by Rich Foster
“Yes. This is Dr. Finch’s office calling for Calley Haskell.”
“Speaking!” Calley was unnaturally eager.
“The doctor said, in that you were not a regular patient he cannot renew your prescription. He recommends you see your regular physician in the next week or two before you run out.”
After the woman hung up, Calley irrationally slammed the phone down. It bounced off the nightstand and fell behind the bed. She let out a mumbled, “Damn!” between gritted teeth and got down on all fours to retrieve it.
She looked at the clock and saw it was not quite noon so she called her OBGYN hoping to catch her before lunch. Emma Davenport was the only doctor she saw other than her children’s pediatrician. But the receptionist said Dr. Davenport was at the hospital for a delivery. She took Calley’s number and assured her, the doctor would call as soon as possible.
For the remainder of the afternoon doctor Davenport was tied up with delivering twins. It was four o’clock when she picked up her messages. She picked out Calley’s number first. Emma knew of Ruthie Haskell’s death. With two children of her own, she felt sympathetic parental pain when she saw Calley’s name.
She returned the call. Calley told her she was having trouble coping with the kids and the finances at home since Ruthie died. Was it possible to get a prescription? Emma knew she should not prescribe without seeing Calley, but a bond of the sexes and her own experience with motherhood caused her to relent. God knows I’d be a wreck if my child died, she thought.
“I’ll phone in a prescription to the pharmacy.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“But I need you to call my office for an appointment, for a follow up.”
“Okay, next week.”
Before they hung up Doctor Davenport added, “Mrs. Haskell, I am truly sorry about your daughter.” But the words seemed trite even as she spoke them
“Thank you. So am I.”
Calley packed her children in the car and headed for Red Lake.
“Where are we going, momma?” asked Jacob.
“We are going out for pizza!”
Caleb clapped his hands together in delight “But first I need to go into the drug store in Red Lake, and then we will get dinner.”
Eight-year-old Sarah’s eyes grew wide at this surprise treat. For a moment life was as it had been in their house before her Daddy and Ruthie both died. But her mother’s happy mood did not last. She yelled at other drivers who could not hear her words. When Caleb and Jacob began bickering in the back seat, yelling, “It’s mine!” “No, mine!” Her mother exploded, turning her head around to threaten them both if they did not be quiet.
The car drifted off onto the shoulder. Calley spun her head back around. She jerked the wheel to the left and then back. Gravel popped at the undercarriage. The tires shrieked as they bit into the pavement. The car lunged toward the double yellow line. The wheels drummed on the center line reflectors. Calley straightened out and drifted back into her own lane as a logging truck blew by in the other direction. A blast of hot air rocked their car.
“See what you made me do!” she snapped. The children fell silent.
In Red Lake, Calley left the children in the car and hurried into the pharmacy just before they closed at six. When she returned she was calmer. By the time they reached the pizza parlor, Sarah sensed her mother was back to normal. It was cool in the restaurant. Calley was relaxed with a hint of a smile on her face. She was withdrawn but clam. When Caleb and Jacob began poking each other it did not faze her. When Sarah and Jacob argued over the last piece of pizza, their mother divided it, without a single rebuke. The kids knew momma was in one of her “good moods.” It had been like that now for weeks, sudden anger and equally sudden calm.
Calley Haskell and Kevin Daniels were both struggling with their inner demons. Both tried to put purpose to an event that defied meaning. Both tried to cope and both were on Valium. But, Kevin was under supervision, whereas Calley was self-medicating.
*
Lucas James cruised the open countryside with a pleasurable sense of adventure. The big sky of the west was a change from Seattle, where the coast often had a gray lid over it. Large white cumulus clouds with grayish flat bottoms floated like islands across a sea of azure blue.
He stuck to secondary roads, away from the haste of the interstate. If an impatient driver came up behind he would hug the shoulder and wave them past. His route meandered around. If a town’s name captured his imagination, he would work it into his route. In small towns he would wander into shops to chat with the local people. A number of small, slightly visited, museums received a visit by him.
