The Sinners' Garden

by William Sirls

  Rip walked back up the bank and had to stop and act like he was checking his shoelace, when what he was really doing was privately gasping for air. He needed to get on some type of cardio program, and in a hurry. Maybe it was his lungs. Maybe all this growth was making him allergic or something, and made it harder to breathe. He finally stood and managed to make it up to where Andy was.

  “Nice work riding slowly,” Rip said.

  “She all right?” Andy asked, looking down at Heather. Rip could see the earbuds for his iPod hanging out his front pocket.

  “Not sure,” Rip said. “Give me a few minutes.”

  He walked back down the bank.

  “You okay?” he asked, staring at Heather’s profile.

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Heather?” Rip said. “What is it?”

  “Just thinking about the dates on my dad’s headstone,” she said. “He was born in 1956 and died in 1992.”

  “Other than today, when was the last time you were out there?” Rip asked.

  “It was like a month before we broke up,” Heather said.

  “When I had hair?” Rip joked.

  Heather didn’t smile. She started to say something and then stopped.

  “What is it?” Rip said again.

  “He was only a year older than we are now, Rip.”

  Rip did the math. It was hard to believe that Mr. Gerisch was only thirty-six when he was killed. His generation certainly seemed a lot more mature.

  Rip felt a little pain in his side, as if somebody pushed the wind right out of him. He coughed a couple times and struggled to take a breath of air.

  Heather finally looked at him. “Rip, your face is beet-red. You okay?”

  “Feeling a little off lately,” he said. “But I think I’ll probably make it. You want me to leave you alone so you can collect your thoughts?”

  “I don’t want you going anywhere,” she said. “Will you sit here with me?”

  “That’s why I’m here,” Rip said.

  She pointed at the grass where she wanted them to sit and there was something about her hand that warmed his heart. Her fingernails were colorless and chewed, as they’d always been. Then Rip looked at her face, and her natural beauty more than compensated for all of the toughness she had always tried to project.

  “They think the killer may have known my dad and Mr. Hart,” Heather whispered, sitting down in the grass with her knees pulled up close to her chest, right next to him.

  Rip tried to kneel, but it made the pain in his lower back easily double, so he quickly sat just like Heather did.

  “How long you known that?” Rip asked, mulling over her words. “You’ve never told me that before.”

  “Couple years,” Heather said. “All the records from the case had been shipped up to a warehouse in Detroit around five or six years after it happened. I had a few days off and went up there and snooped around for a bit.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You were in jail, loser.”

  “C’mon. I mean since then.”

  “Because it’s ugly,” she said, glancing back at Andy. “Talking about a murder.”

  “He can’t hear us,” Rip whispered.

  Heather rested her chin on top of her knees and stared absently across the canal again.

  “The whole town knows they were both shot in the head,” she added. “And yes, just like everyone had always thought, my dad got it in the face.”

  “We don’t have to talk about that,” Rip said.

  “I want to,” she said. “That’s why I was crying out on Judi’s porch. Because when I was up in Detroit, checking on that place that sold the wheelchair, I swung by the warehouse and looked at the file again. I knew the picture was in there the last time, but I just couldn’t look. This time I did.”

  “What picture?” Rip said, regretting his question by the time it came off his tongue. He knew.

  “My dad’s body,” she said, closing her eyes. “It wasn’t pretty.”

  “C’mon, Heather,” he said. “We don’t have to—”

  “But the thing is, what was kept pretty low was the fact that they think it may have been my dad’s service revolver that killed them. I guess it even looked like there was a possibility my dad killed Mr. Hart and then shot himself in the face.”

  “There’s no way your dad would’ve done that, Heather.”

  “They didn’t think so either,” Heather said. Something about the way she was talking made her look ten years younger.

  “How do they know that?” Rip asked gently.

  “Because my dad’s gun was missing. It’s kind of hard to kill yourself and then get rid of the gun.”

  Rip glanced back at Andy, who was sitting Indian-style next to the bike. He was twirling the iPod around by the earbud cord. He held his finger up for Andy to be patient and Andy nodded.

  Rip looked back at Heather and then held up his hands. “I still don’t understand why they think the killer knew them.”

  “That’s just a comment that showed up in two of the reports,” Heather said. “There was no sign of any struggle at the Harts’ house. None. It was like somebody was handed my dad’s gun, took two quick shots, and then vanished into thin air.”

  Rip didn’t know what to say.

  Heather looked right at him. “You know what?”

  “What?” Rip asked.

  Her head didn’t move an inch. “I wish I never dug into those files, Rip. I can’t get that photo out of my head.” She paused and closed her eyes. “A .357 is a pretty big gun.”

  Rip felt helpless, only imagining the freeze-frame of whatever was left of her father’s head in Heather’s mind.

  She finally put her face in her hands and her shoulders began to slowly bob, unable to fight the tears. A big part of that feminine side she’d always meant to hide had come pouring out again and it made Rip melt, feeling even more helpless.

