Close to the Broken Hearted

“Hiebert has an authentic Southern voice and his protagonist is as
engaging as Harper Lee's Scout.
A masterful coming-of-age gem.”

—Deborah Crombie

 

 

“Gorgeous prose and some thoughtful characterizations, with
attention given to theme and setting.... Michael Hiebert's debut
delivers . . . a breathless, will-they-get-there-in-time affair, with a
heartbreaking resolution. Hiebert's skill at character and
storytelling should take him a long way.”

—
Mystery Scene

 

 

“A trip to the dark side of a town much like Mayberry, filled with
that elusive quality of childhood and the aura of safety that often
settles, unjustifiably, over rural small towns in the South.”

—Carolyn Haines

 

 

“
Dream with Little Angels
has engaging characters, a riveting plot,
and pacing that flips between languid and runaway train. It's a
marvelous portrait of small-town America and families struggling
to come to grips with a trying, terrifying series of ordeals.”

—
The Missourian

 

 

“An atmospheric mystery.”

—
RT Book Reviews

 

 

“
Dream with Little Angels
is quality storytelling sure to keep
readers enthralled.”

—
Kane County Chronicle

DREAM WITH LITTLE ANGELS

 

CLOSE TO THE BROKEN HEARTED

 

 

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

KENSINGTON BOOKS

www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

For Sagan
with the heart of a warrior . . .

A debt of gratitude to my agent, Adrienne Rosado, for selling this book and its predecessor,
Dream with Little Angels
.

To my incomparable editor, John Scognamiglio, along with the rest of my friends at Kensington for their ongoing support and ability to surprise me with how much they really do stand behind their authors.

To Vida Engstrand, publicity director extraordinaire, for knowing when to give me a kick in the pants and knowing when to let me try the tightrope without a net.

To my girlfriend, Shannon Mairs, for putting up with my late-night write-a-thons and hardly ever complaining about it.

To my dearest friend, Julianna Hinckley, for providing me with answers to my infinite questions about life in the South.

To Yvonne Rupert for giving me a shoulder to cry on and an endless fountain of encouragement when things got overwhelming.

To Ken Loomes for reading a very rough draft of
Close to the Broken Hearted
and pointing out all my discrepancies, especially in the area of weaponry. Sometimes you scare me, Ken.

To the Chilliwack Writers' Group: Garth Pettersen, Mary Keane, Fran Brown, Lori Christine, and Terri McKee, for giving me an audience for parts of this book and providing fantastic feedback and critique.

To my three children, Valentine, Sagan, and Legend. They continue to be my ongoing inspiration for the relationship between Abe and Carry.

And to my parents, Abe and Ann Hiebert, for providing me with everything I needed to finish this book, including the very roof over my head, not including everything else in my life. I doubt the scales will ever be balanced again.

Thanks to Mark Leland for taking time to help me find answers to all my questions regarding police work that I couldn't find anywhere else.

And to Pastor Badwell of the Parkway Baptist Church in Alabama for giving me guidance involving the Baptist faith.

Thanks also to the Mobile, Alabama, Police Department and their openness to answering my questions about Southern police work.

Finally, a shout-out to Writers' Village University (
www.writersvillage.com
); National Public Radio; Joshua Graham and his online radio show,
Between the Lines
; the Chilliwack Book Man; and the Chilliwack Library.

Alvin, Alabama—1971

 

T
he spring sun is low in the sky outside the single-paned windows of the kitchen in the small farmhouse where the family has gathered to eat. Upon the table sits a roast chicken ready to be carved, a plate of mashed potatoes, and a bowl of peas and corn, both harvested last year but kept frozen through the winter months. The light falling in through the windows is a deep orange, almost red, as the father, Tom Carson, stands to say grace. His hat sits on the top newel of the short run of stairs that separates this room from the living room below.

The table, like the house, was built by his father. The chicken and the vegetables came from the farm. Unlike the house, the rest of the farm had once all belonged to his father's father. Tom Carson is a proud man even though he lives a modest life. He is proud of his work in the fields that starts at daybreak and ends at supper. He is proud of his two children: Caleb, barely three, with black hair and fair skin like his father, and Sylvie, five and a half, with blond hair like her mother used to have. They are good kids. Respectful kids. Long ago they learned not to make noise or fuss about while their father says grace. Soon Caleb will start working with his father little by little out on the farm. Sylvie already does some jobs with her mother around the home.

