Dry Bones

by Carole Morden

  I waited as the sound of the engine whine diminished to nothingness.

  Time to act. I stood up slowly and brushed off whatever was making a home in my hair, not wanting to know. I was sticky wet from earth crawling, so I removed my blouse and slip. I almost laughed. If Abigail could only see me now, what advice she would have. No shoes, no slip, no shirt—just undies, a tank top, and a revolver. What all the best-dressed minister’s wives were wearing this year.

  Creeping slowly through the foliage as if eggshells covered the forest floor, I retraced my path. The privy came into view, and I noticed the gaping door. Except for a dull splotch of red where House fell, nothing. Drag marks stretched from the blood to where the passenger door would have been if the car had stayed put. I was thankful Rella had taken the time to save House.

  I had no idea how far away I was from any help. Giving the unused execution site a cursory look, I started walking. Rella’s tire tracks should lead to a main road.

  My throat ached for water. The ride in the trunk and the fight with House had expended a lot of my energy and sweat. Hoping to hear a creek, I stopped to listen for the sound of running water. I heard none. I kept walking.

  The logging road I was on turned onto a wider country road. Wherever this was, I had to hand it to House. It looked like a great place to leave a body. Totally deserted, totally away from civilization. I shoved sweat-soaked bangs away from my forehead and kept walking. The lush vegetation suggested water, but I didn’t see any. The rains must have fallen heavily in April to produce such thick green plants.

  “Well, Sister Thornbush, how would you get out of this mess?” I said out loud.

  “I wouldn’t be in this mess, dearie. I wouldn’t be chasing all over the country trying to find some murderer. No sir, I would be home praying, or baking dinner for some sick soul, or cleaning the Lord’s house. I wouldn’t be gallivanting all over the world looking to do God’s job. He says vengeance is His, you know.”

  I could actually hear the disapproval familiar to Abigail’s tongue.

  I licked my dry lips and thought perhaps Abigail had a point. I was in way over my head. But certainly there was more to the pastor’s wife’s life than staying at home, praying, baking, and cleaning. Not that those things were bad. They weren’t, but I had a brain too. Surely it couldn’t be wrong to use it?

  Caught up in the imaginary conversation with Thornbush, I almost missed the sudden onslaught of footsteps behind me, but not quite. I jerked sideways, but dropped the gun.

  The tree limb Rella swung at me smashed into the ground, jarring her arms. Not giving her time to recover, I kicked her in the side, knocking her back into a tree. All reasoning long gone, Rella screamed in rage and charged.

  The impact knocked me off my feet, and Rella fell on top of me. We rolled over and over, each trying to gain the advantage. She put her hands around my throat and started to squeeze. Using my good left hand, I reached up and grabbed the little finger on the hand clawing my neck. I bent it back with all the strength I had left. No mercy, no grace. Fight the good fight. I heard a pop, followed by a scream.

  Rella let go of my throat and grabbed her hand. Her pinkie was broken. I shoved her off and sat up. I grabbed her broken finger and twisted hard. She screamed again, trying to pull my hand away.

  I held on. With my right hand I scrabbled in the dirt and foliage feeling for a rock. I found one. Forcing myself to withstand the pain, I picked it up, swung a wide arc with my arm, and smashed the rock into Rella’s head. Her body went limp.

  Adrenaline surged through me. I felt Rella’s neck for a pulse. Beating. Good. Pulling off my tank top, I twisted Rella’s arms behind her back and tied her wrists together. I snatched her shoes off her feet and put them on mine. A bit too big, but my feet were already bloody from walking, and at this point, I wasn’t picky.

  Black-eyed, broken, and scantily clad, I looked for the main road.

  I walked out of the woods to find a convenience store less than two miles from where Rella lay bound and unconscious. It was 4:00 a.m. on Sunday morning. The car I had spent many an unhappy hour in was parked in front of the store. I approached slowly. Looking in the window I saw no sign of House.

  The convenience store clerk looked like she was seeing a ghost. No, not a ghost, just a pastor’s wife in bra and panties.

  “I just called an ambulance an hour ago for a gentleman who looked in bad shape. You look worse. Can I help you?”

  “I need a phone and some clothes. No ambulance. That guy you sent to the hospital tried to kill me.”

  The clerk took off her smock and handed it to me. “I really don’t have any other clothes here. Sorry. You can use the store phone.”

  I called Scott. The police van took less than two hours to arrive. The remaining bunch of Cliffhangers rode in the vehicle. Looking at my friends, I broke down and cried. Rachel held me. Tough old Billy gave me his jacket, and Todd gently picked me up in both arms and carried me out to the van.

  I finally caught my breath and looked at Shawn. Taking a deep breath, I tried to find healing words as I told him about his insane wife.

  EPILOGUE

  It didn’t take a grand jury long to indict Rella on several counts of murder, while House faced one murder charge and one of attempted murder. Billy covered the story and received a huge promotion.

  Rachel stayed in Anderson with her mom. Craig asked her out, and they are now dating. Shawn resigned as ambassador to Israel and brought his little girl back to Indiana so she can visit her mom at the Indiana State Prison. He accepts who Rella is and what she has done, but he still loves her. He will not forsake her. Todd continues to farm. Scott is still doing the cop thing.

  For about fifteen minutes I was an instant sensation, but declined interviews with all the major networks. Headlines read: PASTOR’S WIFE SOLVES 30-YEAR-OLD MURDER and JAMIE STORM STOPS SERIAL KILLER WITH A PRAYER. I flew home as planned. It has taken David some time to accept the fact that he wasn’t there to protect me and still isn’t used to the fact that we are now millionaires.

