by Brenda Novak
Grace sometimes wondered if any of them had been thinking at all. Especially Clay. Hiding the body and driving the reverend’s car into the quarry had been his idea, a decision they’d had to live with for eighteen years.
But what better option did they have? They couldn’t have gone to the police. Grace knew that now as well as she’d known it then. No one in Stillwater would’ve believed them; no one would’ve listened. They would’ve demanded retribution for the loss of their beloved preacher.
“We were so careful,” he said.
“Evidently we weren’t careful enough.”
“But Jed’s never said a word about the Bible.” Clay’s hand rasped over his whiskers as he rubbed his jaw. “Not to me. Not to Mom. Not to the police. Why?”
“I have no idea.”
He sat on the edge of the table beside her. “Where do you think it is now?”
“Kennedy Archer or Joe Vincelli must’ve picked it up. That’s all I can figure.”
Surprisingly, Clay’s face filled with hope. “Maybe they didn’t see it. Maybe we should go back and search some more—”
She shook her head. “No, I know where I lost it.”
It must have happened while she was wrestling with Kennedy. She’d had the Bible right before that. But she didn’t want to talk about her little scuffle. No one needed to know Kennedy had caught her—or let her go. She’d dropped the Bible trying to get away. That was the pertinent information.
Still, as much as she told herself it didn’t matter, that she had more pressing concerns, she couldn’t avoid the question that had nagged at her ever since: why had he helped her?
“Once the coast was clear I scoured the area,” she said. “It’s gone.”
Clay stood and began to pace again. “Joe Vincelli will take it to the police for sure.”
“I know.”
“So will Kennedy Archer.”
Grace didn’t immediately respond. She wasn’t sure what Kennedy would do. She still couldn’t believe he’d let her go and wondered if he already regretted it.
“He’d have to,” she said at last. “He can’t get involved in anything like this.”
“I’d better call Mom,” Clay said. “Prepare her, just in case—”
A knock sounded at the door. Was it Joe? Kennedy? The police?
Grace’s nerves drew taut. It seemed as though she’d always watched the threshold of that door with trepidation. When she was young, she’d feared the moment the reverend returned home each day. Now she feared those who wanted to know where he’d gone.
“Go upstairs,” Clay murmured. “I’ll handle this.”
Grace had parked her car in the gravel lot behind the house, so it couldn’t be seen from the street. She was tempted to slip out the back and drive off into the night while she had the chance. But then she heard Madeline’s voice through the door.
“Clay can you hear me? Clay, open up!”
Clay didn’t move right away. Instead, he glanced at Grace. “Do you think she knows about the Bible?”
“If she does, it won’t be long until all hell breaks loose. She’ll go straight to Jed and demand he tell her where he got it.”
“And, from his perspective, I can’t think of one reason in the world why he shouldn’t tell her.”
Grace dropped her head in her hand. “Of course he’ll tell her. He’ll have to. Everyone will be ready to lynch him.”
“Clay?” Madeline called, banging some more. “Hurry, damn it! I need you. I can’t find Grace.”
Clay squeezed Grace’s arm, then crossed the living room to unlock the door.
Madeline rushed in as he opened it. “Oh, God, Clay, I really did it this time. I talked Grace into—”
She stopped the second she saw Grace sitting at the table and hurried into the kitchen to embrace her. “There you are! I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Grace met Clay’s eyes over their stepsister’s shoulder. Obviously, Madeline hadn’t heard about the Bible, or her greeting would’ve been far different. If Joe had found it, he’d have gone directly to the police, eager to let everyone know he’d been right all along. Which meant Kennedy Archer had it.
Joe. Kennedy. Clay. Madeline. Irene. Grace hated the complexity of her relationships here in Stillwater. But…She thought of George and realized they were complex everywhere. The man who claimed he wanted to marry her hadn’t even called in the past couple of days, although she needed his reassurance more than ever.
