As Eloise looked at it, Henry nudged her by emphasizing the key facts.
“As I’d mentioned, he was recently released from prison, where he served time for his role in the murder of an innocent bank customer during an armed robbery.”
“And you’d like to confirm if he cashed the check for $346.23 three days ago?”
Henry nodded.
“And this concerns a security matter with another financial institution?”
Henry nodded.
“One moment.” Eloise stepped from the office, leaving Henry with a hint of lilac in the air before she returned a few minutes later. “Madeline was the teller who handled the check, but she’s off today. We’re going to run our surveillance recording from that time. I’ve asked Tim Baker, my assistant manager, to get it for us. It’ll only take a moment. We’ll run it here. It’s on a CD.” She smiled.
Henry smiled, but his stomach was tensing, dreading what was surely coming. Several moments later a young man in a suit presented a CD to Eloise.
“It’s on here, El, go to 3457. That coincides with the transaction time.”
“Thanks, Tim.” Eloise slid the CD into her computer and it began downloading. “All counter transactions are synchronized with our cameras. We’ll get a look at him from several angles.” She typed in a few commands. “Please, come around and see.”
Henry went around Eloise’s desk. Her large monitor displayed several frames of the man at the counter and Henry’s gut twisted.
“It’s him.”
“That was easy, Mr. Wade. Is that it? Do you want color printouts?”
“Yes. Thanks. And, please, this is the address I have for him. Can you confirm it?”
Henry pulled a page from his briefcase and placed it before her. Eloise consulted it, then double-checked her computer files. “That seems outdated,” she said. “He must have moved recently; we have a different one for him. I’ll print it out for you.”
When the printing finished, Eloise gathered the pages into a plain folder for Henry, who slid them into his case.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. You know, when I was a teller I experienced several armed robberies. That’s why I decided to help you. That, and the fact that you strike me as a trustworthy man who’ll keep our business here confidential.”
“That’s the private part of my job,” he said.
Henry’s pickup was in the far corner of the lot sheltered under the shade of a tall tree. He got into the cab, but did not turn the key. His breathing quickened.
It was real now.
Sperbeck was free.
Sperbeck had faked his death. Christ, what’s he up to?
Henry stared at his files. At Sperbeck’s face. At the new address. It was all here in this folder. God, he ached for a drink. He licked his lips and in one motion reached under the passenger seat, felt the brown paper bag, and heard the liquid swish as he set it on his lap.
Whiskey.
Purchased last night.
Without unwrapping the bag, he gripped the bottle with both hands. Felt the hard glass. He held it against his chin, swore he could smell the healing quality of alcohol as he imagined that first hot swallow flowing down his throat.
This was not the answer.
He put the bag back under the seat and his arm nudged against his gun, holstered under his jacket.
He was licensed to end a life. Licensed to kill another human being.
He hated it.
Hated it.
Henry inhaled deeply. His hands were shaking and he gripped the wheel.
Twenty-five years and now Sperbeck was this close again.
It was time Henry Wade put it all to rest. He had to face this head-on. He had to face it sober. If he failed, he would die.
He thought of his son. He needed help.
Jay.
He started his engine and eased out of the lot, unaware that down the street, half a block away, someone was watching him.
Awaiting his next move.
Chapter Forty-Nine
O ne million dollars.
Was it a factor in her murder?
As Jason’s plane began its descent for Seattle, he took a hit of coffee and scrolled through his story. He’d started working on it last night in his motel room after leaving Sister Marie’s cabin. He wrote until midnight before catching an early morning return flight, writing more as the Canadian Rockies glided under him.
At first he didn’t think the money could be linked to Sister Anne’s murder. It was so long ago. But as he started building his article, he reexamined key aspects.
Maybe it was all right here before his eyes.
First, there were Sister Anne’s own words in her journal. He reread what she’d written in the final days of her life. It was as though she were anticipating a conflict, an accounting, something: “Can I ever be forgiven for what I did, for the pain I caused?” then, “I deeply regret the mistakes I have made and will accept your judgment of me.”
These anguished entries appear to have been made after Sister Anne’s encounter with the stranger at the shelter, the one John Cooper had told him about. Jason put it into context, into a simple time line: A stranger at the shelter confronts her, upsets her about something, then she secretly begs God’s forgiveness for mistakes made in her life- then appears to embrace judgment.
And the murder weapon came from the shelter.
Mistakes from her past.
“…the pain I caused…”
She donates more than a million dollars to the order. From a Swiss bank.
To assuage the guilt of her parents’ deaths?
Or something else?
Jason heard the hydraulic groan of the landing gear locking and metropolitan Seattle wheeled below. He closed his laptop, raised his tray, then rushed through a mental checklist of what he had to do on the ground.
After landing, Jason took a cab directly to the Mirror.
On the way, he called the news desk to alert them to the exclusive story he’d be filing today. Then he called Kelly Swan, the news librarian.
“Kel, I need an all-out shotgun search now on two people.”
“You’re back in town already? Hang on, cowboy,”
Kelly was at her computer and began closing files. “Okay, fire away.”
“Their names are Sherman Braxton and Etta Braxton of Cleveland, Ohio.” He provided the spellings. “Sherman was a banker. They died together some thirty-odd years ago in a car accident in Switzerland, near Geneva. I need everything we can get on them. Obits, old clips.”
Kelly was jotting notes.
“What are you looking for?”
