“Get a restraining order. Maybe lean on him a little. First, let’s make sure we’re talking about the same guy. There’s only one person I know named Skinner. But I need you to ID him.”
Steve left the room and came back carrying a large album of mug shots. He flipped through it and stopped. “This the guy?” His finger stabbed the photo of a hollow-cheeked man with a scar running down the right side of his face.
The hair on Cynthia’s arms bristled. “Yes. That’s him.”
Steve slammed the book shut, then shoved a form across his desk. “File a complaint. Then you’ll have to go before a judge to get a restraining order. I’ll do my best to rush it through.”
“Who is he? Really.”
“A punk.”
“Steve, I want to know.”
Steve toyed with his ball-point pen. Click-click, click-click, click-click. “Okay . . . he’s a killer. Someone we’ve never been able to pin anything on. But he has a bad rep, and is supposed to be good with a knife. He’s connected with the local drug trade.”
“That’s just what Stubby said. Do you think it was Skinner who tried to strangle me?” Her hand traveled to her throat. The bruising was nearly gone and it barely hurt when she swallowed. But since returning to her apartment, she had started sleeping with a light on. “Was it Skinner, you think?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Steve leaned across his desk and squinted the way he did when he was all business. “Because it was an inside job—someone living at the mission. Same with Stubby.”
“So now you don’t think it was an overdose?”
“No.”
“Since when?
“Since we got the doctor’s report. You said to look for bruises, signs of a struggle and we did.”
Cynthia felt the beginning of a tension headache working its way up her neck. “Thanks, Steve. I just couldn’t believe Stubby had gone back to drugging.”
“You know what this means—the mission is a dangerous place. And Pastor Holmes has a killer on his hands.”
“Will you warn Jonathan? He needs to know.” Her temples began to pound.
Steve nodded.
“What have you found at the Men’s Shelter?”
“Nothing. The shelter’s clean.”
Cynthia sat on the edge of her seat, squared her shoulders and pulled on her suit jacket—transitioning from victim to reporter. “You’re not going to quit are you? You’re not going to let it drop, not after what happened to me and Stubby, not after Skinner’s threat?”
“If I could prove there’s a connection between what happened to you and Stubby and the Men’s Shelter, then the answer would be ‘no.’ But I can’t. I’m not saying there isn’t one; I’m just saying that right now, I can’t prove it. On the other hand, this could be a simple case of a crazed homeless guy who’s flipped and hurts people.”
“Come on, Steve, you don’t believe that.”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. I’m a cop and I need to build a case on evidence. So far, I’ve got nothing so I have to drop the investigation.”
“Drop it!”
“Harassment. Ever heard of it? I can’t continue to pursue a case without a reason, not unless I’m willing to be accused of harassment. Which I’m not.”
“And what about Skinner? Doesn’t his threat mean there’s something very wrong at that shelter?”
“Probably. But the only thing I can legitimately pursue is your complaint and your request for an order of protection. That doesn’t mean I can’t keep my eyes open, or keep asking questions. It just means that the official investigation of the Angus Avenue Men’s Shelter is closed.”
“Ever hear the expression, ‘where there’s smoke there’s fire?’”
“Sure, Wells, but in my world if I want a conviction, I need to see the fire.”
Jonathan entered the main room of the mission in time to see a man flying through the air. Another man followed—then a tangle of arms and legs, as fists and feet connected. There was the sound of fabric ripping as the sleeve of a shirt was torn off. Then a chair was kicked over. Jonathan looked around for help and saw Willie Tanner slouching in a corner. He motioned for him to come, then the two of them separated the brawlers.
“What’s the problem?” Jonathan said, smelling alcohol.
“This guy’s hand was in my pocket!”
“No it wasn’t!” Came the denial, as the man used his sleeve to wipe the blood from his nose.
“Fighting’s not allowed in here.” Jonathan eyed the first man, the one who didn’t look like he was able to stand on his own.
