by Karon Ruiz
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Stranger In The Night
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1:45 a.m.
Baxter Home
Samantha groped through the dark kitchen. Grace slept, her face meshed with Samantha’s shoulder. She flipped on a light near the sink. Overhead florescent bulbs hummed. The usually warm terra cotta walls felt joyless and cold. Dirty cereal bowls and half-drained coffee cups from Sunday reminded her of the normalcy she craved. She should be sound asleep upstairs, nothing keeping her awake. Charity Connor should be alive, maybe having a sleepover with Grace. Dalton should be strong and whole.
Grace raised her head. “Mommy?”
“Shhh ...” Samantha touched her daughter’s face. “Let’s get you to bed. You’ve had quite a night.”
Samantha carried Grace up the stairs to her room. She tugged off her sneakers and laid her between crisp sheets. She stroked her daughter’s hair until she fell back asleep, then left the room.
As she headed toward the staircase, Dalton’s snores crowded the landing. She poked her head in their bedroom and stared. Slivers of moonlight streaked across his bare chest as he laid on their king size bed. White gauze shrouded his face.
He slept peacefully.
A whirlpool of anger roiled in her stomach. It wasn’t fair.
Samantha padded down the stairs to the kitchen and got her keys, then hurried to the garage and popped open the Camry’s trunk. After pulling out the canvas bag, she unzipped it and dumped out the contents on the garage floor. Clothes and shoes, along with the zipped baggy, tumbled out on the concrete. She dug through the tote, finding the hammer, then extended it like a dead mouse. She cringed at the sight of dried blood clinging to the claw tips.
After a careful inspection of the tote and its contents, Samantha had a plan. She crammed everything back inside the Nike and headed outside to a shed near the back of their property. Eight fifty-five gallon drums containing an emergency water supply lined one side of the storage unit. After crawling under a utility sink, she secured the duffle behind a barrel.
She returned to the kitchen, filled a kettle with water and placed it on the stove. Sipping hot tea under the starry desert sky was just what she needed to clear her head.
With a shrill whistle of steam, she drowned a chamomile bag with boiling water, then stirred in some honey. Cradling her cup, she walked to the backyard, vapor wafting heavenward.
A million stars invited her to the solace she craved. A gentle breeze played with her hair, offering mercy from the heat. Paloverdes swayed, silhouettes of their branches danced in the moonlight. The soothing tea quieted her soul.
She looked forward to crashing on the den couch. Sleep would deliver her from this horrible day and away from Dalton’s incessant snoring. Better enjoy it now, mister! This was the so-called calm before the storm. Things were about to change. The peaceful town of Daltonville was about to be hit by a tornado.
With her tea almost gone, she glanced at the kitchen window. A microwave clock glared neon green through the glass.
2:22
The electronic trinity stopped her.
Father, do those numbers mean anything?
His answer came instantly inside her head. The word “Daniel” saturated her thoughts. The warm cadence of His voice brought comfort. Daniel … the Daniel in the Bible?
She collected her cup and went back inside. After finding her Bible on the kitchen counter, she thumbed through to the Old Testament prophet.
He reveals deep and secret things; He knows what is in the darkness, and light dwells with Him. Daniel 2:22
Would God show her what the truth was? Was Dalton hiding more than a drug addiction?
Revelation dawned. God was in the darkness with Dalton. Didn’t the Bible also say if we make our beds in Hades, even there, He is with us?
It had been a horrible day. Was there anything else Dalton hid from her?
Please show me, Lord.
A rooftop air conditioner rattled. She waited for that still, small voice but heard only the motor’s hum.
“Ahem ...” A raspy cough crowded the silence in her home. Had Dalton gotten out of bed?
A throat cleared, followed by more coughing.
Samantha jumped back. Definitely not Dalton. Who was in her house at this hour? She crept to the kitchen and opened the cabinet above the stove. She found a loaded Ruger behind the Better Homes and Gardens Family Cookbook. She grabbed the weapon and forced herself to walk toward the den, clutching the gun, trying to steady her shaky hands.
A light came on in the den.
“Who’s there?”Samantha yelled.
“It’s me.” It sounded like Deidra Storm. The earthy voice was unmistakable.
“Deidra?”
Looking like she’d escaped from a ‘seventies sitcom, Deidra filled the entryway, wearing one of Dalton’s shirts. Disheveled hair raged around her face while smudgy eyeliner added to the dark circles under golf-ball sized eyes.
“My Lord! It’s me, Samantha, don’t shoot!”
Samantha lowered the weapon and stared. Deidra wore her bunny slippers, the ones the kids gave her last Christmas.
“What are you doing in my house?”
“Didn’t Dalton tell you? I picked him up at the hospital.” Her brow furrowed. “I couldn’t leave him alone in his condition so I decided to sleep on your sofa. I thought you knew, hon. I’m sorry to frighten you.”
“He didn’t tell me.” What else was new? “I didn’t see your car. How was I to know you were here?”
“I moved it. Didn’t want to give the neighbors anything to gossip about. Poor thing, he had trouble walking so I helped him to bed.
