What She Never Said

by Catharine Riggs

  I scour her face for a clue. “I found it on the ground where we met last night. Remember? You had just left the Harringtons’?”

  She sets down the note. “Of course I remember. But this isn’t mine.”

  “And now Gordon is dead.”

  “Yes, I heard. Poor, unfortunate soul. It’s a gift that he’s moved on.”

  “It’s a bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Was he alive when you visited earlier in the evening?”

  “Very much so.”

  “Did you see him again after that?”

  “I did not.”

  Zach jumps into the conversation. “Did you help him to pass?”

  “To pass?” Pastor Sam tilts her head. “What exactly are you accusing me of?”

  “We know about your involvement with the Goodnight Club,” he says in a firm voice.

  “You do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Interesting. Why don’t you tell me what this Goodnight Club is?”

  “I think you know.”

  “Pretend I don’t.”

  “All right. I’ll play along.” Zach fills her in on what he learned from Kate. The pastor shows no emotion while he winds his way through his tale.

  “So let me get this straight,” she says as he finishes up. “You believe I’m the . . . ?”

  “The Angel.”

  “No. I’m not that.”

  “But you’re involved?”

  She settles back with a hint of a smile. “I suppose I am.”

  “In what way?”

  “I’m the ambassador.”

  “So you know about the Post-it Notes,” I say.

  “I suppose I do.”

  “And you work as a team with this Angel?” Zach asks.

  “I don’t know if you’d call us a team, as I’ve never met the man. But yes, I help coordinate the crossings with the Goodnight Club. I’m an intermediary of sorts.”

  “So you were involved with Gordon’s death.”

  “With the arrangements. Yes.”

  “But you weren’t there?”

  “No.” Zach and I glance at each other, unsure of what comes next. The pastor continues without our prompting. “I’m fairly certain you guessed about my involvement, and I could just leave it at that. But I need your help with an issue that has cropped up, so I’m willing to tell you what I know in exchange for your assistance.”

  Zach turns to me and lifts his eyebrows as if saying, Are you okay with this? I nod. I’m willing to hear her out. “Okay,” he says. “We won’t do anything illegal, but we will consider providing help if you supply us with information.”

  “Fair enough. But first, let me tell you a story about how I came to believe in assisted suicide. Maybe it’ll help you understand my outlook on life.”

  “All right.”

  She folds her hands together as if in prayer. “I won’t drag you through my pathetic childhood and all its moments of angst and hurt. Let’s just say I was never happier than the day I left Idaho for Yale. It was as if I had entered a whole new world, one where I could truly be myself. My freshman college roommate became my first lover. Stacy. Dear Stacy.” The pastor closes her eyes and smiles. “So beautiful. So pure. She was from California and as different from me as night is from day. She was the sun to my moon, the sugar to my salt. People flocked to her like bees to blooming roses. I loved her with all my heart.”

  The pastor pauses, and her eyes turn misty. “And then, as the story often goes, my day turned into night. Stacy had a little mole on her face, right above her lip. A beauty mark, she used to call it, just like Marilyn Monroe. But one day, the mole started changing. It seemed to double in size overnight. By the time Stacy was diagnosed with melanoma . . . well . . . let’s just say it was too late.”

  The pastor plucks a tissue from her desk and takes a swipe at her nose. “Melanoma is a wretched disease that destroys every facet of a person’s life. For Stacy, it began with the disfigurement of her face. Soon great tumors appeared on her body, balls of boiling black cells that covered her arms and her legs. Near the end they clogged her lungs, slowly suffocating her to death. She asked me to help her end her life, but there was nothing I could do. I watched the love of my life slowly choke on the tumors pressing against her throat. I would’ve given my soul to help alleviate her pain. But all I could do was hold her hand while the light dimmed from her eyes.” She takes a shuddering breath. “Her death remains the most tragic moment of my life.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I say, meaning it.

  “Me too,” Zach adds, squirming in his seat.

  “Thank you. As you can imagine, I spun into a terrible depression, from which it took years to emerge.” She looks up, her eyes now steeled. “But when I did, it was with a mission: I would never again allow a poor soul to undergo such horrible suffering. If a person wanted help to ease their passage, I would do so with God’s blessing.”

  “So that’s when you became an ambassador?” Zach asks.

  “Not exactly. For many years I worked in a hospice facility, where I could assist patients facing the end of their lives.”

  “And when you arrived here?”

  “I did nothing more than bring comfort, until one day I was recruited.”

  “By whom?”

  “By the Angel, of course.”

  “But you don’t know who this Angel is.”

  “No. We communicate by notes. That’s how I was first contacted. The Angel left a note in my mailbox, and I agreed to help.”

  I lean forward, eager to learn more. “So, Loretta Thomas was targeted?”

  “Not targeted. She chose when and where to cross.”

  “And Mary Panini?”

  “We helped her too.”

  “What about Simon Appleton?”

  She shakes her head. “No. He died a natural death.”

  “But he was scheduled to cross?”

  “Yes, but he changed his mind. That’s not unusual, mind you. Many of our Goodnight Club disciples are all bark and no bite. They enjoy the camaraderie of the group, and it often brings them enough hope, so they no longer want to die.”

