Stain of Guilt

by Brandilyn Collins

  What was I going to do?

  When you look at your life, Annie—this life that you are running under your own steam—is it working?

  Dave Willit’s words to me . . . was it only yesterday? It seemed a lifetime ago.

  “Oh, God,” I whispered. “It’s not. It’s not working at all.”

  Hunching over the chair, I let the tears flow. I cried and cried, not even bothering to do it quietly. Stephen would never hear me over his music anyway. Some time passed before I was sobbed out. Tired, I headed for the bathroom to splash my face and blow my nose. Then I took a good, long look at myself in the mirror. Past the red eyes and splotchy cheeks. Into my own, sorry soul.

  By the time I turned away, I’d made a decision.

  First things first. With resolve, I unplugged the keyboard to Stephen’s computer and unhooked the telephone. With these in hand, I slowly climbed the stairs.

  Chapter 38

  I informed Kelly and Jenna that I needed to go see Dave. Kelly wanted to come with me. I hesitated, contemplating the conversation I expected to have. Not exactly one I wanted to engage in with kids around. On the other hand, her presence would keep Erin busy.

  “Okay, Kelly. Just stay in Erin’s room with her and let us talk.”

  Then I had to deal with Jenna, who insisted that the two of us couldn’t cross the street unescorted, even though we continued to have twenty-four-hour surveillance on our house. Most likely Bland had run far away from here by now. Still, Jenna hissed out of Kelly’s earshot, the man was full of surprises. What if he killed the on-duty deputy, sped up the street, and forced us both into his car?

  “Jenna—” I shook my head—“you’ve been watching too many crime shows.”

  “I don’t need crime shows, Annie. I live with you.”

  I raised defeated hands in the air and headed for the door. “Come on, Kelly.”

  Jenna trotted after us—with her purse. Which contained her gun. I forced my thoughts away from her deadly weapon by wondering what she’d think when I told her my real reason for seeing Dave. I’d never talked to Jenna about my search for God, although she knew we’d started attending church. Wasn’t quite sure what she’d think of me. We’d simply never discussed religion of any sort, much less Christianity.

  Not until we stood safely on the Willits’ porch did Jenna turn around. “Tell Dave I expect him to walk you home.”

  I couldn’t resist saluting her retreating back.

  Erin and Dave knew we were coming. Erin wasted no time answering the doorbell and flinging herself into my arms. She erupted with crying, her shaky words muted against my chest. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

  I held her, smoothing her hair, muttering empty words of solace. Her tears soaked into my heart. When she pulled away, Dave hugged me too. His green eyes were misty as he stood back, hands on my shoulders. “You sure scared us.”

  My throat tightened. “I know. I’m so very sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about, Annie. I just thank God you’re safe.”

  The girls headed for Erin’s bedroom. Dave offered me something to drink, which I declined, then invited me to sit down in his family room. We settled in the same chairs in which we’d sat yesterday. My thoughts flitted over all that had occurred since then—the terror and tears that had urged my return to this spot. But a small voice whispered that my presence wasn’t due merely from the events of the past thirty hours. The seed had been planted ten months ago. I just hadn’t tended it very well.

  I leaned forward, focusing on my crossed ankles. Now that I was here, shyness settled over me. Where to begin?

  Dave leaned back in his chair, waiting. I could feel his eyes upon me. And I sensed something more—that he seemed to know why I’d come. A moment passed. I hoped he would break the silence, make small talk. But he wouldn’t rescue me.

  “Well.” I curled my fingers around each other. “I suppose you’ve heard all that happened.”

  “Yes. Jenna was good enough to call when you’d been found. Plus, of course, I got to see you on the news tonight.”

  Terrific. “I guess I really ruined your night’s sleep, huh.”

  “You didn’t ruin it. I chose to help search, and then after we knew you were with Bland, I stayed up to pray for your protection.”

  I glanced at him, surprised. “The rest of the night?”

  He nodded. “Not only me. I called Pastor Storrel and Gerri Carson when I first heard you were missing. They prayed all night.”

