Grace in the Shadows

by Karon Ruiz

  He stared longingly at the yellow tablets before firmly screwing the cap on. Their unpredictable effects would be too risky if he took them too soon. He set the pill bottle aside.

  Stay on track, he scolded himself. Seeing Matt’s whiskey flask, he opened it and guzzled down the liquid gold. The burning brew coated his throat. The fire in his esophagus felt good.

  When he stripped down to his undershirt and boxers, he noticed the short’s pocket was empty. The bandana was gone. He scoured the meadow. He must have dropped it somewhere.

  He leaned back into the tall grass as the sun descended over the western horizon. He craned his face upward, looking at heaven. Puffy clouds sashayed across the pristine sky as a cool breeze washed his face. Was the Almighty watching him through the billowy gaps? If God did, Dalton knew He’d be angry. It would take a lot of good deeds to rebalance the scales in Dalton’s favor.

  Dalton sat up and dug though his canvas bag. He pulled out the slacks he’d worn to church that morning, along with a pair of Ralph Lauren wing-tips. He opened a side pocket and found an energy bar and a container of water. He ingested both in seconds. His mood soothed by the alcohol, Dalton squared his shoulders. He was as ready as he could be.

  He felt around the gym bag until he found the clerical shirt and white ecclesiastical collar he’d put inside. The impulsive idea to bring them seemed to control him right before leaving Saint Luke’s. With no time to hunt through his clothes at home, he’d rushed to the church vestry hoping by happenchance, he’d stored an extra set in the closet. He had.

  He flapped the black fabric and memories flooded back. It’d been years since he’d worn it. Today it would help him. At least that is what he hoped as he put it on. He fastened the neck button, then threaded in the stiff white collar. He left the shirt open over his undershirt.

  He placed the pill-laden Ziploc on top of his gym clothes, then sausage-rolled them, before stuffing them into the canvas along with his keys and wallet. After putting on his pants, he used the end of the hammer to rip one of the knees, then massaged dirt into the frayed fabric. He placed his phone and prescription bottle inside his pocket. He laced up his leather shoes, jammed his sneakers into the bag, then zipped it shut.

  He centered the duffle in the hole, then buried it. He used a dead branch to rake the surface, then marked the grave with the rock. He stood, gripped the hammer and breathed deeply.

  The preparation was over. Time to put the play in motion.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Hammer

  _________________________________________________________

  4:17 p.m.

  Prescott National Forest

  Samantha returned to the Camry and started the engine. She inspected her face in the mirror. Sweat had melted off all of her makeup. She was a hot mess but she’d deal with that later.

  When she reached the road, she headed toward Highway 89, scouring each side of the landscape.

  No sign of Dalton.

  Where could he have gone? Nearing the oak tree, she wondered which way to go. How far could he have traveled on foot?

  “Lord, help me find him!”

  Then she saw it. Red and familiar, flapping in the breeze, Dalton’s doo rag flagged a clump of trees. He must have dropped it. She pulled over and parked.

  Samantha waded through deep sage, taking cautious steps, protecting her hurt knee until she reached the bandana caught on a bush. She yanked it free, stuffed it into her tote, then stuck her head through the thicket. Dalton stood in the distance in a meadow wearing his clerical shirt. That was odd. He hadn’t worn it for years. What was more puzzling was that he pressed the end of a hammer against his face. Her breath hitched. “What on earth?”

  ***

  Dalton placed the tool’s claw against his right cheek. One miscalculation would blind him. He gripped the wooden handle with both hands and extended the tool as far as it would go.

  Only pure determination kept his hands still.

  He stared at the hammer as if it were a judge’s gavel. “If this goes wrong, I deserve it.” The Almighty’s punishment would be merited.

  Don’t do this, Dalton!

  Kind, yet full of warning, he’d heard that familiar voice before. The day he’d hawked the Widow Snyder’s heirloom. And again, the afternoon he’d stood in front of Deidra Storm’s door, deciding whether to knock.

