Grace Interrupted

by Julie Hyzy

  “I’m sorry . . .” he said. “I could have sworn . . .”

  I rubbed my hand along my forehead, immediately sorry I’d done so when it came back sticky with sweat. “Okay,” I said, staring at the ground, “give me a minute.” My brain needed time to recap everything Tooney had just told me, replacing Florian with Pierpont. The conversation Frances and I had overheard now fit. Pierpont had referred to precedent being set when he had to step in for Sutherland after the man’s sudden death.

  I must have been quiet for too long because Tooney asked, “Grace?”

  “Yeah,” I said, finally looking up.

  Davey stood on the rise, right above me.

  “Gotta go, Tooney,” I said, and slapped my phone shut.

  Chapter 25

  DAVEY DIDN’T WAVE, NOR DID HE SEEM pleased to see me. The moment we made eye contact, he turned away and headed back down the other side of the hill.

  I ran after him. “Davey!”

  By the time I’d crested the rise, he was gone. With the sun beginning to set, re-enactors were gathering in the center, where the sutlers’ tents had been broken down and removed, and where a makeshift stage was being set up next to a giant campfire. The bright yellow flames drew people in like moths as the evening light eased from orange to purple. I stood atop the hill wishing for just a little more light, wishing I knew why Davey had run.

  Tooney’s report was playing over and over in my mind. Pierpont suspected of foul play? Could Tooney have gotten it wrong? Could Florian have killed Sutherland? Was that what Pierpont held over the other man’s head?

  “Grace!”

  I turned. “Jack?”

  “Hurry,” he said, waving impatiently. “We need help.”

  I was down the hill in a heartbeat.

  “Come on,” he said falling into a brisk jog. “We have to get back to the Confederate side.”

  I joined him, running. “Wait, why?”

  Jack kept turning his head from side to side as he ran as though looking for someone. “I don’t have time to explain it all, but my brother Keith just texted me from the Confederate camp. Somebody there might have seen Davey. We need to find him.”

  I pointed back the way we’d come. “I just saw him.”

  Jack stopped. “You did? Was he okay?”

  “Yeah. I called to him, but he took off.”

  “He’s going to the Confederate side, come on.”

  I followed him past the Union’s western boundary, where Jack pointed to the right, guiding us around the crowd that was gathering at the camp’s center. His lips were tight and his face was pale.

  Out of breath I asked, “What happened?”

  “Davey left a suicide note.”

  I stopped in my tracks.

  He grabbed my arm but I pulled away. “We don’t have time for this,” he said. “We have to keep moving.”

  “No.” I thought back to where I’d seen him. “Suicide?” Staring suspiciously, people navigated around us. I grabbed Jack’s arm and pulled him out of the traffic pattern. “What was in the note?”

  Jack’s eyes were wild. He tried to pull away but I held tight.

  “This is important,” I said.

  “He claims to be guilty of killing both Lyle and Zachary and said that this was the only place—this re-enacting camp—where he felt a sense of honor. He wants to die here.” Jack’s eyes tightened. “But that can’t be . . .”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “My dad did. They’re on their way. Maybe they’re already here.”

  I let go of Jack’s arm and started back the way we’d come. “I know where he’s going.”

  “No, he’s over on the Confederate side. Keith said so.”

  I took another few steps east. “No,” I said, “he’s going to be where Zachary was killed. He’ll think it’s symbolic. Trust me.”

  “He’s over there.” Jack pointed westward, then backed away, hands up. “I can’t risk being wrong. Davey’s life is at stake.”

  “I know,” I said, “that’s why I have to go back.”

  I WISHED I HAD ON RUNNING SHOES INSTEAD of these Civil War clodhoppers. My feet pounded the ground, beating a staccato rhythm that echoed in my head and my heart. I whispered, “Don’t, Davey. Please don’t,” as I ran. A new crop of sweat burst out over the dried and crusty residue that was already there, causing my clothing to stick to every inch of my skin. Temperatures had cooled and the brisk breeze I generated by running chilled me to the bone. The very definition of a cold sweat.

