He touched her on the shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
The old man shuffled across the cement and tapped on the door. After a brief pause, a guard escorted him down the hall and back to his cell. Traci folded the pages from the legal pad and tucked them under her arm.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The sun set over Wade’s house as if signaling its death. The building, once well kept and trimmed, was overgrown and littered from various police inspections. Broken strands of caution tape fluttered in the wind. Tarps waved and rippled. Tall grasses hissed as they swayed back and forth in the cooling air. The house sat empty in the large yard, harkening a time almost forgotten.
In the middle of the open lawn sat the machine itself. A heavy blue tarp hid the beast, surrounded by drooping orange plastic fencing. The dirt and stone path was rutted out by a litany of inspection vehicles, bomb squads, and government cars that traversed its course in attempts to make sense of the complicated device.
Traci found a place where the top of the fence dipped down and stepped over it. The dried ground split weeks ago from lack of rain. Winter hung in the air and heavy clouds loomed in the distance, threatening snow. Wind howled and gusted, throwing up great whirls of dust and debris.
After several minutes of work she managed to untie the knots that bound the tarp to the great machine. In one quick motion the wind pulled the large blue covering off of the hulking mass of wires and electrical equipment, sending a shiver down her spine. The immensity of the machine took her breath away. How foreboding. It towered over her, a dark object in the fading light.
It was all planned, from the nice clothes she wore to the antiquated style money in her pocket. She ought to look good if she met with her old self, trustworthy. A pair of black dress slacks and a deep red shirt. That should do it.
Wiping tears from her eyes, she unfolded Wade's detailed instructions. Stretching deep within the heart of the machine she found the first of many toggles. A series of small red lights glowed from the dashboard.
She reached above her head and hoisted herself up until she stood on a small step by the seat. All of the various knobs and options lay in front of her. She pulled a large black and white photograph from under the instructions. Wind gusted, trying to tear the picture from her cold hands. Carter. Even in the dim light his face shone clear. He looked so much like her.
She sat in the chair running her fingers over this stranger’s face. Carter remained frozen in time, absent from this world. He had her cheek structure, her thick hair, her chin. His face stared expressionless, distant, as if some piece of him knew his impending fate.
And now, in a few moments, with a sequence of buttons, she could undo the pain she brought on herself. Beneath her feet was the thing that started this entire process, and now, it could take away her heartache. For the first time in her life she would know the joy of being called “Mother.”
All the evil things Wade said about Carter were exaggerated. Surely he didn’t give the boy enough chances to redeem himself. There is always some good to cultivate in others, isn’t there?
What was just? What was the right answer? She didn't deserve forgiveness for her crimes. Perhaps the nightmares, the sleepless nights, the tortured thoughts, were punishments for a woman so quick to turn her back on the innocent. She deserved this. She deserved loneliness in her adult years. Love held no place for a woman with her history.
She could never let go of Carter. Her son haunted her as the blood of the king tormented Lady Macbeth.
She read the instructions, walking through each step with precision. Wade made it abundantly clear that the machine was programmed to shut down unless every step was followed in the correct order. It unlocked the fail-safe that the authorities failed to overcome. There were codes to enter at given moments of the process, hidden trips and levers to throw at exactly the right time. The red lights on the dash offered her little illumination by which to read, but she was so familiar with the instructions that she could do it by memory.
She straddled the chair, methodically working through the steps, each breath harder to take than the last, choked back by fear and self-hatred. Her heart twisted within her chest. The pains in her abdomen tormented her with each shift of her weight.
A vibrant whirring kicked on. The field was suddenly cast in a brilliant white light emanating from the machine. She shouted, shielding her eyes. The roar of the diesel motor was impossibly loud. A heavy blast of air. It was starting.
“I can’t take it anymore, God,” she cried out. “I’ve tried everything. I can’t…, I can’t live like this. I killed my son, my baby. I killed my baby.”
She ran her fingers over the photograph, caressing it, memorizing it. The beast ground and shook, bucked and rocked. It was difficult to hold her stance on the small platform. Sitting in the chair, she braced herself with the steering wheel.