  Rip shimmied over a few inches to be right next to her. He put his arm around her and whispered, “Let’s pray about your dad. That’s what we came here for, isn’t it?”

  She looked up at him and her eyes were filled with tears. “I’m tired of thinking about it, Rip. I’m tired of worrying about him.”

  Rip lowered his chin to the top of her head and then closed his eyes. God, give me the words, ones that will offer her comfort . . . like right now if You don’t mind . . .

  “Uncle Rip,” Andy said.

  Rip opened his eyes and held up his finger for Andy to be patient. Then he closed his eyes again and focused on God.

  “Uncle Rip,” Andy repeated, louder this time.

  “Shhh,” Rip said, glancing back at Andy. “I’m trying to help Heather here. Sit and pray with us if you want, but I need you to hush, just for a little bit.”

  Rip closed his eyes again before praying, “Lord, we ask that You look upon us, and give Heather—”

  “Heather Marie.”

  Rip looked back at Andy again. Andy’s eyes weren’t shut this time and he wasn’t looking upward. In fact, he was staring straight across the canal at the flowers.

  “To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord,” Andy said.

  Rip stood and Heather didn’t move.

  “Say that again,” Rip said, quickly approaching Andy.

  Andy ignored him and walked straight toward Heather. He handed her the iPod.

  “I don’t know what I said,” Andy whispered. “But I do know that God is over in the garden.”

  Rip looked across the canal and then Heather started humming.

  Her head was swaying slowly back and forth and she had a peaceful smile on her face. She was holding one of the earbuds up to her ear. And as she hummed, shifting flawlessly from note to note, Rip decided it was the most beautiful music he’d ever heard. The same Heather who never sang a single word in church was humming a song that was every bit as beautiful as the wildflowers.

  She sounded like an angel.

 
And he could tell by the smile on Heather’s face that she now had a good idea where her father was. Because it was the best of smiles they had talked about.

  As he stared at her, Andy’s words from Corinthians played over in his head.

  “To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord . . .”

  It was perfect for Heather. Those words were just for her.

  Andy was right.

  Mr. Gerisch was with God.

  Heather opened her eyes and looked at Rip and Andy.

  “My father,” Heather whispered, that smile still painted perfectly on her face. “Rip, my fear is gone.”

  Andy tapped on Rip’s shoulder and pointed across the canal. Rip turned and looked.

  Heather’s fear wasn’t the only thing that was gone.

  So was another section of the garden.

  “I can’t describe it,” Heather said, sitting on the couch in Judi’s living room. “It was the most beautiful music I had ever heard, except it was more than music. He was in the music.”

  Judi was smiling from ear to ear. “And you think it was God?”

  “It was Him,” Heather said.

  “You could see God?” Judi asked, nodding, as if eager to share the experience.

  “Sort of,” Heather said. “But I could definitely feel Him.”

  “You should have heard her,” Rip said. “She could have sold tickets.”

  “I don’t remember doing any humming,” Heather said, “but I remember seeing my dad on the other side of the canal, standing right in the wildflowers. And something . . . someone was standing behind him, and I couldn’t see a face, but it was God. I’m sure of it. And then I remember a feeling of being protected, accepted, and completely loved.”

  “Like God was holding you in His hands,” Andy said.

  Heather thought about that for a second. “That’s exactly how I would describe it, Andy.”

  “The last time I went out to the canal,” Andy said, “I fell asleep and remember seeing someone just like you described and hearing a voice telling me to bring you there so you could see. But Uncle Rip beat me to the punch. He asked you to go out there first.”

  “My dad is in God’s hands,” Heather said. Grinning, free. Just saying it gave her goose bumps and she smiled, knowing the truth at last. “I listened to you, Rip. When we were sitting out there I prayed and prayed and prayed. And He answered. Big-time.” She couldn’t stop smiling.

  “What is happening?” Judi said, looking at Rip.

  “God is what’s happening,” Rip said. “God dropped us a little gift basket on the other side of The Frank and Poet and it’s filled with miracles, just like in the Bible.”

  “You are wrong,” Andy said. “It’s more than a gift basket.”

  Rip laughed and casually took the iPod out of Andy’s hands and held it to his ear. He looked at Andy and then at Heather.

  “When do I get to hear what you and Andy heard? Every time I hold this thing to my ear and try to listen, I get nothing but dead air.”

  “I can’t wait to tell my mom,” Heather said, ignoring him. “And the people at church and at Bible study. But they’re going to think we’ve flipped our lids.”

  “Just tell your mom for now,” Rip said. “I really don’t care what anybody thinks, but let’s not tell anyone else about this until we get this figured out. I don’t think we want this turning into a Field of Dreams.”

  “It’s bigger than some baseball game,” Andy said without hesitation.

  Heather agreed with Andy, but what Rip said made sense as well.

  Rip coughed into the bend of his arm and it sounded like it hurt.

  “You gotta get to a doctor,” Heather said. “Your coloring seems a little funny and you sound like you have the croup.”

  “Croup?” Rip said. “I haven’t heard that word since third grade.”