“They already know that,” Willie Tanner said, grabbing the man with the bloody shirt. “Cause it’s the same everywhere. All the shelters throw out their troublemakers otherwise there’d be chaos.”
Jonathan studied the battered men. “How long have you two been staying here?”
“Less than a week,” said the one who didn’t seem so drunk.
“But long enough to know the rules.” Jonathan picked up the overturned chair and settled the staggering man on it. “What Willie says is true. Fighting is grounds for expulsion. We can’t maintain order without accountability. So here’s what I’ll do. I’ll let you pick the punishment. You two can leave now, or you can unload the shipment of groceries that just came in. Which is it?”
The man with the bloody nose glared at Jonathan. “I was leaving anyhow. Can’t stomach the thought of having to sit through another one of your Bible sermons you make us listen to.”
Jonathan watched the man walk out. Then he looked at the one in the chair. “What about you? Will it be black coffee and a few hours of labor or . . . .”
“Coffee . . . coffee and work.” The man flopped backward like a rag doll. “I’ve got nowhere else to go.”
When Jonathan headed for the kitchen, Willie Tanner followed. “He’s a troublemaker, that one. I’ve seen him before. In other shelters. You’ve made a bad bargain.”
Jonathan poured coffee into a white ceramic mug. “Thanks for helping back there.” Out of the corner of his eye, he studied Willie. His shirttail was out, his greasy hair formed spikes on his head, his blackened hands looked like they hadn’t been washed in days. And yet, it was unmistakable what the Lord was directing him to do.
“You know, Willie, it’s been hard with Stubby in the hospital. I could use an assistant. The pay’s not much, minimum wage, but steady, and you’d be on the first floor with staff which means access to the refrigerator and all Miss Emily’s goodies. I’m afraid those are the only incentives I can offer. Think you’d be interested?” He watched Willie shift his weight, then pull on one ear.
“I . . . don’t know. Suppose I get one of my urges?”
“Suppose you do. Would you try to hurt anyone?”
“No. Just myself.”
“Then that settles it. You help me out and I’ll help you out. Whenever you get an urge, you come to me and we’ll see it through together.”
Willie let go of his ear and grinned. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been on the clock.”
Jonathan handed him the mug. “Consider yourself hired. Now, give this to our friend out there, then help him unload the truck.”
Willie took the mug, turned to leave and stopped. “We’ll do it on a trial basis. Give it a few days and see. No guarantees, okay?”
“Okay.” Jonathan watched Willie walk out of the kitchen hoping he had heard the Lord correctly.
“I want you to come stay with Roberta and me. And no argument, Cynthia. This is serious.”
Cynthia Wells sat facing Bernie’s desk, thinking how little she had appreciated his friendship before—how much she had taken it for granted. “I’m touched. But it’s not necessary. The judge has granted the restraining order and Steve will lean on Skinner. I don’t think Skinner will be stupid enough to try anything, now.”
“And what if he does?”
“My news feature said nothing incriminating about the
Shelter. And Steve told me the investigation was over. What is there to be gained by hurting me?”
“Didn’t you tell me Skinner enjoys hurting people? That’s reason enough.”
“I have to admit that at first I was scared . . . okay, make that terrified, but I’ve had time to think. I can’t allow some creep to rearrange my life. I’ve been threatened before. You know that. It comes with the territory. I can’t start cowering, now. And I can’t live with you forever.”
“I . . . suppose not.” The corpulent editor drummed his fingers on the desk, his cheeks bulging from a mouthful of jellybeans. “I just thought it would be a good idea if you stayed with us a few days, that’s all.”
Cynthia smiled, He looked like a big Saint Bernard with his floppy hair and large brown eyes and sweet manner. “Did I ever thank you for all your kindness? For always being there? For being my . . . friend?” She leaned over and covered Bernie’s hand with hers.
“The offer was for our spare room.” Bernie squeezed her hand before pulling away. “Don’t make it sound like some kind of adoption.”
