She drew her knees up, wrapping her arms around them so that she could rest her chin on them. "This was really weird, Noah. Creepy weird." She turned her head to look at him. "This doesn't have anything to do with my dream, but did you know that the person who killed Johnny Leager knew something about him that other people didn't know?"
Noah looked at her.
Rachel had been avoiding contact with Noah since he came home. It made life easier... well, if not easier, at least bearable. She didn't look away when he met her gaze this time.
"What do you mean?"
"The police aren't saying anything to the general public, but there was a handwritten note left by the killer making an accusation."
"How do you know that?"
She caught her lower lip between her teeth. It wasn't Noah's business that she and Snowden had dated. It was long over, though they'd made a feeble attempt at rekindling the fires when Mallory was around two and a half, and they had eventually come to the conclusion that they were better friends than they would ever be lovers. "I just know," she said carefully.
"Snowden?"
She lifted one shoulder and looked down at her bare feet.
He was quiet for a minute. He had always been able to read her, better than she could read herself. He knew something had gone on between her and Snowden in his absence.
"I saw Snowden today," Noah said "and he was a little weird with me. He specifically asked me if I had counseled Johnny. I'm guessing now it had to do with that note." He was quiet for a moment. "You didn't tell him about my sessions with Johnny, did you, Rachel?"
She glanced up at him, a little hurt that he would even ask. "Of course not."
"Because anything my parishioners shared with me in the privacy of my office was in complete confidence. A man of the cloth has no right to speak of anything told to him in confidence, not even to his wife," he said gravely. "You know that."
"I would never betray the confidences we shared Noah. Never," she whispered her eyes filling with tears.
Then she felt his arm slide across her shoulder. She knew she should push him away. And she would.
In just a minute.
* * *
Azrael felt the presence even before the voice filled the dark bedroom. It woke Azrael from a deep sleep.
"No," Azrael muttered, rolling in the bed, pulling up the blanket to block out the voice, the very existence.
"You cannot turn away from me," the voice of God commanded. "You cannot hide, Azrael."
Go away, please.
"You cannot deny your obligation," God's voice boomed. "You cannot question my word. You do not question The Word."
Azrael shook beneath the bedcovers. No, no, of course not. The Word is undeniable. It cannot be refuted. God and his demands cannot be denied.
"Come, Azrael, do not be afraid."
The voice was gentler when it spoke again. "I came only to say what a job well done you performed for me, for my kingdom."
Azrael eased the grip on the bedcovers slightly.
"I am very proud of you, Azrael. You must know that."
Azrael ceased shaking so violently in fright and lay perfectly still under the blankets.
"When I sought out a soldier, there were some who did not believe in you, but I believed in you, Azrael. I knew that you were up to the task. I knew that you had the strength to endure."
Azrael nodded.
Again, God was quiet for a moment.
"But there are others, Azrael. You know that, don't you?"
Quiet, and then the voice that could not be denied again. "Others who have sinned, who must pay for the sins they have committed—sins they may think are secret, but nothing is secret with me, is it, Azrael? Nothing is a secret with us."
No...
"I will come again.... Sleep now."
* * *
"I think he understands more than we realize," Noah remarked, gesturing with his coffee cup in the direction of the open window over the sink.
Rachel poured herself a cup from the stainless-steel pot on the counter and came to stand beside him. Outside, Mattie was pulling Mallory in a red wagon, two barn kittens in her lap. She was laughing as he pulled her around and around in tight circles.
"Hmmm," Rachel said. She leaned against the counter, finding that she was thoroughly enjoying the early morning exchange with Noah. It was almost like old times, before his drinking, before his mom and dad had died, before everything. There was something about the previous night, sitting in the hallway there, that had changed things between them, and she didn't know what it was. For the first time since Noah's return, he had had something to offer her and she had welcomed it. It had only been the support of his arm and a few kind words, but it meant a great deal to her. It had been a glimpse of the Noah she had once known. The Noah she had loved.
"What makes you say so?" she asked.
