Crown of Thorns (Nick Barrett Charleston series)

by Sigmund Brouwer

Yet the next sound was more horrible, a sound clearly heard above the growing roar of the fire. It was the pinging sound of

  a bat resonating at the impact against bone.

  Jeremiah began to topple as he screamed, an unnaturally high-pitched animal cry.

  The horrible ping came again as Angel swung at his other knee. “I hate you! I hate you!” she screamed.

  He fell sideways, and I had to roll away from him to avoid being crushed.

  “I hate you!” Angel screamed. She swung at his head, but with him tumbling, the bat bounced off his shoulder. “I hate you!”

  The next blow glanced off his shoulder and into the side of his head. Just enough to daze him. “I hate you!” She brought the bat up again.

  “Angel!” I shouted. I was on my hands and one knee. “Angel!”

  The fire was spreading now, and we were in danger.

  “Angel!” I could see it in her eyes. She wanted to kill the man. She was going to swing down, like an ax into wood. “Angel!”

  Camellia rushed past me and clutched at her. “Angel. Think about Maddie!” she shouted. “She needs you, and you won’t do her no good in jail!”

  I lunged forward and awkwardly grabbed the end of the bat.

  But Angel didn’t try another swing. “Where is she?” Angel shouted back.

  “Out there with Mama. She needs you.”

  Angel followed Camellia out. She went straight to Maddie.

  I pushed onto one foot and used the bat as a cane. It was barely enough support to allow me to grab Jeremiah’s collar with my free hand to try to heave him toward the front door. I would have failed, but Camellia’s mother came in shouting for me and helped drag the unconscious giant to the safety of the sidewalk. By then, most of the lower portion of the house was engulfed in flames.

  Sirens had begun to scream in the distance.

  I found my cell phone and dialed a number. When Jubil answered, I swallowed for air and said, “You’re not going to believe this. . . .”

  Chapter 28

  On Sunday, as the church bells rang across lower Charleston,

  I drove to the cemetery where Camellia had told me I would find Angel. From the road that wound its way among the tall trees and the headstones, I saw Angel showing Maddie how to lay flowers on a grave.

  Angel had lifted her head as the car approached. I waved and waited for her to wave back. Things were still unresolved between us. That conversation we’d had on the front steps just as the fireflies had begun to glow. The fact that I’d lied to her in the beginning.

  I parked. I was driving a rental. With my prosthesis destroyed, there was no way I could operate a clutch.

  Finally, she stepped away from the grave. She took Maddie by the hand and both of them walked toward me.

  I moved awkwardly out of the car and used crutches to meet them. Until I had my prosthesis replaced, it was the only way I could get around. A man on a leg and a half.

  I pointed to the base of an old oak and Angel nodded.

  I leaned my crutches against the tree and sat. Angel sat beside

  me and let Maddie explore the grass beside us.

  “Hey,” I said, “let me tell you a story about cheap people.”

  “Those two old ladies who reuse their tea bags?” Her arms were crossed. She leaned on her knees. Looked away from me. “You told me about that once already.”

  Despite her body language, I wasn’t going to give up that easily. “Actually, their father and mother. You’d like those two ladies. Sure, they own a shop on King, but they grew up poor. That’s why they can’t change their old habits. Bad as they are, their parents . . .”

  I waited and waited, until she spoke with a degree of impatience. “What about their parents?”

  I hid my smile. Finally, some interest. “Believe it or not, the mother liked to chew tobacco.”

  “Gross!”

  “They lived out of town. It was a long time ago. It was not

  a hoity-toity family.”

  “Hoity-toity?”

  “You know, uppity. Thinking they were better than the rest of the world.”

  “Oh.”

  “Anyway, their father liked chewing tobacco, too.”

  Angel sat up. “Don’t try to tell me that when she was finished chewing a wad, he’d take over and give it another chew. If you do, I swear I’m going to barf.”

  “Vomit sounds nicer.”

  “Barf. I’m not hoity-toity like you.”

