“A bit over three hours, not so bad. And my rental has GPS.”
He could lose himself in those blue eyes. “You still haven’t told me why.”
“I’m hoping you’ll tell me.” She took a deep breath. “Did Granddad tell you my husband and I are missionaries in Latvia?”
Harry nodded, his lips twisting in a wry grin. “For an agnostic Jew, he was very proud of you.”
“He phoned me overseas the day before he died, and asked me to pray for you. His voice was so weak I could barely hear him.”
Emotion clogged Harry’s throat. “After he came to see me? Trace, I was so hard on him, and he was in no shape to travel.”
What would he see in her face now? He was afraid to know, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Surprisingly, her expression didn’t change.
She nodded slowly. “He said he couldn’t help you himself. He loved you, Harry.” She tucked a stray tendril of hair behind her ear. “The doctors had warned us he hadn’t long to live, but... well, you probably did speed it along.”
Harry accepted her verdict in silence. Finally he ventured, “So did you pray for me?”
“That’s why I’m here.”
He frowned. “Tracey, do you know what I’ve done?” She’d been out of the country, after all.
She gave a sad smile. “I know. Granddad didn’t tell me much, only that you were going to jail, that you’d done something terrible. I guess he wanted to spare my feelings. I asked my best friend to find out the details. She’s been keeping me updated ever since. She thinks I’m nuts.”
One hand touched her golden hair. “Always blond women around the age I was when we broke up...” Colour flooded her face. “Were you really killing me?”
Harry’s palms hit the table and he started up from his chair. On the other side of the glass, Tracey went pale. The sight twisted something in Harry’s heart, and he slumped into his seat.
He hated himself for being a coward, but what could he say? The same question had tortured him for months. He’d been able to avoid it until it came from Tracey’s own lips.
If he signalled the guards, demanded they escort him back to his cell... but they’d probably just watch him squirm.
“Harry, after the hoops I had to jump through to get approved for this visit, and then a full body scan to get into the building, I’m not leaving without an answer. You did agree to see me.”
Only because his case officer said Tracey was so insistent, and because the chaplain thought it was a good idea.
His heart constricted, shrink-wrapped with shame. “I don’t know.” He spoke shakily to the table, not daring to look at her face. “Maybe they attracted me because of you, but what I did to them...”
He shuffled his feet under the chair. “I never told you about my mother. When she became a Christian, Dad took it as betrayal. It destroyed our family.” He spoke in a detached voice, distancing himself from the old pain. He was feeling enough right now.
“That day in the apartment—when you told me you were a Christian—it nearly killed me. The same thing was starting all over again. I blamed God for the hurt, and I blamed you. Maybe they reminded me of what we’d had together, what I blamed you for destroying. Maybe my victims were surrogates for my anger.”
Harry forced himself to meet her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I can’t ask you to forgive this. You’d better go.”
Tracey leaned forward. “I prayed for you as Granddad asked. Before and after I learned what you’d done. You wouldn’t have wanted me to, but I did. Tell me—” her voice sharpened. “You escaped, then were recaptured. What happened on June 17th last year?”
He sat straighter. “Why?”
“I’d been praying for you off and on, then suddenly you were on my mind all the time. On the 17th, it was so strong I fasted and prayed all day. When the need passed, I stopped. I accept your feelings about Christianity, but tell me what happened.”
Harry swallowed, thinking of the last time they’d been together, when he’d so vividly expressed those feelings. Another of the many layers in his mountain of regret. He studied his palms. Slowly, his voice rough with emotion, he told her what had happened in the cottage, how his hostage had helped him find the way to salvation.
Looking up, he said simply, “Thank you for praying.”
A tear trembled on Tracey’s eyelashes. “I didn’t want to at first.” She gave a faint smile. “It took courage to give yourself up and return to prison.”
Harry moved his hands in a deprecating gesture. “When I thought it through, there wasn’t much choice. And I found out later I was never intended to reach my destination. A quick splash in the night, and the ship keeps sailing.”