"First off, for being uncommunicative, he seems to communicate just fine with us when he wants to. And his ability to play the organ these days is just amazing. I mean, I always knew he could play simple hymns, but he's playing stuff he's hearing on the radio, Rachel. He seems to be writing his own pieces."
"I wasn't disagreeing with you." She sipped her coffee. "I was just asking what made you say so. As for uncommunicative, I'm not sure how true that is. Obviously he hears fine; he understands most of what we say, maybe everything." She hesitated. "Mallory says he talks to her."
"Mallory said he talks? You're kidding." Noah looked at her. "Like with words?"
She shrugged and took another sip of her coffee as she walked away from the sink, the heavenly scent of fried bacon luring her toward the table. "That's what she says. Of course, I can't tell you how reliable the source is. We're talking about a four-year-old, and this is the same young lady who insists that there are monsters under her bed that will nibble on her toes if we don't keep them properly covered at night."
He smiled, turning away from the window. "Who knows, maybe he can talk."
She took a piece of bacon off a plate Mrs. Santori had left on the table.
On Fridays, the housekeeper took the day off. She came in early, started the coffee, made something for breakfast, and was usually out of the house by the time the automatic coffeemaker was spurting the aromatic brew into the stainless steel thermal pot. No one knew where she went on Fridays, but she'd been going for years.
As Rachel nibbled on her bacon she contemplated Mallory's revelation. "Don't you think if Mattie could talk, we'd have heard something? A word or two?" She reached under the paper-towel-covered plate for another piece of bacon.
"Maybe he's known us so long that he doesn't need to speak to us." Noah took a seat at the kitchen table, rocking back in the chair. "Maybe he talks to Mallory because he needed to, at least at first, in order to communicate with her. I notice he does move his lips. I just saw him out there in the yard doing it."
"But he's always done that," Rachel argued. She backed up against the chair next to Noah's, leaning her bottom against it, pointing her slice of crisp bacon at him. "Don’t you remember how much trouble that Andy kid got into with Mr. Johnson in Sunday School for making fun of Mattie for doing that?"
Noah snatched the bacon out of her hand and took a bite. "I do remember that. But he didn't make any sounds then, not any that sounded like words, at least. Of course, Mallory could be telling the truth. Anything is possible."
"That's true," she agreed. "God works in mysterious ways."
He glanced away, finishing off her bacon and taking a drink of his coffee.
The warmth Rachel had felt in the sunny kitchen had suddenly chilled noticeably. The moment between them had passed with her mention of God as if she had poured a glass of ice water over Noah's head.
She really had a way of putting her foot in the doggie doo.
She set down her coffee cup, acting cheerier than she felt. "Guess I better see if Mallory is going to stay with Mattie this morning while I meet with that guy to talk about dist
ributing this wine you want to make."
"She isn't going to preschool this morning?" Noah asked, his voice sounding as if it stood at a distance from her.
He was standing at a distance now. A million miles away.
"Nope. School is Mondays through Thursdays." Next week is her last week. She started out the door and then turned back. "Hey, thanks again for the washing machine. It was nice of you. You didn't have to do that. I wasn't asking you to buy a washing machine when I complained about the old one."
He didn't turn around to look at her. "I know. I'm glad you like it. It's not a big deal, Rachel."
"Well, it's a big deal to me. I love it. I swear, it holds twice as many clothes as the old clunker." She pushed open the screen door. "I just wanted you to know I appreciate it."
"So you don't want me to exchange it?"
She knitted her brows, confused. "Exchange it?"
"For one that's not possessed by evil spirits."
She laughed and let the screen door slap shut behind her. "Mallory! Where are you, lovebug?"
* * *
Delilah stepped out of the cruiser and adjusted her gun belt. Back before she was a cop, she had always thought the guys in the TV shows did that just to look cool, but now she knew they did it to keep from looking foolish in front of civilians. There was nothing to compare to the embarrassment one might experience when the weight of an automatic pistol and ammunition on the wide leather belt pulled one's trousers to one's ankles, showing one's tighty-whities... or one's white French-cut cotton Hanes, in her case.
