”

“Please answer the question.”

“We spoke once a week. More when the kids were younger.”

“Why not more now?”

“My boys … they’re grown up … they’re their own individuals.” She sighed. “They’d had enough. They didn’t want any part of their father after a while.”

“You don’t look happy.”

“Why would I be? I’m angry at Den, but I want his sons to be part of his life. It’s like he’s ashamed of us. He’s so concerned with that church. It would have been nice for him to spend more time with his sons as they got older.”

“Did they want to?”

She shook her head. “No. But I always hoped it would change. Maybe he was ashamed of himself. I’ve often thought this could be it.”

Hewitt sat down. “What I’m about to ask may seem inappropriate. But I need the truth to help me understand what might have happened to the missing girl.”

“Elizabeth Stewart?”

“Yes.”

“The life insurance policy?”

“Yes.”

“It was part of the divorce settlement,” Cathy said.

“I know.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about us. Isn’t that our personal business?”

“Not if it can help me solve this case.”

Cathy gave him a frustrated look. “Yes, it’s in Elizabeth Stewart’s name.”

“Why? Why would a great dad bypass his sons? Did he know the Stewarts for a long time?”

“I don’t know.”

Hewitt paused. Before he could ask his next question, Cathy spoke. “Look, I don’t know what you’re getting at here. I was hurt when I found out my boys weren’t the beneficiaries.” She gave a weak laugh and sighed. “Who knows why he did it? Maybe he felt sorry for her.”

Cathy stared at him for a few seconds. “It was such an awful story. I remember it like it was yesterday. The entire town was mourning. How terrible it must be to lose your pregnant wife on Christmas night. But I had my own problems, too, that night with Den. Not knowing where he was. I was worried he had been in an accident and they’d find him in his truck in some ditch. I thought I had lost him.”

She sighed. “I guess I did. It was a dark day here. It would have been better if they had found him in a ditch.”

The words struck Hewitt as harsh. He had already noticed there were no signs of Christmas in the house. No tree. No lights. Not even a wreath.

“You don’t feel like celebrating the holidays?” he asked.

“Do you have any more questions to ask?”

“Did Dennis ever talk about Michael Stewart to you?”

“Never.”

“Not one mention?”

“No. Why?”

“I would think that if you spoke to him every so often Michael Stewart’s name would come up.”

“Why?”

“Michael is his best friend.”

“Best friends? I thought it was Robert Cantone.”

“What?” Hewitt stood.

“Yes. He spoke often about Robert. How he needed him to help himself.”

“How would Robert help your ex-husband? Was it financial?”

“You’d have to ask him.”

A picture of Pastor Dennis sitting on his motorcycle stood on top of a dark brown casket. The line to pay respects stretched out of the church’s front door and down Main Street. The police had asked the media to move their trucks farther down the street so the vehicles wouldn’t be a distraction to the somber proceedings.

An organ played soft music as a violinist strummed her instrument. The interim pastor consoled the mourners. Connie and Susan entered the church, bowed their heads and moved forward.

“I can’t look at him,” Connie whispered, tugging on Susan’s arm.

Susan stood on her toes and peered over the line ahead of them. “You won’t have to. The casket is closed.”

“Really?”

Susan turned and nodded.

“Good.”

It was several more minutes before they reached the casket. “Hello. I’m Pastor Timothy. Thank you for showing your love for my brother in Christ.”

Susan shook his hand and nodded. Connie did the same and stopped to touch the picture. “My brother loves you. Thank you for loving my brother.” She wiped a tear away and joined Susan in a pew.

They watched Hewitt enter the church. “Look who’s here now,” said Connie. “Surprise. Surprise.”

“Wonder what he’s around here for?” Susan asked.

“Don’t be so tough on him. He’s doing his job.”

“I can see he’s doing his job. But the way he does it is like a bully.”

“He has to be tough in his job,” Connie said with some edge.

“My, aren’t we a bit defensive.”

