In Search of Eden, page 4
He had built this house for Sarah. It was to have been their home together, but he well remembered how that had ended. He could still close his eyes and call the whole pitiful scene back. He could see his brother, guilty and miserable, unable to look him in the eye; his mother, grief-torn and swollen-faced at this rift between her sons. And Sarah, the one who had caused it all, had hidden from him. He had been reduced to searching her out, but when he found her, he had seen the evidence himself. On her face. In the wide eyes, guilty and half afraid. On her hand, the glinting diamond his brother had given her winking slyly at his pain. And he knew what he could not see: she had given the hidden places of her heart and her body to David, and she carried his child. His brother’s face flashed before his eyes. His handsome, happy brother and his beautiful wife, their happy marriage and fulfilling ministry, and their lovely daughter, whose very name bespoke perfection.
He felt the hard lump of iron that his anger had become and touched its familiar shape, much as a person will run their tongue over a broken tooth they have long since learned to accept. The weight of that anger, though familiar, was heavy and had shaped him over the years. It had pressed him into someone he hadn’t been before. The fight to forgive his brother and his wife was a battle he had given up as lost, and he understood what love became when it turned.
They had seen each other only a handful of times in the years since that first good-bye. David had taken his wife and budding family and moved up north, just west of D.C. Up to the big city where their daughter went to private school, and David and Sarah hobnobbed with fancy people.
Joseph had left home, as well, after Sarah had left him for his brother. The marines had been a good distraction. Within hours of his arrival at Parris Island, his aching heart had been the least of his worries. He smiled wryly, thinking about it, and turned to go inside. He left his boots by the door, hung up his coat, then fed some wood to the banked fire as Flick settled in beside the woodstove to dry off.
He had fled heartache for chaos. First in Somalia, then in Haiti. Initially it had seemed to be just what he needed. For at least during war there were weapons at his disposal. There was a plan and a well-defined mission. Good was good and evil was evil. He remembered a kid in his company—a boy, only nineteen or so—who had taken a bullet to the head from a sniper in Mogadishu, and Joseph had wondered why it hadn’t been him instead.
He didn’t want to accuse God of doing wrong, but really it would have made more sense for him to have been taken. Oh, his mother would have grieved, of course, but she’d have healed. Sometimes he looked around at the beautiful scenery, the peaceful-looking town where he worked, and he knew it was an illusion. He had wondered if he was just being pessimistic, but he’d remembered a Scripture, and finally he’d taken down his long-forsaken Bible and looked up the verses. They had resonated with feeling as he read them. Nature itself will be set free from its bondage to decay and corruption and gain an entrance into the glorious freedom of God’s children. He imagined what it would feel like to step into a place where the pinpoint of light would become wide and full. But now even the pinpoint seemed covered over, blocked by an invisible hand. Here in this world. Below.
He suddenly felt the pressure of his mother’s unanswered prayers on his shoulders. He had always been grateful for her prayers before, and he wondered what had changed. When he’d been in the desert fighting, they had felt like a shield covering him.
He played again with the idea of leaving this place. He had first thought of it when he had left the marines. He’d thought about moving to New York City. He could have joined the police force there, but in the end, home had called him back. But if he had thought simply being here would heal what ailed him, he was sorely disappointed.
He thought of his great-grandmother, who had been able to feel the weather changing deep down in her bones. He felt an ache like that nearly all the time, and he knew it had more to do with the state of the world and the state of his soul than with the falling barometer. He felt a cold shrug of fear and wondered if grace had a limit. Was there a time for repentance and after that the door quietly closed? Was there a window for reconciliation, but after a season it sealed shut? Would there be a penalty for the coldness of his heart?
He checked his watch, then showered and dressed for work, looking at himself in the mirror as he combed his hair and brushed his teeth. He was thirty-five. His hair was lighter around the edges, not gray yet, but the sandy pigment was slowly fading. His face had changed, as well. It still had the firm leanness of a young man, but when he looked closely, he could see lines where trouble and sorrow and weariness hadn’t quite covered their tracks.