Tracey gasped, but he shrugged and went on. “The drug dealer makes some extra money from me, then removes a witness who can identify him. Sweet, from his point of view.”
Her brows pulled together. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but wouldn’t it have been simpler for him to have you killed in prison?”
“Maybe it seemed more cruel to let me get freedom in sight before I died. This guy gives ‘no pain, no gain’ a whole new twist.”
“That’s horrible. I suppose you could say it was Divine intervention, though.”
He nodded. “Ruth said the same thing. They came to visit me—she and her husband—when I was shipped back to Halifax for trial. Ruth said it was part of her healing process.”
“They sound like amazing people.”
“They still pray for me, and we write. Knowing someone on the outside cares helps a lot. There’s no love lost for me in here.”
He looked away. “I have a hard time with pornography. Some of the other inmates—and a few guards—toss magazines into my cell. I fight it, but everyone knows when I fall.”
Tracey grimaced. “So nobody believes your faith is sincere?”
“One guard’s starting to, and the chaplain’s been great. We’re working through an intensive Bible study series together. The psychologists tell me I’ll never be rehabilitated—that the behaviour pattern will always be there waiting to break out. Like it’s an addiction.”
Tracey’s lips twitched. “They don’t often include God in their equations.”
“No, but they have some serious numbers to back them up. I know God did something—it was a blond policewoman I surrendered to, and I was fine—but that might have been a one-time miracle.” He slid a finger around the inside of his collar. “Not that I’ll have a chance to find out. The best I can hope for is to get out of solitary and into a protected custody unit. Then at least I’ll have some company. Right now I even exercise alone.”
Behind him, the door latch clicked. “Time’s up.”
Time. Back to his cell—his cage. Harry tried to keep his face impassive as he got up. “Tracey, your coming to see me means more than I can say. Thank you so much.”
She was on her feet too, tears in her eyes as she pressed one palm flat against the Plexiglas barrier. “May I write to you?”
Harry brought his hand to rest opposite hers. “I’d appreciate that. Take care, and—God bless you.”
A Note from Janet Sketchley
This story is in no way an attempt to minimize the horror and tragedy of violent crime. It’s about the magnitude of God’s love, a love that writes no one off as unredeemable. The power of Christ’s shed blood is always greater than the evil, and that gives hope to each one of us.
To be honest, I wish there were a limit, a point beyond which God would reject a cry for forgiveness. I struggle with the thought of people who commit crimes like Harry’s—or worse—being welcomed into the kingdom of God. But I love this magnificent God who is not willing that any should perish. His mercy is beyond understanding.
It’s worth noting that most serial killers are psychopaths, and that studies show they’re not likely to be rehabilitated. I want to make a clear distinction between the redemption of a soul—offered to everyone—and the curing of a disorder, which would be a separate t
hing altogether. I don’t think Harry is a psychopath, but whether he is or not, I’ve taken the liberty to give him the miracle of release from his addiction.
It’s also worth noting that many people are exposed to domestic violence and/or pornography without turning into dangerous offenders. I do believe both influences are destructive and not in God’s plan for healthy living, but I didn’t have a hidden agenda in including them in Harry’s life.
In this story, Ruth and Harry both find spiritual help and growth through Bible study. Anyone who can read (or listen to audio books) can study the Scriptures, which are God’s word to us. There are a lot of good, contemporary-language translations. If you’d like to spend more time in the Bible but aren’t sure where to start, don’t just begin at the beginning. Pick something in the New Testament, perhaps one of the Gospels (Matthew, Mark, Luke or John). The key is to pray first, inviting the Lord to teach you, and then to read and reflect on a few verses or a chapter at a time.