  My mental projector spun out the scene of that eerily green-tinted road, the moonless sky, my stumbling, plodding feet. Had God been with me the whole time, watching over me because of those prayers?

  “That’s amazing, that they would do that for me.”

  “They love you, Annie. We all do.”

  How to respond to that? I watched my fingers lace and unlace.

  “I’m glad you called Gerri. She knows how to pray. She was meeting with me, you know, after . . . last summer. Answering my questions about God. She’s the reason I started going to church. After a while, though, I stopped meeting with her because I just wasn’t ready to . . .”

  I returned to the fascination of my hands.

  “And now?” Dave’s voice was gentle.

  I sighed. “My life’s a mess, Dave. Another crazy man’s chasing me. My son’s just been arrested for drug possession. He’s a mean and hateful teenager, and I feel like I’m totally losing him. Plus I walk around with this stain of guilt all the time. Everything’s my fault—my divorce, Stephen, the tragedy on this street, everything. Even though I know in my head that’s not true, I can’t seem to shake it. I’m just tired. I’m forty-one years old and don’t seem to know what I’m doing or where I’m going.”

  I slumped back in my seat. There. I’d blurted out the whole wretched mess. Amazing that it could be encapsulated into one meager paragraph.

  Dave grinned.

  Grinned.

  I stared at him.

  “Annie Kingston, those are the wisest words I’ve ever heard you say.”

  I must have missed something.

  His expression softened. He leaned toward me to place a hand on my knee. “Finally you’re where God’s wanted you to be for a long time. At the end of your rope. Realizing this world is too difficult to navigate alone. And you’re right—it is. Because God didn’t design us to sail it by ourselves. He wants us to let Him guide us.”

  Dave was being so kind. He could have said so much more. He could have pounced on me for holding back from God all these months. I managed a rueful smile. “I’m kinda shipwrecked already.”

  “No, you’re not. Let me put it to you this way: God’s handled a lot worse.”

  I looked into his eyes. “If I ask Christ to become a part of my everyday life, my problems aren’t going to just magically disappear, are they?”

  One side of his mouth curved. “Afraid not. Look at me and my struggles. But that’s not the question. The fact is, this world is full of evil. Until Christ comes to earth again and gets rid of it forever, we’re stuck with the consequences of sin. In the meantime the question is: do you want to face the evils of this world alone or with Christ’s help? When you think about it, the answer’s obvious. It’s like asking: would you rather stumble around in the dark or turn on a light?”

  “But what if I don’t always feel it?”

  “Feel what?”

  “God beside me. What happens when things still go wrong, and I feel lousy and alone?”

  Dave took a deep breath, gazing out his family room window. “Tell me, Annie. Do you believe that God is all-powerful? That He wants to forgive you of your sins and be a major part of your life?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “This is a solid truth to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you believe God’s truth changes from one day to the next?”

  I pondered that. “I guess not. I mean, if He changed His mind every day, where would we be?”

&
nbsp; “Exactly. God’s truth is final. Eternal. The facts written in the Bible are strong enough, sure enough, to carry us through this world and into eternity. They will never change, no matter what.”He spread his hands. “Think about it. What if God’s truth did rely on your emotions? Would you want to serve a God whose truth depended upon how you feel?”

  What a horrid thought. “I see what you mean.”

  He smiled at me, and I smiled back.

  “Will you let me pray with you now?”

  “That’s what I came for. Despite all my arguments.”

  Dave looked happier than I’d seen him since before Lisa was killed. “Then let’s do it.”

  He bowed his head, closing his eyes, and I did the same. “I’m going to pray some verses from Psalm 51, if that’s all right with you—a psalm of repentance. You can just repeat them after me.”

  “Okay.”

  With Dave’s leading, I spoke these words to God—words that a psalmist had written hundreds of years ago, but that applied to my life as if they’d been composed yesterday:

  Have mercy on me,O God, according to your unfailing love. According to your great compassion blot out my transgressions. Wash away all my iniquity and cleanse me from my sin. Surely you desire truth in my inner parts. You teach me wisdom in the inmost place. Cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean; wash me, and I will be whiter than snow. Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me. Restore me to the joy of your salvation and grant me a willing spirit to sustain me. O Lord, open my lips, and my mouth will declare your praise.

