Chapter 15

 

The cottage’s blackout curtains lived up to their name. It was late afternoon but the only light in the living room came from the television screen and one small lamp. The walls crept in with the shadows. Ruth sat as far away from her captor as her arm could stretch.

Harry paid no attention to her except for his hand covering hers on the couch. He’d been staring at the television like a starving man outside a restaurant window. A few times his hands or feet twitched, as if he were driving with the track leader, but then his eyes stopped following the cars across the screen. Whatever he saw now left his face bleak, his mouth twisted.

He closed his eyes tight enough to pucker the skin at the edges. Was he remembering a crash? Getting a migraine? An aneurism would be good—but he needs to know You first.

He didn’t move. Holding her breath, Ruth pressed her hand deeper into the rough weave of the couch seat and tried to slide it out from under his palm.

Strong fingers trapped hers. Harry blinked at her. Then his frown slid into a dangerous smile, and he jerked her toward him.

Gasping, Ruth fell into his lap. She scrambled upright, heart pounding.

“You looked lonely, way over there.” Harry’s arm hooked around her waist, and he bent his lips to her ear. “Maybe it’s a good thing I ended up with you after all. If a guy orders his favourite dish every time he goes out, he misses the chance to sample the other delicacies.”

The heat of his whisper raised the little hairs on the back of her neck. God, help me!

His free hand caressed her cheek. “It’s always good to expand one’s horizons.”

Ruth’s throat throbbed. Was this another scare tactic? Or—?

Harry’s gaze locked with hers, probing, stoking her fear. His eyes gleamed a bright, hypnotic blue. She saw their fire build but couldn’t look away. His other arm came around her, holding even tighter.

His face was close to hers now. His rough hands roamed her body, his voice husky with desire. “This will be good after all. I knew you needed a bit of time to soften up.”

Ruth couldn’t scream. In the back of her mind, she heard herself crying out to God, but the voice was so distant, so small. Her heartbeat drowned it out.

Harry’s lips claimed hers in savage eagerness. He slid her lower on the couch until her head pressed into the upholstery. She fought to twist away from his kiss but his body pinned hers.

A scream ripped free of her throat to die in his mouth. She pushed his shoulders, pounded him with her fists. Yanked his hair. Clawed his face. He growled and held her tighter.

She tried to go limp. If he relaxed his hold, she could bite him, or get a thumb in his eye.

Then he stiffened and released her. “Stay put.” A sharp note replaced the passion in his voice, and he was off the couch even as he spoke.

The sound of retching carried through the bathroom door. Ruth lay on the couch, panting, crying with relief. “Thank You, Lord.” She knew she had to move, but her bones had gone to rubber.

She pushed up from the couch. With a quick glance toward the bathroom, she sprinted for the kitchen. Not even stopping for her boots, she grasped the door handle.

Door flung wide, Ruth launched out into the rain. Harry's hand clamped her wrist. “Nice try.” He yanked her back inside and re-locked the door. Pain etched his face, but there was no mistaking his fury. He dragged her into the bedroom they shared the night before.

His dark hair stuck to the sweat on his forehead. His breath came in ragged gasps as he tied her wrists and ankles and rolled her onto the floor. Before she hit the rug, he lurched from the room.

