The Hero’s Sin (14 page)

He listened with disbelief and frustration to her account of the bloody towel being found in the trunk of his rental car.

“I’m going to the police station to clear this up,” he declared when she was through.

“No!” She put a hand on his arm, the first time she’d touched him since he’d said those cruel things. Just as quickly, she took her hand away. “You can’t go to the police yet. We don’t know what else they have on you. It’s pretty obvious someone’s trying to frame you.”

She hadn’t asked for an explanation of how
Coleman’s monogrammed towel had ended up in his trunk. She’d given him the benefit of the doubt, as she had since the moment they met. He cleared his throat, trying to camouflage how much her blind faith in him meant to him. “So you think it’s Coleman’s blood on the towel?”

“I’d be surprised if it wasn’t. But it didn’t look like a new towel, and there wasn’t a lot of blood on it. Maybe Coleman was using it as a rag. Didn’t you say Kenny Grieb’s parents live next door? Maybe Coleman cut himself when he was working in the yard, and Kenny saw the towel lying around and grabbed it.”

“That’s a lot of maybes,” Michael said.

“I know,” she said. “Even if Kenny did plant that towel in your trunk, we can’t prove it.”

“Then let’s focus on that new piece of evidence.”

She grimaced. “Here’s where I confess I haven’t found it yet.”

He didn’t understand. “Excuse me?”

“I thought—okay, hoped—the police missed something, but it looks like somebody’s already cleaned up in Coleman’s kitchen. We can’t get in the house without permission anyway.”

Her comment drove home that, as a lawyer, she was duty bound to play by the rules. “You said Chief Jackson is looking for me. Aren’t you required to bring me in?”

“We both know Coleman’s probably dead,” she said instead of answering his question. “If we don’t figure out what really happened to him, you’ll be charged with murder.”

He didn’t deserve her support, not after he’d deliberately pushed her away. “Why does it matter so much to you?” he asked, suddenly needing to know.

“It’d matter to me if any innocent man went to prison,” she answered, which was what he deserved but not what he wanted to hear. Idiot that he was, he’d been hoping she still cared about him.

“Then let’s see if the garage is unlocked,” he suggested, hiding his disappointment.

“Good idea,” she said.

He surveyed their surroundings as they walked together to the detached concrete structure, grateful not to see any lurking neighbors who might alert the police. Just in case, he wasted little time going directly to the side-entrance. The door was unlocked, as it had been the night Wojo had followed him.

“You sure you want to come in?” Michael asked, his hand still on the doorknob, worried about the possible repercussions she might face. “It could be bad news if we got caught.”

“Then we won’t get caught,” she said. “So let’s be quick about this.”

Arguing with her would be useless so he preceded her into the garage, his impressions the same as they had been the afternoon he’d argued with Coleman. The interior of the building was just short of immaculate, the motorbike the only thing that seemed out of place.

“I’ve never seen such a neat garage.” Sara’s sigh was audible. “I don’t know if we’ll find any clues here.”

“I thought the motorbike was a clue.” Michael told her about leaving her bed to check if it was still in the garage and his theory that Coleman might have covered a lot of ground if he’d been on a motorbike instead of on foot. “But, as you can see, it’s still here.”

Sara walked over to the motorbike, running her fingers over the curved handlebars. “I wonder why Coleman has one. He seems pretty active, but I doubt many men his age ride them.”

“Chrissy used to have a motorbike,” Michael said. “It could be the same one. Maybe he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it.”

“That makes sense.” She gestured to a garishly painted ceramic ashtray on one of the counters that looked like the work of a third-grader. Above it, a faded painting of a stick-figure family hung from the wall. Beside the painting were a dozen or more unframed photos. “Look at these.”

Only a few of the photos contained either of the elder Colemans. Most were of Chrissy, their only child. Michael focused on a close-up of the blond, blue-eyed girl he remembered. She was frozen in time, destined to grow no older than her teens.

“She was pretty,” Sara said quietly. “What was she like?”

Willful. Headstrong. Manipulative.

The words jumped to mind, but he swallowed them. He wasn’t about to malign a girl who would still be alive if not for him.

