The Reckoning Stones: A Novel of Suspense (2 page)

one

iris

News of Pastor Matt’s
resurrection ambushed Iris Tuesday night.

Sitting on the butt-smoothed wood of the barstool, her ankles hooked under the brass rail so she could tilt the stool back on two legs, Iris paid no attention to the talking heads mouthing headlines from the TV above the bar in Lassie’s Pub. One of the mounting brackets had loosened months ago and the TV listed to the right. Appropriate, Iris had teased more than once, since Lassie’s news show of choice slanted to the right, as well.

The Portland bar held only a sprinkling of customers before nine o’clock, most of them in jeans, like Iris. George Strait sang from the jukebox, and a girl, barely legal, laughed too loudly at something the heavy-lidded man beside her said. He dropped a beefy arm over her shoulders and she inched away with a nervous titter. Two women in their mid-forties wearing high-end costume jewelry talked in low voices at a table littered with empty glasses. Remnants of a girls’ night out, she decided, reluctant to return home to husbands or surly teens or empty beds. A man hunched at the end of the bar, nursing a Jack and Coke, sliding her sideways looks.

Iris ignored him; his posture said old, defeated, definitely not fun. Her eyes followed the movements of two twenty-somethings playing pool at the table nearest the bar. The blond one, she thought, watching a tattooed bicep flex as he leaned across the table to make a shot. He was young but not sub-twenty, attractive but not movie-star, although a slightly snub nose made him look a bit like Matt Damon. If she could get him to buy her a drink within the next five minutes, maybe she’d take him home. She checked the time on her watch. When he glanced her way, she caught his gaze for a carefully calculated moment, then looked away, taking a long swallow from her Rolling Rock, knowing his eyes were locked on the way her mouth fit around the bottle opening, the long line of her throat as she swallowed, the fall of dark hair draping her shoulders. She’d promised herself she’d quit playing this game, knowing it had a dark side, but somehow, every few weeks, she found herself drawn to it again. Pool balls clicked. A minute ticked away. The barely legal girl made as if to get up, but her date pushed her down with a hand on her thigh.

“I need another beer,” the blond man told his buddy.

Oh, yeah.
Iris smiled to herself. His friend convinced him to play his next shot and she silently urged him to hurry up. Two and a half minutes and counting. Clearly, he needed motivation. Draining the last swallow of her beer, she snapped the bottle onto the bar. If he didn’t take that hint, he was going to miss the deadline and miss out. Four minutes. Her foot jiggled. He said something to his friend and headed her way; she watched his approach in the mirror behind the bar, mentally running through the next moves. He’d ask if he could buy her a drink, while giving her a once-over. He’d turn to face her, crowding her a little, his hip bumping her thigh. She’d smile, look up from under her lashes, let her arm brush his as she reached for her beer. He’d forget all about the pool game. A flush prickled her chest. Ten, nine …

“Don’t.”

Startled, Iris met Lassie’s disapproving stare. Coming up on fifty, he looked like what he was, a former lumberjack turned bar owner. He’d swapped plaid flannel shirts for a tan polo with “Lassie’s Pub” embroidered over the pocket, but his weathered face and forearms still spoke of days spent outdoors rather than nights spent pulling beers. His usually pleasant face was set in a way that emphasized the grooves beside his mouth, the line between his bushy brows.

“Lighten up, Lassie,” Iris said.

“Don’t give me any of your shit. That’s Karen’s baby brother Greg and he’s off-limits. What if I told you he’s only twenty-four?”

“I’d say ‘yippee.’ Lots of stamina. What’s fourteen years between consenting adults?” Her flippant tone wasn’t making a dent in Lassie’s disapproval.

“I’d never get laid again if I let him go home with you.”

“Like I care about your sex life. He looks like a big boy. Maybe you should let him make his own decisions.” Iris arched her brows a hair and half-turned on the stool to smile at the young man.