  “So what do you need our help with?” I ask, trying to move this along.

  She places her hands flat on her desk and takes a deep breath. “Something odd is going on. It began with Nurse Milo, followed by some unusual deaths in our destitute population.”

  I nod. “Too many of them have died in too short a time.”

  “But why target the destitutes?” Zach asks.

  “Think about it,” the pastor responds. “They’re the perfect victims. For the most part, they have no family and few if any friends. And, of course, our new administration is more than willing to look the other way.”

  Zach nods. “So you believe your Angel has . . . what? Gone on a killing spree?”

  “No. I don’t believe my Angel would ever do such a thing. What I do believe is there is a serial killer on the loose.”

  “A serial killer?” I take a deep breath. “That’s a frightening thought.”

  “It is.” She fixes her gaze on Zach. “You were a detective once, yes?”

  “Years ago.”

  “Good enough.” She turns to me. “And Ruth, you have access to inside information. Employee files. Things like that.”

  “Well, yes, but that doesn’t mean—”

  She speaks over my words. “Then what we need to do is investigate. Determine who the murderer is and bring him to justice. The killings must end.”

  I nod. “You’re right. The killer must be stopped. But this is not a time for amateur sleuths. We need to involve the police. You must tell them everything you’ve told us.”

  She shakes her head. “Impossible. They will see me as an accessory to what they believe are the Angel’s crimes. I could end up in jail.”

  “But if you don’t, the murders will continue.” I look at Zach. “We have no choice, right?
We must inform Detective Ruiz.”

  “You can’t.” The pastor gets to her feet. “You promised you’d help me.”

  I fold my arms. “Yes, but not if it means another innocent person might die.”

  Her lips thin. Her eyes narrow. “It appears my personal story didn’t move you.”

  “Of course it moved me, but that won’t stop me from doing the right thing.”

  “What would stop you?” she asks, fondling her cross.

  “What do you mean?”

  She tilts her head. “What if I deny everything I’ve told you and instead tell the story of how an afternoon tryst led to a little boy’s death? And how the two adulterers allowed unwarranted guilt to consume a young man’s life. And how that young man tried to purchase drugs from a dealer who was later found dead. And how that young man was encouraged to lie by a former detective with a history of alcohol abuse. And how his mother has known of a series of killings but kept her suspicions to herself. Would any of those words cause you to reconsider your next step? For your sake and Adam’s, I hope so.”

  VI. LUST

  But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart.

  —Matthew 5:28

  The Angel

  When I was a child, my father and I played a daily round of chess. My father was not a pleasant man, especially when he was drunk. A foolish move sent me to bed without dinner; an imprudent loss brought a thump to my head. My mother watched these antics from the kitchen; she rarely became involved. Preferred to spend time with her books and magazines and dream of a better world. She was the one who taught me about secrets, how important they can become. She ran off one day when I was at school, never to return. Later, I found her journal, which told the story of a woman I didn’t know. Frightened, beaten, depressed, she left my father for a kinder man. Kept her problems close to her heart until the day she walked out the door. That’s when I became attached to the world of secrets and began to worm them from my friends.

  I don’t condemn my mother for leaving her abuser; I condemn her for leaving her child. Years later when she begged for forgiveness, I turned my back on her as she had done to me.

  I may not have cared for my abusive father, but I am grateful for the years of chess. The game taught me about patience and strategy, when to hold back and when to attack. I’m considering my options now, as the walls begin to close in. Do I design a cunning ambush or pack my possessions and disappear? Setting a trap is not an easy task; it can involve a high level of risk. I may have to sacrifice a pawn or two to avoid forfeiting my advantage. And if my opponents discover my intentions? I risk succumbing to checkmate. But if my attempt at a trap succeeds, I walk away with the ultimate win.

  God works in mysterious ways; his intent is not always clear. By handing Ruth the errant pink slip, he led her straight to the pastor’s door. I had to pray on that for a moment. Understand the meaning behind the move. Was the Lord testing me with an outing? Teaching me a noteworthy lesson? Or was he offering me a solution? An answer to my prayers? I spent hours on my knees before I gleaned the answer from Saint Olga: take matters into your own hands and use your iron fist.

  ZACH RICHARDS

  One

  Tuesday, October 1

  It’s so quiet in the room I can hear the ticking of an unseen clock. And breathing. Lots of breathing. Pastor Sam’s. Ruth’s. Mine. But not a word from Tina. I reach up and tap the side of my head. Come on, Tina. Tell me what to do. The musty stench clogs my nose; my head is beginning to ache. It’s hard for me to think of anything besides bolting from the room.

  “Please take a seat,” the pastor repeats.

  I hesitate and then drop into my chair, and Ruth follows my example.

  “Good.” The pastor licks her lips.

  “Are you threatening us?” I ask, trying to buy some time.

  “Threatening?” Pastor Sam closes her eyes and leans back, the tips of her fingers touching as if in prayer. She leans so far back I think she might tip the chair and tumble to the ground. Maybe that would cause a concussion, and she’d forget everything she knows. Yes, that would make things easy. Unfortunately, she opens her eyes.

