~~~
In his basement workshop, Tony Warner fitted a fresh strip of paper onto his power sander and applied it to the oval piece of cherry-wood on his workbench. A little more off the edges, and he’d be ready to trace the pattern onto the middle. Wood dust coated his glasses. He tasted it through the domed white mask covering his nose and mouth.
A dull ache grew in his lower back from standing too long. Tony squeezed his complaining fingers tighter around the sander’s handle and made another pass over the wood before turning off the power. He wiped the dust from his project with a soft rag and slid his finger along the grain.
The phone shrilled, and he jumped, dropping his cloth. He’d turned the ringer up to hear it over his tools. He snatched off his mask, sending his glasses flying, and grabbed the handset. Probably for nothing, same as the last ten times, but hope always flared. Ruth? The police?
“Tony, it’s John. It’s me at the door, not the press. Can I come in?”
Tony’s knees creaked as he bent to retrieve his glasses from under the workbench. “I didn’t hear the bell. Look, I appreciate your concern, but I want to be alone.”
“The ladies from church will have my hide if I don’t at least see the whites of your eyes. I brought you something.”
“Just a minute.” Tony took his time climbing the stairs. When he opened the door, John Linton pressed a red and white cardboard bucket of fried chicken into his hands. The warmth felt good against his fingers. “Thanks. I’m not hungry.”
“Have you eaten today?”
“I’ll get something in a bit.”
“It’s seven o’clock, mate.”
Tony shrugged. “Do you want to come in?”
“I won’t stay long.”
The scent of fried chicken filled Tony’s nostrils as he carried the bucket into the kitchen. “You brought enough for a whole family.”
“You don’t have to worry about indigestion keeping you up. I don’t imagine you’re sleeping much, anyway.”
“You’ve got that right.” Tony focused on his visitor through dusty glasses. John had changed his clothes and shaved since last night, but his pockmarked cheeks were drawn and his eyes heavy.
Tony placed an awkward hand on his shoulder. “You could have slept.”
“Not last night. Emergency conference with the Boss.” He flicked a glance toward the ceiling. “Norma—she was the one with Ruth last night—suggested we set up a prayer vigil at the church. I went there from here.”
Tony had spent the dark hours pacing. And staring at the walls. And venting, but he’d hardly call that prayer. It probably did about as much good, but he’d better not say that out loud. “Hey, I’m sorry about last night. I was out of line.”
“Stress does that to us. No worries.” John followed him into the kitchen.
Mechanically, Tony washed the sawdust from his hands and set the table. “Help me eat this chicken?” He didn’t know if he could keep it down, but he’d need steady hands to carve the inlay for the little cherry-wood table. He hoped the task would be complicated enough to get him through the night.
John’s plate held only bones and splashes of gravy before Tony had forced down his second piece of chicken. It was nice to have company, especially someone who knew when not to talk.
When Tony had called Ruth’s sister last night after the police officer left, Lorna had offered to come at once. He hoped he’d been gracious in refusing. The last thing he needed right now was someone prowling around straightening up after him.
But John’s easy silence let Tony’s thoughts flow. Tony took a drink of root beer, opened his mouth, then closed it again. If John sensed his struggle, the pastor gave no sign. Tony’s questions tumbled out. “You believe in heaven, right?”
John’s stillness appeared to sharpen. He met Tony’s eyes and nodded. “Yes, I do.”
Tony took another drink. “Would Ruth be there... now?”
“We can’t give up hope. The police—”
“When a person... dies... is there a waiting period?”
John leaned back in his chair and sighed. “There are different theologies on that. My own belief is that a person will be with God as soon as they pass from this life. But Ruth may still be alive.”
Tony pushed the half-eaten chicken in circles on his plate. “It would be easier to think of her in heaven than—I read what he did to those girls.” He picked up a paper napkin and crushed it in his fist. “How long does it take to torture someone that badly?”
Suddenly he didn’t care if Ruth’s pastor saw his tears.
John gripped his hand for a second, then stood and walked to the window.
