The Amber Photograph

by Penelope J. Stokes

  "Positive. I couldn't see his face, but he had a bandage above his eye, which would have been where I hit him. He warned me to keep quiet about what I knew, told me to disappear."

  Susan's anxiety level kept escalating throughout the story, and at last she interrupted. "Amber, we've got to call the sheriff. We've got to get you some protection, get an investigator out to Twojoe's place. We've got to—"

  "We'll do all that," Amber said. "But first let me finish. I've got to get this out before I lose my nerve."

  Susan sat back down and tried to focus. "Go on."

  It didn't take long for Amber to have Susan's full attention. "When he came in, the room was dark. I was terrified. I could hear him breathing, hear his footsteps drawing closer, smell the liquor on his breath. It was exactly like—" She hesitated. "Before."

  "Before?"

  "I was a girl—eleven, maybe twelve—the first time it happened."

  Susan felt her heartbeat quicken. She had been waiting for this moment since the first day Amber Chaney had come to her office for counseling. The moment of truth, the key revelation that would open the door to freedom and wholeness. "What happened?"

  Amber looked at her without blinking. "He would come to my room at night—usually when there was a party, a meeting, some kind of distraction. Sometimes I would hear music coming from another room. It would always be dark, like it was last night. He would open the door and come in, smelling of liquor. Afterward he would threaten me, warning me of what the penalty would be if I ever told anyone. And so I kept the secret."

  "Until now."

  Amber nodded. Up to this moment, she had been calm and in control of her emotions. She had told the story of her midnight attacker without flinching. Now, before Susan's eyes, the wall broke down, and Amber's tears overflowed.

  Susan resisted the impulse to comfort this woman who sat before her in so much pain. This was the most difficult challenge a counselor ever faced—to allow a client she truly cared about and respected to endure the agony, to go through it to the other side. But she dared not short-circuit the process now. A medical doctor's job was to put pressure on the severed artery, to stanch the flow of blood, to stitch the patient up as quickly as possible. Her job was to let the bleeding continue as long as necessary. And so she waited, and as she waited, she prayed—not for a quick end to the pain, but for the truth to come out, a truth that would probably hurt more than the denial ever had.

  "I didn't tell," she said in a whisper when the tears had subsided. "I couldn't, even after I left home."

  Susan clenched her fists in her lap and closed her eyes. Her instincts had been right, and she felt her own anger and pain rise and merge with Amber's. "What were you afraid of?" she whispered through gritted teeth. "You can tell me, Amber. You need to tell me."

  The response, when it came, was a low moan, laced with shame. "I was afraid he would do to her what he did to me."

  "To her? To your little sister, you mean? That was why you tried to take her away?"

  Amber nodded.

  "You were protecting her."

  "Yes." The word came out as a hoarse whisper, and Amber shifted against the pillows.

  "By your silence."

  "I believed I was. But I understood for the first time this morning that silence doesn't protect anyone except the perpetrator."

  Susan shuddered, but she didn't hold back. "And what did he do?"

  "He raped me." The words came out cold, clipped. For a moment neither of them said a word, but let the silence hang between them like a moment of reverence for one who has died.

  Then Amber spoke again. "I've carried this secret for a very long time. I was ashamed. I felt guilty. I didn't believe anyone could love me or accept me if they knew."

  "You do understand that this wasn't your fault?" Susan spoke quickly, earnestly. "That you're not responsible for what someone else did to you?"

  Amber nodded, and her eyes held that bleak, haunted look Susan had seen so often before. "In my mind, yes, I know that. It's been difficult to convince my heart, though. For a long time I blamed myself for not doing something to stop him. And even now, all these years later, the memory of it still makes me feel dirty, defiled—as if I need to get in the shower and scrub my skin off. But the other night, when we were celebrating at the restaurant, I looked around at all those people who loved me, and I suddenly realized that God loved me, too. Even knowing all of this, God still loved me."

