The Reckoning Stones: A Novel of Suspense

by Laura Disilverio

  The burn began in Iris, starting in the pit of her stomach and moving through her limbs. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled and her vision seemed sharper. She’d been approached numerous times by pimps, had made the mistake of believing one once when he said he just wanted to buy her breakfast at a nearby diner. Remnants of fear and desperation, the headlong run through a strange city to get away from him when he tried to force her into his car, made her breaths come faster. When the leather-coated man put his hand on the teen’s duffel and she jerked it away, Iris started across the street, dodging a taxi cruising for a fare.

  She stopped three feet from the couple and made eye contact with the startled girl. She couldn’t be more than fourteen, Iris thought, observing the braces. She swiped her tongue across her top teeth at the memory of twisting the braces from her teeth with a pair of pliers in a bus depot restroom in Topeka. The blonde looked clean and reasonably well-rested; she hadn’t been running long. Maybe Iris could talk her into returning home and buy her a ticket back to where she’d come from. “You don’t have to go with him, you know,” Iris said, voice gentle and reasonable, holding the girl’s gaze.

  The man glowered at her. “What the fuck business is it of yours? C’mon.” He tugged on the girl’s arm.

  “He’s a pimp,” Iris said. “Whatever he’s told you about buying you a meal or helping you find a place to stay, he’s lying.”

  The man swung toward her, anger darkening a face that was all long nose and cheekbones like blades. “What the fuck—?”

  Iris widened her stance and brought her arms up slightly so she’d be ready if he took a swing at her. Adrenaline buzzed in her veins, headier than any drug. She willed him to do it, visualizing how she’d take advantage of his momentum to catch his arm and pull him in closer so she could maximize the impact of her knee in his groin. That would probably put him down. If it didn’t, she’d—

  “He’s my brother.”

  It took a moment for the girl’s words to penetrate. When they did, a flush warmed Iris’s cheeks. “I’m so sorry,” she stammered. “I thought—” She turned on her heel and walked away, hands pushed into the pockets of her jacket. How did I get it so wrong?

  “Loony bitch,” the man muttered behind her. “I told Mom not to let you take the bus. Too many weirdos.”

  Iris ducked her head as if the words were missiles and hurried toward the bar parking lot. She burned with humiliation and was so caught up in berating herself for her stupidity that she didn’t notice the dark figure ooze out of the alley beside the bar until the man grabbed her arm and jabbed a gun into her ribs.

  “Wallet and keys,” he rasped.

  The sickly sweet rot of his breath and the way he jittered told Iris he was a tweaker. Her years of self-defense training took over automatically, and she stamped on his instep while pivoting and bracing her right arm to sweep his gun arm away. Savage exhilaration swept through her. Something clanked on the asphalt. Iris followed through with a palm strike, glimpsing red-rimmed eyes and stringy hair as the heel of her palm crunched into his nose. His hand flailed upward, thudding against her temple, and he crumpled to the ground. She stood over him, breathing sharply, almost hoping he would get up. The too-brief fight had left her unsatisfied, like sex that was over too soon. A sound like a cow lowing issued from the mugger and she knew he wasn’t getting up. Tension drained from her shoulders.

  “Hey, you okay? I’m calling the cops.” A man had emerged from the bar and was hurrying toward Iris as he punched in 911.

  Iris turned toward him and her foot stubbed something hard that skittered away. She bent to pick up the mugger’s weapon. Her fingers closed around smooth glass, not the heavy metal weightiness of a gun. A beer bottle. She huffed a laugh under her breath. She’d been held up by a damned Michelob bottle.

  The ringing phone cut through her thoughts of last night. Iris eyed Jane’s number on the caller ID and answered reluctantly.

  “Jack Weston called again this morning to ask about the ring,” Jane said, sounding carefully non-accusatory. Weston had inherited millions in lumber money and parlayed it into more millions with a gourmet donut emporium he franchised across the northwest. Landing the design commission from him was the ticket to doubling or tripling Iris’s income, as Jane had pointed out more than once. “He’s getting antsy. His girlfriend leaves for her Doctors without Borders stint next week and he wants to propose before she goes.”

