The Book of Judges

by Traci Tyne Hilton

  Christine tilted her head. “That’s not the same thing as calling you an insane paranoid.”

  “Terry said I was too mean to Rick and that’s why he was always seeking approval from other women.”

  “That is a horrible thing to say. I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah…” I wanted to drive that point home, rest in the knowledge that Terry really had been horrible, but Christine didn’t fight me on it.

  “Anything else?”

  “In small group time I shared my concerns with the women and…” I closed my eyes and pictured the group. One woman had shifted uncomfortably. Another had kept trying to check her phone without getting caught. A third woman had put her arm on my shoulder even though the last thing I wanted was some stranger to touch me. And the last woman in the group had grinned, like she just wanted good gossip. The jerks.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing, I guess. They just didn’t care. I talked to a couple of others—Melinda who is supposed to be an expert in family pastoral care and pastor Bob’s wife, but they had both told me it couldn’t be true. They didn’t believe me at all. They said I needed to be understanding and flexible.”

  “I believed you.”

  “I know.”

  “Even when you didn’t have any evidence.”

  “They clearly like Rick better than me.”

  Christine sighed. “Before the retreat you really liked these women.”

  “I liked them all right. I wouldn’t say really liked them.”

  “Don’t let this be like the seminary all over again.”

  I stiffened. Christine hadn’t lived with me at the seminary. She didn’t know what it had been like.

  “You’ve got to find a way to forgive people. You hang on so tightly to all the wrongs that have come your way. If you hang on to this, like you have with the seminary stuff…”

  “I could also just cut them all from my life. I never have to step foot in Grace Community again.”

  “That’s true, but you’d be cutting out a lot of good stuff, too, just because one retreat wasn’t great.”

  “More like because my cheating ex is beloved there.”

  Christine was quiet. “Yeah. That would be hard. You’re right.”

  “I don’t want to go out.”

  “Then let’s stay in. Want to come to my house?”

  I picked up my phone. “Can I just order us some take-out and we can hunker down here?”

  “Come home with me. This place smells like mold.”

  I couldn’t argue on that point, so I packed up my work life and went home with her.

  Once we were settled in her kitchen, she opened up a little. Maybe I had given signs I was ready to be a listener. I hoped I had, anyway. “I know that my work is pretty mild, but what with Rick getting fired, it’s not been easy.” Christine yawned.

  The aroma of the lasagna she had pulled from the freezer and put in the oven wrapped me in comfort. I loved Christine’s place. “They didn’t technically fire him though, did they?”

  Christine chuckled. “No, you’re right. I mean, he wasn’t on our payroll. He was just renting an office and paying half my salary. Part of our community outreach thing we do…”

  “Oh shoot, your salary…”

  “It’s okay. They are taking care of me. There are plenty of other people around who are happy to have some admin assistance.”

  I had Christine all to myself and I didn’t want to waste the precious time, but when I opened my mouth to offer sympathy all the old complaints about church I had ever had tumbled out. It all summed up in a moan she surely didn’t want to hear again. “It’s the superior attitude I just can’t take anymore. Constantly hearing that it’s okay for them to be jerks because churches are hospitals for sinners and they aren’t perfect, they’re forgiven—they give themselves so much permission to be horrible.”

  “You’ve had a lot of bad experiences through the years.” Christine’s clear, straightforward voice cut through the clouds of words spinning in my head—the voices and memories of people correcting my language, coughing at my cigarettes, quoting verses at me when I said I didn’t trust the Bible. Ignoring me when I walked in a room, criticizing my clothes. Everything about me had never been good enough. “You’re thinking about that seminary. You had the crappiest dorm mates ever. I couldn’t have survived that married student living.”

  “It was horrible.”

  “And I get it,” Christine said. “No one ever believes you because their seminary dorm mates were great, so yours must have been, too. Their friends were good, so your problems must have been your fault. I totally get it.”

  “You’re the only one who does.”

  “Somewhere out there is another woman, or maybe man, who moved to a place that was supposed to be full of love and support but found hostility instead. I know you’re not alone.”

  “At least you don’t ask me to start a support group about it.”

  Christine rolled her eyes. “It is a go-to move, isn’t it? Hey, traumatized person, you just experienced some of life's difficulties, why don’t you start a support group? Sure, you haven’t had time to heal from it yet, but it will be good for you.”

  I laughed too—it had been a perfect imitation of Rick.

  “You know, my parents always said I was expecting too much of those seminary kids. All I was expecting was…” I couldn’t put words to it anymore. I had nursed the feeling too long. The specifics had been consumed by the overwhelming ache of loneliness.

  “And you’ve put up with a lot of crap from Rick over the years, too.” Christine echoed my thoughts. Sometimes she did it just to calm me down, but times like this, I was sure she was on my side.

  “And now on top of Rick ruining my life, I’m up to my neck in an investigation where the only people I get to talk to are a bunch of crazy religious people. Not even normal religious folk like you, or Pastor Bob. Seriously crazy ones. Like bunheads and cult members.”

  “Update me on where you’re at.”

  Before I could, her husband stepped into the kitchen and frowned at me.

