The Charity

by Connie Johnson Hambley

  “No reason? You practically danced when you found those clothes in the trash just now. You wished the photographer was here yesterday to have taken pictures of her wearing them. You easily could have arrested her on the spot as a suspect with probable cause. Why didn’t you?”

  “My investigation was not yet complete.” The older man’s eyes had a certain deadness in them.

  Shea shook his head in disbelief. “Your investigation? Then what am I doing here? What is everyone else doing here?”

  “I had no choice but to bring you along.” His eyes darted around the room. “Procedures and policy are clear. You belong to me. Period.”

  Shea’s heart was beating hard. He looked into the eyes of the detective and was struck by their coldness. They had no depth. Suddenly, things became clear and he instantly knew they did not share the same goals. He struggled hard not to let his revulsion show on his face.

  Coogan continued his tirade. “Any good rookie cop worth anything knows to verify every shred of evidence on every case through his superior. Every method and procedure must be verified and approved to make sure no false leads occur. Any cop that goes off half-cocked on some tangent risks a great deal of respect, as well as suspension without pay and certain dismissal from the force. Now then,” Coogan looked around him at the figures of the men frozen in their places, “is there something you want me to know?”

  Red flared in Shea’s cheeks. “I... I just don’t think she did it.”

  Coogan snorted his disgust. “Yeah. I’ll take that one under advisement.”

  Shea took a breath as if to say something, then stopped.

  Victory. Coogan backed off. “Okay, boys. Finish up. We have reports to make.”

  Shea focused on the details of the photos of Jessica and Gus one last time. He saw her face surrounded by hair being moved by some unseen breeze, and looked into her eyes. They sparkled with the enjoyment of the moment, but there was a sadness about them, too. Gus stood proudly next to her. He was the image of the proud father. Very happy. Very protective.

  Shea closed the album and followed the men out the door.

  The normal sounds and shufflings of the busy barn did not waken her. The grooms and stable hands went about their business as they did each morning, ignoring the yellow crime scene tape that fluttered in the slight breeze. Each horse was first fed and watered, and then the stall cleaned down to the dirt. Fresh sawdust and hay were strewn evenly about while the four-legged tenant was led out into the corridor and placed into cross ties. Its coat was meticulously brushed and cleaned until light rippled across its surface, showing the power of the body beneath the hide. Then each horse was in turn placed into its bridle and saddle and led off by a gallop boy for the directed exercise of the day.

  With their leaders gone, each rider, stable hand and groom took more time and looked even more carefully after the horses than they ever had. They knew the animals and were relied upon to take good care of them. The hands were entrusted with gold and they did not dare to jeopardize their futures with a careless sprint or a missed hot tendon. Gus would have had each of their heads if anything went wrong with the training.

  They had hung on Gus’ every word and studied every move he made in assessing and training a horse. They listened to his soft brogue as he murmured to the horse and softly grunted his approval for a lesson learned. The more astute hands tried to match Gus’ handling of a particular horse to its record at the track. Just when they thought they had learned a trick of the master, something would happen. A lame horse would win or a champion would lose. The hands would scramble around Gus and those horses to observe the aftermath of what they thought was an upset. Instead of seeing a pissed-off trainer, they always saw Gus softly murmuring his approvals or apologies to the animals. The stable hands left disappointed to mull over whatever it was that they possibly could have missed.

  The routine on Worldwind Farm had its own rhythm and song. The early mornings were busy with the feedings, grooming and barn work. This was followed by precisely prescribed exercises. After the horses were properly cooled and watered, they were either placed out in a meadow for the afternoon or returned to their stalls.

  The long afternoons were fairly quiet in the barns and the day after Gus’ murder was no exception. The stable hands took a break before the busy evening feedings and barn work. The sounds changed from the murmurings of the people to the shuffling of the relaxing horses. With the shock of the past day’s events still sifting through the layers of disbelief of everyone involved with Worldwind Farms, the barns grew even more quiet and still in the late afternoon hours.

