The Vessels

by Anna Elias

  “Who the hell is it?” the burly voice yelled again.

  Grace couldn’t speak.

  The chair groaned as the large man stood. He stomped to the door, shaking the house with each step. His clothes smelled of salt and sweat from the day’s work.

  His eyes narrowed. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  Tal knew the rules—speak the truth, no matter what. She scanned the farmer, pulse thumping. Those words would come at a price.

  The Spirit spoke. “It’s me, Tom. It’s Darleen.”

  The large man fell against the door. The spring hinges squealed.

  “I’ve come back to see you and Gracie one last time.”

  Anger seared Tom’s face. He pushed Gracie aside, grabbed his shotgun from inside the door and stormed onto the rickety porch. It shuddered under his feet.

  “Listen to me, nigger,” he seethed. “I don’t know who you think you are coming up here like this and calling up the name of my dearly departed wife, but I won’t be havin’ it. Get off my land before I shoot ya for trespassing.”

  Tal tensed at the gun, but her police training kicked in before she could stop it. “I am not soliciting, stealing, or causing you or your property any harm, Mr. Watts.” Tal felt calmer than she expected. “Trespassing is a misdemeanor. Murder is a felony. You’ll be sentenced to—”

  “Not if I know the sheriff,” Tom snarled, his strong, thick body looming over her petite frame. “Turns out, I do. And he’ll understand what I mean by trespassing the second he sees you.”

  Tom drove Tal to the edge of the porch. She grabbed a wooden beam to keep from falling off.

  She wound up, ready to strike. Darleen’s Spirit tempered her.

  Grace watched the whole thing in awe.

  “Get going,” Tom said. “And never set foot here again, or I’ll shoot first and explain later.” He wielded the gun for effect.

  Tal seethed, fists curling as she walked backward down the concrete steps. She wanted to pummel this guy, but the Spirit diffused her with patience, compassion.

  Tal glared into the man’s blazing green eyes, and the Spirit spoke, firm but loving. “Like it or not, Thomas J. Watts, this is me. Darleen. And I’ve come back to you and Gracie Anne to clear the air about a few things since my suicide.”

  Tom’s jaw dropped.

  Gracie gasped.

  Tal was shocked, too. Yet another reason the Spirit chose her.

  “I love you both and I will be back. Once you can shut your mouths and open your minds.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  GOVERNOR RON

  Governor Ronald Galt leaned back from a wide wooden desk covered in budgets, folders, and mountains of paperwork. The Nevada Legislature went into session every other year, but budget deadlines never ceased. He rubbed his bleary eyes and loosened the knot on his red Hermes tie. “What time is it?”

  “Time is irrelevant,” Mark Horner replied from his perch on the leather couch. Ron’s best friend and Chief of Staff sat surrounded by equal mounds of paper. He yawned. “I’ve ordered takeout. We’re here until this baby is done.”

  Ron stood from his expensive Herman Miller chair and stretched, rolling the kinks from his tight chest and shoulders before crossing to the window. The tip of his e-cig glowed red against the blackness outside, and his blue-gray eyes reflected in the glass, tracing the walkway lights that outlined the Capitol building grounds. Every governor since the first three had maintained an office here, and most had kept the antique furniture and historically inspired décor. Ron was less than halfway through his first term and had already changed the carpet, painted the walls, and exchanged the more modest furnishings with leather seating, a walled bookcase, and an imported Italian desk. “Buildings are like trees,” he’d quipped to Mark shortly after his swearing in. “A tool for people using them. Not the other way around.”

  Ron adjusted his silver, wire-rimmed glasses. “Not like the view from Pennsylvania Avenue.” He took another drag. “Two more years.”

  “Of this term. Plus one more. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Mark said, ambition underscoring his words. “We’ll need that time to privatize the public sector and get corporate support. Then you’ll have the platform, funding, and patronage to slide right in. After the ass and the asshole that came before you, there’s never been a better time for an independent to run for president. Once we secure the base.”

  Ron chuckled. “I’ll have to get the Oval Office sterilized. That many years of bullshit will do a lot to stink up the place.”

