He had been right. The assistant district attorney, a bright young woman named Elise Glass, had taken Amber's statement over the phone and talked with the Kitsap County sheriff's office in order to arrange the extradition of Shiv Willis as a primary witness in the case. According to Glass, they would likely be able to build a strong case on three major charges: conspiracy to commit arson, attempted murder, and conspiracy to conceal a crime. The older charge, aggravated child molestation, was questionable because of the statute of limitations, but Glass said the judge had some leeway to determine how that statute was interpreted. If they could make an argument for the crime not being known until now, the limitation might be applied from the time of the knowledge of the crime, not the actual molestation. The tactic was iffy, Glass admitted, but at least it would get the accusation on the table and the truth would come out.
Amber had requested, much to Twojoe's surprise, that they hold off on the actual arrests until she and Diedre could get back to North Carolina. "We want to be there," she told Glass firmly. "We want him to have to look us in the eye when he tries to deny what he's done."
And so, first thing tomorrow, Amber, Diedre, Carlene, and Sugarbear would begin the long drive home. "Diedre and I have a lot to talk about, a lot to work through," she said. "Right now, we just need time together."
Twojoe understood. At least his mind comprehended what Amber was saying, even though his heart had difficulty accepting her departure. He and Meg and the Colonel would fly down for the actual trial, but in the meantime, her absence would leave a gaping hole in his soul.
"I'll miss you," he whispered into the night.
"Oh, I'll miss you, too," she responded fervently. "But you know why I have to go."
"Yes, I know." He longed to ask her to marry him, right here and now. The question burned in his gut like a pure, blue flame, but he swallowed it down. She had enough on her mind without having to consider something else that would change her life forever. Sooner or later their time would come. He hoped it would be sooner.
Amber held her breath, waiting. For a moment she had thought he was going to say something else, and suddenly the silence felt awkward and strained. When he didn't continue, she exhaled slowly and choked back the lump in her throat. She had been hoping to hear I love you, or Come back to me, or Marry me. The idea had been hanging in limbo between them ever since the day she had come home from the hospital. But if he couldn't say the words, how could she?
She wanted him to haul her into his arms and kiss her again, to tell her that he'd wait forever, as long as it took, until she could return to him. She desperately longed for a promise, something she could lean on, something to remember. But Twojoe was too wise, too steady, to ask her for a commitment when the future lay before them as vast and unknown as an uncharted ocean. Maybe the old seafarers had been right; maybe there was some point at the end of the world where ships sailed over the edge into oblivion.
In some ways, Amber felt as if she were moving rapidly toward that precipice. The idea of returning to North Carolina and facing her father after all these years terrified her. And yet she had to do it. Although she didn't know all the reasons why, she felt certain that it was a kind of calling, a destiny that she could not evade or deny. Something that had to do with justice, and with liberty.
For more than twenty years she had tried to outrun her past. She had fled from it with every ounce of strength and determination she possessed. And now she was going back to it, with equal strength and determination. She was taking her life back—hers and the life of the child she had carried.
Diedre's face materialized in her mind, and Amber felt herself almost overcome with a rush of love and regret. She could never recapture the years she had lost. She could never go back and see her little girl's first step, hear the word "Mommy" for the first time, revel in the little details that made up a life and formed a character. But she could stand by her daughter as she found her own way to peace, to the resolution of a pain no child should ever have to bear.
Dawn broke much too early for Amber's liking. She had rested little, and when sleep did come, she had dreamed of Twojoe vanishing into a heavy mist and not being able to find him again.
But when she lugged her suitcase downstairs and went to the kitchen to make coffee, there he was, draining bacon and scrambling eggs. The first rays of the sun had illuminated the highest peaks of the Olympic Mountains, and a golden light streamed in the window and caught in his eyes.
Her heart lodged in her throat, and it took her a minute to regain her composure. "Don't tell me you're cooking?"
He grinned. "I know; Meg's going to have a fit. But almost nobody can mess up bacon and eggs." He handed her a steaming cup of coffee. "How'd you sleep?"
