Unspoken Fear

by Hunter Morgan

  He was still chuckling as he reached the second drawer of the third file cabinet, where he'd been fortunate enough to find some information on acidity tests his father had done on the must from the Chancellor grapes he had planted the first year. It wasn't the warranty he was looking for, but the information would certainly come in handy when he began making the must that would eventually become wine.

  The phone rang but he didn't bother to try to uncover the old black dial-style phone he knew was buried somewhere on the desk. Elsewhere in the house, he heard Mallory answer it, "Gibson residence," then the clip-clop of her feet in her cowboy boots as she ran to find Rachel, hollering "Mama! Phone!"

  With a smile, Noah turned his attention to the next drawer. Behind directions on how to set an answering machine and a pile of long-expired diaper coupons, he came across a folder with the name of a fertility clinic in Baltimore on it. The cover was a pale blue with pink clouds and smiling babies, and inside were several pamphlets explaining all the services they offered a new patient—in vitro fertilization, sperm bank access, and a number of other procedures. Tucked in the top, in slits cut just for the purpose, was an appointment card with Rachel's name printed on it in someone's handwriting other than her own. It was dated a week before the accident that had taken the Marcuses' lives.

  Noah took a step back, feeling as if he'd just been sucker punched. For a moment, he stared at the folder, not even wanting to touch it again. A fertility clinic? In the months leading up to the accident, he vaguely remembered discussing the possibility of he and Rachel using someone else's eggs or sperm to get pregnant to prevent the deadly combination of their genes, which might produce another baby that would not survive. But Noah had been against the idea, hanging on to the ridiculous notion that everything happened for a reason, that it was all part of God's plan.

  The part about God's plan had shattered the morning he woke up in jail, charged with a DWI and two vehicular homicides.

  Noah took a shuddering breath and grabbed the appointment card, leaving the drawer open as he left the office in search of Rachel.

  Chapter 19

  Rachel was surprised to hear Jeremy Cary on the end of the line, and for a moment she sputtered. "H... hi."

  "Not catching you at a bad time, am I?"

  "N... no, not at all." She glanced at Mallory, seated at the kitchen table, busy with colored playdough and plastic cookie cutters. Mattie was in the living room, playing the organ. She slipped out the back door, and onto the porch so she could hear Jeremy better.

  "It was good to see you yesterday," Jeremy continued. "And I was thinking maybe we could go out this week. Catch a movie, grab a bite to eat?"

  It took a moment for it to register that he was asking her out on a date. She'd had a hard time focusing all day. She'd had another disturbing night's sleep last night, riddled with nightmares she couldn't remember. She'd awakened at three in the morning seated out in the hallway wearing an old flannel robe over her T-shirt and panties, having no recollection of how she'd gotten there. Even more disturbing had been the fact that she'd found sand in her bed this morning, sand from her bare feet. Apparently she'd been outside during her little sleepwalking adventure.

  "A movie?" she repeated, like an idiot.

  "If there's something playing you'd like to see. Otherwise, just dinner, a walk on the boardwalk, whatever you'd like to do, really."

  She lowered herself to sit on the top step of the porch, running one hand through her hair. She had a pounding headache. It had been a long day. Upon their arrival at church, Mattie had refused to get out of the car. He'd dressed for church and gotten into the car quite willingly, but once they'd reached the parking lot, which had been filled with parishioners entering the building, he'd curled up on the backseat and wouldn't budge. Finally, she'd ended up sending Mallory into Sunday School, and she'd sat there for an hour with Mattie. As far as she could remember, it was the first time he hadn't played the organ in church on a Sunday morning since they had attempted to send him away to live in a group home after Noah went to jail.

  Rachel tried to switch gears. Jeremy sounded so nice on the phone, so sincere, and she did like him. God knew she could use a night out. So why was she hesitating?

  "So what do you think?" Jeremy asked tentatively.