  “Why do you think Dubya changed carpets after Clinton? To make sure all of him was cleaned out.”

  Ron smiled and returned to his desk. He ran manicured fingers through his thick black hair and read names on a stack of files. “Public Health Programs, Public Education, Mental Health Organizations, Veterans Services, Homeless Shelters, Homeless Resources, Housing Services, State Prisons.” He scowled. “How much are we spending on this shit every year?”

  “Not nearly as much once we cut, outsource, and privatize,” Mark replied, stretching his arms along the back of the couch. “We’re doing well with public schools and homeless shelters. People are balking at prisons, though. They’re afraid salaries and raises will be based on the number of bodies behind bars. They think we’d have to imprison everyone and their mother just to meet quotas.”

  “They’re right,” Ron said. “Great use of DC politicians if you ask me.” He uncovered a folder marked with a sticky note. “What’s this?”

  Mark glanced up. “Oh. Some shelter in Reno I need to call about. Licensing office said the place changed owners but didn’t refile the paperwork.”

  Ron opened the folder. “Samaritan Resource Center. Who names these places, anyway?” He shuffled through copies of the deed, the state license, the health department certification, construction permits, and inspection papers. “Looks okay to me.”

  “To me, too,” Mark said. “Someone in Reno called to say the original owner left, and it’s being managed now by some guy named Sam Fullerton.”

  Ron paled, and the cigarette fell from his mouth. He bent to retrieve it and when he sat up again, his cheeks burned with anger. “Samuel Douglas Fullerton?”

  “Maybe. Why?”

  Ron spun through the file again, checking the signature line on each page. “Diego Ruiz. Dammit. It’s Sam, all right.”

  “What are you talking about?” Mark lowered his arms.

  “This guy Diego was Sam’s best friend since before I was ... since they were in Vietnam.”

  “You know this guy?”

  Ron’s heart leaped to his throat and he turned away, holding his breath to slow the adrenaline gushing through his veins. His old man hadn’t troubled him in years, and now he was in the same state, running a shelter Ron intended to close. Beads of sweat moistened his upper lip. He caught Mark’s troubled look in his periphery and took a moment to fix his mask of control before turning back around.

  “I knew his kids way back when.” Ron was careful to sound glib and disingenuous. “They hated their old man—some big deal army officer who lived overseas, worked at a hospital, and got tied up in this huge affair. He lied to his family about the whole thing. They found out because the mistress got pregnant and wanted to keep the baby, but Sam forced an abortion. The church kicked her out, her family disowned her, and she had to leave a lucrative, fulfilling job. So, she told his wife. His kids found out when students teased them at school. The whole thing was a shitholy mess.”

  “What happened to Sam?”

  “Everything worked out for old Sam. His wife forgave him, he retired from the army with a full pension, and, last I heard, moved to the States as some hospital administrator or something.” Ron held up the folder. “Until now.”

  “And the kids?”

  Ron took a protracted breath. He’d gone to Herculean lengths to distance himself from Sam, ever since they’d moved to Chicago from Germany. He’d left home young, changed his name, and
rewritten his history to reflect a single parent, only child upbringing with his aunt in Virginia. She’d never found out, and doing so had left him free to pursue his dream of politics without the baggage of family or the potential of intrusive reporters interviewing Gale, hounding Fergie, and digging up Sam’s dirt.

  His aunt had died before he’d started in politics. His mother had died more recently, but before he’d become politically accomplished enough for anyone to find out about her. And Ron paid his sister, Gale, very well to keep their relationship and history under wraps, guaranteeing him the total fresh start he’d wanted. Gale had grown up hating Sam almost as much as he did, so she’d been an easy purchase. Sam was the only one left to say anything, and his past had been enough to keep him quiet and distant. Until now.

  Ron returned to the window, hands clenched. But lately, Gale had been talking about reconnecting with their dad, and wanting him to meet her teenage daughter. She’d even dropped the bomb of forgiving him and moving on with things. He inhaled a long flavored vape then blew the smoke out through his nose to feel the burn.