  “I know that!” Iris heard the sharpness in her voice and took a deep breath. “I know,” she said more moderately. “I’m working on it.” She fingered the 4.2-carat emerald she’d been staring at half the morning, tracing its smooth facets. The gem, with remarkably few inclusions and flaws for an emerald that size, glowed greeny-blue from her palm. Jack Weston’s beloved grandmother had given him the stone, set in a necklace, on her deathbed, and he’d kept it the twenty years since, waiting for the right woman to come along. Now almost fifty, he was ready to propose and he’d selected Iris to design an engagement ring setting worthy of the gem. It winked at her, having smugly rejected all her design efforts so far. She couldn’t blame the emerald—the designs had sucked.

  “Really?”

  Iris sat up straighter and winced, hearing something in Jane’s voice. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m worried about you. Since you heard about—”

  “Not necessary. I’m fine.”

  The exaggerated silence from the other end of the line said Jane didn’t agree.

  “Really.” When Jane still didn’t respond, Iris said, “Look, I’ll have the ring done by close of business. All I’ve got to do is set the stone.” And hope that it doesn’t look like total crap.

  “Good.” Jane didn’t sound convinced, but Iris didn’t give her a chance to say any more, hanging up with a quick, “Gotta get back to work.”

  She folded her fingers around the emerald, wishing it would give her an inspiration as stones sometimes did. She wasn’t surprised when it remained inert. With a sigh, she laid it on the counter and retrieved the ring she’d already made, finished except for the rectangular setting. The wide gold band had tiny leaves of gold, rose gold and platinum layered across the top. It was a variation on a design she’d used before and, thus, unsatisfying, but she couldn’t make any new ideas work. She’d fashioned the gold frames for the setting yesterday, cut spacers, and soldered the two frames together. Now, she cut strips from a 22-gauge gold sheet, scored grooves down their centers and bent the metal inward to form the prongs. She sanded the edges smooth and gold filings drifted to the countertop. Becoming aware that she was wielding the file with anger rather than joy, she set the tool and the band on the counter and pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes. She hated feeling angry and frustrated with her materials. Part of her worried that her negative feelings would fuse with the metal and the gem. Silly. Superstitious nonsense. Taking a deep breath, she resumed filing more gently.

  Time unspooled in a taut ribbon of concentration and precision as she worked an intricate design along the base of the setting and soldered it carefully to the band. The bitter tang of heated metal filled the workroom. She was vaguely aware of hunger, but felt like she was almost in the zone for the first time in weeks and didn’t get up for fear of dispelling the moment. Trimming the prongs, she soldered them into position and then attached the setting to the band. Done. Taking a deep breath and swiping her hair back, she picked up the emerald and lowered it toward the setting. Her hands shook slightly—low blood sugar, she told herself. Even as her fingers drew away from the unsecured gem, she knew it didn’t work. The setting looked cumbersome; it obscured the pure beauty of the stone, rather than enhancing it. Disappointment socked her, hollowing her stomach. The emerald deserved better than this.

  Maybe in the sunlight. She lifted the ring carefully and started toward the window, hoping the play of natural light would spark the stone to li
fe. Halfway there, her foot caught against the edge of the acetylene tank strapped to the work bench’s leg and she jolted forward. The emerald sprang free and arced toward the window. Iris lunged for it, palm cupped, but it smacked against the glass and fell to the ground. Oh, no! Nonononono.

  Iris sank to her knees and reached for the gem. Her fingers felt the conchoidal fracture blooming from one corner of the emerald before she could see it. Sickened, she stood and examined the snail shell-like whorls marring the stone. Rubbing her thumb across the roughness, she bit down hard on her lower lip, grieving for the emerald’s former beauty. It felt like a tiny death. It’s a gemstone, she told herself, a happenstance combination of beryl, aluminum, silicon and oxygen, not a friend or even a pet goldfish. It didn’t help. She sniffed back the tears that clogged her sinuses, picturing Jack Weston’s face when she told him that his family heirloom, the emerald his great-grandfather had earned by performing some service for an Indian maharajah, was ruined. She tasted blood. Her insurance would pay Weston the monetary value of the stone, but its sentimental value was beyond price. She dreaded telling him what had happened.