  I finally reached the far edge of the Union camp. Quiet and empty because everyone had gravitated to the center, I was completely alone, hearing only the pulse of my heart in my ears, the heaving of my every breath, and crickets chirping in the night.

  Just a little farther.

  Panting, I scrambled up the familiar hill yet again, my thighs burning with exertion, my hands scraping the dry grass, seeking purchase. I finally made it to the top and looked down.

  “Davey?” I called.

  No answer.

  I looked back the way I’d come. What if I was wrong?

  Darkness was settling quickly now and I could make out very little beneath the heavy canopy of trees. Not for the first time did I think that whoever had picked this location to kill Zachary had chosen well. One thing I would bet, though—it wasn’t Davey.

  I started down the other side, moving as quickly as I could without being able to see the ground clearly enough to know where to step. I half slid to the bottom, much the way I did the morning Zachary’s body was found. The similarities were too eerie. “Please,” I whispered to the dark sky above, “don’t let Davey be dead.”

  Davey could be fifty feet in front of me and I wouldn’t know it. The line of trees that had sheltered Zachary’s murder so effectively could be providing cover for him as well. “Davey?” I called, more quietly this time, like I was afraid of scaring him off. “I know you’re here.”

  My breathing was deep and ragged from my sprint and I shuddered, both from the evening chill and from the ominous shadows around every tree. Nearby, a branch snapped and I jumped, suddenly remembering my vow to keep out of danger. But Davey wasn’t dangerous. Not to anyone but himself, at least.

  “Please, Davey. I know you’re here. Talk to me.”

  Leaves rustled far to my left.

  I tried again. “I hear you breathing, Davey.” I didn’t, but it sounded plausible. “Just come out. You can trust me.”

  Another couple of twigs snapped, closer to me this time. “I thought you went off with Jack,” Davey said, and stepped out of the foliage into what little light remained.

  I’d been holding my body tense but now relaxed ever so slightly. “Jack thinks you’re hiding on the Confederate side of the camp.”

  He was close enough now for me to see his face. Disappointment flittered across his features as he stared westward. “Jack has never understood me.” Turning to me, he asked, “How is it you do?”

  I didn’t know, and said so. “Kindred spirits, maybe.” He didn’t say anything, so I inched closer. “Don’t do this, Davey. You’re not helping anyone.”

  “Jack told you about the note.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  “You didn’t kill Lyle,” I said, “and you didn’t kill Zachary either.”

  “Sure I did,” he said flippantly. “And once I’m dead, they can close both cases. My family won’t have to live under the constant suspicion anymore. I want to do this for Jack.”

  I stepped a little closer, then noticed he had a gun in his hand. “And for your father?”

  He looked away.

  “Lyle lived in a different town. You were fourteen,” I said. “You couldn’t drive.”

  “Yeah well, that doesn’t mean I didn’t do it.”

  I pointed. “Is that one of your father’s guns?”

  Davey nodded.

  “Don’t kill yourself to cover up for him.”

  His face tightened in pai
n. “No one knows. How did you figure it out?”

  I thought about Tank’s assessment of Davey being damaged goods. The same could have been said about me just about a year ago. “Like I said, kindred spirits.”

  He didn’t answer, so I went on, “You came home that day but your father wasn’t there. Is that right? Did he force you to cover for him?”

  “No, never,” Davey said quickly. “He didn’t have to ask. I took one look at his face and I saw . . . something terrible. Grief, I guess. Hard, raw, intense grief. Once I heard Lyle was dead it didn’t take much to figure out what had happened.” Davey worked his teeth over his bottom lip. “I saw what it had done to him—to my dad, I mean. He was broken. I might have only been a kid, but I understood everything in that minute. I couldn’t turn him in. He was just protecting our family. Protecting Calla. It destroyed him to do what he did. And I’m just as guilty as he is. Lyle’s dead. That can’t be changed. Turning my dad in wouldn’t do anyone any good.”

