The Reckoning Stones: A Novel of Suspense (27 page)

Esther yanked. Iris, still unsteady, fell forward, clipping her forehead on the metal trough. Lights sparkled behind her eyes and everything went gray. She fought for consciousness.
If I black out, I’m dead.
She kicked out with her free foot, connecting with Esther’s shoulder. Esther’s grip didn’t loosen. Her hands climbed up Iris’s calf to her knee and pulled steadily. Raising her head, Iris glimpsed the other woman’s bloodied, implacable face, and her bright hair, now wild and gooped with something from the alpaca pen. Esther’s breath came in little grunts and her face was frozen into a grimace.

Iris’s good arm swept the ground around her and her fingers scraped a piece of wood.
Can’t quite reach … got it!
She gripped it, ignoring the slivers that bit into her palm, lifted it high, and swung hard. It glanced off Esther’s head and the woman yelped. Desperate, Iris swung it again, simultaneously kicking as hard as she could. The board snagged on something and came out of Iris’s hand. Esther’s hold loosened and Iris crab-walked backward on her feet and one hand. She struggled up, breathing raggedly, and eyed the prone woman. Her bulk was unmoving, arms flopped forward over her head. A thin rivulet of blood crept from beneath her chin and soaked into the hay. Iris took a cautious step toward her.

“Esther?” She dropped to her knees and saw a bloody nail rising up from the board that lay beside Esther. Iris tore her hoodie from around her waist to stanch the thin trickle of blood seeping from Esther’s neck and dialed 911 with trembling fingers. The small brown alpaca sidled over nervously and nosed Esther’s arm.

“It’s okay,” Iris told the animal, more to comfort herself than to soothe the alpaca. She reached out to pat it, needing its warmth and softness, but it sidled away, leaving a trail of bloody hoof prints. Iris continued to apply pressure to Esther’s wound, unsure if the woman was still breathing. Waves of relief and sadness and confusion rolled through her as she replayed events and Esther’s story in her mind. She thought about treating Esther for shock but didn’t think she should stop stanching the blood to do it, worried briefly about the loose alpacas and whether someone would round them up, and wondered how Jane’s surgery was going. She desperately wanted to talk to Jane. Realizing dimly that her lack of ability to focus and the nausea-inducing headache probably meant she had a concussion, she touched the bump; it felt like a golf ball had embedded itself in her forehead.

A siren, thin at first but then stronger, warned of the ambulance’s approach and Iris yelled, “Hurry, hurry!” before the EMTs were out of the vehicle. Relinquishing her place at Esther’s side to a competent-looking woman, she let another technician help her to her feet, yelping when he tugged on her injured arm. Tears came to her eyes and she knew they were a reaction to the stress and horror of the last half hour, more than to the pain.

“I’m okay,” she told the EMT. “Esther—”

“My partner’s looking after your friend, ma’am. Let me take care of you.”

“She’s not my—” Iris broke off. She stayed silent while the efficient but taciturn EMT hooked her up to an IV that took the edge off the pain, and helped her onto a gurney that slid into the ambulance as easily as a tray of cookies into the oven.
I don’t bake
, she thought, woozy from the pain medication and the concussion. All the way to the hospital she wondered what kind of cookies Greg Lansing preferred and whether she’d killed Esther Brozek.

forty-six

iris

The doctors swabbed out
Iris’s thigh wound and stitched it, put her arm in a sling, stabbed her with antibiotics and a tetanus booster, and admitted her overnight to keep a watch on her concussion. When they let her leave Sunday afternoon, she carried with her the burden of Esther’s death. A doctor who was more Marcus Welby than McDreamy sought to cushion the blow by telling Iris that Esther had died not of blood loss from the neck wound, but from a heart attack. She’d regained consciousness at the hospital and asked for her brother, the doctor said, and Zach had stayed with her until she died.

“She was a walking coronary,” he said gruffly. “Bad family history. Two hundred pounds overweight. It was bound to happen sooner rather than later. Don’t blame yourself.” With a hearty but friendly pat that made her good shoulder ache, he signed Iris out.