“I’m just trying to say that I appreciate you, that’s all.”
“Okay, you said it, now back to work.”
As Cynthia walked out of Bernie’s office, she saw a Cheshire-cat-like smile on his face.
Jonathan rose from his desk when Detective Bradley entered.
“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”
Jonathan shook Steve’s hand then gestured for him to take the vacant chair. “You said you had news. I’m guessing it has something to do with Stubby White.”
The detective’s muscular body filled the seat. “Actually, there are a few things I need to discuss, and yeah, Stubby White’s one of them. I hear he’s still in a coma.”
Jonathan frowned. “Yes.”
“Too bad. He could tell us who tried to kill him.”
“Then it was attempted murder, like Cynthia said?”
Steve nodded.
“Any idea why someone would want him dead?”
“A man with a past has enemies. Especially a man whose past involved drugs. But the thing you need to know is that whoever did it is living at the mission.”
Jonathan frowned. “How did you arrive at that conclusion?”
“We suspected it right from the start. For one thing, none of the windows and doors showed signs of forced entry, and considering that at night you lock your place up tighter than a vault, it would be impossible for anyone to get in, meaning the killer was already inside.”
“Yes . . . that makes sense.”
“We think it’s likely that the same person who tried to kill Stubby White also tried to kill Cynthia Wells.”
Jonathan tensed. “Any clue who that might be?”
Steve pulled a photo from his jacket pocket. “Ever see this character?”
Jonathan took the picture and studied it. “Looks like the man Stubby threw out of the mission for carrying a weapon.”
“A knife?”
“Yes, come to think of it. And Stubby called him, Skinner.”
“Yeah, that’s one of his street names. He’s got others. Seems he was waiting in the parking lot for Cynthia when she got home last night after she left you.”
Jonathan’s heart jumped. “Is she all right?” He saw a strange look cross the detective’s face.
“Yeah. He only threatened her. And you know Cynthia. Won’t admit he almost scared the dinner out of her. But other than that, she’s fine.”
Jonathan leaned his elbows on the desk. “You’ll give her protection, won’t you? Stubby said this man was dangerous.”
“He’s a lunatic, but not the lunatic we’re looking for in connection with what happened at the mission. Cynthia said he never slept there.”
“No, he never did.”
“Any other candidates come to mind?”
“Sixty-five percent of the men in shelters or missions test positive for drugs. Others have drinking and gambling problems. Still others are mentally ill. There are no lack of candidates here, Detective.”
Steve’s lips pursed. “I don’t know why you bother with any of them.”
Jonathan thought of Stubby. “Ever hear of Divine Appointment?”
“No, and I don’t want to. I’d rather hear about you and Cynthia. Is there something going on between you two?”
Jonathan was shocked into silence and just shook his head.
“Good. Then you won’t mind if I play in that yard?”
Again Jonathan shook his head
Steve rose. “Okay. That’s about it. I just wanted to let you know what’s going on, and to tell you to watch your back. You’ve got a killer living at the mission, Preacher.”
Cynthia was having difficulty retrieving the bulk of Part Two from her head. It had sounded so smooth and poignant when she first conceived it. Now, it came out in fits and starts like artist’s oils from a clogged tube. Her plan was to focus on Stubby’s life, with Manny and Turtle as shadow characters. Then pull the three threads together to show the trials, dangers and often tragic ending to a homeless life.
Trouble was, Stubby’s life had turned into an open-ended promise, at least until someone tried to terminate it. Day after day, she had watched him, seen a joy that defied understanding and the kind of hope that often eluded even the young. The pieces were not fitting together. And the only way she could make them fit was if she included what Stubby called his “Divine Appointment.” But how could she when she didn’t believe in such things? Maybe it didn’t matter, as long as he did. Didn’t children sleep better at night when they went to bed believing in fairy tales and that everything always ended “happily ever after?”
Not always. Fairy tales were also full of monsters and giants.
