The Judas Murders

by Ken Oder

  He knew he couldn’t let go of Carrie without help, but he’d never opened up to anyone about her. The list of candidates he could talk to was short. Chase was like a son to him; Toby an older brother. But he couldn’t bring himself to show them his vulnerability. Mabel was the daughter he never had. If anyone could draw him out, he thought it was this smart, sensitive young mother of seven, who loved him.

  She came back to the kitchen, sat down, and placed a square black case in front of him.

  Cole opened the box. The sun glanced off the sterling silver cuff lying in red velvet. He took it out. A quarter-inch silver band with a seven-inch circumference, in pristine condition. He read the inscription on the inside rim in what the jeweler called Angel Tears font: “Carrie, I will always love you, Cole.”

  He held it in the palm of his hand for a few moments, then set it back in the case and closed the lid. He took a sip of coffee and looked out the open window. A light breeze carried the scent of jasmine inside.

  The yard was eerily quiet. No birdsong in the woods. All twenty birdhouses were strangely vacant.

  He felt Mabel’s eyes on him. She knows I need to talk, he thought. She’s waiting.

  He looked at a long low birdhouse hanging from the maple tree by the driveway, a red house with white letters he had crudely paint-brushed across its green tin roof: Carrie’s Diner.

  “She had an affair,” he said in a gritty voice.

  He kept staring out the window at the birdhouse, but in his peripheral vision, he saw Mabel lean forward.

  “It was my fault.” He pulled himself together. “Sheriff Musgrove was about to retire. Toby, Jim Lloyd, and I were the likely successors. Toby said he didn’t want the job. Jim didn’t step up and go for it.” He took a deep breath and let it out. “I worked double shifts every weekday, spent every weekend at training seminars and community outreach projects, volunteered for every out-of-town assignment. After I was elected sheriff, I spent every waking hour trying to prove I deserved it. For four years, all I thought about or cared about was my work.”

  The weight of Cole’s regret bore him down. It took him a few moments to summon the will to go on. “I had built this house and moved her out here in the country away from all her friends. She didn’t know anyone in the hollow and we had no close neighbors. I isolated her. Then I abandoned her. She tried to tell me, but I was deaf to everything but my job.”

  He looked at Mabel. She sat very still.

  “She was lonely and miserable. She thought I stopped loving her.”

  Cole folded his hands on top of the table. Mabel cupped her hands around his.

  He nodded toward the leather case. “I gave her that bracelet two months after I saw her . . . after I found out about the affair. I told her I knew it was my fault. Told her I still loved her and I wanted her back.” He took in another deep breath. “She refused to take it. Said she loved . . . someone else.”

  Mabel rubbed his hands. Neither of them said anything for a long time. Then Mabel said, “How long did it take to win her over?”

  His mouth was dry. He licked his lips. “Five years.”

  “Long time.”

  “She didn’t trust me.” He hesitated and then said, “I did some harsh things in the beginning to keep her with me.”

  Mabel nodded. “You fired Jim Lloyd.”

  Cole was surprised. “How did you know?”

  “The timing fits,” she said, her caterpillar eyebrows knitted.

  He averted his eyes. She could read his mind and he didn’t want her to see all the dark places he had gone.

  Outside, the wind blew through the shade trees, their leaves glittering lime green in the bright sunlight, the hanging birdhouses swaying gently.

  “You’re still trying to prove you love her,” Mabel said.

  He looked at her.

  “You lost her because she thought you didn’t love her. You spent the rest of her life trying to convince her she was wrong.” She opened the leather case, held it up to the light, and stared at the inscription. “I will always love you,” she read aloud. She looked at Cole. “It’s a promise.” She looked out the window and then back at Cole, her black eyes shining. “You’re still trying to keep it.”

  Cole felt a fist-sized rock inside his chest begin to break apart.