“God, I need you to forgive me. God, forgive me, forgive me,” she wailed, digging her fingernails into the edge of the picture. “My baby, my baby.”
A mighty thunderclap roared from the machine. The grass around her ignited in a flash and was out as fast. Light enveloped her. This was the moment. Everything, all of her life, came down to this. The noise rose to a climax and a great wave of sparks shot from the machine. She took the picture from her bosom and held it in front of her. She kissed Carter’s mouth, his forehead, his hands. She stared into his eyes, those dark and forbidding eyes, and held the photograph at arm's length.
“I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry.”
She held the photograph against the center of the steering wheel, weighing it down with one of her thumbs. Slowly, as if in a dream, she pulled her hand from the glossy finish of the photograph inch by inch.
“I’m sorry. Forgive me.”
The picture took flight, rising fifteen, twenty feet in the air. It left the brilliant glow of the machine and traveled into the great darkness that surrounded her.
The beast bucked violently, threatening to throw her. Her left arm shot out and grabbed the wheel, steadying her balance. She hit the last sequence of buttons with her fist and dove to the ground, rolling in the weeds. A violent burst of light shot from the machine, sending out a horrible shock wave that rippled the earth in every direction. She rose to her feet, desperate to get away. She ran as fast as she could across the shattered lawn as the whirring and wrenching of the machine reached its pinnacle. Covering her ears, she could not hear herself scream.
Heat burned her back. Was her skin on fire? She forced herself to run a few extra inches. Stumbling, falling, she dove to the ground. She was going to die. This was the end.
Each breath was a gasp, the air heavy and toxic. The ground came alive, bucking and tearing in every direction. Great clumps of earth jumped from their sedentary places, rising and falling like ocean waves pounding against the shore. All of creation seemed in turmoil as the beast rose and fell.
Then the world was silent.
Scrambling to her knees, she grabbed at her ears. Was she struck deaf? All of the light was gone. Darkness everywhere. There was no movement, no images, no sounds. An empty blackness lay before her. Nothing else. She wanted to cry out but there was no breath in her. The air in her lungs escaped. She gasped for more. She must be dying. No breath came. She clawed at her chest, willing oxygen to inflate her lungs. With the first breath came incredible, horrifying pain. She sucked in air, gulping it, each gasp easier than the last.
Above her, a ball of flames rocked back and forth against the night sky. It came down slow, like a feather on a summer breeze. The burning remains of Carter’s picture. Fire converged on all sides of the image until only his face remained. The photograph landed ten feet in front of her. Forcing herself to her feet, she stood over the image and watched as the brilliant heat overtook the final evidence of Carter’s existence. She exhaled. Breathe. Breathe in and out. In and out.
A charred hole was all that remained of the machine.
She’d done it.
> Traci stared at the last three yellow pages where he'd written out instructions on how to destroy the machine. It was gone now, lost forever. Bending down, she used the remaining fire from the photograph to burn the instructions. She waited until the glow died down and, eventually, fizzled out.
Traci stood alone in the darkness. Yes, she could forgive. Time to release her history. The past itself was destroyed. The Lord forgave her. The quiet depth of the night settled her heart, and soon the first pure flakes of winter snow began to fall. In a few hours, a blanket of crystalline white covered the ground and cleansed her soul.
EPILOGUE
A heavy door swung open. The prisoner stepped outside wearing his own clothing for the first time in years. No music awaited him, no long line of well-wishers. The whole affair was a simple one, almost mockingly so. It took only the turning of a key and the old man stepped into the sunlight, never to return to his dark cell.
New life filled his legs. Air here tasted far sweeter than in the exercise yard. Birds sang the first songs of spring. Grasses seemed greener. He stood erect, shoulders square and strong. One of the officers tipped his hat and reentered the jail, locking the door behind him.
Wade walked down a long concrete sidewalk. He was alone in the world. No grandchildren ran to greet him, no friends attended his release. A cheap plastic bag contained the few items he had with him the night of his capture.
Not one reporter came, even with all of the controversy surrounding his case.
He was free once again.
What should he do? No rush to get home and start working. The Department of Defense would never take him back.
He no longer harbored vendettas against his fellow man. Instead, he stood at the curb open to the possibilities spread before him.