  Don’t do this, son.

  Son?

  The man who had brought him into the world had never endeared him with such a term.

  “Bastard,” often.

  “Stupid,” always.

  But never, “son.”

  Dalton gripped the hammer tighter. I am unworthy to be called Your son.

  He glanced at the sky. “I need my medicine,” he whispered.

  He was too far in to stop now. His car … his beautiful car … already water logged and beyond saving. He had to finish this or sacrificing the BMW would be for nothing.

  He took some deep breaths to steady his hands. He closed his eyes and counted to three.

  He struck his cheekbone as if it were a slab of concrete. The sound of shattering bone filled his head as he toppled to the ground. His vision, saturated with stars, he felt dizzy. His back slammed into the marker stone. He screamed, rolling in the dirt, pressing a shirttail against his face. Blood gushed, shrouded in black fabric.

  ***

  Samantha screamed too. She fell to the ground, shaking and yelling. “Dear God, no!”

  Why? What devil directed him?

  Dalton’s shrieks surrendered to moans.

  She got up and pushed her face through the foliage again. Dalton struggled to stand.

  Once on his feet, he tossed the hammer into some bushes. He took his shirt off and wadded it into a ball. He pressed it into his cheek. Would he pass out?

  Dalton wobbled to a nearby tree and tapped in a number on his cell phone. Samantha strained to listen, but his words were inaudible.

  Once he stopped talking, he slipped the phone into his pocket and left the clearing. Samantha could see him stagger downhill, out of sight. She entered the glade and found the hammer. Her gut twisted seeing the blood coated claws. She wrapped it in the bandana and crammed it into the tote bag.

  A patch of freshly turned earth caught her eye. The stone where Dalton fell had been planted right in the center of the darker dirt. Samantha shoved it aside and dug. With only a few scoops of soil removed, she saw the gym bag. She tugged at the handle and yanked it free.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Truth Hurts

  _________________________________________________________

  4:55 p.m.

  Dalton scanned the highway for oncoming cars then walked to its center line. He gently pulled the shirt from his face. The wound had clotted. He pressed it with his fingers.

  “Owww …!” he howled. Blood dribbled across the asphalt. He examined the drops. Evidence. Should the CSI guys show up, his story would be substantiated.

  He rubbed his palm into road grit, then held his breath. He shut his eyes and pressed sand into open flesh. He screamed. What felt like a thousand burning needles pierced his skin. Dizzy, he hobbled to the side of the road.

  Dalton sat on a large granite boulder edging the highway. The worst was over.

  He wadded his shirt again into a tight ball and pressed it against his wound. After several minutes, he removed it. Thank goodness the bleeding stopped. He shook out the shirt and put it back on, then inserted the ministerial collar in place. He fished his phone from his pocket and checked his voicemails. All were from Martin Fernández, each one increasing in urgency, asking him to come to Camelback Children’s Hospital ASAP. Matt’s kid wasn’t doing well.

  Thoughts swirled through his head. No wonder Matt came unglued at the bus station. His daughter had taken a turn for the worse.

  Please … God … don’t let her die.

  Why hadn’t he gotten his meds last w
eek when he’d seen them getting low? Delaying the drug purchase hadn’t been very smart. Sorrow coursed through him like a canoe navigating the rapids of the Colorado River.

  His father was right.

  Dalton was stupid and stupid is as stupid does.

  Now his parishioners needed him and he’d failed them. He’d hope to gain their sympathy today, not their disdain. He closed his eyes against the pain, both his face and internal.

  Maybe seeing his injury would deflect their anger.

  And maybe Matt’s girl would get better.

  And then again, maybe not. Suddenly, everything felt doubtful. His plan. His brilliant plan. What if it didn’t work? Then this would all—the car, the pain—be for nothing.

  Charity had been sick a long time. What if her body gave up fighting this time? Then he’d stolen Matt’s last few minutes with his child before she died.

