Piercing the Darkness

  “Yes. There’s a boy named Teddy and another boy named Luke. But I don’t like them.”

  “Oh . . .”

  “They’re bigger, and they pick on us.”

  “They pick on you?”

  “Yeah, they push us around and use bad language. They’re not Christians.”

  Ruth stuck her lower lip out and said, “Luke calls me names.”

  “Oh, Ruth, that’s too bad. Have you tried to be friends?”

  She looked at him, and her eyes flooded with tears again. “I want to go home!”

  “I want you to come home too.”

  Tick, tick, tick. Irene Bledsoe was tapping the table with her fingernail and glaring at Tom.

  Josiah must have caught that signal. He was a sharp little nine-year-old. “Ruth bumped her head on the side of the car.”

  “Now that’s enough!” said Mrs. Bledsoe.

  Tom looked at Irene Bledsoe and tried to keep his face calm. “What car, Mrs. Bledsoe?”

  Mrs. Bledsoe looked at him with her eyebrows raised and her head tilted forward, so condescendingly. “Mr. Harris, we’ve found that children will usually concoct stories to protect their parents.”

  Tom caught her meaning. He had to choose—seriously, strenuously choose—to stay calm and cordial. “And just what story did both Ruth and Josiah concoct, Mrs. Bledsoe?”

  She raised her chin and appeared to look down at him. “Mr. Harris, I can understand how you would be concerned about the injury to Ruth’s head. But you should know, so are we. I’m sure that, given time to get over their fears and prior conditioning, your children will be ready to tell us the truth. For now, I think this visit is concluded.” She rose from her chair. “Children, say good-bye to your father.”

  “We just got here!” said Josiah.

  “I don’t wanna go!” Ruth wailed, her face filling with fear.

  “Children, we are going!” said Mrs. Bledsoe.

  “Just one moment!” said Tom. The meeting was shot anyway. He dove for the opportunity. “Josiah, go ahead. Tell me how Ruth got that bump on her head.”

  “We almost got in a wreck . . .”

  “John!” Mrs. Bledsoe yelled.

  The security guard walked into the room and just let his presence be known. Tom didn’t want any trouble; he made no moves.

  Bledsoe grabbed both children by the arms. “Mr. Harris, I warned you to control yourself, and you can be sure that your behavior will go down in my report!”

  “Which part didn’t you like? When I bit the chair leg or when I broke out all the windows?”

  She started hauling both kids toward the door. Tom was on his feet, ready to do something. The guard stood in his way—just like Mulligan had stood in his way a week ago. It was happening all over again, right before Tom’s eyes. Mrs. Bledsoe was pulling Ruth and Josiah by their arms, taking them away screaming. She reached the archway. He wanted to stand in her way; he wanted to reach out and stop her.

  He couldn’t. All he could do was watch it happen.

  “What wreck, Josiah?” he asked.

  “Children, come on!” Bledsoe shouted, pulling them into the antechamber.

  “I hit my head,” Ruth repeated. “She stopped too fast and I hit my head.”

  Josiah went for broke. “She went through a stop sign and almost hit a blue pickup truck! Ruth hit her head on the door of the car!”

  “She? You mean Mrs. Bledsoe?”

  Irene Bledsoe had Ruth through the door and jerked Josiah through before he could complete an answer. But he was nodding a firm yes as he disappeared.

  “Kids, I’m proud of you! Real proud of you! I love you!”

  They were gone.

  “Give ’em a few minutes,” said the guard, not letting Tom follow.

  Tom sat at the table again. The guard went to the door to make sure Mrs. Bledsoe was in the clear.

  Tom noticed the brown paper bag on the floor. Irene Bledsoe had left the package behind, and the kids had not gotten their Bibles or stationery. He couldn’t touch them in this way either.

  “Okay,” said the guard, “you can go now.”

  His job completed, the guard went out the door and on to other business, leaving Tom alone in the cold, vacant room.

  “O Lord . . .”

  Tom broke. The tears ran down his face.