  Christine smiled at him. “I’m not too tired to talk to Maura tonight, and she is going to sleep over, if she wants to. I don’t think she’s decided yet.”

  He gave her a loving once over. “If you’re sure, then enjoy.” He patted my back. He didn’t usually hate me; he was just wildly protective of his wife.

  I always thought it was strange, how protective of her he was. She had always been the strongest, most confident woman I knew. But then, maybe part of that came from knowing that she had someone at home who had her back all the time.

  “It’s a massive mess. I’ve eliminated the obvious suspects, at least the ones who were obvious to me.”

  “I thought you were hired to find out something about this guy’s secret life.”

  “It’s a bizarre assignment. The man has done nothing wrong. He had nothing to hide.”

  “No one has done nothing wrong.”

  “Okay, he cheated on his long-time girlfriend and gave pot to homeless people.”

  “I’d think you were the last person to call cheating ‘nothing’.”

  “It’s not a capital offense.”

  Christine smiled. “It’s good to hear you say that.”

  “I have an interview with Linda tomorrow. And I’ve been trying to connect with a guy from this weird internship where they like, live like monks for two years and sell newspapers.”

  “Yeah, that is weird. Not going to lie. Think he knows something about Adam?”

  “He wasn’t talking in the group interview, so he knows something. Hopefully a private face to face will get him to open up.”

  “And if he doesn’t know anything, what do you do? Go tell the lady who hired you that the answer is C: None of the above?”

  “Someone killed him, for some reason. When I find the person who did it, I will know why.”

  “Are you staying tonight?” Christine pulled the
glorious meal from the oven.

  I inhaled deeply, savoring the best smell in the world. “Just for dinner. I like sleeping in my own bed.”

  “You are welcome to stay as long as you want.” She tilted her head in the direction of her husband, who was flipping channels in the family room. “We had a long talk. He repented of kicking you out.”

  “I needed it, I guess. I have a mess to sort out and I can’t do that while hiding.” Even as I said it, my brain was stormy again. Angry with Rick, wanting to go home and yell at him and fight with him and punish him, but also hoping that he would take me into his arms and apologize again.

  He was the only man I had ever loved.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The next morning, I paced my office, conflicted and anxious over what I was about to do. I was a trap. I was setting up the woman who paid my bills. I could always just ask Linda straight out. Or I could continue my plan of action.

  I stared at the coffee mug I had set out for fingerprint retrieval. All I had to do was offer her coffee, update her on the investigation, bag the cup and ship it off to the police station Belinda Warren had been booked at, all those years ago. It was both simple and necessary, but it made me a little sick. What if someone was out there right now planning a trap for me? Trying to catch me so I could be punished for my forgotten crimes?

  Then again, if she had viciously murdered a political rival…

  Linda was five minutes early—a relief to me. I wanted to get this done as soon as possible.

  “Make yourself comfortable.” I waved at the sofa and handed her the mug.

  “Thank you.” She gripped the cup in her gloved hand. I was off my game for not noticing it before.

  “Let me take your coat.” I held out my hand.

  She set the coffee down, shed her coat, and laid them on an empty seat. “You have some updates for me, I think?”

  I got her up to speed with the people I had interviewed and the results. “I am sorry to say I haven’t gotten anything concrete for you yet. Nothing we can spin, anyway.”

  “I never knew it would be so hard to find someone’s dark secrets.” She seemed to have forgotten the mug.

  “Fortunately, no one is reporting anything bad right now. How is the committee doing?”

  “Poorly.” She finally reached down for her mug, but she held it cupped with one hand and stroked it with the other, smearing whatever prints she was putting on it. “Our goal is so big. How can we achieve it now? I hadn't realized how much Adam did for the morale of the group, how his regular visits kept us all excited, kept us all feeling like a team. Mac won’t let kids sleep at his shelter, since he has men there. The Muslim Community Center won’t even consider putting kids in the gym overnight in bad weather. Mac and Adam had done a great job of convincing a bunch of independent churches to offer temporary shelter during adverse weather, but it’s really not the same as getting kids into homes, is it?”

  “What made you all decide on no homeless children by Thanksgiving as your goal?”

  “We’ve been working together for two years, Maura. And in two years we’ve done so little to create permanent hope for our friends without homes. We needed an audacious goal to light a fire under us.”

  “You certainly found one.”

  “I’ve been working tirelessly to recruit new foster parents—ones willing to get training and to take on the teens and tweens of the city.”

  “How’s that going?”

  “Terribly. And now when I meet with schools and teachers and churches, all anyone wants to talk about is the murder. They ask over and over again if he was killed by a homeless person.” She leaned back, hand to her forehead. “It’s impossible without Adam.”

  “But was it possible with him?”

  She didn’t answer.

  I passed her a fat silver pen with my logo on it, and a notecard. “Could you write down a contact for me at the Services to Children and Families?” I didn’t want the contact. I just wanted her finger prints on my pen, as the cup seemed to be fruitless.

  Linda accepted the pen and jotted down the name and number, but then she pulled the same nervous activity with it, stroking it, rubbing it with her thumb, ruining any prints she might have left while writing.

