Grace in the Shadows

by Karon Ruiz

  Her husband smiled, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. “I thank God everyday for you, Baby.”

  She flashed him a warm smile. The song ended, a commercial ensued and Laney lowered the radio. “You too, darling. But on a more serious note, I’m worried.”

  “You’re not the only one,” he agreed. “I hope we’re wrong. Maybe Amanda miscalculated.”

  Laney shook her head. “She’s gone over the books a number of times. Who would steal from a church?”

  “Let’s not go there, yet.” The light flashed green and Martin let his foot off the brake. He eased into the intersection as a white blur barreled past. He slammed his brakes and punched the horn. “They nearly hit us!”

  As the vehicle sped away, Laney spotted a familiar bumper sticker: A family that prays together stays together. “That looks like Samantha’s car. She never drives that way. I wonder what’s wrong.”

  “Where’s she going in such a hurry?” Martin asked.

  “She’s heading toward the church. I hope everything’s okay.” The white Camry wove in and out of traffic until it disappeared in front of a large truck.

  Laney’s cell rang and Carla Connor’s face filled the display. A Sunday call from Carla couldn’t be good. Had her little girl taken a turn for the worse? Maybe Samantha was on her way to help.

  ***

  Samantha floored the pedal and swerved around a monster truck that moved at a snail’s pace in the slow lane.

  She bit her lip. She ran a red light!

  Aggravation surged as she recalled the conversation with Dalton.

  Do the tithing entry? Who are you fooling? Dalton hated that job as much as she did.

  She turned left on Jefferson and raced through the alley behind the church, stopping at a cedar fence. She jumped from the car and peered through a knot hole. Dalton’s black convertible was parked near the building. Freshly washed and waxed, it glittered in the mid-morning sun.

  Got the car detailed again? I swear you love that thing more than me. Did you do it for her?

  Dalton appeared from a side exit clutching a hammer. His Nike exercise bag hung over his shoulder.

  He never mentioned the gym. He’d kept a set of workout clothes in his office when he wanted to unwind after a long day. But on a Sunday? What happened to Prescott? Why did he have that hammer?

  He climbed into the convertible and revved the engine. He peeled through the parking lot, the car’s wake flinging a spray of gravel.

  Samantha got into the Camry and sped through the alley. When she turned on Jefferson, she could make out Dalton’s car. It ascended the north bound onramp of Highway 89 toward Prescott, Arizona.

  It sure didn’t appear he was going to the gym.

  Samantha kept a two car-gap distance, clenching the steering wheel as she locked eyes with his bumper. Finding her way to the Yavapai Mission was easy, but if her husband made any detours, she’d lose him.

  Once in Prescott National Forest, it didn’t take long for the straight highway to change to S-curves. The highway threaded through the bushy landscape under a brilliant sky, its cadet color resembling an Arizona peacock. Dalton zipped in and out of traffic, creating more distance so Samantha swung into the fast lane. A big wheeler coming from behind rewarded her with a voluminous blast from its titanic horn. She waved an apology and forged ahead.

  She sneaked a peek at her ringing cell phone. Laney Fernández. She let it go to voicemail and noticed the low battery warning. She scanned the car but couldn’t see her charger. Samantha turned off the phone to save what was left.

  She prayed the little black bug on the horizon was still Dalton’s car.

  She increased her speed, checking her rearview for a highway patrolman. The long glistening tarmac behind her, empty of traffic, had to be sign God was helping her. Maybe today she’d discover the truth.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Gordster” and “Bee”

  _________________________________________________________

  11:50 a.m.

  Brewster Home

  McCormick, Arizona

  Gordon nursed a coke sitting across from Bethany Brewster on her back patio. They relaxed by a patio table feet away from a kidney shaped pool. He stared at the empty diving board.

  “Gordster? What are you thinking about?”

  He looked up. Brilliant white teeth crowded Bee’s smile, last year’s braces now absent. Her endearing smile made his stomach flutter.

