The Reckoning Stones: A Novel of Suspense Read online

  eleven

  mercy

  Twenty-Four Years Ago

  Outback Cottage originally belonged to the house, the

  out-of-place Victorian built by a fanciful settler in the late 1800s who prized both isolation and ostentation. His only surviving son, an early Community member, had willed the house and cottage to the Brozeks. Pastor Matt’s mother-in-law, Zach and Esther’s grandma, had lived in the cottage until she died the summer before Iris started eighth grade. Pastor Matt declared that he was donating the cottage for the use of a caretaker who would be responsible for janitorial and maintenance work at the church, but when no candidate stepped forward, the cottage stayed empty. The first time fourteen-year-old Mercy Asher stepped over the threshold, she thought it smelled like an unemptied cat litter box mixed with the kind of floral perfume that made her think of Nana Asher. She sneezed. She couldn’t imagine why Pastor Matt wanted to meet her here, instead of in his office or one of the worship center’s meeting rooms, but he’d said something about an important project.

  A gilt-framed mirror hung over a narrow table in the tiny entry hall and a two-foot tall iron cross, thin but heavy looking, hung across from it. Fusty old people furniture and knick-knacks—lacy doilies over faded brocade upholstery and porcelain figurines and glassware—made the cottage feel like old Mrs. Wellington had just stepped out. Mercy felt uncomfortable, like an intruder, even though the woman had been dead for a year. She almost expected one of Mrs. Wellington’s six or seven cats to come wind about her ankles, but they were gone, too.

  “Pastor Matt?” When there was no answer, Mercy poked her head into the kitchen, dim with the shutters closed. A gleam caught her eye and she traced a forefinger over the spout of a delicate china teapot painted with forget-me-nots. It sat on a ledge that ran at eye level around the attached dining area.

  “No one saw you come in, did they?”

  Pastor Matt’s voice sounded behind her, and Mercy whirled, long braid whipping. “No, sir. You told me to keep it a secret.”

  He smiled, big white teeth out-gleaming the fine china. “Good.”

  Mercy relaxed a tick, happy to have earned his approval, and wished she could open a window to let in some light and air. The stuffy rooms felt smaller somehow, now that Pastor Matt was here, even though he wasn’t that tall. He gave the impression of being bigger than he was. Partly, it was his squared shoulders and thickening torso, but mostly it was his personality. He had a kind of presence that enveloped you, that draped itself over you, Mercy had thought more than once, that made people feel good about themselves and him. Not like her mom who too often made people feel smaller with the way her eyes cut away from them, or that little sniff she gave to signal contempt or disappointment, or the way she was all the time cleaning, cleaning, cleaning, like her family tracked in more dirt and left more grubby fingerprints on the walls than any other family in the Community. Mercy remembered she had yet to dust the baseboards and blinds; she wouldn’t get dinner until she’d done her chores.

  Pastor Matt interrupted her thoughts. “You know the church’s twentieth anniversary is coming up and I want to do something special. With your artistic talents, I think you’re just the girl to help me. What do you say?”

  Half flattered and half confused, not understanding what sort of project he meant—a mural of some kind, maybe?—Mercy said, “Thank you. I’d be happy to help.”

  “Let me show you what I have in mind.” Gesturing toward the table, Pastor Matt unrolled the tube of paper he carried and spread it out, anchoring the curling corners with cat-shaped salt and pepper shakers and a yellow sugar bowl that still held dusty cubes. He explained his plan for a triptych of banners featuring Biblical scenes. “It’ll go behind the altar, floor to ceiling. There are plenty of women in the church who can do the needlework, Mercy, but we need a sketch, a drawing they can use as a blueprint or pattern. And what with you winning first place in the state fair art contest—. I thought maybe Samson in the temple for one panel, Saul on the road to Damascus for the middle one, and a scene from Revelation for the third. What do you think?”