Four days later, Iris figured she had told the story of her confrontation with Esther what felt like a hundred times. To many species of law enforcement officials from cops to investigators to ADAs, to her mother and Jolene, to Jane and Lassie and Greg via phone, to Cade, and to assorted other Community members who trickled sheepishly to her motel room door, bearing flowers and good wishes for her recovery. Her mother had offered to let her stay at the cottage to recuperate, but Iris didn’t think their fragile, newly hatched détente could survive so much togetherness so she had declined and laughed to herself at Marian’s relieved look. Her concussion headache and nausea had finally faded and her shoulder, though painful, was functional. She had little trouble changing the dressing on her thigh and was due to have her stitches removed on Monday. Her injuries went a long way toward convincing the police she’d acted in self-defense and the DA declined to file charges, especially after Zach Brozek filled them in on the conversation he’d had with Esther on her deathbed, where she apparently told him everything she’d told Iris, and more.

On Thursday afternoon, Cade and Iris met Marian at the cottage. Marian and Cade leaped on the story as a means of exonerating Neil. “Of course she killed him,” Marian said of Esther. “She admitted to letting her mother die, practically confessed to killing poor Penelope Welsh, and to being livid about Matthew’s other relationships. Victims. That poor girl,” she said, pausing for a moment. “Who knows how she would have turned out if he hadn’t—? Anyway, she obviously followed him here”—she gestured to the cottage where the three of them sat in the living room—“and hit out at him in fury and hurt, not meaning to put him into a coma.”

“I know a reporter,” Cade said leaning toward Iris with his forearms on his knees. His skin looked clearer than when Iris had last seen him and his eyes seemed less puffy. He hadn’t brought the odor of cigarettes in with him and Iris wondered if he’d given them up. A chased gold band circled his left ring finger and he gave it a self-conscious twist when he noticed her noticing. Iris raised her brows slightly, earning a rueful smile in return. She hoped he and Lila would make it work, and wondered which of them had made the first overture, and how you brought a relationship back from the brink. She’d always shoved hers over the cliff before they’d lasted long enough to merit the term “relationship.” Things would be different with Greg, hopefully. Definitely. She recalled her wandering thoughts as Cade continued.

“She can take this story and make Neil a cause célèbre. With Esther dead and unable to give a statement or stand trial, there’s no way to persuade the courts to vacate Neil’s sentence, but the parole board can consider what she told you and Zach, and take into account his record as a model prisoner and release him. Enough publicity might even get the governor to pardon him. It wouldn’t be as good as having him declared innocent, but at least he’d be free.”

“She said she didn’t try to kill Pastor Matt,” Iris said doubtfully, sipping the nasty herbal tea her mother said would help her heal quicker. She heard again the passion in Esther’s voice when she declared her love for her father. “She loved him.”

“People kill people they love all the time,” Cade said dismissively.

“A happy outlook,” Iris murmured into her mug.

“Even if the courts don’t recognize Neil’s innocence,” Marian said, “at least the folks around here do, thanks to Zachary.”

Zach Brozek, maybe as a way of dealing with his grief, had suggested that the Community celebrate a special service at the Arkansas Valley Correctional Facility Friday during visiting hours. He had—bravely and generously, in Iris’ opinion—shared most of his sister’s deathbed confession with the Community in a letter sent to each parishioner. He hadn’t outright accused his sister of the attack on their father, but most of the Community had taken his desire to visit Neil as tacit admission. The church had chartered a bus and gotten special permission from the warden. Forty-two people were going. Iris had reluctantly agreed to attend, although she had no intention of letting herself be trapped on a bus with Community members eager to make it up to her and her father; she’d drive herself, shoulder be damned.

While Cade and Marian discussed what family photos to give the reporter to go with the story, and how to approach the governor about a pardon, Iris glanced idly around the cottage’s living room. Pastor Matt had effectively died here, even though he was still breathing. What, she wondered suddenly, had brought him out here that night? The cottage back then was unoccupied, with no phone or electricity, hardly a comfy bolt-hole where he could work in peace. Maybe Glynnis had chased him with the poker and he’d run to the cottage for refuge? Ludicrous. Besides, Glynnis had gone straight for the phone, according to Esther.

