She Without Sin

by J. P. Barry

  “All right. Fridays, after dinner, while our brothers and sisters are cleaning up, we will take an hour or so to discuss what’s going on in each session. You can use the room behind the den in the back of the house as a sanctuary. It’s far enough away from the main living space that no one will be able to hear what’s going on. Everyone will be instructed to refrain from using the den while you’re doing your thing. You’ll have complete privacy. I will speak with them tonight, and you may begin your work tomorrow morning.”

  Reaching over, placing my hand over his, I made sure to make perfect, solid eye contact. “You won’t regret this. You’ll see. This will be the best thing for all of us. Promise,” I said, knowing no truer words had ever been spoken.

  * * * *

  “So, Sarah, how have you been?” I asked, relaxing in the armchair I’d moved from the den into a small back room. Over several days, I transformed the room Warren provided into a makeshift office, with a nearly threadbare chocolate brown suede love seat, a small, rickety wooden desk, and the old armchair. The request to brighten up the space had been happily met two days later with three gallons of paint, primer, and several pieces of framed artwork from the ‘flock’. Working rapidly, five of the men and I finished the job in record time. Besides attempting to give off the illusion the space was harmless, a judgement free zone, I’d have total access to make sure Warren or Noah hadn’t planted any recording devices. Each time I entered the room, I’d sweep it from top to bottom, making sure nothing had been slipped in, on, or under something. Warren could not, under any circumstances, be privy to what happened behind closed doors.

  “It’s Sister Sarah,” she snapped. Arms tightly folded across her chest. Legs locked at the ankle. Obviously, she was still pissed off over what happened, or rather what hadn’t happened between us. In order for this to work, this session required a lot of soft touch finessing.

  “All right. How have you been, Sister Sarah?” I rephrased.

  “Fine. Can I go now? I don’t want to do this, mainly because it’s a stupid waste of time. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with me.”

  “You’re free to leave whenever you’d like. I’m not forcing anyone to stay, especially if being in this room is causing any sort of negative emotion, which clearly, for you, it is.” I leaned forward, looked down on the desk, index finger tracing the rim of a coffee mug, then made eye contact–something Sarah desperately desired. “We can’t move on if you’re still living in the past.”

  “You don’t know anything about me.” Sarah’s eyes narrowed. For a brief moment the cold, hard stare reminded me of Jillian. A pang of pain entered my heart, causing a slight wince in response. There wasn’t a day Jillian wasn’t in at least three quarters of my thoughts. The good times, hell, even the bad ones played on a loop. Each memory welcomed. Each memory causing the grieving process to begin again. My beautiful wife–gone. Ripped from my arms without warning.

  “I think I do. Deepest apologies if I’m out of line, but from what I’ve gathered, you’re angry, and not just at me, but with something or someone else. Your ego–your sense of self-esteem, self-importance, is hurt. We can work to heal that, or feel free to go on your merry way. The call is yours, Sister Sarah.”

  “I’m not an idiot. I know what an ego is. Before coming here, I was an elementary school teacher. I have a Master’s Degree in education.” Sarah’s tone and expression hadn’t budged, but she’d cracked a door open. Not much, but enough for me to get inside her head.

  “Education is a noble field. It’s also a difficult one. A teacher is given at least twenty children from all walks of life, who learn differently, have diverse needs and personalities, and so on. It’s up to the educator to reach all of them at once.” I paused to study her. A slight sense of relaxation seeped through her eyes. Keep talking, Nick. You’ve got this in the bag. “I remember this one time, many years ago, a colleague of mine asked if I’d be interested in teaching a college class on abnormal psychology. I don’t know what I was thinking when I agreed to do it. Guess I thought it’d be easy. How hard could teaching a bunch of adults be? Wow, was I in over my head. All of the lesson planning, grading, paper reading, trying to impact each and every student in the class–exhausting, but rewarding.” I finished with an easy, careless chuckle, and smile.

  “Did you teach the next semester?” Sarah was hooked. The suggestion of an intimate conversation captivated her.