A roadside motel, named Creekside, caught his eye. The neon sign bore a row of green pines, along a wavy line of blue water. Below it a small painted sign read, “kitchenettes.” Behind the sign, an arc of small log cabins ringed a grassy meadow. Tall pines filtered the sunlight and the breeze rustled through their tops. Lucas pulled in. Gravel crunched under his tires. He stretched beside his car enjoying the peace of the afternoon.
In the office, a plump woman looked up upon his entrance. Pushing her reading glasses up on top of her head, she asked, “Looking for a room?”
“For the night, or perhaps two.”
“I have plenty. Even in summer the tourists seem to prefer the chains along the interstate.”
“Where’s the creek, in Creekside?”
The woman gave an easy smile. “It’s behind the cabins. Aside from the mosquitoes right at sundown; I think you’ll find it pleasant.”
The cabin was charming in a manner commercial hotels would never equal. The sitting area was outfitted with ranch style furniture. The small bedroom held a double bed that was comfortable when he sat on it. A lampshade with tassels and Indian riders adorned a lamp shaped like a tepee. The kitchenette was serviceable and held colorful Melmac dishes. A side door opened out onto a rear porch, where two metal chairs beckoned the weary traveler to come and sit. The creek cascaded over rocks a dozen feet from the edge of the porch. All in all it was extremely pleasant.
He poured himself a long Scotch and settled down on one of the two porch chairs. He listened to the sounds of the woods. A cicada buzzed. Birds cried to each other in the treetops. The wind whispered. It was warm yet comfortable. Lucas drifted off to sleep.
In contrast to the peace of the day his dreams were troubled. Lucas found himself, at a carnival, with Samantha on his arm. As they walked down the midway, barkers called to him. When he looked they bore the faces of troubled soldiers he had known. Men who had suffered from combat stress. He turned back but Samantha was gone. He began looking for her with a sense of urgency. The colored lights swirled past him. He bumped into people in a kaleidoscope of confused faces. Many faces were strangers; but others were people he had met in Mason Forks. A gunshot rang out, but everyone ignored the shot. Lucas looked around in panic, relieved to find it was only a shooting arcade. But instead of an air rifle the shooter held a nine-millimeter, legs spread in a shooters stance. The gun gave another burst. Lucas tried to see around the man but the shooter’s back blocked his view. The gun came up again. Lucas moved to the side. By standing on his toes he was able to look over the shooters shoulder, down his arm, past the gun, toward the range. Metal targets moved across the end of the range. A rapid series of shots rang out. The targets were the faces of the church victims. One after another the shooter knocked the targets down, but the fifth only wobbled and stayed upright. Behind him people began to scream rushing helter-skelter down the midway.
Lucas sat upright with a start. In a nearby tree a murder of crows created a cacophony of noise as they shrieked to one another. Lucas rubbed his face and gave a small shudder. The events of Mason Forks were working more deeply on him than he had assumed.
It was early evening. The shafts of sunlight fell obliquely through the woods and the trees cast long shadows. The air felt thick with humidity. His clothes clung to him either from the heat or the dream. He went ins
ide and peeled them off. Lucas expected a weak stream of tepid water, but the shower was hot. He soaked in the shower and thought about Mason Forks.
Many people in Mason Forks had learned something about themselves, knowledge that was unwanted. Everyone has a self-myth, he thought, the story of who they are. His experience with people was that much of the story was often who they wished they were, not who they actually were. He had seen broken men, who, when under fire, lost their illusion’s about who they were and what their character could endure. When their imagined self met reality it was a shattering experience for them.
He wondered about the people of the church who remained seated. Were they troubled by the hypocrisy of their beliefs? Did they feel they had “good” reasons for staying seated? Were they assailed by guilt or shame? Or did they merely shrug it off and think that was life?