  He’d borrowed so much money from the church. What if someone found out and accused him of being a thief? Then he’d be arrested … maybe even … serve jail time?

  He bent his head, away from the glaring sunlight. The swelling bulge beneath his eye couldn’t disguise the growing shame inside. He pulled out the pill container from his pocket. He held it up to the light and wetted his lips. One more wouldn’t hurt.

  As he twisted the lid, he heard a distant siren. He quickly stuffed the bottle into his pants.

  ***

  Samantha heard the shrilling of an ambulance. She grabbed the gym bag and stood. Dalton wasn’t completely insane. At least he’d called 911. She left the glade and climbed a hill overlooking the road.

  Dalton sat below. Seeing the flashing lights from the oncoming ambulance, she crouched behind a thick spray of weeds.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Legal Lies

  _________________________________________________________

  5:40 p.m.

  Highway 89

  Dalton leaned against a Jeep Cherokee. A highway patrol female officer and two male EMTs clustered around him. The medics cleaned his facial wound, then dressed it with gauze and tape. The AHP officer, wearing a Smoky Bear hat, stood by, pen in hand, looking at him.

  “The bleeding’s stopped, Reverend, but it could reopen,” an EMT said. “Hold this against your face.” He handed him an ice pack.

  Dalton did as told and thanked him, then looked at the patrolwoman.

  “When did this happen?” Sgt. Margaret P. O’Reilly asked. She seemed too young to be a Sergeant.

  “About f-f-forty minutes ago.” Dalton shuddered. He grit his teeth, glancing at the dipping sun. If they were to check out the blood splattered highway, they’d better get to it.

  The officer, her hair pulled so hard to the back she almost squinted, made notations in her pinch book.

  “I normally don’t pick up hitch hikers,” Dalton explained. “He was just a kid. I thought he was in trouble, so I pulled over.”

  “Can you describe the assailant?”

  “Clean cut. In his twenties, I guess.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Brown hair and wire-framed glasses. He looked desperate.”

  “Do you remember what he was wearing?” Her unblinking stare ruffled him.

  “A light-colored Polo shirt … sorry … maybe it was white or light blue …” Dalton arched his eyebrows. “I don’t remember.” Being too certain of details signaled a lie, he knew.

  “Long pants or shorts?”

  “Shorts. I think they were cargo pants. I guess I remember that because my son, Gordy, dresses like that.”

  After he estimated the man’s height and weight, Dalton added, “I can’t believe I was so stupid to let him into my car.”

  The officer just looked at him. Uncertainty roiled in his gut. He adjusted the white collar. She believed him, didn’t she?

  “He needed to get to Winslow,” Dalton continued. “A friend abandoned him on the side of the road after an argument. He said his phone was dead.”

  She wrote something. “Then what happened?”

  “I didn’t want to leave him here, so I offered to take him to Prescott. I was on my way up there anyway. Once he got inside, he pulled out a hammer from his backpack. He hit me in the face. I could have been killed.”

  “That is very possible, Reverend Baxter.”

  “I played dead right over there.” Dalton pointed to the center line of the stained highway. The officer nodded and continued writing. “When I heard him drive away, I got up and crawled to the side of the road. Thank goodness I still had my phone.”

  “Which way did he go?”

  Dalton pointed in the direction of McCormick. “South.”

  “You mentioned four thousand dollars being stolen … is that the exact amount?”

  “Pretty close to that amount. I can call in the exact total tomorrow. It was a church offering. I was taking it to a mission in Prescott. It’s recorded on the office computer.”

  “Do that. We’ll need it for the report.” She handed him a business card. “Here’s my contact info.” Sergeant Kelly closed the pinch book and slid it under her arm.

  “Reverend Baxter we’re done here … for now. At the advice of the EMTs, I recommend you be taken to Camp Verde General. They have a trauma center.”

  Dalton agreed and thanked her, then shuffled toward the ambulance, leaning against the EMTs. He looked forward to getting to the hospital. Pain meds waited at an ER.