  Flattered at having her opinion asked, Mercy shifted slightly away from the heat of Pastor Matt; he stood so close their hips touched. “I could do that,” she said, her mind fizzing with possibilities. “Maybe for the Old Testament scene you could have Ruth and Naomi in the field, or Esther pleading with the king to save her people? Having a woman in one of the scenes would be good, someone besides Mary, that is.” To look at most of the paintings and sculptures Mercy’s art teacher was so fond of, you’d think there hadn’t been any women in the Bible besides Jesus’s mother. Mercy wanted to break new ground and draw a Biblical woman with more personality than Mary seemed to have had.

  “My daughter would like it if we used Esther,” Pastor Matt said, tugging on his underlip with his thumb and forefinger. “Or the dogs tearing Jezebel apart would make a powerful scene.”

  Mercy couldn’t imagine looking at something like that every Sunday and said, “I don’t know if I can draw dogs so good. How ’bout I do a few different scenes and you decide what you like?” Lot’s wife turning to salt with Sodom and Gomorrah exploding into a fireball in the background would be dramatic, or David slingshotting Goliath, although that was almost as overdone as Mary … .

  “Great idea.” His hand absently kneaded her shoulder as they studied his rough sketch laid out on the table. “I can’t wait to see what you come up with, Mercy—you’re such a talented girl. Creative. Remember, though, that this is our secret. Don’t want the whole Community knowing about it before the anniversary!” He squeezed her shoulder one last time and let his hand drop. It brushed her rear as it fell to his side. An accident, surely.

  “Absolutely,” Mercy said, her mind working on the composition and content of possible scenes. “Our secret.”

  twelve

  iris

  Weary from her sleepless night, early departure, travel, and the emotions whipping through her like debris sucked up by a tornado, Iris returned to her car and drove slowly out of Lone Pine, wishing she’d pre-booked a hotel room. The Sleepytime Motor Inn came into view and, on impulse, Iris pulled into its small parking lot. Frost heaves in the asphalt made walking difficult as she crossed to a small A-frame building whose roof sloped almost to the ground. A sign on the door said “OFFICE.” She pushed it open and a bell tinkled.

  “Minute!” a voice called.

  Standing on decades-old indoor-outdoor carpeting that had faded from blue to brownish-gray, Iris faced a short counter that hinged to allow the innkeeper access to the small reception area. Old-fashioned keys with plastic tags hung from hooks numbered 1 to 8 behind the counter, and a rack of colorful brochures advertising local activities ranging from cog rail rides up Pikes Peak to tours of the U.S. Air Force Academy, stood by the door. She was already regretting the impulse that had made her stop at this dumpy motel, but a woman she recognized as Mrs. Welsh emerged from the room behind the counter before she could duck out.

  Petite and graying, she wore a corduroy dress with clogs and the worn-down expression of many small business owners in the tough economy. Small pearls graced her neat ears, her only jewelry. When she said, “You’d like a room?” in a hopeful voice, Iris didn’t have the heart to head for the nearest Embassy Suites or Hyatt as had been her original plan.

  “Yes, please.” Iris pulled out her credit card. “I don’t know how long I’ll need to stay.” As short a time as possible.

  “That’s okay. We’re not too busy yet. Our busy season is the summer. Tourists.” She passed Iris a registration card and a pen. “It’s $28.99 a night.”

  Iris found it hard to imagine that flocks of tourists found their way to this out-of-the-way corner, but the cheap rooms probably attracted some families trying to stretch their vacation dollars. Mrs. Welsh drew the card across the counter and studied it. “You look familiar,” she said, a line b
etween her brows, “but I don’t recognize the name. Iris. That’s pretty.” She turned and unhooked a key from the pegboard, sliding it across the counter.

  Iris almost denied any connection. But, then, a spark of anger crept in. She’d done nothing wrong, nothing to be ashamed of. Why should she skulk around and lie about her ties to the Community? “I used to live here,” Iris said. “Penelope was a couple years ahead of me in school. We played together sometimes. Model horses.”

  Before she could tell the woman her former name, Mrs. Welsh took a half step back. “Mercy Asher. We thought you were dead.”

  “Iris, please. Alive and well and living in Portland, for the moment,” Iris said, determinedly cheerful, even though Mrs. Welsh was now looking like she regretted giving Iris a key. Was she remembering Iris’s accusations against Pastor Matt, or thinking about Neil Asher, in jail for beating the pastor and causing his wife’s death?