“She liked to have fun,” he said. “And she liked to get her own way.”

“Don’t we all?” Sara said wistfully.

Sara moved slowly from left to right, with Michael looking over her shoulder, past photo after photo of Chrissy. Chrissy in a tutu. In a cheerleader’s uniform. In a prom dress. In shorts and sunglasses. In a bathing suit.

His eyes swung back to the photo of Chrissy wearing
the dark, oversized shades. It was one of the few that included Quincy Coleman. Father and daughter stood beside each other, wearing twin smiles.

Standing in front of identical motorbikes.

“Do you see that, Michael?” Sara gestured to the photo he was examining, excitement in her voice. “The Colemans have two motorbikes. You could have been on the right track the other night. Coleman could have gone into the woods on a bike.”

“They
had
two motorbikes,” he said slowly, his theory suddenly seeming full of holes. “Chances are Coleman got rid of one.”

“But look at this garage. It’s full of things that would remind him of Chrissy. Why dump the motorbike?”

“I only saw one the last time I was here.”

“You weren’t specifically looking for another one,” she argued. “It could have been beneath a tarp. Or in the shed in the backyard.”

“I don’t know, Sara,” he said slowly. “The more I think about it, the more far-fetched it seems. When Chrissy was alive, she and her dad used to go to an off-road track. They don’t allow motorbikes on the mountain-bike paths around here.”

“But didn’t you say Coleman was upset? That he’d been drinking? What makes you think he’d follow the rules? Couldn’t he have gone into the woods behind his house and picked up a trail?”

Michael had entertained that same scenario just a few nights ago. “That’s a good point, but the bike trails around here are well-used. If Coleman had had an accident on one of the trails, somebody would have found him by now.”

“Not if he took a wrong turn. It rained pretty heavily on Saturday. And heaven knows there’s a lot of woods to search.”

“Those paths are well-marked. It’s hard to veer off one. They even put up signs when…” His voice trailed off as he remembered a warning he and Johnny had stumbled across when they were searching for Coleman. They’d been on the outer edge of the designated search area, farther than a man could have reached on foot. “I think I might know where to look.”

D
ANGER
: E
ROSION
.
Sara read the sign blocking off a section of a mountain-bike path that was a short hike from the spot on the shoulder of a two-lane, twisting road where Michael had directed Sara to park.

They’d spent the past ten minutes in silence while they walked under the canopy of trees, the beauty of the weekday afternoon surrounding them. With each step, Sara felt as though they were getting closer to solving the mystery of Quincy Coleman’s disappearance.

She was no nearer to figuring out whether she bought Johnny Pollock’s theory that Michael had pushed her away to protect her, and Mrs. Feldman’s claim that Michael loved her.

She wanted to believe both statements, just as she longed to believe they’d find Quincy Coleman alive, but she was afraid all of those scenarios were long shots.

“The ground’s still pretty soft.” Michael broke the silence, toeing the beaten-down path with his hiking boot. “I don’t see any tracks, but the rain might have washed them away.”

He stepped over the chain stretched across the
section of path, then held out a hand to Sara. She let him help her, pretending she didn’t notice the electric moment when their hands touched.

They started along a section that was about six feet wide and level, but it quickly started ascending and soon narrowed to approximately half its width. Portions of the left side of the path had crumbled into the hillside.

“Stay as far to the right as you can.” Michael made a barrier with his outstretched arm, wordlessly promising to catch her if she stumbled.

Protecting her.

“This path is narrow even for someone on foot.” Sara prided herself on being in shape but she was slightly out of breath from the uphill climb. “If Coleman went this way, it seems he would have turned back.”

“Yeah, it does.” Michael sounded unaffected by the exertion, as though he was the runner instead of her. “Let’s go to the top of that rise. If we don’t see him, we’ll turn back.”

The increasingly difficult climb proved to be worth the effort for aesthetic value alone. With the sun shining and the grass lush from the recent rain, the view from the crest to the valley below was postcard-perfect. The world looked green for as far as the eye could see, but Sara spotted neither motorbike nor man.

