Rachel met her daughter's big, green-eyed gaze, and her own eyes teared up unexpectedly.
"Got soap in your eyes?" Mallory grabbed the corner of the towel to reach up toward her mother's face.
Rachel laughed and scooped her slippery daughter into her arms. "What are we reading tonight? A storybook or more Harry Potter?"
"Not Hawwy, not without Mattie. He loves Hawwy Potta."
Rachel's first impulse was to ask how on earth Mallory knew Mattie liked Harry Potter, or anything else for that matter. The man could barely communicate his basic needs, but the two of them had a strange, special relationship that had existed from the time she brought Mallory home from the hospital, and she'd given up long ago trying to figure it out.
"All right," she conceded, carrying the little girl down the hall toward her bedroom. "But if you want Mattie to come up for reading time, you have to get into your jammies and go downstairs to get him quickly. Mama's tired and she wants to put on her pj's and relax."
"The ones with sheep, Mama?"
"Mmm-hmm."
"Does Noah have pj's with sheep?"
"I don't know." Rachel turned into the bedroom doorway and lowered her squirming daughter to the floor. "And I don't care, now hurry up."
* * *
Noah stared into the mirror over the pedestal sink in the half bath off the kitchen and studied his sallow face. He'd shaved this morning in preparation for his homecoming, but his five o'clock shadow, more like a nine o'clock shadow, was beginning to creep across his face. It made him look like a pretty shady character with his hollow cheekbones and longish, poorly cut brown hair.
Of course, most people would consider him a shady character. Someone you might see standing in the supper line at the God's Solid Rock Holy Word Mission... just another damaged soul hoping for a hot meal and a dry place to sleep.
He flicked on the cold water faucet and dug his toothbrush and toothpaste out of the bottom of the blue gym bag that he'd left on the toilet seat. He wore a white T-shirt and his prison-issue blue boxers because it was all he had to sleep in. Tomorrow, when Rachel left the house, he would go upstairs to the storage room that, when the house was built a hundred years ago, had been designed to serve as a nursery. It was the room where their sons had slept for a very brief time.
There, according to Rachel, were some boxes marked with an N, and inside he would find his personal belongings, mostly clothes, he guessed. He'd been gone so long, the previous life he had lived with Rachel so dim in his mind, that he couldn't even think off the top of his head what else could be in there.
Still staring into his pained, dark eyes reflected in the mirror, he ran his toothbrush under the water and then drew a thin line of Crest over the bristles. Today hadn't gone too badly, all in all, he thought. Not as good as he had hoped, but certainly not as badly as he deserved. He stuck the toothbrush into his mouth and began to move it up and down, unable to take his eyes off his own reflection.
There hadn't been any real mirrors in the correctional facility, only small metal ones that produced an eerie, wavy reflection. He'd pretty much avoided them, maybe because he looked weird in them, but maybe because he just hadn't been able to face himself.
After five years, he barely recognized the man looking back at him. "Father Noah Gibson," he murmured, spitting into the sink, raising his head to see his reflection again.
As he lifted his head, he suddenly caught a scent on the air that made him stiffen in fear. A familiar scent. Unwanted.
Not again, was the only thought his mind had time to register before the darkness descended.
* * *
Azrael knew better than to argue, to fight any longer. Resistance was ineffective—worse, painful. The task had been laid out quite plainly, and there was no need for further argument or questions. Azrael understood what must be done, and even why, at least on some level. And what wasn't clear shouldn't be questioned. Who was an angel to question God?
Azrael drove up the narrow dirt driveway with the headlights off, using the moonlight as a guide. The road was rutted and in need of a wheelbarrow or two of fill dirt—better yet, a dump truck load of gravel—but Johnny Leager probably didn't have money to make improvements to his driveway, not working at the plant, even if he was a shift manager.
Parking the car in front of the house, the angel walked around toward the back, hands empty except for the note that would be left behind. God would provide the weapon.