Lucas turned the water off. There were probably a few of each. There were also those who would simply walk away from life’s unpleasantness and never look back. But in a small town that would be infinitely harder.
That evening he found a cafe for dinner. He took a seat at the counter. Business was slow. Soon he, the waitress, and a retired logger were having an animated conversation about the state of the world. The logger was sure it was going to hell in a hand basket. The twenty-year-old waitress, from the vantage point of youth, was more optimistic; life would be good if she could only move away from her small town.
Lucas listened to their banter, occasionally answering a question or posing one. The waitress poured more coffee. Lucas thought about the logger. What dreams had he lost? He wondered if the young woman’s life would come close to her dreams at twenty. Would she live to be a retiree bemoaning the state of the world one day? He would have liked to known. But as he often thought, life was a movie where one came in late and left early, perhaps never having a chance to discover the plot.
Lucas believed God wove a web of the stories from people’s lives. God was good. He was loving, and He was forgiving. These were beliefs. Yet, God also permitted the horrific to happen. Against this unassailable fact, all he could bring was his faith, that it formed part of a purpose.
He over-tipped the waitress, partly for the service, a little for her optimism, but mostly, wanting to help make the girl’s dreams come true. She might really leave someday, he told himself. Yea, sure!
He slept well that night, untroubled by dark dreams. In the morning, he was greeted by Nature’s endless conversation outside his door. It was tempting to stay another day in this ideal, but Mason Forks called. By nine o’clock he was on the road closing the miles between him and his new home.
Sheriff Gavin Gaines stroked his mustache; as was his habit while thinking. The New Life killings and the Kellner shootings were effectively closed. Robert Goodman was under arrest. The two cases had been passed off to the district attorney’s office. Gavin’s department was out of it unless new evidence came up. But the case troubled him.
He had no doubts that Goodman was at the Kellner house. No one else put Goodman’s fingerprint on the doorbell. But why did Goodman not drive up the driveway, why would he park down the road? It was obvious the man never intended to get away from the church, so why avoid being seen at the judge’s house? Surprise was one possibility, but the judge might not even recognize the man at his door.
Another possibility was that he came and went unseen. Based upon their interviews it seemed unlikely. It was also possible that the parked truck had nothing to do with the shootings, but if that were so, then where and how did the shooter arrive?
Gaines organized his thoughts. The truck was either Goodman’s or not. If it was Goodman’s, then he was in the area when the shootings occurred and was logically the shooter. Or, he might have come and gone earlier. The police had no way of telling when the doorbell was last used.
The gun troubled him. Goodman had used a nine-millimeter at the church. He was also carrying a sawed-off shotgun. Why use a twenty-two on the judge? Perhaps, because it was quieter than the nine-mil? And where was it? His men had failed to find any connection between Robert Goodman and a twenty-two-caliber handgun. They checked the trashcans in the area and the road to Mason Forks. There was no sign of the gun. Of course, the road ran along the river. Goodman could have easily heaved it into the water at a couple dozen different locations. However, to Gaines it seemed unlikely that a man on his way to killing a church full of people would worry about tossing the gun.
The timing of the crimes pointed to Robert Goodman. Gavin put himself into Robert’s shoes. Go to the judge’s house a couple hours before church, take them out, and go on to the next murder. Before the first killing is discovered he would have control of the church. If the judge was not home, he could have simply passed on killing him or put both attacks off for a week.
Gaines was skeptical of coincidences. It seemed unlikely that two different people would simultaneously commit separate murders yet both would have ties to Goodman’s life. The facts all pointed to him. Despite this, for Gaines the case was like a cheap suit, it didn’t fit right. The way the fabric of the case hung was somehow wrong.
The sheriff office’s inquiries concerning the judge turned up squeaky-clean. The only oddity was that he seemed to attend far more legal conferences than the other judges on the bench. Everyone agreed that Kellner did not drink. Nobody used the more negative term of “teetotaler.” Yet the judge died arms length from a shaker of martinis. Was he having a party? If so, someone else was either there or at least expected. But who? And how did that fit in with Goodman?