  Mabel turned the bracelet over in her hand. “It looks brand new,” she said. She looked at Cole, her heavy brow furrowed, and understanding dawned in her eyes. “She never accepted it, did she?” She swallowed hard. “She never wore it.”

  Cole took the bracelet from Mabel’s hand, laid it gently in its velvet bed, closed the lid, and covered the case with his hands. “She said it reminded her of the bad times between us.” He paused for a long time and then said, “But I thought maybe she . . .” his voice trailed off and died.

  “You thought maybe she didn’t believe your promise,” Mabel said, her voice quavering. “You thought maybe she never really trusted you again.” Mabel leaned back in her chair and stared at him, her eyes full. “Oh, Cole,” she whispered.

  He looked down at the case. Neither of them said anything for a long while.

  Then she stirred, and he looked up. “You made a mistake thirty years ago,” she said. “It was a heart-wrenching time for you and you didn’t handle everything perfectly, but you did your best to show Carrie you loved her.” She reached across the table, pried his hands from the case, and held them. “You did your best, Cole. It’s time to let go of the guilt.” She squeezed his hands. “It’s time to let go of Carrie.”

  The rock inside him fragmented slowly, piece by piece. He pulled his hands away from Mabel, caressed the case for a few moments, then slid it across the table to her, held on to it for another long moment, and then let go.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The Sins of the Father

  July 31, 1967, Monday afternoon

  A week after the Goodwill truck took Carrie’s things away, Cole stood at the kitchen phone and dialed his son’s number. Peter’s wife answered. A short, perky blonde with boundless energy and optimism, Linda was a tax lawyer in Philadelphia until she got pregnant with the twins, Carrie and Quinn, now three years old. Loquacious and articulate, Linda had always been easy for Cole to talk to, but that day she met his attempts to make conversation with a closed mouth. He gave up and asked to speak to Peter.

  She hesitated and then said, “Didn’t he tell you we’re separated?”

  Cole went still. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “So am I.”

  It took him a few moments to absorb the impact of the news. Then, “When did you separate?”

  “He moved out in January. I filed for divorce in March.”

  It was almost August now. Cole’s back ached. He leaned against the counter and rubbed it. “I know I’ve been a stranger to you and Peter. I’ll understand if you don’t want to tell me, but I’d be interested to know what caused the breakup.”

  “Peter’s boundless ego. He doesn’t care about anything except the hospital. Never here with us. No husband to me. No father to the girls. I couldn’t convince him to spend time with us no matter what I said or did. I’ve been a de facto single parent for three years. I decided to make it de jure.”

  One of the twins cried out and a high-pitched wailing duet followed. “I’ve got to go,” Linda said. “I’m sorry he didn’t tell you. I guess he doesn’t care any more about you than he cares about us.” She hung up.

  Cole put the receiver in the cradle and stared at it.

  He found the hospital’s number and dialed it. He asked the switchboard operator if Peter Grundy was on duty. She put him through to the third floor nurses’ station and he asked to speak to Peter. “Who’s calling, please?” A crisp, efficient-sounding voice.

  “Coleman Grundy, his father.”

  “Hold, please.”

  He held for a full minute. Then another. And another.

  The telephone finally crackled to life. “I’m sorry,” the same voice sa
id, but with a softer tone. “Doctor Grundy is with a patient. He can’t come to the telephone.”

  “Can’t or won’t.”

  “I . . . He’s with a patient.”

  Cole put his hand over his eyes and gathered his wits. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t mean to trouble you, but could you please tell him I spoke to his wife and I need to talk to him?”

  She was quiet for a few seconds and then said, “Hold on.”

  He was on hold longer this time. Then, “I’m sorry, Mr. Grundy. He told me . . . He said he has nothing to say to you.” She paused. “He told me to use those exact words.”

  At the base of the cabinet door above the phone, the painter had applied a brushstroke with too much reddish-brown stain. A line of air bubbles remained petrified under the surface. Cole ran his thumb over them, as he had done a hundred times over the years, the little bumps pleasant to the touch.

