Piercing the Darkness (21 page)

He couldn’t. All he could do was watch it happen.

“What wreck, Josiah?” he asked.

“Children, come on!” Bledsoe shouted, pulling them into the antechamber.

“I hit my head,” Ruth repeated. “She stopped too fast and I hit my head.”

Josiah went for broke. “She went through a stop sign and almost hit
a blue pickup truck! Ruth hit her head on the door of the car!”

“She? You mean Mrs. Bledsoe?”

Irene Bledsoe had Ruth through the door and jerked Josiah through before he could complete an answer. But he was nodding a firm yes as he disappeared.

“Kids, I’m proud of you! Real proud of you! I love you!”

They were gone.

“Give ’em a few minutes,” said the guard, not letting Tom follow.

Tom sat at the table again. The guard went to the door to make sure Mrs. Bledsoe was in the clear.

Tom noticed the brown paper bag on the floor. Irene Bledsoe had left the package behind, and the kids had not gotten their Bibles or stationery. He couldn’t touch them in this way either.

“Okay,” said the guard, “you can go now.”

His job completed, the guard went out the door and on to other business, leaving Tom alone in the cold, vacant room.

“O Lord . . .”

Tom broke. The tears ran down his face.

But they weren’t entirely tears of grief, and they certainly were not tears of despair. He’d seen his kids, and they had shared something, despite Irene Bledsoe, despite the guard. He knew that their souls had touched, that their hearts were still together. It was not enough, of course, to see them for just those few minutes. Such a cold and regimented visit could never be enough. But for right now, it was enough to know they loved him. They loved their daddy. They wanted to be with him.

Now his doubts were gone. Amid all the pain and challenge, the smearing, the soiling of his name, he’d found himself wondering where he really stood. There were voices in his mind telling him horrible things he’d never thought about himself. He tried not to give place to such lies; but still, because the voices were so relentless, he’d wondered if there was something wrong with him, something he’d been blind to. Maybe, the voices would say, he deserved what was happening to him.

But now he knew. He still had his integrity, and before God he still had the hearts of his children. Right now, it was just so wonderful to know that for sure.

BEN AND LEONARD
quickly ducked into Don’s Wayside, trying to look casual, even though they were in full uniform, carried their nightsticks, wore their guns, and had their portable radios on their belts, hissing and squawking. Every eye in the place was instantly drawn in their direction.

It was a bust! It was something for everyone to watch and then talk about at home. The contractors sitting at the counter and the truckers sitting at the tables looked up from their lunch and wagged their stubbly jaws only enough to finish the last bite of soup and sandwich. Some kept talking only to look natural, but they were watching, all right.

The name was muttered around the room by several, and rose above the general hubbub: “Krantz. Yeah, the Krantz boy. He’s still at it.”

At the end of the counter, Kyle Krantz sat under the watchful eye of bald and chubby Don Murphy, the proprietor, and two blue-jeaned farmer’s sons who were well-built for hay-bucking, steer handling, and cornering shoplifters.

“Hey, Kyle,” said Ben. “What are you up to now?”

“Caught him dipping into the cash register,” said Don. “Then he took off for the door trying to get away. Bub and Jack were just coming in and held him until you could get here.”

“How much did he take?” asked Leonard.

“Eighty-five dollars,” said Don, indicating a wad of bills on the counter.

Leonard gave Kyle a careful visual scrutiny. The boy was only fifteen, skinny as a rail, with shaggy, unkempt black hair and pimples. His face was dull and expressionless, and his eyes were red and watery.

“You know, son,” said Leonard, “I think I have cause to believe you might be carrying something illegal. I’d like you to empty your pockets for me.”

Kyle hesitated.

“You heard the man,” said big Jack, tilting his hat forward to emphasize his lean toward the boy.

“We can help you if you’re unable,” said Bub.

Kyle began emptying his pockets. First he set some change on the
counter, then some cigarette papers.

“Jacket pockets,” directed Leonard.

Kyle hesitated, then wilted in surrender, dug into his jacket pocket, and produced a plastic bag full of ground green leaves.

The front door opened.

“Ehh . . .” said Don, sorry to have to miss the rest of this. “Customer.”

Ben glanced at the man who had come in. He was middle-aged, handsome, well-dressed. Ben recognized him: Joey Parnell, the county coroner.

Leonard was handling the Krantz boy okay. Ben said softly, “Hey, uh . . . you’ve got it under control; maybe I’ll have a word with Parnell over there . . .”

Leonard shrugged. “Go for it.”

Ben walked to the other end of the counter where Parnell had taken a stool and was perusing the simple menu.

“Excuse me,” said Ben. “Joey Parnell?”

Parnell looked up and smiled. “Yes.”

Ben introduced himself. “Can I join you for just a minute?”

Parnell was agreeable. Ben took the stool next to him and tried to think of where to start.

“Just off the record, unofficially . . .” he began, and felt a little sheepish even saying that. “I wanted to ask you what your findings were in that Sally Roe suicide case.”

Parnell looked at the menu again, a clear signal that he wasn’t interested in talking about it. “I handle a lot of cases, Officer Cole. Just what is it you want to know?”

“Well . . . now I know this may sound a little strange, but . . . were you able to make a positive identification of the body?”

Parnell looked at Ben as if he were joking. “Well, I should hope so. I wouldn’t be a very good coroner if I couldn’t even determine whose remains I was examining.”

Ben knew he was looking foolish, but he tried to press on. “Well, what about that plaid shirt with the blood on it? Did you get that?”

Parnell didn’t answer right away. He seemed to be having trouble remembering. “Uh . . . yeah, I think I got that.”

“Did the blood types match?”