  Apparently, the thought of income outweighed whatever scruples she was battling with because she said stiffly, “Number two’s around back. Nice and quiet.”

  As if any of the rooms would be noisy, out here at the intersection of Nowhere and Back of Beyond.

  “You can park right in front of the door. I’m afraid we don’t fill the pool until Memorial Day.” She gave Iris an apologetic smile, and then, as if curiosity had trumped her discomfort, she asked, “What brings you back? Marian didn’t mention that you were coming.”

  “I’m really here to see my dad,” Iris said, “but maybe I’ll stop in and surprise her.”

  “Oh, you’ll do that, I’m sure,” Mrs. Welsh said dryly. “There should be towels in the room, but if you need anything, we’re in the blue house just past room one.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” Iris considered asking about a wi-fi connection, and decided it would be a waste of breath. The bell tinkled again as she left the office.

  The motor inn was arranged with the office nearest the road and the rooms in two blocks of four with the pool in a small courtyard between the two rows. The house Mrs. Welsh had mentioned was kitty-corner from the office on the far side of the motel and Iris spotted an overalled man—Mr. Welsh?—hoeing in the garden. He paused and leveled a stare at her for a long moment, and then returned to hacking at the ground when she got in the rental car. Driving around the building, she found her room at the far end, butted up against a strip of scraggly trees.

  The lock yielded reluctantly to the key after Iris jiggled it, and she discovered the room was not as dreary as she’d expected. A yellow comforter and ruffled shams on the double bed offset the effect of clunky, mismatched furniture that looked like it had come from a variety of thrift shops and garage sales. It was sturdy, though, and gave off a pleasing odor of beeswax. She could work on the award design at the desk. She rattled open the drapes. Light poured in and she found herself facing the pool, a rectangle covered with a heavy tarp that sagged toward the middle. Not unlike the bed, Iris thought, eyeing it dubiously.

  Leaving the door open, she returned to the car to retrieve her weekender and the case containing her jewelry-making tools and supplies. She’d probably only be here one night, maybe two, she told herself as she unzipped her bag, so it didn’t matter that the Sleepytime Motor Inn wasn’t exactly on par with the Ritz. She’d visit her father tomorrow, find a way to have it out with Pastor Matt in the afternoon or the next day, and return to Portland ready to create the best damned award the Green Gables company had ever seen. She picked up her drawing pad and flipped it open, thinking she might start on the design. Pencil poised, she hesitated, and then flipped the pad closed. She needed a shower. Marching nude into the bathroom, she hoped the water heated up quickly.

  thirteen

  iris

  The Arkansas Valley Correctional Facility loomed on the horizon. About fifty miles east of Pueblo on State Highway 96, it was suitably isolated, rising from the prairie like a pop-up against the flat pages of a children’s book. With the sun almost directly overhead, it cast no shadow, enhancing the two-dimensional effect. Iris hadn’t known what to expect—the closest she’d ever been to prison was the overnight stay at the Baton Rouge jail when she’d been picked up for shoplifting—but she’d anticipated something more sinister, more Shawshank Redemption, than these rectangular buildings with flags. It looked like a community college campus or the headquarters for a mid-sized, light industrial corporation that got a tax break to locate in this barren county. If the corporation needed double twelve-foot fences topped with concertina wire to keep its employees in.

  Only a handful of visitors suffered through the check-in procedures in the small reception area, a space about the size of Iris’s bedroom. They were a motley lot ranging from an octogenarian trailing an oxygen tank to a wailing two-year-old. Most of them seemed to know the drill. Iris tried not to think about how depressing it would be to see your son, brother, or husband only in this environment. When she’d filled out the paperwork, listing Neil Asher as the “offender” she was there to see, Iris waited her turn in the inspection line run by a slender Hispanic guard. A class ring with a central peridot winked from his pinky. He made her open her mouth and curl up her tongue—what weapon did he think she could hide there?—and fan her long hair. Even though she was only a visitor, could walk away whenever she wanted, she found herself tensing her muscles until her stomach ached. The search was a violation, an indignity. She’d never complain about TSA again.