  He was as good a Christian as any other. In church with his family every Sunday, singing hymns, taking communion, and tithing his not-quite-ten percent. Conservative Christian groups backed his new Independence Party. But some people were impossible to forgive, or they didn’t deserve it and were destined to rot in hell. Like Sam.

  Ron tapped his leather shoe sole against the carpet. Gale was too much like their mother to listen. She would cave and forgive the bastard, too. Together, they might expose Ron’s truth at the most inopportune political moment, and shatter years of hard work spent carving his desired identity. Every potential voter, supporter, and constituent would learn about Sam Fullerton and what he’d done. They would also realize Ron had lied about his past and spurned his family, and that might drive them to actually sympathize with Sam.

  No. He couldn’t let that happen. Sam would not ruin his life a second time.

  “I don’t know about the kids,” Ron lied, returning to his chair and scanning another folder as if the whole topic had become a bore. “I lost touch with them through the years.”

  Mark paused. “So ... why do you think Sam is here?”

  “God knows. Why run a homeless shelter after spearheading a huge hospital?” Ron vaped again, the LED tip glowing red against his fingers. “Tell you what. Show me everything you learn on this one—permits, budget, bank financing, private donors, everything. If this guy’s got something up his sleeve, let’s stop it before it begins.”

  Ron couldn’t chance Sam blowing everything wide open once Ron closed, sold, or privatized the homeless shelter. In fact, maybe Sam had chosen this homeless shelter to force Ron’s hand, to lie in wait and expose his lies. Ron seethed. Sam would have to go—bullied, threatened, removed, or silenced, it didn’t matter. Ron needed him out.

  “Do you want to talk to this guy?” Mark asked, dubious.

  “No.” Ron stopped himself and forced a dismissive tone. “I don’t have time. Just make sure this asshole doesn’t get away with anything else after what he did to his kids. We need their votes.”

  Mark chuckled, but worry clouded his eye. “The shelter’s funding is seventy-five percent private, maybe more, with big-ticket donors from Chicago where this Sam guy used to work. Some money is federal, but there’s not much from the state. We’ll have a hard time forcing a corporate buyout.”

  “He’s smarter than I thought,” Ron mumbled, tossing the folder to Mark. “Find out all you can. If there is anything wrong with their paperwork, so much as one i out of place, close them.”

  “But what if he’s clean? What if everything’s legit?”

  Ron sharpened his gaze. “I’m sure you’ll find something.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  LINK

  Link motored slowly through the darkened neighborhood. He turned off the headlights and parked several houses down from Rose, away from the nearest streetlight. He looked up and down the street, making sure no one saw him before silencing the engine.

  Valerie’s Spirit calmed his nerves. After taking several breaths, Link stepped out into the brisk night air. The clouds had gone, and stars dotted the suburban sky. Their twinkle dimmed in the glow of orange streetlights.

  Link hurried past Hillary’s house and caught a glimpse of motion through one window. A blind closed, a light went out, and the movement was gone.

  His palms sweated. The Spirit cooled him. He steeled his nerve and turned from the sidewalk to Rose’s drive.

  They passed the large tree with its tattered ribbon and stepped up onto the porch. The Spirit warmed and he knocked, standing away from the peephole this time in hopes Rose would open the door to look out.

  It worked.

  Her eyes burned the moment she saw his face. “That’s it. I’m calling the police.”

  She moved to slam the door, but Link blocked it with his foot. The Spirit spoke fast.

  “You have a scar on your belly from gall bladder surgery when I was three.” Valerie’s voice once again made Link’s higher, more feminine.

  Rose’s eyes opened wide.

  “When I was born, you said Daddy sang while the nurses cleaned me off. I stopped crying right away.”

  Rose paled. “What song?”

  “‘Memory’ from Cats. The first Broadway show you two saw together, on your first trip to New York. I loved that song for some reason.”

  Rose sagged. Tears moistened her eyes. “Valerie?”

  “It’s me, Momma. I swear.”

