"That's why you were so intent on protecting me?" Diedre whispered.
Amber nodded.
"And that's why he was so determined to keep you from talking?"
"Yes."
Diedre's eyes swam. "Because—because—"
"Because Duncan McAlister is your father," Amber whispered. "And I am your mother."
Part 4
New Beginnings
Every end brings new beginnings,
every path leads forward,
every dangerous crook in the road
hides glorious surprises.
Around the bend, beyond what we can see,
destiny lures us onward,
into cool shadows
and blinding lights
and lives we never dreamed of.
35
The Sacrifice
Twojoe turned up his collar against the misty night rain and kept on walking. He was getting soaked but couldn't seem to convince himself to bother about it. Twice he swiveled on his heel in the wet grass and looked back toward the house. All the lights were out, except for one dim lamp burning in the window of an upstairs bedroom.
Amber's room.
It was nearly 2 A.M., and Twojoe didn't have a hope of sleeping tonight. A little after midnight, Susan had left, and Carlene had taken Sugarbear and walked back to the Houstons' guest house alone. Diedre was up there with Amber; they would probably keep on talking until daybreak.
The revelation that Amber was Diedre's mother had imploded in Twojoe's soul like a ton of well-placed dynamite. Now everything was crashing inward, collapsing, and he had no idea what to do about it—or why he even felt the way he did.
He should have known—from the minute he laid eyes on Diedre, he should have guessed. Now his mind lurched backward, searching desperately for the clues that ought to have led him to the truth long before this night. Yet the only image his mind could conjure up was the vision of that young girl, so vulnerable, so innocent, being abused and violated by a man who should have been protecting her.
The image tortured him, but he couldn't rid himself of it. He slammed his fist into the trunk of an enormous fir tree and heard the knuckles crunch, felt the blood seeping to the surface. But there was no pain. Only blind rage and bitter disappointment.
Twojoe could imagine himself standing in front of that smug, perverted maniac and pinning him up against the wall, gripping him by the throat. But there would be no mercy for one who had shown no mercy. Not even from Twojoe Elkhorn, who had never committed a violent act in his entire life.
Maybe he should ask forgiveness for even entertaining such a thought, but Twojoe searched his heart and couldn't find a shred of remorse hiding anywhere. Oh, yes, he could do it. He could kill Amber's father. He could throttle Duncan McAlister with his bare hands until the man's eyes bulged and his windpipe crushed under the pressure. And he wouldn't be sorry.
The mindless fury he understood. What he couldn't fathom was the disappointment that lay like a gray cloud at the bottom of his soul. He should be happy for Amber, reuniting with Diedre. He should be able to rejoice with them. Instead, he felt as if all his hopes for a life with Amber—hopes that in the past few days had taken on a new and vibrant life—had been dashed once again. Someone else had usurped his place in her heart. Amber Chaney had a daughter.
And he was . . .jealous.
Impossible, Twojoe thought. How could he conceivably be jealous of Diedre? And yet he knew it was true; the green-eyed monster was gnawing a hole in his gut, and he couldn't do anything to stop it. He wanted Amber to himself, wanted to be first in her life. Diedre was a distraction that lured her attention away from him.
It was a reprehensible thought, and Joe cursed himself for it. How could he be so selfish?
He walked on a ways until he stood on the high bank that overlooked Hood Canal. A pale, diluted moon shone through the mist, and scattered lights glimmered on the Toandos Peninsula, just the other side of the canal. Beyond them, the Olympic Mountains rose like protective sentinels, dark battlements against a barely lighter sky.
Even at night, even in the rain, this was the most beautiful place Twojoe had ever known. He wanted to stay here forever, to live out his days in the majestic view of these mountains, to gather clams and oysters on his own beach, to watch the hawks and eagles fishing in these waters. He wanted to be buried here, when his time came, alongside his ancestors.
But he also wanted Amber Chaney at his side.