A figure emerged from behind an old Chevy, her long dark hair done in a neat ponytail. She looked tired. She must not have slept at all the night before. It was a miracle she showed up, but here she was, radiant in the morning sunlight. She stepped forward and took the plastic bag of belongings from Wade. Her other hand took his and they stood for a moment, staring into the parking lot.
There was nothing more to say. The gentle squeeze of her hand communicated everything. Traci came back for him.
The couple walked across the parking lot in no particular hurry. Each was a new creation, different from the person they were in the past. All that was required of them was love, their future open to hope and joy. They had each other and together they had only time.
THE END
Group Discussion Questions
Thank you for supporting independent literature. Below are some suggested questions for your book club. This novel covers some sensitive subjects, so please remember to use grace in your discussion. You can find more helpful tools at http://www.chrisstaron.com.
What are the central themes of the novel?
One theme of Cradle Robber is the importance of accepting the consequences of our actions. Which characters are forced to live with the consequences of their actions
With which character do you most identify?
Have you known a Carter in your own life?
How else could Wade have responded to Carter?
Wade suffered from severe burnout after ministering to teenagers. What might cause someone to burn out?
People of faith often feel pressure to put on a happy face. Have you felt this and how has it shaped your life and faith?
What response did you have when Wade “killed” Carter?
Was Wade justified in taking the life of any of his victims?
Are you angry at Wade? Why?
Wade did not physically perform any abortions, but just suggested them. How complicit is he in the death of the fetuses?
What does that imply about the power of suggestion and our responsibility for what we say?
Has your life been impacted by abortion?
Murder could be defined as ending the life of another person who might otherwise have continued living. With this in mind, how would you categorize the actions of Wade? What about Traci?
How does your answer to the last question relate to your stance on abortion?
Wade is a wounded “Christian”. How do the actions of vengeful Christians reflect on God?
How should Christians interact with people with whom they disagree?
How did you feel when Traci burned Carter's picture? What did that represent?
Why is it so difficult for us to forgive ourselves for our actions?
About the Author
Chris Staron is the writer/ director of films such as Bringing up Bobby, Between the Walls, and Pint Size Parables. His previous short book, How to Survive a Money Making Summer, was written when he was eleven years old. This is his first novel. When he's not writing, Chris teaches Sunday school, participates in an improv comedy troupe, and works a blue collar job.
Author Notes
Thank you for completing this novel. Market experts say that the average consumer does not want books that deal with complex issues. Lets prove them wrong, shall we? Leave a comment on your purchasing platform and share a link on social media. It really does help.
Please allow me to extend my sympathy to those whose lives have been impacted by abortion. There are so many reasons people have abortions, from financial trouble to health risks. Those are legitimate concerns. At the same time I want to be clear that actions have consequences. Sex has consequences. We should be willing to accept that sex produces babies.The decision of whether or not to have a baby should be made before having sex. If you are considering abortion please know that you are in Wade's shoes. You have a life in your hands. Take courage, seek help from your community, and have the child. Every baby deserves a chance at life, no matter the circumstances.
Sex should always be consensual. No means no.
Christians should be aware that around half of abortions in the U.S. are performed by people who claim to be Christian. Change starts with us. When we hate our fellow man we destroy our lives and demonstrate how little we think of the Holy Spirit's ability to sanctify. This book is not a call to violence but a call to grace.
Special thanks to Nick Staron for his encouragement and input. Lisa Christen was my excellent editor, but all mistakes are mine. Kudos also to Heidi Shertzer, Debbie Bedford, Grandma Joan, Becca Block, and my editing team with ACFW. Finally, thanks to my parents for their unending encouragement. None of my projects would have been made if not for their willingness to support crazy dreams.
All characters and events in this novel are works of fiction.
Benford's Law is real and so cool. I first heard about it from the RadioLab podcast produced by WNYC. Here is their info:
Abumrad, Jad (Producer). (2016, September 29). Numbers [Audio Podcast].
Retrieved from http://www.radiolab.org
Cover photo by Robin Röcker courtesy of Creative Commons license. Design by Chris and Nick Staron.
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