He finished dressing, then glanced toward the leather Bible on the dresser. A few old habits still called to him, but he did not pick it up. He did pray the Lord’s Prayer, though. He had done it since he was a boy, and though he wondered if his prayers were answered any longer, he still formed the words with his mouth if not his heart. “Deliver us from evil,” he said, the one sentiment about which he was fervent, and when he was finished he strapped on his gun.
He drove in slowly, as he always did, and surveyed the town. Inside its demarcations the generally kindhearted and peaceable citizens of Abingdon lived, eight thousand or so souls at last count. He made his rounds every morning, driving slowly around his territory, beginning in the heart of town.
Abingdon was idyllic in its own upright way, not changed all that much from the days of its founding when it was a fort, an outpost in enemy territory. It still was, Joseph supposed, and at the heart of the outpost were the churches he passed now, the four old mains, he thought of them, and they reminded him of the four chambers of a heart. Across from each other on opposite corners were St. James and St. John, the sons of thunder, as the town called them.
St. James was the Methodist church, built of old red brick with tower, steeple, and spires, and surrounded by a tidy hedge of boxwood. Legend told that it had been visited by the Wesley brothers themselves soon after it was established by the same circuit-riding preacher who had first brought the gospel to the town—or so the Methodists claimed, outraging the local Baptists, who had been here since dirt and sent missionaries, not the other way around. St. James Methodist was led by the Reverend Hector Ruiz, and a more lionhearted father in the faith could not be found. Hector had ministered to youth in his youth, and now that those days had passed, he tended his flock with love and fierceness. Joseph knew firsthand that he pursued the lost sheep with a gentle tenacity. He was generous, prone to speaking his mind, and would give away the altar candlesticks to the first desperate beggar to cross his doorstep. Then he’d come to the city council and try to get someone to donate their replacements.
St. John Episcopal Church was across the street, a bit more ornate in Vermont granite with intricate stonework, and a rectory beside it. The Reverend Dr. E. Julius Stallworth presided and had come to them only lately—twenty years ago or so. He was continually outraging his parishioners with some blunt statement or another. A few of them would be angry enough to cross the street to the Methodists, whereupon Pastor Hector would promptly send them back, only to have the favor returned when a group from his flock strayed. Not an uncommon occurrence, since both pastors were staunch believers in speaking their minds.
On the third corner was the Catholic church, Shepherd of the Hills. Father Leonard was nearly seventy but showed no signs of slowing down. He organized the hospital chaplaincy and had begun Catholic Community Services of Abingdon, which had been thriving for over thirty years. They ran four group homes for foster children as well as programs for pregnancy counseling and adoption. He was busy and always on the move. Joseph saw Father Leonard every morning at the Hasty Taste, where the priest ate breakfast, read the New York Times, the Washington Post, and the Roanoke Times, jotted notes in his Day-Timer for the next week’s homily, and made nonstop calls on his cell phone.
Abingdon Presbyterian was on the fourth corner. It was a plain wood-frame structure and had been led for the past thirty years by Pastor John Annenberg. He was the soul of gentleness but passionate about defending his understanding of doctrinal truth. The only time anyone ever remembered him raising his voice was during a skirmish with Pastor Hector. The two of them had begun discussing predestination in the city hall after a town meeting, and the only thing that had saved the entire event from becoming a conflagration was the intervention of Pastor Mike, the young Foursquare minister who had established himself on the front lines out along the interstate with a strategically placed outpost of independent churches. They were the young folks, ecclesiastically speaking, and their houses of worship could be anything from a Quonset hut to a sheet-metal hangar and generally looked much like a warehouse grocery store.
