Joe Dillard - 02 - In Good Faith (10 page)

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.

He’d seen a bright flash as something struck him above the left eye, felt himself being rolled roughly onto his stomach. Felt the warm blood oozing from the wound and creeping down the side of his face. Then the blindfold went over his eyes, the gag went into his mouth, and his hands were bound with tape.

He wasn’t sure how many there were, but it seemed like a small army. Hushed voices, both male and female. Short, sharp commands.

They’d grabbed him up by his arms and walked him out the door, down the hall, and down the steps. They’d stuffed him into the trunk of what he guessed was a compact car of some sort, a compact car with a coughing engine and a faulty muffler. He’d ridden, tangled like a cord, in the trunk for maybe half an hour, the last minutes over extremely bumpy terrain.

Then they’d stopped. He heard the trunk lid open and was pulled out, once again by his arms. His joints shrieked as he was half guided, half dragged twenty steps or so. The ground beneath his bare feet was cold and wet, the air dead still. He smelled the clean scents of a mountain forest after a hard rain. They’d straightened him up and backed him against something hard. He knew now it was a tree.

A rope had been wrapped around him at least a dozen times, from waist to shoulders. He strained to see through the blindfold.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil … Gladys. What did they do to Gladys?

He listened. They were close to him now, in front of him. He could hear them breathing.

A female voice said, “Take off the blindfold and take the gag out.”

Footsteps approached. Fingers reached behind his head. And then it was off. Moonlight filtered through the canopy above, casting long shadows among the trees. The car engine was still running; the lights were on. The gag was removed and he filled his lungs. The smell of exhaust reached his nostrils.

Jesus Christ! Lord God help me! Jesus, Mother Mary, and Joseph! What the … ?

There were three of them, fanned out in front of him less than ten feet away, facing him. They were … What were they? Ghouls? Vampires? Two of them appeared to be wearing black clothing and had long black hair. But their faces were bright white, even in the dim light. One of them, in the middle, was different. Was it a woman? Was this a nightmare?
Please, God, let this be a nightmare!

“Who are you?” Norman Brockwell cried.
“Who are you?”

The female at the center turned to her left.

“You picked him,” she said to the lanky figure standing next to her. “Tell him who you are.”

The tallest of them stepped forward. “Remember me, Mr. Brockwell?”

He could feel the boy’s breath on his face, smell the acrid aroma of stale beer. He squinted, studying the figure before him, listening to the voice. He’d heard it before. Suddenly he made the connection.

Boyer. Samuel Boyer. A freak. A rabble-rouser. One of the worst he’d ever encountered. He’d disciplined him, suspended him, and eventually expelled him when he brought a gun to school. What else could he do? There were hundreds of other students in that school who were good people. They didn’t deserve to be terrorized by the likes of …

“I brought a gun along,” Boyer said. Norman Brockwell saw Boyer’s lips curl into a half smile, half snarl. “How do you like it,
Mr. Brockwell
? How do you like feeling powerless? How do you like being humiliated?”

“Please, Samuel, I’m sorry,” he said. “What can I do to make it up to you? What can I do to make this right?”

Boyer stepped back abruptly.

“Blow for blow, scorn for scorn, doom for doom,” the girl said coldly. “Eye for eye, tooth for tooth. The vengeance of Satan is upon thee.”

The principal watched helplessly as the two on the outside raised pistols, their shiny surfaces glimmering in the moonlight.

“No! Wait, please!”

“Do it!” the girl said, turning her back. “Do it now!”

Norman Brockwell’s eyes glazed over and his chin dropped to his chest. “What did you do to my Gladys?” he asked softly.

And the night roared.

Sunday, September 28

By Sunday, our family and friends had all been told about Caroline’s cancer and the rallying had begun. I thought the telephone call I made to our son, Jack, would be one of the most difficult things I’d ever done, but Jack didn’t panic. He took the news quietly and said he was driving home immediately from Vanderbilt. I tried to talk him out of it—there was nothing he could do—but he insisted. He just wanted to see her, he said. He wanted to hug her. The call to Lilly was more emotional, but the result was the same. She, too, headed straight home.

I woke up a little after five in the morning and couldn’t go back to sleep. Caroline was sleeping soundly, so I decided to wait until six thirty and then roust the kids. I wanted to take them to breakfast. I knew they’d rather sleep in, but we hadn’t had a chance to be alone and talk about what was going on with Caroline.