  “I can’t stay and chat, Maura. Far too much to do. Please call me if you get any news.” She dropped the pen, set down her cup, took up her coat and walked to the door. She wrapped her hand around the knob, gripping it firmly. “Our only hope is to anticipate the news. Please find out what Adam was hiding. Please.” Her voice broke and she hurried out.

  I stared at the doorknob, the only thing she had held onto with any kind of firm grip.

  I grabbed the Leatherman tool out of the desk drawer and pulled the knob apart. What did my landlord need a doorknob for? She was just tearing the building down anyway.

  * * *

  I emailed the police in that small town in Indiana to let them know what I was sending. Then I packaged up the doorknob, a set of my own prints for elimination, and sent it their way via trusty FedEx. If Linda had a history of killing political rivals…I shuddered. She didn’t, couldn’t. It was absurd. But if she did, we’d find out.

  I sat in my car at FedEx and contemplated the foundation for the case against her.

  Linda claimed she wanted me to uncover Adam’s seedy side to protect the good work they were doing. But who uncovers things to bury them? That’s not how it works.

  What if she had killed him and then hired me to drag his name? If destroying a rival was her goal, she would claim she wanted to protect him, and use me to ask the questions, get the gossip moving and make sure everyone knew that Adam had something to hide. She could kill him and ruin his reputation. If she was a ruthless political killer, of course this was possible, but what did killing Adam do for her? What would she gain? I had no answer for that.

  My car was packed with everything of value from my office. With no lock, I couldn’t leave client files and my computer. It looked like I had moved out for good.

  Rick would love that, but would I?

  * * *

  When I finally made it back home, Rick was there. As much as I wished he would go to hell, he had only gone to the spare bedroom. And having him at the other end of the hall was enough to keep me up.

  I wished I was in that room. As far as I knew he hadn’t been with any lovers there. But here…I squeezed my eyes shut, but the image of the half-naked intern wouldn’t leave. It was burned into my retinas like an eclipse. He had brought her home while I was gone, had her in this bed. I threw my blankets off. Rhoda jumped to safety. Despite being Rick’s one true love, Rhoda had clung to me since coming back to the house.

  I paced the room. Hardwood floors cold on my bare feet. The walls could remember; I swear they could. Old walls knew things.

  It was the same feeling I had after our honeymoon was over. The feeling that Diana was a part of the house, melted into the fabric of it. That I couldn’t compare to her. She was older—and to me, at nineteen, that meant sophisticated, mature, “knowing”. She had been his lover and knew what she was doing. Time had erased my insecurities regarding the ex he used to live with. And that season when we lived in the dorms…I had begged him to do it. Told him to get renters for his house. Explained that attending the seminary out of town was better for his career. Moved gladly out of Diana’s place and into the place I would soon learn to hate even more.

  Would these walls remember Izzy forever?

  Why should I care? I wasn’t staying here. I wasn’t going to fight him for his house. Just half the retirement. And other assets that might prove of use to me.

  His face flashed across my mind, like a movie montage of falling in love. Eyes twinkling, cheek dimpling, head thrown back in laughter. Those were the things that came to mind when I tried to list our marriage assets.

  It was like I was still in love with him.

  I gagged on the thought, but it was true. He had had all sorts of time to fall in l
ove, or even out of love, with his intern. But he had thrust this on me all of a sudden.

  No, that was a lie. Of course, he hadn’t. I had spent all five days of that retreat trying to convince anyone who would listen that he was having an affair.

  I had known for ages.

  Learning I was right had fired up a hunger for vengeance, full of anger and disgust, all the reactions you have when someone you love has wronged you. But it hadn’t managed to kill the love.

  He walked down the hallway. I counted his footsteps, listened for the squeak in the wood floor—the spot in front of the linen closet. He stopped at the bedroom door but didn’t open it. Then I followed the sounds of his footsteps down the stairs.

  Rhoda went to the door and meowed.

  Always the opportunist, figuring it was time for a midnight snack. “You wouldn’t leave me for him, would you?” I whispered.

  She stood on her hind legs and batted the doorknob.

  I let her out. Being alone wasn’t so bad.

  I couldn’t sleep in “our” bed tonight. It felt filthy. It made my skin crawl. And my mind wouldn’t stop—flashes of Rick, flashes of me hurting Rick, flashes of Izzy. Flashes of me telling Ansel to kill her. They wouldn’t stop. Like the flashing lights of death in the overwrought teen haiku.

  Like psychological torture.

  I dropped into the leather armchair—a perfect match to the set in the living room and the library. Rick—a man who knew what he liked and got it.

  The small table next to the chair held a lamp, a leather-bound Bible with my name embossed in gold, and the now cold cup of tea I had made myself before bed.

  I sipped the tea and traced my name on the Bible.

  Did God use flashes of light in the book of Judges? I didn’t know. Had I ever read the whole book of Judges?

  I picked the Bible up and flipped to Judges. And I read. The whole thing. I read it slowly, carefully underlining the destruction, mayhem, murder, war, infidelity, lies, cheating.

  It was a horrible book.

  The Israelites were horrible people.