  Surprisingly, I did feel something while repeating those words. A sense of peace in knowing that I was doing the right thing.

  “Anything else you want to say to Christ right now, Annie?”

  I hesitated. “Yes. Just that . . . Jesus, help me. You know I’ve got all sorts of problems, and I feel overwhelmed. But I’m going to give those problems to You, like I’m supposed to. And I’m going to trust You to show me what to do.” I swallowed hard, then whispered, “That’s all.”

  “Great. And I say a hearty amen!”

  “Amen.”

  We raised our heads. I looked at Dave questioningly. He stood up, pulled me to my feet, and hugged me. “Welcome to God’s family.”

  His smile was contagious.

  “Thank you. For everything.”

  I could hardly believe what I’d done. On one hand the occasion seemed so momentous, which it was. I’d just changed my eternal destiny. On the other hand, it had been so simple that I wondered why on earth I’d waited forty-one years.

  We talked awhile about Stephen. Dave promised to help me pray for my son. Finally, I rounded up Kelly to leave. He walked us out to the porch.

  “Oh, Dave, I almost forgot. Jenna says you have to walk us home.”

  He shot me an amused look. “Bossy sister, huh?”

  “You have no idea.”

  As we crossed the street, I draped my arm around Kelly’s shoulder, a grateful chant running through my head. Thank You, Jesus, thank You, Jesus, thank You, Jesus . . .

  Jenna met us at the door. She thanked Dave for bringing us back and playfully tugged at Kelly’s hair. But I knew my sister too well. I could see the pinch around her mouth, the furtive eyes. Once Dave had gone I hovered in the great room, biting my tongue until Kelly drifted away to watch TV.

  “What is it? Chetterling? Reporters?”

  “Chetterling. He wants you to call him back.” She headed into the kitchen. “I’m turning on the alarm. Everyone’s in for the night.”

  I followed, a rock sinking in my stomach. Jenna wouldn’t make eye contact with me. Please, God, not so quickly. Let me hold on to that feeling of peace a little longer.

  “Bad news?”

  Jenna punched in the code before she answered. “Go call. I’ll let him explain.”

  I stared at her for a moment. Then turned to head for my office with heavy, dreading steps.

  Chapter 39

  Office door closed, I lowered myself into my desk chair. I reached for the phone, then stopped. Was this one of those times when I should pray first? I stumbled over a quick plea to God for help, then picked up the receiver.

  My fingers trembled as I dialed Chetterling’s direct number.

  “Okay, Ralph.” I didn’t even say hello. “Lay it on me.”

  His reticence wafted over the phone line. “Did you get some sleep?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Now tell me.” I was beginning to sound as snippy as my sister.

  He inhaled deeply. “All right. Good news first. After the news shows, calls poured in about Bland’s photo. And his license plate was traced. We now know the name he’s using. Tom Smith. And we know his address—in a small, rural town in Kansas. Deputies have been out there, talking to his wife, who knows nothing about his past. Bland wasn’t there. His wife said he’d taken off on a trip to a cousin’s funeral and hadn’t returned. The media has gotten hold of this information. Local cameras followed officers to Bland’s home, then quickly disseminated the film. I just got a call from CNN. But that doesn’t matter, Annie. What matters is, Bland will now have nowhere to hide. With his current identity and his picture posted everywhere, it’s only a matter of time.”

  Finally. After twenty years. Emily and Edwin’s faces shimmered in my mind. How achingly gratified they would be to see Bill Bland in handcuffs.

  “So what’s the matter, Ralph?”

  “It has to do with the shirt and gun.”

  I stared at my drawing board across the room. Twenty-four hours ago I’d toiled there, drawing Bland’s face. Now something in Chetterling’s tone made me sense my work was all for nothing. “You’re done testing them?”

