Redemption

by Nancy Geary

  Ricki Manning was able to find some striking similarities between Father Whitney’s handwriting and the forged pages, including an ink match, although it was from a common type of pen available for fifty-nine cents at most drugstores or supermarkets. Jack testified that there was never any discussion of eliminating a portion of the planned wedding ceremony; Father Whitney had fabricated his story about changing the service as a ruse to get Hope to leave her lunch at Singing Beach and meet with him alone. Although he had not killed her until later in the day, the inference was that they had had a final confrontation. Perhaps he’d threatened her.

  The best evidence, though, came from a religious vestments supplier in East Boston. He explained that the silky rope of the noose was actually a cincture and that he sold that type of belt to various Episcopal churches, including the Church of the Holy Spirit.

  As the sky had darkened, Elvis drove Frances back to Manchester, where they said their good-byes for the immediate future with promises of communication and visits that both knew would never transpire. Watching him wave from his lilac convertible, she’d felt sad. How often the most horrible situations brought people together, only to have the relationship dissipate when the crisis resolved. For a moment the image of Kelly Slater flashed into her mind. They’d gone through a war together when Kelly left her husband and yet had had no contact since she’d relayed her decision to return to the man who abused her. This cycle of intense experiences and abrupt endings characterized her professional life and, in many ways, her personal one, too. It made her yearn for something consistent, someone constant.

  “Adelaide and Bill told me they wanted to come see the farm,” Sam said, resting his free hand on her back and rubbing it gently in small circles.

  “Bill’s not welcome in my house,” Frances replied. Honoring her aunt’s wishes, she hadn’t shared Hope’s history with Sam, but that didn’t mean she would forget. “As for Adelaide, I wouldn’t count on it. She wants to think we’ll stay connected because she wants something positive to come out of Hope’s death.”

  “What about Teddy?”

  “We can talk. Or e-mail.” She cradled her Styrofoam cup in both hands and took a sip of the coffee. “You know, when I was a child, I always imagined them in that beautiful house overlooking the harbor. I wanted so much to be a part of Adelaide’s world. She seemed to bestow love and comfort wherever she went. But it was a fantasy with no basis in reality, a wish born of too many trips to the ice-cream parlor. It was a nightmare there… too.”

  “It’s all the same family.”

  “That’s the problem.” They both laughed.

  “I heard tell once that the best family is the one you get to make yourself, not the one you’re born into.”

  “Wise words.” They were silent for a moment. “I wish once, just once, my dreams wouldn’t be total fiction, that accurate perceptions could form the basis of a fantasy. But enough philosophy.” She saw the coast of Orient Point off in the distance. “We’re almost home.”

  “Fanny,” Sam said, “you’re always the one to say, ‘Can I ask you something?’ But now there’s something I need to ask you.”

  “Anything.” She turned toward him and was startled by the serious look on his face. Her pulse quickened, and she felt a lump in the back of her throat. When he rubbed his eyes and pushed a stray lock of hair off his forehead, she thought she saw a tear.

  “I don’t know how else to say this. I’d be honored if you’d marry me.” Sam reached in his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. “I guess I’m supposed to add, ‘At least consider it,’ but I’d rather you didn’t. I’d rather you just agreed. I may not be the most brilliant or the most successful man on the planet, but there’s no one who could love you more than I do or more than I will.”

  She stood up and put her arms around him. Inhaling deeply, she smelled the musky scent of his skin and kissed his neck. She felt his embrace as he squeezed her closer to him. She couldn’t imagine being anyplace else in the world. Her only prayer was that the feeling would never pass.

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  Saturday, January 10 9:17 p.m.

