Indivisible

by Kristen Heitzmann

  —PHILIPPIANS 2:2, NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE

  Tia looked up when Miles walked in for the second time since his meltdown almost four weeks ago. Not even a month, yet it seemed like years since Jonah had taken her home, dazed and injured, before he had trashed her psyche as thoroughly as Miles her store.

  Her throat locked in whatever greeting she might have managed as Miles made his hulking way between the less crowded displays. Dressed in a pressed corduroy jacket and knife-edge khakis over shined leather loafers, he avoided even the brush of an elbow to a shelf. Others should be so careful.

  Certain that Miles was the least of anyone’s concerns, even—no especially—Jonah’s, she looked back at the supply list she’d been compiling. It was all she could do to fake an interest in oils and tinctures, paraffin, glycerin, and beeswax. The question she asked the woman who’d called the Hopeline had played in her own head ever since. How do you want to spend the time left you?

  She wanted to help people the way she’d helped that woman, to listen and understand, to break down hurt and guilt and fear, and restore hope. Yet she’d been so bound up, she had only used that gift stingily on her dial-a-prayer line. If she were called to account today, she’d say, “Lord, I buried my talent in the sand because I didn’t believe it was good enough.”

  She bit her lower lip and watched Miles, trapped inside his fears, staring at the only candles he considered safe, dipped tapers bearing no human fingerprints, believing if he wasn’t touched, he would not be hurt. Maybe he was right.

  He unhooked a pair by the wick that joined them, ironically the very part she had held to hang them. He brought them to the counter. “I would like these, please.”

  “Sure, Miles.”

  He pulled his payment from the wallet, laid the money on the counter, and drew his hand back. She wanted to promise he was safe from her, but how could anyone really keep from touching another life?

  She gave him change. “I don’t suppose you want them wrapped.”

  “Yes. Lots of purple ribbon. And the moon sticker.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Okay.”

  “And you can have this back.” With a finger, he slid her Hopeline card across the counter.

  Her heart sank. So much for gifts and talents …

  “I memorized the number.”

  She stared at the card, then looked up. For one moment he met her eyes. A smile flickered over her mouth. “It’s good 24/7.”

  He picked up the candles. “Your leg is better?”

  “Good as new.”

  He walked to the door and paused, started to say something, then he went out. She looked down at the card, picked it up, and held it to her chest, feeling her heart beat faintly beneath. Lord.

  “Jonah.” Ana’s voice came through his Bluetooth.

  “Hey, Ana.” They hadn’t talked since striking Sam’s deal nearly three weeks ago, and he hoped that wasn’t going south this close to the trial.

  “Are you driving?”

  “I am.”

  “Do you want to pull over?”

  Everything suddenly slowed down. His Bronco in slow motion, the scenery crawling by. His pulse and breaths felt minutes apart, his limbs suspended in water. “What’s up?”

  “Sam won’t be going to trial, Jonah. I’m sorry. He’s dead.”

  His chin dropped to his chest. Sam. Dead. His throat worked over the words before he finally said, “I’m on my way.”

  They had moved the body to the morgue. Sam’s bone structure was indeed small, and he’d lost weight since the day in the ER. With Ana and the coroner, Hao Sung, Jonah stood beside the stainless table trying to internalize the shift to this from the man he’d spoken to just days ago.

  “What happened?”

  Hao held up a baggy with a syringe inside. “We found this in his cell.”

  Jonah didn’t ask how he’d gotten it. Jails were sieves. The question was who. And why. Had someone heard Sam was cooperating? Or had they hedged their bets, giving him a little something to keep him wanting more, to make cooperating undesirable. Or had Sam just found an opportunity and taken it?

  “Anyone hear or see anything?”

  Ana said, “The guys on either side say he freaked out and threw himself around like he was hallucinating. He seizured and collapsed.”

  He turned to Hao. “Would meth alone do that?”

  Hao shrugged. “Could. Injecting is a big jump from smoking the stuff. We’ll test the syringe. And I haven’t opened him up.”