Connie ignored her. “I see he’s still wearing his sunglasses.”

They watched him make his way up to the pastor. They exchanged a few words and shook hands. He looked left and right for a place to sit and spotted Susan and Connie. He made a beeline right to them. They scrunched over to make room for him, but he sat between them instead.

“So sad, isn’t it?” Connie said, taking out a tissue.

“This is awfully soon to have a service,” Hewitt said.

Susan shrugged her shoulders.

“I guess,” Connie said. “What’s the normal time? Two days? Three days?”

“Yes. But certainly not within twenty-four hours, especially when an autopsy is needed. The church refused to give us permission.”

“Why would an autopsy be needed?” Connie asked. “The papers said he never recovered from the wound. Are you going to charge Allison with murder?”

“Haven’t decided.”

“What do you mean?” Susan asked.

“I mean the bureau will make that decision down the road. There’s no rush.” Hewitt paused. “I don’t trust this new pastor. He’s hiding something.”

“You don’t trust anyone,” Susan said.

Connie glared at her.

Everyone was seated, and the church became quiet. The pastor invited the flock to come up and share a prayer or a thought near the casket. Connie stood up as her pew advanced toward Pastor Dennis. After whispering some words, she brushed against the casket.

“Oops,” she muttered.

It slid off the stanchion. Pastor Timothy caught the end before it hit the ground and pushed it back. “Got it,” he said.

“I’m so embarrassed,” said Connie, as she returned to the pew.

Hewitt reached over and touched her hand when she returned. “Where’s his ex-wife? His family?” Hewitt asked to no one in particular.

“Shh! Are you talking to us?” Connie asked.

He shook his head and whispered. “Where’s he being buried?”

“Out east,” Connie said quietly.

The pastor said a few prayers and thanked the flock for supporting the church and him during this period of grieving.

Hewitt got up. “That was awfully quick,” he said. “I thought a service like this would last a couple of hours.”

“Are you leaving?” Susan asked.

“Now I am. I need to check a few theories out. Can I follow you to the gravesite?”

“Sure,” Susan said. “I’m the little blue Toyota by Main and Church.”

“I’ll drive up behind you. Look for me.”

“See you then,” Susan said and turned to Connie. “You up for this?” she asked, opening the car doors.

“No. But my brother would want me to be here.”

“He would,” Susan agreed as she sat and closed the door.

Connie looked behind. “There he is, down the block. You can’t miss that Cadillac.”

“Yeah, what is up with that gas guzzler?” Susan wondered.

“It’s all show.”

“I guess we’ve got a little show in all of us.”

Connie turned back to face Susan and glared. “What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing.”

A horn beeped behind them. Susan adjusted her rearview mirror and pulled away from the curb. They followed a long stretch of cars onto the Long Island Expressway.

“Do you know which exit?” asked Susan.

“Just follow the cars. You won’t get lost.”

It wasn’t more than twenty minutes on the expressway when the cars began to exit onto the service road. “I guess we’re here,” she said. “That wasn’t such a long ride.”

Connie opened up her purse and covered her eyes with sunglasses.

“Are you all right?” Susan asked.

“No. I’m worried about Hewitt,” said Connie.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just am.”

“Let’s talk about this later.”

“I don’t have many friends since Craig and I got divorced. All of our friends blamed me for the split, so I need a friend. Now.”

Susan parked the car as the mourners abandoned their vehicles and walked up a hill.

“Can I count on you?” Connie asked, breaking the silence.

Susan picked up her purse from underneath the seat. She turned to Connie and removed the sunglasses. “Yes, I can be your friend. And you don’t need to cover up how you feel or what you look like when you do have that meltdown.”

“I hope we won’t be doing this for Elizabeth and Michael too.”

Susan grabbed some tissues from the glove compartment. “I’m not ready to say we’ve lost them. I hope you know I’ve always loved Michael and Elizabeth. They’re family to me. They always will be. We can’t give up.”