  Foster hated the putrid smell of his own sweat. It was one thing to perspire from physical performance—he’d been on the lacrosse team and still occasionally lifted weights. There was a cleansing sensation to that; a purging by osmosis. But he felt entirely different tonight as he sat behind the barn. Despite the freezing wind his shirt stuck to the clammy skin of his underarms and back. Beads of moisture congregated on his forehead, his upper lip, and behind his knees. Even his toes slipped in his Adidas sneakers. Anxiety and fear made his synapses fire too rapidly, leaving him drenched in sweat. He needed to peel off his damp flesh and escape, abandoning the body that tortured him and the soul that tormented him. Fortunately that was exactly what he was about to do.

  He adjusted his position and felt a jagged rock dig into his coccyx, causing a shooting pain up his spine. Quick shallow breaths helped dissipate his agony but he still felt a throbbing sensation. He crossed his legs in front of him and leaned back against the red painted building.

  Inside he could hear the horses, Fern and Jump-start, as they snorted, stomped, and rearranged themselves in their stalls, settling down for the night. The dressage horse was black with white socks; the other—a chestnut brown—had retired years ago but remained a family pet. They were majestic, loyal animals, which had eaten carrots from his hand for as long as he could remember. Although never an equestrian himself, he’d always liked the feeling of their soft lips flapping against his extended palm. He hoped his shot wouldn’t startle them.

  He stared up at the waning crescent moon, illuminating a scattering of cirrus clouds in the dark sky. Aside from the stir of the horses and a cacophony of crickets, the night was still. He ran his fingers along the chamber of the .38 caliber gun, then cupped its steel snub nose in one palm while he gripped the wooden handle in the other. He’d gone to great lengths to procure this five hundred dollar weapon for which he’d paid more than a thousand. It had taken considerable coaxing and a substantial bribe but eventually the bearded shop owner in his Orvis fishing vest had acquiesced, overlooking the birth date on his license and falsifying the age on the permit application. For an envelope of cash, he’d gone from sixteen to twenty-six with the flick of a ballpoint pen. So much for gun control in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.

  He squeezed the trigger, hearing nothing but a loud snap in the empty chamber. He’d yet to load his bullet of choice, the 158-grain lead semiwadcutter, which, according to the article he’d read, was designed to ensure maximum penetration. Given the location of his shot, he could sacrifice expansion. He shivered and then squeezed again. Snap.

  Closing his eyes, he listened to the sound of his breathing and felt his heart pounding in his chest. For the first time he wondered who would find him. At least it wouldn’t be Avery, his twin sister. Protecting her was the only thing that mattered to him, but he needn’t worry. She’d returned to boarding school the day before. Her Christmas break was over and he and his mother had driven her back to Garrison Forest last Sunday in time to make the seven p.m. check-in.

  So the discovery of his body would undoubtedly be made by one of his parents, if he could call them that, and that might not happen until the light of morning. They’d left shortly before seven for a dinner party in the neighboring town of Villanova. His mother had worn a gray gaberdine pantsuit and the raccoon jacket that had been her primary Christmas gift. From his bedroom window, he’d watched his father open the passenger-side door for her, lighting the leather interior of the Lexus. Before settling in her seat and affixing her seatbelt, she pulled down the visor to check herself in the mirror and apply just a touch more Garnet Shimmer to her thin lips. Foster had stared at the car lights until t
he dark green sedan disappeared around the bend in the long driveway.

  By now they would be embroiled in the festivities at the home of Bonnie and Hugh Pepper, their close friends. Although he’d never been to what his mother termed a “casual” dinner, he imagined that Mrs. Pepper didn’t really know the meaning of that word. Just look at the Christmas party she’d thrown less than a month before for the best that Main Line society, and its teenage offspring, had to offer. The big stone house had bowed wreaths hanging in every lighted window. An enormous Blue Spruce adorned with electric candles and Victorian ornaments filled the entryway. His family—yes, he could say that now, now that the relationship was about to end—had wandered through room after welcoming room, engaging in snippets of jovial conversation, admiring the many roaring fireplaces, eating scallops wrapped in bacon and celery with foie gras. In front of the ebony grand piano that could only have been a Steinway, his mother had stood arm in arm with his father singing Christmas carols. Oh come, oh come Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel. Standing back from the crowd, Avery had put her arm around his shoulder. “It’s Christmas. I’m home for three whole weeks. Your opening is next week. Can’t you be happy?”