  Davey’s voice grew bolder as he spoke as though finally sharing the memory had given him strength.

  “Now it’s my turn to protect my family,” he said. “You have to understand that. Just walk away.”

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  Davey turned the gun over and over in his hands as he spoke. I thought about trying to make a grab for it, but knew such a move would not only be dangerous, but would ruin any trust we’d built. “Grace, please. Let me do this. Otherwise, what am I besides useless? I have no life. I have nothing to live for. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this sooner.”

  “Stop a minute, Davey. Think.” Buying time, I reasoned with him. “Put Lyle’s murder aside for a moment. You didn’t kill Zachary. Neither did Jack. So . . . why take the blame for that one? You’re letting the real murderer off scot-free.”

  He shrugged. “Except everybody thinks Jack did it. If I confess and then kill myself, they’ll close the cases and Jack will have his life back.”

  “It doesn’t work that way.”

  Noises, voices from behind me. Davey flinched. I turned.

  “Oh my God,” Davey said, staring upward.

  There was enough ambient light up there for us to make out a group of about seven gathering at the top of the rise. Jack, his father, another man who had to be Keith Embers, Tank, and several uniformed officers. Jack had his hands out as though asking, “Where?”

  Tank pointed right at us, but I could tell we couldn’t be seen.

  “Don’t move,” Davey whispered, close to my ear.

  “You can’t hide forever,” I whispered back.

  “I don’t intend to hide anymore,” he said softly. “This is my life, Grace. For once, let me make my own decision.”

  I swallowed around what felt like wadded-up sandpaper.

  He gripped my arm with his free hand and again spoke close to my ear. “As soon as they go back down, you follow them,” he said. “Don’t look back.”

  I tried to turn, but he shook me to face forward.

  “No argument.”

  “Davey, please.”

  But my words were lost as Gordon Embers shouted his son’s name at the exact same time. “Davey,” he called again, his voice cracking, “are you there? Please, son, answer me.”

  Davey gripped me harder, and pointed the gun at his own head. We stayed very still. I wanted to call out, to scream. To alert them to our location, but deep inside I knew that any quick movement would be disastrous for us all.

  “Please son, I’m begging you.” Gordon’s voice broke and we both heard him stifle a sob. “I’ll do anything. Just please, don’t hurt yourself.”

  Davey’s fingers tightened around my upper arm, and I could feel his body trembling. I heard him swallow three times in rapid succession.

  “I told the detectives,” Gordon continued, shouting into the confessional of the dark night, “I told them what really happened. They know the truth now, Davey. You don’t have to protect me any longer.”

  A sharp intake of breath and Davey swallowed again.

  “You mean the world to me, son. I’m so sorry for what I’ve done to you all these years. I never realized . . . Please don’t hurt yourself. Please, son.”

  Struggling to keep his emotions in check Davey made an incomprehensible noise. He blinked away tears.

  “He loves you, Davey,” I whispered. “Take a chance. Take back your life. Can’t you see your father needs your forgiveness? And you need to give it to him.”

  “Davey,” Gordon shouted again. “Please, forgive me.”

  Davey stared up at the group. He swallowed again.

  “Okay, Dad,” Davey shouted in a voice thick with emotion. “Everything is okay. Grace is with me.”

  The group on the ridge reacted, but I was more concerned with Davey. He choked back tears and let go of my arm. “He did it,” he whispered. “He did it for me.”

  I put my arm around him. “Yes, he did.”

  Davey lowered the gun. “Thank you.”

  As the group began to make their way gingerly down the hillside, I placed both hands around the weapon, easing it away from him and into my deep dress pocket. “You did good, Davey.”

  “But will they still think Jack killed that other guy?” he asked. “I don’t want Jack to go to jail.” He looked at me forlornly. “Being part of this re-enacting group made me feel like I could really do something important. Honorable. I thought that by taking the blame I would be doing right by Jack.” He glanced away. “Sounds stupid now, doesn’t it?”

  “Misguided, maybe,” I said. “But in this case you wouldn’t have been serving justice, you’d be impeding it.”