Each of the kids clutches their mother's hands. Mother closes her eyes. She is a good woman. Tom is lucky to have all he has. There're wrinkles around his wife's eyes he hasn't noticed before, and he wonders how hard this life has been on her. It's a thought that hasn't occurred to him until now.

In his cracked voice, he delivers the blessing, thanking the Lord Jesus for this wonderful bounty He has bestowed upon their family. The Lord Jesus has been good to Tom Carson.

Tom finishes and takes his chair at the table, folding his napkin onto his lap. Mother's fingers let go of the children's hands. Her gray eyes open and she smiles across the table at Tom. Tom reaches for the platter of chicken so that he may start to carve.

Across the room, there's a loud knock at the door.

Mother jumps. “Who would be knockin' aroun' here at suppertime?” she asks.

“Dunno,” Tom Carson says gruffly. He gently lifts the napkin from his lap and begins to rise from the table when the door swings open with a squeak. It wasn't locked. Tom and his family never lock their doors. Nobody around these parts ever locks their doors.

Tom freezes, half out of his chair, as Preacher Eli Brown steps into his home. The preacher man is dressed in a white shirt with black trousers and vest. Muddy boots cover his feet. His thin face is fixed and stern, but what's caught Tom's attention is the gun the preacher holds in his right hand. It is pointed at the floor, being held as though it wasn't there at all.

“Preacher Eli,” Tom says, trying to keep his voice calm. “What brings you round here? We's just 'bout to sit down to supper, as you can see.” He sits back down.

The preacher says nothing, just stomps across Tom's living room leaving a trail of dried mud on the wooden floor. He comes up the few stairs toward the small kitchen where the family squeezes around the table. With each of the man's footsteps, Caleb wiggles out of his chair and crawls under the table where he seeks out the safety of his father's legs.

Preacher Eli dangles over the rail along the top of the stairs, the gun hand waving conspicuously in the air as he speaks with a low, slow drawl. “Tom, you and I have quite a land dispute goin' on. This thing oughta be worked out soon or there could be some trouble comin'.”

Tom Carson looks down at his empty plate. “There ain't no dispute, Eli. The land's mine. It belonged to my father, just as it belonged to his father. Been in my family at least three generations. Maybe even more.”

“The church disagrees with you.”

Tom turned back to the preacher, his face red. “The church has no jurisdiction here, Preacher. If the land belonged to you, you'd have a title to it. If you got a title, produce it. But you can't do that cuz you ain't got one, and since you ain't got no title, you ain't got no land.”

“The title is
missing
. You can't produce one either.”

“Yes, well, the title seems to have
gone
missing.” Tom clears his throat. “I'd say you had somethin' to do with that. Doesn't matter, Eli. Everyone knows the land belongs to me.”

“You wanna start asking folk?”

“No. Folk is 'fraid of you.”

Preacher Eli Brown's teeth form a thin V of a smile. They are more brown than white and less than straight.

“That how the church doin' things these days, Eli? Bit of a step backward ain't it?” Tom nods at the gun. “That why you here? To scare me into giving you my land so you can build your new ‘facility' on it? I got news for you, Eli. I ain't afraid of you or your ‘church.' ”

This time it's Preacher Eli who reddens. “Well, you oughta be. You oughta be very 'fraid. It is a spiteful and vengeful God you forsake. One does not just turn his back on the will of the Lord Jesus without severe repercussions.” His bony voice grows in anger and volume. From under the table, Caleb climbs up onto his father's lap.

For a minute, Tom Carson says nothing, just stares pathetically back at the tall preacher who looks somehow scarecrowlike bathed in the red-orange light of dusk. “You are a fool, Eli. Who said anything about forsakin' God? I ain't turned my back on the Lord Jesus. Your church has nothing to do with neither God nor Jesus. Least if it does, it sure ain't my Jesus. If it were, heaven help us all. There is absolutely nothing holy about your affairs, Eli. You oughta be ashamed of callin' yourself a man of the cloth. You've made a mockery of everything folk hold sacred.”