After a minute, Tony blew his nose. He dragged in a steadying breath. “Have you ever seen one of those little tables with relief carving under a glass top?”
“No. Why?”
Tony piled their dishes and carried them to the sink. “Ruth wanted one for our front entrance. I bought the wood, found a pattern, and then forgot about it. I’ve been downstairs most of the time since the police left. It helps me not to think so much.”
“I’ll bet it’s a good connection with her, too.”
“I’d like to get back to it now. But thank you for coming, and for supper. I appreciate it.”
John nodded. “Sure. I didn’t mean to stay this long. Blame the chicken, I guess. One whiff and I’m hungry no matter what I just ate.” He hesitated. “Tony, can I pray with you before I go?”
Ruth’s pastor was a bachelor, and she’d taken to inviting him for a meal every month or so. All the times John Linton had been here, he had never mentioned faith around Tony. Oh, he’d said grace if Ruth asked him, but never anything else. The man was a Christian—better be, he was a minister—but he’d always respected Tony’s agnosticism. Now he looked embarrassed. “It’s the one thing I can do.”
“You brought me supper and made sure I ate it. You gave me company.”
John nodded. And waited.
Tony cleared his throat. “Okay, sure.” He went back to the table and sat on the edge of his chair.
The pastor sat across from him. “This won’t hurt a bit.” Tony’s head came up and John laughed. “Really. Can I take your hands? It’s up to you.”
With a shrug, Tony rested his hands on the smooth oak tabletop, palms up. John took them in a surprisingly strong grip, and bowed his head. Tony followed suit, trying not to squirm as silence stretched between them.
John began to speak, his voice low but passionate, nothing like the stereotyped prayers Tony had heard on television. He asked for peace, for help, for Ruth’s safety. More than the words, his tone resonated in Tony’s heart. John spoke as if he knew someone listened, someone who wanted to hear, who could intervene and help.
What Tony wouldn’t give for that assurance. Deep in his soul, something broke, bled.
John squeezed his hands and released them. He swiped his eyes with his knuckles, and grinned. “Sorry I got a bit choked up. I care, mate. About you and about Ruth. If you need me, call.” He stood and fished a bent card from his wallet. “Should have given you this last night. I’ll answer my cell day or night. And I’ll check in with you tomorrow.”
Tony followed him to the door. “John.”
“Yes?”
“They told me Ruth stopped at that store for a bag of chips. Those would have been for me.” His throat tightened, bunching his words, but the rest of his confession pushed to get out. Did ministers attract this sort of stuff? “A peace offering. We argued before she left.”
John looked up from tying his shoes, then slowly straightened.
Tony swallowed to loosen his throat. “I didn’t want her to go. The weather. This praying for Silver.”
Ruth’s pastor nodded. He waited, like a dentist bracing for the final pull.
Tony’s secret pain erupted. “She said she’d stay home if I’d pray with her. I got angry, thought she was pushing faith on me. I sent her out—to him.”
“Stop right there
.” John’s voice rang with authority. “Blaming yourself won’t help. Neither will blaming Ruth, or me, or God. It happened. We don’t know why. All we can do is choose what to do now.”
“There’s nothing I can do.”
“You can pray as if your life depended on it. Ruth’s might.”
“What do you mean?”
“When you lost Susan, Ruth kept her sanity by praying for Harry Silver.”
Hatred seared Tony’s gut at the name.
The pastor’s gentle nod acknowledged his anger. “Then by bizarre coincidence Ruth is taken by Harry, too. And God allows it. Think about the odds. Ruth didn’t have to stop, or she could have been five minutes earlier or later. I think... I’m sure... God wants to do something in this situation. If she’s still alive, maybe He wants to use Ruth in answering her own prayer. Our prayers on her behalf can tip the balance.”
“I can’t accept a God like that.”
“Yeah. But it’s Him or nothing, mate.” John flashed him a rueful grin.
Tony shook his hand. “Thanks for coming.”