  Jessica opened her eyes and looked around. She rolled over onto her elbow and fished long pieces of hay from her hair and shirt. She had slept fitfully with dreams and memories of the past night doing battle in her head. Her mind was covered with a thick film and it took a moment to remember where she was. She sat stock-still as she listened to and labeled each sound. Satisfied that only horses inhabited the barn at this time of day, she shoved the bales of hay aside and made her way down out of the loft.

  The late afternoon sun streamed into the barn on long slanted shafts of light. Jessica jumped off the loft’s ladder, skipping the last two rungs. Her shoes hit the earth in silence and scattered up a small burst of dirt, particles shimmering and twisting in the light. The tiny flecks of nothing at one moment flashed and in the next almost disappeared, only to reappear again, spiraling downward. The flecks would spin, flash and turn away. Flash. Spin.

  The intensity of the sparks of light made Jessica look harder. Flash... Again Jessica looked.

  At first her eyes were focused on the dance of the specks still swirling in the light. Eventually, they adjusted to the distance where she saw the flash. Jessica took a step forward and held her breath.

  Nearly invisible, hidden in a deep layer of dirt and straw, was a small, silvery object. It would have remained in its hiding place were it not for the angle of the sunlight filtering through the barn’s windows and hitting its polished side. Jessica took a few more steps, reached forward and picked it up.

  The lighter had a silky smoothness and depth to it. Jessica felt the weight and coolness of it in her hand. She stood a long time just feeling its presence. The lighter was made of sterling silver and was of noticeable quality. It was well worn and obviously a favorite object of its owner. Having spent many hours away from its keeper, it had chilled to its core. The faint acrid smell of lighter fluid drifted upwards. Now, in the hands of Jessica, it began to warm again and soften to her touch. It became real.

  Jessica closed her fist around the lighter and held it up to her face. She let her fingers open slowly and looked at the image in her palm. The smaller scratches and dings of the lighter had been smoothed over again and again by the frequent use of its owner.

  But there were deeper, more purposeful etchings on its face. Jessica stared at the deliberate design and froze. The markings were clear. Staring back at Jessica were the three leaves of a shamrock with a dagger cutting a jagged edge through it. Pear shaped drops leaked from the wound. Reddish brown clots were stuck to the hinge.

  The sound of the main barn door rolling open struck her ears. Instantly she thrust the lighter into her pocket and sprung, catlike, back up the ladder to the loft. Silently, she scrambled her way back into her igloo, pulling the hay bales over the opening and waited.

  “No sir, Nooo sir! I ain’t heard or seen nothing all day around the barn.” Jason’s voice drifted upward to the loft. Jessica listened to the crunching of dirt underneath feet as the men walked through the barn.

  “Right here is where I found Gus. Jest right here layin’ in a pool a’ blood. ‘Is guts jest spillin’ out and everything and—”

  “Yeah, thanks. We saw the pictures and read the reports. I don’t see any blood here now. Why?”

  “Hey, Coogan, back off for a second. I want to hear again for my
self what he has to say.” Officer Shea stepped forward into the shaft of sunlight. Dust swirled around him.

  Coogan looked at his young charge with surprise then back to surveying the ground. “I gave you your opportunity to ask questions on our first visit. What’d cha do? Go back to your academy notes and memorize a few more? Just watch and listen,” he sneered. He returned his focus to the ground. “You cleaned this area up?”

  The groom looked nervously at the two men. “Well, I... I hope I didn’t do nothing wrong. Ah, I thought you and your men said it was okay to Cleanup that mess. The smell was makin’ the hosses real skittery-like. I shoveled up the mess an’ tossed some clean dirt around. I, um, I just did it this mornin’. I... I thought it was okay. Er, I thought you said it was okay.”

  Coogan tried to hide his irritation. “Well, then, why don’t you just show me where you threw the dirt and stuff then, all right? You say you didn’t find anything else?”

