“Is today still the day?” he asked.
“I think it’s time. Don’t you?”
“Only if you’re ready.”
“I am.”
They sat in easy silence after that, the moment made comfortable by all the ones that had passed before it. They were good together in that easy way. Nobody pushed. Nobody took. But, something had changed in the past few weeks, and both of them felt it. An energy was there where none had been before, a spark if one’s skin brushed the other’s. They didn’t talk about it, yet-it was too small and fragile-but the time was coming and they both knew it.
She was healing.
They all were.
“Are you sure you won’t change your mind?” He waited until she looked his way. She was as tanned as he, her face leaner, the lines at her eyes a little deeper. “I can come with you.”
“Too dangerous, I think.” She brushed his hand. The lightest touch. “I’ll make sure we get back safe and sound.”
Her fingers moved away, but the charge lingered. “When will you leave?”
She kept her eyes on the girl. “When I finish this cup of coffee.”
She sipped slowly, and Adrian watched her as she rocked in the old chair that had come with the house. She wore peacefulness as if it were a blanket she’d decided to wrap around her shoulders. Even now that couldn’t be easy, not with her father a monster and the story out there for everyone to see. Both had followed the news as events played out after the church. Dyer used two bloody fingerprints found on the dash of the old car to tie Reverend Black to the murdered women. They were Ramona Morgan’s prints, and reporters speculated she’d left them there after tearing skin trying to claw her way out of some dark and lonely place. Nothing yet tied him to the other victims, but there was little doubt, official or otherwise. Liz lost sleep, at times, thinking she should go back and fill in the blanks. But, nights like that were growing less frequent. What further insight could she offer? The victims would be just as gone. Their families would have the same person to blame.
Besides, her father was dead.
The story of the warden and his corrupt guards was the one that lingered. The fury over why they were dead in the church soon gave way to larger questions. What were they doing there? Why did they die? An old man came forward a few days later, an ex-con with an almost unbelievable story of how he’d been tortured, once, and how others had died hard deaths in the warden’s care. He was not the most credible person, though, and the story almost ended with him. But, two more convicts came forward, then a guard who’d seen things he should have talked about sooner. That was the crack that blew the story wide open.
Torture. Murder.
The attorney general had ordered a full review.
Charges still stood against Adrian, and he’d go down if the authorities ever found him. They stood against Liz, too, but no one was looking for her, and she had no plans to make a life anywhere but the desert. She liked the heat of it, she said, its emptiness and unchanging nature. Plus, Channing and Adrian were in the desert. No one said it out loud, but the words hung like a shimmer far out on the valley floor.
Family.
Future.
Adrian stood and leaned against the rail. He wanted her to see his face, so she’d think about it as she drove. “Will you be okay if he says no?”
“Gideon?” The look in her eyes was gentle, the smile easy and slow. “I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”
Elizabeth took the truck and drove ten-hour stretches. Sunglasses covered her eyes. A white Stetson rode her head. She stayed in inexpensive motels, though money was not a problem. On the eighth hour of the third day, she crossed the county line and was back. Nothing had changed, but an ill wind pressed against her as if she were somehow different and every living creature in the county sensed it.
She drove the side streets, then went to her mother’s house, stopping first at the boarded-up church. The clapboards were dirty and peeling. Windows were broken, and someone had used black paint on the walls, spelling words such as killer and sinner and devil. Circling to the back, she found the parsonage little different than the church. Shattered glass. The same paint. The door was locked, but she took the tire iron from the truck and forced it. Inside, she found bare floors and dust and difficult memories. She stood for a while at the kitchen window, thinking of the last time she’d had a drink there with her mother. Had she known, then, the depth of her husband’s evil? Had she ever sensed it? Elizabeth wanted an answer and found it on the mantelpiece above the small fireplace in the empty living room. The envelope was yellowed and dry. The name Elizabeth was written in her mother’s hand.
Liz, my darling girl. I can’t imagine a daughter’s pain in learning such darkness dwelled in her father’s heart, or in knowing the death and suffering he’d caused so many for so many years. Please know I share your bewilderment. Your letters have been so helpful-life-affirming, actually-and it pains me that you live in some secret place to which I can neither respond, nor seek you out. I’ve never doubted your assurances, the promise that we would once again be together. But I can no longer live in this place. The hatred of your father overwhelms me, and I find myself bereft. I leave this letter in hopes you’ll discover it when you deem it safe, at last, to return. I’ve gone to stay with my old friend in the north. You’ve met her, the one from college. I won’t leave her name or address for obvious reasons, but trust you will seek me out, in time. I miss you so much, my lovely child. Please do not let this path lead you to self-doubt or your own dark place. Be strong and of good heart. I wait for you in patience and in love, your friend and trusting ally, your mother for all time.
Elizabeth read the note twice, then folded it with care. She’d ached for her mother, but in a way was relieved. As much as they loved each other, how could the horrors her father had wrought not thrive in whatever place they shared? Too many shared looks and memories, childhood and holidays, and a thousand different nights. They both needed to find their way first, some manner in which to meet each other’s eyes without drowning in the guilt of their long and mutual ignorance. The time would come, Elizabeth knew, but not soon and not easily. In the meantime, she’d write again and let her mother know she’d found the letter, and that time, at least, remained their friend.
Beckett came next, and the meeting would be hard. She’d spent long nights concocting theories of why he’d done the things he’d done. She had one or two, but theories weren’t answers, and she needed to understand so many things.
Parking near his house, she saw him on the porch in a wheelchair. He couldn’t walk anymore and wasn’t a cop. He taught criminology at the community college, and in the pictures she’d found online, he seemed well enough, though sad. She watched him for a long time, realizing as she did that, in spite of everything, she’d missed him. They’d been partners for four years, and he’d saved her life more than once. Was the wheelchair a large enough price for whatever mistakes he’d made? She didn’t know, yet, but planned to find out.
He didn’t move when he saw her. He didn’t smile, either. “Every day.” He nodded when he said it. “Every day I’ve waited for you to come.” His eyes were dark and troubled, his legs wasted beneath a quilt.
Elizabeth stepped onto the porch. “I’ve tried very hard not to hate you.”
“There’s that, at least.”
“Why’d you do it, Charlie?”
“I never thought anyone would die.” His eyes filled as he said it. “Please believe me when I say that.”