We got settled into a booth at the Sitting Bull Café in Gray. Both were sleepy-eyed and wearing hoodies. Sitting there looking at them, I couldn’t help thinking how lucky I was. Their appearances were opposite—Lilly was blond, green-eyed, and feminine, while Jack was dark-haired, brown-eyed, and rugged. They’d both grown into young adults I admired and respected.They both worked hard at the things they enjoyed, they treated other people with respect, they followed their conscience, and they loved to laugh. They’d had their share of problems and made their share of mistakes, but neither had managed to do anything dumb enough to have any lingering effects. I was grateful for them.

“I want to talk to you about your mom,” I said.

“What is there to talk about?” Jack said. “It is what it is.”

“She’s looking at a long, hard road.”

Both of them nodded without looking up from their menus.

“So how do you feel about it?” I said. “How are you doing?”

Lilly set the menu down and looked at me. “I’m scared,” she said. “It’s hard to think about her having cancer. It’s hard to think about her dying.”

“She’s not going to die,” Jack said.

“She could.”

“But she won’t. She’s too tough. She’ll probably outlive all of us.”

“I’ve been doing some reading,” I said. The truth was that I hadn’t done nearly as much reading as I could have, or should have. The nurses had loaded us down with pamphlets and the Internet was full of information, but once I understood the basics, I didn’t want to read any more. It wasn’t as though I could gain any control by gaining knowledge. Like Jack said, it was what it was.

“There’s been a lot of progress in the past twenty years,” I said. “Her chances of surviving are excellent, but she’s going to go through some rough times, and she’s going to go through some changes.”

“What do you mean?” Lilly said.

“Hormonal changes. Physical changes. She’ll have to go through chemotherapy. It’ll make her sick and she won’t feel like doing much some days. She’ll probably be cranky and irritable. It might even trigger early menopause. She’ll lose her appetite. She’ll lose all of her hair. She’ll probably lose the breast.”

“Better than the alternative,” Jack said.

“Yeah, it is. But I don’t want you guys feeling sorry for her; at least, I don’t want you
showing
her that you feel sorry for her. We have to treat her like we’ve always treated her. We have to keep her laughing. And I don’t want either one of you using this as an excuse to feel sorry for yourselves. Your friends will be coming around asking, ‘Are you okay? I’m so sorry about your mother.’ Especially your melodramatic girlfriends, Lilly. Remember, you’re not sick. She is. I don’t want to see any Lilly pity parties going on. We’re here to help any way we can. The more we help, the easier this will be on her. The best thing you guys can do for her is to keep on doing what you’ve always done. That makes her proud. That makes her happy.”

I waited for one of them to say, “Okay, Dad, we’re with you,” or “Don’t worry, Dad, we can handle this.” Instead, Jack looked over at Lilly and said, “What’d you think of it?”

She looked back at him, puzzled. “Think of what?”

“Dad’s speech.”

She grinned. “I thought the reference to my melodramatic friends and the pity party was uncalled-for, but other than that, it wasn’t too bad.”

“A little on the corny side,” Jack said.

The waitress was approaching.

“If you two are finished busting my balls, it’s time to order,” I said.

We spent the rest of the meal talking about other things, primarily the Beck murder case, which was no closer to being solved despite the intense pressure being applied by the media and every opportunistic politician within a hundred miles. We got back to the house around eight. Caroline was still asleep. Jack and Lilly wasted no time heading back towards their own beds.

I took Rio and went for a run, washed my truck, read the newspaper, and puttered around the house until noon. I helped Caroline get lunch ready while Jack and Lilly rode into town to pick up a book Lilly needed for school. After lunch, we decided we’d drive up to Red Fork Falls in Unicoi County and do a little hiking. We were just pulling out of the driveway when my cell phone rang.

It was Lee Mooney, and the news wasn’t good.

“I’m sorry,” I said to Caroline. “I have to go.”

Another gruesome trip, first to a modest ranch-style home in a tidy neighborhood outside Jonesborough, then to a remote area near Buffalo Mountain. Two more dreamlike walks through the scenes of unspeakable crimes.

The victims were Norman Brockwell and his wife, Gladys. Gladys had been beaten and stabbed to death in her bed at their home outside of Jonesborough. Her daughter discovered the body after Norman and Gladys failed to show up for church. Norman had apparently been kidnapped and taken to Buffalo Mountain, where he’d been tied to a tree and shot a dozen times. A couple of hunters scouting deer sign for the upcoming bow season had discovered him about the same time his daughter was discovering his wife. Norman had been shot through the right eye. Gladys had been stabbed in the right eye. “Ah Satan” had been carved into Norman’s forehead. Inverted crosses had been carved into both of their necks. The Brockwells’ dog, a tiny apricot teacup poodle, had been beaten to death, probably with the butt of a pistol.