The Reckoning Stones: A Novel of Suspense Page 6

  And she still had the appointment to visit her father at the prison. That wasn’t until tomorrow … what should she do now? She could drop in on her mother … Right. If I’m in the mood for an emotional milkshake of guilt, resentment, and disdain. She could check into a hotel, or cruise through the Community to assess the changes. Maybe it had a Starbucks now. Iris snorted and pulled out her phone. Dialing Jane’s number, she considered telling her about the run-in with Esther, the frustration of not being able to challenge Pastor Matt once she’d worked up the nerve to return, her reluctance to visit the Community and see her mother. Instead, when Jane picked up, Iris asked, “How’s Edgar?”

  Jane laughed her throaty laugh. “Hello, Iris. His highness is doing well, thank you, eating his weight in cat food that might as well be caviar and Kobe beef.”

  “Good. That’s good.”

  Silence fell. Indistinct voices came from Jane’s end of the line and Iris assumed she had customers in the gallery.

  “Want to tell me about it?” Jane asked after a long moment.

  “I’m at the hospital.”

  “And—?”

  “And nothing. He wasn’t in his room. Tests.” Why didn’t she tell Jane that seeing Brozek might be pointless? Because it felt, irrationally, like failure.

  “Inconsiderate of him,” Jane said. “Excuse me a minute.”

  The phone clunked down and a conversation ensued. “… bring my husband back to see the piece,” and “I’ll put a hold on it” filtered through the phone before Jane picked up again and said, “I’m back. Sorry. Customers.”

  “We can talk later—” Iris half regretted phoning, not sure what she wanted to tell Jane, if anything.

  “So what’s your next step?”

  “See my mother.” Iris hadn’t known that’s what she was going to do; the words popped out unbidden in response to Jane’s question. “Then check into a hotel, get a good glass of wine, and …” And a young stud to drive it all from her mind. The memory of Greg’s laugh sounded in her head and she shook it away.

  “You’re strong enough to do this, Iris. It’s the right path.”

  Iris wasn’t so sure, but Jane’s faith warmed her.

  “Say ‘hi’ to your mom for me.” With a laugh, Jane rang off.

  Iris turned the key and pointed the car toward Lone Pine before she could change her mind.

  Driving fifteen miles into what used to be virtually uninhabited woods, Iris noted how strip malls and housing development had encroached on the Black Forest north and east of Colorado Springs, boxing in the tiny town of Lone Pine. She wondered what the Community thought about no longer being so isolated. Did the elders like the convenience of having a 7-Eleven with gas pumps a couple miles down the road, or did they resent having a tattoo parlor and sports bar within walking distance? She’d bet the latter, would also bet that Lone Pine’s more adventurous youth regularly hiked the distance to the sports bar to buy a soda and watch forbidden TV.

  Stopping the car on the verge where the school bus used to pick up and drop off Noah and her, the Brozek kids, Jolene, and a couple of others, Iris got out. A dump truck laden with gravel blasted past, dusting her with dirt and rock bits. She squinched her eyes against the draft and opened them when the truck was safely past to study the path that still bisected the brief apron of meadow before disappearing into the stands of pine and aspen beyond. It was fainter than when she’d lived there. She could just see the outermost boulders of the rockslide. Tempted to walk the mile-long trail into Lone Pine, Iris decided she might want to make a quick getaway and having her car nearby would be handy. Dredging up sentimental memories of giggling her way home from the bus stop with Jolene, or the time she watched bobcat kittens play from atop Big Boulder, was not on the agenda.

  Back in the car, she folded her lips in, drove the last half-mile, and made the turn at the 1960s era motor court with the tacky neon sign spelling out sleepytime motor inn, with only the SL, the Y and the last N illuminated. Did the Welshes still own it? The road, still unpaved, ambled slightly downhill as she passed the motel. A new sign at the town’s outskirts announced lone pine, co. pop. 346. So, the Community had almost doubled, despite the scandal and Matthew Brozek’s inability to shepherd his flock. Iris couldn’t count the number of times she’d heard him use that phrase. Who was leading the flock now, or had it dispersed?

