Burden of Truth

by Terri Nolan

  “That would mean Emmett was my rapist, and I can tell you absolutely that it wasn’t him. He’s not that kind of guy.”

  “You mean the kind who threatens to kill you in front of three cops?”

  “It was pure evil and hatred. Methodical. Planned. Organized. Not heat of a moment. Emmett and I had our differences, but he wasn’t capable of this.”

  “The evidence will tell us what happened. And there was a lot of it to be had.” Ron squeezed his eyes shut. “It was damn awful to visualize you there. It was the most disgusting and filthy crime scene I’ve ever witnessed.”

  “All neatly contained inside a single location with four walls.”

  “Why are you being cynical?” he said. “You should be happy there’s not going to be a trial, that you won’t have to be a witness in open court, or that the bastards that did this got their due.”

  “Then what was Emmett’s role in Reidy’s murder?”

  “It’s too early to say. There may not be a connection. Perhaps the body dump location was picked to throw off suspicion.”

  “Is that the theory being knocked around?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  She shivered. “I think the company man is still out there.”

  _____

  Birdie became tired halfway down the hospital hallway. She white-knuckled the walker and turned around. The grip of the non-skid socks forced her to pick up her feet. No shuffling allowed. After several long minutes she turned into her room. Father Frank sat waiting in the chair by the window.

  Frank had lost another earthly brother in the span of three weeks and the grief was clearly evident. Burdens were etched in the lines of his face. His shoulders fell forward. His Roman collar sat askew. His whole presence seemed shrunken and he clutched a wooden cross as though his life depended on it. Seeing his suffering, Birdie made an instant decision not to burden him with her crisis.

  “Frank!” said Birdie, trying to keep it light.

  He jumped up to help her into bed. She waved him away. “No, no, no. Let me do it myself.”

  “That’s my Bird. How’s my favorite parishioner?” he said with forced gaiety.

  “I didn’t know you were allowed to have favorites.”

  He winked and said, “Don’t tell anybody.”

  She backed onto the mattress and grimaced in pain.

  “Shall I call the nurse?”

  “I’m determined not to use the pain meds. They’re weaning me off.”

  “For God’s sake, why?”

  “I’m afraid of becoming an addict.”

  “Oh, Bird,” he said sadly.

  Once Birdie managed to get her legs up on the bed she fought the pillows into position and then struggled with the blanket. Finally she allowed a sigh of tiredness and settled back.

  “What a process,” said Frank, sitting in the chair closer to the bed.

  “It sucks.”

  They eased into a quiet equilibrium as they so often did. Requiring each other’s company, but not needing to speak. Frank held her hand. After a long while of reflective silence Birdie said, “I went to heaven.”

  “Oh?” Frank’s attention piqued. “Any revelations?”

  “Yes. God doesn’t provide virgins for Islamic radicals.”

  Frank’s instant laugh lightened his dark mood momentarily. Then, too soon, it morphed into a sob. He covered his face with his hands. Birdie let him have his cry without shushing or offering words. Here sat a simple man. He did God’s work and was enlightened in ways Birdie’d never understand, but a man nonetheless. Birdie felt blessed that Frank trusted her enough to let her experience his grief instead of holding it deep inside and whispering in the darkness of his small room at the rectory.

  After he recovered and blew his nose Birdie took his hand and kissed it. “I’m so sorry, Frank.”

  Frank acknowledged her with a smile and pressed the cross he’d been clutching into her palm. It was carved from a single piece of wood that had crescent-shaped tool marks rubbed smooth by constant fingering.

  “You touch this a lot,” said Birdie.

  “Yes. Emmett gave this to me when I took my vows. He made it himself from olive wood. I keep it on the bedside table next to my books. It represents pure faith. The kind that doesn’t need gold inlay or gems or silver or brass. Made and presented with love.”

  “It’s beautiful in its simplicity.” Birdie handed it back.

  Frank held up his hand. “I’d like you to have it.”

  “No, Frank. I can’t accept something that means so much to you.”

  Frank shook his head refusing her refusal.

  “Alright. Thank you, Frank.”