“Rolling Rock, Lassie,” Greg said, sidling between the barstools just as Iris had predicted. He looked at her almost empty bottle. “Two.”

Damn. He was four seconds too late. Iris gave an inward shrug. Lassie could relax.

“I’m Greg.”

“So I hear. Karen’s brother, right?” They shook hands. “I’m Iris.”

“Karen told me about you.”

“Warned you?”

“Yeah, maybe.” He smiled, self-assured for a twenty-four-year old, young and strong and taller than he’d seemed by the pool table. He smelled faintly of the outdoors and spice-based cologne.

Iris felt a lick of real attraction. “And do you always listen to big sister’s warnings?”

Greg grinned. “If you buy me a beer in the next five minutes, maybe you’ll find out.”

Whoa. Iris’s eyes opened wide. Lassie—or Karen—had apparently briefed baby brother Greg pretty thoroughly. She slid him a speculative look, unused to having the game turned around on her.

Lassie thunked two bottles onto the bar. “Six fifty.” Iris met his gaze briefly as Greg pulled the money from his wallet, and was surprised to encounter a level look that said their friendship was in trouble if she left with Greg. Shit. She’d finished a major piece that afternoon, was in the mood to celebrate. Greg was the only prospect in sight with potential.

“On me,” she said, sliding a twenty across the bar. “Use the change to get her a taxi.” She nodded toward the young girl who had
managed to escape her date and was scurrying toward the restrooms, her lips folded in, blinking damply. Lassie took the bill without comment and went to the cash register, upping the volume on the television on his way, probably to make it harder for them to talk, Iris thought, half-admiring his tactics. Greg started to say something, but the newscaster drowned him out.

“… and in Colorado today, a man who spent the last twenty-three years in a coma has awakened. Doctors say Matthew Brozek regained full consciousness today for the first time since being viciously attacked and left for dead almost a quarter century ago. It’s a real life Rip Van Winkle story …”

The news, the name, hit Iris like an ice spear through the chest. Cold radiated down her spine and to her extremities. Her fingers went numb. The Rolling Rock bottle slipped from her hand and banged onto the bar, spattering the three of them before Lassie righted it.

“Jesus, Iris,” Lassie said, swabbing the spill.

“Sorry,” she managed. Her barstool wobbled, and she leaned forward to keep from going over backward. The stool’s legs clunked down, jolting her.

Greg motioned for Lassie to bring her another beer, but she shook her head.

“No, I just remembered, I’ve got to—”

Lassie gave her a grateful look as she tried to think of a reason to bolt from the bar. “Excuse me.” Sliding off the stool, she headed for the ladies’ room. Locked. She ducked into the men’s room and shut herself into the one-holer. Bracing herself against the sink, she stared into the mirror, not seeing the wild-eyed, too-pale woman looking back. Pastor Matt. Awake. Conscious. Remembering. Iris splashed cold water on her face and shut her mind down hard, knowing she’d lose it if she couldn’t block out the memories. A Faith Hill song trickled through the thin walls and she focused on the lyrics, mouthing them to distract her thoughts as she opened the door. Greg was leaning against the bar, looking hopeful, and he stepped forward to greet her.

“I got you another beer.”

“I’ve gotta go.” She felt for her keys in her jeans pocket, already moving toward the door.

“I could take you home—”

“No.” The walls of the bar were closing in. It was too hot, airless. Iris strode away from the bewildered Greg, trying not to run. The pub felt twice as long as normal, but finally she burst through the door into the parking lot and sucked in a breath that was almost a sob. She caught a whiff of dead cigarettes from the butt can near the
entrance and coughed. The chill of an April night bit into her and she realized she’d left her jacket draped over the barstool. Fuck it. She couldn’t go back. Tucking her hands into her armpits, she headed for her car, slammed the door, and pulled out of the parking lot.