  The sun, sinking toward the west, was just high enough to illuminate the town, like a spotlight on a set. Iris tried to view it with as much detachment as she would a movie. Still vaguely horseshoe-shaped and hemmed in by high forest walls, the town now bulged to the south. Most of the houses were simple ranches, but several had brick or stone facades, or doors painted aubergine or garnet. Chicken coops squatted in many yards, and a field on the north held containers Iris thought might be beehives with a small barn or shed beyond them. The spring-fed pond, almost lake-sized, glinted bluely from the field’s far end. What wasn’t there was just as telling: no satellite dishes clinging to the eaves like fungi, no fences between the houses, no RVs or boats or third cars parked alongside the houses.

  The downtown area—Iris didn’t know how else to refer to it, even though that gave it more importance than it merited—looked busier, with more storefronts than she remembered, in addition to the café and the tiny library/post office. Four-way stop signs at the intersection near the general store testified to increased traffic. Center Street still dead-ended at the church of God’s Community of Believers and Disciples, set at the closed end of the horseshoe, and the low building gleamed whitely from a cocoon of barbered shrubs and yellowing tulip leaves. Iris struggled to identify the feeling that itched at her and realized sheepishly that she was affronted that the town had apparently grown and flourished in her absence. It had had the temerity to change. Well, so had she.

  Iris angled into a parking spot in front of what had been the general store. Her mouth felt dry; she’d get another bottled water in the store before seeking her mother. As she mounted the two plank steps, a sleek tourist-type bus rumbled out from behind the store and paused, belching diesel fumes. Middle-aged and elderly women and a few men jostled Iris as they streamed out of the store. Almost all of them carried bags marked “Lone Pine Traditional Crafts” in coral on a pale blue background. Hunching her shoulders inward to let the horde pass, Iris raised her brows at what appeared to be an organized shopping expedition, maybe for a senior’s center. She helped one frail woman down the shallow steps and saw a cranberry wool sweater peeping from a nest of tissue paper in her shopping bag. What in the world—?

  Crossing the store’s threshold, Iris found herself in an unfamiliar space. Gone were the chest-high shelves that held cans of Campbell’s soup, Wonder bread, Kotex, and matches. Gone were the sputtering fluorescent light fixtures, the whirring fan on the counter, the air of homey shabbiness. In their place was a stylish sales space with upscale lighting glowing on stacks of sweaters, racks of scarves and hats, and baskets of yarn advertised as “Organic Alpaca Wool.” Shallow refrigerator chests on the far end of the store featured local cheeses. Pyramids of honey, candles, and other beeswax products gave off a pleasant, waxy scent. Iris’s eyes got round. She spotted a salesgirl behind a counter, her fingers skimming through the contents of a wallet, like she was looking for a stamp or receipt.

  “Hi,” Iris said.

  The girl’s head came up and she dropped her wallet. “Oh! I didn’t hear you come in. Welcome.” She stooped for the wallet, tucked it behind the counter, and came around to greet Iris.

  Iris was ready to ask what had happened to the general store, whose brainchild this crafts boutique was, but choked on the words when she got a good look at the blond girl standing in front of her. Jolene! A lump lodged in her throat and she swallowed hard. A mere second’s thought made her realize it couldn’t be Jolene; Jolene was approaching forty, just like she was, and this girl was no more than sixteen. Jolene was
still here, then. She hadn’t escaped. Sadness—no, something more like regret—sifted through Iris as her fantasy of Jolene playing Nora or Major Barbara off-Broadway evaporated. This girl was a Jolene clone: petite, blond, hazel-eyed, with the same uptilting eyebrows and slightly sticking out ears. She wore a calf-length skirt and Peter Pan-collared blouse, the kind Iris had eschewed ever since leaving the Community. Something about the girl’s posture told Iris she hid a pair of jeans in her backpack and put them on in the high school restroom, probably topping them with a cami or T-shirt the Community’s elders would condemn as immodest. A tag clipped to her collar said “Rachel.”