  But they weren’t entirely tears of grief, and they certainly were not tears of despair. He’d seen his kids, and they had shared something, despite Irene Bledsoe, despite the guard. He knew that their souls had touched, that their hearts were still together. It was not enough, of course, to see them for just those few minutes. Such a cold and regimented visit could never be enough. But for right now, it was enough to know they loved him. They loved their daddy. They wanted to be with him.

  Now his doubts were gone. Amid all the pain and challenge, the smearing, the soiling of his name, he’d found himself wondering where he really stood. There were voices in his mind telling him horrible things he’d never thought about himself. He tried not to give place to such lies; but still, because the voices were so relentless, he’d wondered if there was something wrong with him, something he’d been blind to. Maybe, the voices would say, he deserved what was happening to him.

  But now he knew. He still had his integrity, and before God he still had the hearts of his children. Right now, it was just so wonderful to know that for sure.

  BEN AND LEONARD quickly ducked into Don’s Wayside, trying to look casual, even though they were in full uniform, carried their nightsticks, wore their guns, and had their portable radios on their belts, hissing and squawking. Every eye in the place was instantly drawn in their direction.

  It was a bust! It was something for everyone to watch and then talk about at home. The contractors sitting at the counter and the truckers sitting at the tables looked up from their lunch and wagged their stubbly jaws only enough to finish the last bite of soup and sandwich. Some kept talking only to look natural, but they were watching, all right.

  The name was muttered around the room by several, and rose above the general hubbub: “Krantz. Yeah, the Krantz boy. He’s still at it.”

  At the end of the counter, Kyle Krantz sat under the watchful eye of bald and chubby Don Murphy, the proprietor, and two blue-jeaned farmer’s sons who were well-built for hay-bucking, steer handling, and cornering shoplifters.

  “Hey, Kyle,” said Ben. “What are you up to now?”

  “Caught him dipping into the cash register,” said Don. “Then he took off for the door trying to get away. Bub and Jack were just coming in and held him until you could get here.”

  “How much did he take?” asked Leonard.

  “Eighty-five dollars,” said Don, indicating a wad of bills on the counter.

  Leonard gave Kyle a careful visual scrutiny. The boy was only fifteen, skinny as a rail, with shaggy, unkempt black hair and pimples. His face was dull and expressionless, and his eyes were red and watery.

  “You know, son,” said Leonard, “I think I have cause to believe you might be carrying something illegal. I’d like you to empty your pockets for me.”

  Kyle hesitated.

  “You heard the man,” said big Jack, tilting his hat forward to emphasize his lean toward the boy.

  “We can help you if you’re unable,” said Bub.

  Kyle began emptying his pockets. First he set some change on the counter, then some cigarette papers.

  “Jacket pockets,” directed Leonard.

  Kyle hesitated, then wilted in surrender, dug into his jacket pocket, and produced a plastic bag full of ground green leaves.

  The front door opened.

  “Ehh . . .” said Don, sorry to have to miss the rest of this. “Customer.”

  Ben glanced at the man who had come in. He was middle-aged, handsome, well-dressed. Ben recognized him: Joey Parnell, the county coroner.

  Leonard was handling the Krantz boy okay. Ben said softly, “Hey, uh . . . you’ve got it under control; maybe I’ll have
a word with Parnell over there . . .”

  Leonard shrugged. “Go for it.”

  Ben walked to the other end of the counter where Parnell had taken a stool and was perusing the simple menu.

  “Excuse me,” said Ben. “Joey Parnell?”

  Parnell looked up and smiled. “Yes.”

  Ben introduced himself. “Can I join you for just a minute?”

  Parnell was agreeable. Ben took the stool next to him and tried to think of where to start.

  “Just off the record, unofficially . . .” he began, and felt a little sheepish even saying that. “I wanted to ask you what your findings were in that Sally Roe suicide case.”

  Parnell looked at the menu again, a clear signal that he wasn’t interested in talking about it. “I handle a lot of cases, Officer Cole. Just what is it you want to know?”

  “Well . . . now I know this may sound a little strange, but . . . were you able to make a positive identification of the body?”

