Cast the First Stone (Red Lake Series Book 2)

by Rich Foster

  In the storm he saw God’s judgment. At its height, a bolt exploded in front of his house, cleaving the old elm in two. The blast shook the house on its foundation. In a small act of defiance to fate he chuckled to himself saying, “He missed.”

  Lester expected every lightening bolt, after that to strike him down dead. But when the storm passed, and he was still alive, he came to the conclusion that he was so completely rejected, that God would not be bothered to punish him this side of the grave. He had been cast out. He was a child of Satan.

  In his frenzied mind he believed he had met the Devil in the church. Robert Goodman was the personification of Satan himself, come to tempt and destroy him. Thoughts bounced around in his mind, a mad web of free associations. Sin demanded propitiation. He must pay for his sin; he must suffer.

  The electronic bells at the Baptist church tolled. Twelve strokes, he counted. Midnight! The devils were out, he thought. Aloud he quoted scripture, “Satan roams the earth like a lion, looking for whom he might devour.”

  Lester listened, for demons. He waited for their tread on the attic steps. He listened for their clawing at the roof. Gnawing his fingernails, he had a revelation as to what he must do.

  He left the attic and went downstairs. Picking up his keys he opened the front door and stepped outside for the first time in a week. Was it only be seven days since he was destroyed? Was it possible that it was less than a week since the devil stole Grace’s heart and turned her against him?

  The night was cool. The front door was forgotten and left open. He walked barefoot on the wet grass but did not notice. Stars shown down from the heavens, but Lester saw only the charred and smoldering trunk of the elm tree. His thoughts descended toward the fires of hell. He marched resolutely toward the church silhouetted by the lights in the parking lot.

  He slipped the church key in the front door, swinging it wide open as he walked in. Furtively he looked into the sanctuary, the cross above the choir loft still condemned him. Looking down to the altar he saw himself cowering and begging for his life, but he didn’t see God.

  Lester turned his back on both. He went to his office where he wrote a short letter. Finishing, he walked toward the bell tower.

  Inside the tower, it was dark. Faint light spilled through onto the floor. Lester grasped the end of the bell rope. It was an inch thick and felt fat in his hand. The fibers were worn smooth from years of faithful hands, pulling on it. He carried the end with him as he mounted the stairs to the first landing. There, he put the rope around his neck and knotted it, leaving a long tail down his back.

  Reverend Leeds never understood mercy. In fact, as he climbed up onto the railing, his final thoughts were, “And Judas seeing what he had done, went out and hanged himself.”

  The bell of the New Life Redemption Church began to toll at twelve-twenty in the morning. People sat up in bed, awakened by the irregularity of it. There was a loud series of gongs, which quickly became erratic and then they faded away. Several people thought someone should check the church. Perhaps delinquents had broken in. Each assumed someone else would do it, so all rolled over and went back to sleep.

  Chapter Fourteen

  At five A.M. dawn was chasing the last vestiges of night toward the western sky. Luis Gonzales pulled his cruiser into the New Life parking lot. He wanted a place to sit and write up his reports before the shift change. He swung the squad car around so as to park facing the road, not so he could see speeders but where he could see when Abby’s coffee shop opened.

  He finished two reports, when he stopped to stretch. He was short on sleep. The baby had kept him awake the morning before. He rolled his head side to side, easing the tension in his neck.

  Luis noticed the church door standing open. He grew up Catholic, in a neighborhood where there was an early mass every day. Protestants never went in for that. Wearily, he climbed out of the patrol car to check the church. A set of keys dangled from the lock. He walked in calling out, “Hello, is anyone here?” It echoed empty and hollow. He looked into the sanctuary, but no one was there. Crossing the foyer he tried the brass handle of the church office, it was locked. At the opposite end of the foyer a door stood open. As he drew close he smelled the foul odor of urine and excrement. His eyes adjusted to the dim light of the bell tower. A ghostly pair of feet dangled above the floor. Luis made the sign of the cross, dipped his knee, and hurried out to call it in.