  “I’m sort of bummed summer’s nearly over,” he said. “As much as I love my classes, I’ll miss having fun with you.” They came from different social worlds but summers always equalized them.

  “Ugh … don’t remind me. I have Crabapple for home room.”

  Gordon laughed. “Poor Bee. And you thought she was retiring.” Mrs. Crabbner had earned the moniker with her sour manners and the gnarly fingers she’d wave in your face.

  “She’s horrible. I’ll probably fail literature.”

  “You’ll be fine. Teachers like you.”

  “Not as much as you, Gordster.” She squeezed his arm. “You’re smarter than most of the teachers.”

  Heat climbed to his cheeks. She was always saying things like that.

  “I know you’ll be busy with all your AP classes. Can you still come to my games?” she asked.

  “Wouldn’t miss them.” He hated sports. But watching Bee cheer and then hanging out afterwards was always fun. She went out of her way to include him with all the popular kids.

  “Do you really have to go to your grandma’s? I’ll be soooo bored the next two weeks.”

  “I promised. Besides I need to finish my research and the elevation really helps. When I get back I’ll show you the sunspots I’ve been viewing. Lots of fireworks exploding from the surface.” Excitement pricked his chest as he explained his favorite subject.

  Mrs. Brewster poked her head through the kitchen door. “We leave in five minutes,” she called.

  As Gordon stood he couldn’t help noticing Bee as she pushed her chair under the table. The numerous freckles that once populated her nose and cheeks had either faded or were hidden by her suntan. Tinges of green hair framed her face, a sign she’d been doing her usual backstrokes in the pool. Her dad always went a bit overboard with chlorine. Long golden hair, splintered with sunlit streaks, draped petite shoulders. Gordon found it hard to stop staring.

  “What?” She shoved his arm playfully.

  He snapped out of it. “Nothing.” Embarrassment heated his cheeks. Lately he’d been swatting butterflies in his stomach whenever she was near. She was like a sister, wasn’t she? These new feelings made no sense.

  Gordon checked his cell. Almost noon. His bus would leave in thirty minutes.

  They followed Bee’s mother to the Suburban. Gordon loaded his stuff and climbed into the back seat.

  The fifteen-minute drive to the McCormick Greyhound bus stop provided ample time for Gordy’s silly jokes. He soon had Bee and her mother in stitches.

  “Gordon, I think you’ve missed your calling as a stand-up comic.” Mrs. Brewster pulled into the depot driveway.

  “I’ll keep that in mind if things don’t work out with NASA,” he said.

  After Bee’s mom stopped in the Greyhound unloading area, Gordon jumped from the car, grabbed his gear and waved. “See you soon, Bee.”

  Her beaming face was framed by the front passenger window. “Gordster ... you’re the only one who calls me that.”

  He laughed. “Besides Grams, you’re the only one who calls me Gordster …”

  She giggled as he watched them pull away. The hiatus between them would seem long. She’d probably be even more beautiful when he saw her again.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Deidra Storm

  _________________________________________________________

  12:40 p.m.

  Highway 89, Prescott National Forest

  Winding around cu
rves, Dalton bounced his knee to the beat of Pearl Jam. When he rounded the next bend, an enormous oak tree appeared on the opposite side of the highway.

  That must be it. He pulled out the satellite map he’d printed on his office computer. The tree’s low hanging branches hid a secret entrance to a dirt road. When he returned this way in an hour, he’d follow a five-mile stretch to Copper Lake, a deep snow-fed reservoir near an abandoned mine. The location was miles from popular hiking trails. Avoiding people was vital. He just had one meeting to make before implementing his plans. His pulse quickened with the thought that soon he’d have enough meds to last until he could get out of McCormick.

  “Quack, Quack!” His phone chirped.

  He tapped it. Deidra!

  Why didn’t she get it? Hadn’t he made it clear?

  That visit to her home had been a disaster.

  “José will only take cash,” he’d told her when he dropped by to solicit money for a supposedly wounded swamp cooler on the church’s roof. “He’s a great repairman but is here … well … you know … illegally.”

