The Grace Painter (The Grace Series Book 1)

by Mark Romang

  “But what about the repair costs? Your FBI salary can’t possibly stretch that far.”

  “I recently came into some inheritance money that will finance the remodel, provided you sell the house to me at a fair price.”

  Rafter glanced at his unfinished painting, and then looked back at her. His eyes betrayed nothing.

  Annie found it impossible to know what he was thinking. The fact that Rafter didn’t jump at her offer troubled her. He’s going to turn me down. I’ve come all this way for nothing.

  But then she watched the corners of his lips curve into a crooked, boyish grin. Annie’s heart jumped in her chest.

  “Your offer sounds tempting, Annie. But I can’t give you a firm answer just yet. Why don’t we kick around your proposal over a cup of coffee?”

  She smiled back at him. “I would like that. It’s cold out here, and I could use some afternoon coffee to perk me up.”

  Rafter screwed a lid onto one of his paint tubes. “Okay, espresso it is. But I must warn you, Annie, Roman coffee is rather robust.”

  “If I can handle Gabriel Schofield’s home brew, I can drink anything.”

  Rafter stuffed his paint supplies into his rucksack. “Who is Gabriel Schofield?”

  “A mutual friend,” Annie explained. “Someone you once knew a long time ago when you still called yourself Matthew London.”

  Chapter 55

  Nine months later

  18th District Judicial Court, Plaquemine, LA

  Sebastian Boudreaux felt a tug on his arm. He looked to his right. His public defender leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Tell the truth, nothing else. Lying will seal your fate faster than anything.”

  Sebastian nodded. He drew in a deep breath. The gravity of the moment weighed on him like a pallet of bricks. His lungs faltered, and he couldn’t stop his left eyelid from twitching. Today he found out whether he lived or died.

  He knew the jury had already made up their mind. They wanted to kill him. Nothing he could say would change their minds. But perhaps he could dissuade Judge Whittaker from carrying out the jury’s wishes.

  Sebastian stood up. The shackles on his ankles and wrists jangled. Every time he moved he clinked and clanked like Jacob Marley’s ghost.

  He turned and faced the audience packing the court room. In the front row he saw Gabby Witherspoon’s parents. They stared back at him balefully. Annie McAllister and Jon Rafter sat next to them. Annie smiled at him, a knowing smile, more of a smirk than a grin. He looked away before he became intimidated.

  After his trial, where he’d been convicted of two counts of first degree murder and one count of second degree kidnapping, he wrote a letter to the district attorney, requesting to speak at his sentencing hearing. He wasn’t so sure he wanted to go through with it now.

  Sebastian coughed. His knees fluttered. Condemning eyes burned into him. Nearby an artist feverishly sketched his image. In the back of the courtroom an elderly man in a wheelchair showed him his middle finger. He could only guess he was the widower of the old woman he’d killed for the pickup truck.

  “I am a criminal man,” Sebastian began, his voice quivering with emotion. “My sins are many. Like all of you, I detest my crimes. I’ve hurt so many by what I’ve done. And no matter how heartfelt my apology today, my words will ring hollow.”

  Sebastian paused. “Nothing I say will bring back your loved ones. I know forgiveness will not come today, tomorrow, or possibly ever. I deserve your scorn. I deserve your hatred,” he said, looking briefly at Gabby Witherspoon’s sober-faced parents.

  “I can’t pinpoint exactly when evil entered me. Perhaps it first surfaced during my childhood--my upbringing wasn’t the best. But I can tell you exactly when evil left me.” Sebastian directed his gaze toward Annie McAllister. “After Agent McAllister arrested me, U.S. marshals transported me to a jail cell in Baton Rouge. Behind bars again, I cried and cried like a baby. I was at rock bottom. I finally had no choice but to turn to God. He heard my pleas and forgave me that night. All my evil desires left me that night. It’s like I’m a whole new man now.”

  Sebastian turned to face the jury box. His lower lip trembled. The jurors looked at him impassively. “I deserve whatever sentence you give me. But I humbly ask for mercy. Allow me to live and I will start a faith-based prison ministry to help prisoners up for parole. I don’t want them to waste their chance at freedom like I did. It’s the least I can do to make amends.”