Tom turns back to the chicken. He's done talking to the preacher. He's given this man too much time in his house already. But as soon as he picks up the knife to begin carving the bird, a strange feeling comes over him, and he hesitates, glancing back at the man with the gun.

Preacher Eli's eye twitches. His facial muscles tighten. When he talks again, it's with the same commanding voice he uses from the pulpit. “How dare you speak to me with such irreverence? It is
you
. . .” His hand holding the gun shakes. “
You,
Tom Carson. You who must . . . who
will
answer for your sins.”

Something flashes in the preacher man's eyes: a flicker of insanity.

Tom Carson has never been much of a gambler, but in that instant when he sees that look in Preacher Eli's eyes, he knows he's made a grave mistake. Until now, Tom had thought Eli Brown was many things, but a killer was definitely not one of them. Sure, the man had brought a gun into his home, but Tom had never really been scared. At no time did he think he or his family were in jeopardy of being hurt. Tom had chalked up the weapon to being part of the preacher's game—part of his ploy to scare him into giving up what was rightfully his. Tom had decided almost immediately after the man entered that he wouldn't let himself be so easily duped.

Only now, in this split second, Tom knows he's played his cards all wrong. Everything is over. It's all about to come to an end at the hands of a madman he grossly underestimated.

That thought's the last thing to go through Tom's mind as Eli raises the gun and pulls the trigger.

The small room, suddenly gone dark, fills with the smell and the sound of a gunshot. It echoes off the wooden walls and floor like a thunderous death knell. Tom hears nothing else, only that deadly explosion. It seems to last an eternity and fills everything, even his mind.

In fact, Tom has been so focused on Preacher Eli, he hadn't noticed when Caleb made his way up his pant legs onto his lap minutes ago.

Now, as the sound dies away, leaving only the smell of gunpowder in its wake, Tom looks down, expecting to see his own stomach blown open, expecting to see himself dying.

What he sees is far, far worse.

There in his lap lies what remains of his little boy.

His perfect little man who just turned three years old barely two weeks ago lies with half his head on Tom's leg and one arm wrapped around his papa's waist.

Tom's eyes fill with tears as he takes in the blood splattered across the table, the floor, the counters, and most of this side of the kitchen. Tom himself is covered in it. He begins to shake. He rubs his son's arm as the world grows very small, and he looks back up to the preacher. It takes a minute for the words to come. When they do, they barely escape his lips. “What . . . what have you done?” he asks quietly.

The preacher's eyes widen in surprise as he steps slowly back down the stairs. His hand holding the gun falls to his side, the weapon slipping off his fingers and falling to the floor. His head shakes. “No . . . ,” he says. “No.”

Across the table, Mother begins screaming, “My baby! My baby!” She comes around to where Caleb lies dead in a bundle in his father's lap. “My poor sweet baby.”

Their daughter, Sylvie, remains quiet. She just pulls her feet up onto her chair and, wrapping her arms around her knees, tries to make herself as small as possible. She watches her mother and father cry over their dead son. She sees the preacher man who came in right before supper and killed her baby brother in the name of Jesus leave by the same door he came in through. She watches it all like a movie, unable to really comprehend what it means. It's so emotionally confusing, she feels almost nothing.

Just an emptiness inside. All empty and hollow.

She begins rocking back and forth on the wooden chair, her long blond pigtails swinging against her face. In her mind, a voice screams, “No! No! No!” over and over, but it's only in her head. On the outside, she's quiet. In fact, she doesn't even hear her parents crying anymore. She sees them, but she doesn't really process what she's looking at.

Nothing makes any sense.

When she woke up this morning, she had been a happy five-year-old girl with a good family and a good life. For the last year, she always told her mom her biggest wish was to raise horses and have babies when she grew up. Three babies.

Those had been her dreams. Horses and babies.

Now, sitting in that kitchen of death, Sylvie Carson no longer cares about the horses or the babies. She no longer cares about life. Preacher Eli killed her baby brother and he also killed her dreams. And none of it made any sense.

What Sylvie doesn't know is that this is only the beginning.

Because for her, the world will never make sense ever again.