And what if he couldn't have both? What if Amber decided to return with Diedre to North Carolina, to face her father and force his hand? A few weeks ago Twojoe couldn't have imagined such a turn of events, but then he couldn't imagine, either, that Amber might have a daughter. Or that she would have the kind of faith and courage she had demonstrated tonight, when she told the truth about herself and her past.
He knew the answer, even as his mind grappled with the question. If he couldn't have both, he would choose . . . the woman he loved.
Casting one final, longing glance over the canal, Twojoe turned and started back toward the house. With any luck, she would still be awake. Maybe he could talk to her now, before he lost his nerve.
With every step, his will grew stronger, his heart more certain. As a single man responsible solely for himself, he would never voluntarily choose to leave the farm. But he was no longer alone, and whatever was good for Amber would be good for him, too. If she needed to go back to North Carolina to be near Diedre, he would do it, no questions asked. It would be all right. They could make it work, as long as they had each other . . .
As he drew even with the barn, Twojoe could see in the distance through the trees that the light still burned in her window. She was still awake. He could go to her now, profess his love for her. He could ask her to marry him, extract a promise from her, make sure—
He stopped and collapsed against a tree trunk, breathing hard. No. He couldn't.
He couldn't ask her. Not now. Not under these circumstances. Amber had endured too many changes, too many emotional conflicts lately. Asking her for that kind of commitment now would simply put more stress on her, more pressure. And as much as he wanted to hear her say yes, to solidify things, to secure their future, it was selfish of him to obligate her to such a pledge. He needed to give her room to breathe, to find her own way. In her own time.
Longingly, he gazed at the distant square of light, a beacon in his darkness. God willing, his time with Amber would come. But for now, again, he would wait and—A brief shimmer at the corner of his eye distracted him, and he turned.
The barn door stood open a foot or two. Again he saw a narrow beam flicker across the opening and disappear. His heart constricted, and his breath caught in his throat.
A flashlight.
Someone was in the barn.
Shiv Willis had stumbled through the rain-soaked woods for fifteen minutes before he finally came to the Elkhorns' barn and let himself in. The odor of wet charcoal hung heavily in the air.
Water dripped on his head from the hole in the roof, although it didn't matter much since he was already wet all the way down to his boxers. He slicked his hair back from his forehead and focused the long, heavy flashlight on his wrist watch. It was nearly three.
Starting at the door, he began a systematic search of the barn. It was nasty work; black residue from the burned debris mixed with the rain to create a kind of sticky paste, and it was hard to see anything. There was probably a rake in here somewhere, but he couldn't take the risk of making too much noise. He'd just have to comb through the mess with his hands.
Down on all fours, he filtered through the rubble, backing across the floor from one corner to the other on his hands and knees like a crab. His back ached, and he cursed under his breath.
Surely if the cops had found it, he would have heard about it on the news. The last report he heard, they were giving up, assuming he had left the state. That's probably what he should have done, now that he thought about it. But he co
uldn't just walk away and leave his lighter here for somebody else to find. The trail might be cold now, but it would heat up pretty fast if the wrong people got their hands on that lighter.
Shiv slid on his knees toward the big desk where the woman had worked; it was charred black, but still standing. He leaned down, groping on the floor. Then, as he pushed back a pile of burned rubbish, his flashlight passed over something silvery.
"Gotcha!" He chuckled under his breath as his fist closed around it. He lifted his prize to the light and grinned. Now he could get out of here, and no one would ever be the wiser.
"Find what you're looking for?"
Shiv's throat went dry, and he raised his head so fast that he cracked it on the underside of the desk. Slowly he turned and focused the beam of his flashlight upward. Elkhorn stood there towering over him, holding a pitchfork in one hand.
"Oh, I—no, I—" Shiv stammered.
The smile faded, and Elkhorn motioned with his head. "Get up."
Shiv obeyed, scrambling to his feet. "This isn't what it looks like," he lied frantically. "I was just—"
"Save it for the sheriff," Elkhorn snapped, pointing the pitchfork directly at Shiv's chest. "I'm sure he'll be very interested in whatever story you have to tell."