  At eight o’clock, on his way into his office, Sheriff Gaines stopped to glance through the report log. The call at 5:20 A.M. caught his eye.

  Location:

  New Life Redemption Church, Mason Forks.

  Incident: Dead body. Apparent suicide by hanging.

  Description: Male. Caucasian.

  Reported by: Deputy Luis Gonzales

  “What more do you have on this?” he asked Conner, who was on duty at the front desk.

  “Gonzales was going off duty so Egan rolled on the call. He radioed in a summary a half hour ago; he said you’d be interested.” Conner made his report in a short clipped beat. “The deceased is Lester Leeds, the church’s pastor. No one’s seen him since the killings last week. Egan left Gonzales at the church and went to check the guy’s house. The door was standing open, same as the church. Egan said he thought it might be a murder-suicide, so he checked the whole house without a warrant. There were no signs of violence.” Conner glanced at his notes. “The lady’s side of the closet was cleaned out. According to a guy from the church, her car has been gone since at least Wednesday. He thought they had gone out of town.” Conner’s paused then added, “Who wouldn’t want to get away from there? I think they’ve all gone crazy in the Forks.”

  Gaines ignored Conner’ opinions and went into his office. Egan would set things rolling to locate Mrs. Leeds.

  Monday morning Lucas awoke to blazing sunshine and a blinding headache. He prowled through the medicine cabinet futilely looking for an aspirin. Nausea gnawed at his stomach. He forced down a piece of toast anyway. Before stepping into a cold shower. His skin tingled. At least his head was slightly cleared. He shivered as he pulled on his sweats and running shoes. Slipping out the rear door, he began to run.

  He pounded along the asphalt, away from town. At the first logging road he turned off, beginning a slow climb into the hills. Lucas had been off his exercise for a week. Now, though feeling stiff, the rhythm of it was a comfort. Birds called in the pines. A coyote trotted across the dirt road ahead of him.

  Gradually, the hard pounding of his feet developed more grace, and he loped along easily. He ran steadily in and out of dappled shadows, splashing through puddles left by the storm. It was cold in the shade. In the sun, the warmth felt good on his back. He was happy to be alive.

  He ran for an hour. That was good for six or seven miles with the hills. He slowed to a walk, waiting for his breathing to become easy. Far away the buzz of chainsaws vibrated the air. Then he heard the sound of something breaking much closer. It came at irregular intervals.

  Rounding a bend in the road, he saw an old Toyota pick-up parked on the shoulder, below which, the ground fell away to an unofficial dump site created by those who were too lazy to drive ten miles to the county land fill.

  A young man sat on the sidewall of the truck bed. He reached into a cardboard box and lifted out a plate. His arm and with a snap it sailed away like a Frisbee. The platter soared silently through the air and then landed with a brittle crack against a boulder. The youth pulled out a teacup, and underhanded it with a flip of his wrist. It survived the first bounce on a sodden sofa before shattering against a rusty refrigerator that was filled with rainwater. Another cup took off and landed in the fridge with a splash.

  As Lucas drew closer he saw other boxes in the truck, some were open. Most were taped neatly closed. Felt pen markings, labeled each, such as kitchen or living Room. Either the boy did not see him or was choosing to ignore him. The face seemed familiar. Lucas had met so many people in the last week that he could not place him.
The youth reached his hand in again. A china gravy boat came out from the box. It looked like expensive china as it soared away, somersaulting into the trees.

  “Good morning!” When the boy looked up, he recognized the face from the Jenny Langston’s funeral.

  “What’s good about it?” the boy cut back, the sneer on his face not fully masking the haunted look he wore.

  “I suppose we each have to find the answer for ourselves,” Lucas answered undeterred.

  Kevin Langston made a sick laugh. “It’s a good day for destruction,” he said and proceeded to send a several Wedgwood dishes soaring off to that end.

  Lucas asked, “Mind if I give it a try?” Kevin shrugged. He handed him a plate. Lucas let a fifty-dollar plate fly away; it flew straight and true into the trunk of a tree.

  Kevin opened a bottle of beer and sent the top spinning off with the snap of his first finger and thumb. He offered one to Lucas.