  Apparently she was taking too long to answer. "Um... a movie or something would be fun. Yes, thanks. That would be great," she said with more enthusiasm than she felt. "When?"

  "When's good for you? Wednesday night? A Friday or Saturday better?"

  "Um... Friday, I guess. I... I'll have to get a babysitter for Mallory and Mattie."

  "Right. Sure. Mattie and Mallory."

  She could hear a question in his voice and she knew what it was without him having to say it. Her ex-husband was living in her house, or she was living in his house, or whatever. Why couldn't he watch them? And it was a good question.

  But Rachel just didn't feel right asking Noah if he could babysit Mallory so she could go on a date. It was just too weird.

  "So, Friday sounds great," Jeremy said, picking up the lag in the conversation again. "How about if I check the paper, see what's playing in Rehoboth and call you, what, tomorrow night?"

  "Sure. Sounds good."

  "Sounds great to me," he countered. "Hey, did you hear the news in church this morning? Pretty scary stuff."

  Rachel felt a prickle of fear at the back of her neck. "No, I didn't hear anything. Mattie was having a bad morning. Mallory went to Sunday School and walked out with a friend. I never got out of the car."

  "You're kidding. You didn't hear? There's been another murder in town."

  Rachel felt her chest constrict as a flash of the previous night's dream appeared on the viewing screen of her mind. Blood. A swirl of blackness. The voice. "Y... You're kidding." She pressed her free hand to the solid wood of the step as if to steady herself. But it wasn't her body that had been caught off balance. "A murder related to the others?"

  "Gotta be. Poor guy had his hands cut off. My neighbor responded to the call. He's an EMT. Said it was a bloody mess, just like at Johnny Leager's place."

  "He was stoned to death?" she breathed.

  "His hands were cut off at the wrists and he bled to death, apparently."

  She wanted to ask if a note had been left, but she didn't. Jeremy wouldn't know anything about the Biblical references the killer had left behind with Johnny and Pam. "Who?" she managed.

  "The Newtons' youngest son. The one with the bad tattoos. Lived with them, apparently."

  "Oh God," she breathed, thinking of Harry and Flora. "I saw Harry yesterday. He was volunteering at the picnic."

  "Don't really know them. Not patients of mine."

  Rachel clutched the phone, thinking she needed to go see Harry and Flora. She didn't know what comfort she could offer, she just felt as if she needed to see them, to let them know that she cared. Everyone knew their son was no good, they of all people knew, but that didn't mean he deserved to be murdered, and it certainly didn't mean they deserved to suffer the loss of a child. Rachel knew all too well how devastating that tragedy could be.

  "Anyway, I'll give you a ring tomorrow?"

  "Yeah, sure," she said, "talk to you then." As she hung up, she heard the porch door swing open behind her.

  "Rachel?"

  "Noah..." She turned to him, the phone still clutched in her hand. She felt slightly light-headed. Scared.

  He halted halfway between the door and the step. His brow creased and he stared at her for a moment. "What's wrong?" He slid something into his back pocket.

  Rachel turned on the step to stare straight ahead. Noah had hooked a water sprinkler to the hose and was watering a flower bed next to the house, where fat, orange tiger lilies were blooming. Tiger lilies always made her think of her grandmother because she had always loved them. She remembered her grandmother stopping the old truck along the side of the road so Rachel could jump out and pick lilies from the edge of ditches to place
in a vase on the kitchen table.

  "Rachel?" Noah repeated.

  She watched the water, like raindrops, beat on the petals of one of the lilies. What was wrong with her? It was certainly a terrible tragedy that Skeeter Newton was dead, murdered in such a heinous way, but why should that frighten her? Why should that make her afraid? Afraid for her own life, for the lives of those on this farm whom she loved.

  Noah sat down beside her and took her hand, gazing into her eyes. "Are you sick?" he asked. "Do you need to lie down? You're white as a ghost."

  She met his gaze. "Skeeter Newton was murdered. Someone cut his hands off and he bled to death."