He’d been as good as dead for twenty-three years. There were times when she almost forgot. And now—Memories threatened to overwhelm her and she pushed in a CD, trying to lose herself in Rascal Flatts’ harmonies. Without warning, an image of her last time with Pastor Matt swam into her head and she knew she was going to throw up. Jerking the car toward the verge, she flung open the door while the wheels were still rolling, leaned out, and retched. Her stomach heaved again and again, and bile burned her throat. She finally sat up, wiped her mouth with a fast-food napkin she found in the passenger seat, and leaned back. She hated it that he still had this power over her.
Hated
it. After a few deep breaths, she put the car in drive and continued toward home.

The notion of going back to Colorado poked into her head. She could confront Pastor Matt, her family, the whole damn Community. No way, no how, she thought fiercely, turning into the driveway of her two-bedroom rental house in Portland’s Montavilla neighborhood. Her life was here for the moment, anywhere other than Colorado. The girl she’d been, the Mercy Asher who’d lived in Lone Pine, was as dead and gone as she’d thought Matthew Brozek was. Deader. Goner. Turning the ignition off so sharply that she bruised her finger on the key, Iris left the car at the curb and climbed the two shallow steps to her bungalow. As far as she was concerned, Pastor Matt was still as good as dead. Nothing would ever get her back to Colorado.

two

iris

Portland’s gray skies seemed
to be trying to compress the space between themselves and the city streets the next morning. Iris cast the lowering clouds a look as she locked her bicycle to a lamppost outside Eclectica, wondering if their proximity was what was making her feel constricted, squashed, edgy. She pushed through the gallery’s door, not open to the public until ten o’clock, but unlocked nonetheless, and headed past the displays without examining them. Jane had some new pieces that she’d want to study later, but not now. Appreciating art meant opening herself up, letting in the shapes and colors and feeling of the piece, whether it was a painting, a sculpture, or a piece of jewelry. She’d rarely felt more closed off.

“Jane?”

“Back here.”

Iris followed the aroma of coffee to the small kitchen behind the
gallery space, poured a cup, and opened the sliding glass door to the
courtyard. Ferns and other greenery made the walled space feel like a rain forest. Climbing roses had budded and Iris could see hints of the yellows and pinks to come. No matter how annoyed she got with Portland’s drippiness, she had to admit it made for lush gardens. Burning her mouth with a sip of too hot coffee, she stepped down into the garden, hoping to feel the peace that sometimes settled on her there. Nothing.

Jane Ogden sat on a wooden bench, eyes closed and face tilted up to where the sun ought to be, still in a blue bathrobe, stroking the marmalade-colored cat draped over her lap. Her glasses lay on the bench beside her and without them she looked older, Iris thought, the crepeyness of her fragile skin more evident, the sparseness of her brows giving her face a disconcerting lack of expression. Jane shifted, her robe gapping near her ankles, and Iris spotted a large square bandage on her shin

“What’d you do to your leg?”

Jane opened her eyes and looked at Iris. “Banged it against the damn dishwasher. Doc says it’s turned into cellulitis. I’m choking down antibiotics the size of the Hope diamond and soaking it in Epsom salts four times a day. Pain in the patootie.”

“I wish you’d get one of those Life Alert gizmos.”

“So you’ve told me. I may be seventy-eight, but I haven’t lost all my marbles. I don’t need an electronic babysitter.”

Iris knew enough not to pursue the subject when Jane used that tone. “If it looks worse, or you start running a fever, call me.” Crossing to the birdfeeder, she filled it as a blue jay urged her to hurry up from his perch in a crabapple tree. The tree cast a tracery of shadows that overlapped the lines of the paving stones and caught Iris’s attention. She studied the patterns, wondering if she could recreate them in silver.

“I heard about Matthew Brozek on the news last night,” Jane said. “Quite the miracle.”