“I’m so glad you’re safe,” Madeline said. “I’m sorry I got you into that!”
“It’s okay,” Grace assured her. “Tell me what happened to you.”
“They caught me in the alley.” Madeline lifted her chin. “But I put up a good fight.”
From the bruise on her stepsister’s cheek, that certainly appeared to be true.
Suddenly Madeline seemed to notice the deep scratches on Grace’s bare legs, her hands, her face. “God, look at you,” she said, motioning toward a particularly deep gouge. “You’re even more banged up than I am.”
“I hid in the blackberry bushes down by the creek,” Grace told her.
“They didn’t find you, did they?”
Grace remembered the solid feel of Kennedy’s muscular body as he landed on top of her, the power in his arms as he forced her hands over her head, and felt a very strange response in the pit of her stomach. I didn’t mean to hurt you….
He and his kind always meant to hurt. That didn’t explain why he’d let her go, but…obviously he wasn’t really himself tonight. “No, they didn’t find me.”
“Good. They know someone was with me, but I wouldn’t tell them who. I don’t think they’re interested in pursuing the issue anymore. They know why I was there. They know I didn’t take anything and that I’ll pay for the damage.”
“That’s good,” Grace said, but it was difficult to smile and act relieved when she knew that Kennedy would come forward eventually. Her possession of that Bible revealed far too much.
And she could easily guess what Madeline would think of her when he went public with what he had.
Kennedy sat in his kitchen. The book he’d carried home from the woods was indeed a Bible. But not just any Bible. It had belonged to the Reverend Barker. His name was embossed on the front. His handwriting was all over the inside of it. Kennedy could even remember seeing him take it out of his pocket.
Frowning, he turned the thin pages. The notes in the margins unsettled him because they revealed in very subtle ways a man obsessed with his own power, not God’s. Kennedy had been young when the reverend went missing, but the words he’d been studying for the past hour painted a picture of a man far different from the image he’d always maintained—far different from the pious man most people believed Barker to be.
There was a full page where Barker had written about Grace. He’d noted certain things she said, things she did, how she looked. Some fairly explicit poetry a few pages afterward seemed connected to her, as well. Unless Kennedy was assuming more than was really on the page….
He tried to steer his thoughts in a different direction. Maybe Barker was simply overjoyed to have a new daughter.
But if so, where were his notes on Molly? Why would he single Grace out the way he’d done?
Kennedy couldn’t come up with a good reason. No matter how he interpreted what he read, he got the same feeling. The reverend was obsessed with Grace.
That sent chills down Kennedy’s spine. He closed the Bible and shoved it away from him, but couldn’t take his eyes off the embossed name. Eighteen years ago, she’d been just a girl, the same age as Kennedy.
Standing, he went to the window to peer out at the long drive that led to the highway. He had to be wrong. The reverend was a man of God. It was Kennedy who’d been having sexual fantasies about Grace. Not when they were younger, of course. But now. He couldn’t forget the sight of her naked in that damn window.
Rubbing a finger over his lips, he turned bac
k to see the reverend’s Bible lying on his table. He felt like he imagined King David must’ve felt after seeing Bathsheba. If he had David’s power, if he knew Grace would come willingly, wouldn’t he send for her? Right now? Tonight?
Probably. But, he reminded himself, it was Bathsheba who’d brought about David’s downfall….
With a sigh, he jammed a hand through his hair and walked quietly to the small music room just off the entry. Maybe he was half-crazy with missing Raelynn. Maybe Grace evoked in him a very basic, almost primitive urge to possess her, an urge that was stronger than he’d ever experienced before. But the fact remained that the reverend had gone missing under mysterious circumstances. That Grace and her family had long been suspected of having something to do with it. And that Kennedy had just found this Bible, which had been the reverend’s constant companion, on Grace’s person.
He had to hand it over to the police, didn’t he? He had to let them do their work.