She heard him in the bathroom, being sick again, while the television droned unheeded in the living room.

~~~

In his basement workshop, Tony Warner fitted a fresh strip of paper onto his power sander and applied it to the oval piece of cherry-wood on his workbench. A little more off the edges, and he’d be ready to trace the pattern onto the middle. Wood dust coated his glasses. He tasted it through the domed white mask covering his nose and mouth.

A dull ache grew in his lower back from standing too long. Tony squeezed his complaining fingers tighter around the sander’s handle and made another pass over the wood before turning off the power. He wiped the dust from his project with a soft rag and slid his finger along the grain.

The phone shrilled, and he jumped, dropping his cloth. He’d turned the ringer up to hear it over his tools. He snatched off his mask, sending his glasses flying, and grabbed the handset. Probably for nothing, same as the last ten times, but hope always flared. Ruth? The police?

“Tony, it’s John. It’s me at the door, not the press. Can I come in?”

Tony’s knees creaked as he bent to retrieve his glasses from under the workbench. “I didn’t hear the bell. Look, I appreciate your concern, but I want to be alone.”

“The ladies from church will have my hide if I don’t at least see the whites of your eyes. I brought you something.”

“Just a minute.” Tony took his time climbing the stairs. When he opened the door, John Linton pressed a red and white cardboard bucket of fried chicken into his hands. The warmth felt good against his fingers. “Thanks. I’m not hungry.”

“Have you eaten today?”

“I’ll get something in a bit.”

“It’s seven o’clock, mate.”

Tony shrugged. “Do you want to come in?”

“I won’t stay long.”

The scent of fried chicken filled Tony’s nostrils as he carried the bucket into the kitchen. “You brought enough for a whole family.”

“You don’t have to worry about indigestion keeping you up. I don’t imagine you’re sleeping much, anyway.”

“You’ve got that right.” Tony focused on his visitor through dusty glasses. John had changed his clothes and shaved since last night, but his pockmarked cheeks were drawn and his eyes heavy.

Tony placed an awkward hand on his shoulder. “You could have slept.”

“Not last night. Emergency conference with the Boss.” He flicked a glance toward the ceiling. “Norma—she was the one with Ruth last night—suggested we set up a prayer vigil at the church. I went there from here.”

Tony had spent the dark hours pacing. And staring at the walls. And venting, but he’d hardly call that prayer. It probably did about as much good, but he’d better not say that out loud. “Hey, I’m sorry about last night. I was out of line.”

“Stress does that to us. No worries.” John followed him into the kitchen.

Mechanically, Tony washed the sawdust from his hands and set the table. “Help me eat this chicken?” He didn’t know if he could keep it down, but he’d need steady hands to carve the inlay for the little cherry-wood table. He hoped the task would be complicated enough to get him through the night.

John’s plate held only bones and splashes of gravy before Tony had forced down his second piece of chicken. It was nice to have company, especially someone who knew when not to talk.

When Tony had called Ruth’s sister last night after the police officer left, Lorna had offered to come at once. He hoped he’d been gracious in refusing. The last thing he needed right now was someone prowling around straightening up after him.

But John’s easy silence let Tony’s thoughts flow. Tony took a drink of root beer, opened his mouth, then closed it again. If John sensed his struggle, the pastor gave no sign. Tony’s questions tumbled out. “You believe in heaven, right?”

John’s stillness appeared to sharpen. He met Tony’s eyes and nodded. “Yes, I do.”

Tony took another drink. “Would Ruth be there... now?”

“We can’t give up hope. The police—”

“When a person... dies... is there a waiting period?”

John leaned back in his chair and sighed. “There are different theologies on that. My own belief is that a person will be with God as soon as they pass from this life. But Ruth may still be alive.”

Tony pushed the half-eaten chicken in circles on his plate. “It would be easier to think of her in heaven than—I read what he did to those girls.” He picked up a paper napkin and crushed it in his fist. “How long does it take to torture someone that badly?”

Suddenly he didn’t care if Ruth’s pastor saw his tears.

John gripped his hand for a second, then stood and walked to the window.

After a minute, Tony blew his nose. He dragged in a steadying breath. “Have you ever seen one of those little tables with relief carving under a glass top?”

“No. Why?”

Tony piled their dishes and carried them to the sink. “Ruth wanted one for our front entrance. I bought the wood, found a pattern, and then forgot about it. I’ve been downstairs most of the time since the police left. It helps me not to think so much.”

“I’ll bet it’s a good connection with her, too.”

“I’d like to get back to it now. But thank you for coming, and for supper. I appreciate it.”

John nodded. “Sure. I didn’t mean to stay this long. Blame the chicken, I guess. One whiff and I’m hungry no matter what I just ate.” He hesitated. “Tony, can I pray with you before I go?”