The time window for the crime was rather narrow. Gaines wondered, “If Kellner had secrets, like drinking alone, perhaps he had other vices?” He could think of several scenarios that the judge might not want exposed to the light of day.
The Kellner investigation was. The shootings at the church distracted everyone. Gaines picked opened up Murder Book and turned to the forensics report. They never vacuumed the room. The team recorded all the facts and physical descriptions. The crime scene was photographed, but after Goodman’s arrest the forensics was dropped. Their manpower was needed at the church.
Gaines depressed his intercom. “Get Egan in here!”
A few moments later the detective entered Gaines’s sparse office.
“I want you to go back to Judge Kellner’s house and go over it with forensics. See if there is any sign of someone else being there. Also check the liquor bottles, see if the judge’s fingerprints are on the gin and the vodka.”
“Okay. It shouldn’t be a problem. The Kellner’s had no children. The house is still locked up awaiting a probate inventory.”
“Also see who cleaned for them. I know the only guns registered to Kellner were the hunting rifles, but I would like to know if he had an unregistered piece around the house.”
“Like a twenty-two?”
“Bingo!” Gaines said pointing a finger at Egan.
After Egan left the office, Gaines set the matter aside in his mind, but it niggled at the margins of his thoughts.
*
From Lester’s death, Grace found freedom. She realized that she had lived her life in his dominating shadow. Along the way, she let too many parts of herself be buried alive under Lester’s dogged bullying.
She was unsure what she would do, but for a start, she set to cleaning out the parsonage. At best, a new minister would be coming. At worst, the church would fold under their collective burden of guilt, and the parsonage sold off.
Grace made short shrift of Lester’s belongings. His clothes were neatly folded into garbage bags and now awaited the Goodwill truck in the garage.
At the church she left his library for whoever came next. Everything in his file cabinets she dumped in a recycling bin. Thirty years of sermon notes disappeared into the trash. It was odd, she thought; of all the sermons she heard Lester preach over the last three decades, the only memorable moment, was his last. Ironically that was only because someone put a gun to his head.
Systematically she worked through the house, paring down and streamlining her life. She wanted a new beginning as unencumbered by the past as was possible.
Between bouts of packing, she looked for a place to live. Will Farron showed her several local houses that were for sale, until she realized she was reluctant to commit to the permanence of buying a house. For the moment she felt transient in life. Wishing to continue the moment, she decided to look at rentals.
The parsonage took on an uninhabited appearance. Yet, still she had found nowhere to live. Then she came across a for rent sign, a mile outside of town. It was a small house of clapboard construction. In the front yard a venerable oak spread it branches, as if gathering the house into its arms. Black shutters bordered the mullioned windows. On one side, a carpet of green ivy ran wild up the wall covering much of the white siding.
She dialed the number for the property management firm in Red Lake. Later that day she met the agent, who was a garrulous woman that prattled nonstop as they toured the house. Grace tuned out the woman’s voice, being much practiced with Lester. Her eye’s roamed through the rooms.
The pale blue living room was separated from the wallpapered dining area by a dual sided fireplace built of field stone. Off the dining room lay a modest kitchen decorated in yellow, with white craftsman cabinets.
A Dutch door opened unto a sunny backyard. The grass was verdant despite the August heat, thanks to water pumped from the creek that meandered through the property.
The soil seemed rich. Grace felt a sense of expectancy, looking forward to planting a garden. In her eye she could see the rows of garden flowers in the beds along the path. A kitchen truck and herb garden could be planted off the rear door. It was too late to plant this year, but she could prepare the soil and set out the poles for beans, the cages for tomatoes and put up chicken wire to keep the deer out. Her thoughts ran ahead through the winter into spring and like the first shoots pushing their buds above the ground Grace had an inkling of expectancy for the future.