Cast the First Stone (Red Lake Series Book 2)

by Rich Foster

  He pushed these unpleasant memories aside with more mundane thoughts of the necessary funerals. He should talk to Reverend Leeds; someone needed to organize memorials at the church. But would anyone want to use the church? And what about the carpeting? It would certainly need replacing.

  Then thinking of Lester, on his knees and begging for his life, he had doubts that he was fit for the job. It was unlikely that the families would want Reverend Leeds for the service.

  Arriving, at the hospital, he parked in the circular entry. They were waiting for him. Sister Anne pushed the wheelchair out the front door. The morning sunshine failed to shed any warmth into Calley’s soul.

  Will saw a pair of haunted eyes. He was unskilled at handling death. He could glad hand clients when showing a house, but in the face of tragedy he was at a loss for words.

  Calley rose from the required wheelchair, and walked to the open door of Will’s sedan. The nun, out of habit called, “God bless!” Calley flinched at the words.

  They rode in silence towards Mason Forks. After five minutes, Will spoke, “I’m really sorry.”

  Calley remained mute. He glanced over, but her eyes were obliquely focused on something invisible to him. Will felt discomforted, he looked forward to getting her home and out of his car. She needed a psychiatrist, not a real estate salesman.

  When they reached the Haskell’s house the two younger children hurried out onto the porch, crying out “Mommy’s home!” Calley stroked each of their heads almost indifferently. Without speaking she walked into the house. Sarah waited alone in the living room. She began to silently shed large tears. Calley stopped and looked at her.

  “I thought Ruthie might be with you! I thought it must be a lie!”

  Calley shook her head numbly, “It’s not a lie. Ruthie is dead. She won’t be coming home again.”

  To Will and Jessica’s surprise Calley did not go to her daughter. She was detached from them. It seemed reality barely reached her.

  “Is she with Jesus?” Sarah asked.

  “I guess she is, honey?” But her words came without conviction.

  Calley’s emotional flatness troubled the Farrons.

  “Do you want me to stay?” Jessica asked with genuine sincerity.

  “No. Thank you. We’ll be okay.” Calley began to close the door. Will put his hand up to stop it.

  “You need to think about the service for Ruthie. If, we can help, give us a call. I mean it.” And then to his surprise, he realized his words were genuine. Calley nodded before closing the door.

  The Farron’s felt a mixture of apprehension, relief, and guilt, as they drove away in their car.

  Grace drew the drapes across the parsonage windows. It did nothing to stem the flow of reporters outside, nor did it discourage some from trying to peek in. Sipping tea in the kitchen, she thought of far away places. Far from the man she wed, far from the one who proved so weak.

  Lester hid in the walk-up attic. He wanted to be as far away as possible from the ringing telephone and the reporters who, seeking a comment, pounded on his door. He felt sick. There was a vacuous emptiness at the bottom of his soul. In anguish he fell on his knees, calling out to God. He heard the house creak, outside a bird called a mate, the wind stirred the drapes at the half opened window. But from the Almighty he heard nothing. God’s back was turned.

  The morning after the killings was a media feeding frenzy. What they lacked in facts they filled by speculation. The raw facts of Goodman’s life were recounted including the tragic accident and his failed civil trial. Few expressed shock that he proved violent, though, all were dismayed by the degree of it. Adjectives like, crazed, insane, and vicious were glibly used which begged the question of what made Goodman act. One reporter noted that it seemed mass killers were always seen as dangerous yet serial killers were usually described as quiet, polite, and nice persons.

  In the Clarion article Harding asked,

  How does any person end up a killer, are there those who are born to it? Is murder in their blood? Or is it events that make a killer what he or she is? It is facile to assign labels after the fact, but how does society avert the violence before it’s coming? This question remains unanswered.

  Survivors told of their harrowing experience. The media people noticed the survivors were strangely reticent when asked how those who died were chosen. Reporters quickly gathered a more complete account of the events inside the church, either from deputies or from those church members who could not help but talk, even if it was to their own shame.