Her hands went icy and she cupped them around the mug, seeking warmth from the now tepid tea. He’d used the cottage for one thing only. Was it possible that he was meeting someone? A girl. The idea trickled from Iris’s brain and set her body on fire. She clicked her mug onto the table, sloshing tea onto a devotional magazine.

“Really, Iris,” her mother said, rising to fetch a towel.

Iris ignored her, mind spinning. If she was right about him and Gabby Ulm, maybe he’d been planning to meet her here that night. Maybe Gabby knew the truth. Iris didn’t waste time pondering what that truth might be. She only knew she had to find it. She had to know. She stood.

“I’ve … uh, got to go,” she said to her disapproving mother and surprised Cade. “You two have this under control. I’ve got something I have to do.”

Deliberately not telling them she was headed to Denver for fear they’d object or insist on driving because of her shoulder injury, she hurried to the door, already fishing the keys from her purse.

forty-seven

iris

Unsure what to do
with the information she’d gotten from Gabby Von Wolfseck, n
é
e Ulm, Iris headed for the Arkansas Valley Correctional Facility the next morning. The drive seemed longer and she wished she’d offered to let Angel ride with her as a distraction from her thoughts. She was thrilled that it looked like her father had a good chance at freedom—she was—but she knew she wouldn’t be able to look at him without remembering that he hadn’t believed her, had thought her capable of fabricating lies that would destroy a man’s life, and many other lives. He was so oblivious to the truth of who she was that he could picture her striking a man with a weapon, lifting it high and pounding it into him again and again until flesh split, bones crunched, and his brain rattled against his skull.

Her thigh stitches pulled and her shoulder ached by the time she reached the prison, shortly ahead of the bus. Everyone was quiet, even Angel holding Marian’s hand, intimidated by their surroundings, as they emptied their pockets of coins and pens. Wanting a few moments alone with her father, Iris hurried into the small visitor processing station and submitted to the vetting procedures. The process still made her uncomfortable, but didn’t seem as offensive as the first time, and she marveled at how quickly one could get used to routines and rules, even distasteful ones.
Probably the secret to surviving prison
, she thought, walking past the bridge to nowhere.

Once in the visitor’s area, surrounded by the humming vending machines, Iris found herself unable to sit while waiting for the guards to summon her father. She studied the offerings in all the machines, popped the door on one of the microwaves and surveyed its crusty interior, and swung around when she heard the scuff of footsteps. Her father appeared, escorted by a guard. He looked like he’d lost a few pounds and he held himself straighter. Hope could make huge changes, Iris thought.

“You look like you’re doing better, Dad,” she said. “Cough gone?”

He nodded, and held out his hand to her, smiling. She took his hand and sat beside him. They were quiet for several minutes before her father said, “You did it, Iris. Thank you.”

She shook her head, hair swishing. “You’re still in this place.”

“Cade’s working on that. There’s the parole hearing next week
—he thinks they’ll free me. And the possibility of a governor’s pardon. Cade’s lined up a reporter to talk to me day after tomorrow. You proved me innocent to the Community,” he said. “That’s what matters.”

“There’s a lot of people here to see you.”

“Because of you.” He swallowed hard and allowed Iris to get him a soda from the vending machine. After taking a couple of gulps, her father said, “I spoke with Marian. She told me about Esther, how Esther must have hit Pastor Matt and gone to dispose of the weapon before returning to find me trying to help him.”

Iris stayed silent.

“I’m sorry you had to kill her,” her father said, rheumy eyes searching hers. “That must weigh heavily on you.”

Iris nodded and squeezed his hand. She didn’t mention what the doctor had said, about Esther dying of a heart attack; she knew she was responsible for Esther’s death at that time and in that place.

“I’ve talked to enough killers over the years, some who killed intentionally, some by accident or neglect. Taking a life changes you. But it doesn’t have to change you for the worse. It doesn’t, Iris.” He shook their linked hands.