"Be okay if I handle this interview?" she asked, walking up toward the Leager house, taking the lead in front of Snowden. "You know, Chief, me being a woman and all."
"You don't think I can handle the subject?"
She stopped and waited for him on the red brick sidewalk that Johnny had put down himself and never quite finished. She doubted it would ever get done now.
"I'm the one supposed to be training you, Sergeant Swift." Snowden loomed over her.
She barely came to his chin. She glanced up, not in the least bit intimidated. She had six brothers, every one of them every bit as tall as Snowden and a heck of a lot meaner. "I just think this needs to be handled delicately. We tried to get the information elsewhere and couldn't. It's bad enough we have to ask; I just think she might find it easier coming from me."
Snowden looked up at the house. Someone had pulled back a curtain and let it fall. A dog barked inside, and sounds came from behind the door. He glanced down at her. "Sure, you run the interview. You want me in the room or out?"
She pulled her notepad from her pocket and handed it to him. "You mind making me a quick sketch of the backyard? I know we've got the photos, but sometimes a sketch is better when you're trying to figure out angles and stuff. I'm still not entirely convinced the killer didn't come out of the house. The wife found the front and back doors unlocked in the morning. If everyone in the house was asleep, how would they have known if the killer had taken a shortcut through the living room?"
Snowden took her notebook from her as the front door opened and a middle-aged woman in a flowered housecoat and blue scuff slippers stood waiting for them.
"Good morning," Delilah said, taking the steps. "I'm Sergeant Swift and this is Chief Calloway. I believe we've met before, ma'am. We have an appointment with Mrs. Leager this morning."
"She's in the dining room." The woman, Stacey Leager's mother, Delilah recalled, backed up to let them in.
The house was dim and smelled of coffee and cigarette smoke. There was a TV on in the living room. Cartoons. Delilah bumped a soccer ball with the toe of her shoe, and it rolled into the living room.
"Sorry 'bout that. Kids," the woman explained as if nothing more needed to be said. "Junior ain't ready to go back to school. I told Stacey ain't no need to send him, not yet, at least. He'll just have to make a fuss and then there'll be the gas money runnin' into town."
Delilah nodded as she walked into the dining room where Stacey Leager sat at the end of the table piled with an assortment of magazines, Walmart bags, a shoebox, a sewing machine and fabric, and a pair of kids' sweatpants, among other things. Half of the bulbs were out in the cheap chandelier that hung over the table, so most of the light in the room came through the sliding glass doors that led out back.
Stacey was wearing a men's old flannel bathrobe, her long blond hair unbrushed and looking as if it needed a touch-up at the roots. She was smoking a cigarette. Photographs around the house showed that she had once been a pretty woman, at least in her late teens, early twenties, but at thirty years old, she looked forty-five. Pregnancy, cigarettes, weight gain and loss had not been good to her.
"Good morning, Mrs. Leager," Delilah said. "We appreciate you seeing us. If you don't mind, Chief Calloway is going to walk out into your backyard and have another look around. Make a quick sketch. I'll stay here and we can talk." She glanced at the mother hovering in the doorway.
The woman wandered into the kitchen, out of earshot.
"I guess there's no need to waste my breath or yours asking you how you are, ma'am. I can't even imagine how awful this must be for you." Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Snowden let himself out the sliding glass doors onto the patio where Johnny had been murdered. "Mind if I sit?" Delilah pointed to a chair with a blue bag on it.
"Just push the stuff off," Stacey Leager said, reaching for her coffee mug that read "World's Best Mom" on it, as she pushed the cigarette between her lips. "I've been meaning to clean up, just haven't gotten the time. Johnny kept saying we ought to start eating here in the dining room instead of in front of the TV. You know, now that the kids are getting older." Her lower lip trembled and she took another drag on the cigarette, chasing it with a swallow of coffee.