  By Tuesday the media outlets were playing up the religious overtones of the story and Biblical metaphors abounded.

  The lead article in the Red Lake Clarion was captioned, “Five Led Like Sheep to the Slaughter.”

  The conservative Daily Journal opened with, “No greater love hath a man than he lay down his life for another.”

  But the phrase that stuck, and went viral on the Internet, was Tanya Talbot’s opening line on the six o’clock newscast,

  “Unlike the Biblical story of Daniel in the lions den, during Sunday nights tragic hostage crises in Mason Forks, the New Life Redemption Church was filled with cowering Christians.”

  The aspersion “Cowering Christians” stuck. It appeared in magazines and national papers. Theologians who had never faced a gun weighed in with opinions. Tasteless jokes made their way around bars. The folks of New Life Church were held up to ridicule. Among the public, any who gave thought to the dead, mostly held the five were fools to die for such a cowardly lot.

  The people of Mason Forks found it difficult to feel sympathy for the survivors, after all, they let a little girl die. A general malaise gripped the community. Friends stopped chatting with each other. Those who went to other churches, or not at all, blamed the New Life Redemption Church for the failings that led to this disaster.

  The members of the church who were not present Sunday night searched their own soul as to how they would have reacted in a similar situation. Human nature being what it was, they deceived themselves, falsely believing they would have died, perhaps reluctantly, but at least bravely. Such thoughts led to a feeling of spiritual superiority over those who had remained seated.

  At Moses’ bar, men cursed Robert Goodman. They boasted how they would have dealt with the situation, if they had been in the church. Other drinkers knew what the sheriff did wrong or how Ruthie Haskell could have been saved. All of this bravado came from bottled beer and imagined testosterone.

  In the dark of night and the quiet places of their hearts, honest people felt a sense of awe at what the five had done. And they felt a little shame knowing that they did not have the same courage.

  Relatives were officially notified. Tuesday morning, Elijah’s nephew landed at the Beaumont Airport. Lucas James was tall. His sandy colored hair was a standard military butch. He carried himself well. The suitcase in his left hand did not affect the level of his shoulders.

  At the Hertz desk the female agent gave him a warm smile as she asked for his driver’s license. When he smiled back, she felt a small glandular rush that left her feeling special. Returning his military ID, she said, “Thank you Major.”

  “Not anymore, I retired last week,” he answered.

  The agent ran his credit card. She handed him the keys to a Mustang convertible. Hoping to make the conversation linger she asked, “Aren’t you a little young to be retired?”

  “No, ma’am! I’ve done my twenty years. It’s time to move on.”

  The woman clicked her ballpoint open and jotted on a piece of paper. She handed the slip to Lucas. That’s my cell number. Give me a call if you’ll be around awhile. Maybe we could do lunch?”

  “That would be nice,” he said. Again flashing her that smile, “but…”

  “Your married, engaged or gay?” She feigned despondency.

  “No, I’m here for my uncle’s funeral and to take care of his estate. I’ll probably be busy. Sorry.”

  Giving her best coy smile, sh
e purred, “Well a gal has to try.”

  He asked her for directions to Mason Forks. She penciled the route in on a free map, highlighting Highway 218, the pass road to Red Lake and then Route 12 to Mason Forks. He gave her that smile one last time. She felt weak in the knees; then he was gone.

  Later, while she was reading the newspaper over lunch, she noticed the name, Elijah James, age 72, one of the deceased in the Mason Forks killings.

  For an hour Lucas drove through fabulous country. The summer was full. Clouds like large cotton balls floated in an azure sky. The road climbed through hairpin turns up the side of the mountain. With the convertible roof down he smelled the scent of the pines along the road.

  At last he came through the pass and Red Lake lie glimmering in the valley below. Fifteen minutes later he arrived at the Canaan County Sheriff’s office. He pushed open the glass door. One female deputy manned the counter. Through a glass wall, behind her, he could see a large man was well past sixty. Lucas sensed the man was used to giving commands.