Followers of NASCAR, Champ Car World Series and IndyCar Series will note that at times I’ve staged races at venues other than existing circuits. The early April venue where Harry crashed out of his final race is my own invention, and would have been held on the East Coast, obviously in one of the warmer states. When I started this book, Champ Car’s predecessor, CART, had Canadian races in Toronto, Montreal, and Vancouver but none in Calgary, and this is what I’ve based this story on even though these venues have changed. Readers who’d like to know more about the actual racing circuits can learn more at www.nascar.com, www.champcar-ws.com, and www.indycar.com.
Dear Reader: What’s Next?
You’ve finished the story, but you don’t have to go yet. The following pages include questions for personal reflection or group chat. They also give you a preview of the next Redemption’s Edge novel.
Secrets and Lies is Harry’s sister Carol’s story. What would it be like to live with the public shame of having a family member who’s a dangerous offender? What if Harry’s enemies, who can’t touch him in prison, decide to target Carol and her son? And what if this single mom has to handle all this in her own strength, because she’s afraid to pray for help?
Secrets and Lies is book 2 in the series, followed by Without Proof. Keep up with what’s coming next! You’re invited to sign up for my newsletter at bit.ly/JanetSketchleyNews.
Finally, a favour if you’re so inclined: Reader reviews make a huge difference in a book’s visibility online. Could you post a few quick lines to the site where you bought this book, and perhaps to Goodreads, and/or share your thoughts with your social media contacts? No spoilers, please!
God bless you, and remember: whatever happens, Jesus will be there.
~Janet
Janet Sketchley is the author of the Redemption’s Edge series. You'll find her Christian living articles and book reviews on her website (janetsketchley.ca), plus a true-life story in the award-winning anthology, A Second Cup of Hot Apple Cider. Janet lives and writes in east-coast Canada.
Secrets and Lies
Redemption’s Edge, Book Two
Chapter 1
Toronto, Canada. September.
Carol jolted upright, eyes wide in the dark. She searched for familiar touchstones to pull her back to reality. The faint light outlining her bedroom curtains. The red digits on her clock radio, mocking her with the hours left until dawn. The two dark rectangles on her bureau — Paul's and Keith's school photos.
Her hands ached. It took a conscious act of will to release her two-fisted grip on the sheets.
Paul.
The afterimages of Carol's dream burned in her imagination. Her sixteen-year-old son, larger than life on a brightly-lit stage, arms raised to embrace the crowd's cheers, electric guitar draped low across his hips. An over-sized brown leather jacket hung open over his faded T-shirt and jeans.
Carol knew that jacket. Butter-soft Italian calfskin, steeped in beer and Old Spice, nicked and scraped here and there and with a cigarette burn inside the left cuff.
Skip's jacket. Paul's father's.
In her dream she'd stood beside her son, but Paul only had eyes for his fans. An almost palpable energy radiated from his body — the same power trip that took Skip whenever he performed. With the same price for those who loved him.
The cheering swelled. Paul swung his guitar in a move that knocked Carol off the stage.
She'd awakened from a panicked sense of free-fall. Her heart slowed, each beat heavy, sodden. Hopeless.
Carol pushed sweaty bangs off her forehead. Breathe. Slowly. Deeply. Dreams died in the waking.
The dog stood like a shadow at her bedside. He gave another low whine and licked her arm.
"I'm okay, Chance."
She rolled over, buried her face in his shaggy fur. The scene played again in her mind. Carol shivered and tightened her hold on the dog, anchoring in his comforting scent.
After a minute she released Chance and slid out of bed, into floppy slippers and her old robe. She peered through a crack in the curtains. The street lay deserted.
In the short hallway, Carol pressed her fingertips against Paul's door. Light snores reached her through the wood. Her firstborn... and the only one left to her since they'd lost his brother, Keith.
Carol fled for the kitchen, Chance at her heels. She flicked on the overhead light and turned on the radio to the all-night request show. "Breakfast in America?" Someone asked for that in the middle of the night?