  “Thank you for your time, ma’am. I’m sorry I troubled you.”

  “It was no trouble at all, Mr. Grundy,” she said softly.

  He returned the telephone receiver to its cradle, placed his hands palm down on the counter, and looked over at the doorway that led down the hall.

  Thirty years ago, the night after he saw Jim and Carrie in the church window, he confronted her in the kitchen. She sat at the table. He stood in the center of the room, facing her, his back to the door to the hallway.

  He told her he knew about Jim. She sat with her head bowed and her hands clasped in her lap. She didn’t deny it or try to explain it. He wanted her to say it was just a fling, that it didn’t mean anything, that it was a mistake she regretted, that it was all her fault and she was sorry. But she said nothing, and that fueled his jealous fury. He lashed out at her. Most of what he said was a blur in his memory, but he remembered telling her in graphic detail what he had seen in the church window and calling her a whore and a slut. In the midst of his tirade, she looked past him and her eyes widened. He turned to see Peter standing in the door to the hallway, seven years old, pale, trembling, tears rolling down his cheeks.

  Peter worshiped his mother, and Cole had been an absentee father. Peter had hated him from that night forward.

  Years later, after Cole and Carrie had reconciled, she tried to heal the breech, but Peter refused every attempt Cole made to reach out to him. Eventually, Cole stopped trying.

  Now Peter was thirty-seven; they had no relationship and he was making the same mistake Cole made thirty years ago.

  Cole rubbed his back and looked at the telephone for a long time. Then he picked it up and dialed the hospital. The switchboard put him through to the nurses’ station again and the same voice answered. “I know I’ve already caused you too much trouble, ma’am, but I’d appreciate it if you’d do me one more favor. Would you please tell Dr. Grundy I’m coming to Philadelphia? I’ll be there in the morning. I’ll meet him at the hospital or wherever and whenever he wants. If he can’t see me tomorrow, I’ll stay there until he can see me. Tell him I won’t leave there until we talk.” His back clenched. He leaned over and the tightness eased. “I’m sorry to trouble you with my problems, but would you please be so kind as to give him that longwinded message?”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He started to hang up.

  “Mr. Grundy?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  He straightened up, placed the telephone in the receiver, looked at the doorway, and blew out a long breath.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Mabel’s Report

  August 16, 1967, Wednesday morning

  Cole sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee looking out the window at a cloudless azure blue sky. A pair of robins had taken over Carrie’s Diner and their wings fluttered as they pecked at seed in its front-porch trough.

  Mabel Lucas’s patrol car climbed the slope and rolled to a stop near the car shed. Mabel had visited often in the past two weeks. She’d given him advice about talking to Peter, and she consoled him when Peter told him to stay out of his life. “You made a start. That’s what’s important. Keep trying. You’ll break through eventually, but if you don’t, you’ll know you did your best.”

  She walked toward the house carrying a valise. She looked smart in her tan county uniform, the sun glancing off the badge pinned to her shirt, her wide-brimmed hat shading her face as she stopped to tighten the belt holding up the service revolver holstered on her hip.

  Cole met her at the front door and led her into the kitchen. He poured her a cup of coffee and they sat across the table from each other. “How’s your back?” she asked.

  “Not much pain anymore. The last shot they gave me seemed to help more than the others.” He knew Mabel thought facing up to Carrie’s death and confronting Peter had improved his outlook, and his doctor seemed to agree. “The doctor says stress made my back worse. He thinks the pain may not come back so fast this time.”

  She smiled. “I’m glad you’re better.” She unzipped the valise. “Kennie told me you were sleeping in this morning,” she said, referring to her replacement as Cole’s secretary. “Thought I’d drop in and give you a report on my way out to the firing range.”

  “How’s the training going?”

  “I can’t hit the side of a building at twenty paces. Toby says it might help if I would keep my eyes open when I pull the trigger.”