Delilah picked up the bag full of craft supplies from the chair and added it to the pile on the table. She purposely did not take out a pad of paper to make notes. This kind of interview had to be personal; note-taking gave it the wrong feel. She faced Mrs. Leager, putting her hands together, leaning over.
"So, you have any idea who did this?" Stacey asked, setting the coffee cup back on the table. "You guys said you'd call me soon as you knew something." She grabbed a tissue from a box somewhere in the mess in front of her and wiped under her nose. "I kept thinking I would hear something from you by now."
Delilah looked down at her shiny size-six black shoes and then up at her. "No, no, ma'am, we don't. Say, would it be all right if I called you Stacey?"
She shrugged. "Sure. 'Course. Mrs. Leager is Johnny's mom, far as I'm concerned." She gave a little snort. "Far as she's concerned, too, I guess."
"We got nothing from the tire tracks in your yard. No fingerprints anywhere. No one saw or heard anything, but of course your neighbors are far enough away that we wouldn't expect they would."
"And I never heard a thing," Stacey said quietly, gazing out the glass doors to where Snowden stood, his broad back to them. "Never even knew he didn't come to bed until morning."
"I know you know about the note. I know you saw it."
"Yeah, some Bible verse." She waved her hand drawing a trail of cigarette smoke. "The Bible never made much sense to me. I go to church and all, but it's the priest who tells me what I'm supposed to do and not supposed to do. Now Father Gibson, he was a man who could give a sermon on a Sunday morning. This Father Hailey at St. Paul's now"—she shook her head, bringing the cigarette to her lips—"be honest with you, I don't know what he's talkin' about half the time. I mean he's nice enough, and I understand where Father Gibson can't be a priest no more, bein' what he did, but he sure could give a good Sunday morning sermon."
Delilah let her gaze drift to the children's photographs hung on the dining room wall. The daughter, four, was the spitting image of her mother; the son, nine, looked just like his dad right down to the NASCAR shirt and crooked-toothed grin. She drew her gaze back to the woman in the robe.
"Stacey, here's the thing. The only real e
vidence we have is that crazy note. Now I know it doesn't make sense to you and it certainly doesn't make sense to me, but it makes sense to the killer."
"Because he's crazy," Stacey said. "Have to be to kill a man that way, with bricks from his own barbecue."
"Stacey, I know this is kind of personal, and I wouldn't ask if I didn't need to, but how was your relationship, yours and Johnny's?"
She worked her jaw for a moment, took a last draw on the cigarette, and ground it out in an ashtray made from bottle caps. "What do you mean? Did I love Johnny? 'Course I loved him. I wouldn't have washed his underwear and put up with his snoring if I didn't love him." She smiled, her face softening as tears filled her eyes. "We were high school sweethearts, you know. He took me to the senior prom. We broke up for a while after high school. Johnny ran a little wild, but eventually he came back to me." She looked at Delilah. "I gave him two kids. Of course I loved him."
"And Johnny?" Delilah fought the urge to look away. She met Stacey's teary-eyed gaze woman to woman. "Was he happy in the marriage?"
The mother had been rattling around with dishes in the kitchen, but the noise had quieted. Delilah suspected she was listening to the conversation, but it was too late to back out now. Delilah had intended for it to be private, but she couldn't control people's nosy moms. Shoot, she couldn't even control her own nosy mother.
"Of course he was happy. He loved his kids, loved me," she said defensively. "Yeah, I gained a lot of weight with Tiffany, but I was on bed rest that last month. There wasn't anything else to do but eat and watch soaps."
"I understand. So you never sought marriage counseling or anything like that?"
Stacey sniffed, wiped her nose, balled up the tissue, and threw it. "I told you we were happily married. Comin' up on ten years. We were talking about taking a cruise or something, if we could get up the money." She reached for another cigarette from the generic pack on the table. "I haven't been working because Johnny wanted me here with the kids, but I used to be a checker at the drugstore when I was in high school. They're always hiring at the outlets." She flicked her disposable red lighter and lifted the flame to the cigarette dangling from her mouth.
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