  He caught himself before he licked his lips.

  ***

  Samantha watched Dalton climb into the emergency vehicle. The patrol car circled around and headed toward Prescott. Within minutes the ambulance, lights spinning, followed.

  Once they were gone, she re-focused on the Nike bag. She yanked it open and dumped out the contents in her lap. She unfurled the gym clothes and a Ziploc bag fell out. It contained hundreds of little yellow pills.

  It didn’t take her but a second to figure it out.

  Oh, Lord! He’s addicted.

  She recalled an incident about six months ago. Dalton had stormed through the front door after a doctor’s appointment.

  “He won’t give me anymore,” he yelled, waving an empty bottle in her face while she stirred a pot of stew. “My knee’s killing me and Doc Donaldson wants me to take Tylenol. Can you believe that?”

  She thought at the time he was overreacting. Now everything made sense. The weird seclusion in his office. His manic mannerisms while he preached. The confused expressions on congregant’s face. And sometimes he was outright rude to his flock.

  But why would he deliberately destroy his car? And whatever possessed him to hit himself? And then why – would he put on his clerical clothes? She held up the plastic bag in the waning sunlight. Where did he get them?

  Then she remembered. Matt leaving abruptly from the bus depot restroom.

  Dalton, how could you?

  After Matt’s arrest and prosecution for dealing drugs two years ago, the Connor marriage teetered. Coupled with a previous D.U.I., it had been a miracle the judge granted probation instead of jail time. Carla agreed to stay if Matt maintained sobriety and worked an honest job. No more drug dealing. No more alcohol. Period.

  Samantha remembered the day of Matt’s sentencing. She and Dalton had gone to several hearings to offer support. She would never forget the day Matt stood before Judge Fairbanks, expecting the worst.

  “Mr. Connor,” he said. “I’ve decided to handle your case a little differently. You seem to have a lot of friends in the courtroom and your pastor has written a letter about you. I believe you want to make changes so I will grant a period of probation for three years.”

  Matt shook so badly Samantha thought he might fall. His public defender steadied his elbow and patted his back.

  “I expect to never see you in my court room again, is that clear?”

  “Yes, your honor,” Matt answered, then made his way back to the galley. He collapsed into Car
la’s arms. They both wept.

  “I know you can’t drive right now,” Dalton told him when they’d all left the courtroom. “I’ll get you to your A.A. meetings, brother.”

  Matt and Carla’s faces filled with hope. That had been a joyful day.

  Samantha squinted at the horizon, seeing the flashing red in the distance. Anger knotted her stomach.

  Sitting in the dirt, things became clear. When Charity came out of remission last year, the couple’s debt mounted. If not for the church fundraisers six months ago, their home would have gone into foreclosure.

  Dalton took advantage of the situation. What a hypocrite.

  Samantha shook the pills. Street drugs were expensive, where had he gotten the money? His inheritance was gone after that stupid spending spree last summer with the purchase of the BMW and those fancy suits. Samantha burned, remembering the new jet ski and upgraded golf clubs in the garage. There was nothing left. How many times had she warned him to slow down?

  Certainty rose in her chest as her eyes welled.

  Her husband stole the mission offering.

  Dalton, I don’t even know you anymore.

  She stood and brushed dust from her slacks. What should she do next?

  She took a deep breath. One thing at a time.

  She’d pick up Grace and then get home to a quiet house where she could think. Decisions needed to be made. Decisions that could change her future.

  Samantha climbed into the Camry and started the engine. Sweat circles clung to her armpits. An hour from now she’d relax in a hot tub with a glass of wine so she could get her thoughts together and figure out her future. She’d witnessed Dalton walk to the ambulance. He’d be well taken care of. A night apart from him would help her sort things out and get some perspective.

  Samantha tapped her phone but it was completely dead. She hunted under both seats for the charger a second time but no luck. Easing into the dirt road, she headed toward the highway. A trail of red dust billowed behind. Once she reached the main road, she forged south toward McCormick.