  He faced the judge. “Thank you, Judge Whittaker, for allowing me to speak in your courtroom.” His legs on the verge of giving out, Sebastian slumped into his chair. He buried his face in his hands and wept.

  Judge Abram Whittaker shuffled some papers into a neat stack. “I would like to take a fifteen minute recess to confer with the jurors.” He looked over at the jury box. “Jurors, meet me in my chambers,” he said before leaving the courtroom.

  Sebastian raised his head and watched the jurors file out from the jury box and enter the judge’s chambers. He glanced at his attorney, Levi Menken, a frumpy man that smelled like Corn Nuts and cheap aftershave. “Did I sound convincing, Levi? Do you think the judge bought it?” Sebastian whispered.

  Menken shook his head. “I think you’re a monster, Sebastian. That’s what I think,” he said in a low voice.

  “I’m desperate. Your defense left me no other option.”

  Menken leaned over and spoke in Sebastian’s ear. “You didn’t give me much to work with. The evidence against you was overwhelming. But you might just get your wish yet. Judge Whittaker has never sentenced anyone to death. He doesn’t believe in capital punishment. He prefers to give convicted murderers life without parole. More than once he’s overruled a jury’s death sentence.”

  Sebastian hoped Levi Menken knew what he was talking about. During the trial the prosecuting attorney easily outclassed Menken. It was almost laughable how the DA effortlessly outflanked Menken, making him look like a fool. But maybe Menken is right this time, Sebastian thought. There’s always a first time for everything, even for a polyester-clad public defender sporting a comb-over.

  Throughout the trial Sebastian had second-guessed Menken and his strategy. The aging attorney clung to second rate with all his might, showing up to court every day in a threadbare suit with mustard stains on its lapel. Sebastian briefly considered firing Menken midway through the trial and representing himself. But he refrained from doing so. He didn’t know how the jury would react to such a bold move. He didn’t want to appear as a hotheaded defendant. Soon enough he would know whether retaining Menken hurt him or aided his cause.

  Sebastian stole a glance at a large clock hanging on a polished-wood wall. The fifteen minute recess bore down on its last minute. He began to sweat. His nerves jangled around in his body like wind chimes As much as he despised prison life, he much preferred it over a lethal injection.

  The jurors filed out from Whittaker’s chambers and took their seats in the jury box. Judge Whittaker entered the courtroom shortly after the jurors. He wore an inscrutable face. Sebastian gulped. Fear tangled his stomach into knots. Despite his convincing theatrical performance, he wasn’t so sure he’d fooled Whittaker.

  The bailiff stood up from his small desk and said, “All rise. Hear ye, hear ye, the 18th Judicial Court of Louisiana is now in session--the Honorable Judge Abram Whittaker presiding. Please be seated and come to order.”

  The sounds of people settling into their seats filled the hushed court room. A few people coughed, breaking up the palpable silence. Someone sneezed.

  Judge Whittaker trained his owlish eyes onto Sebastian. “Mr. Boudreaux, I’m sure you and your counsel are curious as to why I called the recess.” Whittaker held up a stack of papers in each hand. “I have in my hands your presentencing report and the notes from your kidnapping trial that took place a little over twenty years ago.”

  “During the recess the jury and I read through the presentencing report and the notes from your prior trial. I wanted the ju
ry to take into consideration your social history, your family situation, your employment record, physical and mental health, and ties to the community of Copeland.

  “We also examined your prior criminal record, your version of the facts surrounding your crime, and the police and other witnesses’ version of said facts.” The judge paused.

  “As you may know I’m not a proponent of capital punishment. It’s an awesome responsibility to sentence another human to death. I can’t think of a greater responsibility. And I wanted to hear the jury tell me firsthand what convinced them you no longer deserve to live on this planet.

  “They didn’t hesitate to explain their methodology. And I respect their opinions. This trial dragged on for several weeks. They were an attentive jury and took their role in this court room seriously.

  “In my chambers just now the jury and I came to a consensus. What brought us together was what is recorded on this piece of paper.” Whittaker held up a single sheet of paper. “This is the record of what you said at your last sentencing hearing some twenty years ago.”