  Susan took a deep breath. She couldn't help being amazed at Amber Chaney's courage, and even her faith. She hadn't asked why God hadn't protected her when she was a helpless child, why God had let it happen in the first place. No doubt that question would come later, the age-old theodicy debate, the unanswerable dilemma of good versus evil. But for now, she had made an enormous step toward freedom.

  "When I was attacked last night, there were so many similarities," Amber was saying. "The darkness, the footsteps, the smell, the hand at my throat. All the old fears came flooding back, and when I tried to sort it out, my mind got the two events confused. That's when I understood. As a girl, I had no power, no options. All I had was silence. But things are different now. I'm different."

  "How are you different?" Susan asked gently.

  Amber laid a hand over her heart. "I let go, Susan. Right before the fire. I gave in—not to fear, but to love. I've lived in fear for years, believing that something bad would happen if I told the truth. But the cost of not telling is much, much greater."

  Susan reached out and gently took one of the bandaged hands. "Who was it, Amber? Who did this horrible thing to you?"

  Amber bit her lip for a moment, and when she spoke the truth, a hundred missing pieces fell into place in Susan's mind.

  As the long morning hours stretched out toward noon, Amber replayed the conversation with Susan in her mind. In contrast to her bruised and battered body, her soul had found new strength, had discovered a courage and power she never knew she had. The power of the truth. But there was something wrong, something her attacker said that didn't quite . . . fit.

  She had assumed all along that the fire in the barn was intended to force Twojoe into selling the place. He had told her about a disreputable-looking man named Shivers who had come around several times trying to strong-arm him into a sale. A mediator for some real estate tycoon, no doubt. Maybe a mob connection, who could tell? There were a lot of people in this world who wouldn't think twice about resorting to criminal activity in order to get what they wanted.

  Amber had been so fixated on the emotional issues raised by the incident that she hadn't given much thought to the details. But the fourth or fifth time she went over it, she realized that the midnight attacker hadn't said a single word about Twojoe or the farm. He had told her to disappear, had said, I found you once, I can find you again. It all seemed very . . . personal.

  But who would do such a thing? And why?

  The words echoed in her mind: I found you .. .found you .. .found you. Never tell a soul. . . never breathe a word.

  With a sickening lurch and a crash, her mind ran headlong into the answer. This wasn't about real estate or about Twojoe's farm or about money. It was about silence. Her silence.

  There was only one person on earth who could possibly be threatened by anything Amber had to say.

  Only one.

  But why now? For years he had left her alone. She had disappeared—she had relocated far away, taken a new name, built a new life. Why would he possibly think she could be a danger to him now, after all this time?

  She didn't know why. But she knew who.

  And he knew where she was.

  30

  Plan C

  "There's a call for you, Jackie," Pamela Langley's sultry voice came over the intercom. "Someone named Shiv Willis, on Line 2." Jackson Underwood snatched up the receiver and snapped off the intercom, cutting Pamela off just as she said, "If you're free tonight—"

  He stared at the blinking light on the telephone and cursed
under his breath. Shiv was never supposed to call on his office line, only on the private number. And he had given his name? His real name? Was he a complete idiot?

  This whole affair was turning into the fiasco of the century. Shiv, the fool, had tried to burn the barn down, but had failed miserably, and only succeeded in landing the girl, who now called herself Amber, in the hospital. It was only a matter of time before the whole thing led back to him quicker than a fuse on a truckload of dynamite. It was time to take Shiv out of the picture.

  Jack wondered, not for the first time, how he had gotten into a mess like this. Two decades ago, it had seemed so simple: get the girl out of the way, and everything would run smoothly from there on in. He hadn't taken into account how lies and deceptions could complicate themselves over time, and twenty years was a long time for trouble to be brewing unattended. Now there was nothing he could do but see it through and hope that the whole thing didn't come crashing down on his head.

  He punched the lighted button on the telephone and snarled, "Underwood."

  "Mr. Underwood?" Shiv's voice sounded garbled, as if his cell phone battery was low, or he was in a tunnel somewhere. "Just wanted . . . check in . . . ever-thing . . . fine . . . just some last-minute . . . "

  "Where are you?" he barked.