"Like a baby," she said. "Up every two hours."
"Yeah, me, too." He motioned to a seat at the kitchen table and set the platter of bacon and eggs in front of her. "Toast?"
"Sure, why not?" Amber struggled to keep her voice light as she watched him spread on butter and strawberry jam for her. "I can do that."
Twojoe cut the toast into two triangles, the way she liked it. "You don't want to get your bandages all messy. Take a bite and tell me if it's edible." He held the toast to her mouth and watched as she chewed.
"It's delicious."
He drew closer. "Okay, let's try the bacon," he said in a husky voice. He broke a piece in half and fed it to her.
"Wonderful. Nice and crisp."
"Want another slice?" When she nodded, he put the bacon between his teeth and held it there.
Amber chuckled. "Have you been watching Lady and the Tramp again?"
"Worked for him," Twojoe mumbled, putting an arm around her and drawing her closer.
Trying not to laugh, she nibbled at the end of the bacon until she reached his lips, then dissolved into hysterics. "Wait, wait! I can't kiss you with my mouth full of bacon!"
He gazed into her eyes, his expression serious and thoughtful. "I'll wait," he murmured. "I'll wait however long it takes."
Amber could barely swallow around the lump in her throat, but she managed to get the bacon down and came to him with a slow, smoky-flavored kiss. When their lips parted, he drew her into his arms and rested his chin on her shoulder. "Please, take care of yourself," he whispered into her ear.
Her eyes stung, and she blinked the tears away. In the moment before he released her, she mouthed the words, I love you, Twojoe. But somehow she couldn't bring herself to say them out loud.
It had been twelve hours since the Lexus with North Carolina plates had pulled out of the driveway, taking away the woman Twojoe loved. For most of the day he had wandered around the farm, just staring out over the water or talking to the llamas, who didn't have much to say in return. He and Meg had just finished a silent dinner of leftovers, and Meg had moved into the living room to read. But Twojoe couldn't stand the thought of sitting in that big room, now emptied of Amber's presence. He excused himself and, claiming he had to go over the books, secluded himself in his two-room apartment.
The clock on his desk said seven-fifteen. The llamas were fed and settled for the night. What was he going to do with himself for the next three hours? He didn't really need to work and couldn't have concentrated on anything if he'd tried. Usually he didn't watch much television, but maybe tonight that was just the distraction he needed.
Twojoe went into the darkened bedroom, kicked off his boots, and flopped across the bed. He always kept the remote control in the drawer of the bedside table, and without even looking, he opened the drawer and felt around for it. Instead, his hand closed on something else. Something stiff and rectangular.
He sat up and turned on the light. It was an envelope, pale yellow, the kind that held a greeting card. On the front, in an awkward, unsure hand, the word: Twojoe.
For a moment or two, Twojoe couldn't move. He just sat there, cross-legged on the bed, running his thumb over the letters of his own name. Then he peeled up the flap and removed the card
.
On the front was a photograph of two llamas, facing each other, their foreheads touching. The arched curve of their long necks created a kind of heart shape in the space in between.
Inside Amber had written, Don't give up on us. I love you.
"I love you, too," he whispered. "And I'll never give up."
38
The Mayor's Memorial
HEARTSPRING, NORTH CAROLINA
LATE MAY
Duncan McAlister leaned on the window sill and gazed out at the crowd that had begun to gather on the square around the courthouse. "Appears we're going to have a good turnout, doesn't it?" He turned and looked back over his shoulder. Jackson Underwood sat slouched in a chair, his eyes glazed and fixed on some middle distance. "Jack?"
"What?" Underwood sat up and stared at Duncan. "Did you say something?"
"Come on, Jack. It's a beautiful day. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and—" he waved a hand toward the window, "my faithful followers are waiting to honor me. What could be better?"
"It could be better if I had heard from Willis."
"Would you quit worrying about Willis? He's probably holed up somewhere drinking himself into a stupor."