  The dinner party tonight was certain to be seated, to go late into the evening, and to include several different bottles of wine, plus champagne with desert. Nonetheless, when his parents returned home, his father would insist on a nightcap. They wouldn’t think to check his room, wouldn’t realize he wasn’t asleep in bed or watching television in the den. They’d wake up the next morning, stumble into the kitchen for coffee and buttered toast, and only begin their search when he didn’t appear dressed and ready for church by ten o’clock.

  He reached into his pocket and removed the bullets.

  Foster fingered the metal casings, imagining the potential damage. The bullets were cool in his hand and he rolled them over one another as if they were lucky dice. His big gamble would be a success.

  It seemed as though he’d planned for this moment his entire life. Each morning that he’d spent with the covers drawn over his head and his mind thick with images of long steel blades slicing his face or ripping the flesh of his belly, each day that he could barely concentrate, each afternoon spent paralyzed in his room wondering if he could get his body to cooperate enough to get to the bathroom, each evening he’d thrashed on his mattress knowing it was still hours before the gift of sleep might be his, had led inexorably to now. His fifty-minute, three-times-per-week sessions with Dr. Ellery made matters worse. And the antidepressants prescribed for him made life worse still. Tricyclic antidepressants, Serotonin Antagonist Reuptake Inhibitors, Norepinephrine Reuptake Blockers, Benzodiazepines—he’d tried everything in varying dosages and combinations only to add dry mouth, jitteriness, and impotence to the list of tortures that plagued him. His parents had spent thousands of dollars on unreimbursable experiments that left him feeling more freakish and isolated than he had before. What sixteen-year-old American male didn’t at least have the joy, the release, of masturbating?

  The thought made him laugh again, louder this time. But he didn’t have to worry. Aside from the housekeeper, he was alone on more than six acres of countryside. And she was no doubt watching television, still wishing Jay Leno were Johnny Carson. That and a blue moon were at least some things to hope for.

  He loaded three bullets and stared at the open chamber now half full. A cyclops looked back at him, a three-eyed Titan, who today would forge the thunderbolt for him, instead of Zeus. He spun the chamber and clicked it shut. He might fail once, but three bullets had to be enough.

  “Do you remember when you first began to experience depression?” He’d been asked that question so many times he’d lost track. He’d never had an answer. There wasn’t a time, a life, before or without.

  “Is there any activity that gives you any respite? Anything that can even distract you?” Dr. Ellery had asked during his initial interview. He’d thought lacrosse might save him, but he’d had to quit the team after only three weeks. He was too unreliable; he missed games altogether or suited up but found himself unable to play, to follow the rules, even to recognize his teammates. That left only painting. And he’d demonstrated his lack of success in that field. His only show came down at the end of December. The one sale—no doubt a pity purchase by the affluent bar owner—generated four hundred dollars, hardly enough to cover the framing costs.

  He gripped the .38 in his right hand and raised it to his chest. Because of its size, his wrist was at an odd angle and he hoped the kick of firing wouldn’t throw off the bullet’s trajectory. If so, he’d have to shoot again, a prospect he didn’t relish. He knew he had the strength and the ammunition but doubted he had the skill to get off a clean shot if he were already injured.

  “Avery,” he said his sister’s name aloud, as he pictured her the week before—her tall, thin body in tight blue jeans, a bright red turtleneck sweater, and a green down vest, her long hair loose about her shoulders. Why had she ever decided to go to boarding school? Why hadn’t she stayed home with him? He’d been unable to stop crying at the thought of her pending departure. Although he’d been desperate to talk to her, to tell her everything he was thinking and feeling, he couldn’t speak. Sensing this, she’d linked her fingers in his and led him out into this field, their boots cracking the frozen twigs and small patches of ice. She’d stopped to pry open a dried milkweed pod with her fingernail, peeling back the rough skin and exposing what was left of the soft white down inside. “We’ll pretend it’s spring in January,” she’d said. Then she’d blown gently, launching the shrunken cluster of seeds into the air. “Make a wish!”