* * *
Johnny grabbed a Bud hidden behind the orange sodas in the garage refrigerator and popped it open, enjoying the hiss it made. He'd promised Stacey he'd cut back on the beer if she cut back on the tacos, and she was doing good with her diet, so it was only right that he should curtail his Bud consumption. That didn't mean a man couldn't have a beer on a Friday night after his wife and kids went to bed, after a long day at work.
He flipped off the garage light and walked out into the backyard illuminated by a security lamp on the far corner of the single-story rancher. The place was starting to look decent. With the extra money he was making with his promotion at the plant, he'd been able to get a home equity loan to buy Stacey the new living room furniture and the exercise bike she wanted, and he'd been able to get the materials to build the new deck. Maybe next year, they'd even put in a hot tub. If Stacey kept losing weight the way she was, looking hot again, it might be fun to jump in with her after the kids went to bed. He might even be able to convince her to take her bathing suit off if he plied her with a piña colada or two first. The idea made him grin.
Sipping the cold beer, Johnny crossed the deck, breathing in the smell of the freshly cut, salt-treated wood. He sat down on the lawn chair facing the brick barbecue he was building and leaned back, stretching his feet out in front of him. By the light of the security lamp, he could see the base and the back wall he'd already completed. It was going to be nice when he finished it, and sturdy. Shoot, it would be big enough to roast a small pig on, if he wanted to, and certainly great for cooking burgers and ribs and polish sausage. Perfect for afternoon barbecues with Stacey's brother and his family.
As he sipped his beer, taking in his handiwork, Johnny considered putting in a horseshoe pit. This summer, while the women sat on the deck in lounge chairs getting a tan and the kids played on the swings, the men could play horseshoes, share a couple beers and a few laughs.
He set down the beer can, staring at the outline of the swing set as a lump rose in his throat. It was hard to believe he'd almost been dumb enough to give all this up. To lose it. Good thing he'd come to his senses.
He grabbed the beer and drained the last of it, thinking he needed to get to bed. He wanted to get up early. Johnny Jr. had T-ball practice, and he'd promised Stacey he'd take him so she could go to the aerobics class at the church. She'd take Tiffany with her because free child care was offered for the Saturday morning sessions. St. Paul's was good about that kind of thing, providing for its parishioners.
It would be a fun Saturday. Johnny would take Junior out for their favorite breakfast of eggs, bacon, and hotcakes, then off to T-ball practice, then home to work on the barbecue. He had plenty of bricks to finish the job, but he'd have to pick up some more cement mix on his way out of town.
The flutter of something white on the edge of the brick barbecue caught Johnny's eye, and he stared at it, wondering what it was. Had he left a hardware store receipt out here? Stacey was keeping them all in case there was some way they could get a tax deduction. House improvements or something.
He got out of the chair, crushing the beer can in his hand as he crossed the deck. The circle of yellow light from the security lamp didn't quite reach the barbecue. He reached out and grabbed the paper, secured by a red brick. He didn't remember leaving a brick out, and it wasn't a receipt. He turned toward the light by the corner of the house, his back to the wall of the barbecue. It was a note, handwritten; he squinted to read it.
If a man commits adultery with another man's wife, both the
man and the woman must be put to death.
"What the hell?" He let go of the paper like it had burned his fingers, and the beer can fell out of his other hand and rattled when it hit the deck. He looked over his shoulder toward the pine trees beyond the swing set, suddenly feeling weird. Like someone was watching him. Was this some kind of joke? Some kind of sick joke?
Suddenly his heart was pounding and his mouth was dry.
He never saw it coming until it was inches from his face. A brick. It hit him hard in the temple, and he stumbled back under the impact, pain exploding in his head. He would have fallen had it not been for the wall of the new barbecue. Before Johnny could look up to see who had thrown the damned thing, another brick hurled through the air and struck him square in the jaw. He grunted, flinging out both arms as another brick hit him and another and another.
