by Tom Lowe
She watched him for a few seconds. “Okay, I’ll meet you half way. Drop the knife, and I put my gun down.”
He smiled, dropping the knife behind him.
Elizabeth nodded and slowly set the gun on a wooden pew. “Okay,” she said. “Now, put the candle back in the holder.”
“I can do that.” Shaffer took three steps toward a candleholder and slowly moved his arm toward setting the candle back in the spot from where he had taken it. “Hey, Father, I’m sure you heard the rumors about coach Joe. Did he confess his sins to you about screwing little boys, and you turned a blind eye to that, too?” In a sudden move, he turned and thrust the candle in the center of Father MacGrath’s chest, like a matador would push a sword in a bull. Flames erupted.
Father MacGrath screamed, his hands slapping at the fire roaring from his clothes. His eyelashes, eyebrows and the top section of his hair singed off in seconds. Elizabeth reached for her gun. Shaffer lifted the front of his hoodie and pulled a sub-nose .38 from his belt. He aimed at her, his finger wrapped around the trigger.
A bullet slammed into his midsection. He fell back, his left hand holding his upper torso. Mike Bradford stepped from the shadows in the rear of the church, his gun drawn, a wisp of white smoke crawling from the end of the barrel. Two deputies came in behind him, sidearms drawn and pointed at Shaffer. “Drop the gun!” Bradford shouted.
Shaffer looked through the smoke and candlelight. He cut his eyes at the flaming cross burning into Father MacGrath’s chest, his mind flashing back to the Burning Man in the desert, the meteor he saw in the sky as the last ember fell from the outstretched arms of the wooden structure. “I was a victim!” he shouted. “Nobody cared!” He raised his gun and aimed at Bradford.
The second shot hit Shaffer in the heart. He fell backwards, on the floor of the altar, lightning cracking near the church, illuminating the stained-glass windows. His eyes staring at the face of Christ for a half-second before the light faded. Seconds later, David Shaffer took his final breath.
Elizabeth ran up to the altar, pulling a white tablecloth off the table. She wrapped it around Father MacGrath, smothering the flames, pulling him to the floor, smoke rising up to the steepled ceiling. She could smell charred skin and hair. He was burned … but alive. She held him in her arms, his breathing labored, his eyes welling in tears. He looked at her, like an old man wrapped in a blanket—a protective cocoon. Elizabeth said, “And ambulance is on its way. You stay with me, Father. I’m selfish … I want to be there for your retirement party. I want you there for your retirement party. Do you hear me?”
He nodded, a tear trickling down his pale face. He coughed and whispered, “I’m glad you persisted—you have a beautiful soul, Elizabeth, and a heart filled with abundant love.”
Elizabeth held him in her arms and wept as Bradford and two deputies approached. There was an explosion of lightning in the top of a tall redwood tree just outside the sanctuary, the bolt severing a large limb crashing to the ground. In the drone of the rain, sirens wailed. Elizabeth closed her eyes and said a silent prayer.
EPILOGUE
A month later, Elizabeth had good news to deliver. She stood at her bathroom sink, applying eyeliner, mascara, and a touch of lipstick, Jack near her feet, lounging on the throw rug. Elizabeth thought about Father MacGrath, how he’d physically healed since the horror in the sanctuary. His injuries from the flames had not done as much damage as she’d feared due to the layers of clothing he was wearing. All criminal charges against him, of course, were dropped.
District Attorney, Roland Hendrix, had held a news conference at the courthouse and called the whole thing—the murders, the death of Shaffer in the church, the history behind his psychosis—a “tragedy of biblical scope. It was pure evil.” He said the effects of the serial killings would haunt Forrest County for years to come, but its residents were resilient and would persevere.
Father MacGrath was back at St. Patrick’s—at work, welcoming new members, reassuring old members that the parish would be fine. But Elizabeth wondered if he would be okay. Not from the cross burning on his chest, but rather from the psychological damage done in the shadow of the cross due to David Shaffer’s grisly narrative. Shaffer’s mother retrieved the body after an autopsy and later buried her son in a non-disclosed cemetery somewhere in southern Mississippi.
Clyde Conner filed and got all charges against Boyd Baxter dropped and immediately scheduled a press conference. Although relieved, Baxter was angry and lashed out at Detectives Bradford and Lee, saying, “They jumped to conclusions and ruined my reputation with prejudiced and unfounded allegations against a patriot.”