  “May I help you?” the deputy asked.

  “Yes. My name is Lucas James; my uncle was killed Sunday night in Mason Forks. I believe it was Sheriff Gaines who called me yesterday?”

  “Just a minute.” She ducked through the door of the office and spoke to the man. When he rose out of his chair he was bigger than Lucas had estimated.

  “Sheriff Gavin Gaines,” he said extending his hand across the counter. “I’d like to express my condolences. I’m sorry we couldn’t save him.”

  “Thank you. But knowing my uncle, he was happy to make the sacrifice. He was more concerned about how he lived, than with how long.”

  “I didn’t have the pleasure of knowing him. He was obviously a brave and decent man.”

  Having dispensed with social pleasantries, they talked about the tragedy of Sunday night. Lucas had only read cursory articles about the killings. The sheriff told him in detail how the events unfolded, about Goodman and his anger with the church, the lawsuit, and the death of the judge.

  Gaines concluded,

  “Goodman was wronged by that church. There’s no denying that. But what he did, especially to that little girl in front of her mother, was sick.”

  “A lot of people kill children in small ways, yet go unpunished.” Lucas replied. “We seem to show our anger only for those who are more obvious.”

  “I’ve seen plenty of abused kids. Believe me, that makes me mad too. Personally, I hope Goodman dies.”

  To Gaines’s surprise Lucas replied, “Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.”

  “Are you a preacher?”

  “Twenty years as an army chaplain.”

  “Well sir,” Gaines said, “I’m not without sin, but I’d be willing to grab a rock.”

  Lucas changed the subject. He inquired if there were any reason he could not stay at his uncle’s house. The sheriff told him they entered the house only to look for the names of relatives. Elijah’s house was not a part of the investigation.

  “It’s an open and shut case. Our department has a hundred witnesses, plus a videotape of the killings. If Goodman somehow manages to beat this rap, we have him for killing Judge Kellner and his wife, too.”

  He sensed that the sheriff seemed to think he would find that consoling.

  Lucas cruised down Route 12 admiring the scenery. He had not seen his uncle since Elijah moved to Mason Forks. But for years they carried on a steady correspondence. His uncle possessed an observant eye and captured in words the world around him. From his letters, Lucas found a sense of the familiarity as the valley opened before him. He drove through Mason Forks. Main Street was as his uncle described it. He continued on a mile past town, slowing to see the faded numbers on mailboxes. At last he found the familiar numbers and pulled into a gravel drive.

  It was a big parcel. The drive ran past tall pines before opening onto a clearing. A lawn of mixed grasses surround a modest clapboard house. The paint was failing and the green shutters were faded. At the front porch a light burned, still awaiting his uncle’s return.

  Lucas opened the manila envelope the sheriff had given him. It contained Elijah’s wristwatch, keys, wallet, and a neatly pressed handkerchief. By trial and error he found the right key. Opening the door, the scent of old age drifted out to him. He stepped inside and found himself in a small foyer. A tidy well-kept living room was to the right; on the left was a formal dining room. Straight back he could see the kitchen where sunlight spilled across the floor from mullioned windows. He flipped the wall switch. The porch light went out.

  By Wednesday morning there were no reporters left outside the parsonage. Grace went out to gather the last three days papers from the lawn, returning, she saw the word, “Coward” spray-painted in yellow, across their garage door.

  Inside the house, she dropped the newspapers in the trash. She walked upstairs to her bedroom where she paused to look around the room she shared for thirty years. She turned a picture of her and Lester face down on the dresser. A moment later she mounted the stairs to the attic. They had not spoken for three days. Shame gripped both of them. Lester only came down at night, groping his way in the dark lest someone see the light and know that he was at home.

  They looked at each other with empty eyes and empty hearts.

  “I am a whitened sepulcher! I am a Pharisee.” Leeds said, tears in his eyes.

  “You’re a coward,” she said flatly. Her voice contained neither emotion nor judgment.

  “You stayed seated!” he accused, bitterness rising in his voice.

