Masters shrugged his shoulders and took the diary out of the box. As I’d talked to him, an idea had formed in my mind, but the less he knew about it, the better.
“Guess I’d better get to work,” Masters said as he rose, stretched, and started for the door.
“One more thing,” I said. “Why did these girls decide to come forward after all this time?”
“They didn’t come right out and say it, but I think it was jealousy more than anything else,” Masters said. “Trent let both of them go and replaced them with a couple of fifteen-year-olds. I guess he was tired of them.”
“Women scorned, huh?”
“You got it. Hell hath no fury.”
Nearly two weeks had passed since the Becks were murdered, and despite the fact that Fraley and his fellow agents were working up to fifteen, twenty hours a day, they hadn’t been able to identify a suspect. Dozens of tips had come over the CrimeStoppers line, and we’d made a public request for help, but the killers were still on the loose, and we were no closer to catching them.
On Thursday morning, Caroline and I were sitting in a tiny, cramped office inside the Johnson City Breast Care Center. A silent nurse had led us there quickly upon our arrival. As I looked around, I could see it was an office where only one person worked, probably someone who entered data into a computer. There were three chairs that looked as though they’d been placed hurriedly and haphazardly, one at the computer and two just inside the door. It was a lousy place to tell someone they had cancer, if that was what we were there for.
Caroline had already been through all the tests. Her primary-care doctor had ordered a mammogram and a chest X-ray. I’d gone with her to both appointments, although she insisted she could handle it without me. She kept telling me I should be at work, but I insisted on going with her.
The mammogram showed a suspicious shadow. The doctor who read it wasn’t able to make a diagnosis. She said from one angle, the mass looked like a benign cyst. From another angle, it looked like it could be something else. There was a 95 percent chance it was a cyst, she said, but just to be safe, she wanted a biopsy. The X-ray had been inconclusive. Caroline had gone in four days later for the biopsy. We were there for the results.
Caroline sat down in one of the chairs. She was wearing a pair of jeans and a short-sleeved, red T-shirt. Plain attire, but she made the jeans look fantastic. She’d been quiet on the ride into town, and there was a distance in her eyes that told me she was frightened.
“Why couldn’t they just call us?” she said. “Why do they make us come all the way up here?”
I didn’t want to think about the obvious answer to the question.
“Maybe they want to show you the lab report,” I said. “They’re probably just covering their butts from a law-suit in case something goes wrong later.”
She gave me a look of uncertainty.
“Ninety-five percent,” I said. “There’s a ninety-five-percent chance you’re clean, plus the fact that you’re young and you have no history of cancer in your family. You’re going to be fine.”
“What if it’s bad?” she said.
“If it’s bad, we deal with it. Think positive.”
There was a soft knock on the door and it opened. Into the room stepped a black-haired, thirty-something male wearing a white shirt, brown tie, and khaki pants. There was a pager on his belt. I assumed he was a doctor. Behind him was a chubby woman wearing a colorful print smock. I barely looked at her. There were now four of us in a room designed for one. I was beginning to feel a bit claustrophobic.
“Mrs. Dillard?” the man said.
Caroline nodded.
“And you are…?” He looked at me.
“Her husband,” I said.
“My name is Dr. Jameson,” he said, ignoring the woman behind him.
I reached out and took Caroline’s hand. Maybe it was the somber tone of his voice, but I knew this was going to be bad.
“As you know, we’ve conducted a biopsy on the mass in your left breast. I have the results here, and I’m afraid the news isn’t what you want to hear. The tests are positive for cancer, Mrs. Dillard. Invasive ductal carcinoma. I’m sorry.”
I heard the breath rush involuntarily out of Caroline’s body. My own mind went temporarily blank, as though I’d been blasted with a thousand volts of electricity. I looked at her, she looked at me, and in that moment-that awful moment that I’ll remember until the day I die-we were connected by something I would never have dreamed possible. It was fear. Pure, unadulterated fear. Neither of us could speak.
I could see that Caroline was fighting to hold back the tears, fighting to keep her composure in front of these strangers. Dr. Doom and his assistant were hovering awkwardly. Finally, I spoke.
“Could you give us a minute?”
“Certainly,” the doctor said. He appeared relieved to have been given permission to leave the room. The two of them turned and walked out without another word.
I pushed the door closed and turned to Caroline. Tears were already streaming down both of her cheeks. I reached down and helped her out of the chair, wrapped my arms around her, and held the only woman I’ve ever loved. Her shoulders heaved, and she began to sob.
“Let it go,” I whispered. “Let it go.” I knew there was nothing I could say or do that would alleviate the shock and the terror of the diagnosis she’d just received, and as she stood there, leaning on me and sobbing, I tried to think of what I’d say when she was finished. After a few minutes, the storm began to subside, and I took a small step back. I took her face in my hands and looked into her eyes.
“You’ll beat it,” I said, wiping her tears away with my thumbs. It was all I could do to keep from breaking down and sobbing right along with her. “You’ll beat it. Whatever it takes, whatever you have to do, you’ll do it. I know you, Caroline. You’re as strong as they come, and you’ve got a thousand reasons to stick around, not the least of which is standing right here in front of you. I’ll help you. I’ll do anything you need. The kids will help you. Lots of people will help. You won’t go through this alone. I promise.”
I don’t know whether it was the look on my face, or some gesture I made, or some tone of desperation in my voice that reached her. It had to be something discernible only to a lifelong lover and friend, because I didn’t consciously do anything that would have caused her to do what she did next, something that took me completely by surprise.
She wiped a final tear from her cheek with the back of her hand and took a long, slow breath. Then she looked into my eyes, smiled, and said, “Don’t worry, baby. I won’t leave you. I’ll never leave you. Why don’t you tell the doctor to come back in?”
Sunday, September 28
Norman Brockwell was sixty-six years old.
An English teacher for nearly twenty years. Coach of the Washington County High School basketball team for eight years. And then the big break-appointed by the superintendent to serve as principal of Washington County High School. Twenty-one years in that position.
Twenty-one years.
Two grown children, both educators. An elder at the Simerly Creek Church of Christ. A Cub Scout troop leader. Past president of the Kiwanis Club.
And this is how it ends? Blindfolded and gagged in the middle of nowhere, wearing my underwear, tied to a tree like a dog?
They’d arrived at his house less than an hour ago. He had no idea what time it was; he didn’t get a chance to put on his glasses and look at the clock. All he knew was that he’d gone to bed at midnight while a storm raged outside his window. He’d been asleep in his twin bed upstairs, across the hall from Gladys, a retired mathematics teacher and his wife of forty years. Cheeky, his teacup poodle, hadn’t made a sound until they came into the room. Cheeky had barked meekly, twice, then fallen silent.
That was when he sat up, or at least tried to.