“When I was seven,” Mitch said, “she finally had enough and left us. I came home from school and she was gone. That was it. I was left alone with my father.” Those old feelings of abandonment surfaced and tightened his skin.
“And how did your father react to that?”
There were tears in Clare’s eyes. She was getting it, seeing him for the warrior he really was. And in those eyes he found not only the respect he craved and deserved but also admiration as well. Mitch didn’t want to tell any more, the rest was too painful, too horrific, but someone needed to know the truth. And the Apple-tons were as good as anyone.
“He reacted by ignoring me for a week straight. Didn’t talk to me, didn’t put me to bed or make sure I took a bath. Didn’t get me up and ready for school in the morning. Didn’t make me meals. Didn’t do any of the things parents do for a seven-year-old. I was on my own. He never wanted to be a father and fully blamed me for my mother’s leaving.”
And the outside world never knew. Even at seven Mitch got himself up every morning, packed his lunch, and walked to school. He didn’t want anyone to know what a messed-up family he had. He was too ashamed and embarrassed. No one knew his mother had left until a full year later.
Clare shook her head. “You poor boy.”
“Nope,” Mitch said. “Not yet. That was the easy part. At least he wasn’t torturing me. That stuff came later.”
His watch said it was time for him to go. Without another word he closed and locked the door to the Appletons’ room. The creak of the wooden steps leading to the first floor conjured a memory that had lain dormant for almost two decades. He was eight, and his father was drunk and out of work and bored. And there was nothing a boy his size could do when his father came at him with a length of rope and malevolent mischief in his eyes.
In the Appletons’ living room Mitch dropped himself on the sofa and ran his hands over his head. He grieved for that boy tied in the basement, forced to stand for a full day. Finally, when evening had come and he was filthy from his own urine and feces, he heard his father descending the steps and that familiar creak of the wood under his weight. Mitch thought he was coming to untie him, to finally let him loose and send him to bed, but instead he showed up carrying a six pack of Busch and a box of matches.
Chapter 40
RONALD HARMAN III thought he owned the world. At least that was the way he acted around Mitch the few times they’d interacted. It seemed being the CEO and president of Rockingham County’s only Fortune 500 company had somehow vaulted him to the top of the food chain. He thought he was untouchable, unapproachable, above the established law of the land. Anyone challenging him was dismissed as easily as one waves off a fly.
Harman’s father had started the food processing plant seventy years ago to service the town and the surrounding area. Before his death he had grown it into a national supplier and made it a publicly traded corporation. But it wasn’t until his son, Ronald III, took control that the company really grew. Harman was known as a hard-nosed businessman who would step on anyone to achieve the success and power he craved. Nothing was sacred; nothing was off-limits. He obeyed no one and disregarded any sense of decency or ethical responsibility. Ronald Harman respected no one but himself.
But that would soon change.
The Harmans lived ten miles outside Virginia Mills in a mansion they’d built after tearing down the old family home. The property covered fifty acres of rolling hills carpeted with manicured weedless lawn and dotted with landscaped oases of weeping willows and ornamental grasses. Each area provided a bench on which to sit in the shade and enjoy the spectacular view of the home and gently undulating hills from varying angles around the property. The home, a fifteen-thousand-square-foot Tudor-style behemoth, sat atop the tallest rise overlooking the entire area. Spreading out in any direction was Rockingham County, a servant bowing to its lord.
Branching off Crestlawn Lane, an asphalt driveway lined with cherry trees wove and wound over hills and around shaded groves until it reached the Harman residence. There was a security gate, but the stone wall on either side only extended forty feet then yielded to a line of Japanese yews that ran the perimeter of the property. The Harmans believed themselves so beloved by the people that they saw no need for further protection. And in spite of his devilish ethics and heartless decisions, Ronald Harman and his wife Betsy were respected by not only the citizens of Rock-ingham County but also by all Virginians for their hefty donations to local hospitals and charities.
Mitch sat in the Explorer at the entrance of the driveway and kneaded the steering wheel. Why was it that those least deserving of respect were the ones most receiving of it while those most deserving starved? Tonight Mitch saw himself not only as a vindicator of the poor saps in Harman’s shadow but also as a bringer of justice. Tonight a small corner of the universe would be brought into balance. The respected would be humbled, and the scorned would earn his most-deserving reverence.
He glanced at his watch. Time was short tonight.
He pulled the Explorer ahead another hundred feet and steered off the road, behind a stand of dense pines so the vehicle would not be visible from the road in the dark. There he shut off the engine and exited. After carefully passing through the yew hedge, he stole through the darkness on foot covering the two hundred yards to the house like a lunar shadow following the arc of the moon as it crosses the night sky.
On the front porch he stopped and collected himself. He knew it would only be Harman and his wife home. They had two sons, but they were both grown and had families of their own. One was Daddy’s vice president and lived on the other side of town; the other had abandoned the family business for a career in medicine. He was a successful thoracic surgeon in Cincinnati. Mitch would have to work quickly. He didn’t want to give Ronald or Betsy time to scream or fight back. That ordeal with Buck was too sloppy and took much too long.