  “It might have been laced?”

  Again Hao shrugged. “When I know, you’ll know.”

  Jonah nodded. It didn’t matter. Locked in his cell, Sam had to have injected it. There’d be no resurrection. “I’ll tell Officer Donnelly.”

  This time the drive went too fast. He took Sue into his office and made her sit in his chair. He pulled the only other around and sat.

  She said, “It’s Sam.”

  He nodded. “OD or poisoning.”

  “Poison?”

  “He injected something. We don’t know what. I’m sorry, Sue. He’s gone.”

  Her face worked through the pain. “You made the ID?”

  He nodded. “But of course you can see him. Hao—”

  “No.” She swiped the tears. “I saw him alive and willing and hopeful. I don’t want to see the other man.” She pressed a hand to her belly. “Can we still use the statement?”

  He held her eyes. “We have it signed and witnessed and videoed. He won’t be there to confirm it in court, but …” He spread his hands. “It’s something.”

  “Then”—she cleared her throat—“let’s go. Let’s get them.”

  “Sue.”

  “I want them, Jonah.”

  “Listen to me.” When he got her attention, he said, “I talked to Connie. She wants you to meet her at the foster house and get Eli.”

  Her mouth fell open. A single word slipped out on her breath. “Now?”

  He nodded again.

  She pressed her hands to her face, shaking. “Oh, God. Oh my God.”

  “Yeah,” he said, her prayer as pure as any he’d heard.

  Liz saw him sitting on a boulder at the bank of the creek near the bridge. Wind tossed the pines and willows on either side, but he seemed somehow removed from the physical world. His fingers drove into the sides and front of his head as he held it from falling to his chest. A monument of dejection.

  Quietly she approached, sat on a boulder beside his. He rocked his head to see her.

  She smiled thinly. “It must be bad.”

  “Yeah.” Did she imagine him stiffening, pulling up the walls? He frowned. “I’m sorry. Did you need something?”

  She sniffed a laugh. “Do you ever let someone help you?”

  He pressed his tongue between his side teeth. “It’s not me. One of my officers lost her husband.”

  And yet the wound seemed to be within him. “You knew him well?”

  “Hardly at all. She kept her work and family separate.”

  Then it was the wife he hurt for.

  “It must be hard to have so many depend on you.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “It’s not hard, or people don’t need you?”

  He pressed his hands to his face and rubbed. “I just wish it hadn’t come down this way.”

  “Are there kids?”

  “Two-year-old. One on the way.”

  Liz shook her head. “I wish I knew what to say.”

  “Yeah.” He looked at his watch. “Sorry, Liz. I have to meet with the mayor.”

  “Like seeing a man about a horse?”

  He glanced down. “Uh, as I understand that phrase, you’re not far off—between you and me.” He formed a dry smile. “At least I can tell him there have been no more mutilations.”

  “Like the raccoons, you mean.”

  “Yeah. He’s afraid word will get out that aliens are operating on our pets.”

  She stared at him.
“Are you serious?”

  “He doesn’t want animal rights groups interfering with the growth and health of our community. It’s just politics. One part of my job I hate—although today it’s a tossup.” He stood, lanky and lupine with an inner agitation behind his weary eyes.

  “Take care now.”

  She said, “I will.” But who would take care of him? She stood and watched until he was gone, then pressed a hand to her heart. Lucy was waiting.

  Piper slipped out from the counter and into the kitchen to check the sourdough sponge she had proofing in the big glass bowl. Never guessing Sarge would lift the ban, she had created the starter at home, assuming she’d have to learn anything new on her own time in Tia’s kitchen. She fed the starter like a pet for three days until it developed a bubbly froth, then brought it to work. She had mixed up the sponge six hours ago. Now it was white and frothy with a sour beery smell.

