Cast the First Stone (Red Lake Series Book 2)

by Rich Foster

  He took pride in his work, “Doing all to the glory of the Lord” as the preacher, said. Whenever there was a funeral Desmond made a special effort. Now, he wanted the church to shine when Jesus came for Mr. Haskell. Systematically he worked. Chandeliers were dusted, floors buffed, pews waxed, and windows cleaned. New candles replaced the old.

  It was late when Desmond finished. Not a speck was out of place. He turned out the lights, left the church and locked the door. Outside the snow was gaining depth upon the ground. Desmond’s breath formed vaporous clouds around his face as he trudged around the church to his home. His feet left deep tracks in the snow, which reminded him to rise early so he could shovel off the walkways before the people came.

  That night Calley, once again, rocked Caleb as the other children went to sleep. When all was silent and the only sound was their regular breathing, she lay Caleb down on his bed. She paused at the door, watching her children by the dim light that came from the hall.

  “Mommy, when is daddy coming home?” Ruthie asked. Tears formed in Calley’s eye. She came over and stroked her daughter’s blond hair. “He’s not baby. He’s gone to live with Jesus.”

  “I want to go live with daddy. I want to see Jesus,” the girl cried.

  Calley’s voice choked up. “You will baby. Someday when the time is right, Jesus will send for you. One day, we’ll all be together again.”

  The girl sniffled and wiped her eyes with her small pink hand.

  “I love you baby. Good-night.”

  “Good night, mommy.”

  When morning came a foot of snow cloaked the ground. Bushes became oblique mounds. Tree limbs bowed. On the highway plows moved through town, their yellow lights flashing, while piling up great banks of snow that blocked driveways making it impossible to park.

  At the church, one faithful member who owned a plow, worked to clear the parking lot before hurrying off to earn a living clearing out other drives. Desmond worked steadily clearing the walk in front of the church, while singing “One bright morning I’ll fly away.” When he finished shoveling, he scattered salt so no one would slip.

  A van from Mountain Florists pulled into the parking lot. He helped the driver unload a large wreath and numerous bouquets that filled the back. They carried them into the sanctuary. After the man left, Desmond mopped the floor, cleaning where their boots left melting slush.

  An hour later a white hearse pulled up. Two men, dressed in black, opened the rear door. They casually argued basketball as they slid a mahogany casket out. Desmond held the church door open. They wheeled the casket inside and up the aisle of the church. After positioning the casket by the altar one man called out, “Hey! Where’s the john?”

  Desmond pointed toward the foyer. The men left while still arguing sports. Desmond pulled a cloth from his hip pocket and polished the coffin. Drying the water drops that had fallen from the eaves as they came in.

  *

  In death, Robert Goodman was a far more devoted husband than he had been during marriage. His grief seemed inconsolable, softened only by drink. The binge he started while his daughter was in surgery, continued unabated. Only once, had he tried to visit June. The intensive care nurses refused to admit him unless he returned sober. He had not been back.

  His daily drinking began when he woke up. When Moses arrived to open the bar, Robert would be waiting. After taking a seat, he would occupy the same stool until last call. He maintained a steady intake of mind numbing alcohol. Those portions of his brain that functioned focused on hate and payback. Regulars tried to voice sympathy. They offered help. His brooding silence drove them away. As days passed, Robert drank even more. One afternoon, he passed out on the floor. When he came to, Moses cut him off.

  “Go home Robert. I won’t serve you. Take care of June and go bury your dead.”

  Moses braced himself for violence. His hand rested on the handle of a baseball bat behind the bar. But Robert looked passively at Moses, his bleary eyes blinking. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, like a chastised boy. Without speaking he went out the door.

  He staggered home deep in his anger and grief, but at least Moses’ comment had sunk in. The next morning he called the county morgue. They had been trying to reach him for instructions.

  “Where’s my family?” he asked.

  “They are here awaiting burial”, said the clerk.