  “Those tests don’t take long, and the lab gave them priority. Now I really expected this to amount to nothing. But it hasn’t turned out that way. The shirt checks out as Bland claimed. Discharge residue from a gun was found in the right sleeve. The blood on the sleeves is consistent with Don Tarell’s blood type. Fortunately Delft saved a blanket that Emily Tarell put over her husband’s body. Some of his blood seeped onto that. With a couple weeks to do a DNA analysis, we’ll be able to definitely say whether the blood on the sleeves matches the blood on the blanket, but at this point it seems fairly certain that answer’s going to be yes. The owner of the dry cleaning shop identified his writing on the inside tag of the shirt. Plus we’ve got Bland’s story of how he got the shirt fitting together with Edwin Tarell’s story about throwing it away. So I don’t doubt this is the shirt.”

  I closed my eyes. “But it doesn’t prove anything, right? Even if it’s the real shirt, Bland could have put it on later and fired some other gun.”

  “True. Although we can match a bullet to a gun—and I’ll get to that in a minute—there’s no way to match discharge to a particular weapon. So this shirt in itself is not compelling evidence.”

  “But the gun?”

  “That’s the most surprising part. I’d have bet the shirt off my own back that we wouldn’t lift a latent off that thing after so many years. But we did. Bland preserved it well. The print is Edwin’s. He had prints taken at the time of the murders so the techs could distinguish what print was whose at the scene, and two experts agree that this latent matches his. And, here’s the real problem, the latent looks like it was left by someone holding the gun to shoot it—fingers wrapped around the grip.”

  The mental picture flashed before me. “Edwin held the gun?”

  “That’s what the print tells us.”

  “But . . . that doesn’t match his story. He said he tackled Bland and the gun was knocked away. He never mentioned picking it up. In fact, Bland picked it up by the barrel and hit him with it.”

  “I know.” Chetterling scraped out the words.

  This couldn’t be. Something had to be wrong here. “Are you saying you think Bland was telling the truth?”

  “No. But I am telling you we’ve got evidence we can’t explain.”

 
; “So? Let them fight it out in court.”

  “That’s just it, Annie, it may be too much to allow us to get to court. Delft and I met with the D.A. late this afternoon, told him everything we had. He’s not even sure that he can charge the guy with the homicides.”

  “What?” I shot forward in my chair. “Look at all you’ve got! Bland disappeared for twenty years, for heaven’s sake. After stealing from Tarell’s company.”

  “I know, I know. It’s heavy circumstantial evidence. But that’s all it is—circumstantial. On the other side is this hard evidence. The gun used in the crime. No doubt about that because we matched its bullets. And the shirt worn when the gun was fired.”

  “You said the shirt meant nothing.”

  “By itself it means nothing. But you add it to the print taken from the gun, and how’s a prosecutor going to explain that in court? Bland’s attorney would have a heyday with it, even with the obvious chain of evidence problems. Especially since the star witness against Bland is the man whom the evidence implicates.”

  “Chetterling—” I pushed to my feet—“you’re not telling me Bland’s going to get away with this! Please.”

  “Annie, we’ll get him. We’ve just got to find a way to explain all this.”

  “But he threatened me! He did everything he could to keep me from drawing that update; isn’t that evidence enough?”

  “It’ll help a lot. But we’ve got to be able to 100 percent pin those threats on him. Right now we’ve got no witnesses as to who left that money at the florist shop, or who called you. We can’t prove he did it. Yet.”

  “Oh, no. No, no, no.” I paced over to my drawing table, smacking my hip with the heel of my hand. My throat threatened to close like some steel door. “I won’t accept this. Not now, not after everything that’s happened. What about Bland kidnapping me, doesn’t that count for anything?”

  “Of course it does.” Chetterling’s voice ran steady, and I could have punched him for it. I didn’t want steady and soothing right now; I wanted fighting mad. “We’ve got him on kidnapping charges and other counts, no doubt about that. Even in the worst-case scenario, he’ll still do jail time.”