  The boys tease me, calling me Ramboette, but they recount the story to their friends every chance they get. Their pride warms my heart.

  The Stewarts wrote a note of thanks for helping them find closure . . . and justice.

  And me? I signed up at a gym and started working out after my collarbone healed. I can run a mile and a half now. I’m not winning any speed records, but I feel a hint of personal pride after each run. David and I settled uneasily into our old routine. I need time to sort out my feelings and put my life back into perspective. uuuuu

  October

  The timer ticked away noisily, reminding me that I had fifteen minutes before the macaroni, sausage, and cheese casserole would be finished. The rest of the meal—fudge brownies, fresh-cut veggies, orange fluff salad, and a loaf of garlic bread—was already boxed up in the fridge. Tom and Sue Wilkenson would be bringing their baby home from the hospital today, and I was first on the list to deliver a meal. It would give me a good chance to welcome little Natasha into the world . . . and get out of the house.

  My life had slowed down to a crawl after my adventures with the Cliffhangers, and I was bored. So all activities, church-related or not, were welcome. The timer seemed to be ticking—patience . . . patience . . . patience. I stuck my tongue out at it. It didn’t change its cadence. I was restless, eager to get going, so if the timer wasn’t going to cooperate, I would just ignore it. I wiped down the counters again, straightened the junk drawer, and nearly leaped out of my skin when the doorbell rang.

  The timer still had ten minutes left of merciless ticking. I tossed the dishrag over the faucet and went to the front door. I burst out laughing. Hats in hands, badges prominently displayed, officers McCready and Johnson stood on the porch trying, without success, to look all business. In reality they looked like two overgrown children, trying to wheedle their way out of punishment.

  “What can I do for you guys?”

  “Th
e captain wondered if you might want to come down to the station,” McCready said.

  “Come down to the station?” Was this some kind of joke?

  “It’s nothing serious, ma’am,” Johnson said, quick to allay any fears on my part.

  “Go on.”

  “The Great Falls Police Department is opening a new division. The captain wants to talk to you about being a part of it.”

  I felt my pulse quicken and my interest level ratchet up a notch. “What do I know about police work?”

  “I don’t think he cares about what you know, it’s about what you do.”

  “What do I do?”

  “According to newspaper accounts and all the major networks, you crack old, hard-to-solve cases. He wants to talk to you about the corner of our basement that holds case files full of unsolved murders. Cold cases. Cases we don’t have enough resources to work on.”

  I stood there motionless. My insides jumped around like live wires. This sounded too good to be true. Like the dream of a lifetime. A job, solving mysteries?

  “Where do I sign?” I said. My voice sounded giddy with excitement.

  “The problem is, the department doesn’t have the budget to pay more than part-time,” McCready said.

  “Money, schmoney,” I said in my most adult-like voice.

  McCready and Johnson visibly relaxed.

  “Give me five seconds.” I raced to the kitchen, turned off the oven, kissed the timer, pumped my fist in the air a couple of times, then sedately walked back into the entryway, grabbed my Bears jacket off the hook, and smiled.

  “Let’s go meet the boss, boys.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I love the alone time writing affords me, however, there are many people to thank who have contributed immensely.

  Thanks to Jeannine Marjerrison—Mom—who passed her love of reading down to me and took us kids to the library without fail every other week. To the writers of those books who took a little girl to unbelievable worlds.

  To the Plains Public Library that provided the small community with the best variety of books possible. My insatiable love for words was filled by you.

  To Ron Rude, teacher, mentor, and encourager who gave all the students he taught a chance to be more than they believed they could be.

  To Karen Alexander who spends her days teaching at-risk kids how to read, the most important job in the world, and who never lost faith in my writing. You are a pretty good beta reader also.

  To Jeanne Cook and Norma Beishir for writing advice, to Phil Walrod for allowing me to write at work, to Kelly and Gordon for being perfect, to Doris, my favorite sister and beta reader, to Neil, Jerry, Tuck, Jimmy, and Brian who I love dearly, and to all the other encouragers who said I could write. Thank you.

  To the staff at Deep River Books for the chance to see a dream realized. And to editor Barbara Scott. You are the best.

  To the J.O.Y. group—what would I do without you? And for the study Greater for encouraging me to keep digging ditches.

  And to God for doing what You do best—saving lives, creating beauty, gifting humans with your love—and for Your immense grace.

  To my family who puts up with me day in and day out. I love you John. Thanks for doing all the work while I have fun. Muncher, Randa-Kay, Kinlee, Nebraska, Ethon, Cheryl, McKayla, Levi, Janice, Shaylin, and Xander—I love you. You guys make colors brighter, sun shinier, and life more livable.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Carole Morden was raised in a log cabin that her uncles and her dad built in 1936, in the Cabinet range of the Rocky Mountains of Montana. The town of Plains was five miles from the cabin, and she looked forward to the family’s two weekly trips into town—one on Sunday for church, the other on Monday to go to the library.

  Carole is now a pastor’s wife, living in St. Louis, Missouri. She has worked as a retail manager, administrative assistant, engraver, tree farm worker, disc jockey, and hair salon manager—all of which created active backdrops for her imagination. Carole and her pastor husband, John, have three sons and five grandchildren. She loves spending time with family, reading, and writing.

  Connect with Carole:

  facebook.com/JamieStormNovels

  carolemorden@gmail.com