  Noah glanced away, then back at her. "That's awful, Rachel. Poor Harry and Flora."

  She nodded. "It's the same killer," she whispered. "And there's no way Skeeter was sleeping with Pam Rehak or Johnny Leager."

  He smoothed her hand with his. "You don't know that it's the same person."

  "I know," she whispered.

  "How?"

  She shook her head. "I don't know how. I just know it is, either the same person or the same thing...." She looked away, knowing how ridiculous she sounded, unable to help herself. She turned back to him. "Noah, I know this is going to sound crazy but there's something evil out there. Something evil in this town. I... I can feel it."

  She half expected him to laugh. Noah didn't believe in God any longer and he certainly didn't believe in Satan or any inherent evil spoken of in the Bible. But he didn't laugh. He just sat there.

  "You feel it, too, don't you?" Her voice was barely a whisper.

  He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. She didn't pull away.

  "I don't know what I feel."

  "Today, Mattie wouldn't go into church. Did I tell you?" She covered his hand with hers. "He was afraid to go inside, Noah. Afraid of something or someone." She was silent for a moment. "I'm afraid now. I don't know what I'm afraid of, but I'm afraid. Afraid for Mallory. For all of us."

  "It's only natural," he said putting his arm around her and drawing her to his shoulder. "Parents lose a child, no matter how old he is, and it's natural that you should worry about losing your own child." He kissed the top of her head. "Especially after what you've been through."

  "We've been through," she corrected.

  He sighed, and though he didn't agree with her verbally, she could feel it in his body posture. She knew he still felt the loss of their little boys, even after all this time. She pressed her lips together, refocusing her thoughts, trying to think logically.

  Pam Rehak and Johnny Leager had been killed for the sin of adultery. If the same killer had murdered Skeeter Newton, for what sin? She knew he was a derelict, a drunk, into drugs, but the Bible wasn't clear on punishing those types of behaviors.

  She looked up at Noah. "Did... did you counsel Skeeter?"

  He shook his head, but there was something about the look on his face that worried her. He was watching the water sprinkler, his face a mask, yet there was something in his dark eyes that told her there was more to his answer.

  "No, he never came in for counseling," he said, as if it was a ridiculous notion. "I don't think Skeeter's been in church since he got kicked out of Sunday School for smoking pot in the boy's bathroom when he was in the seventh grade." It was one of the many Skeeter stories most of the town knew and would probably be repeating for days to come.

  The screen door opened behind them and Rachel felt, as much as she heard, Mallory behind her. When she turned, her daughter was standing there, hands blue with playdough, studying her mother and Noah.

  "Mallory." Rachel moved out from under Noah's arm and rose off the step quickly, dropping the phone from her lap. She chased it as it skittered across the porch. "Done with the playdough?" she asked, feigning great interest.

  "Can we have cookies? Mattie's hungry."

  "No cookies. Dinner in an hour and a half. Noah's cooking shish kebabs on the grill."

  "But Mattie's hungry for cookies, not kish-ka-bobs," the little girl argued.

  Noah rose from where he'd been seated and stepped off the porch. "I'll be back in a little while, OK?"

  Having captured the runaway phone, Rachel turned to him as she took Mallory by the wrist, trying to avoid the blue playdough. "Where are you going?"

  "I won't be gone long. If you guys get hungry before I get back, though, just throw the marinated chicken and cut-up veggies on the skewers and grill them on medium heat, about four minutes a side."

  "Noah—"

  "We'll talk about it later," he said, striding down the sidewalk.

  Rachel was tempted to go after him, to demand to know where he was going, why he was going somewhere on a Sunday afternoon. But the determination of his stride made her turn away instead.

  "OK, Cookie," she said, trying to sound cheerful. "How about if we get this playdough cleaned up off you and the floor and get those green beans snapped?"

  "Mattie wants cookies, not green beans," Mallory argued stubbornly as she allowed her mother to lead her into the house.