  “Four thousand? That’s a lot,” she said.

  “It’s about ready to croak,” he told her. “I wouldn’t normally ask but our building fund is very low. It’s only a loan, Deidra. I’ll pay you back in a month.”

  He sipped a second glass of Cabernet Sauvignon as they sat on cool leather couches in the white carpeted living room. Afternoon sun poured through an enormous bay window. A gigantic candelabra reflected color prisms across the walls. The whole place seemed gaudy, like some overdone Christian television studio. Too much gold and glass for his taste.

  “Can you wait until Thursday? Drake will be back from Phoenix.”

  Dalton swirled his wine. “José needs to get started tomorrow. It will be much higher if I get a contractor.”

  Dalton couldn’t wait two days. He needed the money now.

  She moved close, draping an arm around his back. “I think I can help, Pastor.”

  “Really, Deidra?” He scooted away. “I appreciate this.”

  “Helping the church would make me feel so good.” She reclaimed the distance. Her lips, drenched in red lipstick, added in a hushed tone, “Especially if it means helping you, Dalton.” Suddenly she covered his lips with hers.

  Her open mouth seemed to swallow his. Dalton wrenched away, choking on a gulp of wine. “Deidra … please ...” He got to his feet and walked toward the front door.

  “Oh, Pastor … it’s just one little kiss. I’m so lonely.” She pouted at him. “Please … come back. I’ll behave. I promise.”

  His pockets were still empty. Maybe she meant it. He returned to the couch while she picked up their glasses and walked toward her kitchen. “Let me fill yours up.”

  “That’s not necessary. Two’s my limit.”

  She ignored him and left the room. After a few minutes, she returned with the wine and a plate full of cheese and crackers. They chatted another twenty minutes and she’d yet to produce any cash.

  Increasing inebriation coursing through his veins failed to quell his surging gut. “I really need to get going.” Dalton stood. “Now about that money?”

  She jumped up, thrusting her bosom toward his chest. He stepped away, his back against the wall beside the couch. She threw her arms around him, her lips finding his as she unfastened the top button of his shirt.

  Dalton broke free from her grip. “Stop, Deidra … I … uh … need to leave.”

  This wasn’t worth it. He’d find money somewhere else.

  Her eyes welled, filling up like empty pools. “Please don’t go. I’m sorry,” she said, grabbing his arm.

  “I came to ask for help. Not this. I love my wife.”

  “I love Drake, too … really I do. But I have needs and my husband … well you know ... he’s much older than me … You know what I mean, right? It’ll be our little secret ... I promise.”

  So he was a gigolo now. This was crazy. He had to get out of there.

  “I’m here for one thing, Deidra. I need to fix the cooler or people will suffer miserably this summer. You can choose to help me or not. It’s your decision.”

  “Okay, Pastor. Whatever you say. But if you change your mind, I’ll be here.” She brushed his cheek with her lips, false eyelashes tickling his face, then turned and headed toward her bedroom. He jiggled his keys in his pocket, staring at the front door. This wasn’t good. Not one bit. After he got that job, he was quitting those pills. Cold turkey, he promised himself.

  The last time he tried, he gave in after two days. But that was different. Now he had strong motivation. Once he got the job in Phoenix, he’d try harder.

  Deidra returned, wearing a hungry stare. She stuffed a wad of cash into his hand. He transferred the thick bundle to his pocket and walked to the front door. “Thanks again, Deidra,” he said, not looking at her.

  “Anytime, Pastor …” She followed him through the foyer. When he reached for the doorknob, she hugged him too long.

  “Please … Deidra …” He looked down at her and smiled, deciding to take a different approach. “You’re quite beautiful. But I can’t be any more than a pastor to you. This is the way it needs to be.”

  Her eyes misted. “But … I … uh … I need you.”

  She wasn’t listening. He’d bolted through the door then and sprinted down her walkway to his car.