“It was worth a try,” Sara said, “but there’s nobody here except us.”

“Well, we both knew it was a shot in the dark.” Michael started descending the path, holding out a hand to help Sara navigate a slick spot. She took his hand at
the same moment she heard something cry out. They both froze.

“Did you hear that?” she whispered.

“Shhh,” he said, her hand still tucked in his. They stood perfectly still, only their breathing audible in the stillness of the afternoon.

“Help!” The cry was weak but unmistakably human.

“It’s coming from down there.” Michael indicated the hillside that dropped steeply from the path. He dropped her hand and ventured to the edge of the path, peering over the side.

“Oh, my God! It’s Coleman,” Michael said. “It looks like he’s hurt.”

“Give me your cell phone.” Sara waited while Michael unhooked it from the clip on his waist, then grabbed it, all the while praying he had service. One bar showed up on the screen—not much but enough.

“Hang on, Mr. Coleman! Help is coming!” Michael shouted down the hillside. To Sara, he said, “Stay here. I’ll go down and wait with him.”

The dispatcher who answered the emergency call was a local, familiar with the road where Sara had parked. Sara quickly described the direction in which she and Michael had walked, and the dispatcher promised to send help.

After disconnecting, it occurred to Sara that one of them should meet the rescue team halfway. She scrambled down the hill, following the path Michael had taken, intending to volunteer to stay with Coleman if her rudimentary first-aid skills were better than his.

Quincy Coleman lay on a tiered section of hillside about twenty yards from the point where his motorbike had left the path. The bike lay in a mangled heap ten
yards farther below. He was positioned awkwardly, with one leg under him and the other outstretched, leading Sara to guess he’d broken a limb.

Michael was crouched beside Coleman, his back to Sara, one of his large hands on Coleman’s narrow shoulders. He held the water bottle he’d brought along to Coleman’s parched lips, making sure the man took small sips so he wouldn’t get sick.

“Just bear with me a little while longer,” Michael said. “It looks like your leg’s broken and you’re probably suffering from exposure, but the EMTs will get you off this mountain and fix you right up.”

“So sorry,” Coleman croaked. Sara moved nearer, straining to hear him. “My fault.”

“Lots of people have motorbike accidents,” Michael said. “Nobody’s blaming you.”

“No, no.” Coleman shook his head, obviously agitated. “Sorry about Chrissy. Sorry I blamed you. My fault. My fault.”

He seemed on the edge of delirium. Michael must have realized that, too, because his voice gentled. “Take it easy. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“But I do.” Coleman’s voice was rusty from disuse but he kept talking, rasping out his sentences. “Lot of time to think. Told Chrissy…never wanted to see her again if she left with you. Never did.”

It seemed to cost Coleman precious energy to talk. Once again Michael put the water bottle to his lips, offering the man small sips.

“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” Michael said. “You couldn’t have known what would happen.”

“Should have known. She was sad, so sad.” Now that
his throat had been lubricated, Coleman’s voice sounded stronger. “She called me. Said she was unhappy and wanted to come home. I told her she wasn’t welcome. A day later, she was dead.”

Coleman’s face, white with pain and partly covered with gray stubble, crumpled in misery. If he hadn’t been dehydrated, Sara thought tears would be flowing freely down his cheeks.

“No, Mr. Coleman,” Michael said firmly. “We both know Chrissy died because of me.”

Coleman’s head shook back and forth. “Not true. Used you as a scapegoat. Knew it all along.”

“Knew what?” Michael asked.

Coleman’s eyes closed, and Sara thought he might have passed out from the pain. She heard the rustling of leaves, the songs of birds, the whoosh of the wind. Then Coleman opened his eyes and said, “Knew you weren’t driving the night she died.”

Sara inhaled sharply, waiting for Michael to deny Coleman’s claim. Long moments passed, and she realized he wasn’t going to. He crouched there, the young man who’d been so grievously wronged beside the old man who’d wronged him, and said, “It doesn’t matter now.”

But Michael was wrong, Sara thought as she made her way back up the hill to meet the rescue team, having decided not to intrude on their private moment.

