Shadow of Doubt (20 page)

I
n the hospital, Stan covered his eyes with his wrist, and his mother leaned over him. “Honey, are you all right?”

He shook his head. “I wanted to talk to her, Mom.”

“To what end?” his mother asked. “Stan, she's dangerous. Physically and emotionally. I don't want you listening to her lies. Look at you. You didn't even talk to her, and you're all upset.”

He took in a ragged breath and wiped his face roughly. “It's been a long day, Mom. A lot's happened.”

“I know it has, Stan.”

He closed his eyes and pretended to sleep, but he knew sleep wasn't going to come tonight. It was too hard. How could Celia have betrayed him? And was it true about the baby, or had she lied to further manipulate him? What was going on with her? How could he have been so blind?

He thought again of that picture of her in Lee Barnett's arms and fought the despair.

His mother picked up the phone and began to dial. He wiped his face and looked up at her. “Who are you calling, Mom?”

“The Newpointe police. I'm going to tell Sid Ford that Celia called. I thought she was in jail.”

“No, Mom,” he said. “Don't tell him.”

She looked at him as if he was crazy. “I certainly am.”

With all his effort, he pulled himself up, reached for the telephone, and took it out of her hand. “Hang it up, Mom,” he insisted. “Now.”

She hung up the phone. Deflated, she headed into the bathroom to get ready for sleep.

Stan realized that his mother had every right, every reason, to report the phone call. But as it was, he couldn't stand the thought of Celia sitting in that jail cell. He had long thought that they needed to do something to improve the women's portion of the jail, but it was rarely used. He'd never had anyone he cared about down there before. Now something inside him ached at the thought that she was sleeping on that thin mattress, using that toilet, that sink…He hoped someone had had the presence of mind to clean it before she'd gone down there.

Then he wondered why he cared. If his wife had truly tried to kill him, shouldn't he hope the worst for her? No, somehow he couldn't. His heart ached. It was broken into tiny pieces, and he doubted he would ever put it back together again. How would he ever trust again? How would he ever believe? Marriage was supposed to be for better or for worse. Had things been so bad, against his knowledge, that she hadn't been able to endure it? He tried to relax the torment from his face, to hide it from his mother as she came out of the bathroom, so she would leave him alone. But part of him didn't want to be alone.

He'd never felt more alone in his life. And he wondered what the cost would be of continuing to love Celia, especially if he didn't believe her.

T
he police station was still buzzing at eleven-fifteen when Nick showed up to see Celia. Phones were ringing and printers were printing. A drunk man yelled curses to a cop who was booking him, and a woman with a black eye and bloody mouth sat at a cop's desk wailing that she couldn't press charges against her husband.

Nick's soul swelled at the depravity of his own generation, and he clutched the Bible in his hand, wishing he'd brought one for each of them. Reminding himself of his purpose for coming, he scanned the desks for Sid Ford. There he was at the back of the room, talking to Jim Shoemaker. He wondered if those men ever slept.

He cut between the desks and made his way back. “Sid,” he said, hating to interrupt.

Sid glanced back at him. “Oh, hey, Nick. How ya doin'?”

“I'm interrupting,” he said, shaking both of their hands. “Sorry, Jim. Do you mind if I talk to Sid for a minute?”

Jim told Sid to come into his office when he'd finished with Nick, and he left them alone.

“Sid, I need to see Celia,” Nick said in a quiet voice.

Sid shook his head. “Sorry, man. It's after visitin' hours.”

“Please, Sid. Stan asked me to come and see her. It's spiritual business that I need to take care of.”

“I'm sorry,” Sid said. “We ain't makin' no exceptions.”

“Sid, I'm your preacher. You can help me out just this once. Bend the rules a little.”

“No way, man. We been jerked around enough tonight.”

“Jerked around? You think I'm jerking you around?”

“Yeah, I think you are,” Sid said. “I think you're pullin' rank on me.”

“Rank? We're not even in the same department.”

“Rank with the Lord,” Sid said. “Just because you're my preacher, I'm s'posed to bend the rules.”

“Sid, if it was you in jail, you'd want me to visit.”

“If it was me in jail I would deserve a visit,” he said. “You can come back tomorrow when it's visitin' time. But right now we need to let her and Aunt Aggie stew.”

“Aunt Aggie?” Nick asked.
“She's
in jail?”

“Yeah,” Sid said defensively. “And don't you get on my case about that. Second time she assaulted a police officer, they threw the book at her.”

“An eighty-one-year-old woman?”

“You got a problem with that?” Sid threw back.

Nick saw that he wasn't going to get anywhere with him. “All right, Sid, look. If you won't let me visit, at least take this Bible down to her. That's the least you could do. She has the right to a Bible.”