  Rose opened the door, and Link stepped in. The home was modest and immaculate, with white carpet and white painted walls that served as a simple canvas to the colorful décor. A few scattered vases of fresh-cut flowers sweetened the air. Valerie’s Spirit beamed with love at her mom, at this place.

  Rose closed the door. “How is this possible?”

  “It’s bigger than both of us, Mrs. Williams,” Link replied, letting Valerie guide him and Rose to the sage green sofa in the adjacent living room. Pictures of the girl, from birth to high school prom, filled every corner. Her smile lit up each frame, as did her bright green eyes shining under differing styles of wavy brown hair.

  Valerie sighed. Other than the flowers, nothing had changed since she died. Their home, like Rose, had shriveled into a painful shrine.

  Rose invited Link to sit on the couch. “The accident happened one week before graduation.” She sat in a matching chair to his right. “Did you know that? Did she tell you?”

  “No, ma’am. I pretty much learn as we go.”

  “Ten years ago this month. She was seventeen, with her whole life ahead of her.”

  The Spirit turned Link’s hand palm-up and rested it on the sofa arm. He squirmed. “She, um, she wants to feel your touch.”

  Rose jerked back.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, secretly relieved. “That was too fast.” He pulled back and rubbed his damp palm against his pants.

  Tears sparkled. “I’m sorry, too. It’s just that ...” Rose looked down. “You look so much like the boy who killed her.”

  Link jerked up. No wonder Rose had been so angry the first time they met. Then again, maybe the Spirit had selected him for this reason, to make Rose face her greatest fear.

  Valerie warmed in reply.

  Great, he replied. As if things weren’t hard enough.

  Valerie ignored the sarcasm and beamed so much joy through his eyes he could barely see. “I love you, Mom.” Her voice sounded girlish and sweet, yet mature and wise at the same time. “You were my world. Always there for me and loving me, especially after Dad died. I know his death and mine were hard for you, but ...”

  “Hard?” Rose snapped. “It nearly killed me.” She took a breath. “Losing Bob to cancer was painful enough, never mind having to raise you alone. But no parent is supposed to bury their child.”

  The girl’s love blazed through Link like invisible flames. “I know, Momma. But you can let go of that
anger now. And you must forgive Zach.”

  Rose jumped to her feet. “Never. Not after what he did to you and the others. That boy is the reason you’re dead.”

  “It wasn’t his fault.”

  “It was,” her mother growled, pacing like a lioness. “Zachary Thompson should be serving a life sentence for murder. Instead, he’s running around out there all footloose and fancy-free.”

  Fancy-free? Link’s anger flared. That’s hardly how someone feels who’s been accused of taking a life.

  Valerie vibrated to calm him before pressing Rose again. “My death was not Zach’s fault.”

  “Stop saying that.” Rose turned away, glaring at the floor.

  Link shifted. They had to connect eye to eye to meet soul-to-soul, or the Spirit’s mission could not be accomplished.

  Rose’s lip trembled. Tears ran down her cheeks. “I wish he were dead instead of you.”

  Valerie ignited the emerald flecks in Link’s eyes.

  Rose stared at them, dumbstruck. She opened her mouth to speak but a forceful knock shook the front door.

  “Police, Mrs. Williams,” a voice boomed from outside. “Is everything okay in there? We need you to open the door.”

  Link lurched to his feet, ready to run, but Valerie turned him to lead and collapsed him onto the couch. He couldn’t lift so much as a finger. His eyes widened in fright.

  “I didn’t do this,” she whispered. “I swear. I didn’t call.”

  Rose dried her tears and hurried to open the door.

  Link peeked around to see two large, uniformed officers looming over Rose. They looked past her into the house, scanning the place until they spotted him on the couch. He turned away, trying to appear peaceful and nonchalant. Had they come closer, they would have seen him anchored in place, drenched in sweat, and praying for his heart not to burst.

  “May I help you, Officers?” Rose asked, her voice calm and sweet.

  “A neighbor called,” one of them replied. “She said an unwanted visitor forced his way in.”

  Link remembered the movement in Hillary’s window. She must have seen him go by and called the cops.