by Ken Oder
He looked out at the quiet street. A crisp breeze moved through the shade trees. Gold and cardinal leaves floated in the wind and came to rest on Kelly’s lawn. “Charley’s dead,” he said.
Kelly’s eyes widened slightly, then returned to normal. “How did he die?”
“A respiratory ailment.”
She was quiet for a while and then said, “I haven’t heard from him since he walked out on me. I have no idea where he lived.”
“He owned a real estate business in Charlotte. A few years ago, he sold out and moved to a house on the Pee Dee River outside Cheraw, South Carolina. That’s where he died.”
She took a sip of tea. “It’s strange. I grew up with Charley. I was married to him for ten years. I had a child by him, but I don’t feel a sense of loss. It’s as though he was someone I never met.”
“I’d be surprised if you felt anything for him after what he did to you and Rachel.”
“I suppose.” She looked across Buford. Cole followed her gaze to the porch of a pale yellow house where a small elderly man in a wheelchair had a plaid blanket over his legs. A stout, busty middle-aged woman with long frizzy red hair wearing a tight tank top and red short-shorts came out on the porch carrying two glasses of lemonade. She set one on a table by the old man and kept the other for herself. She said something to him. He didn’t respond. She sat in a rocking chair next to him, crossed her meaty thighs, and talked to him between sips of lemonade. The old man stared straight ahead, as still as a statue.
“I loved Charley when we got married,” Kelly said, drawing Cole’s attention back to her. “He pretended he loved me, too, but after his father died and he took over the family’s real estate business, he dropped his act. All he cared about was the almighty company. He left for work before I got up in the morning and came home after Rachel and I were in bed. Some nights he slept on the sofa in his office and didn’t come home at all. At least, that’s what he told me. He could have spent those nights in the arms of another woman for all I know. I tried to reach out to him, but he didn’t want any part of me.” She set her tea on the table. “I had no feelings for him by the time he left me. We hadn’t touched for more than a year.”
Cole looked down at his glass. He’d decided that telling Kelly the truth about Charley would hurt more than it would help, but he didn’t know if he was right. Since Betty Lou Mundy’s murder, Cole had lost his moral bearings. In his lowest moments, he considered himself a murderer. He shot Jim Lloyd in self-defense and Charley Hix committed suicide, but he set them both up to die. No judge or jury decided their guilt. He alone sentenced them to death. He had played God, and now he was playing God again, deciding what was best for Kelly and Rachel, but God was omniscient and Cole was not. He couldn’t find a clear line between right and wrong anymore.
A peal of laughter brought him out of his thoughts. Across the street, the redheaded woman wiped the old man’s chin with a napkin. A yellow stain the size of a baby’s bib had spread across his white shirt. She dabbed at it, cackling away. The old man stared straight ahead, seemingly oblivious to everything around him.
Cole’s thoughts returned to the purpose of his visit. “Rachel is Charley’s next of kin. The Chesterfield County Sheriff wants to talk to her about the disposition of his body, funeral arrangements, and the like. I told him I’d let her know, but I thought you might want to speak to her first.”
Kelly brushed a strand of auburn hair out of her eyes. “I’ll tell her tonight.” She looked into the distance pensively. “A few months ago, the news of Charley’s death might have opened old wounds for Rachel that had never healed, but lately she seems to be in a better place. Stronger. More sure of herself. I don’t think Charley can hurt her now.”
“I hope not.”
They sat quietly for a while. Then Cole set his glass on the table. “Thanks for the sweet tea.” He stood and put on his hat. “Let me know when you’ve told Rachel and I’ll put her in touch with Sheriff Dodson.” He walked across the porch to the top of the steps.
“Cole.”
He stopped and looked back at her.
She stood, picked up the tray with the pitcher and glasses, walked over to the screen door, and faced Cole. She started to say something, stopped, looked down at the tray, then looked up at him again. “Are you lonely?”
Her question caught Cole off guard. Before he could think of anything to say, Kelly said, “That’s the question Rachel asked me a while ago. ‘Are you lonely, Mom?’”
Cole stared at her curiously. “What was your answer?”
“I told her I’m fine. I’m happy. I love my work.”
Cole thought about that. “I suppose that would be my answer, too.”
She fell silent. Their eyes locked, and he felt uneasy. She broke the tension. “You mind grabbing the door for me?”
He reached around her and opened the screen door.
She stepped inside and started across the room, but she hesitated. She turned around and locked eyes with him again while he held the door. “I lied. I love my work, but it’s not enough.” She paused and then said, “You’re lying, too, Cole.”
His throat tightened. “Kelly—”
“Carrie’s dead.”
He froze.
“You can’t bring her back by pretending she’s still here.”
Cole started to speak, to deny that he was in denial, but the words didn’t come. He stood transfixed, mute.
The sunlight played in Kelly’s eyes, changing them from hazel to caramel and back to hazel again. They were beautiful. She was beautiful.
“I’m lonely, Cole,” she said, “but I won’t stay lonely. If you don’t make a move, I’ll find a man who will.”
She turned around and walked across the parlor and went through the swinging doors that opened into the kitchen. He watched them swing shut and come to rest. He let go of the screen door. Its slack spring pulled it closed gently.
He stood on the porch for a long time, staring at the swinging doors through the screen mesh, pondering Mabel’s words about the bracelet he gave Carrie and its inscription: I will always love you. It’s a promise you’re still trying to keep.
Through the screen door, Cole stared at the parlor’s oak floor where it met the edge of an oriental rug with navy blue, yellow, and maroon patterns. He shook his head and sighed, then turned and walked to the top of the steps. He stopped there and looked across Buford. The redheaded woman had gone inside the house. The old man sat in his wheelchair, alone, staring straight ahead at nothing.