One hit him right in the nose and he heard the sickening crunch of cartilage busting, and blood spewed from his nostrils. He tried to raise his hand to ward off the next blow, but it came too hard, too fast. His head hit the brick wall and his legs went out from under him. His jeans were wet, stained with dark splatters. Everything was spinning, and he felt like he was going to throw up as he slowly sank down, his back still against the wall. He couldn't get away, couldn't ward off the blows. Another brick hit him in the forehead, and blood spattered as white-hot pain shot through his head.
Blood ran into Johnny's eyes, stinging, and he squinted to see the figure standing on the deck still throwing bricks. He couldn't make out who it was, not with the quartz halogen light from the security lamp behind his attacker. In the dark, through a film of blood, with a circle of eerie yellow light around the figure, it almost looked like an angel.
Chapter 3
Noah woke to find himself lying beside Rachel's car on the cold cement floor of the garage, barefoot, in his underwear. Slowly he sat up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as if just waking from a good drunk. Only he hadn't had a drink in five years, three months, and seventeen days.
The driver's side door was open a crack, and the interior light cast shadows on the paint-splattered concrete floor. There was a steady ding, ding, ding coming from inside the car, alerting him that the key was still in the ignition. He pushed himself to a seated position, resting against the back door of the car, and hung his head.
Not another blackout, he thought miserably, still able to catch a slight hint of that weird, awful smell that came with them. It couldn't be. It had been more than four years since the last. He thought for sure they were gone for good.
But a man didn't poison his body the way he had without physical repercussions, he told himself. A man didn't destroy his family's lives and not pay.
He shifted his gaze to the driver's side door and wondered why it was open.
He got to his feet, slid in behind the steering wheel, and turned the key Rachel must have left in the ignition. The dinging stopped and the digital clock on the dash lit up: five after twelve. It had been around ten when he went to the bathroom to brush his teeth. More than two hours had passed. Had he been going somewhere? Gone somewhere?
Noah closed his eyes, gripping the steering wheel. He didn't have a driver's license, couldn't even begin to apply for one before he paid fines that had been levied and he attended a weekly class the state set up for violators like himself. It would be at least a year, probably longer.
He turned the car off, got out, and closed the door, contemplating whether or not he would lay his hand on the hood to tell if the car had been running.
Some things were better to not know.
He waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness and then walked around behind the car, crossed the space where his pickup had once been parked, and exited the side door.
Outside, one of the many security lights on the property illuminated the path up to the front porch. The crushed white oyster shells hurt the bottoms of Noah's feet, and he hurried for the steps. Chester, asleep on the porch near the door, lifted his head and looked curiously at the barefoot man in his boxers.
Chester had been in the house when Noah had walked to the bathroom to brush his teeth; he remembered distinctly seeing the dog lying in the hallway.
Noah took the painted wooden steps slowly, as if he were an old man. So, during his blackout, he had let the dog out and gone to the garage. Why, he didn't know. And of course, he didn't remember a thing. Just as he didn't remember anything from that night beyond the argument he had with Rachel on the front porch here, then getting into his truck and heading down the lane.
Chester rose and trotted in his awkward gait to Noah.
When Noah didn't immediately pat him on the head, the old dog pushed his muzzle into his hand.
"Okay," Noah whispered. "So someone still loves me around here." He gave the dog a pat, then scratched behind his ears. With one last glance at the garage, he walked into the house, the dog trotting behind him. In the kitchen, he locked the door and went down the hallway to the spare room, not bothering to turn on the lights. For the last five years he had walked these floorboards in his mind every night; he didn't need a light.
* * *
Noah woke to the familiar sounds of breakfast in the Gibson household and for a moment, half asleep, he imagined life was as it had once been. He and Rachel in love with their whole lives before them. He could smell Mrs. Santori's strong coffee mingling with the heavenly scent of frying scrapple. Saturday and Sunday mornings Mrs. Santori had always made a big breakfast and scrapple was Noah's favorite.
By the time he threw his legs over the side of the bed waking Chester, who slept near the door, reality had begun to set in. As he looked around at the stacked boxes, his mother's old sewing machine and ironing board still piled with "mending," a broken chair, a ladder, and cases of mason jars, he listened to the sound of Rachel's voice as she spoke to Mallory, and the little girl responded in that cute voice of hers.