  Parnell looked at Ben as if he were joking. “Well, I should hope so. I wouldn’t be a very good coroner if I couldn’t even determine whose remains I was examining.”

  Ben knew he was looking foolish, but he tried to press on. “Well, what about that plaid shirt with the blood on it? Did you get that?”

  Parnell didn’t answer right away. He seemed to be having trouble remembering. “Uh . . . yeah, I think I got that.”

  “Did the blood types match?”

  “What do you mean, did the blood types match?”

  “Well, did the blood on the shirt match the blood of the deceased?”

  Parnell broke into a grin and eyed the menu again. “Well, I don’t know. I guess I never checked that. Why should I?”

  “Was there a wound on the deceased that could explain where the blood on the shirt came from?”

  “I . . . I don’t remember that there was.”

  “And what was the cause of death? I think you said asphyxiation by hanging in your report?”

  “Mm. That’s right. I do remember that.”

  “I was there on the scene, Mr. Parnell, and what I saw indicated a violent death, not at all what you would expect in a suicide. Also . . . the body wasn’t hanging. It was thrown violently to the floor, and there was no rope around the neck.”

  Parnell just looked at him, listening, without comment.

  Ben pressed some more. “Could you tell me . . . just so I know for sure . . . a description of the deceased?”

  Don came down the counter, and Parnell ordered a beef sandwich and some soup. Parnell took his time, and seemed to enjoy not having to talk to this young, inquisitive cop.

  Ben waited politely. Finally Parnell turned to him and with a wry smile said, “No, Officer Cole, I couldn’t.”

  That didn’t sound right to Ben. “That’s . . . privileged information?”

  “That’s right.”

  Well, what about the color of the hair? I recall seeing a woman with black hair, in her twenties, medium height . . .”

  “How about asking me something else?”

  Ben stopped, considered, and then asked something else. “According to what I’ve seen around the station, and then at the Potters’ rental, something’s missing, perhaps something that belonged to the dead woman. Would you have any idea what everyone is looking for?”

  Parnell was clearly getting impatient. “Now that question I don’t understand at all.”

  “Well, Sergeant Mulligan sent someone to the house to search it, and I know he was asking you about something—”

  “No comment, sir!” Parnell was visibly upset.

  Ben figured he’d better retreat from that line of questions. But now what? “Uh . . . well, just one more question.”

  Parnell was emphatic. “One more.”

  “Is it still possible to see the body?”

  Parnell chuckled at that. “Afraid not. It’s been cremated. Now, is that going to do it for you?”

  Ben smiled. “Sure. Thanks a lot, Mr. Parnell. Sorry to bother you.”

  “All right.”

  Parnell unfolded a copy of the Hampton County Star and gave it his full attention. Ben joined Leonard, who now had Kyle Krantz in custody, and they went out to the squad car.

  CHAPTER 13

  SALLY ROE WAS far from Bacon’s Corner, sitting on a hard bench in a bus depot in another town, looking the part of a wayward, hitchhiking vagabond, dressed in her old jeans and blue jacket, her dyed hair braided and tucked under a wool cap, her nicer clothes hidden in a large duffel bag on the bench beside her. She was oblivious to the passing travelers and their whining children, the used sections of newspapers strewn on the benches, the gum wrappers on the linoleum floor, and the occasional squawking announcements of departures and arrivals over the public address. Her bus would be leaving in one hour. She would spend that hour writing in the spiral notebook in her lap. It would be a letter, her first, to Tom Harris.

  Dear Mr. Harris,

  She stopped. How do I start this? He doesn’t even know me. Guess I could say that.

  I don’t know how to start this letter; after all, you don’t even know who I am. But let me introduce and explain myself, not just in this letter, but I hope in many more to follow. Perhaps by the time I have written my last letter to you, everything will be clear to both of us.

  My name is Sally Roe, formerly a planer-sander at the Bergen Door Company. You may have read the recent news story about my death by suicide. I assure you, I am the Sally Roe the news story talked about, and obviously, I am alive.

  Let me tell you what really happened . . .

  Sally could see it all happening again, even as she searched for the words to recount it.