  “Good grief, no.” I laughed, loudly. The emotional response was overdone, but since she wanted to feel engaged, she’d believe it, which she did. Hook. Line. Sinker. I had her the moment she giggled.

  “It can be difficult some days, but I always loved it. Over the course of one hundred and eighty day, my students would become my children. Come June, it was always so difficult to say goodbye and let them go to the next grade, but for the year, I made sure they were safe, secure, happy, and loved coming to school.” Sarah smiled brightly at the thought of her former life.

  “Ever miss that?” I mused.

  “Sure, every now and again, but being here is the better option.” She repositioned hips. To the trained eyes one could clearly see inner pain breaching the surface.

  “Want to talk about it? I’ve been told I’m an excellent listener,” I said, softly, reaching out, covering her hand with mine.

  “I shouldn’t,” Sarah whispered, fighting a wave of tears.

  “It’s okay to cry, Sister Sarah. It’s a natural expression. It’s full of healing benefits. When Brother Warren told me about my wife, I cried, I got angry, and I allowed that to happen so I could come out on the other side, whole. The simple act of shedding tears helped bring clarity. I was able to view my previous life plainly for what it was, then I grieved that. Now, the man you see sitting here before you today is balanced, healthy,” I encouraged. Inserting myself, humanizing the situation to show we were different, but yet the same could only help.

  “It’s a long story. I doubt you really care, or want to hear it.” She glanced down and away, avoiding all eye contact, but not moving away from my touch.

  “That’s where you’re wrong. I do care, and do want to hear what you have to say, but if you’re not ready, or don’t feel comfortable, that’s all right. I’ll be here whenever you’d like to discuss whatever. I am sorry for upsetting you in the kitchen some weeks ago. My intentions were never to cause inner pain or hurt.” My head tilted to the right, a genuine fake smile spread across my lips, brows furrowed.

  “It was my fault. I’m sorry,” Sarah replied, softly, still looking away.

  “Remember what I said a few minutes ago? We can’t move on if we’re still living in the past. What happened, happened. It’s over. Done. Forgotten.”

  “Really?” Slowly eyes met mine. A timid, immature nature remained rooted in her core.

  Slow and steady with this one.

  “Really. Now, I’d enjoy hearing about Ms. Sarah, the elementary school teacher, if you’re up to talking about it.” Returning to a reclined position, I displayed a relaxed posture. If I was at ease, she’d be too–the mirror effect. Due to her skittish, anxious, unwillingness to bring up her former life behavior, a simple shift to a more enjoyable topic should loosen her up enough to get inside her cluttered mind.

  She giggled. “I wasn’t a nursery school teacher where the kids called me Miss Sarah. I taught third grade. They called me Mrs. Davis. Third grade is a tough year for a lot of children. Transition from lower elementary to intermediate—it’s hard. I totally understood their struggles.” Sarah’s happiness faded. Body tensed again.

  “Change sucks most times. Not a huge fan of it myself, but some of the changes that I’ve made for myself, not changes others made for me forcing me to simply accept, have been good ones.”

  “True, but most of the things I had to learn to live with weren’t because it was something I necessarily wanted.” Her tone hardened. Warm brown eyes turned icy hard.

  “Care to unpack that bag for me? This is a safe space
. Whatever said stays between us. Please know, I’d never, ever use it against you. I’m here to help, not harm. Unburden yourself, Sister Sarah. Allow me the pleasure of healing you.”

  With that, she did, for over three hours. After her session, I realized her influence and reach within the house was tremendous. Shortly, the others requested regular sessions. One by one they all purged their pain, and a therapy plan for each was put into play immediately. This wasn’t going to be an easy feat–curing all of them, but in time they’d wake up and realize where they currently were was no better than where they’d come from. When that happened, I’d lead the revolt against Warren. The sick bastard wouldn’t see it coming either. Revenge was mine for the taking.

