This Present Darkness (60 page)

“YOU’RE THE PASTOR
of that little white church,” Marshall said.

“And you’re the editor of the paper, the
Clarion,
” Hank exclaimed.

“So what in the wide world are you doing here?”

“I don’t know if you’d be able to believe it.”

“Kid, you’d be amazed—
I’m
amazed—at what I’d believe!” Marshall lowered his voice and leaned close as he said, “They told me you were in here for rape.”

“That’s right.”

“That sounds just like you, doesn’t it?”

Hank didn’t quite know what to make of that statement. “Well, I didn’t do it, you know.”

“Doesn’t Alf Brummel go to your church?”

“Yes.”

“Ever cross him?”

“Uh … well, yes.”

“So have I. And that’s why I’m in here, and that’s why you’re in here! Tell me what happened.”

“When?”

“I mean, what really happened? Do you even know this girl you supposedly raped?”

“Well …”

“Where’d you get those bite marks on your arm?”

Hank was getting some doubts. “Say, listen, I’d better not say anything.”

“Was her name Carmen?”

Hank’s face said a yes that was almost audible.

“Just thought I’d take a stab at it. She’s really a treacherous gal. She used to work for me and last night she told me she’d been raped and I knew then that it was a lie.”

Hank was completely flabbergasted. “This is too much! How do you know about all this?”

Marshall looked around the cell and shrugged. “Ah well, what else is there to do? Hank, have I got a story for you! It’s going to take a few hours. You ready for that?”

“If you’re ready to hear mine, I’m ready to hear yours.”

“HELLO? MA’AM?”

Bernice jolted awake. There was someone leaning over her. It was a young girl about high school age, maybe older, with big brown eyes and black, curly hair, dressed in bib overalls, a perfect farmer’s daughter.

“Oh! Uh … hi.” It was all Bernice could think of to say.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” the girl asked in a slow and easy drawl.

“Um, yes. I was just sleeping. I hope that’s all right. I was out for a walk, you know, and …” She remembered her bruised face. Oh, great! Now this kid will think I’ve been mugged or something.

“You looking for your sunglasses?” the girl asked, reaching down and picking them up. She handed them to Bernice.

“I … uh … guess you’re wondering what happened to my face.”

The girl only smiled a disarming smile and said, “Aw, you ought to see how I look when I first wake up.”

“I take it this is your property? I didn’t mean to—”

“No, I’m just passing through, like you are. I saw you lying here and thought I’d check up on you. Can I give you a lift anywhere?”

Bernice was about to say an automatic no, but then she looked at her watch. Oh no! It was almost 4 o’clock in the afternoon. “Well, you wouldn’t happen to be going north, would you?”

“I’m heading up toward Baker.”

“Oh, that’s perfect! I could catch a ride with you?”

“Right after lunch.”

“What?”

The girl walked out of the trees to the next field of corn, and then Bernice noticed a shiny blue motorcycle parked in the sun. The girl reached into a side saddle and brought out a brown paper sack. She returned and set that sack in front of Bernice, along with a carton of cold milk.

“You eat lunch at 4 in the afternoon?” Bernice asked with a conversational chuckle.

“No,” the young lady answered with a chuckle of her own, “but you’ve come a long way, and you have a long way to go, and you need something to eat.”

Bernice looked into those clear and laughing brown eyes, and then at the simple little lunch bag in front of her, and she could feel her face turning red and her eyes filling up.

“Eat up, now,” said the girl.

Bernice opened the paper bag and found a roast beef sandwich that was truly a work of art. The beef was still hot, the lettuce crisp and green. Below that was a carton of blueberry yogurt—her favorite flavor—still cold to the touch.

She tried to keep her emotions down, but she began to quake with weeping, and the tears ran down her cheeks. Oh, I’m making a fool of myself, she thought. But this was so altogether different.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m just … very touched by your kindness.”

The girl touched her hand. “Well, I’m glad I could be here.”

“What is your name?”

“You can call me Betsy.”

“I’m—well, you can call me Marie.” It was Bernice’s middle name.

“I’ll just do that. Listen, I have some cold water too, if you want that.”

There came another wave of emotion. “You’re a wonderful person. What are you doing on this planet?”

“Helping you,” Betsy answered, running to her motorcycle for the water.

HANK SAT ON
the edge of his cot, enraptured by the story Marshall was relating.

“Are you serious?” he responded suddenly. “Alf Brummel is into witchcraft? A board member in my church?”