I bet you did. Anger and frustration battled in Samantha’s chest. She drew a deep breath and managed to speak calmly. “Look Deidra, I can handle things. We’ve had a rough night so I would like you to leave.”
“If you insist.” Deidra huffed as she brushed past Samantha and disappeared into the breakfast room.
“Don’t forget to leave my slippers,” Samantha called.
Moments later, Deidra reappeared and returned to the den wearing flip flops. She pressed the slippers into Samantha’s hands.
“I’ll return the pastor’s shirt in a few days,” she said before charging through the front door leaving a wake of expensive perfume.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Missing Stephen
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Monday morning, 7:50 a.m.
Huckleberry, Arizona
Rhythmic thumping robbed Shirley Weston from her last few minutes of REM sleep. Golden fingers of morning sun crossed her sheets and arms. She sat up, rubbed her eyes. What was that noise?
Oh, yes. Gordy. He must have gotten up early. He was already shucking corn.
A chunky braided rag rug covered planks of honey-colored maple under her bed. She planted her feet on the rug’s softness as she squinted at the clock without her glasses.
7:50.
She’d slept in. She had a hungry boy to fill.
Shirley climbed into her robe and grabbed a hairbrush from her bureau. The mirror didn’t soften her sixty-seven years. Every line advertised heartache, worry, and loss. She dragged the brush through her unruly grays, tacking clumps of long hair at her temples with tortoise shell combs.
She picked up a framed photo of herself and her husband, Stephen. They stood outside The Love Place, a San Francisco coffee house back in the 1960s. Stephen’s flaxen hair hung six inches longer than hers. They’d been so happy. Had it been over fifty years since that rainy summer day?
I miss you, my love. She kissed the picture and set it down.
Hearing a kachunk against the redwood decking brought her to the present. She padded through the hallway toward the back door. She pushed open the screechy screen and her grandson looked up.
“Hi, Gram
s.” His smile always warmed her. He sat on an Adirondack chair by a plastic tub nearly filled with corn.
“You’re up early, Gordster.”
“I got up at five. This is my last bucket.” He brushed silky strands from his arms. “I thought I’d head up to Moonscape today but changed my mind.” He craned his neck at the sky. “There’s an incoming storm, which makes a minuscule viewing window this afternoon.”
“Are you still going to Huckleberry?”
“I’d like to. Can I use your car?”
“The keys are on the hook. I thought I had an astronomy lesson today.”
“I’ll be back by two. They’ll be plenty to look at.”
“We’ve got a new Dairy Queen near the hardware store.”
“I’ll check it out.” Gordy downed a swig of coffee.
“Don’t forget to take the tubs inside so I can prep the corn for the freezer.”
“Sure, Grams.”
“I’ll make us some breakfast.” Shirley went back indoors. She collected eggs, milk and flour. Flapjacks just the way Gordy liked them were on the menu. As she cracked eggs into a bowl, she looked forward to sharing a meal with one of her most favorite persons on the planet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Asleep In The Light
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9:10 a.m.
McCormick, Arizona
Samantha covered her eyes. Light streamed through the sliding glass window, drenching her face. Pressure gripped the sides of her head. She sat up and massaged the knots in her neck.
Seated inches from the T.V., her daughter watched a cartoon.
“Grace?”
Blond curls spun around. “Mommy, I’m hungry.”
“It’s late. You must be starving.” Samantha got to her feet. “You can eat out here, if you’re careful.”
Grace jumped with delight and found her favorite place at the coffee table while Samantha trudged toward the kitchen.
Minutes later, Samantha deposited a bowl of Greek yogurt with sliced strawberries in front of her daughter, then returned to the kitchen. She pulverized some espresso beans and filled a coffee press, then lit a burner under the kettle.
She drowned the coffee grounds with boiling water, then shoved in the plunger and set it aside. A thick, black ooze seeped to the surface.
Though the breakfast room was soaked with morning sunlight, it failed to cheer Samantha. Her special place in the 1950s vinyl-backed banquette did nothing to lift her spirits. Instead anger climbed as she sipped her coffee.
She slammed down her mug and headed upstairs.
Samantha flung open the bedroom door.
Dalton didn’t budge.
She flipped on the light and jabbed his shoulder. He groaned, but his eyes remained shut.
“Wake up!”
His face looked awful. The puffy skin encircling the eye above the bandage was red and swollen. A half moon bruise hung under his good eye. She pushed him again, harder.
His eyes flickered and a frown formed. “What?”
“There’s something we need to discuss.”
“I’ve got to sleep.”
“You can sleep after we talk.”
He managed a sitting position and leaned into the headboard. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to Phoenix last night. Is this about the Connors?”
“It’s about you. Lately … it’s always about you.”
“I had my own health emergency, didn’t I?”
“Charity Connor passed away.”
He shook his head and didn’t say anything. For a moment she thought she saw genuine empathy in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it would happen so soon. I hoped … prayed she would rebound.” He lowered his tone. “This is awful.” He sighed. “I’ll stop by the Connors as soon as I can. But I’ve got to rest. Then I’ll help.”