  Chapter Ten

  Jillian

  The once busy home Nick and I shared rapidly evolved into a silent prison where time stood still. After viewing the news and reading far too many articles about Nick’s disappearance, I had to stop or else I’d lose my mind. The things people were saying—awful, hurtful, and untrue. Even my own network reported stories without fact checking. Neighbors whom I’d never met, individuals suggesting they were close, personal friends of Nick and me were all cashing in with lies to collect their fifteen minutes of fame, but the worst was the statement made by the Winters Family. Tag, along with Miranda and Nick’s siblings, held their own press conference, passive aggressively alluding to the fact I had something to do with the abduction. They never came right out and directly said it, but the subtext strongly pointed a firm finger in my direction. Tag went on endlessly about how unhappy his son was being married to me. In fact, their last conversation, which occurred right before Nick disappeared, was one filled with Nick begging his parents to help him escape from my grip. Miranda went on to add that she and Tag were in the process of attempting to help him seek shelter from the storm I kept dumping on his life. In hindsight, to the discerning critic, their words of dismay, severe torture over this situation, and outright blaming me, could be viewed as them having their corrupt fingers all over Nick vanishing. They made it seem a plan was concocted to place Nick in hiding, safely away from me–the Wicked Witch of the North Shore. Upon thinking about it further, perhaps they were involved. Maybe the Winters family had abducted him? Somewhere on their compound Nick might be just fine, sipping whiskey, relaxing, laughing at what’s been going on, and how foolish I was for pursuing his whereabouts. But, the rational side of me, though adding Tag and Miranda to my personal list of possible suspects, was more than one hundred percent sure, Nick would never, ever do such a thing. Truth be told, he loved his family, but never liked them much. However, during each presser, Beau stood far off to the left side, almost off camera, with his head down, clutching his wife’s hand. He appeared in a deep state of genuine distress, or was he? The stature could be a clear sign of shame. Exactly what did he know about Nick’s whereabouts?

  After watching that, I turned the television off, throwing the remote against the wall in the living room with the force of a thousand men. While cleaning up the mess, I swore I’d stay away and off all media, a promise kept. Initially, I hoped Jack would be able to get everyone off my ass. Issue a press statement or something. In the past, there wasn’t a scandal he couldn’t spin his clients’ way out of with some fancy combination of words. However, this time, with the police and FBI involved, he had to keep a distance. When questioned, Jack would provide canned answers. Usually he’d either say something along the lines of me not being a suspect, or a general no comment. He reached out a few times apologizing for not being of more assistance, but with his hands tied, what was I supposed to do? Fire him? It wasn’t his fault.

  The FBI returned to search the house two days after the press conference, taking at least twenty large packed boxes along with them. A dozen calls from Charles to Agent Wilder, and three weeks later, the personal affects had been returned. They sat in the foyer. The desire to sort through each box, carefully returning items to their rightful place didn’t exist. The shit could stay there until Doom’s Day for all I cared, because no one was even an inch closer to bringing Nick home. With no work and absolutely nothing to do, a lot of pacing and internal dialogue occurred. Aside from Liam and occasionally Lyla, no one from the station reached out. Eating and sleeping held little to no interest. Those activities were time wasters, but to be honest, so was the restlessness I’d been experiencing.

  Once I attempted to leave the house to return to the church to see if the police or FBI missed something, but the moment I reached the front gates, the press pounced. No sooner did they see my car, the dull voices heard from inside the house, turned into loud, booming screams of accusations. They yelled statements in the form of questions, all of which more-or-less demanded to know if I murdered Nick, and where I was hiding the body. Had I decided to fight the shaking hands and keep going, they would’ve tailed, then the media frenzy shit storm would’ve followed shortly. With the landline phone not ringing as much anymore–mainly because Charles threatened any reporter who kept calling with severe legal action, I didn’t need or want to tempt fate. Don’t get me wrong, I screened all correspondence, but the unnecessary harassment at all hours of the day finally stopped.

  Fiddling with the keys on my laptop, not knowing what to do with myself, my cell beeped. It was Liam. Fingers quickly grabbed the device out of anxiety it might be Nick, news about Nick, and out of boredom. It was only a hair past seven in the morning and I’d already had four cups of coffee.