  “Either way, you’re in luck and you won’t have to throw up. Much as it bothered them that the mother would have to throw out a perfectly good wad when she was done with most of the juice, they didn’t chew the same wad twice. It’s not like bubble gum. You know, put it under a desk and leave it for someone

  else later.”

  “Yuck!” Angel squealed.

  This was fun.

  “Turns out,” I said, “the father decided to switch to smoking a pipe. Wasn’t as satisfying to him as chewing and spitting, but with a pipe, why he could take the old chewed-up tobacco, let it dry, and smoke it until there was nothing left.”

  Maddie came close again, and Angel hugged her to her chest. “I like that story, Nick. But why’d you really come out here?”

  “Angel,” I said, “anything you might tell me in answer to my questions will stay with me. I promise.”

  “Well, I ain’t promising you those answers.”

  “Thanks for the encouragement,” I said.

  “Weren’t encouragement.”

  “I know.”

  “So ask.”

  “Grammie Zora got you to hide in the closet and use your camcorder, right? She knew she was going to invite Larrabee over to the house. Otherwise, she would have gone to the Glory Church to face him.”

  “Yeah,” Angel said. “It was Grammie Zora’s idea. I told that to your cop friend, Jubil.”

  “So what took so long?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  I hesitated, wanting to frame my questions so they wouldn’t drive Angel away. “Grammie Zora’s whole reason for inviting Larrabee was to get it on video that he was the one torturing people. It turned out better than she expected. Shepherd Isaiah admitted enough that the police could have stopped him, just based on the video that you shot from the closet.”

  “Grammie’s smart.”

  “Angel, they visited your house a couple of months ago. Why didn’t Grammie take it to the police the very next day and use the video to stop them then?”

  “She was scared, real scared. They said they’d come back and hurt her family. You heard it.”

  “Then why show it at all? At the church.”

  “Retha. I had to do it to help her. Even if it meant putting us in danger. I knew how much Retha wanted to be with her baby. ’Cause that’s how I feel about Maddie.”

  “You had to do it? Not Grammie?”

  Angel set Maddie aside and folded her arms again. “You done with your questions?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Because I think I got answers.”

  “I don’t want to listen.” She stood and reached for Maddie.

  “Angel, you got Grammie Zora’s house here with no mortgage, and you’re smart enough to pay the bills and the taxes as they come in. You got Camellia and her mother right next door to look over you. And you’ve got Grammie Zora’s social security checks coming in that you can cash with the computer guy down the street.”

  “I ain’t listening to you.”

  But she was, looking across at the gravestone with the fresh flowers she’d just placed. In my mind, I heard something Angel had said fiercely to me more than once: “All I got is Maddie, and all she’s got is me.”

  “That night at the Glory Church, I don’t think you showed everything that happened,” I said. I lowered my voice to a near whisper. “I think Jeremiah came back because there was more that happened, and he knew you had it on video. I think that’s why you were afraid to call the police to stop him, because then they’d
ask what he wanted.”

  No reply.

  “Grammie’s dead, isn’t she, Angel?”

  I believed Jubil knew this but didn’t want it confirmed. Because if it was, he’d have to do something about it. Leaving it lie meant Angel could stay where she was.

  Angel kept staring at the gravestone. She hugged herself and her shoulders began to shake as she cried in silence.

  I didn’t dare put an arm around her to comfort her. I was not someone she trusted.

  “Are you going to tell anyone, Nick?” she asked, sitting down again. “All I’ve got is Maddie, and all she’s got is me. I’m so scared they’ll take us away and make us live in different homes.”

  “I’m not going to tell,” I said. “And if you want to talk about it, I’m here to listen.”

  Which I did.

  As she spoke, I couldn’t fathom how much courage it had taken for Angel to make her decision to live alone in the world, how she was able to force herself to move forward from the horrible event that had ripped so much love from her life.

  **

  Angel was there in the closet with the camcorder, just the way Grammie Zora had arranged it as a trap for Timothy Larrabee. Angel, like the camcorder, was a witness as Grammie Zora lifted a small pistol from beneath her shawl and pointed it at the belly of Shepherd Isaiah.

  “Leave my home now,” Grammie Zora commanded. “I have delivered my message. And you will listen.”