Sid took the Bible, as if he knew Nick was right. “I'll get it to her when I got time.”

“No, Sid,” Nick pleaded. “Do it now. For Stan. He wanted me to come and see about her, make sure she was all right. If you won't let me in, at least, for his sake, take her the Bible.”

“All right, but I gotta tell you somethin', Preacher. I'm gettin' sick and tired of all this. I don't like folks poisonin' my friends. When you start tryin' to kill a police officer, I take it real personal. And I ain't fixin' to coddle Celia Shepherd, or even her demented aunt, for that matter.”

“I'm not asking you to coddle them, Sid. I'm just asking you to give them what they're entitled to.”

“Aunt Aggie don't want no Bible.”

“No, I realize that. But Celia might. Please, just get it to her right away.”

Sid rolled his eyes, but he started back to the basement door.

“Are you taking it now?” Nick asked.

“What does it look like?” Sid shouted.

Nick had to be satisfied with that, and finally, he turned and left.

He walked out of the police station, looked up at the stars, and wondered for the thousandth time what he was doing being a preacher. Silently, he asked the Lord what he could do for Stan, Celia…if he should do anything. He started to go back to his car, but the night was cool and serene. In the midst of all this turmoil, it was a welcome relief.

He decided to walk for a few minutes, and he set out past the fire station, down to the corner. Across the street, he saw Joe's Place. He could hear the music spilling out of the doors. The parking lot was full.

Many of the patrons were part of his flock, but he'd had little impact on their nighttime behavior. He wondered what he could do, what he could say, to make them understand that life wasn't found in the confines of a smoky bar.

The door opened, and a triangle of light spilled out along with a cloud of smoke. He saw Issie Mattreaux coming out with a man swaggering behind her. Something drew him across the street, and he stood at the edge of the parking lot, watching, listening—his nerves on red alert.

 

I
ssie had every intention of letting Barnett come home with her, even though it was against her better judgment. He'd had too much to drink, but so had she. The alternative choice of going home alone was too boring to consider. Lee Barnett could add some excitement to a stressful but mundane existence. Besides, he was a good-looking man, and any woman in town would have thrown caution to the wind for him. She was sure of it.

She opened her car door and tossed her purse in, then turned back to the big, virile man with romance on his mind.

“So…you wanna come to my place, or do I come to yours?” the man muttered as his lips hovered over hers.

“Maybe I'll come to yours,” she whispered. “That way I won't have to throw you out when I'm tired of you.”

He chuckled under his breath. “You won't get tired of me.”

As if to prove it, he leaned in to kiss her, but almost lost his balance. She caught him, and he grabbed both her shoulders and gave her a punishing kiss.

Issie tried to push him away. Too many people could come out of the bar and see her with Barnett, and by tomorrow, rumors would fly. No, she preferred to show her affections privately.

She tried to break free, but he wouldn't be deterred. Turning her head to break the kiss, she said, “Not here, Lee. Not now.”

“Why not?” He tried to put her into the car, but she kept pushing him away.

“Someone will see us.”

“So?”

“So…I said no!” Her voice was getting louder. “Stop it!”

She heard footsteps on the gravel, and someone grabbed Barnett by the back of the collar, pulled him away from her, and flung him to the ground. Issie realized her “rescuer” was Nick Foster.

“Nick!”

Nick left Lee lying disoriented on the ground and swung around to her. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she said. “He was…”

“Who do you think you are?” Barnett called out from the ground.

Nick spun around. “I was about to ask you the same question.”

Suddenly, Issie felt ashamed that the preacher had seen her in such a compromising position. She decided to play the victim.

“He had a little too much to drink,” she said, feigning distress. “I should have known better than to walk out to the parking lot with him by myself.” She looked up at him, widening her eyes as innocently as she was able. “Thank goodness you came along.”

Barnett staggered to his feet and brushed off his jeans. “Look, I don't want any trouble. I just met Issie here in the bar, and we were havin' a couple of drinks. I walked her out to her car…no big deal.” He shot Issie a look. “You didn't tell me you had a boyfriend.”

“He's not my boyfriend,” Issie said, unable to meet Nick's eye.

“What is he then? Your father?”

She could see that the barb stung Nick. He was a little older than Issie. But not old enough to be her father.

“I'm actually her preacher,” he said.

“Preacher?” The man's eyebrows shot up as if he was impressed. “You really a preacher?” Suddenly, it seemed he'd forgotten that the man had just flung him to the ground. He took a drunken step toward him. “You know a priest around here named Mueller? Edmund Mueller?”

Nick frowned, wondering what in the world he was talking about. “I don't know any Mueller.”

“Oh, yeah, you got to,” he said. “A priest. Don't you preacher types hang together? You gotta know him. He came to visit me. Celia Shepherd's priest.”