  “Nope. Nope. No sir. I tossed the dirt way back on the manure pile out that door. I’ll show ya.”

  Shea began to walk with the two men in the direction of the dung heap. Coogan turned, “You stay here. I want you to listen for updates on the fire.”

  Shea looked out over the grounds. Wyeth’s Worldwind Farm was beautiful. The old farmhouse stood off to one side, apart from the larger barn to the right of where he stood. Brick paths led to gardens and the other buildings. He nodded absently at the men taking large boxes from the house marked ‘EVIDENCE’ into a waiting van.

  He thought over the events of the past two days. Hamilton was a sleepy little town where nothing of consequence happened and now a murder and an explosion. Shea didn’t like the feel of it. He listened to the radio crack updates on the tavern explosion. It was a gas leak in some shabby hole of a place the next town over. They were combing the rubble for anything suspicious when they found two bodies. One body was quickly identified as the owner. The other body was nearly completely incinerated and had been crushed by falling beams. They had taken the remains back to the lab for identification.

  A burst of static broke into his thoughts. “Patrol 37. Come in, please. Patrol 37.” Shea walked over to the car and leaned in its open window. He grabbed the hand unit of the radio and depressed the transmit button with his thumb.

  “Shea here.” He tried to sound official.

  The dispatcher’s voice came over the air. “Keenan in Forensics just ID’d the charred body from the fire. It was female, approximately five feet eight inches tall, about 20 to 25 years of age. He tagged it as ‘Jessica Wyeth.’ Copy?”

  Shea stared in disbelief. “What! No... I mean Ten-Four. Shea out.”

  He felt sick to his stomach. He realized that he had felt something stronger than just professional interest in this case. But something was not sitting right with him. He took a deep breath and tried to shake his head clear.

  He returned to the corridor of the barn. He looked at the fresh dirt strewn on the ground and the various markings he saw scuffed about. Large boot prints were mixed with hoof marks that led both up and down the corridor. Two markings, almost like smaller footprints, at the base of the ladder to the loft caught his eye and he walked over to take a closer look.

  A sudden movement knocked a hay bale off its perch in a far corner of the loft. It thudded softly down from the igloo.

  Reflex. Shea pulled his gun and aimed directly at the disturbance, knees slightly bent, both hands outstretched in front of him. He assumed the ready position and aimed without making a sound. Now he waited for another cue which would tell him whether to discharge his weapon or not.

  The sound of raised voices distracted him. “Oh Jesus, No. No. Jessica a murderah?” Jason’s wail filled the barn. “She coulda never have done dis. She loved Gus like a father. And what happened to Gus only an animal woulda had the strength to do that. No sir, no sir! I’d put my money on a dif’rent hoss than that one.”

  Shea listened to the words of the groom and looked up the shaft of his gun into the hayloft. A gray barn cat skittered across the bales. He slowly relaxed the hammer cock of the weapon and placed the gun back into its holster. “Coogan!” he called as he turned away, “Forensics ID’d the body from the tavern. It was Jessica Wyeth.”

  “AH! Jeeesus!” Jason’s wails increased in pitch and tragedy. “No! No! Not Jessica! Not our little Jessie! One minute she’s a murderah and the next she dead! No! Ah Jesus! I just can’t understand dis no more. Ah! Jesus!” Jason’s lament was sent echoing through the barn. The horses shifted nervously in their stalls.

  Coogan stopped and stared coolly at Shea. A split second later he glanced at his watch and smiled. “Well, that’s it then. The only suspect is dead. Case closed. Let’s get back to the station.”

  Shea’s gaze drifted from Coogan to Jason and then back to Coogan. Flecks of hay and manure clung to the detective’s imported leather shoes. He noted that whatever Coogan had been looking for it must have been pretty damned important.

