The Charity

by Connie Johnson Hambley

  Michael sat down opposite her. He pushed a pile of unopened mail aside. A small box clattered to the floor. Neither looked at it. They were both silent for a long while.

  “Are you going to tell me what happened here last night?”

  Jessica grabbed her hair in her fists and did not lift her head.

  “Tess, I don’t care what it takes, I have got to know the truth about what is happening to you.”

  The fists released her hair and moved down to cover her eyes. A short blast of coughs filled the air. They waited.

  “Please, Tess. You’ve got to trust me.”

  “Huh!” The utterance started another patter of coughs. Without lifting her head, Jessica asked, “Why are you covering up that my house was broken into that night and that I fell trying to escape?”

  Michael weighed the question. “I told you. Perc is a small town. I didn’t say anything until I was sure what the facts were. It would have been irresponsible of me to comment. I placed everything in my report of the incident, and I asked a friend at the local paper not to print it until there was more information.”

  “Friend?”

  Michael hesitated. “Electra.”

  Jessica remained still. “If you think Rowdy Howe was murdered, why wasn’t there an investigation?”

  He shook his head and decided to keep his explanation official. “If it was in my jurisdiction, I would be looking into it. The medical examiner there insists that there was nothing suspicious about his death and, therefore, did not merit any further investigation.” He shook his head again in agitation and drew in his breath. “What is going on with you?”

  Jessica raised her head and looked into Michael’s face. “Can we talk about something else for a while? I just need some time to think.” Her voice, hoarse from the smoke, was a soft monotone. Her eyes had a dark, sunken appearance to them, emphasizing the fact that she was emotionally drained.

  Michael looked at the worn figure and agreed to a temporary change of subject. He got up and poured two mugs of coffee and grabbed a sandwich off a nearly empty deli tray delivered earlier that day.

  There were a lot of pieces he had already put together. As he looked at the tangled mane of hair and the slumped shoulders of the woman at the table, he could only hope that he was wrong. He had seen a lot in his lifetime. Two lifetimes, really.

  He made conversation about the new foal and about the progress of the Franklin School in hiring another Occupational Therapist, funded partially by the proceeds from the Cleanup Day. He talked about anything that might interest her. Each moment, he watched Jessica for any sign of acknowledgment. The sun was beginning to set, and shafts of red light pierced into the kitchen. He ran out of small talk. He turned on a few lights, sat down in his chair and waited.

  Jessica picked her head up and stared blankly out the window. The sunlight was hitting the last stubborn leaves on the birch tree outside. The tree’s white bark was marked with black slashings and its paper-thin leaves fluttered helplessly in the stiff breeze kicking up. She stared at the scene.

  “I’m in trouble, Michael.” Her flat raspy voice sounded like the scratching of the leaves outside.

  Michael wanted to lean forward, to touch her, to offer some kind of reassurance. That would be a wrong move. Instead, he said, “You’ve got to talk about it, Tess.”

  Jessica’s head lolled to the right over her shoulder. She closed her eyes and focused on forming her words correctly. “No. It’s Jessica.” Her voice was no more than a whisper.

  Michael had trouble hearing her. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s not Tess. My name is Jessica. Jessica Wyeth.”

  Michael sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. He cocked his head over to one side and tried to assimilate every nuance of her movements. He watched as she massaged her temples with her fingers. Progress. “Why did you change your name?”

  “Because they thought that I was dead, and I wanted to keep it that way.”

  There was another piece of information he suspected, but he had to be sure. “Rowdy Howe recognized you the night of Electra’s party.” He stated this as a fact, to keep the conversation going.

  Jessica shifted in the hard wooden chair and stared up at the overhead kitchen light. She nodded. “Yeah.”

  Michael took a deep breath and evaluated Jessica. He had seen her in extreme situations, nearly crazed with fright a few nights ago, and now she was emotionally spent. What little he did know of Tess White, or Jessica Wyeth, he knew she was telling the truth. Still, some pieces did not add up. “So, he broke into your house and wanted to kill you.”

  Jessica’s hands began to tremble. “I... I’m not really sure. I think it was the other guy who wanted me dead.”

  “Then you did see two men that night.”

  Jessica nodded and barely whispered. “Yes.”

  “Had you ever seen the other man before?”

  “I... I’m not sure.”

  “So Howe was used to find you and was killed for his efforts.”

  “I... I guess so.”

  “Why, Tess, er, Jessica?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Michael looked at Jessica and saw how emotionally fragile she was. The chess match continued with the next move being his. He did not want the conversation to end and turned to another subject. Calculating quickly, he probed. “What else can you tell me about your family?”

  Jessica rubbed her open hand along the tabletop. “I really miss them.” One tear glistened and then rolled down her cheek. “I was just a little kid, ya know?”

  There could be no mistaking the pain Jessica felt for anything other than grief. Michael stood up and walked over to her. He knelt down in front of her and took her hands. “I am so sorry for you.” The clock on the wall ticked past the seconds. He waited, planning his next questions. “Who was ‘Erin’?”