  She’d take his generous gift and in return she’d give him what he’d given her in big heaps over the years—comfort, peace of mind, and an ear to listen.

  thirty-five

  Saturday, February 4

  Ron greeted Father Frank with a firm handshake and closed Birdie’s front door. A panting black pug bounded down the last few stairs of the turret and skidded across the entry floor, nails scratching the wood for purchase. When she recovered she performed an excited doggie dance around Frank.

  “Why, hello Louise,” said Frank, rubbing the dog’s neck. “When did you arrive?”

  “She’s been staying with my neighbor. I asked him to bring her up along with some clothes.”

  “How did Bird react?”

  “She tolerates her exuberance.” Ron picked up Louise who squirmed in his arms. He kissed her nose, patted her flank. “You missed your daddy. Didn’t you, baby?”

  Frank chortled. “Where is Bird now?”

  “Napping,” said Ron, tucking Louise under his arm.

  “Good. I’m sure she needs it.”

  “She knows.”

  “She knows what?”

  “She knows.”

  Frank took a step back. “How is this possible?”

  “I don’t know. The first words out of her mouth when she woke up from sedation were, ‘Where’s Matt?’ I ignored it, but it hovers between us. She knows that I know that she knows.”

  “Does she know you called me here to mediate?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, my,” sighed Frank. “This is going to be fun. You best open a bottle of wine.”

  _____

  Birdie sat on the couch, bundled in a thick robe, and still she shivered. Ron held his arms tight across his chest and paced the living room.

  “He’s constantly shoving food at me,” said Birdie.

  “It’s basic math,” said Ron in his defense. “Frank, when she arrived at the trauma unit she weighed 96 pounds. Her body is burning up calories as it heals. The rehabilitation exercises burn calories. She doesn’t cook. She forgets to eat. So, yeah, I serve her a proper diet of complex carbs and proteins and good fats. And she gets food often.”

  “Is this really about food?” said Frank. He uncrossed his legs and reached for the wine glass only to discover it was empty. Ron refilled it.

  “No, it’s not just about food,” said Birdie. “He’s micromanaging my life. He answers the phone, takes messages, gives my parents daily updates. I move slowly, but I’m not an invalid. Ron hovers over me like some fragile piece of china with a fracture that will break at any moment. And the lights. He’s constantly turning them off.”

  “You complain about your electric bill, yet you burn kilowatts as if they’re free.”

  “I can’t be in the dark,” whispered Birdie. “Not anymore.”

  “Hell, Birdie,” said Ron. “Why not say so? That I get.”

  “What does the counselor have to say about that?” said Frank.

  “Birdie fired her,” said Ron.

  “A certificate from a tech school doesn’t mean she understands what I’ve been through.”
>
  “As a man of war I understand. You can talk to me.” Ron sat next to her on the couch, picked up her hand and kissed the bandaged wrist. “I’ve been around that shit all my adult life. It leaves a mark.” He gently pressed his palm against her damaged cheek. “And not just physical wounds. The Corps calls it stress inoculation. Troops are put through training and classes to teach them how to be survivors in combat scenarios. I’ve seen the aftereffects of simulations on the psyches of the toughest bastards. But you Birdie? You’ve been immunized in a real-life situation. I’m more than impressed by your strength of will. I can help.”

  “I’ll drive you crazy,” said Birdie.

  “I can handle crazy. It’s the anger that’s hard. I bring a blanket and you yell at me for coddling. I hear you weeping. I see the pain. When I offer the meds you scream at me.”

  “I don’t want to become addicted,” said Birdie. “I’ve told you that.”

  “He understands your point of view,” added Frank. “You need to see his. Addiction grows from abuse. Not occasional use. But what’s going on here isn’t about taking a pain pill or blankets or food or lights or therapies. It’s about your feeling of helplessness. You think Ron belittles you. He wants to mollify your burdens. Tell her why, Ron.”

  Ron got up shaking his head. Resumed pacing.

  “Tell me what?” said Birdie, flicking her eyes between the two men.

  “Why does he make sacrifices in his life to help you with yours?” said Frank.

  Ron looked at Birdie with wistful eyes.