  As Iris hesitated, unsure what to say, Rachel broke into a rehearsed spiel: “Lone Pine Traditional Crafts is a cooperative that celebrates the arts that made our pioneers self-sufficient. We have wool from alpacas raised in this community, and wool products hand-spun and knit by award-winning local artists. The cheeses are made by our citizens from goats and cows never treated with hormones of any kind. The honey comes from our hives. Here.” The girl handed Iris a tri-fold brochure with a photo of alpacas grazing in front of the church.

  Iris slid her fingers across the slick paper. “How long has the store been … like this?”

  “We’ve been open eight years,” Rachel said, apparently happy to have someone to chat with since the shoppers had left. “The Community has always been big on being self-sustaining”—she said it with a sniff, like having a Walmart down the block beat self-sustaining every day of the week—“and eight years ago, our elders decided we should share our bounty with others.”

  Rake in some tourist bucks, you mean, Iris thought, but didn’t say. She wondered whose brainchild the store really was, unable to imagine the stodgy group of elders she had known, all middle-aged men, coming up with a concept like this.

  “You work here?” Iris groaned inwardly at the stupidity of her question.

  “We all do,” Rachel said. “We have to. It’s part of our service to God and the Community.”

  Iris suppressed a smile at the resentment lurking in Rachel’s voice. Clearly, the girl would rather be stalking boys at the mall with her friends, or working some place a bit more happening than this senior citizen shopping Mecca in the woods. The phone rang and Iris examined some hand-drawn note cards on a revolving carrel as Rachel answered it.

  A door opened somewhere in the rear of the shop and a young man appeared behind the counter, bringing the scent of outdoors with him. With collar-scraping light brown hair, a willowy build, and finely drawn features, he seemed almost delicate, a little like the blond elf in Lord of the Rings. At first, Iris thought he might be Rachel’s boyfriend, even though he looked too old for her, but his tone dispelled that idea.

  “Chloe’s sick and can’t work her shift today,” he told Rachel when she hung up. “Mom says you have to stay until six tonight and close up.”

  Rachel flushed angrily. “Abby and I are … we have plans.”

  “Not any more you don’t.”

  Her tone turned pleading. “Aaron, you could do it. It’ll be quiet …

  you could get some studying done.”

  “Not happening. I’m meeting friends at The Thirsty Parrot.”

  The revolving stand creaked as Iris turned it and the man noticed her for the first time. “I didn’t see—. Sorry.” He smiled apologetically. “I didn’t know we had customers.”

  “No problem.” Iris realized that Aaron must be Jolene’s son, even though he didn’t much resemble her. If he was as old as he looked—twenty-two or -three—Jolene must have had him within a year of Iris leaving the Community. She hadn’t even been dating anyone, as far as Iris knew, so who was his father? She studied him, trying to think who he reminded her of.

  “Do I have a smudge on my face?”

  He sounded half-prickly, prepared to take affront, and Iris gave him the slow smile that rarely failed to win men over. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just that you remind me of someone.”

  Aaron’s stiffness melted under her smile and he asked, “Who?”

  Iris started to shake her head, but then said, “Orlando Bloom.”

  Aaron looked pleased and Rachel snorted. “Shakespeare’s Orlando, maybe, mooning through the woods after Rosalind.”

  Iris arched her brows.

  Correctly interpreting her expression, Aaron said, “Our mom teaches Shakespeare.”

  “Ah.” The idea of Jolene teaching took a minute to sink in. Iris had been so sure she’d follow her passion for performing. Aaron, she thought. His birth had trapped her here. Iris eyed him, surprised to find she was half angry with him on Jolene’s behalf. She shook off the feeling.

  “I’m Aaron, by the way,” Jolene’s son said, gazing at Iris with more interest now that his sister had moved away to swipe a sleeve over a smudgy handprint on the refrigeration unit. He reached over the counter to shake hands.

