“Randy,” he said, “did you call?”
“Yeah. Go ahead and release Jonathan.”
Cade was surprised. “All right.”
“Just send the paperwork over so I can sign it. I have to leave at three for soccer practice.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Cade said.
C H A P T E R
62
So how does a Jamaican wind up in Georgia?” Jonathan’s question didn’t offend Gus at all. They had been talking for hours, enough for Jonathan to realize the man wasn’t touchy about his past.
“The drug smuggling,” Gus said. “I came here with a crateload of cocaine, and they didn’t let me leave.”
“You got caught then?”
“Served ten years, mon.”
“But I thought you were in for armed robbery.”
“Got out, couldn’t find a job, and didn’t have the money to get home to Jamaica. A friend from jail decided we could get fast money at a convenience store. Got us some guns, and we went in the place waving them around. Got fast money, mon, then fast jail time. Another five years.”
“So when did you meet Thelma and Wayne?”
“When I got out, I had no place to go. So I stayed at the Gateway shelter in Savannah. Wayne came there, and he preached to us. I had a lot of questions, mon. Down in Jamaica, I was a Rastafarian. We followed the teaching of the mon Haile Selassie.”
“Who?”
“An Ethiopian emperor. He dead now, mon. But that was my religion, and this Christianity was hard for me. Wayne helped me with it, then invited me to come to Hanover House. He told me I could stay there if I would read the Bible and study with him every day. That I did. I owe my life to them.”
Jonathan heard the catch in the big man’s voice and saw the tears he wiped away in his eyes. He doubted tears were commonplace for the man. He did seem to love Thelma and Wayne. And he really did love Christ.
It was so hard to fathom that this hardened ex-con, who looked like he could break Jonathan in half, had the same hope, the same spirit.
He heard footsteps, and Cade appeared. “Okay, Jonathan. Your charges were dropped. You’re free.”
Jonathan got up and gaped at him. “You kidding?”
“Nope,” Cade said as he opened the cell doors. “You want to stay?”
“No!” Jonathan grinned. “I’m going, I’m going.”
Gus stood up and looked at him through the bars. “Good for you, mon. Good for you.”
Jonathan gave him a high five as he hurried out of the cell.
C H A P T E R
63
Jonathan’s been released!” Morgan shrieked at Mrs. Hern, dancing her around in a circle. Then she grabbed her purse and headed out.
“Call Blair and tell her I’m going to pick him up!”
Morgan sped to the police station. Leaving the car running in the lot, she dashed in. Jonathan was waiting in the front room, looking as victorious as he had after leading his team to the State Championship. She threw her arms around him, and he picked her up and swung her around.
“I can’t believe it,” she squealed. “You’re coming home! Thank you, Cade! Thank you, thank you!”
Cade smiled as if he hadn’t expected to be the hero in all this. He just stood back and grinned as they rushed out of the station.
Morgan hopped into the passenger seat, and Jonathan drove. “Free, at last,” he said. “I thought I might be looking at a long sentence. Things weren’t looking good.”
He pulled her against him, and they drove home, clinging together like teenagers who couldn’t stand to be apart.
His mood changed as they pulled into the driveway of Hanover House, the first time he had seen it since the murders. For a moment, he sat behind the wheel, staring at the yellow house. “It won’t be right without them,” he whispered.
Morgan shook her head, and her eyes glimmered with tears. “It isn’t.”
“But we’re going to be all right,” Jonathan said. “I’m home now.”
C H A P T E R
64
After a few hours at home, Jonathan craved the sunshine and salt air. While Morgan scurried around the kitchen, making all his favorite dishes, he walked to the dock to check on his boat. The sun burned its welcome on his face, and the smell of the sea made him long to get back to work . . . that is, if he still had any. Being a murder suspect wasn’t exactly good for business.
His shirt stuck to his skin as he stood on the deck of his schooner, recalling his last words to Thelma and Wayne. He would give anything to erase the memory of his angry accusations that morning. Why hadn’t he just sat down and had breakfast with them? Why hadn’t he accepted their explanations about Gus? Why hadn’t he enjoyed them a little while longer?
He got off the boat and stood on the pier, looking at the warehouse where they had worshiped and died. He pulled his keys out of his pocket, found the one to the warehouse. He went in the side door.
The bloodstain was still on the floor, and as he stood over it, he remembered what their bodies had looked like lying there limp and empty.
Did that memory ruin the church they had worked so hard to build? Did the blood taint it somehow? Could the Holy Spirit still work here?
He sat down on the old secondhand pew that he and Morgan occupied on Sundays. He looked up at the pulpit and realized that he would never see Wayne behind it again. What would become of their seamen’s ministry and the church? Where would the congregation go? He couldn’t bear the thought of the church closing down. And all those new, struggling Christians with no one to disciple them.
It was Wayne’s calling, Wayne’s vocation, Wayne’s church . . .
His thoughts screeched to a halt, as if the Lord had thrown up a roadblock. It wasn’t Wayne’s church—it was Christ’s. And the Holy Spirit could still work here.