Iris turned to see the woman and the cat regarding her, blue eyes faintly questioning, golden eyes annoyed that the patting had ceased.
In years past, the cat would have striven to keep the garden bird-free, but now he merely shifted on Jane’s lap. Had he grown wiser with age, Iris wondered, wise enough to recognize that birds were a fact of life he couldn’t obliterate, or had he become lazy or tired? Perhaps he’d become kinder, more willing to share the garden’s bounty. Not likely. Iris had never noticed a correlation between increasing age and increasing kindness. Quite the reverse, usually.

Iris attempted to sound disinterested, knowing the long pause had given her away. “Yeah, me, too.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Do? What do you suggest—I drive to Colorado and put a stake through his heart to make sure he stays dead?” Iris’s harsh laugh jarred the jay into flight.

“He never was dead.”

“As good as.”

When Jane didn’t respond, Iris set her mug atop the birdseed can and pulled a velvet-covered box from her windbreaker’s pocket. She crossed to Jane and opened the case, displaying the choker inside. “I finished the Nicholson piece.”

“Put it on so I can get the whole effect,” Jane commanded.

Iris fastened the necklace around her neck, the stones and semi-precious gems cold against her skin. The handful of faceted aquamarines the client had inherited in an antique setting glowed greeny-blue from the mesh of silver wire and tumbled quartz Iris had fashioned around them. A chunk of quartz abraded her neck, the slight discomfort the hallmark of an Iris Dashwood design. The largest aquamarine nestled in the hollow of her throat, warming, and she got the same sense of love and delight that always came over her when she worked with that gem. It had been given and worn with love, she was convinced, wishing she could keep it.

“Exactly what Letitia asked for,” Jane said with satisfaction. “Thank goodness not everyone has jumped on the vintage bandwagon.” Jane’s gaze fell to the sleeping cat and she abruptly changed the subject. “The vet’s worried
about Edgar’s kidneys.” She stroked the long fur and the cat slitted his eyes with pleasure. “She’s got him on a special diet. I could put him through college for what the special kidney food costs.”

She spoke with asperity, but Iris recognized the worry beneath her words. “He’s what? Nineteen? Twenty?”

“Twenty. I got him the year we met, remember?”

The now somnolent cat had been a frisky ball of orange fluff. Had she changed as much? “One of the two strays you adopted that year.”

Jane cleared her throat and spoke briskly, as if to get them past the emotional moment. “You got an offer for another commission this morning. It’s an award. A cup or sculpture of some kind—your discretion—to recognize the outstanding employee at Green Gables, an eco-green construction company. Materials and style up to you.” She named a figure that made Iris whistle.

“Can’t turn that down,” Iris said, “and the project sounds intriguing. Not my usual.”

“You can work on the new piece in Colorado. Maybe the change in environment will spark some new ideas.”

“I’m not going to Colorado,” Iris said, as if she hadn’t been awake half the night, thinking about it. “Too much work.” She listed half a dozen partially completed commissions, stacking them like bricks, creating a barrier between herself and a journey into her past. “I haven’t even got a design yet for Jack Weston’s emerald and he wants to propose—”

“Tell me you didn’t come over here this morning knowing I’d poke at you to go.” Jane cocked a near-invisible eyebrow.

“I can’t go.” Her eyes met Jane’s. “What would I do if I went?” Her voice sounded thin, uncertain in her own ears, and she hated it. Still, she let the question stand.

Lowering Edgar to the ground, Jane reached for her glasses and put them on. The purple rectangular frames made her look less vulnerable, more like the savvy businesswoman Iris had known for two decades. “I don’t know. See your family. Reconnect with your roots.” Jane rose. “Disconnect the man’s ventilator hose.”

Iris laughed.

Jane gave her a serious look. “You can’t go on like this, Iris … nonsensical forays into vigilantism, sleeping with men half your age—”

“Not half!”

“—and drifting around the country, aimless, rootless.”

“My ‘aimless drifting’ netted me close to a quarter million last year.”

Ignoring her sarcasm, Jane continued, “To use a gardening metaphor”—she gestured to their surroundings—“you’ve got to dig up your roots before you can transplant them successfully. Pack your trowel and get on a plane.”