  What a mistake that had been, he thought as he raced around a serpent-like curve on Highway 89. He might have dodged Deidra’s bullet, but every time he looked at his wife, the guilt from that day consumed him.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Slammed in Slime

  _________________________________________________________

  12:55 p.m.

  Prescott, Arizona

  Samantha didn’t have time to be charmed by the trees shading Old Town Prescott’s 1880’s cobblestone walkways that bordered western saloons and little boutiques. Tourists meandered, seemingly enjoying their Sunday afternoon. Dalton’s BMW zoomed through Montezuma Street near the old Federal courthouse. Samantha focused on his bumper.

  She watched him turn right on Sheldon.

  “The mission’s the other way. Where’s he going?”

  Dalton barely missed a man on a bicycle before swerving into the bus station.

  Samantha followed him into the parking lot. She wedged her car into a snug spot between a blue SUV and a tired Astrovan with a banged up bumper. Dalton sprinted through the front entrance, his Nike bag flying behind him. She crept around cars and followed him through the double glass doors. Once inside, she scanned the lobby, darting behind an artificial plant.

  ***

  Dalton entered the men’s room and the stench of old urine made him gag. His shoes stuck to the floor as he walked toward the back, using his shirttail as a mask. A grimy wall covered with gang tags held two sinks, one plugged with brown water. An empty paper towel holder, missing a screw, hung crookedly between them. He shuddered. He bent over and inspected the stalls to make sure he was alone.

  “Hey,” said a familiar voice.

  Dalton bolted up, his head barely missing the sink’s edge.

  Matt Connor, standing near the door, glared at him. He wore an olive green windbreaker that looked too small. He hadn’t shaved in days.

  “Thought you’d beat me here,” Dalton said. “Bad traffic?”

  Matt’s dagger sharp eyes seemed to pierce his. Dalton dropped the chit-chat and handed him a thick envelope. “It’s all there. There’s extra for Charity like I promised. How is she by the way?”

  Matt still said nothing. He grabbed the package, entered a stall, and slammed it shut.

  ***

  Matt riffled through the bundled cash, grateful someone had taken great care in forming one hundred-dollar packs. Probably the church ushers. It was all there.

  He flung open the stall door and yanked out a brown paper bag from his jacket. “Here,” he said, tossing it
to the man who claimed to be his pastor.

  “Sorry about your girl,” Baxter told him.

  “Sure you are …” Matt spat. “I’m done. Find another dealer.”

  The pastor’s eyes formed large circles. “Come on … Matt … this isn’t enough …” Baxter waved the bag in his face. “I need to meet you one more time. A few weeks from now.”

  “Don’t call me again.” Matt pivoted and headed toward the door.

  “Wait!”

  Matt twisted around. The preacher cowered before him. His hands shook as he clutched the brown bag. That familiar hungry look filled his eyes. Baxter was a full-blown addict.

  “What happened to you, man?” Matt asked. “You’re pathetic.”

  “How dare you.” Baxter’s voice climbed. “You were nothing when I helped you out of the gutter.”

  “That’s what I mean. Last year you drove me to my AA meetings. Now look at you.”

  “Is it the money?” Baxter shouted. “Do you need more?”

  “Yeah, right. I know where you got this money. You make me sick.”

  The preacher grabbed his shoulders and pushed him against the wall. “You can’t do this. I’ll tell your Probation Officer.”

  And Baxter would make good his threat. Officer Jenkins, his P.O would get a kick out of hauling him off in cuffs if he knew Matt was dealing again. Never mind that Baxter was one of his clients. Jenkins would never buy that.

  Matt shook himself free and yelled, “Back off!”

  Baxter lunged toward him, grabbing his neck. Matt gasped for air. “You gonna kill me … Paa … stor?” He clawed at Baxter’s fingers.

  ***

  Dalton released Matt’s neck and backed away. Bile filled his mouth and he whirled around to wretch into the sink. He turned back to face his dealer. “Sorry.”

  Matt rubbed his throat, then pulled something from his jacket and hurled it at Dalton’s head.