It mattered a great deal.

B
Y THE TIME
night fell on Indigo Springs, the darkness didn’t seem as black. It could have been due to the glow of the moon, which cast enough light for Michael to navigate the steps carved into the hillside, but it could also have been so many other things.

Quincy Coleman, bruised and battered on the mountaintop, apologizing for the hell he’d put Michael through after Chrissy’s death.

So sorry. Used you as a scapegoat
.

Chase Bradford shaking his hand after the emergency team lifted Coleman to level ground in a Stokes basket, apologizing for letting the trouble he’d been having with his girlfriend stop him from making the effort to get to know Michael.

Johnny kept telling me you were one of the good guys, and he was right.

Chief Jackson sidling up to Michael as he took a shift helping carry Coleman’s stretcher through the woods to a waiting ambulance.

I’m sorry, son. I was wrong about you.

Aunt Felicia, her eyes watering and her lips trembling, speaking words she’d never before said to him.

I love you, Michael
.

And the night wasn’t yet over.

He needed to set things right with Sara before it was. He hadn’t seen her since they’d found Coleman. She hadn’t stuck around when the rescue team arrived, an appointment she had scheduled with a potential client drawing her back to town.

He found her behind her house on the private deck that overlooked the woods, a glass of red wine in hand as she swayed gently on her new porch swing.

“Hi, Sara.” He announced his arrival so he wouldn’t startle her, but she didn’t seem surprised to see him. “I called your phones but didn’t get an answer. It finally dawned on me you’d be back here.”

Her own little slice of heaven, she’d called it.

“A strange thing happened this afternoon,” she said. “Some deliverymen showed up to install a porch swing. When I called the store to ask who sent it, they said you had.”

He sat down beside her, understanding perhaps for the first time what had attracted her to the town. Tranquility, once you’d found it, would be hard to give up. Now that the mystery of what had happened to Quincy Coleman had been solved, life in Indigo Springs would return to normal. For Sara, the tranquility would return. He’d tried to help it along.

“I knew you wanted one,” he said, “but I’ll leave the mint juleps up to you.”

They both knew he wouldn’t be around to drink them.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

In the ensuing quiet, an owl hooted.

“Did you hear that Quincy Coleman’s going to be all right?” Sara asked, breaking the silence.

“I heard.” He’d wormed the information out of a nurse at the hospital where the EMTs had taken the injured man. Coleman was dehydrated and had a broken leg but he’d held up surprisingly well for a man his age.

“I talked to Laurie a little while ago. She said Kenny denies he planted that evidence in your trunk, but he’s going to apologize for lying to the police. She says he wants to make peace with you.”

Her remark dovetailed nicely into what he’d come to tell her, but he had difficulty squeezing the words out of his suddenly dry throat. “That’s not going to happen unless he catches up with me tonight. I’m leaving in the morning.”

She drank the rest of her wine, setting the glass down on the small table next to the porch swing. Her face was angled away from him so he couldn’t see her expression. “So you’ve decided to take that assignment in Ghana?”

“Yes,” he said. “Once I let my recruiter know I’m on board, things will move pretty quickly.”

And then, for the next two years of his life, he could concern himself with solving the problems of other people instead of his own.

“I assume your aunt told you she can keep her house,” she said.

“She did. We’re both grateful to you for that.” He paused because that wasn’t the most important thing his great-aunt had told him. “Aunt Felicia apologized for not standing up to her husband when he kicked me out.”

Sara nodded once, giving away nothing.

“She said you were the one who encouraged her to say she was sorry,” he added.

“I suggested she tell you what was in her heart,” Sara said. “To get everything out in the open where it couldn’t hurt either of you anymore.”

“Thank you,” he said. Considering she’d given him back something invaluable—the love of family—the two simple words seemed inadequate.

“Speaking of getting things out in the open, I overheard Mr. Coleman talking to you on the mountain,” she said. “I didn’t mean to, but I did.”

He’d been so caught up in Coleman’s confession that it hadn’t occurred to him that Sara was within earshot. He waited, wishing she’d drop the subject, knowing she wouldn’t.