  “Yeah.” The group was close now and our time alone was just about up. “I guess I shouldn’t have listened to Pierpont.”

  “What?” I asked. “This was his idea?”

  “No,” Davey said quickly. “It was always about doing the right thing. Always about working for the greater good. About putting others first. He talked a lot about dying an honorable death. He knew how upset I was about Jack being arrested. He knew how much it meant to me to clear Jack’s name. Pierpont wasn’t trying to get me to take the blame for Zachary’s murder for his sake . . .” He looked at me with dread in his eyes. “Was he?”

  When the Embers men and police escort made it to our position, I saw an expression on Jack’s face I’d never seen before. He stayed as far from his father as possible and wouldn’t make eye contact with the man, even as Gordon reached out to embrace Davey. “I’m so sorry, son,” he said pressing his face into Davey’s shoulder. “I am so sorry.”

  They broke apart, Davey looking miserably conspicuous, and Gordon trying without success to keep his emotions in check. He lowered himself to the ground and dropped his head into his hands.

  Jack exchanged a look with Keith and walked away.

  Tank took control immediately, frisking Davey. When she came up empty, she asked, “Where’s the gun?”

  I was about to answer that I had it when Gordon cried out. He clutched his chest, falling forward, gasping for air. Tank was next to him in a moment, crouching low, issuing orders. To the uniforms: “Get help. They must have a medic here. You,” she pointed to another cop, “call for an ambulance.” She loosened Gordon’s collar as she barked her commands. Two of the officers ran off.

  “There is a medic,” I said. “I know what he looks like. I’ll go.”

  I ran off before anyone could stop me, racing up the hill yet again. The gun bounced against my inner thigh and as I made it to the top of the rise I saw Frances hurrying my way. Having changed into her hoop-skirted gown, she reminded me of a bell, tolling with every step she took.

  “Frances,” I said, “I’m so glad to see you.” The surprise on her face was probably very similar to mine. I never would have expected to be saying those words. “Gordon Embers is having a heart attack. Down where Zachary was killed. Where’s the medic?”

  “He went to the election,” she said. “Come on,
I’ll show you where I saw him.”

  Frances couldn’t run as fast as I could, so I reluctantly slowed my pace and hoped the uniformed officer had already found the doctor and that they were on the return trip. No way to count on that, however. I pressed on.

  Holding her skirt up as she tried to keep pace, Frances asked, “What happened down there?”

  “Should you be running?”

  “It’s cool out now. I’m fine. What happened?” she asked again.

  “Too much to explain.”

  We kept running and had just made it to the edge of the gathering when sirens blared behind us. Everyone stopped what they were doing, turning to see what was going on. An ambulance bounded over the far hill and bounced along the rough terrain following the path the coroner’s van had taken less than a week ago. I hoped that wasn’t a bad omen.

  “That was fast,” I said.

  I heard a woman murmur, “What’s going on?”

  “No idea,” her husband said. “Pierpont will know.” He turned toward the stage. “Hey, Pierpont!”

  “They’ve kept an ambulance on-site all day today,” Frances told me. “The doctor got very chatty while I was in there with him. He said that over the years they’ve learned to anticipate a few emergencies when the partying gets out of hand on the last night.”

  “Lucky for Gordon,” I said.

  “What was he doing here anyway?” she asked.

  I was about to answer, but Pierpont had stepped onto the makeshift stage. “What was the question?” he asked into a microphone.

  “A microphone?” I asked. “They must have some sort of generator. I’m surprised Pierpont’s using it.”

  “Once the election is over they can officially return to the twenty-first century with all its wonders,” Frances said. “Pierpont’s rule.”

  “Convenient.”

  We were within five feet of the stage, but Pierpont didn’t see us. He was gazing out over the crowd, one hand up, answering the man’s query. “Everything is under control,” he said. “One of our visitors didn’t leave at the prescribed time and suffered an unfortunate accident, but the local authorities are handling it. Nothing we need to be concerned about.”