  "Well, Mattie is just going to have to wait until after his supper for cookies."

  * * *

  It took Noah twenty-five minutes to make the jaunt to town on the lawn tractor. All the way there, he kept trying to figure out what he was going to say, how he was going to word it without incriminating himself in any way. A part of him had been tempted to just turn back, to return to the farmhouse, have dinner with his family, and wait for the police to come. It was certainly what he would have done a month ago. But a month ago Rachel hadn't looked into his eyes the way she looked into them now. A month ago, he had not loved Mallory so fiercely that it hurt. A month ago he had been without hope, but no longer. Hope was what spurred him on now. And maybe a little anger. Anger that such a thing as this could happen now, now when there was hope.

  It was hard for Noah to cross the threshold of St. Paul's, but he made himself push through the heavy doors into the narthex, which was always unlocked. Seeing the sanctuary beyond the glass doors to be dark, he took the familiar staircase to the basement, trying not to allow his emotions to get in the way of his mission. His whole life he had walked this long corridor, and now in his dreams, he still walked it. Only, in his dreams, it was no longer the safe sanctuary it had once been and the doors no longer led to colorful classrooms and a cozy nursery. In his dreams, each brightly painted door opened into a hell unto itself: raging flames, the dark voice, death, destruction, all his past failings.

  He moved soundlessly down the corridor, his gaze fixed on the dark blue short-pile carpet beneath his sneakers. The office door was open and he walked in, passing the desk where Cora Watkins had reigned for the last forty years.

  "You're early," Father Hailey called from behind the half-closed inner door that led to the office that had once been Noah's.

  Noah halted, swallowing hard. He had known it would be difficult to walk in here, but he hadn't realized just how hard. He was flooded with memories, good and bad, overwhelmed by the passion he had once felt for this place and by his own sense of failure.

  "But that's fine, come in anyway." The door swung open and Father Hailey appeared. He was at once taken aback by the sight of Noah. "I'm sorry," he said, glancing behind Noah. "I thought you were someone else."

  "It's all right. This will only take a minute." Noah met Father Hailey's gaze. It was obvious the man was at least momentarily unsettled by Noah's presence.

  Noah didn't blame him. "Could we..." He indicated the open door. If the priest was expecting another parishioner, Noah didn't want anyone walking in on this conversation.

  "C... certainly." Father extended his hand in invitation.

  Noah entered the small, darkly paneled office that hadn't seemed to have changed much in the last five years. The items on the walls and the desk were different, the books on the bookshelves were somewhat different, perhaps, but it was the same place.

  Father Hailey closed the door and walked to his desk, sliding
into his chair. His trembling hands found the cover of an open Bible and he closed it, resting one unsteady hand on the black leather cover. "Please, have a seat."

  Noah walked to one of the two chairs in front of the desk and rested both hands on the wooden back. "You have an appointment. I understand. I'll only take a moment of your time."

  Father Hailey smiled apologetically. "If you like, Noah, we could schedule some time to talk, this week, perhaps."

  Noah shook his head. "That won't be necessary." He looked down at the stained cushion of the seat cover and then back up at the priest. "I understand there's been another murder. Skeeter Newton."

  "Terrible tragedy. Terrible. I intend to visit with the Newtons this evening."

  "I just wanted to remind you that you are not at liberty to discuss any information that might have been left behind when I..." Noah searched for the right words, and when he couldn't find them, he grimaced. "Hell, you know what I mean."

  Father Hailey blinked at Noah's utterance, perhaps because the office had rarely heard such words, or maybe because the good father had not heard them often spoken from a fellow priest's lips.

  Ex-priest.

  "I'm not certain what information was left behind, what kind of records Miss Cora kept, but you have no right to turn them over to the police."

  As what Noah was saying began to sink in, Father Hailey started to rub the cover of the Bible. "Do sit down." He raised one hand from the worn Bible cover long enough to gesture to one of the chairs.