“Hey, call it what you want, bub, but I’m telling you, it is spacy! I don’t know how long he and that Langstrat have been bosom buddies, but enough of her cosmic consciousness crud has rubbed off on him to make him dangerous, and I mean that!”

“So who’s in this group again?”

“Who
isn’t
in it? Oliver Young’s in it, Judge Baker’s in it, most of the cops on the local police force are in it …” Marshall went on to give Hank just a small segment of the list.

Hank was amazed. This had to be the Lord. So many of the questions he had had for so long were finally finding their answers.

Marshall kept going for another half an hour or so, and then he started losing momentum. He had come to the part about Kate and
Sandy.

“That’s the part that hurts the most,” he said, and then started looking out through the bars instead of into Hank’s eyes. “It’s a whole other story in itself, and you don’t need to hear it. But I sure went over and over it this morning. It’s my fault, Hank. I let it happen.”

He heaved a deep breath and wiped wetness from his eyes. “I could have lost everything; the paper, the house, the—the battle. I could have taken it if I only had them. But I lost them too …” Then he said the words, “And that’s how I ended up here,” and he stopped. Abruptly.

Hank was weeping. He was weeping and smiling, raising his hands up to God, shaking his head in wonderment. To Marshall, it looked like he was having some kind of religious experience.

“Marshall,” Hank said excitedly, unable to sit still, “this is of God! Our being here is no accident. Our enemies meant it for evil, but God meant it for good. He’s brought the two of us together just so we could meet, just so we could put the whole thing together. You haven’t heard my story yet, but guess what? It’s the same! We’ve both been coming up against the exact same problem from two different sides.”

“Tell me, tell me, I want to cry too!”

So Hank began telling how he suddenly found himself the pastor of a church that didn’t seem to want him …

BETSY’S MOTORCYCLE FLEW
like the wind up Highway 27, and Bernice held on tight, sitting behind her on the soft leather seat, watching all the scenery go by. The whole trip was exhilarating; it made her feel like a kid again, and the fact that both of them wore helmets with dark face shields made Bernice feel all the more safe from discovery.

But Baker was coming up rapidly, and with it the risks and dangers and the big question of whether Susan Jacobson would even be there or not. Part of Bernice wanted to stay on the motorcycle with this sweet, likable kid and just keep right on going to … wherever. Any life had to be better than this one.

The landmarks became familiar: the Coca-Cola sign, and that big lot full of firewood for sale. They were coming into Baker. Betsy let off the throttle and started whining down through the gears. Finally she pulled off the highway and bumped along to a stop in a gravel parking
lot just in front of the aged Sunset Motel.

“Will this do for you?” Betsy shouted through her face shield.

Bernice could just make out The Evergreen up the highway. “Oh, yeah, this will do just fine.”

She climbed off the motorcycle and struggled with the chin strap of her helmet.

“Leave it on a while,” said Betsy.

“What for?”

Bernice’s eyes immediately gave her a good reason that
she
would know of: a squad car from the Ashton precinct just happened to drive by, slowing down as it entered Baker. Bernice watched as it then signaled left and pulled into the parking area in front of The Evergreen Tavern. Two officers got out and went inside. She looked down at Betsy. Did she know?

She didn’t act like it. She pointed to a little diner attached to the motel. “That’s Rose Allen’s little cafe. It looks like a terrible place, but she makes the best homemade soup in the world and she sells it cheap. It’d be a great place to kill some time.”

Bernice removed her helmet and set it on the bike.

“Betsy,” she said, “I owe you a very great debt. Thank you so very much.”

“You’re welcome.” Even through the face shield that smile shone brightly.

Bernice looked at the little cafe. No, it didn’t look very nice. “The best soup in the world, eh?”

She turned back to Betsy and stiffened. For a moment she felt she would stumble forward as if a wall had suddenly disappeared in front of her.

Besty was gone. The motorcycle was gone.

It was like awaking from a dream and needing time to adjust one’s mind to what was real and what was not. But Bernice knew it had not been a dream. The tracks of the motorcycle were still plainly visible in the gravel, leading from where it had left the highway to the spot directly in front of Bernice. There they ended.

Bernice backed away, stunned and shaken. She looked up and down the highway, but knew even as she did that she would not see that girl on her motorcycle. As a matter of fact, as a few more seconds
went by Bernice knew she would have been disappointed if she had. It would have been the end of a very beautiful
something
she had never felt before.

But she had to get off the highway, she kept telling herself. She was sticking out like a sore thumb. She tore herself away from that spot and hurried into Rose Allen’s little cafe.