  Trying to summon language that would convey her sorrow and repentance to Weston, Iris let the truth seep in. Her problem wasn’t low blood sugar or carelessness or a temporary loss of inspiration. It was Pastor Matt. She wasn’t going to be able to focus, to work, to design the way she needed to until she’d confronted the bastard and told him he deserved to roast in hell with the devil ladling sulfuric acid sauce over him while turning the spit. It was time to take Jane’s advice. Feeling like herself for the first time in two weeks, she placed the fractured emerald in its cotton nest, rolled the stool to the computer, and logged onto an airline website.

  Iris returned home late that evening, after a hideous meeting with Jack Weston, whose eyes had dampened at her news and whose quiet had been much harder to bear than rage and accusations would have been, and an almost as difficult session with Jane, who grieved with her for the emerald and reminded her in no uncertain terms that completing the piece for Green Gables on time and making it “brilliant” were now crucial to her future as a jewelry designer.

  “Weston won’t keep quiet about this,” she’d said, eyes weary behind her glasses. “You can bet none of his friends will be asking you to design their engagement rings or anniversary presents. And it’s my reputation on the line as much as yours.”

  Iris knew that and it made the burden of her failure that much harder to bear. As she got out of her car, drained, Greg Lansing pulled up. Dinner. She’d forgotten.

  She greeted him with a light kiss and invited him into the kitchen, scuffing off her shoes at the door. “Look, I can’t do dinner tonight. I’m leaving for Colorado Springs in the morning. I’ve got to pack.”

  Greg’s brows soared. “This is sudden, isn’t it? Was it something I said?”

  Iris had to smile at his look of exaggerated concern. “It’s not all about you, you know.”

  He mimed shock. “Hm. Then what is it about? The same thing as the night we met?”

  She didn’t answer. Keeping her gaze locked on his, Iris grasped her sweater’s hem and pulled it over her head. She could spare half an hour for goodbye sex. She was conscious of an unusual twinge of regret.

  Greg’s gaze flicked over her partial nakedness and then returned to her eyes. He didn’t move toward her as she expected. “What is this? One for the road?”

  Iris re-donned the sweater, embarrassed and disappointed, and irritated with herself for both emotions. “Apparently not. As we established at the beginning this is sex. S-E-X.” A draft drifted across her toes, chilling them, and she curled them under. A car with a defective muffler rumbled past the house.

  “Can’t it be more?” He crossed to her then, stopping two feet in front of her. He looked down into her face but made no attempt to touch her.

  “No.” The word was out before Iris gave it any thought. One of the reasons she preferred much younger men was that they were no more interested in long-term relationships than she was. She shed herself with record speed of the ones who thought they were falling in love with her.

  “No,” she said again, conscious of annoyance that Greg wasn’t playing by the rules. She started past him, but he didn’t move. Rather than shove him aside, she dropped back a step, bumping against the fridge, and gave him a stony look.

  “I like you, Iris, and I think you like me. Can’t we give this some time, see where it goes?”

  His gentleness startled and scared Iris. “There’s nowhere for it to go. Now, I’ve got to pack, so if you’ll let me by—”

  Greg backed off and Iris passed him, headed for her bedroom. She went straight to the closet, knowing Greg had followed her. The closet held the slight wet wool smell it always got when it rained. She yanked a pair of jeans from a hanger so it clinked against its neighbors. Closet music. Grabbing her weekender suitcase, Iris carried it to the rumpled bed and threw the lid open. She layered the jeans with undies and sweaters while Greg watched.

  “Doesn’t look like you’ll be gone long.” He nodded at the small suitcase.

  Iris didn’t respond, retrieving socks from her drawer. The suitcase bucked as he sat on the bed. She didn’t look up, fetching the open box of condoms from her bedside table and tossing it into the bag.

  Greg actually laughed. “Subtle.”

  His healthy self-confidence grated on emotions left raw by her failures. She faced him, arms stiff at her sides. “Look, I picked you up because I thought you were a hot twenty-four-year-old who could scratch my itch for a night or two. Well, itch scratched.”

  “So—wham, bam, thank-you-sir?”