Without anything else to put on, Noah stepped into the jeans he'd worn the previous day and replaced the white T-shirt with the green one again. He slid his bare feet into the black low-tops sneakers that had been prison issue and opened the door, setting Chester free.
After a quick stop in the bathroom, where he found his toothbrush lying in the sink, his gym bag still on the toilet lid, he hesitantly entered the sunny kitchen.
"Buenos, Señora Santori." Noah walked around the table to let Chester out the door.
"Buenos," she answered, tight lipped. "Your breakfast, Señor." Consuelo Santori had lived in the United States for the last forty years of her life; she spoke perfect English, but when she was angry, her speech became heavily accented. She dropped a plate on the table for him, already loaded down with scrambled eggs, rye toast, and scrapple.
Noah's mouth watered as he slid into his chair. Sometimes scrapple was served at the prison when they got it cheaply from a local company, but it was never cooked the way he liked it, crisp the way Mrs. Santori made it. And rye toast... He had forgotten how good freshly toasted and buttered rye toast smelled and tasted.
He put his napkin on his lap and glanced up at Rachel, Mattie, and Mallory, who had been served ahead of him. "Did we say grace?" he asked. Funny thing was, he hadn't said grace in five years; it was just something ingrained in him from the time he was younger than the little girl seated across from him.
"We don't say gwace," Mallory piped up, sucking on the straw of a juice box. This morning she was wearing a red felt cowboy hat and a pink nightgown. "Only if somebody comes fow dinnew."
Rachel glanced up, blushing.
Noah surprised them all, including himself, by tipping back his head and laughing. The sound of his voice startled Mattie, who dropped his fork.
Rachel half smiled. "What's so funny?" She dumped sugar straight from the sugar bowl into her coffee.
Mrs. Santori brought Noah his coffee, and he nodded his thanks. "I don't know," he said. "I guess her honesty." He glanced up at the little girl, her blond hair pulled into a littl
e ponytail over each of her ears, sticking out from under the cowboy hat. "It's not like I'm anyone to judge who should and shouldn't be saying grace."
Rachel rose, coffee mug in hand, her plate untouched. "Hurry up, lovebug, or we're going to be late for your riding lesson. You still have to get dressed."
"I am dwessed."
"I told you, no pj's at the barn." She turned back to Noah. "I'm taking Mallory to riding, leaving Mattie off at the church to practice for morning service, then I have a few errands to do in town." She didn't turn around as she headed for the door, but Noah knew she was now speaking to him. "We'll be back by lunch, and we can take a walk around the place, if you want. I'll show you what we've been doing."
He nodded. "I'd like that."
The screen door slammed shut behind her as she stepped onto the porch.
Mallory scrambled down from the blue plastic booster seat in her chair, a piece of scrapple in each hand. "Wait for me. Wait, Mama," she called as she clip-clopped across the hardwood floor in red cowboy boots. "I'm coming. I have to change my pj's. Huwwy up, Mattie," she threw over her shoulder.
Mattie moved as quickly as Mattie ever moved, methodically wiping his plate with half a slice of toasted white bread and stuffing it in his mouth as he rose from the table. He pushed in his chair and stiffly carried his plate to the sink, nodding to Mrs. Santori, his baby-fine sandy-brown hair falling into his eyes.
"De nada," she told him with a smile as he lumbered out the door.
Feeling awkward, alone in the kitchen with Mrs. Santori, Noah sipped his coffee. As he buttered his toast, he realized that he was the only one at the table with rye bread. She had remembered....
That realization made him feel good and sad at the same time. "Gracias, Señora Santori," he said, raising a piece of buttered toast. "For the rye and... and taking care of Rachel."
She walked around to the opposite side of the table from him and placed her small, brown hands on the back of Mallory's chair. "I miss them, Señor and Señora Gibson."
Unspoken Fear Page 3