  Once siphoned through double gates that made her think of the airlocks in sci-fi films, Iris found herself on a 200-foot-long path through a sea of rock studded here and there with lonely cacti and other plants. The open air was a huge relief after the claustrophobia-inducing reception area. An ornamental bridge, weathered and with a railing, arched over a faux creek of round river stones. It seemed like the bridge to nowhere, an ironic statement about the facility, and Iris wondered if it was intentional. Probably not.

  Once she handed her paperwork to the corrections officers in what looked like a command center, Iris found herself in an L-shaped room ringed with vending machines, waiting for a guard to fetch her father. A young couple sat as close as they could without touching, the girl weeping softly. The family with the crying toddler occupied the table next to Iris’s. Tears seem to be the theme of the day. She resolved not to add to the waterworks. It wasn’t until the muscles in her forearms started to ache that she realized she was clenching and unclenching her hands. Consciously stretching her fingers wide, she inhaled the room’s pine cleaner odor.

  She hadn’t found out about her father’s imprisonment until a year after she left. She’d been almost seventeen by then and living in Virginia. When she’d left Lone Pine, she’d made a clean break, foresworn contact with her family and former friends. They’d all believed Pastor Matt, so she was through with them. Even her parents. Especially her parents. Then she’d learned from an old USA Today article that her father had been convicted of aggravated mayhem against Matthew Brozek and of felony murder in the death of his wife, Glynnis Brozek, who suffered a fatal heart attack upon witnessing the assault. Iris had zeroed in on her father’s name, on the news that he’d beaten Pastor Matt so brutally he was still in a coma. She’d read the paragraph three times before she took in the fact that her father was going to spend the rest of his life in prison.

  He’d believed her after all, even though he hadn’t stood up to her mother, or spoken out against the reckoning stones. Tears had pricked her eyelids. The surprise of it had left her unsettled, unsure if she should try to contact him. She’d found the name of the prison easily enough, but didn’t know if he was allowed phone calls or if she could stand to hear his voice. Finally, after two days of thinking about it, she’d mailed him a one-word note—“Thanks”—and immediately moved to a new state for fear someone might trace her.

  Now, she didn’t know what to feel. She was nervous, her palms sweaty, but maybe that was because she was trapped behind bars and razor w
ire with murderers, rapists, and violent offenders who would as soon carve your heart out with a spoon as pass you by. She felt guilty that she hadn’t tried to get in touch with her father after that one-word note. She’d denied his existence for more than two decades. And, she realized, she was still angry. Pissed off that he hadn’t proclaimed his belief in her, saved her from the reckoning stones and the scorn of the whole community. Pacing two hasty strides in each direction, she caught the guard’s eye and made herself sit down. Sure, he’d pummeled Pastor Matt after the fact, but that hadn’t done her much good, had it? She didn’t hear the door open, but a change in the air made her turn.

  Her father stood on the threshold, blinking like a bear just awakened from its winter hibernation. She jumped up as if goosed and looked at him. He’d been tall and on the thin side when Iris left home; he’d packed on both muscle and fat in prison, managing to look bigger and yet softer. The skin on his face sagged to jowls, and his fleshy ears seemed more prominent against his bald head. The green uniform of trousers and a short-sleeved pullover turned his skin sallow. The sad smile she remembered split his face, showing coffee-stained teeth. He made his way to the table she’d been assigned.

  “Mercy? God has returned you to me, Mercy.” He held out his arms tentatively, as if afraid of a rebuff, and Iris hugged him awkwardly, and then with fervor. Years of missing him formed tears that she refused to let fall. He felt frail, despite his seeming bulk, like a puff pastry. He smelled of soap, and fabric burned in an industrial dryer, and sausage.

  She tried to say, “Dad,” but couldn’t force words or air through her closed throat.

  “Let’s sit.” He pulled out one of the chairs. She sank down, but held onto his hand for a moment before releasing it. Choosing a chair across from her, her father stared as if trying to memorize her every pore and eyebrow hair. “You’ve grown up beautiful. I see a lot of your mom in you.”