A dog barked at the end of the street. A child laughed in the house next door. Cole looked up at the topaz sky. His eyes returned to the old man who was sitting still as a corpse.
Cole turned around, opened the screen door, and went inside. He walked across the rug and stopped at the swinging doors. Oak, fine grain, lacquered with a rich dark stain.
Fear waged a war inside him with loneliness. Continuing to love Carrie was safe. She couldn’t hurt him. It took courage to love the living.
He stood there for a long time. He put his hands against the doors, which were smooth and cool to the touch. He hesitated for a moment, then pushed them apart and walked through.
* * *
The End
Acknowledgments
In preparation for a writers’ conference several years ago, I drafted the first fifty pages of a proposed novel. It began with Sheriff Coleman Grundy’s discovery of Betty Lou Mundy’s corpse at dawn on a cold February day in 1967.
My good friend, the accomplished writer Pamela Fagan Hutchins, critiqued my work. She liked the first few chapters and panned everything that followed. She was right on all counts.
Fellow authors Felicia Little, Patty Flaherty Pagan, Heidi Dorey, and David Welling reviewed my first ten pages and gave me their feedback. Their enthusiasm for the beginning of the story helped me survive the chaotic creative process that followed.
Despite what I thought was a good beginning, I couldn’t seem to spin ou
t a compelling story. My wife, Cindy, nursed me through a long, dark period, repeatedly reviving my comatose morale and feeding me ideas to save the storyline.
My editor, Meghan Pinson of My Two Cents Editing, raised The Judas Murders from the dead twice with fresh ideas when I’d almost given up, and her encouragement about early drafts kept it on life support. Without her guidance I would never have finished it, and as always, her editing skills took the story to a much higher level while preserving my style and voice. Simply put, she completes my work. For my money, she’s the best developmental editor anywhere.
And she and Rhonda Erb, fact-checker and proofreader extraordinaire, also of My Two Cents Editing, are the best copyediting team in the free world. It’s a pleasant bonus that they’re also great fun to work with.
Fellow SkipJack author Marcy McKay read a late draft of the manuscript and offered several insights, two of which were critical to the final product. Her tips were invaluable and her encouragement was another turning point for me. She’s not only a great writer, but also a great tutor of writers.
Having midwifed the birth of the story, Pamela Fagan Hutchins read and critiqued a late draft, making several key suggestions about perspective and plot line that made the finished product so much better.
SkipJack Publishing assistant and fellow author Bobbye Marrs is a versatile superstar who brought all of her talents to the table in researching several complex issues. She directed me to the Coppolino case and gathered information about succinylcholine while somehow convincing a doctor she cold-called for advice that she is not a serial killer. She reviewed a late draft, gave me helpful suggestions, and steered me away from critical substantive mistakes. In her spare time, she designed and created the book cover, formatted the text for the print and e-book publications, and managed the distribution process while simultaneously pumping out my newsletter and maintaining my website and blog. Told you she was a superstar.
I greatly appreciate the essential help I received from several experts. Catherine E. DeMonte, LMFT, gave me insight into the personality and behavior of pedophiles, explained the devastating impact of child molestation on its victims, and referred me to resource materials that expanded my understanding of both. Dr. Peter Fagan reviewed sections of the book involving succinylcholine and schooled me on the drug’s traits and the effects of an overdose on the mind and body. Tracy Antoon critiqued sections of the book that referred to the sale and distribution of pharmaceutical drugs. Ryan Weeks, a U.S. Marine and expert rifleman, gave me advice about long-distance rifle shots, firing ranges, tripods, and guns. I did my best to set the story within the framework of the information the experts gave me, but any and all errors are my fault alone.
Last but not least, without the ongoing support and encouragement of Pamela and Eric Hutchins, I doubt I’d still be writing. Thanks so much for all the help over the years.
About the Author
Ken Oder was born in Virginia in the coastal tidewater area near the York and James Rivers, where military installations during World Wars I and II fueled the growth of urban centers like Norfolk, Hampton, and Newport News. His father worked for the Navy Mine Depot in Yorktown and later as a Hudson dealer until he heard his calling and became the minister at Mount Moriah Methodist Church in 1960. The family moved to White Hall, Virginia, a farm town of about fifty people at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The mountains and the rural culture were a jarring contrast to the busy coastal plains, but once the shock wore off, Ken came to love it there. He found the mountains and hollows spectacularly beautiful and the people thoughtful, friendly, and quietly courageous. White Hall became Ken's home, and his affection and respect for the area and its people have never left him.
Ken and his wife moved to Los Angeles in 1975, where he practiced law and served as an executive until he retired. They still live near their children and grandchildren in California, but a piece of Ken's heart never left White Hall. That place and time come out in his stories.
Please visit www.kenoder.com and connect with the author on Goodreads for news and new releases.
Fiction by SkipJack Publishing
KEN ODER
The Closing
Old Wounds to the Heart
The Judas Murders
* * *
BOX SET
Murder, They Wrote: Four SkipJack Mysteries,
by Pamela Fagan Hutchins,
Ken Oder, R.L. Nolen, and Marcy McKay
* * *
PAMELA FAGAN HUTCHINS
Act One
Saving Grace
Leaving Annalise
Finding Harmony
Heaven to Betsy
Earth to Emily
Hell to Pay
Going for Kona
Fighting for Anna
Searching for Dime Box
Bombshell
Stunner
Knockout
* * *
MARCY MCKAY
The Moon Rises at Dawn
Stars Among the Dead
Pennies from Burger Heaven
Bones & Lies Between Us
REBECCA (R.L.) NOLEN
The Dry
Deadly Thyme
* * *
ANTHOLOGIES
Tides of Possibility, edited by K.J. Russell
Tides of Impossibility, edited by K.J. Russell and C. Stuart Hardwick