  He’d wished she wouldn’t leave. And since that was an impossible dream, he’d wished that where he was going, there would be no capacity to feel loss. She would be the only thing he missed.

  With the strength and power of a spiritual mantra, he believed firmly in the special bond of twins. Their entire lives they’d had the rare capacity to experience each other’s emotions, to feel connected in a way that required no explanation. He’d known when Avery had her period for the first time before she’d ever mentioned it. She didn’t need to blush at the mention of Andrew Witherspoon’s name for him to sense she had a crush on the captain of the debate team. She’d asked him about his drowning nightmares before he’d admitted to anyone that he had them.

  Now he wondered about how she would survive without him. He couldn’t have gone on without her. But then again, he couldn’t go on. Period. Would she be his Pollux, willing to sacrifice her life in order to have the two of them remain together? He would gladly pay the price of six months of hell each year to be with her for eternity. But at the same time, he wanted her to go on, to be happy, to make a life, to make a real family of her own.

  He shook his head. Better not to think of her right now. It was too painful, too distracting. He’d written down everything he needed to say and posted the letter earlier in the day. She’d receive it Monday; Tuesday at the latest. By then she’d know of his death. And when she read his words, she’d know why.

  As he tightened his grasp on his gun, he realized that his hand trembled. With his left wrist he wiped the moisture from his forehead. His skin felt clammy. The muscles in his face tensed as he squinted in anticipation. It seemed appropriate to recite the Lord’s Prayer, something simultaneously formalistic and spiritual, but the words he’d been forced to memorize in Sunday school and had recited every week since then as part of the Episcopal service suddenly escaped him.

  Why had his parents kept him in the dark about his identity? Why hadn’t they told him all along he was adopted? Maybe then he would have understood why his life, his family didn’t feel right. Maybe he could have accepted himself. Maybe he would have taken comfort in Dr. Ellery’s explanation that depression was genetic, chemical, that he was plagued by traits beyond his control. But how could he understand when the Herbert family seemed the bastion of mental health and stability? How could he not feel li
ke a freak when he spent days unable to leave his room? His father never missed a day of work; his mother never missed a tennis match, a library benefit, or a garden club meeting.

  “Your best interests were put first and foremost. Don’t think the decisions weren’t difficult,” Dr. Ellery had suggested. “Faith and Bill love you. They wanted to give you and your sister the best possible life, to make you both feel secure"—a prospect that had about a thousand to one odds, and not in his favor.

  He lifted the gun and pushed the nose into his chest. Just the hard metal pressing against his skin hurt. He waited. The pounding inside him increased. Perhaps he could will himself to have a massive cardiac explosion and he’d die of seemingly natural causes. But his heart kept up a ferocious beat, unwilling to quit. If he wanted to end his life he would have to pull the trigger.

  A STORY OF MURDER, MANNERS, AND DARK FAMILY SECRETS

  The salt air still peels the paint from the old clapboard mansions and the residents still send their pampered sons and daughters to Groton and Miss Porter’s.In Manchester-by-the- sea, nothing can disturb the good life…expect murder. Here, star prosecutor Frances Pratt, still reading from the sudden death of her own stepmother, comes for the wedding of her beautiful, spoiled cousin and her polo-playing fiance. Then tragedy strikes in the most shocking way imaginable, and Frances is thrust back into her role as a sleuth.Now she must unravel the mystery sur- rounding the astonishing death of a relative…in this bloodline that seems to have a legacy of murder.

  Redemption

  “A well-told tale…from one who knows the dark secrets simmering beneath the shiny surface of society… an entertainment of the highest order with wildly engaging suspense and brilliantly drawn characters. Iloved it.”

  —LINDA FAIRSTEIN