Читать книгу The Price of Redemption - Pamela Tracy - Страница 10

“I’m so sorry about your loss.” It was the same woman who, in a grating voice, had tallied the death toll at Jose’s funeral. It made sense she’d attend Dustin’s funeral, too.

Some cop Ruth was. If a sketch artist were to ask what the speaker looked like, Ruth wouldn’t be able to assist. Her blinding tears made it impossible to do anything but nod.

“Technically,” the woman continued, “Dustin Atkins cannot be considered as the seventh to die in the line of duty but the third. He died well before Jose.”

Died? It still sounded like a foreign word. Ruth had spent two years carefully saying missing. Now, thanks to dental records, Dustin had been positively identified on Saturday, and Ruth officially became a widow. They released his body on Monday. And here it was Thursday, just one week after Jose’s service, and the Gila City police were once again saying goodbye to one of their own.

“Thank you for coming,” Ruth said. She’d said the same thing to at least a hundred people.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” the woman said. “But I just can’t believe the gall of some people.” She looked at the back row of the church where Sam and Rosa sat. Without missing a beat, she continued, “That woman is bad news. How she became a police officer, I’ll never know.”

Ruth almost said Two months at the police academy in Phoenix learning how to fight, shoot and handle dead bodies, that’s how. Same as me. But the woman didn’t need to hear the words, wouldn’t have heard them if Ruth had uttered them. No, the busybody prattled on, fascinated with her own theories, theories that were being bandied about by almost all the people who knew Rosa had been taken in for questioning.

Did Rosa kill Lucille Straus? And, if so, why?

What did the authorities know that they were keeping back even from her? Surely there had to be something more than fingerprints.

Guilt and suspicion wrapped their hands around Ruth’s already broken heart. Rosa was her best friend, so much so that Ruth had planned to throw Rosa a baby shower in just a few months.

Who knew what would happen in the next few weeks? The suspicion and guilt didn’t feel natural. It didn’t feel right. Yet, the events of that morning replayed at the most inopportune times—like at funerals.

Ruth blinked away the tears. She had to regain control of herself. She couldn’t lose it, couldn’t keep reliving the day she’d been forced to accept his death.

Looking around the church, she found Megan right where she’d left her, sitting next to Grandma and Uncle Billy. Tears slid down the five-year-old’s cheeks. Truthfully, Megan didn’t remember the man Ruth referred to as Daddy. What Megan understood was that most of her friends had daddies and that daddies must be a wonderful thing.

Last night, Ruth sat Megan down and delicately explained that Rosa might somehow be in trouble.

Megan said, “Nope, not Miss Rosie.”

Megan’s allegiance to Rosa brought Rosa’s fan club to three: Eric, Sam and Megan. No one else wholeheartedly bought into Rosa’s innocence. The police were calling Rosa a person of interest. They found her so interesting she was put on leave until their investigation either found her innocent or found her even more interesting.

Ruth didn’t know what to believe. She only knew that if Sam had been married to anyone else, he’d be sitting with her, on the other side of Megan and Uncle Billy, offering comfort, and being a best friend to Dustin one last time. Instead, Sam sat in the very last pew, next to Rosa, who looked ready to cry. Sam looked ready to hit something.

The police liaison started guiding the rest of the stragglers into the auditorium. Too bad he hadn’t started ten minutes before the woman with the grating voice got hold of Ruth. Now Ruth had a headache along with heartache.

Entering the auditorium, she slipped into the pew and stared at the closed casket. Three pictures of Dustin sat on top of the American flag. One was of him, his parents and his brother Billy. Another, just of him, showed a cop proud of his uniform. The final portrait, of the family, showed Dustin with an arm around each of his girls: Ruth and Megan. Next to an elaborate array of flowers, a slide show played on a television set: Dustin during childhood and his teenage years, with parents who had gone ahead of him. Dustin going through the police academy, getting married, becoming a dad. The television faded to black and Steve Dawson led the prayer starting the memorial.

As the minister cited Romans and called Dustin one of God’s servants, Ruth removed two wrinkled pages of notes from her purse. Last night, she’d written her last tribute to her husband. Once the minister finished his talk, Dustin’s peers took their place behind the podium. One after another, five, ten, and even more, they spoke about Dustin’s bravery, his even temper, his dedication to the force, his family, God. How much they missed him.

Ruth’s throat closed—no way would she be able to go up front and stumble through her notes. The dam broke and tears spilled over.

Cops don’t cry.

That’s what she’d told herself at Jose’s funeral. And she’d believed it. But today she wasn’t a cop. No, today she was a widow, a single mother and feeling so alone.

Cops do cry.

She felt the arm go around her shoulder and leaned into its comfort. Sam Packard had taken his rightful place beside his best friend’s widow.

“Two years,” Ruth whispered.

“What?”

“I figured it out and wrote it down.” She handed him the notes. “From childhood, the only time you and Dustin separated were those two years you served in the military.”

Sam nodded and glanced over her words. “He had seniority over me in the police force because of those two years. He sure loved to remind me of that.”