  Goosebumps crept up Sebastian’s skin.

  The judge’s gaze sharpened like a falcon ready to swoop. “What you said twenty years ago and what you said just now in this courtroom are practically verbatim. You may have once before hoodwinked a judge into sentencing you to a lesser sentence. But you won’t today. I agree with the jury, your usefulness to this planet has run its course.”

  Judge Whittaker raised his gavel. “On behalf of Iberville Parish and the 18th Judicial Court, I sentence you, Sebastian Boudreaux, to death by lethal injection.” Whittaker rapped his gavel harshly onto its sounding block. “Case dismissed. Bailiff, take this man away.”

  Epilogue

  Three months later

  Annie couldn’t stop grinning. Like her flowerbeds, her new life was opening up into something beautiful. Carrying a glass of sweet tea in one hand and a picnic basket in the other, she admired her flowerbeds as she strolled down a pebbled pathway that cut across her backyard.

  Last autumn she planted her bulbs so the beds would bloom almost the year around. And just as she planned it, daffodil shoots poked through the ground the last week in January. About the time their glory faded, lovely irises showcased their delicate lavender petals in mid-February. And now her crimson rhododendrons and pink azalea shrubs were taking charge.

  If everything worked out as planned, her blue hydrangea bushes would continue the fragrant cavalcade, joining the impatiens that splashed her shaded beds with all the chromaticity of the color spectrum. The color burst would peak in May when the magnolia trees lining the driveway bloomed in force. She could almost smell their lemony fragrance now.

  Nearing the pathway’s end, she saw Jon. Her shirtless husband worked hard at building a gazebo. In three weeks the Whitcomb Bed and Breakfast Inn would host its first outdoor wedding. The ceremony would take place on the steps of the soon-to-be completed gazebo. She just hoped that the bees from all the flowers wouldn’t swarm the wedding party and drive off the guests.

  After months of extensive renovation, unforeseen setbacks and skyrocketing building costs, they finally opened for business late last year. Business crept along at first, but picked up after Southern Living ran a feature story on the house. They were now booked solid for the entire summer. Next year, a listing in Frommer’s would hopefully generate consistent business throughout the year.

  Annie adjusted her grip on the heavy picnic basket and lengthened her stride. Her feet crunched on the pea gravel. She giggled. Boy, is Jon going to be surprised at what I’m about to tell him, she thought. After having life go south on him for years, things were finally improving for Jon.

  At the vehement insisting of Gabriel Schofield--who considered it a great honor to be Jon’s staunchest advocate--a meeting with Justice Department officials and representatives from the U.S. Marshal Service took place in the New York County DA’s office.

  The meeting couldn’t have gone better. The DA said Jon would not be charged with identity theft because the statute of limitations had been reached years ago. The Justice Department officials then apologized profusely for the thoughtless way Jon had been used in the Delanis’ staged deaths. And best of all, representatives from the U.S. Marshal Service officially entered Jon into WITSEC, and even allowed him to continue to use Jon Rafter as his official identity.

  As for his lost memory, doctors diagnosed him with fugue amnesia, the rarest form of amnesia. A hypnotherapist still treated him. The weekly hypnotherapy sessions were ever so slowly working. Every few weeks Jon seemed to regain a lost memory. A complete recovery was possible, but could take months or even years.

  Annie walked up to Rafter. His muscles danced on his lean torso as he worked. “Hey, Cowboy, want something to wet your whistle?”

  Turning his head, Rafter eyed the frosty glass of sweet tea, complete with a lemon wedge. He smiled and set his cordless drill down on a 2x6 cedar board. He accepted the tea and took several swigs. “Thanks, Babe. You’re a dear wife. What would I ever do without you?”

  “Probably work a lot less and paint a lot more, I suspect,” Annie said. Word of mouth from past guests had brought notoriety to Jon for his paintings. Private galleries from all over Louisiana were lining up to purchase his paintings.

  Rafter guzzled more of the tea. He pointed at the picnic basket. “What’s for lunch?”

  Annie grinned. “You better take a look inside. It’s not what you think,” she said as she lifted the wicker lid.