  “He couldn’t have stopped my abduction,” said Birdie. “He has nothing to feel guilty about.”

  Ron turned away to hide his disappointment. “It doesn’t matter, Frank.”

  “Yes, it does,” added Frank. “What can crush a man of war?”

  “Enough,” said Ron. “Let’s move to the topic that’s the real source of her anger. “Her—” he winked his fingers, “—spiritual conflict. That’s why you’re needed here.”

  “What would an agnostic know about that?” challenged Birdie.

  “Because he’s observant,” added Frank. “And you should have more faith in—”

  “Faith?” Birdie seethed. “You question my faith?” Birdie reached out to push herself up. Ron instinctively held out an arm of support, then recoiled to allow her to get up on her own.

  “I was going to say you should have more faith in Ron. But since I’ve hit a nerve, keep going. What do you want to say, Bird?”

  Birdie shuffled toward the window, aware of Frank and Ron’s concerned eyes on her. She looked down at the lawn; the grooves from Emmett’s car tires were barely visible. The incident seemed ages ago. A lifetime had passed since then. Truly. Her life had been stolen and by some miracle regifted. Only, she came out the other side with an adamant and profound knowledge that upset her more than the violence. The distance of days from this one to that one added doubt, and now she was uncertain. She threw a quick glance over her shoulder. Ron knelt next to Frank. They whispered conspiringly, comfortable with each other’s company. Like old friends. Louise rested her head on Frank’s thigh. He absentmindedly rubbed her ears.

  Birdie turned away. Her eye caught the sunlight on the glass in such a way that her warped reflection bounced back at her. She had tasked Ron with covering all the mirrors with newspaper so she wouldn’t have to see the horror, but now her freakishness was validated like the quick click of a camera shutter. She moved her head side to side, but the image vanished in the time lapse along with the light. Like unremembered memories, it might come back when you least expect it. Just like the one of Rankin and Thom and the kitchen surgery. She thought of Thom now as he told her the true story of that night. He had said something curious, “When it comes to conspiracy, the fewer people the better.”

  It finally became clear. The thing that niggled her brain, the thing she couldn’t realize or reach. Until now. Her world wobbled. She leaned into the window to keep balanced. She wanted to throw up. To laugh. Cry. Scream with joy. A confusing mix of emotions left her breathless and curious and relieved and happy and … devastated.

  Birdie hobbled back to the couch. She’d need to sit. Frank and Ron were trying hard not to look anxious. Ron took to pacing again. Frank flicked his finger through a bowl of nuts looking for a cashew. Louise wagged her tail.

  “I’d been bothered by a photo Matt had tacked up in the shed. Four guys in the snow,” she said. “When I pressed Ron, he explained that the photo was taken on a ski trip to Mammoth. Matt, Ron, Jacob, and this guy named Parker Sands were standing side by side like old friends.” She gazed up at Ron. “Please get the photo for Frank. You know where it is.”

  Of course he did. The photo was on the dry erase board next to her notes that were read by him and Gerard and Patrick when they searched the house looking for a clue to why she was abducted.

  “Why Matt would purposefully display an unimportant photo next to ones picturing milestones confused me,” said Birdie.

  Ron returned with the photo and handed it to Frank. His eyes dilated with recognition.

  “Matt knew I’d go to Henshaw House after his passing,” she continued. “He knew the exact location in which to hide a photograph in plain sight. Sometimes obvious isn’t always so. He said that to me a long time ago and I’ve utilized that obviousness in my work. I wondered … why this photo? I stared at it for long stretches of time looking for some revelation. All three men pictured happened to deal with his body. Patrick called it luck of the Irish. But we all know that Matt made his own luck. Now I know that the revelation is behind the scene. Unseen. The picture taker. You, Frank. You accompanied Matt on that trip. I had forgotten because it was inconsequential. After all, you and Matt took many trips together. But see, Matt not only wanted me to find the photo. He wanted me to know the truth. Many truths in fact. And I will continue to seek them out until I’m satisfied that I’ve learned everything.