She turned and looked at him fully for the first time since he’d joined her on the porch swing. “Is it true you weren’t driving the night Chrissy died?”

The question was simple but the answer more complicated than an algebraic equation. He’d bottled up the truth for so long that he wasn’t sure he could set it free, but this was Sara. Sara, who’d never judged him.

“It’s true.” He stared into the darkness, but saw Chrissy at the wheel, crying hysterically, refusing to slow down. He’d failed her so miserably that night he hadn’t even been able to convince her to put on a seat belt. “She was thrown from the car after it left the road, but she was still alive when the ambulance came. She was drunk so I told the police I was driving. I didn’t want her to get a DUI.”

“You were protecting her,” Sara stated, getting it
right and wrong at the same time. If he’d succeeded in protecting her, Chrissy never would have gotten behind the wheel. “But there’s something I don’t understand. Why do you think of yourself as a murderer?”

He leaned back in the chair, wondering if he had the courage to share the rest of the sordid story. She reached out, covering his hand with hers, and he started to talk.

“Things between Chrissy and me weren’t good after we left Indigo Springs. I worked long hours and she was home alone a lot. She was always accusing me of sleeping around. It wasn’t true, but that didn’t seem to matter. It got to where I couldn’t live like that anymore, especially because I didn’t love her.” He paused, then added, “That’s the worst part, that I never loved her.”

She squeezed his hand, silently encouraging him to continue.

“So I told her I wanted to break up. She got into my car and went tearing out of the driveway. I finally got a friend to drive me around looking for her. We found her in a bar.” He fell silent, remembering how Chrissy had staggered out to the parking lot, crying and yelling.

“I still don’t get it,” Sara said. “Why blame yourself for what happened?”

“Because I didn’t take the keys from her. I didn’t want to make any more waves so I shut up and got in the car with her. I just wanted to get her home so she could sober up.”

“What happened wasn’t your fault!” Sara cried.

“Yeah,” Michael said. “It was.”

“No, Michael. It wasn’t.” Her eyes pleaded with him to believe her. “You can’t hold yourself respon
sible for the decisions other people make. Chrissy made her own choices.”

“I could have stopped her from driving.”

“Maybe, but maybe not. If you’d driven home, she might have gotten back in the car and driven off again. And what’s to say she wouldn’t have gotten drunk again the next day?” She enunciated the next three words slowly and carefully. “You weren’t responsible.”

“She never would have left Indigo Springs if not for me,” Michael said stubbornly, unable to let go of the guilt he’d held on to for so long. “Her father held me responsible for that.”

“You don’t know that she wouldn’t have left,” Sara argued. “You said she was headstrong. Besides, Mr. Coleman forgave you, the way you forgave your aunt. So why can’t you forgive yourself?”

She gazed at him the way she always did, leaving no doubt that she believed in him. After a decade of self recrimination, it took only a small leap of faith for it to dawn on him it was time he started believing in himself.

He turned her hand over and traced her palm with the pad of his thumb, letting go of the guilt, gratitude nearly overwhelming him. “I don’t deserve your support when I was such a jerk to you.”

“I can’t even agree with that,” she said. “It took me a while, but I figured out you only said those things so I wouldn’t have anything more to do with you. I know you were trying to protect me. I know you care about me.”

That was an understatement, but he wasn’t ready to put a name to what he felt. “I’m sorry, Sara. For everything.”

She smiled at him then, more with her eyes than her lips. “I know.”

He got off the porch swing, held out a hand and pulled her into his arms. She came willingly, touching his cheek, gazing at him with an expression that was both tender and sad. He had a crazy desire to tell her he’d refuse the Peace Corps assignment if she’d come with him to a place he could start a new life.

But he couldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

Her life was in Indigo Springs.

He lowered his head and poured everything he couldn’t say into his kiss. He took note of the silkiness of her hair, the softness of her skin, the breathiness of her sigh. Storing memories to last a lifetime.

All they’d have was this single night, because he was still leaving in the morning.