  “But where?” insisted Robert. Forcing the clerk to say the words, “in the coolers”, as if to punish the clerk for his role in death.

  “Burn ‘em!” he said curtly.

  Flustered, the clerk said that wasn’t possible, that Mr. Goodman would need to contact a mortuary. Robert slammed the phone down in disgust, irrationally angered by the man’s politeness. He thumbed through the yellow pages with grimy fingers, calling the first name listed under Funeral Directors. A man with an unctuous voice assured him they would take care of everything.

  “I’ll see you at the morgue,” said Robert.

  The mortician began to say it wasn’t really necessary for Mr. Goodman to be there, but he was already cut off.

  Deprived from drinking at Moses’ bar, Robert drove toward Red Lake with something close to sobriety. Oblivious to the passing landscape, he thought only of his wife and daughter, who became more precious, the longer they were dead. Typical of himself, he overlooked how he had abused them, both mentally and physically.

  Robert parked his truck. Discrete signs pointed to the morgue. The air in the office was cold. It carried the aroma of disinfectant and something slightly unpleasant.

  “I want to see my wife and kid,” he said flatly to the young man behind the counter.

  “I don’t think that is a good idea, sir. They were badly injured.”

  Robert grabbed the man’s tie, shoved the knot hard up to his throat, while dragging the clerk’s upper body across the counter. The man struggled as he choked. Terror filled his eyes.

  “I want to see my family.” Robert repeated through gritted teeth. His tone was so deathly flat and without feeling that it frightened the clerk more than his violence.

  Robert let the clerk go, who struggled to loosen his tie. “Sure. I’m really sorry, sir. This way please,” he spoke submissively, wanting to avoid further violence to himself.

  They walked into a vault. Large stainless file drawers covered the wall. The clerk opened a drawer, checked the toe tag and moved on to the next. When two lay open, their contents still covered by sheets, Robert darkly said, “Leave.”

  The clerk started to protest, thought better of it and left. Robert pulled the first sheet back. It wasn’t his daughter; it was an unrecognizable pile of mangled flesh. Under the second sheet, beneath the scrapes and shattered jaw was a familiar face. He pulled the sheet further back, revealing her breast. A crudely sutured autopsy incision ran up her chest.

  Robert felt a semblance of the kind of love which might have made him a decent husband, a second later it became all consuming hate. “I’ll see someone burn in hell for this!” he muttered. He pulled the sheet up over Lisa’s face.

  When he came out, the clerk cowered behind the counter, safely out of reach. Another man, clad in black, extended his hand with trepidation, evidently aware of Robert’s behavior.

  “I’m from Bailard and Sons. May I extend our deepest condolences?”

  Robert ignored the proffered hand. From his pocket he pulled out a folded check. “You said eighteen hundred each.” He shoved the check into the man’s open palm. “You’ve been paid. Now, burn them!” he said bitterly. He walked out without a look back. The check bounced.

  He drove to the hospital. Being sober he gained admittance. He had never paid much attention to his daughters. They were just occupants in the house, an irritant when noticed, but mostly ignored by him.

  In June’s room there was little he could recognize. Her life, for the time being was the artificial existence of modern medicine. Bandages sheathed her head. An intubations tube filled her mouth. Oxygen tubes en
tered her nose. A central line ran to her neck, where the slow steady drip of barbiturates kept her in a coma. Between the bruises on her arms were intravenous sites. Monitor leads ran from her chest to the machines beside the bed. A catheter bag hung from the rail. Above the bed both legs and one arm were held in traction.

  Robert watched the rhythmic pattern of the EKG. The green lines steadily replicated the beat of June’s heart, while the ventilator evenly kept pace. The monitor seemed more real than his daughter. It was the only thing that changed. Beneath the sheet June lay motionless like her mother in the morgue.

  A nurse entered. She checked the I.V., adjusted the drip, and then entered the change.

  “When’s she going to wake up?” Robert asked.