“Yup. He did.”

“He stayed in Gila City because of you.”

“Yup.” Ruth always held that knowledge close to her heart. Dustin loved her and chose not to follow the military career he and Sam had planned during high school. Sam had been his best friend; Ruth had been his best girl, until Megan’s birth had given him the privilege of having two best girls. “Oh, Sam,” she whispered, “say it isn’t so.”

“I wish I could.” He sounded choked up.

“How will I live without him?”

“The way you’ve been living without him for the last three years. You’ll hold his memory close, and you’ll know you’re surrounded by good friends. You also know that God is with you. He won’t leave you.”

Sam had said much the same thing during the early days of Dustin’s disappearance, and Ruth had shaken her head. Dustin had been faithful to God, and back then, to Ruth’s mind, God hadn’t been faithful to Dustin. She didn’t shake her head today. Not with a church full of people who one after the other got behind the podium. Every single police officer and church friend mentioned Dustin’s faith. Every single one, even those who didn’t share his faith.

Sam left her side and walked to the front. Those who’d been whispering fell silent. Ruth bowed her head, and every word Sam uttered, she repeated. He managed to add almost every point she’d made in her notes and attributed them to her. He also mentioned how she was coming to know the God who meant so much to Dustin.

After the service, Jose’s whole family surged forward to hug Ruth, pat Megan on the head and invite them to dinner. “You’ll come to our house soon, for dinner,” Gracia Santos said, “and bring your family.”

“I don’t know. Maybe if…”

“No maybes. We’re widows together. You’re not alone. We have God, and we have each other.” Gracia’s children, only a step behind their mother nodded. “That includes you, too, Sam Packard,” Gracia said loudly. Sam had been gathering the pallbearers to the side, readying them for the drive to the cemetery. “You hear?” Gracia asserted.

“I hear,” he acknowledged.

“And bring your wife.” With that, Gracia looked at Ruth as if daring her to squabble.

Ruth nodded in what she hoped looked like noncommitment. She was outnumbered, no doubt. Jose’s big happy family had always fascinated her. She’d been an only child born to a man who didn’t deserve children. Dustin had been the second son born to two people who thought he hung the moon, and Ruth had always been grateful his parents hadn’t had to deal with his disappearance. They died right after Megan was born.

Carolyn George, Ruth’s mother, leaned against a wall with her eyes closed. This funeral made the second time Ruth was aware of that her mom had stepped foot inside a place of worship. The first had been Ruth’s wedding.

“We’re so sorry.” The words jarred Ruth, returning her to the present. Mourners still waited to offer her emotional support. Phone numbers were pressed in Ruth’s hand. Women hugged, and men shuffled to the unheard beat of “I don’t know what to do or say.” Interspersed between the church people were Dustin’s police buddies and their families. Emotional support was not the goal, though. She heard, instead, “If anybody bothers you…If you just need drive-bys…If…If…If…”

When the line slowed down, Ruth sidled over. “Mom, are you all right? You look a bit overwhelmed.”

“This is nothing like your father’s funeral.”

Darryl George, Ruth’s father, didn’t have any friends. His buddies at the bar couldn’t tear themselves away from the bottle long enough to come pay their condolences.

“Everyone loved Dustin,” Ruth said instead.

“Yes, they did.” Billy Atkins, Dustin’s big brother, came up behind her. “It’s time to go, Ruth.” Billy guided the two women to the waiting limousine. Megan held his hand until he hustled her in next to her mother. Then, he went back to the car with the other pallbearers. The drive to the cemetery took twenty minutes. It should have taken five, but the line of cars looked unending.

“Your daddy was a hero,” Ruth said to Megan.

So much a hero, the cemetery didn’t have enough parking. A good number of people missed the final prayer before Dustin Atkins was lowered into the ground. They only got to see Megan carrying her daddy’s flag back to the limo. Finally, the family returned to the funeral home where Ruth signed one final paper.

She’d just taken care of Dustin for the last time.

Twenty minutes later, she pulled into the driveway of the house she and Dustin had shared. Cars lined the streets of her neighborhood, spilling around the corner. Dustin’s friends, her friends, were bringing food. Megan had the back door opened before the car completely stopped.

Ruth’s mother could only utter, “Oh, my,” as they crossed the lawn and finally entered the house to find a banquet of casseroles, fried chicken, chips, so much food they wouldn’t need to cook for a week. And in the kitchen, there was Sam trying to find room in the refrigerator for some hard-boiled eggs while Rosa washed dishes at the sink.

Rosa was noticeably alone, even as her church friends patted her on the back and whispered encouragement. Suspicion’s cloak might as well have been colored bright red. It was clear that the community was not only doubtful as to her involvement in Dustin’s murder, but also as to how Ruth might react to seeing Rosa in her kitchen.

“Miss Rosie,” Megan cried, running over to her beloved friend. “You’re here.”

And that was when Ruth knew she hadn’t just taken care of Dustin for the last time. She still had one more thing to do: find his killer.