  Iris flung a pair of sneakers into her bag. When she started for the dresser again, Greg stood and put a hand on her arm. “Don’t you think you owe me—”

  “I don’t owe you anything.” Iris moved away from his touch. “We’ve known each other—what?—two weeks?”

  His brown eyes held her gaze steadily.

  “Don’t,” she whispered. She couldn’t have told him what she meant, and he didn’t ask.

  After a long moment, he turned and walked out. Iris stayed still, listening to the fading footsteps, the squeak and clunk as the front door opened and closed. When he was gone, she unballed the T-shirt she’d unconsciously mangled, smoothed it, and laid it in the suitcase, blinking back tears. Her stomach felt all hollow, like it had when she’d fractured the emerald. Stupid. The emerald was unique, irreplaceable; men were a dime a dozen. Returning to the closet, she gazed blurrily at her meager selection of “good” slacks and blouses, wondering if the prison had rules about visitors’ attire. As long as she was going to be in Colorado anyway, she’d make time to visit her father.

  seven

  iris

  The arid Colorado Springs climate sucked the moisture from Iris’s mouth and skin when she stepped out of the airport Thursday morning. We’re not in Portland anymore, Toto. She downed half of the bottled water she’d bought on the concourse, and paused on the sidewalk, considering returning to the terminal and scurrying onto a flight back to Portland … or anywhere that wasn’t here. No. She would do what she’d come to do. Pikes Peak dominated the skyline and, despite herself, she felt an unwanted sense of homecoming. There was something so purple mountains majesty, so immutable and somehow benevolent about that peak which sheltered the city from the worst of winter’s storms and created a safe zone in summer from tornadoes which violated ranches and towns farther east on the plains.

  With a purposeful stride, she headed across the street to the rental car kiosks. Accepting the keys to the Ford Focus, she loaded her suitcase, laptop, and the jewelry-making supplies she rarely traveled without into the trunk. Then she sat. Visiting days at the prison were Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays the website said, so she couldn’t see her father until tomorrow. That left only one other destination. The thought of seeing
Pastor Matt made her fingers icy. They were stiff as she turned the key. He can’t hurt me anymore. She thought about the fractured emerald. What a lie. She could drive out to Lone Pine, instead, see how the town had changed, maybe go by the hospital tomorrow. No. She’d come here to confront Pastor Matt. Putting it off would only make it harder, like removing a Band-aid bit by bit instead of just ripping it away. She’d face him now, get it over with and get on with her life. She gulped half her water, wishing it was a martini, and set it back in the holder with a trembling hand. Depressing the accelerator, she headed for the airport exit and drove into the past.

  Only it wasn’t the past, Iris realized almost immediately, confronted by a highway dotted with big box stores, restaurants and traffic where she’d known pronghorn-dotted prairie. She missed seeing the antelope, but had to admit she was relieved by all the changes; she wouldn’t be confronted with uncomfortable reminders at every turn. For the first time, she let herself ponder the changes that almost a quarter century might have wrought on her family and friends, the Community. Her mother would be fifty-seven now, her brother forty. Had the Community grown in her absence, or had it disbanded when Pastor Matt never returned? And Jolene … had her best friend gone to Juilliard and then Broadway as she’d always dreamed? The Community had frowned on that dream, regarding actors as a drug-raddled, immoral lot prone to divorce. Iris had Googled Jolene’s name a couple of times, but never gotten any hits. She probably used a married name, or a stage name, she’d thought.

  Steering the car onto Woodmen Road, she focused on the hospital complex just ahead where an on-line article had said Matthew Brozek was. The hospital, like so much else, hadn’t existed when she lived here. A Flight for Life helicopter sat on a pad out front and its blades began to whir. Within seconds it was lifting off, rotors beating the air into submission, to airlift someone from a rollover car crash, Iris imagined. With that sober thought, she parked, entered the hospital and strode to the information desk. She’d never spent much time in hospitals—only the once after the incident in Ames, Iowa, days before her eighteenth birthday. Three days. That had sparked her move to Portland, taking the self-defense classes, and her meeting with Jane, made her realize that drifting from city to city, bunking with whoever had a spare bed, was too dangerous. This hospital was bigger, newer, and didn’t smell like much of anything, thankfully.