  “Six-thirty’s a little early isn’t it?”

  “If you worry about the time, then you got a problem with your booze. But if you really have a problem, you don’t worry about the time.”

  Lucas laughed and took the beer. The kid needed a friend. The beer was cold and wet. He rubbed the bottle across his forehead. Not speaking, they sipped beer and chucked dishes. The box was emptied. Kevin tossed it down the hill. He pulled out a pocketknife and slit another opened.

  After awhile he said, “You’re that Army preacher, aren’t you?”

  Lucas nodded.

  “That old man was your uncle?”

  “Yep. Elijah James,” answered Lucas.

  The boy imperceptibly nodded. Chirping birds filled the silence. Lucas saw secret inner thoughts working in the boy’s face. Kevin flung away his empty beer bottle, chasing it with a round of wine glasses. The crystal flew with accelerating speed and violence, disintegrated against the rocks. The small shards sparkled like littered diamonds in the sunlight. Then having built up to it, Kevin leaped up, grasped a small microwave oven and flung it down the hill. It tumbled as it bounced over junk. The door sprang open and the front panel shattered.

  “I hate the son-of-a-bitch!” he stammered as tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes.

  Lucas turned away. The boy wiped his eye with the cuff of his jean jacket. “Don’t you?”

  Lucas turned back. “Our losses were different. Your hurt is a lot more.”

  Kevin began to retreat into that hurt. The camaraderie he had been building was slipping away.

  “I guess a preacher can’t say bad things about people?” he said bitterly.

  “No, you’re wrong. Goodman is an S.O.B. It’s just that I’ve learned, given the right circumstances, we can all become sick son-of-a-bitches.”

  His language pulled Kevin back.

  “You’re all right!”

  “Thanks you.” Lucas reflected before he spoke again. “I won’t tell you it will be better. Only that with time it will hurt less.”

  Kevin half nodded and shrugged at the same time.

  “If you ever need to talk, drop by my uncle’s house. It’s on route 12 outside town, number ten-sixty.”

  Kevin said, “Sure. Maybe some time.”

  Lucas left the boy to smash his anger. As he trotted home he figured they had trashed a thousand dollars in china. He could have told the kid that breaking his dishes wouldn’t do any good. It sure wasn’t going to bring his wife back. The kid probably knew that. Sometimes, he thought, you just need to smash things.

  Will Farron’s phone awakened him at six-fifteen that same morning. The shrill ring shattered a pleasant dream. He grunted into the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Yes Sir, I’m Detective Patrick Egan with the Canaan County Sheriff’s office.”

  Will scratched at his head and rubbed his eyes.

  “Yea, I remember you from last week,” he said between yawns.

  ”I’m sorry to call so early, but the woman at Abby’s cafe suggested you were the one to contact about the church.”

  “Whatever this is, couldn’t it wait?”

  “No sir. Could you please come over?” After a pause Egan added the word “Now?”

  Will hung up. He slipped on jeans and a pullover shirt. Downstairs in the kitchen he drank a quick glass of orange juice. He lifted a nylon parka from the coat hook by the door, took his keys off the counter. Shortly, he pulled into the church lot. A lone deputy smoked beside a standard cruiser. Nearby, was an unmarked patrol car made obvious by its black-wall tires and minimal hubcaps. A white coroner’s van was backed up to the church portico.

  “What’s up?” he asked the Deputy as he slid out of his jeep.

  “I’ll get Detective Egan. Wait here.” The Deputy turned away, flipping his cigarette into the flowerbeds.

  Already annoyed, Farron stooped to pick up the butt. He put it under the wiper blade of the police cruiser. Maybe the man would get the hint.

  Inside, the Medical Examiner who was a sparse, gangly individual lectured Egan.

  “People don’t realize there’s an art to hanging yourself. If you do it wrong, the knot will fail to snap the neck. The Reverend got it all wrong. His neck is fine, but the rope crushed his esophagus. He died kicking and choking.”

  Egan thanked the M.E. for this graphic and unnecessary bit of information.