Cynthia picked up her pen and began drawing stick figures. She wasn’t ready to write this. She needed to do more thinking. She threw down her pen. Thinking was always easier behind the wheel of her car. And it would be good to get away from the noise and confusion of the newsroom . . . away from the watchful eyes of Bernie Hobbs. He had been behaving like a mother hen, stopping by her desk in regular intervals as if to make sure Skinner had not somehow penetrated the building. No, what she needed now was not a babysitter, but an open highway. She grabbed her purse just as the phone rang.
“Oberon Tribune, Cynthia Wells speaking.”
“Well, Praise God, you don’t sound like someone who’s been terrorized.”
“Jonathan?”
“Detective Bradley just left. He told me about Skinner. Not exactly the way to end the evening on a high note. Now it looks like our little ‘date’ will be memorable for the wrong reason.”
Cynthia laughed. “I’m glad Steve came. I asked him to warn you.”
“Well, he did. I’m still having a hard time adjusting, though. I guess I don’t want to believe that someone here is a . . . .”
“I know. Are you looking at everyone differently, now, trying to guess who it is?”
“No. I’ve been asking God to show me.”
Cynthia was quiet.
“Keep me in prayer and the mission, too, okay?”
“Me? You’re the preacher. You should be praying for me.”
“I am, Cynthia. From the moment I met you.”
“Well . . . thanks . . . I’ll try to . . . say a prayer for you, too.”
“Listen, if you ever need to talk, if you get lonely or scared, call me, okay?”
“Nobody wants to listen to someone bellyaching.”
“I do. I’m serious, Cynthia. You call me anytime. You’ve been through a lot these last few weeks. You’ve seen a lot and I know God has stirred your heart in ways you never expected, especially with Stubby. This is not an empty invitation.”
“Thanks.” Cynthia took a moment to clear her throat. “By the way, how is Stubby?”
“No change. I plan on going there later. Will I see you?”
Cynthia felt her color drain. “No . . . I’m busy . . . it’
s not a good time.”
“That’s okay. Stubby would understand.”
“I appreciate the call, Jonathan. Thank you.” She could hear soft breathing on the other end. “Was there anything else?”
“I just wanted to tell you, it’s not your fault what happened to Stubby. You can’t blame yourself.”
Cynthia swallowed hard. She had been too cowardly to return to the hospital after her partial confession. She still couldn’t believe she had admitted so much. What was she thinking? What if he actually heard her? Some claim people in comas hear what is said around them. It was seeing all those tubes and machines, seeing Stubby so gray and rubbery that dismantled her defenses. She couldn’t let that happen again.
“It’s okay, Cynthia.”
“I think about it a lot—about being responsible for what happened. But that’s not why I won’t go see him. It’s something else. Something that happened long ago.” Now, why had she said that?
“You want to talk about it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay. When you do, call me. Anytime.”
Jonathan sat next to the hospital bed watching Stubby’s chest rise and fall. Tubes were everywhere, going in and out of machines that filled the room with a low, steady noise. Lord, you were wounded for our transgressions, You were bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon You; and with Your stripes we are healed.
Jonathan thought he saw Stubby’s hand move, then decided it was his imagination. He had been here for over an hour. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. He was tired, but he’d sit, just a while longer, and continue praying.
Cynthia leaned over the kitchen table carefully painting diagonal marks of raw sienna with a small brush. She stepped back and looked at the mirror frame. So far so good. Another half hour and she’d start with the burnt sienna and then move on to the burnt umber. Within two hours she’d be using her pasting brush to blend the colors together. Then she’d use a natural sea sponge dipped in turpentine to create a grain, a grain she would soften by once again applying her pasting brush. She doubted she’d have time to deepen the tortoiseshelling, to coat a toothbrush with black oil paint, thinned slightly with turpentine, then spatter the frame. The other processes would keep her busy all night. With any luck she’d finish them before the Eleven O’clock News.
Mercy at Midnight Page 23