  “That’s because I’m a coward too. I’m sorry for the others, but I didn’t want to die. I still don’t.” Grace had accepted her weakness.

  “God will judge us.” Leeds spoke lugubriously.

  “Perhaps so. Maybe he forgives, maybe he doesn’t, but I can’t forgive you for letting that little girl die.”

  “You’re guilty too!” Lester rasped. “They’re all guilty!”

  “But you’re the pastor Lester! I’ve listened to you preach year after year. What does it mean in the end? Nothing!” Her words were imploring but anger flared in her eyes. “I don’t know if I can forgive myself. I will need to live with my guilt. But, I do know, I can’t live with you.”

  Leeds found he had nothing to say. His wife picked up two large suitcases and left. He remained seated at the attic window. Shortly before noon he heard Grace’s car backing out onto the street. From the window he could see her profile. She neither looked at the house, nor up toward him. As far as he could tell, she drove away without looking back.

  Grace was gone. His inner emptiness was so great that her leaving was little more than another drop added to a sea of despair. Lester was adrift in that vast emptiness.

  At one point, a car stopped in front of the house. Will Farron stepped out and came up the walk. Lester heard the faint chime of the doorbell. A minute later it rang again. He ignored it. Eventually, Will went away.

  Lester returned to his dark and brooding thoughts as the sun inched across the sky. Later that afternoon the car returned. Again Lester ignored the call.

  Wednesday evening, as shadows lengthened, hunger gnawed its way into Lester’s consciousness. He came downstairs for food. In the kitchen he found a loaf of French bread. He tore off a large piece and chewed it. Opening the refrigerator, he absentmindedly, took a bottle from the shelf and poured a glass of juice.

  From the trashcan, the words “Cowering Christians” leaped out at him. He choked on the bread. Racked by coughing, he grabbed the glass of juice and took a swallow to wash it down. To his consternation he realized he was drinking grape juice and eating bread, the same elements the New Life Church used for communion. To him it was a sign. He thought of the apostles who asked Christ, “But who will betray you, Lord?” and the Reverend knew the answer was, “It is I.”

  *

  Wednesday morning, Robert Goodman was transferred from the hospital to the county jail. Due to a clerical error, he was
put into the general population. Less than twenty-four hours later an ambulance returned him to St. Catherine’s Hospital, having suffered a severe beating. Even prisoners hated child-killers.

  In bars around Canaan County lynching Robert Goodman was widely praised. Rumors of a “vengeance posse” reached Gaines’s desk. He thought it more bravado than fact, but the killings had cut deeply into the psyche of the community. The general consensus was the crime was even worse for taking place in a church. Gaines put extra guards on Goodman’s hospital room. Yet, that evening over dinner, he confided to his wife that he personally found it hard to feel that lynching was a bad idea. He hastened to add, “but, my feelings aside, I believe in the rule of law.”

  Wednesday night an emergency call came in to the Mason Forks Volunteer Fire Department. The siren echoed through the valley. Around town volunteers rolled out of bed and rushed to the firehouse. Men hustled into boots and jackets, hopped on the pumper truck, and with lights flashing sped across town.

  The late evening crowd at Moses’ bar was thin. Hearing the siren they got in their pick-ups and drove until they saw the glow in the sky. As they arrived the volunteers were just rolling out the fire hoses. The Moses’ crowd rolled out their beers.

  “Hell that’s Goodman’s place!” said one, sitting down on the pick-up’s tailgate.

  Not realizing Goodman rented the house another said, “Serves that sick killer right!”

  Word spread mouth to mouth. As it spread the firemen began to work more slowly. They moved casually as they hooked up the hoses, yet flames were leaping out from the downstairs windows. The volunteers hosed down the houses on either side of the fire, keeping them cool. But they didn’t put a drop on the fire. The house became fully engulfed in flames. Upstairs windows shattered. Thick smoke belched out, quickly followed by flames. The roof was breached. Soon long fiery fingers reached up to the night sky, illuminating the neighborhood.