He rolled over and moaned, then crunched a pillow under his neck. The purple contusion on his lower back reminded her he’d slipped on that rock in the desert.
Served him right.
She headed toward the vanity where she collected a brush and her makeup bag, then pulled out some clean underwear and clothes from the dresser before stomping downstairs.
Hearing a kid’s television program on in the background, Samantha dialed Laney’s number on her cell.
“Laney … I’m so angry right now, I don’t know what to do,” Samantha said when Laney answered the phone.
“What’s going on?” Laney asked.
Samantha covered her mouth and lowered her voice. “I’m ready to kick Dalton out,” she whispered, eying the den entrance. The sound of cartoons blared.
“Did you confront him? Does he know you followed him?”
“We didn’t get that far. After I told him about the Connors, he rolled over and went back to sleep. He kept saying he had his own health issues and he needed sleep. It’s almost like he believes he really was car-jacked. It’s like he’s in denial.”
“That’s about to end,” Laney said. “There’s a council meeting today. Everyone will know.”
Samantha stared at last year’s Christmas photo on the wall. She and Dalton snuggled by the fireplace, wearing matching sweaters. Grace nestled on Dalton’s lap while Gordy stood behind. But within a week Dalton would be under a surgeon’s knife. All due to his foolhardy back-country skiing trip.
“Samantha?”
“Sorry, Laney ... there’s a meeting?”
“In a few hours. Everything will be okay, mija.”
“I’m not sure about that.”
“I’m coming over.”
The thought of company, of hostessing, filled her chest with dread. “That’s not necessary. You need to rest after a long night helping that poor family.”
Laney seemed to read her mind. “You’re my friend right now, Samantha, not my pastor’s wife. You don’t have to get dressed, put on makeup or fix coffee.”
“But …” Laney’s words threatened to unlock the dam in Samantha’s throat. She swallowed. “Don’t you need to sleep?”
“Martin and I got home few hours ago. He’s out cold but I’m still riding last night’s caffeine high. I’m here for you, Samantha. I’m on my way.”
Grace rested on the shag carpeting, watching a Disney movie. Samantha pushed aside guilt, surrendering to reality. The electronic babysitter would have to do. Laney would be here soon and Samantha needed to take a shower.
A forceful spray of water massaged knots from her neck. The pelting against her body felt good, she was tempted to linger. Instead, she turned the faucet off and grabbed a towel. After dressing, she pulled back her dripping hair into a pony tail. She applied some lipstick and stared. Haggard eyes stared back.
When she returned to the kitchen, she paused in the doorway. Laney said no hostessing. But that was like telling the IRS not to bother collecting this year. She refilled the kettle, then found two ceramic mugs. She placed cream and sugar and some boxes of herbal tea on the breakfast table. The frozen loaf of homemade banana bread thawing on the counter would have to do if Laney was hungry.
After she arranged the refreshments, she crumpled into the breakfast booth and considered her plans. As much as she loved Laney, she wasn’t sure she’d listen today if it meant softening her attitude toward her husband. She fumed at Dalton and she liked it. No one could convince her not to. She draped her anger and disgust around her shoulders like a warm shawl.
She’d steer the conversation to the Connors. That would be a better topic. There were funeral arrangements to be made and since Dalton was bailing on his responsibilities, she’d pick up the slack. Again.
Hot needles pierced Dalton’s face, jarring him from fitful sleep. He felt for fresh blood that might be seeping through the gauze. His fingers came away dry. He got up and went to the bathroom mirror to inspect his cheek. The crisscrossed tape easily peeled away. The doctor’s stitching held. A tiny bit
of dried blood was all that remained from the suture.
Dalton’s hands shook as he pressed down the tape again. He rummaged under the sink for his pill bottle he’d replenished up in the mountains. He’d hidden it last night behind a package of toilet paper. He gazed at the yellow tablets.
According to Dr. Adams, it was time for a dose. With a sigh, he shoved them back into their hiding place. If only out of sight was truly out of mind.
But he’d tough it out. Taking the pills now would rob him of sleep he desperately needed. He gulped down two sleep aids from the medicine cabinet before stretching out in bed again.
He check-listed his day as he stared at the ceiling. First he’d fill Dr. Adam’s prescription. It wasn’t much, but it would help. Filing a claim for the BMW would be next on his list. He’d meet with the insurance guy this afternoon. He’d need new wheels so he could return to the mountains and dig up the duffle. His supply of Oxy would get him through the next few months while he adjusted to the new job, then he’d taper off his medicine. He could no longer count on Matt to provide them.
He swallowed hard. Matt. How sad he must be. With Charity’s death, the man must be out of his mind with grief. Why yesterday of all days had he forced Matt to meet him? Why had he been so stupid as to not buy the pills last week? Then Matt and his family would have been together for her last few hours.
Once he got his new job in Phoenix, he’d figure out how to help that poor family. That was the least he could do.
His insomnia seemed to rule the morning. Sleeplessness was imposed by an advancing army of guilt. Images of a grieving father led the charge.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Wise Woman
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