Nick shook his head.
“I'm
Celia's pastor, and my name is Nick Foster.”

Barnett squinted at him for a long moment. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I'm sure.”

Barnett looked thoroughly confused, and he stood there a moment, looked down at his feet, and shook his head.

“Who are you?” Nick asked.

Barnett kept staring at his feet, and Issie became slightly annoyed that he'd forgotten her so easily. Instead, he seemed to be struggling to understand something about some nonexistent priest. The perplexity and vulnerability on his face revealed something almost sad. It reminded her of herself.

“Who is he?” Nick asked her.

Issie took a deep breath. “Lee Barnett. The one they're saying is involved with Celia.”

Nick's face seemed to drain of color, then quickly redden again. The flashing neon sign in front of Joe's Place seemed to punctuate his surprise.

“Look, you just go on home,” Nick told the man, “and I'll make sure Issie gets home all right.”

“Yeah.” Barnett still seemed confused. “I'd appreciate that.” He tapped his pockets, presumably for his keys, and began to wobble away.

The ease with which he dismissed her stung Issie, and biting back the feeling of rejection, she got into the car and closed the door. She turned the key to start it, but Nick knocked on the window and motioned for her to wait. Time for the sermon, she thought, cutting the car back off as Nick came around to the passenger side.

Nick got into the car and sat there for a moment, not sure what to say. Should he be a preacher now, or just a man? Or was there really any difference in the two?

Issie seemed self-conscious when she met his eyes. “I really appreciate your coming along, Nick. I always think I can handle things. I'm not exactly a wimp, but he was coming on a little strong.”

Nick stared at her. Her face was lit only by the red neon lights on the front wall of Joe's Place. “What are you doing, Issie?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what do you want? What would make a beautiful woman who has everything going for her come here every night alone, drinking and picking up strange guys?”

He could see her visibly wilt beneath the words. He hated it. He'd much rather use words that built her up, but he couldn't find any at the moment.

“Nick, just because I don't have the same values and beliefs that you have, doesn't mean that I'm some kind of terrible person. There's a thing called tolerance, you know.”

Nick shook his head. “Some things shouldn't be tolerated.”

“Oh, yeah?” she asked. “Like what?”

“Like promiscuity. Drunkenness. Explaining away your sin as if it was something that happens to you instead of something you choose.”

He could see that she didn't take that well.

Her mouth fell open, and she tried to speak but failed. After a moment, she rallied. “Come on, Nick. If I wanted a sermon, I'd go to church.”

“I'm sorry,” Nick told her. “I didn't mean to preach.”

“I guess you can't help yourself.”

He sat there for a moment, wondering if he could. Was his preaching really a calling, or was it something
he
had just wanted to do in his zeal for Christ? Maybe it was one of those plans he had made,
then
asked Christ to come along, instead of waiting for the calling itself. He had been so sure at first, but now he wasn't sure.

“Don't you ever feel like letting your hair down?” Issie asked. “Just kicking your shoes off and drinking a little and dancing until the cows come home? Haven't you ever just wanted to spit out a couple of cuss words and follow your feelings?”

Nick thought back over his youth, when he had done all of those things. It had been an empty youth, and he hadn't really felt alive until the day he'd found Christ. “I have temptations,” he said, “because I'm human. It goes with the territory. And sometimes I follow those temptations, and I sin. But you know what happens to me when I do?”

Issie rolled her eyes. “You get struck by lightning.”

“No,” he said. “Worse. I feel horrible about myself. I can't rest until I've repented.”

“Oh, of course.” Issie seemed amused. “That guilt thing that you right-wing extremists have. You love guilt.”

He was saddened by the label she used like a weapon, as if she hoped it would wound him.

“It's like you think guilt will absolve you of everything.”

“Oh, no,” Nick said. “You've got us all wrong. Guilt doesn't absolve us of anything. And if we feel guilt, it's because we're guilty.”

“Guilty? Just because you stumble now and then? Nick, give yourself a break. If nobody's hurt—”

“Nobody's hurt?” he asked with disbelief. “A man died because I stumble, Issie. He gave his life so I wouldn't have to drown in guilt.”

Issie seemed lost for a moment, but then he saw the understanding dawn in her eyes. “I thought Jesus said he came to save the world, not condemn it.”

“That's exactly what he said. And that's what he did, when he died for me. He saved me. See, I was already condemned, when I was going to bars every night, when I was promiscuous…”

Those big eyes widened again. “You?”

“Me. I was condemned then. Without Christ, everybody's condemned.”

“Oh, yeah,” she said sarcastically. “Right straight into hell.”

Nick shook his head. “I wish you believed it.”

“Why?” she asked angrily. “Why do you care?”

His eyes drove deep into her, and she shifted with discomfort. “I care because I can see your potential, Issie.”