  " . . . arking garage . . . "

  "Can you hear me, Shiv? Get in your car and drive out of the garage, then call me back—ON THE PRIVATE NUMBER!" He slammed the phone down and sank back into his chair.

  The door to his office opened, and Pamela slid in through the crack and shut the door behind her. "Is everything all right, Jackie?" She lowered her eyes and sidled over to the desk. "You sounded a little . . . upset. I bet I know what could make you unupset . . . " She leaned against his shoulder and twirled one finger in the hair at the base of his neck. "C'mon, Jackie, let Pammie kiss it and make it better."

  "Leave me alone, Pamela."

  "You don't mean that, now do you?" Her sultry voice dropped half an octave. "Whatever's bothering you, I've got the cure."

  Jack stared at her, incredulous. How could he ever have found himself attracted to a woman like this? She didn't seem so bad in a dark bar or candlelit bedroom, but in the harsh light of day, when he was sober—well, he must have been out of his mind to hire her, not to mention the other things he had done with her.

  "Pamela," he said with forced patience, "I have some things to take care of, and I don't want to be disturbed—by anyone."

  "Jackie, Jackie," she cooed. "All this worrying is giving you a frown line." She reached a manicured hand to smooth away the line between his brows, and he grasped her wrist with more force than he had intended. "Ouch! You're hurting me!"

  "Out, Pamela," he repeated pointedly. "Now." He paused for a moment, his eyes drifting over the low-cut blouse, the makeup, the three-inch heels; then he sat down, grabbed his checkbook from the top drawer of the desk, and scribbled out a check in the amount of two weeks' pay, plus a sizable bonus. "Pack your desk," he said, handing the check to her. "This is your severance; I want you out of the office within the hour."

  A confused look came over Pamela's face. "You're firing me? You can't do that!"

  "Sure I can. I need a real secretary—"

  "Legal assistant," she corrected.

  "All right, I need a real legal assistant. All you've done since you came to work for me is answer the phone and do your nails."

  "I've done a lot more than that, and you know it." Her eyes narrowed. "I know a thing or two about sexual harassment. I've got half a mind to lodge a complaint—"

  "Half a mind is all you've ever had," Jack countered. "Take your check and go."

  She flounced out of the room and slammed the door so hard it rattled the windows behind Jack's desk. He rubbed his aching temples and sighed. Why couldn't he find a real woman, one he didn't have to hire, one who had a brain as well as a body, one like—

  Like Cecilia McAlister.

  Jack could still see her the way she had been before the cancer drained the life out of her—vital and beautiful, witty and creative and smart. The best dancer he had ever held in his arms. The woman who had made all others—including his three ex-wives—pale in comparison.

  All his life Jack had envied his best friend, not for his wealth or his status or his power, but for the wife who had graced his arm at social functions and served as hostess for his campaign parties. Cecilia had deserved better—so much better—than Duncan McAlister.

  Ironic, that the only woman Jack had ever loved was the one he couldn't have, at least not in the way he wanted to have her, not permanently, not as his. And so in the end he had settled for protecting her—shielding her from the knowledge of who her husband really was, from an awareness of what a sham her marriage had become.

  And he would go on with the deception, even now after her death. He would guard her memory, even though the price included covering for Duncan as well.

  His private line rang once, and he picked up the receiver. "Underwood."

  "It's me, Mr. Underwood. Sorry about the delay."

  Jack let out an exasperated sigh and propped his feet up on the desk. With any luck at all, this might be the last call he ever had to take from Shiv Willis.

  Shiv tried to keep his voice calm as he talked to Jackson Underwood, but it wasn't easy. He wouldn't tell him the truth—that after slipping in and out of the hospital in the middle of the night, he had emptied his pocket flask and slept for five hours in the car. It was just dumb luck nobody had spotted him—once he got outside the parking garage, he found the place swarming with black-and-whites. He had managed to evade them and found a deserted alley to park in while he called Underwood back, but his stomach was churning like a cement mixer.