  He shot her a quizzical look, and then peered inside the basket. “Hey, it’s a baby Newfie!” he exclaimed as he pulled out a Newfoundland puppy. “Where did you get it?”

  “I was antique shopping several weeks ago in Morgan City when I came across a breeder. So I placed an order.”

  Rafter held the pup up close to his body and stroked its broad head. “This puppy will be a lot of work. I thought you didn’t want a dog.”

  Annie waved the air dismissively. “Can’t a girl change her mind? Besides, we’re going to need the practice of raising a little one.”

  He jerked his head around at her remark. “Is there something I should know?”

  She giggled and nodded her head. “I’m pregnant, Jon. I did a home test this morning before I went to pick up the puppy. The test was positive.”

  Rafter set the puppy down in the grass and hugged his wife. “I can’t believe it. We’re going to be parents!”

  “If the baby is a boy I would like to name him after you,” Annie said, her eyes filling with happy tears.

  “After me? You like the name Jon that well?”

  “No, not your assumed name, your birth name. I’ve grown to love the name Matthew. It means ‘gift of God.’ When I needed a hero, God sent me you.”

  “Any man worth his salt would’ve done the same.”

  “No, it had to be you, only you.”

  They shared a tender kiss. “But what if the baby is a girl?” Rafter asked. “Do we name her Annie?”

  She shook her head. “Definitely not. I took too much grief in school for my name. I was always being asked to sing “Tomorrow.” I’ll have to give some thought to girl names. I guess that scenario never occurred to me.”

  Locked in a tight embrace, they both smiled as they watched the young Newfoundland trip over its large paws. “Speaking of names, what about the dog? What are we going to name her?” Annie asked.

  Rafter shrugged. “Well, Samson is definitely out.”

  “Same goes for Delilah. We can’t name her after a Philistine prostitute,” Annie said with a laugh. She looked back at their beautiful plantation house. She still couldn’t believe the home was theirs. She hoped Rose somehow knew how much they enjoyed living in the house. Suddenly, inspiration hit. “Why don’t we call her Rose?”

  Rafter nodded. “I like it. We owe a lot to Rose. She gave us a great house.”

  “Good. At least we have that settled,” Annie said. She looked at her husband and winked. “
Did I ever tell you I have a thing for bare-chested construction guys?”

  Rafter shook his head. “What is it about men and power tools you find so alluring?”

  Annie traced a finger along his defined chest. “I like how the sun makes their sweaty muscles glisten.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” Annie grabbed his hand and led him away from the gazebo. “Come on; let’s go back to the house while I’m still in the mood.”

  Rafter smiled mischievously. “What about lunch? I’ve worked up quite an appetite.”

  “I’m lunch,” Annie said. “And dessert too,” she added before kissing him.

  “Don’t be making any promises you don’t intend to keep, Mrs. Rafter.”

  Annie laughed. “I’ll race you back to the house,” she called out as she broke into a run.

  ****

  Rafter watched her go. He didn’t bother running after her. Ankle injuries sustained from the tornado left him with a limp, putting an end to his beloved morning jogs. He picked up the Newfoundland puppy and limped toward the house. He tickled the big pup’s ears as he walked.

  “Rose, we’re going to have to get some things straight if you want to live happily ever after here. Your predecessor somehow developed a Hormel Chili fetish, and I’m not going to allow that to happen again. Only dry dog food for you. Now, if you want to listen to Frank Sinatra, that’s okay. Basically, you’ll do just fine here as long as you don’t drool on the guests.”

  The puppy licked Rafter’s face repeatedly. “Hey, cut it out. Annie might like sweaty construction guys, but I don’t think she likes them to have doggy breath.”

  He still found it hard to believe he was married to a woman as special as Annie. And now fatherhood loomed on the horizon. Incredible.

  After spending nearly a decade trekking through dark valleys, a bright sun beamed its soothing warmth onto his face a little more each day. He looked up into the vast sky, past the fleecy clouds and beyond the radiant sun. “Thank-you,” he whispered. “Thank-you for everything, even the bad times.” Rafter then hugged the pup tighter and entered the back of the grand old house, content with his place in the world.