At least the bright tempo swept away the final shards of her dream. Carol grabbed the kettle and splashed in enough water for tea. She had not moved halfway across the country to fall apart. This was a fresh start for her and Paul. Safe, anonymous, positive.
She plugged in the kettle and snagged the wall phone. Her call went through on the third try. Lucky this time, for a change.
"Welcome to All-Request Oldies. What would you like to hear tonight?" On the radio, the music kept playing.
"Hi, Joey. It's Carol." She stretched the phone cord to reach the counter and poured boiling water into a yellow-flowered porcelain cup.
"Carol!" He always sounded glad she called, as if she were a friend he hadn't heard from in years instead of a stranger who phoned a few times a week. Part of the job, but he did it well. "What're you up to at this hour of the morning?"
Carol dipped the teabag in her cup, turning the water amber-gold. The scent of peppermint teased her nostrils. "Making myself some tea." She kept her tone light. "Some nights I sleep better than others."
"I held off on playing Billy Joel in case you phoned."
She padded across the room, careful not to spill her tea. "Am I that predictable?"
"Hey, I said 'in case.' One sec. Song's over. Don't go." There was a click, then dead air.
Carol muffled a sigh and slid one of the chairs away from the table. Half-listening to Joey's voice on the radio with the next line-up of songs, she sank onto the neatly taped vinyl and eased her feet up onto its mate. Chance rested his muzzle on her leg.
When the Beatles started singing "Blackbird," Joey's rich baritone came back on the phone. "Carol? You still with me?"
"Mm-hmm."
"Want to talk about it?"
"You've got work to do." The dream sounded silly now. Joey understood the usual ones of Paul in danger, but how could she explain that a band dream left her more cold, more... desolate... and still feeling aftershocks?
"I just bought us twelve minutes, so shoot."
Carol touched the cup's rim to her lips. Hot, but not painful. The spicy tea set her mouth tingling. "My son was playing in a band. Dressed like his father."
"His father's dead, isn't he? Are you afraid it's some kind of warning?"
"No — well, not about death this time. Maybe this is worse, because it's more likely to come true." The words froze Carol's lips. "The boys never knew how big a rat Skip was. Paul built him into some kind of musical legend."
Her fingertip connected the chips in the faded tabletop. "I shouldn't
have called, I can't even think of a song to request."
"No worries. I know what you like by now. What kind of tea are you drinking?"
"Hmm? Oh, peppermint. It smells like freedom."
"Freedom's good. Tell you what, I'll wait fifteen minutes or so, then play something to send you better dreams."
"Thanks, Joey. It's been good to hear a friendly voice."
"Trust me. You'll make it. I'll say a little prayer for you."
Ever since the first night in Toronto, when she'd found his show after a nightmare-fractured sleep, Joey'd been saying things would work out. So far he was right.
She'd barely hung up the phone when doubt kicked in. She'd said too much, shouldn't have mentioned Skip's name, or that he'd been a musician. Joey only knew her as Carol. No last name. With the extra details, he could find out who she was. Fear tiptoed along her spine.
If word leaked that she'd moved to Toronto, and if the note-sending psycho from Calgary heard...
She looked down at the dog, asleep on the floor. Worst-case, what if the guy came looking for them? With over six million people in the Greater Toronto Area, only blind luck would let him find them.
Still, she shouldn't have let down her defences. From now on, she'd be more careful. Carol swallowed the last of her tea, rinsed her mug and headed back to bed.
Warm but awake, she turned on her bedside radio and tried to drift away on the music. Before long, Joey announced, "This next one's for Carol. Sleep well."
The haunting first notes of Billy Joel's "Through the Long Night" washed the tension from her muscles and she smiled in the darkness. Her coping mechanisms might be odd, but they were safer than prayer.
~~~
Secrets and Lies, Redemption's Edge book 2, is Harry Silver's sister Carol's story. It's a romantic suspense novel, lighter in tone than Heaven's Prey, and available in ebook and print.
Heaven's Prey Page 25