  They were onto him. Despite his intimidation of the woman—which he thought had been pretty convincing—apparently she had talked. If she could identify him, he was dead meat.

  "Yes sir, everything is just fine," he lied, swallowing down the vile taste of his own stomach acids. "Got it all taken care of."

  Shiv listened with half an ear while Underwood droned on; his mind raced to come up with a plan. The best thing for him to do was vanish,with or without the money owed him. Just cut his losses and get out while the getting was good. One thing was certain—he was not taking the fall for a couple of suits.

  "I don't want to have to come out there myself," Underwood was saying in a threatening tone. Shiv laughed under his breath. The man would never get this close to his own dirty work. He'd stay right where he was, safe in his high-rent office, and hope the trail never led back to his door. In the meantime, Shiv could make his getaway.

  He reassured the man one more time that everything was under control, hung up, and let out a pent-up breath. It was time to tie up loose ends and ditch this rotten job once and for all.

  31

  Gifts from the Ashes

  Amber sat up in the hospital bed and sipped orange juice through a straw as she watched News at Noon. The third story was about the fire, her injuries, and the ongoing arson investigation. "We know the fire was deliberately set," the burly Kitsap County sheriff was saying as he looked into the camera. "The arsonist got away, leaving a woman to die in the burning barn. We'll get him, and when we do, the charges will be much more serious than arson. Assault, at the very least—possibly attempted murder."

  "As yet, the authorities have no suspects, and no one has been apprehended," the female reporter went on in a low, consciously moderated voice. "On the scene we have Ted Tanner. Ted?"

  A Robert Redford look-alike appeared on the screen, fiddling with his earpiece and looking properly somber. "Thank you, Heather. We're here at the Elkhorn farm with proprietor Joseph Elkhorn. Mr. Elkhorn, what can you tell us about the night this incident occurred?"

  He thrust the mike in Twojoe's direction, and Amber fixed her gaze intently on Twojoe's handsome face. "It happened about two in the morning," Twojoe said. "My sister and I were both asleep. I heard a ruckus and
woke up to hear the alarm call of one of my male llamas."

  The reporter looked confused. "Do you mean that a llama alerted you to the danger?"

  Twojoe nodded. "They're really very good guard animals. This one's name is Lloser—"

  As if on cue, Lloser poked his enormous head over Twojoe's shoulder and began wrapping his huge, flexible lips around the microphone. Amber laughed out loud.

  Ted Tanner, for all his training in television journalism, was clearly at a loss. He tried to pull the microphone away, but the llama wouldn't let go. After a brief tussle, Lloser gave in, but by then the microphone was slimed with llama spittle, and the reporter held it at arm's length as if it were contaminated with some deadly virus. He patted the curious beast awkwardly on the neck and turned back to Twojoe.

  "We're just thankful that no one was badly hurt or killed," Twojoe was saying.

  "I understand the woman who was injured was your fiancée?" Ted continued with a sly smile.

  Twojoe blushed furiously, but his eyes grew soft and liquid as he considered the question. "Not yet," he said at last. "She's a friend. A very, very good friend."

  "Not yet?' Tanner said flippantly. "Sounds like a marriage proposal might come out of this incident, after all. Now, if you can just get your llama to pop the question." He turned toward the camera and grinned. "For News at Noon, this is Ted Tanner. Back to you, Heather."

  Amber pushed the remote control, and the screen faded to black. Poor Twojoe. He must be absolutely humiliated.

  But come to think of it, he didn't look humiliated. With his hair graying at the temples, long and brushed back from his forehead, he looked proud and strong, like an ancient warrior. A chief. A man who knew his own heart. A soul at peace with himself, even in the face of prying and insolent questions.

  And he hadn't said, "No." He had said, "Not yet."

  She lay back against the pillow, finished her orange juice, and smiled.

  At three o'clock in the afternoon, the door opened and Vernon Houston came into the room, followed by Sam, who was gripping a paper grocery bag to his chest.