The four old mains were silent sentinels, guarding their corners in the center of town. A few blocks down was the Barter Theatre, so named because when it was begun in the Great Depression, admission to a play was forty cents or livestock or produce of corresponding value. Across the street was the Martha Washington Inn with its red brick, white columns, and black wrought-iron fence. A little farther east Joseph crossed the creek that ran through town on his way to the Virginia Creeper trailhead. There were a few runners out already. He turned around in the parking lot and headed west. Past the Visitors’ Center, the museum, the library, the post office, the historical society. He passed the police department. All was still, the windows still dark. The grass in the ball field across the street was frozen and spiked with hoarfrost, the trees alongside so bare he could almost hear their branches clicking together in the wind.
He drove past the homes, the attorneys’ offices, the tourist shops all adorned with wreaths and garlands. Later on today there would be banners flying, twinkling lights in the windows, inviting smells and sights, but now things were dark. The bakery was the only lighted storefront. He slowed and could see the warm beads of condensation on the window, and in the back he glimpsed yellow light and movement. He rolled down the window, and sure enough, the yeasty smell of baking bread rushed to meet him. It gave him a brief surge of well-being.
He sent the window back up with a flick of his finger and continued on his way, past the motels and fast food restaurants on the edge of town, past the elementary school.
He drove a bit farther out because it gave him peace to do so. He loved to see the farms and fields, spread out wide and green but neatly marked off with well-mended fences. He felt a warmth that he played a part in keeping his people safe and shielded. He stopped his car just past Herman Pfaff’s farm, stepped out for a moment, and looked around. The Amish had been coming down from Pennsylvania in search of good land and welcoming people. They had found both here. The fields were frozen and fallow now, but come spring they would be crumbling with life and ready to sow.
His territory ended here. Beyond this line was the county sheriff’s jurisdiction, but from here in he did his part. He fulfilled his responsibility. The souls within this boundary depended on him and others like him to be able to carry on in peace and innocence, and he took up that responsibility again today as he did every day.
He drove slowly back to town and stopped in front of the Hasty Taste. The seven-o’clock regulars were there. He could see their familiar cars parked in the side lot. He parked the truck and stepped inside the restaurant to the jingling of bells. It was bright and warm with wood flooring and pies in a glass case. It smelled like breakfast.
Henry Wilkes, the county sheriff and his late father’s best friend, was already there. Joseph walked over and slid into the vacant side of the booth. Their breakfast together was a daily ritual, as it had been when his father was police chief and Henry sheriff. Everyone, including the current chief, had expected Joseph to make a bid for his father’s job, but he had surprised them all. Politics frustrated him, especially office politics. He had no desire to kowtow to the town manager and the city council, and why on earth would anyone sign up for more paper work? He liked staying busy, moving, and being where real events impacted real people. He liked running things to the ground, but Ray Craddock, the police chief, always suspected Joseph was after his job. Joseph knew it burned him like acid that he and Henry breakfasted together. He had long ago decided not to let that fact bother him. Henry was the closest person he had to a father and was his best friend. He was not likely to give that up just because his boss had an insecure temperament.
“Good morning,” Henry said, greeting him with a smile.
“Back at you,” Joseph replied, sliding into the booth and turning his cup right side up. He glanced toward Elna, who read his mind and came toward him with the coffeepot. She was sixty-five and plump, with hair that was brilliant red down to a quarter inch above her roots, where it turned cotton-batting white.
“How’s the back today, Elna?” Joseph asked her.
She tilted her head to one side but, as usual, gave a stoic reply. “I’m sitting up and taking nourishment, as my granny used to say. Menu?” she asked, filling his cup expertly with a swift swoop down and then up. Not a drop spilled or splashed.
“No need,” he answered. “I’ll have two eggs over easy, bacon, and a short stack.”
She gave a nod of approval. Elna liked a man to have a hearty appetite.
“And you, darlin’?” she asked with a wink toward Henry.
“The usual,” Henry sighed. The doctor had told him his cholesterol was sky high. He was on a breakfast diet of oatmeal, bran muffins, and skim milk. Elna patted his shoulder sympathetically.