Mitch pushed the button to ring the door chime and followed it with three heavy knocks on the solid wood door. Seconds later he heard footsteps inside the house. The porch light flipped on and the door opened. Ronald Harman stood there in brown leather loafers, pleated khakis, and a pin-striped dress shirt stretched tight over his protruding abdomen. Reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose.
Harman narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“Mr. Harman, is your wife home?”
Harman removed his glasses and frowned. “What’s this about?”
“Is the missus home?”
From another room Mitch heard Betsy’s voice. “Who is it, Ron?”
Turning away from the door, Harman said, “No one, hon. I’ll take care of it.”
Mitch wanted to make his move, but the time wasn’t right. He’d get only one chance at this and needed it to be swift and stunning. “Please, can I speak with both of you?”
“You can talk to—”
Harman was interrupted by Betsy entering the foyer. “Who is it, dear?”
She came into view and stopped when she saw Mitch. A short, plump woman, Betsy Harman had an attractive face and warm smile. But her smile was deceiving, for she was just as arrogant and condescending and cunning as her husband.
“What’s he doing here?” She said it like Mitch was a foul creature that had no right to intrude upon their evening and contaminate it with his petty concerns.
They both looked at Mitch as if expecting him to humbly apologize and crawl back into the hole he’d emerged from. “It’s about your son,” he said in the calmest voice he could muster.
Betsy’s hand went to her mouth, and she took a step closer to her husband.
“Which one?” Harman demanded.
Mitch said nothing but shifted his eyes between husband and wife, letting the suspense linger, letting them feel what helplessness was.
Harman put his arm around Betsy’s waist. “Well, out with it, man. Which one?”
Anger burrowed into Mitch’s chest, and heat radiated up his neck and into his fa
ce and head. “Frederick.”
Harman glanced at his wife, confusion twisting his face.
Without warning Mitch stepped over the threshold and brought his hand up and into Harman’s nose. Something cracked, and Harman let out a weak grunt and stumbled back into his wife. Before she could scream, Mitch jammed his elbow into her face. She dropped like her legs had been cut out from under her. Harman moaned and rolled over on the floor. He opened his eyes, and in them Mitch found what he’d come for: respect. Harman knew who was in control, who had the power of life and death in his hands. Quickly Mitch removed the knife from his belt and went to work.
Before he took Betsy’s life, he roused her from her daze. She turned her head lazily to the side and found her deceased husband beside her. Mitch grabbed her chin and made her look at him, made her respect him. No longer would she look down from her throne and despise the common man.
When Mitch was finished, he stood and wiped the blood from the knife’s blade. From the formal living room to his right footsteps on the hardwood flooring startled him. Then, “Dad? Who is it?”
Without hesitation Mitch moved toward the voice. At the doorway between the living room and the foyer Frederick Harman met him.
Tall and lean, Frederick was imposing only in a gaunt, lanky kind of way. He’d be tough to wrestle because you’d never control those spidery limbs. He scowled at Mitch and looked him up and down. “Who are you?” His eyes went from Mitch to his dead parents on the foyer floor then back to Mitch.
Right before Mitch stuck the knife in Frederick’s abdomen, the younger Harman’s eyes widened, his mouth formed an O, and his face went as white as paper.
Chapter 41
AT EXACTLY MIDNIGHT Jim awoke with a start. The bedroom door was open, and Louisa stood in the doorway, her thin frame outlined by the light of the hallway.
“Louisa, what’s the matter?”
Next to him Amy stirred and mumbled incoherently. She’d slept better the past few nights, deeper and more peacefully, than she had the previous months.
Louisa entered the room and rounded the bed. She said not a word, and at first Jim thought she must be sleepwalking. But when she stood next to the bed and faced him and the light from the hall fell on her face, he saw the clarity in her eyes.
Jim nudged Amy. “Babe, wake up.”
She stirred, mumbled, stretched her arms above her head. “What is it?”
Jim turned the question to the girl. “What is it, Louisa?” he asked.
The girl put her hands over her face and began to cry.
Amy sat up and pushed off her covers. “Oh, sweetie, come here.”
Louisa approached as Amy swung her legs over the edge of the bed and wrapped her arms around the girl’s shoulders. She pulled her close into a motherly hug and stroked her hair. “What’s the matter?”
Jim put his hand on Amy’s back and rubbed in slow circles.
Through her tears Louisa said, “I had a bad dream.” She pulled her face away and rubbed her eyes and cheeks with her hands. “There was a fire, and it was really hot. I was in my room calling for help, but no one could hear me. I heard my mommy screaming my name, but I don’t think she could find me.” She sniffed and wiped more tears away.
Amy pulled her close again. “Oh, baby girl. I’m so sorry, but it was just a dream. You know that, right?”
Louisa nodded then said, “I miss my mommy.”
Jim leaned over and put his hand on her head. She’d never shown any emotion about her mother before. “Sweetie, do you remember your mommy?”
Louisa looked at him. “I think so. I saw her in my dream. She was in my room. She told me everything would be okay. But then she was gone again, and fire was still there.”