  More silvery streaks slid down Jessica’s cheeks. “She was my sister. Sh-she was specially challenged. Like Karen Percival.”

  Michael nodded. He still needed to verify another name. “And ‘Gus’ was a family friend?”

  Jessica shrugged and looked away.

  “Gus who?” he asked.

  “Gus Adams.”

  The additional facts were beginning to fill in. Michael decided to ask his questions from point blank range. “Tess, I mean, um, Jessica, why would anyone want you dead?” More leaves chicked against the window.

  “Because I killed them. I killed them all.”

  “Do you know what you’re saying?”

  “No. I mean yes. No!”

  “Jessica, tell me that again.”

  The strain of the conversation and the events of the past day were taking their toll. Her skin was white and clammy to the touch, showing the shock ripping through her. “I killed Gus Adams. I’m responsible for his death... for... for all of them”

  Michael let out a long, slow breath. “So you ran?”

  “I just need to sleep. My head is killing me, and I just need to sleep.”

  “Okay. I’m worried about you and don’t think you should be alone. I’ll stay with you.” He did not want to leave her alone for many reasons. The least of which being that he did not want to let a confessed murderer go if that was, in fact, what Tess White, or Jessica Wyeth, was.

  He helped her lie down on the couch and threw a quilt over her. She was asleep within seconds.

  After he had made a fire in the hearth, he sat in the chair next to her and watched her sleep for a long time. She looked so peaceful, sleep erasing some of the hell she had been through. He mulled over all of the information he had about her and decided to run more background checks on her now that he had a name to go by. Howe mentioned something about knowing the Wyeth family in Massachusetts. At least it was a name, real or not. And now he had the name of Gus Adams.

  The irr
ational fear that someone felt when they were running away from something they did not understand was one he knew well. When he first arrived in Perc so many years ago, he was running from a past and a hatred that he thought would follow him forever. He was alone, without family or friends. He could see why Electra thought he and Tess, no Jessica, had something in common.

  He expelled a single burst of air in recognizing the irony. Electra would never have guessed that killing a family member would be part of their shared experience. There was one big difference, he thought wryly. He knew he was protected from his past ever catching up to him and killing him.

  A pit settled in his stomach, and his personal investigation began right there. He mulled over the tools he had available to him. If Jessica murdered her family or Gus, then she would have been posted in a ‘Wanted’ file. He would have recalled seeing pictures of an attractive young woman in such files and was confused to think that she was not posted as wanted or missing.

  He stared at the fire for a long time and watched as it slowly consumed all of its fuel and began to burn itself out. The day’s events had taken their toll on him as well, and he eventually dozed off in the lumpy chair.

  He woke up the next morning to bright sunlight streaming into the window. It was still early, hardly past dawn, and the air was fresh and new, but badly tainted by the smoking ruins. He stretched his arms and legs out and felt the stiffness from his hours in the chair. He stood up and looked toward the couch. It was empty.

  “Damn it!” he shouted and quickly searched the house and looked outside. He knew he would not find her, but he hoped that he would find something. Anything. Instead, he found nothing.

  He walked back into her house and stood listening to the stillness for a long while. As sheriff, he knew he had to initiate an APB, All Points Bulletin, on her. He was bound by the oath he took as an enforcer of laws to report what he had learned, but something made him pause and consider his actions. In this life he led, he was required to report what he knew. But past experiences taught him that it could mean almost certain death for her if what he was beginning to suspect was true. He knew all too well that it was not just people in law enforcement that reviewed the APB’s for missing persons.

  The kitchen was as they had left it last night. Stale sandwiches littered the table and counter tops. The mail was still scattered on the floor.

  He walked over and absently picked it up to replace it on the table. A return address caught his eye. Scrawled on the upper left hand corner of the small box was “Saddle String Ranch, Utah.” His brows creased into a straight line, and his jaw clenched.

  He opened the box and poured its contents on the table. A letter, a pair of earrings and a small metal object slid out. He picked up the latter object and stood looking at it for a long time. Its patina had dimmed behind a layer of brown tarnish. It surface was heavily scratched, but a faint design could still be made out.

  Michael’s heart slowed to a steady, pounding beat as the form of the engraving burned itself into his consciousness. A shamrock bled three drops of blood as it was sliced by a dagger.

  He sank into a chair and sat, motionless except for his chest heaving deep breaths in an effort to calm himself. The lighter caught the light through the window and flashed its reality at him, almost as a challenge.

  The pieces were there all along, and he refused to see them. Jessica Wyeth was in more trouble than he ever imagined.

  PART THREE

  Hamilton, Massachusetts

  Perc, Kentucky

  Boston, Massachusetts

  November 1995

  MAGNUS CONNAUGHT STROKED the cheek of his wife in a loving gesture as she settled the tray of tea and soda bread on the table in front of him. He gave a contented sigh and returned the warm smile given to him by Catherine. Still a fine woman, he mused. Extending his hand, he motioned for her to join him in their afternoon refreshment. She glanced around the room at the other figures and demurred, then quietly withdrew. Magnus sighed again in the direction of the retreating figure, thanking the Lord that she was nothing like his first wife.