"He's dropped completely out of sight, Duncan. I haven't heard from him in over a week."
"And he's probably celebrating right now," Duncan interrupted. "Just like we ought to be doing." He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and came up with a bottle of scotch and two glasses. "What do you say? A little toast?"
"For pity's sake, Duncan, it's ten-thirty in the morning!"
Duncan poured himself a glass and raised it in Jack's direction. "Since when have you become so fastidious?" Downing the scotch in a single gulp, he motioned to Underwood. "On your feet, man. It's time."
"Aren't you the least bit worried?"
"About what? Let it go, Jack. Your man in Seattle took care of things. She's not going to make any trouble—and even if she tried, who would believe her?" He went back to the window, smiled, and waved to the crowd below. "Look at them. They love me!"
"Yeah?" Jack snorted. "Well, be careful. The mob that shouts 'Hosanna' today yells 'Crucify' tomorrow."
On the steps of the courthouse, where a makeshift stage had been set up, Duncan's devoted yes-man Oliver Ferrell was making the most of his fifteen minutes of fame. A gaggle of newspaper reporters stood bunched up near the podium, and behind them, beside a huge, white van with a satellite dish on top, a remote crew from one of the Asheville T V stations focused enormous lenses on Ferrell. Duncan sat in a folding chair and grinned surreptitiously at Jack as Ollie began his speech.
"I have been given the very, very great honor," he said, his words echoing into the microphone, "of introducing the man, the one man, the one and only man, who is responsible for making Heartspring into the lovely, lovely little village it is today. Now the whole world knows what a wonderful, wonderful town this is, for just yesterday, Carolina Magazine revealed its choice of Heartspring, North Carolina, as the Most Desirable Small City in the Carolinas."
The crowd applauded, and Ollie Ferrell gave a little bow, as if the honor were his alone. When the noise diminished, he went on.
"Visitors to Heartspring can readily see the physical beauty of our little town, with its green, green parks, its beautiful, beautiful flowers, its serene, peaceful, tranquil, and bucolic way of life—" Ollie hesitated at the word bucolic, scanning the faces in the crowd to make sure his listeners understood the meaning of the term. When a few of them nodded, he went on. "But only those of us who enjoy the great, great pleasure of living here—every hour, every day, every week, every year—can truly appreciate the hard work of our wonderful, wonderful mayor, Mr. Duncan McAlister, and our Town Council—" here he paused and gave a self-deprecating nod, "in transforming Heartspring, in maintaining, nurturing, cultivating, and developing the kind of life we want for ourselves, our children, our great-grandchildren, and all the future generations of Heartspringians—ah, Heartspringonians—"
"Yeah, yeah, get on with it," Duncan muttered under his breath.
"Before I introduce our esteemed, honored, acclaimed, and praiseworthy mayor, however," Ollie continued, raising his voice a little to carry over the smattering of laughter, "I'd like to talk for a moment about the deeper, more significant, more portentous aspects of our life together in Heartspring."
People began to murmur among themselves, to scratch their heads and glance at their watches. "I'd say he's being just a little portentous himself," Duncan whispered in Jack's ear.
"Heartspring," Ollie was saying, "is not just a charming little town. Its beauty, its loveliness, its desirability extend beyond the external, into the heart, the soul, the spirit of who we are as a people. This is a town, I am very, very proud to say, whose values go far beyond the surface to its very core. Values such as honor, truth, courage, safety, self-sacrifice, love for one another. We are a family, a family joined together in a common purpose for the common good. And the person who best represents those values is Mayor Duncan McAlister—"
The crowd applauded, and Duncan rose to step forward. But Ollie Ferrell wasn't done. He grinned and waved, then went on, as if gathering steam. "Here in Heartspring," he shouted over the throng, "we know the meaning of true family values! And today, we dedicate this plaque to the man who has made life as we know it in Heartspring a possibility." He reached behind the podium, and with some effort lifted up a huge, bronze plaque bearing the likeness of Duncan McAlister in bas-relief. "I'd like to read the inscription on this plaque, which will be installed at the door of the courthouse for everyone to see: In honor of Duncan McAlister, Mayor of Heartspring, North Carolina, with the grateful thanks of the citizens of Heartspring for his tireless efforts in making our city—"
Duncan came up behind Ollie and nudged him, nearly causing him to lose his grip on the plaque. "Thank you very, very, very much," he intoned into the microphone in a rather good imitation of Ferrell. "We are so, so grateful for this wonderful, wonderful honor." The crowd laughed uproariously and burst into spontaneous applause.