As soon as the door closed, Tony retreated to his workshop. It took twice as long as it should have to position his design and trace it on the dark wood. He kept fumbling with the pencil. The pattern kept shifting. At last he threw down the pencil. He’d counted on this carving to keep his thoughts out of the darkness tonight. But if he ruined the oval tabletop—Ruth’s table—that wouldn’t help.
He took his time putting everything away, swept up the sawdust and trudged upstairs. He wandered around the house, unable to settle. Passing through the bedroom, he saw Ruth’s Bible on her night table. He picked it up as a link to his wife, not to her God. She loved this book. Why? He carried it to the den and sank into the recliner where she used to sit and pray. She always looked so peaceful, curled up here in the mornings.
Tony’s fingertips dug into the Bible’s soft leather cover. “What kind of a God are You not to protect her?” He blinked, not sure which shocked him more, that he had talked to God, or that he had accused Him. Yet this was the same kind of question Ruth herself had grappled with. Instead of crippling her faith, the questions had ultimately strengthened it.
And look where it landed her. He clenched the Bible tighter. With a choking cry, he jumped to his feet and hurled the book on the floor.
Pain speared his chest as if his heart might explode. He crumpled to his knees, face in his hands, sobbing. The police were doing everything they could, but it wouldn’t be enough. They might already be too late to save her life, and they could never rescue him from this hell.
His only hope was the One who let this happen in the first place. Him or nothing, John Linton had said. Tony’s shoulders quaked with the weight of his agony. What a choice.
Chapter 16
Ruth’s shoulder throbbed. After the rain stopped, Harry had built a funeral pyre behind the cottage for her body. She wondered hazily why he hadn’t killed her before lighting the blaze. Flames devoured the dry sticks, seared the flesh on her left arm. Screaming, she writhed away.
Her head thunked against something hard and her eyes snapped open. The nightmare dissolved, and she lay disoriented, gasping in the darkness. Why couldn’t she move her arms? Why couldn’t she see?
Fire or not, her left shoulder was in agony. Ruth took a slow breath. Where was she? Think. She lay on her side with her cheek pressed into soft fibers that tickled her nose. The rug beside Harry’s bed? She tried to roll off her aching shoulder and hit her head on the bed frame again.
That meant she still lay where Harry had dropped her. She’d lain here for hours listening to him stumble back and forth to the bathroom. Every time she’d thought it might be safe to escape, he made another trip. Or groaned from the living room. Somewhere in the night she’d fallen asleep.
Ruth’s stomach gurgled. Hunger, or the beginnings of what attacked Harry? That kiss just before he started vomiting—if this was a bad case of flu, she had those germs now.
Her lips curled at the memory of his mouth covering hers, and her insides lurched. She clenched her teeth and swallowed hard, listening for Harry. Not a sound.
The pins and needles in her shoulder brought tears to her eyes and took her mind off her stomach. If she could get up and out...
The darkness was so complete it was almost tangible. Ruth’s eyes strained to find a glimmer of light, a focal point of some kind. The wind and rain had died, leaving a hollow silence that pressed against her eardrums.
A strong feeling of isolation engulfed her, as if she were blind and deaf, suspended in nothingness. She shivered in spite of the mild night. Maybe this absence of city noise could be peaceful—if she weren’t there with a killer.
If Harry was in bed, she should be able to hear his breathing. Her throat tightened. He’d been so sick last night. What if he’d died? How long would she lie there, trapped in the room with his dead body, before his drug-dealing friends found them?
She shot a silent prayer for help. Holding her breath, she pulled her knees to her chest and lurched sideways. Balanced on knees and forehead, she caught her breath and slowly straightened. Her left arm hung numb below the shoulder, dead weight on the cord that bound it to her other wrist. She wriggled backwards to the bed, and, using it as a prop, pushed herself to her feet.
Silence. Her captor was either dead or not in this room. She sat on the edge of the bed and tried to free her wrists. He hadn’t tied her as tightly this time, but her left arm was useless.
Sweat prickled between her shoulder blades as she concentrated on working her right hand free. The cord bit into her flesh, adding to the agony of returning circulation in her arm.