  “Iris. Do you live here?”

  Aaron shook his head. “My folks do. I’ve got an apartment near UCCS. I’m working on my psych master’s. How’d you find us, anyway?”

  “I used to live around here.” Damn. Iris regretted the truth the minute it was out of her mouth. Now he’d want to know when she’d lived here, if she’d known Jolene’s family, the Ashers, Pastor Matt.

  The phone on the counter rang and Aaron answered it, lifting a “just one moment” forefinger. He listened for a few seconds, covered the receiver, and called, “Hey, Rach, did you find a brown, fake alligator wallet? One of the ladies—”

  Iris seized the opportunity to escape. Opening the door, she let in a chilly breath. “Thanks. I might be back,” she said, slipping through the door without waiting for an acknowledgement.

  Walking away from the co-op without a conscious destination, she realized she was headed toward the house where she’d spent her first fifteen years. Toward her mother. She drew a few sidelong looks, possibly because she was a stranger, or maybe because she was the only woman wearing jeans rather than a skirt. Clearly, a lot of the Community’s restrictive rules were still in place: modest dress and long hair for women, no TV (if the lack of satellite dishes was anything to go by), simple living. Probably four elders and the pastor still ruled with iron rods, requiring the men to tithe and the women to be homemakers, meting out punishment to members who strayed from the path the elders had narrowed even more than Jesus intended. She brought her knuckles to her lips, feeling the ruler’s sting from when she’d stumbled over the words of Galatians 2:20 during a Sunday school recitation. Alcohol, tobacco, gambling, and sex outside marriage had been strictly forbidden while community service, Bible study, and church attendance had been required. She’d bet the elders were still all men.

  Nodding at one girl who gave her a shy smile, Iris left Center Street for the road her former home stood on. She continued the length of a football field to the house that used to be almost at the edge of Lone Pine, but which now had a buffer of newer houses between it and the line of trees which had been cut back to accommodate the Community’s growth. Her footsteps slowed as she drew level with the house, smaller than she remembered, painted blue instead of gray, the maple sapling grown up to tower over the roofline. Blurring her peripheral vision so she didn’t see the additional homes and streets, she experienced a chill of déjà vu. It felt like time travel must, like she’d walked out of her Portland life and into the 1990s. She could almost hear Noah bouncing his basketball on the driveway, and her mother sweeping the front stoop, her broom whisk-whisking. Iris’s mouth went dry; she’d forgotten to purchase water at the store. Suddenly reluctant to approach any closer, to knock on the door she used to bang in and out of at will, to speak to her mother, she stopped halfway up the drive.

  I don’t need to do this. The thought blossomed. She had returned to confront Pastor Matt and to see her father. Her mother … she didn’t need to see her mother. She turned away on the thoug
ht, the tightness in her chest easing slightly. She had taken one step when the door behind her creaked open and a pleasant voice asked, “Can I help you?”

  Reluctantly, Iris turned and found herself facing a stranger, a young woman with long reddish hair, a toddler balanced on her hip, and an enquiring expression. Having expected to see her mother, Iris was momentarily at a loss. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “No, I, um … I was looking for Marian Asher.”

  “Oh, she hasn’t lived here for years, not since the tragedy,” the woman said.

  Iris didn’t know if she was referring to the tragedy of her own disappearance, Pastor Matt’s incapacitation, or her father’s imprisonment. “I didn’t know.”

  “Marian is the church’s caretaker now … has been since before we came to the Community,” the woman said. “She lives in the cottage behind the church. We call it Outback Cottage because, well, it’s out back of the church. You can find her there. I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you.” She smiled goodbye and closed the door as the toddler began to make unhappy noises.

  Controlling an urge to jog back to her car, Iris kept her pace to a brisk walk and her eyes straight ahead. If she’d needed another reason for not seeking out her mother, the news that she lived in Outback Cottage provided it. It would take a team of draft horses to drag her through that door again.