  The nurse, who disapproved of a father who had taken over a week to show up, shrugged her shoulders. “You’ll have to ask the doctor,” she said testily.

  The winter sky grew dark. Throughout the evening Robert sat watching the endless pattern on the monitor. He thought of pain, suffering, and of revenge.

  Chapter Seven

  At the Red Lake Sheriff Station, Gaines thumbed through the crash report. The church bus at Mason Forks had been traveling faster than was safe for conditions, but moderately so. Had the brakes not failed there would have been no crash. If there were no one in the crosswalk, the bus could have easily rounded the curve and coasted to a stop. Then he came to the caveat, the bus was in such bad mechanical shape that it should never have been on the highway. The highway patrol investigator wondered how it had passed the registration inspection. The investigator concluded;

  There was gross negligence involved in the operation of this motor vehicle. Had this been a carrier for hire, criminal charges would likely be preferred against the operator.

  Gaines dropped the report on his desk. For several minutes he sat stroking his mustache and silently thinking. Having made a decision, he picked up the report and left. His squad car rolled through town. The sun was bright, and the light sparkled on the lake to his right.

  At the edge of town he pulled into the lot of a cement block building. The glass door read, Department of Motor Vehicles. Gaines asked for the office manager. Soon a gray haired, bespectacled woman came out. He pulled out a copy of the bus’s registration.

  “I want to know who did the vehicle inspection on this bus.”

  The manager sat down at a computer terminal and typed. “It was inspected six months ago. The inspector was Walter.”

  “Walter who?” Gaines asked.

  “Swanson. Walter Swanson. He should be out back at the commercial carrier inspection shed.”

  Gaines thanked her before walking out the rear doors. Across the lot a beefy man leaned over, looking under a truck. He made a note on his clipboard before tearing off the top form.

  “Get it fixed and then bring it in. Stop wasting my time!” The driver, showing disgust, shoved the paper into his pocket.

  “You Walter Swanson?” Gaines asked.

  “Yea, what can I do for you?”

  Gaines firmly grasped the man’s elbow.

  “You can come with me.”

  “Am I under arrest or something?”

  “Something,” Gaines answered. He marched Swanson around the building to the squad car.

  Swanson began to protest. Gaines tartly said, “Shut up and get in.”

  The man reluctantly complied. The sheriff slammed the door shut. Gaines said nothing as they cruised through town. He watched the heavyset man in the rear view mirror. Swanson seemed genuinely perplexed. When they pulled into the wrecking yard the powder blue bus came into view. Gaines saw fear and understanding spread across the man’s face.

  Gaines he believed in justice. He held his anger in check with an effort. Opening the rear door, he hissed,

  “Get out!”

  Swanson stepped out with trepidation.

  “Inspect that bus. I want you to write down every single violation you can find. I’ll be back in an hour.”

  Swanson took his clipboard. He walked toward the bus as one condemned. He began with the balding tires.

  *

  On the opposite side of town, Robert Goodman sat across the desk from Samuel Stein, attorney at law. Stein was not a gifted lawyer. He survived by chasing ambulances, specializing in injury and wrongful death claims for those who lacked the money to retain a better lawyer. The office was a rental on the second floor of the Clancey building. Though Spartan in décor it did have a partial view of the lake.

  “I want to take everything they have,” Robert, said, malevolence simmering in his voice.

  “Well, you certainly appear to have a solid claim against this church, and possibly the driver’s family. Their insurance carrier would be hard pressed to avoid liability. I think we can easily get a six figure settlement, perhaps seven with pain and suffering.”

  “I want to take everything. I want their money and I want their church. And when I get it, I mean to burn it to the ground.”

  “If we win, it would be yours to choose.” Then, slightly worried as to Goodman’s mental stability, he added, “Despite attorney-client privilege, please don’t speak of potential criminal acts in my presence.”

  “What will this cost?”

  “Nothing if we lose, forty percent if we win.”