  The day had been perfectly normal and downright boring. Working at the factory always was a bore, especially working in the sanding department, operating power sanders that hummed, whirred, and vibrated until it seemed they would make a milkshake out of your brains. After a full day and a quota of twenty-five doors, she finally drove the old blue pickup down the gravel driveway to her house. She was tired, tasting sawdust, and had no other plans than to shower, grab dinner, and go to bed.

  But then there were the goats, Betty the doe and her two kids, Buff and Bart. Pets, mostly. Sally inherited a buck and a doe from a lady at the factory who couldn’t afford to keep them. Sally sold the buck, kept the doe, had her bred, and now had the mother and two babies who were the cutest in the world and good company, always glad to see her come home.

  Sally parked the truck and headed for their pen. She would greet them first, give them some feed, have her usual one-sided conversation with them about her day, and then go inside and collapse.

  The goats were excited, but not with happiness. They were glad and eager to see her again, but mostly because something was disturbing them.

  “Hey . . . settle down there . . . Momma’s home . . .”

  She dug a pail of rolled ration from the feed bin beside the house and stepped through the gate into the goats’ pen. Betty circled her, happy but upset. The kids just kept bleating and bounding back and forth along the fence.

  Sally shook the pail to get their attention. “Come on, get some treats!”

  She went to the shed, hoping they would just follow her and calm down. The neighbors’ dog must have been around. He often got a real kick out of terrorizing her goats.

  She stepped into the shed. “Come on now, it’s all right—”

  Shock! A rope came over her head from behind and began crushing her windpipe before she even knew what it was! The pail of feed fell and spilled on the ground. With incredible strength, an unseen assailant heaved on the loop of rope, jerking her body backward, lifting her feet off the ground. She kicked, she grabbed at the rope. No air.

  Her feet found the wall, and she pushed. She and her attacker fell back against the feeder, and it cracked. The rope went slack and she wriggled free, dropping to the floor, rolling in the straw, pulling in air.

  A woman in black, eyes wild
with hate, a knife! The killer pounced like a leopard, Sally ducked to one side, the knife caught Sally in the shoulder with searing pain.

  Sally tried to wriggle out of the corner in which she was trapped, kicking and clawing the straw and dust. The woman’s knee came down on her chest and held her there. The rope fell across her neck again. Sally kicked the woman with one free leg.

  WUMP! Just that fast, like a rag doll, the woman crashed against the opposite wall of the shed, her head and limbs slapping against the boards, as if a giant had grabbed her and thrown her there. Sally had hardly made contact with her kick and felt some amazement, but at least the woman was off her. She scrambled out of the corner, her eyes on her assailant. The assassin slid down the wall to her feet and stumbled forward, her eyes blank and wandering, her jaw hanging.

  OOF!! Something struck the woman with such force, it lifted her off her feet. She flopped into the straw, her arms limp and flailing, her head crooked, her body lifeless, the rope still in her hand.

  I didn’t take any time to look. I just got out of there, still trying to breathe, totally occupied with just staying alive. I remember getting through the gate and then falling to the ground and retching. I can’t blame Betty and the kids for running away. Maybe it was a good thing they did.

  Sally leaned back from her writing and absentmindedly tapped the pen on the notebook, just thinking. It was a pretty bizarre way to open a letter. Maybe if she just kept writing, she would seem more credible as her story progressed. Well, all she could do was try.

  What can I say, Tom? How can I qualify myself as a reliable witness? If you were to ask me who I am, I would have to reply that I don’t know. For years I have asked myself the same question and now I wonder if, in the writing of these letters, I might be reaching out for an answer.

  You see, Tom, I want to help you. In my own way, and drawing from my own experience, I can relate to your situation and I know how you must feel. As one lost entity without source and without destination in a universe that is ultimately meaningless, I can’t tell you where my concept of “wrong” ever came from. Call it sentiment, call it “the way I was raised,” figure I’m just taking a desperate stab at meaning through antiquated morality, I still feel it—what is happening to you is wrong, and I’m sorry for your pain.