An icy finger of panic ran up Shiv's spine, and he looked around desperately for a way of escape. But the only exit was behind Elkhorn.
"Hand over the flashlight," Elkhorn was saying, "then turn around and put your hands flat on the desk."
Shiv paused. He only had one chance at this, and he didn't want to screw it up. He smiled. "All right. Take it easy, now—" He extended the flashlight in Elkhorn's direction, then quick as a snake, heaved it with all his might at the man's head and ran for the door.
Instinctively, Twojoe ducked, and the flashlight, still sending out a focused beam, grazed his shoulder and bounced a few feet away. Shivers was making a run for it, but he wasn't about to get away a second time, not if Twojoe had anything to say about it.
Twojoe had two things going for him: anger, which flooded him with adrenaline and made him both quick and strong, and an intimate knowledge of the barn. He dashed after the intruder.
Shivers was heading for the door, but in the darkness he couldn't see the collapsed rafter and other debris that had fallen when part of the roof had caved in. Twojoe heard the footsteps, the trip, the heavy thud as Shivers went down. The man let out a roar of pain.
Twojoe scooped up the flashlight and followed the sound. The focused, watery beam revealed a filthy, soot-covered Shivers lying on his back on a pile of rubble, one ankle twisted at an unnatural angle.
Twojoe looked at him, lying there in a heap, and the fury he had felt earlier came rushing back. His face went hot, and he felt his jaw clench. This man—this pathetic excuse for a human being—represented everything horrible that had been done to Amber. The fire, the injuries, the threats . . .
Even, indirectly, the sexual assaults.
An image swam to the surface of his consciousness—Amber as a little child, lying rigid and terrified in the darkness, crying out for help, begging her assailant to stop. Twojoe's fingers closed around the handle of the pitchfork in a death grip, and all his rage at what had been done to her focused into one white-hot flame, directed at the man who lay on the ground in front of him. He could say that Shivers had attacked him, that it was self-defense. No one would ever know the difference, and probably wouldn't care much, anyway. This hired thug, this animal, deserved to die like the rabid dog he was. Twojoe raised the pitchfork and, holding it aloft like a spear, aimed it directly at Shivers's throat. It was a simple matter of—of justice . . .
Do justice . . . love mercy . . . walk humbly with your God. . .
The words formed unbidden in Twojoe's mind. He clenched his teeth and felt a muscle in his jaw twitch. Yes, justice. That's what this was about.
Again he took aim.
I desire mercy, and not sacrifice . . .
He gripped the pitchfork harder. But what about Amber's sacrifice? Where was the mercy when she was being abused? His eyes watered, and he expelled a pent-up breath. He had been so certain that he was capable of murdering Duncan McAlister and everyone else responsible for causing her pain. Now he had his chance, and he couldn't make himself do it.
All the adrenaline drained out of him, and Twojoe's arm began to shake. A rancid bitterness filled his mouth, and for a minute he thought he was going to be sick. If this was the taste of revenge, it wasn't sweet at all.
He let the pitchfork drop, and it fell with a clatter against the barn floor.
36
Out of the Depths
When Diedre followed Amber upstairs to the rustic bedroom, she felt as if she were entering a sanctuary, a holy place. Her sister's room. Her mother's room.
It was a simple space, its outer walls made from the huge logs that formed the shell of the house. An enameled iron bed in verdigris. A hand-quilted comforter of purple and green and blue pinwheels. A small stained-glass lamp burning on a table beside the bed. On one wall, a framed print of Van Gogh's Starry Night. And overlooking the canal and the mountains, a wide window seat with a cushion and pillows that matched the quilt.
Amber excused herself to go to the bathroom, and while she was gone Diedre began to make a circuit of the room, touching her mother's few possessions as if they might impart some supernatural wisdom to help her deal with what she had learned tonight. She trailed her fingers over the stitching in the quilt, rested her hand on a pillow, fingered the iron bedstead with its small grape-leaf design. Then she came to the dresser, and stopped.