Ruth’s pastor was a bachelor, and she’d taken to inviting him for a meal every month or so. All the times John Linton had been here, he had never mentioned faith around Tony. Oh, he’d said grace if Ruth asked him, but never anything else. The man was a Christian—better be, he was a minister—but he’d always respected Tony’s agnosticism. Now he looked embarrassed. “It’s the one thing I can do.”

“You brought me supper and made sure I ate it. You gave me company.”

John nodded. And waited.

Tony cleared his throat. “Okay, sure.” He went back to the table and sat on the edge of his chair.

The pastor sat across from him. “This won’t hurt a bit.” Tony’s head came up and John laughed. “Really. Can I take your hands? It’s up to you.”

With a shrug, Tony rested his hands on the smooth oak tabletop, palms up. John took them in a surprisingly strong grip, and bowed his head. Tony followed suit, trying not to squirm as silence stretched between them.

John began to speak, his voice low but passionate, nothing like the stereotyped prayers Tony had heard on television. He asked for peace, for help, for Ruth’s safety. More than the words, his tone resonated in Tony’s heart. John spoke as if he knew someone listened, someone who wanted to hear, who could intervene and help.

What Tony wouldn’t give for that assurance. Deep in his soul, something broke, bled.

John squeezed his hands and released them. He swiped his eyes with his knuckles, and grinned. “Sorry I got a bit choked up. I care, mate. About you and about Ruth. If you need me, call.” He stood and fished a bent card from his wallet. “Should have given you this last night. I’ll answer my cell day or night. And I’ll check in with you tomorrow.”

Tony followed him to the door. “John.”

“Yes?”

“They told me Ruth stopped at that store for a bag of chips. Those would have been for me.” His throat tightened, bunching his words, but the rest of his confession pushed to get out. Did ministers attract this sort of stuff? “A peace offering. We argued before she left.”

John looked up from tying his shoes, then slowly straightened.

Tony swallowed to loosen his throat. “I didn’t want her to go. The weather. This praying for Silver.”

Ruth’s pastor nodded. He waited, like a dentist bracing for the final pull.

Tony’s secret pain erupted. “She said she’d stay home if I’d pray with her. I got angry, thought she was pushing faith on me. I sent her out—to him.”

“Stop right there.” John’s voice rang with authority. “Blaming yourself won’t help. Neither will blaming Ruth, or me, or God. It happened. We don’t know why. All we can do is choose what to do now.”

“There’s nothing I can do.”

“You can pray as if your life depended on it. Ruth’s might.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you lost Susan, Ruth kept her sanity by praying for Harry Silver.”

Hatred seared Tony’s gut at the name.

The pastor’s gentle nod acknowledged his anger. “Then by bizarre coincidence Ruth is taken by Harry, too. And God allows it. Think about the odds. Ruth didn’t have to stop, or she could have been five minutes earlier or later. I think... I’m sure... God wants to do something in this situation. If she’s still alive, maybe He wants to use Ruth in answering her own prayer. Our prayers on her behalf can tip the balance.”

“I can’t accept a God like that.”

“Yeah. But it’s Him or nothing, mate.” John flashed him a rueful grin.

Tony shook his hand. “Thanks for coming.”

As soon as the door closed, Tony retreated to his workshop. It took twice as long as it should have to position his design and trace it on the dark wood. He kept fumbling with the pencil. The pattern kept shifting. At last he threw down the pencil. He’d counted on this carving to keep his thoughts out of the darkness tonight. But if he ruined the oval tabletop—Ruth’s table—that wouldn’t help.

He took his time putting everything away, swept up the sawdust and trudged upstairs. He wandered around the house, unable to settle. Passing through the bedroom, he saw Ruth’s Bible on her night table. He picked it up as a link to his wife, not to her God. She loved this book. Why? He carried it to the den and sank into the recliner where she used to sit and pray. She always looked so peaceful, curled up here in the mornings.

Tony’s fingertips dug into the Bible’s soft leather cover. “What kind of a God are You not to protect her?” He blinked, not sure which shocked him more, that he had talked to God, or that he had accused Him. Yet this was the same kind of question Ruth herself had grappled with. Instead of crippling her faith, the questions had ultimately strengthened it.

And look where it landed her. He clenched the Bible tighter. With a choking cry, he jumped to his feet and hurled the book on the floor.

Pain speared his chest as if his heart might explode. He crumpled to his knees, face in his hands, sobbing. The police were doing everything they could, but it wouldn’t be enough. They might already be too late to save her life, and they could never rescue him from this hell.

His only hope was the One who let this happen in the first place. Him or nothing, John Linton had said. Tony’s shoulders quaked with the weight of his agony. What a choice.