Here was her chance, her opportunity to ask him why he hadn’t believed her. The words formed in her mouth. She hesitated. What would it change? Making him explain why he hadn’t believed her, whether it was out of loyalty to Marian or a refusal to accept that a man he’d revered could be responsible for such evil, was only going to make him feel badly. An apology wouldn’t magically undo the past. Life didn’t have a re-set button. The best you could hope for was understanding, maybe, or forgiveness. Iris thought about her mother becoming the church’s custodian. Redemption might come through some big selfless act, or through a series of small sacrifices, the kind Marian had embraced. It seemed to Iris that it might also come through deliberate silence and a willingness to let go. She didn’t know whether she was thinking of his redemption or her own. It didn’t matter.

“I love you, Dad,” she finally said.

“I love you, too, Mercy.” He leaned forward and pressed his chapped lips to her cheek.

Iris closed her eyes. They sat in silence, hands still linked, until the influx of Community members began to fill the room. Marian and Angel came in and Iris moved away from her father so he could talk to his granddaughter. He was Angel’s true grandfather, Iris thought, even if not by blood. His eyes filled with wonder at her ap
proach. She hopped onto the chair Iris had vacated and, after a brief minute of shyness, was soon prattling away like she’d known him all her short life. When he chuckled at something Angel said, Iris thought her heart would burst with gladness.

“What a gift you’ve given them both,” Jolene said quietly from beside Iris.

“They seem to enjoy each other,” she said instead. “How’s Zach?”

Jolene sighed and ran her fingers through the blond hair that hung loose around her face. “Coping. A bit shell-shocked, but coping. He’s grieving for Esther—”

“I’m sorry.”

“He doesn’t blame you, Iris,” Jolene said quickly. “He’s grieving for his mother all over again, after what Esther told him, and he’s so terribly shocked by what Esther did to her, and what she said about her relationship with their father, that he hasn’t even begun to process it all. And he’s grieving for his father. Not really for his father, but for his idea of him, for who he thought he was. I think he thinks he should have known what his father was doing, with Esther, if not with you and … and the others. He blames himself.”

“He was a kid.”

“That’s what I told him.” Jolene shrugged one shoulder. “I’m trying to get him to agree to see someone, you know, to talk it out with a professional. At the risk of sounding like a selfish bitch—”

Iris choked on a surprised laugh.

“—I will say that one silver lining is that he’s agreed Matthew can continue in the nursing home, that we don’t have to take him in. I feel guilty about feeling so relieved, but I just couldn’t face—. He’ll get better care in the nursing home anyway. A rationalization, I know,” she added, biting her lower lip.

“Stop beating yourself up,” Iris said, semi-impatiently. “You do more good in a week than most people do in a year. You don’t want to take a comatose pedophile into your home and care for him at the expense of your marriage, your children, and your teaching. Good for you. Get over the guilt thing.”

Jolene gave her a surprised look that turned thoughtful. “I will if you will,” she said.

“Deal.” Iris stuck out her hand, but Jolene ignored it, leaning in to hug her. After a startled moment, Iris returned the hug.

“I’m glad we’re going to be friends again,” Jolene said, releasing Iris. “We are, right?”

“We seem to be headed that way,” Iris said, the ghost of a smile playing around her lips. “Maybe if the Community can spare you long enough, you can come see me in Portland. I’m thinking about buying a house.”

She hadn’t realized until that moment that she was thinking about making an offer for the house she lived in, but it felt right and she resolved to call her landlord as soon as she returned.

Zach started the service shortly after that and Iris kept to the fringe of the circle surrounding her father. For a fleeting moment, it felt like the ritual in the woods, when the Community encircled her and threw stones, but then the joy in the hymns and the warmth in the smiles erased the impression. Angel’s voice piped above the others on “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” a bright soprano that reminded Iris of Esther’s. Before the song ended, she slipped out of the room without anyone noticing. She and her father had said what they needed to say for now.

She hit the road doing eighty-five. With any luck she’d have at least an hour before the bus got back to Lone Pine. She eased the accelerator closer to the floor. That should be plenty of time for a conversation best held in private.