The wide, old bureau was crafted of oak, with curved legs and a beveled, shield-shaped mirror. But unlike most dressers, which usually collected odd bits of their owners' lives—spare change, car keys, notes or receipts emptied from a pocket or purse—Amber's was neat and tidy, bearing only a single photograph and a vase of flowers.
The stoneware vase Diedre recognized as one of Amber's own creations—she had seen one almost exactly like it in Andrew Jorgensen's shop. A graceful, fluted design narrowing upward from a wide base, with a glaze of purples and blues and just a touch of green. Peaceful colors that echoed the hues of the deep blue-purple irises the vase contained.
But it was the photograph that caught Diedre's attention and held it. A black-and-white photo, softened to brown tones with age, captured in a simple frame. A young girl, perhaps four or five, being spun around by an older teenager.
Diedre's breath caught in her throat, and she picked up the photo and held it to the dim light. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. With one finger she traced the flowing lines of the older girl's dark, windblown hair.
"Mama took that picture."
Startled, Diedre whirled around. "I—I wasn't snooping."
Amber smiled. "I didn't think that." She had changed into soft flannel pajamas, and she came over and put an arm around Diedre's shoulders. "My hair was longer then."
"This was—this was—"
"Just before I was sent away?" Amber nodded. "She sent it to me when I was at the hospital. Whenever I got to believing that life was just too hard, I'd get it out and look at it. It reminded me that I had something to live for."
"And Mama never knew about the—" She hesitated. "What Daddy did to you?"
Amber bit her lip and looked away. "No. She thought I'd been with some teenage boy. She was devastated."
"Why didn't you tell her?" Amber recoiled visibly from the outburst, and Diedre instantly regretted her accusatory tone. She lowered her voice. "Why didn't you tell someone?"
"I was fifteen when you were born. The abuse had been going on since I was eleven or twelve. Every time it happened, Daddy would threaten me if I told. I believed him. I knew what he was capable of." She held up her bandaged hands. "What he's still capable of."
She turned back the quilt and lay down across the bed, flinging one arm over her eyes. "Do you mind if I rest for a while?"
A little shock
of self-reproach stung at Diedre's mind. Amber had been released from the hospital less than twelve hours ago. "I should go."
"Please, stay. I just need a little nap, and I want you here."
"All right." She replaced the photograph on the dresser and gently covered Amber's shoulders with the quilt.
"That picture is a copy—I had it enlarged," Amber mumbled. "If you'd like, I'll give you the original."
"Yes, I'd love to have it," Diedre began. But Amber had already drifted off to sleep.
She went to the dresser and picked up the photo again.
Amazing, how a simple snapshot could be such a perfectly composed work of art. The lighting, the shadows, the fluid sense of motion. Maybe that's where she got her own gift—from her mother.
Diedre felt a jolt in her stomach. No. Not her mother . . . her grandmother.
Her hands shaking, she replaced the photograph on the dresser and stood staring into the mirror. Behind her she could see the reflected image of the window seat, and beyond that, the glittering waters of the canal and the mountains that rose above. The rain had stopped, and a weak, yellow moon hung over the jagged peaks and illuminated the snow that still clung to the highest ridges.
It was a beautiful scene, almost like a painting. But it was only a reflection. She was looking in the wrong direction to see the real thing.
Just as all her life she had been looking in the wrong direction. It had all been a sham, a carefully constructed lie, nothing but smoke and mirrors. And now she had fallen through the mirror to the other side.
From the window seat, Diedre stared vacantly out over the mountains. Two hours had passed, and the setting moon now balanced at the top of one of the Olympic peaks, as if preparing for the long slide down the slope. Behind her, she could hear shallow breathing.
She turned and looked at Amber's face, relaxed in sleep and illuminated by the soft lamp that still burned at the bedside. The light accentuated the curve of cheek and brow. A perfect portrait. Her sister. Her mother.
The Amber Photograph Page 24