  The bell on the front counter would alert her if someone needed service, but she hoped the lull lasted long enough to make the dough. After measuring out enough sponge for the recipe, she put the remainder back into the cleaned jar, added fresh flour and warm water, and put it in the walk-in to grow the natural yeast for the next batch. To the sponge, she added sugar, salt, and oil, and, using the enormous dough mixer, kneaded in the flour.

  It was brainlessly easy, and yet she got such a kick out of it. She wasn’t sure her mother had ever made a meal that wasn’t microwaveable. Almost always they’d eaten out, almost always finding something wrong so some or all the ticket got comped. Piper shook her head. This simple thing of making bread from flour and water, sugar, salt, and oil was as big a statement of independence as anything she’d done.

  No one rang the bell, but as she tipped the mixer bowl to the rising board, she thought she heard the door. She gently patted the soft-as-baby-skin dough and covered it with a crib-sized cloth, giggling at how often she compared her loaves and buns to babies. Maybe all creativity stemmed from a generative urge.

  She washed her hands and went out front. No one. She started to turn back to the kitchen when she saw the package on the counter. Puzzled, she lifted it, recognizing Tia’s wrapping at once, but not finding anything to explain its appearance.

  Piper frowned, noticing a slip of paper that must have fallen to the floor. The hand printing looked typeset and said only, “For Piper.” She went to the front and searched the street through the windows. People milled along the sidewalks, though no one she knew. She pulled open the paper. Two pale golden tapers of natural, honey-scented beeswax. She locked the register and hurried next-door. “Tia?”

  Tia straightened up from behind one of the displays. “Hey.”

  “Did you wrap these for someone?”

  Tia looked at what she held. “He brought them to you?”

  “Someone left them on the counter.”

  “It was Miles.”

  “Miles?”

  She nodded. “He seemed very pleased with himself.”

  “Miles bought these for me?”

  “I think you have a friend.”

  “That is so sweet.”

  “And no fingerprints. He gave you the germ-free candles.”

  Warmth filled up inside her. “I wonder why he didn’t stay and have me open them.”

  “Guess it was a surprise.”

  The warmth became a glow. “I didn’t know he could think in surprises.”

  “Underneath his phobia, he seems very intelligent.”

  “Oh, you should have heard all the scientific explanations he gave me for why the dough rises and how heat and pressure and oxygen and whatnot affect food and cooking and how the body processes energy. He went on and on like a talking teddy bear that swallowed an encyclopedia.”

  They laughed.

  Piper rewrapped the candles. “I’m glad he’s not a psychopath.”

  “He still has issues.” Tia forked the mane back from her face. “I’d love to work with him, get to the bottom of it. Although it might require medication I can’t prescribe.”

  “What do you mean, work with him?”

  “I mean therapy. I have degrees in counseling and clinical psychology.”

  “You do?” Piper searched her face. “Then why aren’t you doing it?”

  “I was just asking myself the same question.”

  Piper shook her head. “You keep surprising me.”

  “Not many people know. I had to take the courses online since I was responsible for the store. I still need clinical hours and a license to practice.”

  “But you could be helping people. More than the Hopeline.”

  “I see that now. I kept waiting for things to change.” Tia turned. “But only I can.”

  Jonah had called in his entire force except for Officer Sue Donnelly. The conference room where they assembled smelled of bitter coffee and McCarthy, who’d just come from the gym. They looked curious and a little uneasy. He briefed them. Moser put a hand to his face when he explained about Sam.

  Newly said, “They got to him? In the jail?”

  “Someone got something to him.” He didn’t express what they’d all realize at some point, that Sam still made a choice to use. Unless he’d been forcibly shot up before lockdown? He’d talk to Hao, have him look beyond the obvious. Hand or fingerprints where he might have been held. Trauma at the needle site.

  “This is our top priority. I want 24/7 surveillance on Tom Caldwell. I want you all through town checking vacant properties, trailers, motel rooms where there have been odor complaints.”

  “That would be most of the places I’ve stayed,” Newly lightened the mood.

  “Especially when you’ve had burritos.” McCarthy flicked his head with a backhand.