  Much to Samuel Stein’s discomfort, Robert said, with audible malice in his voice, “You better win!”

  The tone worried him, but business was business, so he pulled out a standard contract, filled in the blanks, and pushed it across the desk for his new client to sign. Robert scrawled his signature on the page. Shortly thereafter, their business being finished, he left. Stein felt a wave of relief once his new client was no longer in the room.

  Gaines returned to the wrecking yard. Walter Swanson sat on the ground. Tears streamed down the man’s cheeks. Line after line filled the page on the clipboard that he clutched in his hand.

  “You killed them, you know,” said Gaines. “As sure as if you took a gun and put a bullet in their heads. You killed one young girl, her mother, and someone’s father.”

  Walter flinched, as if he had received a physical blow from the sheriff.

  “Jason was my friend. I never wanted this to happen.”

  “But it did! And that’s your friend’s dried blood splattered on the front of the bus,” he said pointing. The anger rose in his voice. “If you didn’t want this to happen then why did you ever let this rolling pile of junk through inspection?”

  Despair filled Walter’s words. “I go to the church. Jason was excited about being able to give people rides. The church was short on money. Nobody has money in Mason Forks. He figured he could fix it up, when was able. So, I let the bus pass.”

  Gaines shook his head in disgust. He wanted to punish the man, and in a way had. Swanson would continue to punish himself for years to come.

  “Get in.” It was the last words the sheriff spoke. He drove in silence from the wrecking yard back to the Motor Vehicle office, where he flung open the door, let Swanson out, and then slammed it hard. The squad car’s tires screeched as he pulled away, leaving Swanson with his guilt.

  *

  After Jason’s funeral the community quickly fell back into the rhythm of life. The Thanksgiving holidays came. For some it brought greater thanks than in previous years, for others it was an empty experience. The month came to a close shrouded in fog. Gloom pervaded the valley.

  As December progressed the days grew colder, driving out the fog. In the heavens the sun sparkled in an icy blue sky. Bells began to tinkle in the streets. Decorations adorned churches, stores and homes. Colored lights twinkled on the house eaves of houses. The Christmas season was upon them.

  In the middle of December, the Elders of the church gathered for their monthly board meeting. The only real item on the agenda was the lawsuit that had been filed against them.

  “How bad is it?” asked Leeds.

  “We need a criminal attorney. I’m just an estate lawye
r,” answered Bob Alden. “They’re asking for unspecified damages. I don’t know, but with pain and suffering, lost earnings, and a sympathetic jury, Goodman might get millions!”

  Leeds choked on his coffee. “We don’t have millions!” he spat out.

  “Then he cleans out the insurance coverage and everything the church has got. Stein also filed against Jason’s estate. Calley and the girls could lose their house.”

  “It was an accident for God’s sake, Bob!” exclaimed an incredulous elder.

  “The accident report crucified us. If it gets into the trial we’ll lose everything,” he replied.

  Will Farron spoke up, “We should get an attorney to try for a financial settlement. It’s our only hope. After all, his wife goes to this church.”

  “Did go”, said Leeds. She hasn’t been here since the funeral.”

  *

  The Marshall served papers on Calley the same day as the church. The lawsuit lay on the kitchen table along with a stack of bills. The house was quiet. The children were in bed. The cessation of life’s daily hustle and bustle left her alone to face her fears. Having four children, they had little in savings. She had no idea how she would make the mortgage payment the following week.

  After being served with the lawsuit, she talked to the agent for their homeowner’s policy. The Haskell’s did not have umbrella coverage. If the accident were at their residence, or with their personal vehicle, the company would be obligated. As things stood his only advice was to hire an attorney.

  Calley understood Goodman’s anger. Heaven knows, she thought, he lost his wife and a child. Her own bereavement gave her a sense of the man’s pain. She could not imagine losing one of her own children. But why sue her? What could she do about the accident? She had little money. Besides, she wondered, how would money change anything?