Elizabeth stared at her face in the mirror, Nellie’s words echoing in her thoughts, “Whoever be killin’ these people in Forrest County hates ‘em. Hates ‘em real bad. Child, you just got to find out why.” Elizabeth took a deep breath, finished with her makeup, and slipped on a blouse, a pair of jeans, and flat shoes.
She looked down at Jack and said, “Breakfast is served on the main deck. Don’t be late.” She left the bathroom, Jack rising, stretching, and sauntering after her at the speed of a turtle.
Downstairs, Elizabeth set food in Jack’s dish, and poured cereal in her bowl. She sat at the bar in the kitchen, her laptop open, while Jack took his time walking up to his meal, sitting as if he was waiting for a napkin before finally lowering his head to eat. Elizabeth smiled and looked up an address while she ate granola cereal and sipped black coffee.
A few minutes later, she closed her laptop, turned to her cat and said, “Jack, the Go-Fund-Me account is doing very well, courtesy of the publicity in the case. One family is going to be happy. I’ll see you later. No smoking cigars while I’m gone.” Jack raised his big head from the food, looked directly at Elizabeth and made a slight noise that sounded like he belched.
• • •
Elizabeth parked in the drive of the Donnelly home and rang the doorbell. Seconds later, a young girl, no more than six years old, opened the door. Her blonde hair was freshly brushed, a red barrette clasped to one side. She was wearing a princess dress, wrinkle free. “Hi,” Elizabeth said. “Are you Alissa?”
The girl nodded, her wide eyes like sapphires catching the morning light. “What’s your name?”
“My name’s Elizabeth. It’s so nice to meet you, Alissa. Is your father home?”
“Yep.” She turned her head. “Daddy, a lady is at the door.”
Brandon Donnelly, wearing a black T-shirt and jeans, approached. He smiled and said, “Doctor Monroe, come on inside. It’s so good to see you.”
Elizabeth walked into the home, the smell of pancakes coming from the kitchen. The living room was filled with family pictures on the wall, many with Wanda in them, a wide smile always on her face. The furniture was second-hand, but neat and in good condition. “It’s great to see you, Brandon. How are things going?”
“Better. Wanda’s mother has been a godsend. We’re learning how to adjust.” He paused, looked down at his daughter and lifted his eyes to Elizabeth. “That day I came to your office and asked you to help … I just want to thank you for all you did. You went beyond expectations, you helped bring Shaffer down.”
“David Shaffer brought himself down. The credit in stopping him goes to law enforcement. There is no way that what he did to Wanda and the others can ever be understood, rationalized, or excused on any level. He was a very sick man who slipped through all the cracks and was a ticking bomb that would eventually, left unchecked, explode. I’m just so sorry Wanda was one of his victims.”
“I know you did more than you’ll admit to, and my family thanks you.”
She smiled. “You can thank the community, well, really it’s way beyond Forrest County or Mississippi for that matter. The online account we started in Wanda’s name has raised close to fifty-thousand dollars to help with the college educations for your children. Martha, at the Front Porch Café, tells me customers in her restaurant have contributed close to four thousand doll
ars.”
Brandon buried his hands in his pockets, blinking back tears. He said, “The generosity of people is overwhelming. The words ‘thank you’ don’t go far enough.”
Elizabeth nodded and smiled. “Right now, those words go a long way.” She gave Brandon a hug and bent down to look the girl in the eye. “You help your daddy, okay?”
“Okay. I helped him make pancakes with my little brother and my grandma.”
“That’s great!” Elizabeth stood, she glanced at a white sand dollar on an end table near a picture of Wanda. “I like the pattern on the back of that sand dollar. In a way, it looks like a flower.”
“That’s why Wanda liked them so much. When we were at the beach, she’d collect them after a storm washed some ashore. She said the pattern on the backs of sand dollars was like a flower with five petals. They reminded her of white geraniums that her grandmother used to grow.”
“Did Wanda find this one?”
“Yes, we have more in the family room. She put some in a frame. She once said that sand dollars may not be money, but they were minted by the hand of God, which was worth much-much more.”
Elizabeth said, “I agree.”
Brandon picked up the sand dollar from the table and said, “I can tell you like this. Please, take it. It’ll remind you of Wanda.” He chuckled. “You’ve helped raise a lot of real dollars for my family. Here’s a dollar for you, one that Wanda found on the beach … five petals on the back. I don’t know the date it was minted, but I gotta believe Wanda was right about God lendin’ a hand in the design.”