  “Yeah, right. That’s it. There is nothing more I can do.” He barely succeeded at hiding his contempt. Catching himself, he continued, forcing his tone to be congratulatory. “I guess this is one for the books. Nice job, Coogan. I really have to hand it to you. I never would have sewn up this one so tight and so fast. I just know the citizens of Hamilton really owe you one.”

  Coogan’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the young cop. “Thanks. I’ll remember you said that.”

  It was night before Jessica dared to move again. Her body ached from being in one position for so many hours. Slowly and carefully she began to straighten her arms and legs. Her stealth was partly to guard against any other bales of hay from falling on her and partly because she was so stiff she was afraid she would scream out in pain if she moved too fast. She had locked herself into one position immediately after the first bale of hay fell. From that point, she was in the middle of a house of cards. One additional movement at the wrong time and everything would have come crashing down on her.

  Her forced stillness meant her thoughts were free to thrash about. She tried to put the pieces together in some way that she could grasp and comprehend. The past two days were growing fuzzier, marked by broad strokes of memories of seeing Gus dead and being covered with blood herself. There was more to it than that. The rough fragments of memories she had the day before were slipping away. In their place, the guilt of her inability to act grew. She killed her family. She could have helped them if she had just had the strength to be heard. But she did not get anyone to listen to her. She did not scream or run or take the knife out of anyone’s hands. She did not try hard enough and they were all dead.

  She killed Gus Adams and now everyone knew it. The verdict was in and it was undeniable. She was a murderer. And, according to what she heard in the barn, a dead one at that. She was alone. Totally alone. She could not and would not seek help from anyone, especially the police.

  Jessica climbed down out of the loft and landed with a thud at the base of the ladder. Her joints ached and her limbs did not respond easily to her commands for movement. She listened again to the sounds of the barn and began to walk around.

  The barn, once familiar, was now so strange. She walked up and down the aisles, smelling the sweet musky odor of the horses and listening to their contented sounds. Memories of a little girl popping in and out of stalls as she helped Gus care for a sore tendon or hot foreleg came upon her and then faded. Peals of laughter from her mother and father echoed back into the soft nickerings of the barn’s inhabitants.

  After a long while of drifting, she found herself standing in front of Blue Jeep’s stall. She looked at the big gray gelding as he munched away at a mouthful of hay. The brass plate with his name shone in the muted light of the night. Running her finger over the etched letters of his name, Jessica slowly curled up into a ball at the base of the stall door. Knees hugged tightly to her chest, she began to sob.


  She tried to curl herself up so tightly that she hoped she would truly disappear. Images of her family sharpened and faded. She begged her mother and father to come back, to help her. Feeling small and helpless, huge wails escaped from her as she pleaded with them for forgiveness and to protect her from the bad people. She waited a long time for them to reach down and touch her, but the touch never came. It never did when she had cried for them so many times over the years. Now, she added a name to her lament. She wanted so desperately for Gus to come back and to tell her that this was all a joke.

  Eventually, the raw wound of emotions hardened over. Tears stopped streaming down her face. She stayed curled into a ball with her head down on her knees. Something touched her, and for a moment her heart pounded with the thought that her prayers were answered. Then she became more fully aware of a warm breath on the back of her neck. She looked up into the face of Blue Jeep.

  He draped his neck over the side of the door to get a closer look. He nuzzled her softly and butted her gently with his giant head urging her to stand up. Jessica let herself into his stall and threw her arms around the horse’s muscular neck. He seemed to sense her need for comfort, letting his head droop over her shoulder. Soon, though, he became alert to the prospect that she might take him on a hard ride and began pacing excitedly around his stall.

  “You’ll miss me, won’t you Jeeps?” The horse cocked an ear toward his companion and looked toward the door.

  “No. Sorry buddy. No rides tonight.” Jessica let herself out of the stall taking care not to let the big animal follow her through. “I’m sorry, Jeeps. I have to go. I know you’ll get a real good home somewhere.” She gave him another brisk rub on his forehead and kissed his nose. “G’Bye, fella.” Choking back fresh tears, she turned and walked back up the corridor.