  The comparison of the women crimped his face with momentary discomfort. His first wife was meddlesome and vocal in her opinion of his business dealings. He married her for her fiery independence then grew to hate her for it. Everything went wrong because of her. No matter. He managed to deal with her effectively enough.

  He took a sip of hot tea and looked at his loyal sentinels. One wanted to speak. He nodded in the direction of the young man, granting permission.

  “Sir. We have your invited guest in the other room. Shall we bring him in?” The young man’s voice was clear and bright and emanated from an unlined face. His eagerness to please radiated and warmed the old man.

  “Yes. Yes. Let’s not keep him waiting any longer.” Magnus looked at the young man with paternal pleasure. The aide was growing up well under his watchful eye. It would still take more years of careful grooming before the lad would be ready to assume a greater position. The old man’s eyes flickered with a look of disappointment. A son following in his footsteps, as he had followed in his own father’s, was a lifelong dream. Chronic exhaustion pulled down on him. He wanted to retire and take Catherine away from all of this. Not yet. There was so much more to do.

  He glanced up as the far doors swung open. Coogan strode confidently into the room. Magnus’ bony hand made an elegant gesture in the air toward an open chair.

  “Ah, Detective Coogan. It’s a pleasure to see you again. Do sit down.” He looked at the faces of the other men. “I think the Detective would like to speak with me privately.” The men nodded and dutifully filed from the room.

  Coogan settled deeply into the thickly padded chair and opened the buttons on his exquisite suit jacket. His shoes glowed richly in the warm firelight. He sighed and relaxed further in the deep comfort of the expensive surroundings. Magnus could see that Coogan felt very much at home. And on guard. “Magnus. It’s so nice to see you again. I hope you and Catherine are well.”

  “Yes, yes. We are both well. Thank you for asking,” his voice rumbling in soothing paternal tones. The old man’s eyes were shaded with heavy lids. Skinny fingers wrapped around the china cup, sucking up its warmth. “I am sure you’re curious as to why I asked you here today.”

  “The thought did cross my mind. It’s been a while since we’ve paid one another a social call.”

  “You know we can’t be too careful in protecting our privacy. Many of my men cling to every word of a legend, such as yourself.”

  “Yes, of course. I understand. What can I help you with?”

  “I hate to be of any bother to you. It is just that you’ve been so helpful in the past. I was wondering if you could help me out with a few questions I have.”

  “You know you can count on me if you need anything, Magnus. Anything.”

  “Yes, yes. Of course I can. You have never let me down, have you?” The words were spoken in a sweet tone to lure the prey closer. Old eyes peered at the dandily dressed detective. He paused long enough to set the man on edge. “It seems that a mutual friend of ours has been located. I hate to bother you with the reminiscences of an old man, but my memory is fading. Please indulge me. What can you remember about a young girl by the name of Jessica Wyeth?”

  The soft chair began to lose some of its comfort. Coogan shifted his weight in an effort to get it back. “Who?”

  “Come now, Detective,” Magnus said through a phlegmy chortle. “I think that name must have a familiar sound to it?”

  “Wyeth. Wyeth. Oh yeah, right. Wasn’t that the young kid that murdered some horse trainer or something? I recall that she was killed right afterward in a freak explosion.”

  Magnus waved his hand in the air to conjure an image. “I vaguely recall that myself. Tell me, how did you come to the conclusion that it was her body found in the ruins? I am always in awe
of the fine police work you do.”

  “She was properly identified.”

  “I see. Tell me how she was identified.”

  Coogan swallowed. “Every bit of procedure was followed.”

  “I’ve no doubt you had confidence in the process. Tell me the steps that were taken.”

  Coogan’s sharp features froze into a mask of arrogant confidence. “Hey! Are you trying to tell me that the Wyeth chick is alive? No way. Impossible. There was no way she could have escaped that explosion. Besides, they found bones in the debris.”

  “Bones? I recall that it was clearly identified as a ‘body.’”

  “They were charred beyond any recognition.”

  “And...?”

  “And Keenan in Forensics identified her! I had to pay dearly for that identification. Keenan was an ass. Always yanking me around.”

  “So you verified what he found?”

  “Yes. Of course. Female. Age 18 to 22. Stood five feet, eight inches tall.”

  Magnus’ white head nodded in total understanding. “Again, memories play tricks on old minds. I recall that you were having a friendly chat with her shortly before her untimely death.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. That’s right. I tracked her to that dive.”

  “I seem to recall you stating that you learned a shocking piece of information shortly before she died. Could you refresh my memory as to what it was she said to you that caused you to be so concerned?” The old man’s tone was sing-songy in its attempt to impart a sense of safety.

  “I overheard her talking to her friend earlier that day. It sounded like she knew something. She did. I made sure to get her alone to hear her confession to Gus Adams’ murder.” Coogan wiped his dampening hands on his finely clothed thighs. The game shifted. “What’s all this about? This should hardly be of concern to you.”

  “Please. Please, Detective. Calm yourself down. I’ve never had any reason to doubt what you told me. Until now, that is.”

  “This is impossible. She’s not a threat to you.”