  “You’ll get the hang of it.”

  “Can’t get any worse.” She withdrew a folder and set it on the table. “Remember how Dolley Madison told us they couldn’t find a hospital record of a small-caliber gunshot wound around the time of Reba’s twelfth birthday?”

  Cole nodded.

  “I talked to the lady who runs the hospital’s archives last June. Turns out they don’t have a rational filing system for records dating before 1948. They just dumped them heebie-jeebie in a big old record storage warehouse off Route 29 South. I didn’t want to give up on finding that record without a fight so I’ve sent Jefferson State summer interns over there to rummage through the warehouse off and on since June. Yesterday, one of them hit pay dirt.” She took a document from the folder and handed it to Cole. “April 6, 1937, was one month after Reba’s twelfth birthday.”

  Cole read the document. It said Dolley Madison treated a man for a small-caliber gunshot wound at one a.m. on that date. The name of the patient took his breath away. He laid the document on the table and looked out the window and tried to recover. The pair of robins hopped along the porch of Carrie’s Diner. One of them darted inside the nesting hole. Cole lifted his coffee cup to his lips, but his hand trembled so badly he set it down again.

  He didn’t look at Mabel. He didn’t want her to read his mind, but apparently she didn’t need eye contact to glean what he was thinking.

  “I didn’t live here in 1937. I’ve never heard of this man, but you know him, don’t you, Cole?”

  He nodded. He looked down at the document again, read it all the way through, then folded it into a square and put it in his shirt pocket. “Don’t tell anyone. Don’t write up a report.”

  There was a long silence. Then Mabel said, “We can’t let him get away with this.”

  “You know me better than that.”

  Mabel looked uncertain.

  “I’ll make him pay for what he did,” Cole said.

  “You’ll arrest him? Turn him over to Wiley for prosecution?”

  Cole wrapped his hands around his coffee cup and looked down at it. “A public prosecution would hurt innocent people.”

  Mabel looked even more uncertain. “I don’t understand.”

  He reached across the table and took her hand. “Trust me. Keep this man’s name a secret between you and me, and I’ll make him pay. Privately. In a way that doesn’t hurt anyone else. ”

  Mabel stared at Cole for a while, then put her hand over his and squeezed it. She put on her hat and stood. “Let me know if I can help.
”

  He heard the front door close and the clump of her boots across the porch. From the window, he watched her walk over the flagstone to her car and open the door. She stopped and looked back at him. Then she got in the car, turned it around, and headed out to Whippoorwill Hollow Road.

  Cole held his hands up in front of him. They were shaking as badly as the night he killed Jim Lloyd.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Permission

  August 16, 1967, Wednesday afternoon

  Cole drove to headquarters and spent the day considering alternatives. Late afternoon, he settled upon a plan of action he thought would protect the innocent from further harm, but he didn’t feel he had the right to implement it on his own say-so. He called Reba Emley and told her he needed to talk to her.

  “Kelly’s Place at seven,” she said.

  “That won’t work. We need to talk alone.”

  She was quiet for a few moments. “You found him,” she said. “You found the snake. I can hear it in your voice.”

  Cole paused, not ready yet to tell her all of it. “I know who he is,” he said, “but there’s a problem. I need your help with it.”

  She was silent for a few beats. Then, “Fox Run Schoolhouse. Now.”

  “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

  As Cole pulled his patrol car into the schoolyard the sun was setting behind the old schoolhouse, painting the clouds above it crimson, orange, and pink. Reba’s Impala sat in the long shadow of the building. She stood leaning against the driver’s door wearing jeans and a red short-sleeved shirt, her arms crossed over her chest.

  He parked beside the Impala and Reba got inside the patrol car. He noticed lingering signs of Jim’s attack. She’d lost weight from having her jaw wired shut for six weeks. Her chin bore a faint fishhook-shaped scar, and her jaw was slightly off kilter.