Читать книгу Closer Than Blood - Gregg Olsen - Страница 12

CHAPTER FOUR

Kitsap County

The Lord’s Grace Community Church was a converted metal Quonset hut in Kingston, Washington, that had once been used to store floral greens for a long-since-closed brush-cutting operation. The structure was so close to the edge of the road, it had been the frequent and unfortunate recipient of more than one car’s broadside. In fact, a makeshift memorial of a cross marked the location, adorned with faded photos kept mostly dry inside Ziploc bags, a red plastic lei, and stenciled letters that read C-A-N-D-Y. The tribute’s central feature—the cross—was so solid and substantial that a passerby unfamiliar with the events might assume that the cross belonged to the church. It had been seven years since Candy Turner slid on the pavement and crashed her cherry red ’69 El Camino pickup truck.

Locals who didn’t attend there called it the Candy Church, the home of “My Sweet Lord.”

Inside, Pastor Mike Walsh got on his knees and looked up at the big Douglas-fir cross. He’d been contacted weeks ago and the conversation stayed with him. Like a leaky pipe tucked away in the ceiling, quietly, steadily doing damage.

It was a woman, a crying woman, who’d contacted him. She recalled a traffic accident that he’d happened upon a decade and a half ago.

“You could have told the truth,” she said. “But you didn’t.”

“I was scared. I wasn’t the man that I am now.”

“I’m sure the passage of time has made you a better person.”

“A better person, but not a perfect one,” he said.

There was a short pause before the woman made her point.

“It is never too late to do what’s right.”

Pastor Mike couldn’t help but agree. “But I made a promise,” he said.

“That was a long time ago. Things change. The truth, Mikey. The truth is all that matters.”

It was a troubling, haunting conversation, as if the woman on the other end of the line was merely testing his resolve. He wondered if she’d taken Jesus into her heart so that she’d be free of what had happened. Forgiveness was so powerful. He prayed for guidance and the strength to do what was right.

He remembered what happened that night.

As he knelt down to help the girl who had been driving, he watched the other one hurry over to where the boy was sprawled out on the gravel. He was saying something to her, though Mikey couldn’t hear a word of it.

He heard the sirens coming from the end of Banner, a good four minutes away.

The girl standing over the boy was yelling at him.

“I hate you. I wish I’d never met you,” she said.

“Help me,” said the girl in his arms. “Help my sister. My boyfriend.”

Mikey tried to soothe her. His brain was fried and it was so hard to concentrate on what was happening. The smoke. The headlights still on, punching through the blackness of the night. The sirens getting louder and louder.

“They’re okay.”

“It’s all my fault,” she said.

He patted her hand. “It was an accident. You were probably going too fast for the Jump. It happens.”

“Are you sure they are okay?”

He looked over at the other girl. She was yelling at the boy.

“Goddamn you! I hate you!”

What he saw next would haunt him forever. The other girl clenched her hands around the boy’s neck.

“You’re a piece of shit, Jason!”

“What’s happening?” the first girl said.

“I don’t know. Nothing!”

The lights of the sirens came down the hill like fireflies on steroids.

He looked over and the boy had stopped moving. The other girl’s eyes locked on Mikey’s and she came toward him.

“You say anything and you’re dead. I’ll make sure the sheriff blames you for all of this. That you crossed the center line and forced us into the ditch.”

“You’re a crazy little bitch,” he said.

“I’ve seen you around. You’re Mikey Walsh. You’re trailer trash, a drug addict. A loser. No one would ever believe you over me.”

The girl went over to her twin, leaned close to her ear, and whispered something. A moment later, a deputy sheriff and the commotion that comes with the sirens and lights arrived.

It was late evening and the silhouette of Blake Island was outlined by a halo of lights from Seattle on the other side of Puget Sound. Kendall tightened her frame to stay warm as she sat on the old madrona stump with a glass of wine. She’d been quiet since coming home from the sheriff’s office. In fact, she’d been quiet the last few days. Steven brought the bottle and a glass outside in search of his wife. It was a cool night, but late spring in the Northwest guaranteed such weather. A sweater and a blanket were kept in a storage bin by the back door.

“I haven’t seen you like this in a long time,” he said.

Kendall looked up and smiled.

“I’m sorry. I guess I’m not good company.”

“You’re always good company, honey. But sometimes you’re very quiet company. What’s going on with you? Is it the case?”

The case.

Those words were often volleyed among the spouses of those in law enforcement when they tried to dig into the source of whatever it was that had stolen all the attention. Steven didn’t mean it in that way, of course. He’d long accepted that Kendall had a purpose in life nearly as great as mother and wife—putting away monsters so they’d never hurt or kill again. It was that simple. It didn’t matter one bit if the victim was a child, an old man, a person of wealth or not. All were equal in her mind.

He sat next to her and poured himself a glass. “Want more?” He extended the bottle and Kendall nodded.

“I’m trying to sort things out.”

“Can I help?”

“Not really.”

She wanted to say something more; she wanted to tell her husband that she was wrapped in lead-lined clothing and she could barely breathe. But she didn’t. She just couldn’t.

“Make a wish,” he said, looking at the quilt of stars over the inky-black island. “A falling star.”

Kendall looked skyward and did just that. She wished that she didn’t have to say anything to Steven, ever. Not the truth. It just hurt too much.