  This is all that Angel had shown at the church. But there was more for her to witness from the closet.

  Elder Jeremiah stepped into the small room with the voodoo altar, holding Maddie. “Such a sweet child,” he said. “Even if she is black.”

  Grammie swung the pistol toward him.

  “No, old woman. You might harm the baby. Can you live with that?”

  Without warning, Elder Jeremiah tossed Maddie the short distance to Grammie Zora. Her first instinct was Maddie’s safety, and she lunged for her, dropping the pistol as she caught the baby. Elder Jeremiah calmly stepped forward and kicked the pistol away.

  “That problem is solved, brother,” he said to Shepherd Isaiah. “Now go on out. I’ll take care of the rest of it.”

  “You can’t kill the woman. I’ve suffered endless hell because I was responsible for another’s death.”

  “Who said anything about killing?” Elder Jeremiah replied. “Now go. And don’t ask questions. But make sure this white-haired weasel doesn’t leave. He and I are going to have a discussion about his silence, too.”

  “You ain’t going to kill him neither,” Shepherd Isaiah said. “I can’t abide killing.”

  “I’ll leave the church quietly,” Larrabee said. “Give me all my money, and I’ll go. Just stop the torture.”

  “Sure.” If Elder Jeremiah was going to lie about Grammie Zora, he’d lie about ending the branding, too. Anything to get them out of the house.

  When they left, Elder Jeremiah turned to Grammie Zora, who sat very still with Maddie in her lap. “My brother,” Jeremiah began, “he’s spent his whole life protecting me. Now it’s my turn to help him. I’m sorry it’s come down to this.”

  Grammie Zora knew his intent. There was something about his intense calm. “Don’t hurt the baby. She’s too young to be any danger to you.”

  “Fair enough, I won’t. As long as you don’t fight me on this. When I’m done, I promise I’ll lay you in bed, as if it happened in your sleep. That’s how the neighbors can find you. The little one won’t have to grow up thinking anything but old age took you away from her. ”

  “If you must, then I wouldn’t want anyone to try to stop you. Because then Maddie might get hurt.”

  “Yes, old woman. I already told you I’d leave the child be.”

  Elder Jeremiah stepped toward the elderly woman.

  Grammie Zora faced death without fear. She didn’t resist as he put his massive hand over her nose and mouth and gently pinched off her breathing. Didn’t fight as she lost air and finally all consciousness. Because she knew that there was another who needed her last gift of protection. One she loved as much as she loved Maddie.

  Grace Louise. Her little angel. Helpless in the closet.

  **

  “I had to watch it,” Angel said, barely controlling herself.

  “I couldn’t do anything. If I did, then what would happen to Maddie? I knew I couldn’t stop him and Grammie was going to die. But Maddie needed me. Oh, Nick, what could I do? I chose Maddie over Grammie.”

  She lost control. Violent sobs racked her body. This time I did put my arm around her. I thought of what I’d finally learned about my own mother, who in her final moments had been thinking only of me. I thought of the intense private agony that Angel had endured, believing she’d betrayed her grammie. I thought of her bravery. Again. Of the DVDs of her mother and her grammie she played in the solitude of a pitiful house in a pitiful neighborhood. But because she’d been loved, unlike Timothy in his tragic childhood, this angel had not been broken.

  I allowed my own tears as I waited for Angel to stop weeping. It was a long wait. I doubt she’d allowed herself to openly grieve for Grammie Zora until this moment.

  “Oh, Nick,” she said when she could finally speak, “I miss Grammie. I hope she don’t hate me for choosing to save Maddie.”

  “She told you to,” I said quietly. “She wasn’t speaking to Jeremiah when she said she didn’t want anyone to try to stop him. She was speaking to you. She knew the same thing, Angel. You couldn’t stop what he intended to do. And your silence was the only hope for you and Maddie. You have to understand that.”

  There was another long silence.

  “Then maybe Grammie will be proud of me,” she said. “Once she was gone, I had to do what I could for Maddie. I knew there’d be enough money every month for us to live here. Much as I hated that man for doing what he did, I told myself I’d have to wait six years to bring what I had on my camcorder to the police.”

