Chapter 10

 

What Ruth could see of Harry’s face between his fingers was pale and sweat-sheened. She’d asked about Susan, and he’d retreated into himself. Could this be his conscience? Father, trouble him until he surrenders to You.

Harry shook himself, a dog emerging from a river. He stood slowly, as if he wasn’t sure his legs would support him, but the glare he turned on Ruth was alert and focused. Her mouth went dry. He circled the coffee table, never breaking eye contact.

“You really want to know what happened to her? Remember, you’re next.”

Ruth drew the green and gold afghan tighter against her. She couldn’t bear to hear his words, yet she had to know. Trembling, she waited, eyes fixed on his face.

He took a few steps around the room, jerky movements that accented the anger in his voice. “I thought she’d be the same as all the others. But when I took the gag out of her mouth, she looked at me with those big blue eyes and pleaded with me not to harm her. In His name.”

He turned to Ruth. The torment etching his face surprised her.

“She was mine, not some impotent god’s. Mine. So I took her. His name just made her pay extra.” His fingers clenched and spread as if remembering what they’d done.

“When I finished, she opened her eyes and looked right at me... said she forgave me. Started preaching at me. Something inside me snapped. I grabbed the flashlight in both hands, and pounded her with everything I had. I had to make her stop.” He stopped pacing.

Ruth stared up at him, unable to breathe. Susan!

Harry’s blue eyes glowed pale with misery. “Sometimes at night I hear her voice. I can’t shake it. Blood everywhere, she could barely breathe. She was dying.

“One hand clutched my arm, pulled me nearer. I should have finished her then but I bent to hear her final whisper. To know I’d won. She gasped a bit, and I thought she was gone, but somehow she pushed the words out: ‘It’s not me you’re hurting—it’s Jesus. But He still loves you.’”

He slammed his fist into the wall, rattling the pictures on their hangers. “I wish I’d never laid eyes on her.”

John Linton’s challenge to turn her grief into prayer echoed in Ruth’s pain-numbed mind. Don’t let the sacrifice be in vain. Tears slid unheeded down her cheeks. “Oh, Susan.”

Harry’s features stiffened, and the anguish in his eyes hardened into watchfulness. “You knew her?”

Ruth met his gaze and held it. “My husband and I have no children.” She swallowed hard. “Susan was our niece. The daughter we never had. What you did—” Ruth’s voice broke. She felt her face crumple, but would not look away. Let Harry see the cost of his lust.

His jaw muscle twitched. Ruth lifted the edge of the afghan to wipe her tears, but kept the eye contact. She tried to slow her breathing. Grief ached in her bones.

Harry stepped back, fists balled at his sides. “Well? Aren’t you going to curse me?”

Ruth’s voice sounded tired in her own ears. “I’ve done all that. It didn’t hurt you, but it nearly destroyed me.” She paused, to be sure of his attention. “I need... I need to tell you I forgive you.”

Harry’s head snapped back as if she’d slapped him. Instead of retaliating, he dropped onto the couch and lit another cigarette. He sat motionless, staring at the smoke trailing up from the tip. His fingers were trembling.

Ruth waited, watching him. So his soul was troubled. Father, please give this man no rest until he turns to You for salvation.

The subject of her prayer shivered as if he had heard. He pushed himself up from the couch. “Time for a snack. Come on. I want you where I can see you. But I’m warning you, I’m not in the mood for chatter.”

Ruth deliberately caught his eye as she passed him. She had her God, and for the moment at least, her composure. Harry, on the other hand, was in the middle of a war for his soul, and he didn’t even know it. She sensed it was important for him to see she was secure and at peace.

Let him wish for that peace. Let it drive him to his knees in submission to the God who still loved him so much after all he’d done.

~~~

Harry grabbed two sandwiches and a bottle of beer from the fridge and pushed his captive back into the living room.

“Sit down and keep your mouth shut.”

He set his snack on the coffee table, planted himself on the couch and reached for the television remote. Silence right now was one thing he didn’t want. Nor did he want any more disturbing conversation.

He scowled at her sitting in the rocking chair, her feet tucked up under her. She had that gold-green afghan draped around her and she eyed him warily from behind its flimsy cover. As if that would stop him when it was time.

When it was time. His stomach twisted. He’d never had this problem, never had to create the desire. Her flashes of fear aroused him. He’d increase them. Maybe he’d wait until tonight. If he left the lights out, he could pretend he had the luscious blonde from the store.

One way or another, he’d make her pay for his lost fantasies. And for agitating his memories of Susan.

The tic started in his jaw, its erratic beat strong even when he clenched the muscle to the point of pain, and he swore through his teeth. He hated things he couldn’t control.

Stupid woman. Why did it have to be her? He’d been so sure he was right behind the fleeing cashier in the darkness. Harry licked his lips. The girl was a knockout, and he knew just how he’d have played her. He dragged his thoughts away from wistful might-have-beens.

A decent porn movie could jump-start some ideas to try on his dull-sheep captive. If he couldn’t find one on the satellite channels, there might be some videos here in the cottage that would do. He regretted the loss of his private library, seized as evidence for his trial.

Halfway through Harry’s search around the dial, a familiar sound froze his thumb on the remote. The howl of powerful engines caught his ears even before he identified the sleek cars tearing around the track.

The announcer’s voice was taut with excitement. “What a race. McClelland’s still hanging on in front, but I don’t know for how much longer. Hauser is right on his tail—and would you look at that!”

His voice was nearly a scream. “It’s Hauser in the lead, but Jeremy McClelland keeps the pressure on. They’re wheel-to-wheel again—look at them go.”

Harry leaned back on the couch. Max Hauser had been a rising star on the circuit when Harry’s own career came to its abrupt end. Hauser had talent, and the sort of controlled recklessness that gave him the edge to win. But Hauser was a Christian. Harry had kept his distance.

He was caught up in the race now. A movie—and his uninspiring companion—could wait. He knew McClelland from way back, a veteran with many successful seasons under his belt. The man still might have a trick or two to catch Hauser off guard.

This was shaping up to be a good scrap. Must be a re-broadcast of Sunday’s race, to be shown midweek. Harry didn’t care. He’d been out of touch with race results since his escape from prison.

Harry chomped the bland sandwiches mechanically, his eyes never leaving the screen. They were racing in Milwaukee. He’d pulled off a few spectacular victories of his own on this same track. Memory clouded the race before him. He could almost feel the throb of the mighty engine, the wheel gripped in racing-gauntleted hands.

This had been his life, his reason for existence. When he sat in the cockpit, pinned in place by the safety harness, he was suddenly, intensely alive. For the duration of the race, speed was everything, and he was master of the circuit.

Watching later on tape, he sometimes marvelled at the feats he’d performed. Small wonder he’d pulled off back-to-back series championships. He’d been good, among the best. He could have gone on forever.