Her muscles burned as if she’d been at this for hours. Hopelessness dragged at her heart. She let her arms dangle behind her and counted ten slow, deep breaths.
The harder she pulled, the tighter the cord felt. She couldn’t keep the tears back any longer. All her efforts swelled her wrists. Like she’d done to her finger when she was twelve and ‘borrowed’ her sister’s ring. She grimaced. The consequences then were nothing to what they’d be this time.
Lorna had been in full teenage meltdown when their mother stepped into Ruth’s bedroom muttering ‘Blessed are the peacemakers.’ Ignoring both girls’ sobs, she’d inspected the wedged ring and led Ruth into the bathroom to soap it off.
Soap.
Ruth slid off the edge of the bed and hopped toward the pencil-thin line of light under the bedroom door. If Harry didn’t wake...
Almost there. She held her breath, as if it would give her extra strength, and jumped. Then her knees wobbled, and she fell forward. The door slammed, tearing the silence like a bullet.
She leaned against the door. One second. Two. Ten. Still no sound from Harry.
It was now or never. Ruth turned her back to the door and fumbled with the handle. With her good hand, she held it steady and hopped. The door followed. She’d done it. She paused in the doorway, heart pounding.
The oval lamp near the dormant television set cast a dim glow. Harry was nowhere to be seen. Ruth hopped into the bathroom and eased the door closed. She slid her shoulder along the wall to flick the light switch.
With her back to the vanity, she felt for the soap pump. Her fingertips brushed it and it slid out of reach. She forced her arms back, gritting her teeth against the pain in her shoulders. Finally her fingers curled around the shell-shaped dispenser, and she pulled it nearer. By the time she positioned and squirted the slippery liquid in the right direction, she was sweating.
The soap stung Ruth’s wrists like a swarm of angry ants, but it did the job. A slow, deliberate pull freed her good hand, and the cord dropped off the numb one to the floor. She held her wrists under a stream of cold water until they stopped burning, then hopped to the toilet, sat and attacked the bonds on her feet. The knots resisted her stiffened fingers, but at last she was free.
Pain surged in her ankles as her blood started circulating at full speed. Ruth stood, le
aning against the countertop to steady herself. “Thank You, God, for reminding me of the soap trick with Lorna’s ring. Help me get out of here. Help me hold onto you like Lorna always has.”
Lorna might be quick-tempered, but faith made her steadfast. That was the word. Ruth had been the one to break when Susan died, while Lorna, the grieving mother, pressed into God’s strength and comforted everybody else.
“She doesn’t need any more pain, Lord. Neither does Tony. And I want to live.”
Ruth gathered the long phone cord and stuffed it in the garbage, then shuffled to the door, turned off the light, and listened. Silence. She opened the door and peeked out. No sign of Harry.
She noticed the open bedroom door and gasped. How could she be so careless? All Harry had to do was look that way, and he’d know his prisoner had gone. Hardly daring to breathe, she crept back and closed the door.
Her ankles were killing her, but at least her balance was improving. She stole up behind the couch. Let Harry be there, sleeping. What if he were sitting in the kitchen, in perfect health, waiting for her?
Harry lay sprawled on his back, eyes closed, one foot on the floor. Ruth’s breath came out in a soft puff of relief. His skin was a chalky grey, his forehead beaded with sweat. He shivered and a low moan escaped his pale lips.
Ruth bolted for the kitchen, slipped into her coat and rain boots, and grabbed her purse from where Harry had flung it on top of the fridge.
If he hadn’t thrown away her cell phone, all she’d have to do was hide and phone 9-1-1. Instead, she’d be making her escape the hard way.
She had her hand on the doorknob when she paused. Maybe it wouldn’t be so hard after all. What had Harry done with the car key? She glanced around the room. A key ring lay on the counter beside the microwave. She snatched it and darted outside, shutting the door firmly behind her.
Pink streaked the sky as Ruth emerged from the cottage into a world washed clean. The ground was a mat of green, fresh leaves ripped from the trees by the heavy rain. Here and there, the wind had hurled whole branches to the ground.
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