S
ARA WALKED DOWN
the hospital corridor late the next morning, blinking to keep her eyes dry. She hadn’t given in to tears a few hours ago when Michael had left her bed, and she wouldn’t now.

It struck her as ironic that her body could be sated from last night’s lovemaking while her spirit felt bereft, but the feeling would pass. She’d lived without Michael before. She could live without him again.

She would content herself with the knowledge that she’d helped him slay his demons. Wherever he found himself living, whether it be Africa or the Middle East or South America, he’d be a happier man than when she’d met him.

Sara would be happy again, too.

She just wouldn’t be happy today.

Today her mind was so full of Michael she couldn’t retain the most rudimentary information, such as the room number the receptionist at the front desk had provided.

“Excuse me.” She flagged down a young nurse who was about to bustle past her. “Could you tell me what room Quincy Coleman is in?”

Recognition filled the nurse’s face. “The man who got rescued from the woods?”

“Yes.”

“Room 217.” She gestured to a room at the end of the hall. “I just left him though, so I know he’s asleep.”

“How is he?”

“Remarkably resilient. He was dehydrated when they brought him in, and it’ll take a while for that broken bone to heal, but he’s rebounding nicely.” The nurse indicated the bouquet of daisies Sara clutched. “Are those for him?”

“Yes,” Sara said. “Could you take them for me?”

“I’m on my rounds right now. You can leave them at the nurses’ station. Or, better yet, give them to his wife. She’s around the corner in our waiting area.”

Sara had no intention of taking the nurse’s suggestion. “Thanks.”

She waited until the nurse disappeared into a nearby patient’s room before turning back the way she’d come, in the opposite direction of the waiting room.

She hadn’t gotten five steps when she heard the tap of heels on linoleum. “Ms. Brenneman! Wait!”

Jill Coleman hurried after her, her hair out of place
and her clothes rumpled, as though she’d spent the night in a chair. “I heard you talking to the nurse.”

Sara thrust the flowers at Mrs. Coleman. She briefly debated explaining why she’d brought them, but her rationale was murky even to herself. If she had to put her reason into words, she’d say they were a thank-you for helping Michael put the past behind him. “I’d be grateful if you gave him these.”

Mrs. Coleman took the daisies, but barely glanced at them, her upper teeth chewing her lower lip, something obviously on her mind.

“You probably figured out the women’s club canceled your speech because of me,” she said. “I’ll fix it. I’ll get you back on the schedule.”

Sara nodded, figured there was nothing more for the two of them to talk about and started to turn.

“No, no. Don’t go yet,” Mrs. Coleman said, stopping Sara with the urgency in her voice. She was clutching the flowers so tightly Sara thought the stems might break. “I don’t have any right to ask this of you, but I was hoping you could apologize to Michael Donahue for me.”

The older woman’s chest expanded before she finished in a rush. “I put that golf towel in his trunk after I used it to clean up the blood in the kitchen. I knew it was wrong, but I was so sure he was guilty.”

Sara should have figured out on her own the puzzle of who planted the false evidence, but hadn’t. The woman was obviously trying to make amends, but she’d picked the wrong person. “Why didn’t you apologize to him yourself?”

“I couldn’t face him. Not after what Quincy and I accused him of.” She put a hand to her face. “And to think, he wasn’t even driving the car.”

“So your husband told you Chrissy was driving that night,” Sara concluded.

“He told me everything, even about Chrissy calling and asking to come home.” She sniffed, struggling to hold back tears. “He blames himself for telling her she could never come home, but she must have known he didn’t mean it. The two of them, they were a lot alike.”

Sara thought Mrs. Coleman had the same stubborn tendencies and couldn’t stop herself from saying, “I hope you don’t blame him for her death.”

“I don’t,” she said. “We all make mistakes. We were wrong to hold Michael responsible for Chrissy’s accident. And I was wrong to put that towel in his car. I just hope he doesn’t go to the police, but I wouldn’t blame him if he did.”

“Michael wouldn’t do that,” Sara said, “but I can’t tell him anything for you. He’s leaving town this morning.”

Mrs. Coleman’s eyes grew wide and her mouth fell open. “But I thought you two were a couple.”