He came to a stop.
When Johnny Cash’s ballad ended, Henry switched off his engine and looked out at the headstones.
Why don’t you admit it? Go on, admit it.
He craved a drink right now. Craved it as a whirlwind of emotions and images swirled around him. The gun, Vern, the blood of wasted lives.
No.
No, he shouldn’t be here.
Henry was startled by the sudden ringing of his cell phone. It was Michelle from the agency. He didn’t answer, letting her call go to his voice mail, like the others. Relieved by the distraction, he let a minute pass, then decided to check his messages.
The first was from Michelle at the agency. It had come earlier this morning.
“Hello, Henry, are you coming in today? Will Murphy called asking on the status of his workers’ comp case. He’s got new data. Give me a ring.”
The next message was from Don.
“Krofton. Good work on qualifying. Just heard from Webb at the range. Listen, Henry, got an insurance agent who was looking for you. Wants your help with a claim. Employee theft or something. Kid’s name is Ethan, or some shit like that. I never heard of him. I gave him your number. Expect a call.”
The next one was from Jason.
“Hey, Dad, I need your help on this nun murder. Give me a call.”
And finally, Michelle again.
“Henry, Susan Gorman called from over at Seagriff’s, wants to chat about that infidelity case. Where are you, by the way?”
That was it. All right. Stop this right now.
He was procrastinating. Ignoring the issue. He switched off his phone, put both hands on the wheel, and squeezed until his knuckles turned as white as the sheet covering a victim in the morgue.
As white as the fear on the face of…
Get out and do this. It’s time for battle. Henry glanced at the ocean of grave markers, swallowed hard, then stepped from his truck and started walking.
With each step he remembered Vern’s face. The sound of the record scratching, the smell of his house, the look in his eyes, the blur of the gun, the explosion.
The blood.
Oh, God, the blood.
Henry kept walking until he came to the headstone of Seattle Police Officer Vernon Pearce. He stood over it for a long time, feeling numb as he searched the graveyard for inspiration.
“Vern, I’m sorry, it’s taken me this long. It’s been hard, buddy. So damn hard. We both died that day, but my son brought me back to life. You know that I always wanted to make detective. I just never expected that it would be like this. That it would cost so much. And now here I am, licensed to carry a gun. Again.”
Henry’s attention went from Vern Pearce’s headstone to a distant corner of the burial ground. This battle was far from over.
In fact, it was just beginning.
Other ghosts were still out there pulling him back to that day.
The day they got the call.
They’d come upon the suspect fleeing with a weapon in his hand. They had him dead to rights right there on the street. It’s happening so fast.
Too damn fast.
Henry’s heart is pounding a blood rush in his ears. He can’t think. They draw on him, screaming.
Drop your weapon! Drop your goddamn weapon!
Henry blinks and now the guy’s got a hostage.
Oh Jesus, Vern, he’s got a goddamn hostage.
Eyes wide with fear are locked on his.
Are pleading with him.
Don’t let me die!
This is everything in a heartbeat.
This is all you are and all you will be.
This is your life.
Right here. Right now.
Henry’s finger is on the trigger.
Shoot. Don’t shoot.
Don’t let me die!
Chapter Twenty-Nine
S ister Denise’s anguish intensified after they’d returned to Seattle and were immersed in the large reception at the shelter.
It was noisy and chaotic. So many people had donated food, had volunteered to help, and so many offered their condolences. Strangers, like this woman and boy who’d approached her.
“I’m Rhonda Boland,” the woman took Denise’s hand. “This is my son Brady.”
“I met Sister Anne at my school,” Brady said.
“Hello, dear. Sister Anne just loved going to the schools.” Denise smiled.
“We wanted to come to pay our respects. She was so kind to Brady. He’d lost his dad a while ago.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. We will pray for you.”
“Thank you,” Rhonda said, “but since then, Brady has-”
Rhonda was uncertain how, or if, she should tell this nun standing before her, this complete stranger, that she was terrified for her son and thought that maybe it was selfish at a time like this to even raise his situation. While Rhonda grappled with her emotions, Brady just came out and said it.
“I’m real sick and I need a major operation and we’re kind of scared about it.”
“Oh, no, sweetheart,” Sister Denise said. “We’ll say many prayers for you and include you in the masses in the Archdiocese.”
“Thank you, Sister,” Rhonda said.
“Thanks,” Brady said.
“Well, it’s exactly what Sister Anne would’ve done. Thank you both for coming.”
Those warm condolences from strangers were like balm for Denise.
Still, she remained conflicted until she found a moment and the courage to pull Sister Vivian aside.
“Sister, I think we should tell the police about Anne’s journal.”
“This is not the time, Denise.”
“The other sisters have a right to know who she was. That she also made mistakes in her youth, whatever they were.”
“Sister, I remind you to keep this information confidential. It is private and the journal is property of the Order.”
“We should share it with the police. They’ve asked for our help about her past.”
“You don’t understand. We must do all we can to take care of her memory.”
“I understand.”
“I don’t think you do.”
“I had my hands in her blood, Vivian! I understand!”
“Lower your voice.” Vivian saw Sister Ruth coming. “This discussion is over. I’ll consider your concerns.”
After Denise left, Sister Ruth touched Vivian’s arm, then pointed to two uniformed cops who were talking to people taking notes.