  “So here you are. Two of the four conspirators.” Birdie waved her finger at Frank and Ron in warning, met their gaze evenly. “You two want me to talk about my spiritual conflict? I know Matt’s still alive, but I don’t know why. But you do. Be thorough in your confessions.”

  thirty-six

  “Why do you think Matt’s still alive?” said Frank.

  “He wasn’t in heaven,” said Birdie.

  “Maybe he’s in hell,” offered Ron.

  “Nice try,” she said. “Frank can accept the purity of that truth.”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” said Frank. Then to Ron, “Birdie questions everything. Even divine inspiration. She needs proof.”

  “That’s not true,” said Birdie. “I feel the truth of my experience

  in every cell of my body. But there’s more here. I thought Matt tasked me with one mission: to finish a job he started years ago. But he also wanted me to question why he gave up his life. He laid enough bread crumbs. It started with his late visit to my birthday party. Do you remember, Frank? I called you the next morning.”

  “I recall being at a loss for words,” said Frank.

  “Because you knew what was about to happen. And you wondered why he’d make a promise he had no intention of keeping. On my birthday nonetheless. That was the first clue to task number two. The gibberish on the office wall is my effort at cobbling together the puzzle.”

  “I hear wishful thinking,” said Ron. “I saw nothing in that so-called gibberish to explain why Matt would still be alive.”

  “Perhaps I’m not properly articulating the reasons why I know what I know. So let’s say Frank is right and that I need proof. I mean, he knows me better than any human on this earth. Trust me, Ron; I can prove my theory very easily. All it will take is enough fuss, to the right authority, to cause enough doubt, to get an exhumation. Done deal.”

  “A hollow threat,” said Ron.

  “No, it’s not,” said Fran
k. “When Bird puts her mind to something she’ll move a mountain to get what she wants. An exhumation won’t be necessary. We’ll tell you everything.”

  “NO,” said Ron.

  “I know you’re afraid, my friend,” said Frank in the most soothing way possible, “but she has to know to protect all of us.”

  “What do you mean, ‘protect all of us’?” said Birdie.

  “We broke the law. Jacob, Parker, Ron, Matt, and myself. The empty casket of a popular police officer would reach the public domain the way a spark turns into a wildfire by a fierce Santa Ana. Our lives would be ruined. We’d go to prison. And Matt’s life would be in more danger than ever. Only you can save us, and in the process save yourself.

  “Ron, you promised,” continued Frank. “You said that if Birdie were found alive that you’d come clean. Isn’t that why you called me over?”

  “I can’t,” said Ron. The words came out in an anxiety-laden whisper.

  “What are you afraid of?” said Birdie.

  “He’s afraid of losing you,” said Frank. “Don’t you see that he’s in love with you?”

  Birdie knew. She’d known almost from the start. Did she love him in return? She didn’t want to, she fought the emotion, pushed it back.

  “I was heartbroken when you were snatched,” said Ron. Pain broke in his voice. “I felt as if a giant hand squeezed my insides. Frank is right. I made that promise because if we are to have a chance at a life together then it’d have to be clean. No secrets to destroy it later.”

  Just like Emmett’s, thought Birdie. “You best talk to me then,” she said.

  “It was Matt’s idea,” said Ron, pacing again. “Conceived and organized by him, carried out by the rest of us. Except Deputy Santos. He wasn’t in on it. His role was to authenticate Jacob’s findings. The guy had his fingers on Matt’s jugular and was so freaked out that he couldn’t feel his sedated pulse.”

  “From the beginning?” said Birdie.

  “It’s true that Matt and I met for the first time in Mammoth. But I lied about knowing him. We became buds. Spent time together. Fished in Cabo, drank in Tijuana. One weekend he came to my house. Totally wasted. Depressed. That weekend, I met you. Matt showed me photographs. Lots of photographs. I must have lingered over them too long because he said, ‘You can fall in love with her just like that,’ and he snapped his fingers. Then he said, ‘I’m going to make provisions for her and I want you in her life.’ When I pressed him for details, he said he was going away. He was going to turn in some evidence on a long investigation and enter the witness protection program. He made me swear that whatever happened, I would look after you. He even offered to pay me.”