  “Nah, that was his girlfriend.” From Moser, cracking up Beatty, the rookie.

  Jonah let them get it out. They had to hate what this meant to their fellow officer. “I’ll be calling the sheriff for support. And guys? Everything by the book. I don’t want one count inadmissible because we scratched the wrong armpit. Beatty, you shadow Moser. He’s been a cop since Moses brought the tablets down from Sinai.”

  “I wrote the tablets.” Moser ran his fingers down his perfect facial hair.

  Jonah looked around the table. The worst they’d dealt with were domestic calls. He had a feeling they’d all be growing up.

  Twenty-One

  My twin and I were wombmates and then roommates. Some day our bodies will be tombmates.

  —CLARA TAIPALE

  She shouldn’t leave Lucy, miserable and distressed by her increasingly frequent absences. It broke her heart to see her confusion, but how could she explain? She couldn’t do it alone, and now there was someone else who bore others up, who carried the weak without complaint.

  “It’s him,” Lucy rasped. “I know it.”

  She sighed. “I won’t be long.”

  Lucy didn’t believe her.

  “I promise.” She pressed a hand to Lucy’s pale cheek and turned away.

  It had been two and a half weeks since she bought the candle, no knowing if she’d ever give the gift. Seeing him at the creek, open once more and sharing his true feelings had been a sign, an invitation to treat him as she would any wounded creature. But a different vehicle sat beside the Bronco in Jonah’s driveway. If someone else was there, maybe she should leave.

  But she grabbed her package and went to the door, her heart jumping when he hollered, “Come on in,” as though he’d been expecting her.

  A less robust voice barked and swore. Curious, she moved through the cabin to the back rooms he and Jay must have completed. From a chair beside a single bed, an old man, bent like a shepherd’s crook, let loose on the young woman who held her hand just out of reach, urging him to stretch farther than it seemed he wanted to.

  Providing a counterforce with a hand to the man’s chest, Jonah sent a glance over his shoulder. “Liz?”

  “I didn’t realize you were busy. I can come back.”

  “
We have, what?” He turned to his companion. “Ten more stretches?”

  “Ten more.”

  The old man growled.

  “Just ten more,” the woman urged.

  Jonah murmured, “There’s hot chocolate in the kitchen.”

  A reminder of the evening he’d opened his heart? Liz smiled. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Again.” The woman held out her hand, and the old man stretched.

  His ill temper reminded her of the surly old dogs people brought her to put down. They assumed the animal preferred death, because they didn’t want to watch it live in anything less than perfection. Not Jonah. His patience and affection warmed her more than the space heater in the corner.

  When they finished stretching, the woman said, “You did very well, Sergeant Beaker. Opening the upper spine allows the lower lumbar some flexibility, and building strength between the shoulders will relieve more tension.” She began to lightly massage the muscle group they’d worked, flicking Jonah a glance. “We’ll just finish up here.”

  “All right.” He tipped his head, and Liz preceded him out. As they walked away, the woman murmured something Sarge responded to with a laugh. Jonah shook his head. “Nimue wooing Merlin.”

  “Excuse me?” She turned, confused.

  Jonah jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Le Morte d’Arthur. If Sarge doesn’t watch out, he’ll end up smitten.” He searched her face. “Never mind.”

  “Is he your father?”

  Jonah opened his mouth, then closed it. “My dad’s dead. Sarge is an old friend.”

  “Sarge, who owns the bakery?”

  “You have a good memory.”

  “You took him in?”

  “He’s living here, yeah.”

  They had reached the kitchen.

  “Did you want some cocoa? SoBe? water?”

  Why couldn’t she think? “Do you need to see the therapist off?”

  “Lauren? She’s Sarge’s nurse. She’ll be a while.”

  Liz noticed three plates next to the Crock-Pot of rich roasting meat, red-skinned potatoes, and onions. Turning, she formed a tentative smile. “I brought you something.” She held out the package.