He started to pray for direction for the church, for guidance for the people, for a preacher who could keep it going. Suddenly he got a glimpse of himself standing at the pulpit, preaching to a crowded room.
No way, he thought. He wasn’t preacher material. It had never even crossed his mind.
He wasn’t called like Wayne was. He wasn’t ordained, anointed. . . .
And yet he saw the need and heard the Lord’s voice clearly telling him that the church wasn’t finished. Somehow, he had to keep it going.
Maybe he could clean the spot up tomorrow, he thought. Maybe he could get the church ready for Sunday. Maybe he could find some kind soul to preach. In honor of Thelma and Wayne, someone would come. And he couldn’t imagine their regular church members staying away.
But as his mind struggled with the concept, his heart swelled. “I miss you, Thelma and Wayne,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I was a jerk.”
He knew they would have forgiven him, probably had even before they died. And as the relief of that flooded through his mind, he realized that he had someone to forgive, as well.
His oldest, closest friend, who had arrested him for something he hadn’t done. Cade, who had done his job despite his personal feelings.
He could do that, he thought. He could forgive Cade. He had no other options.
He got up and walked to the pulpit, stood where Wayne used to stand, and touched the order of worship Morgan had typed for them the Sunday before they died. Thelma had sat at the piano, playing her old favorite hymns.
No one could ever replace them. Their shoes were too big to fill.
But they would have church this Sunday, and the Sunday after that, and the Sunday after that.
He took a deep breath, wiped his face on his sleeve, and left the building with new purpose—one that felt strangely like a calling.
C H A P T E R
65
Cade rose before dawn, feeling as bone-weary as he had when he had gone to bed. Questions and clues whirled in his head, keeping him from the deep, restoring sleep he needed. There was too much to do.
Before the sun came up, he had made the decision to
go to Atlanta. He couldn’t keep Rick’s airline tickets out of his mind. He had already checked with the airlines and learned that the ticket had not been used. Why would an innocent man disappear on the day that lies were published about him? Wouldn’t he stay and fight? Set the record straight?
Cade had learned that Rick’s mother did not have pneumonia, though his boss confirmed that Rick had gotten a phone call the day he left, telling him she was hospitalized. Had Rick lied about the call, or had someone else lied to him?
He had never shown up to visit his mother in the hospital. They were still watching the nursing home in case Rick showed up there.
Rick’s disappearance created suspicion that Cade might not have had otherwise. His all-points bulletin had turned up nothing, and he wasn’t sure he could trust the Atlanta PD to be diligent enough to catch Rick. He had to search for Rick by himself. Going to Atlanta would be a start.
But Rick wasn’t the only reason to head for Atlanta. Cade couldn’t get Sadie’s phone call off his mind. She had called an Atlanta day care, Miss Tina’s, to ask about a nine-month-old named Caleb Caruso. With that information, he knew he could fill in a lot of blanks about the girl.
One way or another, he would come back from Atlanta with information he sorely needed.
By the time he ended the four-hour trip to Atlanta, McCormick had called him with the name of the nursing home where Rick’s mother lived. After arriving in the city, it took Cade another hour to navigate the traffic and find it. He wore jeans and a golf shirt, a baseball cap and sunglasses so that Rick wouldn’t recognize him.
He found the home, a one-story building in an L shape, with a sign out front that said “Treasure Oaks Rest Home.” He went in and approached the woman behind the nurse’s desk. She had a powdered donut in her hand and a telephone at her ear.
Cade waited for her to get off the phone but quickly realized she was gabbing with a friend, and it could be a long wait.
“Excuse me,” he said.
She turned around as if seeing him for the first time. “Hold on,” she said to the phone, then to Cade, “Yeah?”
“I understand you have a resident here named Marilyn Dugan. Could you tell me what room she’s in?”
The nurse dusted the powdered sugar off of her hands. “Yeah, room 432.”
Cade waited for her to point him in the right direction, but she went back to her phone conversation instead. “Which way is it?” he asked, annoyed.
She looked at him as if his last question had pushed her over the edge. “It’s that way, okay? The number’s on the door.”
He flashed his police badge and leaned on the counter. “I need to ask you a few questions. You might want to call your friend back later.”
The woman looked insulted but picked the phone back up. “Sue, I’ll call you back.” She turned back to Cade. “Police, huh? Marilyn do something wrong?”
“Could you tell me if she’s had any visitors lately?”
She set her hands on her hips and sighed. “Marilyn hasn’t had visitors since her son moved away a few months ago.”
“Are you sure?”
“You calling me a liar?”
Cade wondered if the woman was married. She must be a delight to come home to. “No, I’m not calling you a liar,” he said patiently. “I was actually looking for someone who may have visited her in the last couple of days. But if a fine upstanding woman like yourself says no one’s come, then I’ll just talk to Marilyn myself.”
“Good luck,” she said, then added, “she thinks she’s living in 1955.”
Cade left the nursing home fifteen minutes later, no closer to finding Rick than he had been before. He got into his car and sat there, staring at the wheel.
Rick’s mother was not an old woman. In her late fifties, perhaps. Early sixties at the most. He had expected someone old, in her last days of life. Alzheimer’s had gotten her early.