  The deputy interjected, “Mr. Farron is here, sir.”

  A moment later Egan came out.

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Farron. I’m afraid we have another death.”

  The color flowed from Will’s cheeks, leaving an ashen hue below his tan. “You mean there’s been another murder?”

  “No, this appears to be a suicide. We think we know who it is, but officially we need someone to positively identify the body.”

  Egan turned around, gesturing for Will to follow. They walked into the church foyer. Near the bell tower door two coroner’s men waited, killing time. On the gurney an obviously occupied body bag was strapped down. Will felt a wave of nausea in his stomach. He swallowed hard trying to force down the bilious taste that crept along the sides of his tongue. Egan nodded to the coroner’s deputy, who pulled the zipper and folded the bag back.

  At first it appeared to be a Halloween mask. The face was puffy. The eyes bugged out but wore a lifeless haze. The neck was discolored, mottled by red, blue and purple marks. But most disconcerting was the swollen tongue protruding from the mouth. When the odor hit him Will involuntarily wretched on the floor.

  Egan nodded for the body bag to be zipped shut. The two men rolled the gurney away. Will wiped his mouth with his handkerchief. Egan waited. He was a patient man.

  “It’s Lester. Lester Leeds.” Will finally said.

  Egan nodded. “I’m sorry you had to do this. Death is ugly.”

  Neither said anything. Outside doors slammed. An engine started up.

  “Were you friends?”

  “Not really. We just did church board work together.”

  “You were here last week, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does what went down bother you as much as it seems to have troubled the Reverend?”

  “It bothered me sure. But I never thought he’d shoot the girl.”

  Egan arched his eyebrows, why he chose to mention only the girl. Perhaps that was where his hardest guilt lay.

  “And it doesn’t bother you that you stayed seated?”

  “I learned one thing in the Army, never volunteer unless there’s a percentage in it.”

  “You volunteer to help run this church, don’t you? What’s the percentage?”

  “Church can be good for business.”

  Egan shrugged again. He figured the guy was lying. He had guilt written all over his face. Walking toward the door, Egan said, “Well, I don’t go to church, and I don’t know if there’s a heaven, but I sure believe there’s a hell!”

  When they came outside, the coroner’s van was gone. Egan called to Gonzales, “You can take off.”


  He wasted no time leaving, lest something else be found for him to do.

  Egan spoke to Will. “I thought I recognized Leeds from last week. I had Gonzales check your church parsonage; the door was open. Nobody was home. He was married, right?”

  “Yes. His wife’s name is Grace. I thought they were out of town together. Last week I was looking for them. On Wednesday I saw that one of their cars was gone.”

  “Well I’ll get the make and model from DMV and put it out on the net.”

  “What about the church?”

  “It’s not a crime scene. It’s all yours, better call a janitor.”

  As Egan walked away, Will mumbled to himself, “Yea sure. He’s dead.”

  Calley rushed her kids out the door at six-thirty. She drove her van over to Mrs. Deitz’s house, to drop them off for the day. Caleb fussed as she left. Calley didn’t feel like going to work, but she had too. Already she was down one weeks pay. Tragedy never stopped the bills from coming in.

  Driving was therapeutic for her, it gave her hands and a part of her mind something to do. As the van rolled around the curves she wondered who paid for Ruthie’s funeral. Perhaps it was the same person who paid her mortgage for the last eight months. She had absolutely no idea who that might be. Everyone she knew was barely getting by. They had bills of their own.

  Early on she worried that someone was expecting something in return. She asked the bank manager, who the person was that paid her mortgage. He said he did not know. The monies came from a trust account, set up by a lawyer for a client. When she pressed for the name of the lawyer he refused. Finally, Calley settled for asking him to pass along a message. “Tell whoever it is, thank you. Also tell them if they think I can somehow repay them, they are wrong.”

  Three days later, in the mail, she received a plain envelope that bore no return address. A typed note read, “Remember the widows and orphans.” It was unsigned. Calley recognized the line from the bible. It surprised her someone had taken it so literally.