“What do you mean, did the blood types match?”

“Well, did the blood on the shirt match the blood of the deceased?”

Parnell broke into a grin and eyed the menu again. “Well, I don’t know. I guess I never checked that. Why should I?”

“Was there a wound on the deceased that could explain where the blood on the shirt came from?”

“I . . . I don’t remember that there was.”

“And what was the cause of death? I think you said asphyxiation by hanging in your report?”

“Mm. That’s right. I do remember that.”

“I was there on the scene, Mr. Parnell, and what I saw indicated a violent death, not at all what you would expect in a suicide. Also . . . the body wasn’t hanging. It was thrown violently to the floor, and there was no rope around the neck.”

Parnell just looked at him, listening, without comment.

Ben pressed some more. “Could you tell me . . . just so I know for sure . . . a description of the deceased?”

Don came down the counter, and Parnell ordered a beef sandwich and some soup. Parnell took his time, and seemed to enjoy not having to talk to this young, inquisitive cop.

Ben waited politely. Finally Parnell turned to him and with a wry smile said, “No, Officer Cole, I couldn’t.”

That didn’t sound right to Ben. “That’s . . . privileged information?”

“That’s right.”

Well, what about the color of the hair? I recall seeing a woman with black hair, in her twenties, medium height . . .”

“How about asking me something else?”

Ben stopped, considered, and then asked something else. “According to what I’ve seen around the station, and then at the Potters’ rental, something’s missing, perhaps something that belonged to the dead woman. Would you have any idea what everyone is looking for?”

Parnell was clearly getting impatient. “Now that question I don’t understand at all.”

“Well, Sergeant Mulligan sent someone to the house to search it, and I know he was asking you about something—”

“No comment, sir!” Parnell was visibly upset.

Ben figured he’d better retreat from that line of questions. But now
what? “Uh . . . well, just one more question.”

Parnell was emphatic. “One more.”

“Is it still possible to see the body?”

Parnell chuckled at that. “Afraid not. It’s been cremated. Now, is that going to do it for you?”

Ben smiled. “Sure. Thanks a lot, Mr. Parnell. Sorry to bother you.”

“All right.”

Parnell unfolded a copy of the
Hampton County Star
and gave it his full attention. Ben joined Leonard, who now had Kyle Krantz in custody, and they went out to the squad car.

CHAPTER 13

SALLY ROE WAS
far from Bacon’s Corner, sitting on a hard bench in a bus depot in another town, looking the part of a wayward, hitchhiking vagabond, dressed in her old jeans and blue jacket, her dyed hair braided and tucked under a wool cap, her nicer clothes hidden in a large duffel bag on the bench beside her. She was oblivious to the passing travelers and their whining children, the used sections of newspapers strewn on the benches, the gum wrappers on the linoleum floor, and the occasional squawking announcements of departures and arrivals over the public address. Her bus would be leaving in one hour. She would spend that hour writing in the spiral notebook in her lap. It would be a letter, her first, to Tom Harris.

Dear Mr. Harris,

She stopped.
How do I start this? He doesn’t even know me. Guess I could say that.

I don’t know how to start this letter; after all, you don’t even know who I am. But let me introduce and explain myself, not just in this letter, but I hope in many more to follow. Perhaps by the time I have written my last letter to you, everything will be clear to both of us.

My name is Sally Roe, formerly a planer-sander at the Bergen Door Company. You may have read the recent news story about my death by suicide. I assure you, I am the Sally Roe the news story talked about, and obviously, I am alive.

Let me tell you what really happened . . .

Sally could see it all happening again, even as she searched for the words to recount it.

The day had been perfectly normal and downright boring. Working at the factory always was a bore, especially working in the sanding department, operating power sanders that hummed, whirred, and vibrated until it seemed they would make a milkshake out of your brains. After a full day and a quota of twenty-five doors, she finally drove the old blue pickup down the gravel driveway to her house. She was tired, tasting sawdust, and had no other plans than to shower, grab dinner, and go to bed.

But then there were the goats, Betty the doe and her two kids, Buff and Bart. Pets, mostly. Sally inherited a buck and a doe from a lady at the factory who couldn’t afford to keep them. Sally sold the buck, kept the doe, had her bred, and now had the mother and two babies who were the cutest in the world and good company, always glad to see her come home.

Sally parked the truck and headed for their pen. She would greet them first, give them some feed, have her usual one-sided conversation with them about her day, and then go inside and collapse.

The goats were excited, but not with happiness. They were glad and eager to see her again, but mostly because something was disturbing them.

“Hey . . . settle down there . . . Momma’s home . . .”

She dug a pail of rolled ration from the feed bin beside the house and stepped through the gate into the goats’ pen. Betty circled her, happy but upset. The kids just kept bleating and bounding back and forth along the fence.

Sally shook the pail to get their attention. “Come on, get some treats!”

She went to the shed, hoping they would just follow her and calm down. The neighbors’ dog must have been around. He often got a real
kick out of terrorizing her goats.

She stepped into the shed. “Come on now, it’s all right—”

Shock! A rope came over her head from behind and began crushing her windpipe before she even knew what it was! The pail of feed fell and spilled on the ground. With incredible strength, an unseen assailant heaved on the loop of rope, jerking her body backward, lifting her feet off the ground. She kicked, she grabbed at the rope. No air.

Her feet found the wall, and she pushed. She and her attacker fell back against the feeder, and it cracked. The rope went slack and she wriggled free, dropping to the floor, rolling in the straw, pulling in air.

A woman in black, eyes wild with hate, a knife! The killer pounced like a leopard, Sally ducked to one side, the knife caught Sally in the shoulder with searing pain.