“Samuel,” she said when she first caught sight of him. Her face lit up like a little girl’s, and she sprang up and threw her arms around him. “Samuel, you’re almost late for pictures. Where’s your suit?”
He felt as if he had stepped into someone else’s life. “I’m not Samuel, ma’am,” he said. “You have me mixed up with someone else.”
She stepped back then, and her face went slack. “I thought we were dancing. I got you a boutonniere.”
He felt sorry for her and thought of pretending to be Samuel just to light her face back up. “Ma’am, my name is Matthew Cade. I’m looking for your son, Rick. Has he been here?”
She sank into her chair, her eyes growing vacant. Just when he thought she might answer, she began to sing, in a soft, haunting voice . . . “Where have all the flowers gone, long time passing . . .”
“Ma’am,” he said softly. He pulled a chair up next to her and leaned in close. “I need to find your son.”
She stopped singing and smiled again. Her hand came up to stroke his cheek. “You’re as handsome as ever, Samuel.”
He knew then that he wasn’t going to get through to her. Her life was somewhere in the past, in a world that couldn’t be penetrated by police investigations or her own son’s trouble.
He had been glad to get out of there.
He decided to wait a while, in case Rick Dugan showed up. Rick had laid low a couple of days, but eventually Cade knew he would come to check on his mother. With his car hidden among the others in the parking lot, Cade sat and waited.
C H A P T E R
66
Cade waited until late that night, until the lights began going off in the nursing home. Then he returned early the next morning and waited some more. Rick Dugan never showed up. Realizing his trip had been for nothing, he decided to see what he could find out about Sadie.
He looked up the number of Miss Tina’s Day Care, got the address, then made his way through town. He found it easily, then sat out in his car for a moment, bracing himself for what he might discover inside. Was there an abandoned child who needed her?
He went inside and found the children all lying on little cots and in their baby beds. It was naptime, and soft lullaby music played over the intercom.
One of the teachers got up and started toward him. “May I help you?” she asked in a voice just above a whisper.
“Yes,” he said, flashing his badge. “Is there someplace we can talk?”
She nodded to an office and led him inside. He closed the door quietly, hoping not to wake the children. These teachers probably needed this break.
“I’m Matthew Cade from the police department,” he said, not bothering to clarify that he was from Cape Refuge, not Atlanta. If Sadie was in trouble, he didn’t want to lead a trail to her.
“Yes, officer, what can I do for you?”
“I understand you have a child here by the name of Caruso. Caleb, I think it is?”
“Yes,” she said. “I wondered if something was up—with his mother in jail and all those calls from his sister.”
Cade leaned forward. “His sister?”
“Yes,” she said. “Sadie keeps calling to make sure he’s all right.”
“So—who does the baby live with?”
“His father, poor child. The rumor is that Sadie ran away. Is that why you’re here?”
“No one’s reported her missing,” he evaded. “How can I reach her father?”
“Oh, he’s not her father. He’s her mother’s boyfriend—or he was before she went to jail. A real scary guy, if you ask me. No wonder Sadie ran away.”
He let those words sink in for a moment. Her broken arm and the bruises on her face bore witness to that fact. “Do you know how old Sadie is?”
“Sixteen. Sweetest kid in the world. I hope nothing happened to her. On the other hand, she’s probably better off now. I feared for her, living with that man. Poor little Caleb. Shame she didn’t take him with her.”
Cade took his pad out of his pocket. “Could you tell me his name?”
“I don’t know hi
s first name. Last name is Dent. I can give you an address, since you’re the police. Caleb’s mama registered him, but it’s the same address.”
Cade wrote the address down, then looked up at the woman again. “Why is his mother in jail?”
“Some kind of drug charge. And she seemed like such a nice person. Nearly broke Sadie’s heart. I know, because Sadie used to pick Caleb up every day.” She looked down at her desk. “Caleb. That’s a Bible name, you know.”
Cade nodded.
“It’s a good name for that baby. As scary as the father is, I’d say he’s going to have to be very strong and courageous.”
Cade got to his feet. “Can I see the baby?”
“Oh, he’s not here today. Sick, I guess. Didn’t come in.”
Cade had a lot to think about as he made his way back to the nursing home and checked at the front desk to see if Rick had been by. He hadn’t.
He went by the Atlanta Police Department to see if a missing-persons report had been filed on Sadie. Either no one had noticed her missing or no one cared.
Then he found the street where Dent lived and counted off the house numbers until he was sure he had the right one. He pulled into the driveway of the old house with peeling paint and a leaning foundation. As he walked up the cracked sidewalk, he saw that the second step on the porch had caved in. Carefully, he stepped over it.
He heard a baby crying through the door and something crashed. The baby’s cries hit a higher octave.
He knocked. When no one answered, he rang the bell and knocked again, harder this time. Finally, he heard footsteps bounding across the floor, and the door jerked open.
Through the screen he smelled the alcohol breath of the man standing before him with a week-old growth of beard and a baseball cap on backwards. Scraggly, dirty auburn hair stuck out beneath it.