Joseph grinned and looked Henry over. He was nearly seventy. His hairline was a little farther back and a little whiter than it had been ten years ago when Joseph had come back from the marines. His neatly trimmed mustache was salted with gray. His face was weathered and lined, but his uniform was crisp with starch, and though the pale blue eyes were perhaps getting a bit faded behind the stronger lenses, they still missed little. Nothing got by Henry. Joseph supposed he would be retiring someday. He didn’t like to think about it. He took a sip of his coffee. It was scalding, black as a bat’s cave and strong enough to stand up and walk away, so the saying went.
Henry handed him a sheaf of papers, the report from the county’s night shift. Joseph read, shaking his head at the things Fred Early, the shift commander, thought worthy of mention.
A suspicious incident was investigated on Crooked Creek Road. At 1:15 A.M. a passing motorist reported a noose hanging from the porch of a residence. Upon investigation it was discerned that the residents were not victims of a hate crime, but the rope in question was a swing utilized by the minor children at the residence.
At 2:14 A.M. a call was received from Albert Johnson of 215 Old Mill Road reporting two juveniles standing on the Dry Creek overpass throwing projectiles onto vehicles passing below. Upon investigation the projectiles were determined to be horse excrement. The perpetrators were taken into custody and their parents called.
He smiled and handed the papers back, then sobered when he thought about the real crimes they had to deal with. At one time Abingdon had been a place removed from the world. Not anymore. Domestic abuse had always been around, as had alcohol-related offenses. But now drugs were more and more of a problem, methamphetamines especially. He felt a familiar pressure to do something. He wouldn’t have his town invaded by evil. He would do whatever it took to stop it.
Elna brought the food, interrupting his grim thoughts. Joseph buttered his pancakes, drenched them with syrup, and dove in enthusiastically.
“What’s up for today?” Henry asked, eyeing his own oatmeal with a frown.
“Oh, just the usual. Whitley has to testify at a trial today. Redding’s on vacation. I guess I’ll just hold down the fort.”
Henry nodded with understanding.
The weeks before Christmas had bare-bones staffing. It should be all right, though. They weren’t exactly a hotbed of crime. Not yet, anyway.
“Think the storm will amount to much?” Henry asked.
Joseph glanced out the window and nodded. “A foot or so at least and starting soon.”
Henry smiled. “Is that from the weather forecast or from swinging a dead cat around your head in the graveyard during a full moon?”
Joseph took the ribbing. Henry liked to rattle his cage, but he had been right often enough to make Henry a little more respectful. His father had taught him the weather signs, saying half were hogwash and half were science, and it was up to him to sort the two out. Joseph thought of his father again and missed him. Both men ate their breakfasts in peaceful silence.
Joseph was just finishing his second cup of coffee and preparing to leave when his cell phone rang. He looked at the number and didn’t recognize the area code.
He flipped it open. “Lieutenant Williams,” he said briefly.
It was a woman’s voice, poorly transmitted and trembling. It took him a moment to realize who it was, much less to understand what she was saying.
“Sarah?” he asked, not quite believing it.
Henry sat up and paid attention. Joseph barely noticed. He plugged his free ear, and his body tensed.
“Yes, it’s me, Joseph.” Her voice bounced hollowly off the satellite and thinned as it streaked through the cold, cloudy sky. He hadn’t heard that voice for nearly twelve years.
He braced himself, for just the sound of it cranked up the adrenaline levels in his blood. Sarah wouldn’t be calling just to say hello. Not now. Not after all this time and space. Something terrible must have happened, and he braced himself.
“There’s been an accident,” she said.
He had the odd sense of his brain rising above his pounding heart and quickened breath.
“Last night David was hit by a drunk driver,” she said.
Pain and cold shock spread through him. He had always known this might happen. That he and his brother would wait too late to get things right. “Is he dead?” He tried to moisten his dry mouth.