  “Threatening?” she repeats. “Yes, I suppose I am.” She sets her hands down and leans forward, her jeweled cross clanking on the desk. “I need you to understand the ramifications of your actions. Of what exactly might happen should our secrets escape into the world.”

  “How do you know . . . ?” Ruth asks in a trembling voice. “How did you find out?” Ruth’s face glows red and glistens with a steamy sweat. It is warm down here in the pastor’s pit. My shirt is sticking to my back.

  “How do I know about your secrets?” A smile lights the pastor’s face. “Well, you may not know this, but dear Ember is like a daughter to me. The daughter I wish I had had. She views me as her confidant, the person she trusts more than anyone else in the world. She’s estranged from her parents, so she can’t reach out to them. And she has a hard time making friends. It’s sad but not a surprise that her scars scare them off. So, the truth is she tells me her secrets, and I know more than I probably should. For instance, did you know your son has fallen in love with Ember, and she’s beginning to feel the same way? He’s fallen quite hard, in fact. She let him move in with her this week. And Ember? As an empath, she takes on the pain of others, and your son has filled her cup. She believes he has been misunderstood, that he’s a diamond in the rough. A young man who made many bad choices and now yearns for a better life.”

  “What’s an empath?” I ask.

  “People like Ember and me who take on other men’s crosses. Carry them on our backs. It can be a source of strength, and it can be a curse. Of course the greatest empath of all was our Lord, Jesus Christ. He carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, and look what happened to him.” She works her bony hands together. “Some are born with the power. Others develop it from a tragic event. I became an empath the year I lost my Stacy, but Ember, like Christ, is the real thing. She was born an empath, and the loss of her children only heightened her perceptive powers.” Her gaze slides from me to Ruth. “Do you know the story of her loss?”

  “Yes,” Ruth replies. “She told me.”

  “Interesting. She must trust you. And you, Zach?”

  I hesitate. “I heard she lost her kids.”

  “That, she did. In a most horrible way. They died in a fire set by her ex-husband, Bodie.” She pauses and stares at me, knowingly. My throat goes dry; my hands tremble. The scent of burnt flesh taints my nose.

  “Anyway,” she continues, “one of her daughters passed quickly; the other suffered for months. That is why Ember believes in our mission to bring comfort to those in pain.”

  I force my thoughts off the children. “So, Ember knows about you and the Angel?”

  “Yes, she does. In fact, she helps us on occasion.”

  “Helps? In what way?”

  “She ensures the Angel has his privacy when a crossing has been arranged.”

  “Jesus,” I mutter under my breath. Who isn’t involved in this mess?

  “Have you spoken to my son?” Ruth asks in a demanding tone.

  Pastor Sam tilts her head. “Of course. I met with Ember and Adam. They sat in front of me, like you two. They requested a joint counseling session, and how could I tell them no? They are so sweet together. I wouldn’t be surprised if they got married one day.” She gets to her feet. “Are you sure I can’t offer you anything to drink?”

  “No, thank you,” Ruth says.

  “Nothing for me either,” I add.

  “All right then, give me a moment.”

  Ruth and I sit quietly while the pastor is gone. There’s a rattling of dishes, and soon after, she returns with a mug of steaming coffee, which seems a strange choice given the temperature in the room. “Now where were we?” she asks, settling into her chair.

  “You were telling us about Ember and Adam,” I reply.


  “Oh, right. Yes.” She takes a sip of coffee. “Adam is quite lovely. So very handsome and polite. The poor man has been through the wringer. He’s searching for answers, and I believe it’s my duty as a pastor to assist him in his journey to become a better person. But he’s in somewhat of a quandary. I mean, not only are there the rather grim accusations from his battered ex-wife, but he also lied about his motive as well as his whereabouts the morning of Nurse Milo’s death. Add in his history of drug use . . . well . . .” She shakes her head.

  “He didn’t batter Nikki,” Ruth says angrily. “And they aren’t yet divorced. That woman is a liar. Adam never laid a hand on her. He’s not that kind of man.”

  The pastor takes another sip of coffee and seems to savor the taste before setting down her mug. “My dear, I’m afraid you sound like an overly protective mother not willing to face the truth. Adam acknowledges he pushed his wife, and it caused quite a bruise.”

  Ruth makes a choking sound.

  “If it makes you feel any better, he insists his wife hit him first. But she’s not admitting to that, and, unfortunately, there’s no evidence to support his claim. He’s gotten himself into quite a mess. But he could get off on probation unless his involvement with Nurse Milo comes to light.”

  “There was no real involvement,” I insist.

  “Of course there was. That was one of the issues we discussed. Ember is helping Adam to come to terms with his life, and she believes he must start by being completely honest. So, he told me the truth about Nurse Milo. Not that he hurt the poor man, but that he lied about where he was and what he was doing there.” Her dark eyes fix on mine, giving me a chill. “What I find interesting is that you, a former detective, not only urged him to keep quiet but lied on your own account.”

  “I . . . I didn’t actually lie . . .”

  “My understanding is you did.”

  I tighten my hands into fists. Why the hell would Adam spew? “I was only trying to protect him.”