And yet he already knew how things would go. Once word of this got out, almost everyone in town would turn on Grace and her family, and Joe would lead the pack. At best, the Montgomerys would suffer through another lengthy investigation. At worst…
The plush carpet gave silently beneath his feet as he crossed the room. He didn’t want to think about the worst. Especially because there was something out of the ordinary between the reverend and the Montgomerys. Something dark, even sinister. He could feel it. But he hated to venture a guess as to what it was—and doubted Grace would ever tell him.
Circumventing the baby grand piano, he sat in one of two leather wing-back chairs. He’d felt the tremors going through her body when he’d caught her tonight. Yet she hadn’t expected or asked for any kindness from him. She’d lain beneath him, her heart beating as fast as a captured rabbit’s, her body shaking while she waited for Joe as if he carried the executioner’s ax.
Kennedy picked up the telephone on the table next to him. He’d driven past Grace’s house on his way home to find everything dark. Because he’d realized by then that the book he’d found was the reverend’s Bible, he hadn’t gone to the door. He’d wanted some time to think about all this before he spoke to her. But now that he’d had the chance to look at it…
Lifting the receiver, he dialed information.
“City, please,” a woman said.
“Stillwater. It’s a new listing, for Grace Montgomery.”
There was a momentary pause, then, “I’m sorry, I don’t show anything for a Grace Montgomery in Stillwater. Would you like to try somewhere else?”
“No, thanks,” he said and hung up. Grace obviously hadn’t ordered telephone service, which made sense. From what he’d heard she was only in town for a few months. If she had a cell, she wouldn’t need a regular telephone. But he didn’t know how to get hold of that number.
He checked the grandfather clock out in the entry hall. It was probably just as well that he couldn’t call her, he decided.
Retrieving the Bible, he hid it in his sock drawer until he could decide what to do with it. Suddenly he was more interested in what had gone on in the months leading up to the reverend’s disappearance than he was in the actual night.
Because he suspected that what had happened then would explain all the rest.
When Grace returned home, she found a note shoved into the doorjamb.
Immediately apprehensive, she turned to study the bushes, the road behind her, the deep shadows by the garage and the far end of the porch, wondering if whoever had left it was still around. After everything that had occurred, she was expecting a fast reprisal. The past couple of hours felt very much like being tied to a railroad track and hearing a train whistle in the distance. The crossing barrier was lowering; the lights were flashing. She knew a locomotive was moving down the track. She just didn’t know when it was going to hit her.
But no one seemed to be lurking near the house.
Taking the folded note with her, she went inside, locked the door and sat in the dark living room, listening to the clock tick. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know who the note was from, let alone read what was written inside. But ignoring the crossing guard and the flashing lights wouldn’t stop that locomotive….
Resigned, she crossed the room to turn on the light and slowly unfolded the paper.
Where are you, pretty lady? I think maybe we got off on the wrong foot the other night. I’m not a bad guy—definitely willing to forgive and forget, if you are. High school was then, this is now. Give me a call.
Joe had signed his name—and jotted down his number.
With a grimace, she stared at his bold yet sloppy writing. He didn’t get it. He thought it might take a little more effort than it used to, but he could still have her if he wanted.
Shaking her head, she walked around the room, lighting all the candles. Then she used one narrow taper to burn his note in the sink.
So much for Joe. He’d never hear from her.
After rinsing the ashes away, she called George. She needed to remind herself that she had another life besides the one she was living right now in Stillwater, that she had the hope of something better—a husband, a family.
But George didn’t answer.
She looked at her watch. It was almost five in the morning. Which meant he was probably sleeping. She’d expected that. But she craved the sound of his voice. And he’d always picked up when she needed him at odd hours.