Ollie, who clearly didn't get the joke and had no idea he was the one being made fun of, inclined his head magnanimously and grinned as flashbulbs went off and the television cameras zoomed in for a closeup. He put an arm around Duncan and smiled again, as if expecting more adulation from both the crowd and the reporters.
Duncan eased Ferrell off the platform and posed with his bronze likeness. It would make a great picture, him smiling at himself. He let the cheering go on awhile, and then, in that split second before everybody grew uncomfortable, he set the plaque down on the platform and motioned for silence.
Timing. It was all about timing. Any good politician knew that you came off better if you had to ask for quiet, rather than allowing applause to dwindle on its own. Half a second could mean the difference between coming across as a hero and looking like a buffoon.
"Thank you, thank you." He swept his gaze out across the crowd, making eye contact here and there and calling out the names of some of the little people, who would be flattered by being singled out. "Ralph! Good to see you! And Amy! How's that new baby? Marcus! Glad you're up and around again. That broken leg healing up all right?" When the man grinned and lifted a crutch in salute, Duncan laughed. "Catch me afterward, and I'll sign your cast for you!"
Then his eyes lit on someone on the very outskirts of the crowd, and he shaded his brow with one hand. "Ladies and gentlemen," he called out, "I see a very special person out there. She's been out of town for a little while, and I had no idea she'd be home for this occasion. But of course she'd be here to see her Daddy honored. Come on up here, honey! My beautiful daughter, Diedre!"
When he called her name, Diedre flinched, and for a minute she couldn't move. She had already had plenty of second thoughts about this public confrontation, and now they all came back in a rush. But Elise Glass had made it clear to Diedre and Amber that the molestation charge might not stick; this could be the near
est thing to closure they were likely to get. And, Elise said, it was also a kind of poetic justice—taking control away from the controller.
Diedre didn't for one moment believe that her father would cave when confronted publicly with the charges against him. But it was important to do this, anyway—to stand up and tell the truth. To break the silence.
Diedre felt a hand swathed in bandages squeeze her own, and when she looked to one side, Amber was nodding.
"Go on," Amber whispered. "It's now or never."
Diedre threaded her way through the crowd, followed by Amber, Assistant District Attorney Elise Glass, Heartspring Sheriff Jim Barstow, whom Diedre had known all her life, and Barstow's deputy, Kirby Austin.
Daddy apparently didn't recognize Amber and didn't have a clue that this day of celebration was about to go horribly wrong. As she approached the platform, he resumed speaking.
"You all know, of course, that my beloved wife, Cecilia, succumbed to cancer recently. I wish she could be here to share this day with me, but I firmly believe that this morning she is looking down from heaven and smiling on all of us. Our daughter, Diedre, was the light of her mother's life, and I'm pleased to have her stand with me to accept this honor, and to thank you all for the support and love you have given to our family." He extended a hand in Diedre's direction. "Come on up here, sweetheart."
She stopped just short of the podium, out of his reach, and her eyes drifted to the platform behind him. Uncle Jack sat there, frozen, his gaze fixed not on her, but on someone just behind her. He had seen Amber. He knew.
Sheriff Barstow approached Duncan and motioned to him. "Mr. Mayor, I need to speak to you."
"Not now, Jim," he hissed. Then he turned and grinned at the audience. "How about a round of applause for our sheriff, Jim Barstow?" The crowd clapped politely and began whispering to one another.
The Amber Photograph Page 26