“Could you tell us what she looks like?”
Louisa shrugged. “I don’t know. I think so.”
“What color hair does she have?”
“Blonde, I think.”
“Like yours?”
She nodded. “But a little darker. And cut to about here.” She measured her hand just below her shoulders.
“Anything else about the way she looked?”
The girl was quiet for a moment, thoughtful. Then, “She had blue eyes, real blue.”
“Like yours.”
“Yes. And a nice smile, like Miss Amy’s. And . . . ” She hesitated, glanced at Amy. “And she had a little dimple in her chin.”
Like Amy. A chill spread over Jim’s arms. If he didn’t know better, he would have said Louisa was describing Amy. Of course, maybe she was. Maybe her subconscious was messing around with her memory and imprinting an image of Amy where the girl’s mother should be.
“Do you remember her name?”
The girl shook her head.
Amy held up a hand. “Not tonight, Jim. That can wait until morning.” To Louisa, “Honey, do you want to get in our bed and sleep with us?”
The girl nodded again and climbed up into the bed. Amy moved over closer to Jim to make room, and Louisa laid her head on Amy’s arm. “Hon,” Amy said to Jim, “would you mind closing the door?”
As Jim got up to get the door, Amy began to hum a tune and stroke Louisa’s hair. It was the same lullaby she used to sing their baby while she rocked in the nursery and rubbed her belly. Amy had been better the last few days, eerily so. Was Louisa starting to take the place of their lost daughter? And if so, what would happen to Amy when they found Louisa’s real mother?
Just then he heard the muted sound of car doors slamming and then the unmistakable sound of voices. He strode across the room and peered out the window. “Oh, for goodness’ sake.”
“It’s midnight,” Amy groaned from the bed. “This can’t keep happening.”
“Stay there. I’ll take care of this.” Jim slid his feet into his slippers and padded across the room. At the door he turned to Amy. “Be ready with the phone.”
“Whatever for?”
He had an uneasy feeling about visitors showing up at his house in the middle of the night demanding a healing. If he refused them . . . “Just in case.”
He stepped out into the hallway, but Amy called to him. “Jim, wait.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“What are you going to tell them?”
“That the grill is closed and we stopped serving alcohol an hour ago.”
“Seriously.”
“Probably not what they want to hear.”
Still shielding Louisa, she reached for her cell phone on the nightstand. “Be careful.”
Jim headed down the stairs. Outside, Jim could hear what sounded like a small crowd of people gathered on the porch. He walked to the front window and pulled the curtains aside with one finger. There looked to be about six or seven people out there, talking amongst themselves. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but their voices sounded urgent, almost angry.
Jim turned and found Amy and Louisa standing at the bottom of the stairs, arms around each other. Jim went to Louisa and knelt. “How do you feel about this?”
She frowned. “I don’t have a good feeling about it.”
“Yeah, me neither.”
Amy brandished the phone. “Shall I call the police? I don’t like this.”
He shook his head. The last thing he needed was a bunch of angry neighbors and townsfolk because Jim Spencer overreacted and caused a lot of embarrassment. “No need for that yet. It’ll be fine. Just keep the phone nearby.”
Jim went to the door and flipped the dead bolt, turned the knob. There were seven people there altogether, but Jim only recognized two of them, Charlie Bucher and his wife, Adele. Charlie was friends with Jake Tucker. Ever since Jim had known him, Charlie walked with a double limp. His legs were so bowed you could fit a basketball between his knees when he stood with his heels touching. Charlie said both knees were bone on bone and that the only cure was two new knees, but because of his chronic heart condition no surgeon would touch him. He lived with pain every day.
Behind the Buchers
were a middle-aged couple and teenage son who looked to have Down syndrome. Beside them was another middle-aged man and woman.
“Hey, Charlie.” Jim nodded.
Charlie leaned to the side and tried to look around Jim and into the house. “Is she here?”
“Who?”
“You know who. The girl.”
“Yes. She’s here.”
When Charlie spoke again, his impatience was evident. “Well, let’s see her.” He glanced at the other folk. “We all need some of whatever it is she does.”
“Charlie, I don’t think she’s comfortable with this. And I’m not sure I am either.” Jim knew his response wouldn’t be popular.
Charlie furrowed his brow. “Why don’t you let her decide that?”
“Folks,” Jim said, “I’ll ask you to kindly leave our porch and let us go back to bed. It’s late.”
“Oh, c’mon, Jim. You know us. We’re all neighbors here.” Charlie turned to the couple with the son. “These are the Bakers and their son, Timothy. Look at him, poor boy.” He put his hand on the arm of the other woman. “And this is Reed and Jessi Teal. Jessi just found out last month she has multiple sclerosis. You gonna turn these good folk down?”
“It’s not about turning anyone down, Charlie—”
“That’s exactly what it’s about.” He pointed to inside the house. “That girl in there, she has the power to cure all these people, to heal my knees. You know how bad they are.”
“I’m sorry, really—” He looked around at each person on the stoop. “—but I’ll ask you again to go home.”
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