  “Seriously,” Heather said. “You’ve been coughing for quite a while now.”

  “I hear ya,” Rip said. “I already made an appointment to see Doc Strater. My back’s been killin’ me too. It stinks getting old.”

  “Not for me,” Heather said. “I just keep getting more beautiful.”

  Rip laughed and winced. “It’s crazy. We are going to blink our eyes and be forty. Can you believe it?”

  “Shut up, Rip,” Judi said. “I’ll hit it before you guys do.”

  “Getting older is okay if you’re a guy,” Rip said. He coughed a little again and seemed to have a hard time catching his breath. “Men are like wine and women are like heads of lettuce.”

  “Whatever,” Heather said. “At least you don’t have to worry about going gray.” She cast a heavy look to his balding head.

  “You would take me back in a minute if I asked,” Rip said. “I know you’ve struggled without me.”

  Heather nodded and a little smile creased her lips. She made sure Judi couldn’t hear. “You know what?”

  “What?” Rip said.

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  Rip laughed. “About us? That’d go over well with the department.”

  “I’m not worried about it anymore.”

  “Don’t even joke about it,” Rip said. “Not smart.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Heather said. “Something in those wildflowers told me that there was something I needed to do about my job.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Quit,” Heather said. “I’m going to give Chief Reynolds my notice soon.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Kevin Hart waded through the stack of papers on his desk, wondering what it would be like to not have to worry about business anymore. Sure, the Phillips acquisition eliminated a major competitor, but the thought of being the seller instead of the buyer and leaving the game entirely had often been on his mind of late.

  He glanced at his watch. Nine forty-five p.m.

  He stood and walked over to the window, imagining himself living in California or even Florida. After all, sixty million dollars made somebody relatively portable. Make that thirty million, the number Carrie always tossed in his face, if they were to split ways.

  One thing he knew for sure—if he was going to make that leap, he wouldn’t be taking Carrie along for the ride. Thirty million would be enough for a lifetime.

  But where would that leave me? Who would take my place as the one they all looked to?

  The longer he thought about that, the bigger that wave of sadness grew.

  The truth was that he didn’t like who he had become. But he loved himself for who he was to other people. The man with everything that everyone else wanted.

  He could see the headlights approaching from beyond the south entrance, so he aimed his remote at the window and opened the gate.

  “It’s going to be another long night,” he said, clicking the remote again to close the drapes. He locked up his office and went downstairs.

  By the time he was outside, she had already parked the BMW on the lake side of the dumpsters and was halfway across the parking lot, walking toward him in the dark.

  “Hello, Brianna,” he said, leaning over. He wrapped a hand around the back of her neck and kissed her.

  “We’ve got some company,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I got out of the car, there was somebody standing on a loading dock back around the corner.”

  “At this hour?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “And he definitely saw me.”

  “Why didn’t you turn around and leave?”

  “I didn’t see him until it was too late,” she said. “He must have opened that big door to the warehouse, or whatever it is, right after I pulled up.”

  “It’s gotta be Ripley,” Hart said. “I can’t believe he is here at this hour. I left him a note to organize some more cans we got in for the food drive and he’s obviously got nothing better to do. You sure he saw you?”

  “Positive,” she said. “He was standing there with his arms crossed, staring at me, almos
t like he knew what we were up to.”

  “Not a chance,” Hart said, giving her another kiss. A bit longer this time.

  She pulled back. “This is unbelievable.”

  “What?” he said.

  She pointed over his shoulder and he turned around. Ripley was standing on yet another loading dock, looking right at them. He stared back at Ripley and neither of them moved for a few seconds. Finally, Ripley went back inside.

  “That’s a problem,” Brianna said.

  “He’s nothing,” Hart said. “I own him. You’ll just have something else to write about now.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “You’ve got a deadline on a different story. The reason you are here is to interview me to write about how generous Hart Industries is to the community. Maybe the Summer Santa is getting too much coverage of late.”

  She smiled and ran her long fingers down his silk shirt. “That’ll be easy. I know more about your generosity than anyone.”

  “Thatta girl,” he said, giving her a little wink. “But we may just have to be a little extra careful tonight.”

  He stood in the middle of the kitchen, thinking.

  Things were going well.

  Again.

  Nobody was up, and there weren’t any police officers standing five feet away, pointing a gun at him.

  He cocked his head and listened, hearing nothing.

  Gifting cash was so much easier than pushing around a wheelchair and bicycles, and way easier than changing tires in the middle of a driveway at two in the morning.

  Dropping off the Little League equipment in the middle of the night, out at the park, had been a no-brainer, but of all of his gigs, he was still most surprised that old Mr. and Mrs. Nelson hadn’t said anything about the lost wedding ring he’d replaced. She’d been barking about it at church for a good three months and he’d left it right in the middle of their living room, attached to the base of their wedding picture.

  Maybe they don’t look at it, he thought. Isn’t anyone happily married anymore?

  He placed the paper lunch bag on the counter and thought he heard something. He turned his head toward his left shoulder and waited.