  ‘Call me when you see this,’ he wrote.

  Sinking into the kitchen chair, I dialed his number. Part of me experienced relief it had nothing to do with Nick, but the other part, disappointed.

  “Hey,” I said, the second he answered. Liam reached out daily to check up, but he hadn’t come by in a while. Between the press camped outside the house, and with the station giving him other shows to produce, he had no time. Plus, he had his own things going on with his wife and kids.

  “Good morning. How are you doing today? Any word on Nick?” His tone sounded more chipper than usual.

  “The same, and no. I would’ve called if anything happened.” I sighed.

  “I may have stumbled across something that could potentially shed some light on his whereabouts.”

  I sat straight up. Heart pounded. “What? What do you have? What do you know?” I spat out as fast as my lips allowed.

  “I’m sure the police and FBI have investigated every angle of this case, but last night, after I finished producing your fill-in show–which, might I add is awful, and the ratings are almost at flatline status, it hit me–street cameras. Diggs, from IT, was still in his office, so I asked how one goes about getting that data. He went on and on about how only law enforcement had access to street cameras, and store owners didn’t have to let anyone see them because the tapes are private property. A hundred dollars and that bottle of Johnny Walker Blue in my office later, he showed me how to hack into them. It’s rather easy. Thought it’d be a lot harder. With this in mind, coupled with my newfound skill, I thought I’d swing by and we’d look at the camera footage ourselves. See what we can come up with. Yes? No?”

  “Yes. When?” A new found sense of hope filled my otherwise lifeless core. I’d foolishly been leaving everything up to the police and FBI, truly believing no stone would be left unturned. In hindsight, that was wrong. An epic failure of a bad move. Off the top of my head I couldn’t count how many times I’d interviewed people involved in cases law enforcement screwed up. That’s not to say they always did, but it happened more times than one would believe. A simple overlook of even the smallest of clues could end up being the reason a case goes cold, or the victim is never found. Why couldn’t that be the issue presently occurring?

  “Actually, I’m pulling up to the gates now. Raul is buzzing you.”

  Within seconds the security phone rang. Picking it up and instructing the guards to let Liam in, I held my breath, but doubt crept inside my brain. For every ounce of rational thought insid
e, there’s always an equal amount of doubt. What could Liam and I possibly see that the police and FBI didn’t? They were trained professionals, whereas we were only a producer and reporter.

  Stop it! You’re giving up before you even begin. Nothing ventured is nothing gained. There’s a good, strong chance you might observe something missed. No one is perfect, and no one in this world is always spot on at their job. Not even the FBI.

  Within minutes Liam had set up his laptop on the large, square glass coffee table in the living room. No idea why, but I shut the blinds, turned on the lights, and sat beside him on the floor. His fingers worked fast pulling up a traffic light camera positioned several feet away from the church. In silence we watched the grainy black and white footage. A little while into the feed I spotted Nick’s Lexus. He turned right into the parking lot, but the space was out of view. Behind him a church style van followed. The vehicle appeared light in color, but that meant nothing on CCTV. During the dead time, no one drove in or out of the lot. Cars and trucks passed the building, but not a single soul entered. Then, the van came back on the screen, but not Nick. We watched for what seemed like hours before my car appeared. Unless Nick was still inside the church, which was doubtful because the FBI did a thorough search, the only way he could’ve left was on foot. Pulling up a map of St. Luke’s, eyes inspected the grounds. The only way in off the road was via the main parking lot. The back of the building was secured with what appeared to be a twelve-foot-high, possibly even taller, chain-link fence. The odds of Nick scaling that were slim to none, but possible if that’s what he truly wanted. Behind the enclosure was a residential neighborhood. The two other sides of the church were commercial property–a strip mall to the left, and a gas station to the right. My gut nagged whoever was in that van was who we were looking for, but I had to be more than one hundred percent sure before a positive claim was made. Having Liam hack into as many surrounding cameras as he could–even doorbell ones, instinct was confirmed.