“Thank you. I have a special place in mind in my home for it. I’ll treasure it always.”
• • •
Two days later, Elizabeth stopped at a roadside plant nursery. It was called The Garden of Eden, a ramshackle, weathered building that looked like it was constructed with driftwood, railroad tie timbers, and corrugated plastic panels. An all-weather plant house sat adjacent in the back. The nursery had been in the same location on the outskirts of Hattiesburg for as long as she could remember. Her mother used to buy flowers from the original owner. The business was passed down to his daughter and her husband. Elizabeth parked and went inside.
A middle-aged woman in a straw hat looked up from watering plants and said, “Welcome. What can I help you with today?”
“Do you have geraniums?”
“Yes, lots of ‘em. Any particular color?”
“White, if you have some.”
“We have some that are just coming into bloom. Let me show you.” She turned off the water and led Elizabeth through the labyrinth of plants, dozens and dozens of hanging baskets filled with color, and tray after tray of impatiens, petunias, and pansies, along with pots of begonias and daffodils. They walked through a long greenhouse, the smell of damp soil and gardenias trapped in the warm, humid air. “Oh, please excuse our mess. We’re making room for our Christmas displays. They’ll be up the beginning of November—we decorate almost fifty trees in different themes. It’s magical, so I hope you come back.” The woman stopped and pointed to two long rows of geraniums. “Here are the white ones. They’ve always reminded me of stars in the night sky.”
Elizabeth reached out and touched one of the geraniums, the petals snowy white. “They do look like stars … or maybe a form of starfish. I’ll take three pots. And, I’ll be sure to bring my friend Nellie by in a few weeks … she’ll really enjoy a magical stroll through the trees.”
• • •
Elizabeth was on her front porch arranging the geraniums in decorative pots she could easily move into her foyer on cold nights. Jack, in one of his favorite coveted spots in the sun, was stretched out on the welcome mat by the door, when a car pulled into her driveway. It wasn’t the unmarked detective car Mike Bradford often drove. It was a Jeep Grand Cherokee, dark blue. Bradford got out with a paper bag in one hand. He smiled and said, “I see Jack’s on guard. Nobody’s crossing that threshold without his permission.”
Elizabeth stood and smiled. “I think you have special clearance. You guys sit at my kitchen bar together like two old pals telling stories about the good old days.”
Bradford laughed. “I bet Jack’s got quite a few of those stories to tell. I brought some of your favorite bagels. All we need is a pot of coffee.”
“I think I can arrange that now that I’m done arranging flowers.”
“They’re beautiful, just like you.” He kissed her on the cheek.
“Thank you.” She glanced down at the flowers. “Geraniums are one of the few flowers with five perfect petals. Their look is replicated on a simple creature that spends most of its life in shallow water buried in sand. Come in, I’ll show you.”
Bradford followed Elizabeth inside. He held the door open for Jack. “Let’s go big guy. We’ll put some tuna on a bagel for you.” Jack slowly stood and strode inside, walking by Bradford and Elizabeth, his head held high.
Elizabeth moved through the house to the family room overlooking the outdoor deck and backyard. She stopped at a table near the far wall to observe an oil painting of a beach—turquoise water and windswept palms, a woman in a sun dress and large hat staring at the ocean. Below the painting was a curio cabinet. She opened it and removed the sand dollar. “This came from Wanda Donnelly’s home. Her husband gave it to me. He said Wanda had picked it up on a beach after a storm.” She set the sand dollar in Bradford’s outstretched hand. “He said Wanda collected them, and that these dollars had their own non-monetary value because God minted them. I think she was right.”
He looked at it and said, “The image on the back looks a lot like your geranium flowers.”
Elizabeth smiled and said, “I can grow geraniums, but I can’t grow these. I’d like to add more sand dollars to this one and create a collection. I hear Destin, Florida, is a good place to look for them. Would you like to come with me for the weekend?”
“I don’t know how much luck we’d have in finding more of these. The weather forecast said a front was moving through the Gulf coast, over most of the panhandle.”
“That’s the best time to go.” She smiled.
“Oh really, why’s that?”
“Because it’s the wind and surf that leave these on the beach. It’s after a storm has passed when you can find the good—the good in people and deposits from the heavens … like dollars in the sand. You just have to open your eyes and see what comes in with the tide.”
The End