She tried again. “Hello, this is George E. Dunagan. I’m unable to come to the phone right now—”
Hanging up, she stood at the doors that opened onto the back porch, watching the trees sway in the wind and feeling very much alone in the creaky old house. George was probably sleeping more deeply than usual, she decided. He hadn’t called her the past couple of days because he’d been busy. It was probably that intruder rape case he was working on, the one he’d said was going sideways when he’d brought her furniture over a week ago. She knew how crazy a defense attorney’s job could be. All that shifting and slanting and hiding of the truth took considerable effort.
Chastising herself for being sardonic—including him with so many of the defense attorneys she knew—she promised herself she’d call him in a few hours, when he reached his office. Then she went upstairs.
The rain had stopped. She was glad of the storm; it would lower the temperature and the humidity for a day or two. But she didn’t like the low, keening whistle of the wind. The sound brought back those years when she’d huddled, frightened, beneath her blankets. Too afraid to move. Trying not to breathe. It had been a blustery night just like this one when she’d first heard that ominous creak in the hall and seen the looming shadow of her stepfather in her bedroom doorway….
“He’s dead. Dead and gone,” she whispered. She’d helped bury him. They’d all helped. But, sure enough, when she closed her eyes, he had his nose pressed to the glass of her living room window.
He was back. And he was trying to get inside the house.
8
The next morning, Kennedy sat at the kitchen table and watched his youngest son dig in to a bowl of Honeycomb cereal. He’d wanted to talk to Teddy about Grace before the incident at the pool hall. But it’d seemed a little hypocritical to tell his son he had to spend less time with the woman whose cookies they were all so greedily devouring. She’d also sent home a pan of lasagna and some garlic bread, which his mother had grudgingly passed along. They’d eaten it for dinner. He had to admit it’d felt good to have a homemade meal with his boys that he hadn’t cooked, one without his mother’s presence and the constant worry that gnawed at him every time he looked at his father.
“You’re downing that cereal pretty fast,” he said, folding the newspaper he’d been reading and putting it next to his coffee cup. “Where’s the fire?”
“What fire?” Teddy asked, his mouth full.
“It’s a figure of speech. I’m asking why you’re in such a hurry.”
His youngest son paused briefly to glance up at
him. “We need to go, don’t we? You have lots to do.”
“Somehow that’s never motivated you to get ready so fast before.”
Teddy kept his eyes on his food and continued to shovel cereal into his mouth.
“Last week you hated going to Grandma’s. Suddenly I get no complaints,” Kennedy went on.
Teddy’s spoon hovered a few inches from his mouth. “It’s not so bad anymore.”
“The question is why.”
No answer.
“You like Grace’s cookies that much?”
“I like Grace,” Teddy said. “It’s fun at her place.”
Heath finished drinking the milk left over from his cereal and banged his bowl onto the table. “He was gone all day yesterday,” he volunteered. “Grandma was so mad she said she was going to box his ears.”
“Tattletale!” Teddy cried.
“Whoa.” Kennedy reached across the table and squeezed Teddy’s arm, because he was the easiest one to reach, before the brief exchange could erupt into a full-blown argument. “Settle down. Grandma already asked me to talk to you about the amount of time you’re spending over there.”
“Grandma doesn’t like Grace just because she’s voting for Vicki Nibley,” Teddy complained.
With a scowl, Kennedy let go of him. “Is she really voting for Mrs. Nibley?”
“She has some Nibley signs at her house,” Heath said. “Grandma spotted them yesterday and said, ‘It figures.’”
Come to think of it, Kennedy had seen them, too. He’d told himself at the time that it didn’t matter to him, but it bothered him more than he cared to admit. “What do you do when you go over there?” he asked, wondering if his son would mention the reading.
“Just…work,” he replied with a shrug.
“What kind of work?”
“We cook. We count the jars in the cellar. We—”
“How do you cook if you’re staying outside?” Kennedy interrupted, arching a knowing eyebrow at him.
Teddy’s face turned red. “I wasn’t inside very long, Dad. And…and we had to cook,” he added beseechingly. “If we didn’t, we wouldn’t be ready for today.”