  “Because you’d be eighteen then. Old enough that no one could take Maddie from you.”

  “But when Maddie got sick and I knew I had to take her to the hospital, I had to find extra money. The painting was the only thing I could think of.”

  “You’ll get it now,” I said. An image of Richard Freedman popped into my head. Proud. Black. Who’d likely consider it a privilege to invest wisely on Angel’s behalf. “I think I know someone who can help you make it last a long time.”

  She wiped her face. “That would be good, Nick.”

  Maddie began to get restless.

  “I think I need to take Maddie home and feed her.”

  “Yeah,” I said, filled with sorrow for Angel.

  She must have understood the tone in my voice. “I’ll be okay,” she said. “We can live with Camellia and her family for as long as we need to. My rent money will help them plenty.”

  “Yeah,” I said again. “Want a ride home?”

  “We’ll be okay. Really. Mama and Grammie Zora, they gave me love all the time. Whenever I want, I can close my eyes and feel what it was like when they hugged me and called me little angel.”

  So she understood, too. Love was what mattered.

  “I know you got to go,” she said. She patted my knee. “Don’t worry. Me and Maddie, we got each other.”

  I hobbled back to the rental car on my crutches. I sat behind the steering wheel and looked for Angel. She and Maddie had gone back to Grammie’s headstone.

  I sat there, with the keys in my palm.

  **

  Broken angels. Timothy Larrabee. Retha Herndon. Grace Louise Starr. Even me.

  Weren’t we all, in some way, broken?

  I’d learned that the healing began by reaching for the love

  of God. Yet I’d learned there was more. That it wasn’t about just taking this love. It was about giving it, too. This was the great command of Jesus himself, who gave up his own life and, while broken on the cross, had begged for his persecutors to be forgiven. This was
the man I professed to follow. In whose name I wrote out numbers on slips of paper and sent those checks to charitable organizations. What love was there in that, in cold pieces of paper?

  And what had I given in my role as a dispassionate observer of life? What had I ever truly committed to? To anyone.

  I felt shamed by Angel. She was a thief. A scoundrel. A bold-faced liar. But when Retha had needed her help, Angel had decided to show the world the video footage that would rescue Retha. Despite the risk for Angel that the authorities might find out about Grammie Zora’s death.

  And Jubil. Who did find out about Angel, as she feared. But chose to risk his career by hiding what he knew.

  So where was I in all of this?

  **

  I stepped out of the car, hobbled passed the rows of headstones, waited for Angel to look up from the quiet words she was speaking to her buried grandmother.

  I stood there. A man with a recently acquired big empty house and a large inheritance.

  “Nick?” she asked.

  “You’ve heard of guardian angels,” I said. “What would you think about an angel’s guardian?”

  She smiled.

  Here’s the beginning to Lies of Saints, the next novel in Nick Barrett’s Charleston series:

  Chapter 1

  A shaft of moonlight from the gymnasium’s upper window speared the solitary figure of Anson Hanoway Saffron and threw onto the hardwood floor the sharp shadow of the cross that held him captive.

  Anson Hanoway Saffron was seventeen, a first-year cadet at the Citadel, South Carolina’s famed military college. He had entered the hallowed school in September with the burden of expectations that went with his name and heritage. As a further detriment, he was slim and quiet and gentle and sensitive—a terrible combination of traits for anyone to bring into a military training institute.

  He’d endured five months, ten days, and roughly twelve hours at the Citadel since he’d waved good-bye to his mother at the gates and first stepped onto the grounds. The last half hour of his time at the Citadel had been the most brutal . . . leading to this, a mock crucifixion.

  He’d been placed on a chair directly below the basketball net, at the far end of the dark gymnasium. His wrists were held to the crossbeam not by spikes, but by duct tape. His feet supported his weight, for the upright beam ended just above his ankles. Although his feet were not bound to the cross, a rope knotted around his neck forced him to stand motionless on the chair. Above him, the rope was tied to the base of the metal basketball hoop, with enough slack that