Chapter 28

 

“Excuse me?” Ruth’s words came out in a squeak. The kitchen walls loomed tighter around her.

Harry looked down, one finger pushing his toast crumbs into a pile in the middle of his plate. “I can’t let you go. I won’t hurt you, but I need you to stay here until I’m gone.”

“This is crazy.”

He held out a hand, his eyes pleading. “If I let you go now, I’ll never get away. Just give me time to get out of Canadian waters.”

Ruth pushed her fingers through her hair. He sat between her and the kitchen door. Could he catch her if she went for the one in the living room? Her knee hurt so much now. What if she blinded him with her tea first?

She reached for the cup, then sighed. There was no danger to justify attacking him. And by now, Denny and crew would be watching the monitors. This wasn’t going to be easy.

He frowned. “What’s the matter?”

“My husband has suffered enough. I can’t make him worry any longer. Plus, staying would make me an accessory to your escape. I can’t do that. And I am not waiting around for those creeps to find me.”

Harry jumped to his feet. His fist slammed against the tabletop. Ruth’s knife clattered to the floor, and tea sloshed over the rim of her cup. He didn’t apologize. “What do you expect me to do? Go back to prison?”

He circled the tiny kitchen, a panther in a cage, then spun to face her. “Look at me. I’m thirty-two years old. I’ve been given a new life here, a new chance. I want to do something positive, not go back to spending my days with a bunch of criminals whose only goal is to get out on the streets and do it again.”

He gripped the chair back with both hands to steady himself, then sat down. Ruth returned his gaze without flinching. She held her silence.

“You know the length of sentence they gave me, and that was before I escaped. I don’t have a chance at parole, but even if I did, what then? There’s no future for me anywhere in North America. I’m too well-known. I’d never stand a chance of fitting back into society, or even getting a job. And no country worth living in is going to allow an ex-convict to immigrate.”

He leaned toward her. “But with a new name in a new place, I can start over. I promise you, I’ll find a little church, get to know God better. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do, and after what He’s done for me, I can’t wait to begin.”

Hope glowed in his eyes, his voice. Ruth searched for the right words. “Jesus didn’t wash away your actions—He forgave your sins. When you stand before His throne for judgment, you’ll stand clean. But here and now, you’re still under the Canadian justice system. Actions bring consequences, and I don’t think He wants you to hide from yours.”

Harry’s expletive came fast, automatic.

Ruth ignored it. “You told Him you’d belong to Him, and He took you at your word. Are you going to live your way, or His way?” She blotted the spilled tea with a paper napkin. “Look, you were talking in the living room about how being forgiven doesn’t give your victims back to their families. Those people are still hurting.

“I know for myself, having lost Susan, seeing justice done and seeing her killer serve his sentence—that helped. It didn’t ease the grief, but it’s something. If you run away, you’ll be adding more pain to those families. Is that what you want? Is it what Jesus wants?”

Harry’s scowl deepened. “I’m free, and you want me to walk back into prison?” He dropped his head into his hands. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I’m asking you to think about what Jesus wants you to do. Being saved isn’t a picnic. There’s work involved. Consider this your first assignment.”

Ruth cleared away their breakfast things, and leaned against the counter to ease her knee while she washed the dishes. As if she owed anything to the guy who owned this place. But it gave Harry time to process what she’d said. She left the dishes on an orange checked tea towel on the counter to dry. Ruth dug the bag of frozen peas out of the freezer before returning to the table. She dragged a second chair around to hold her foot.

Harry still sat with his head cradled in his hands. When her chair legs scraped the floor, he looked up.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “You’re right. I have to go back.” His jaw muscle flickered an erratic beat. “Where will I find the strength?”

Ruth touched his arm. “You can trust God with your fear. I’ll pray for you, if you want.”

Hesitantly, he took her outstretched hands. They sat in silence for a moment, then Ruth began, “Father, You’ve asked Harry to do a hard thing. Be his anchor, his rock. You never fail, and You won’t forsake Your own. Please give him the assurance that You’re with him, and the courage to obey.

“And, Father,” she added, “please help Harry grow in You even in prison, and to keep the faith. Don’t let him be weakened or led astray by those around him. Protect his body and his spirit.”

Harry’s eyes glistened. “Thank you.” He pushed back from the table. “I want to grab a quick shower before we go. I feel pretty grungy.”

Ruth nodded. Washing off the old vomit smell before getting in the car could only be a plus. “Go ahead. Could I use your phone, just to let Tony know I’m okay? I could call 9-1-1 too, and let them come to us.”

Harry fished the phone from his back pocket. “Home, yes, but no police. If I go to them, it may count for something.”

He thumbed the power button and frowned. “No battery.”

Ruth bit her lip. She couldn’t cry over this like a spoiled little girl, but it was so unfair. All she wanted was to hear Tony’s voice.

Harry studied her. “I only have a car charger. I’ll shower fast. You can phone on the road.”

While the shower hissed, she stood and stretched. Of course she could wait, but she couldn’t sit still any longer, even with a hurt knee. It was a miracle. She was going home to Tony, alive and unhurt.

Leaning on the broom, she wandered toward the living room. The sight of the chaos stopped her in the doorway. No wonder Harry collapsed. Even a healthy man would have been exhausted after all that. The scene bore mute testimony to the colossal struggle waging in Harry’s soul.

Amazing grace, indeed.

Verses of the old hymn played in her mind, and she sang softly as she picked her way through the wreckage. The coffee table was missing its legs and splintered across the middle. The rocking chair seat lay in a pile of kindling. The green and gold afghan that had hidden her lay in a heap beside the upturned couch.

Ruth began collecting the broken pieces, piling them in the middle of the floor. She left the bigger things where they had landed. The television lay on its back, its shattered insides staring vacantly at the ceiling. She knelt to pick up the shards of her tea mug.

The seascape she’d admired sagged against an overturned bookcase, frame cracked, a jagged tear through the canvas. As she brushed past it, her clothing snagged. She bent to free herself. Her skirt was caught on a frayed piece of wire that still clung to the back of the picture frame.

Ruth froze, mesmerized by the wire she held. In Harry’s hands... She went cold. His litany of crimes flooded back like the angry sea in the painting.

She couldn’t stop his voice in her mind, reliving his actions, sparing no detail, telling her about the picture hanging wire, what he had done with it to his first victim. She was there in the beach house, watching, feeling, screaming.

She fell to her knees, sobbing, praying incoherently for it to stop. Time ceased, and she was powerless to break away.

Hands grasped her arms and lifted her, holding her as her knees buckled. Someone spoke, but his words couldn’t penetrate her fog of terror.

Fingers squeezed her arms, shaking her. The voice raised to a shout, and she strained to make out its meaning.

“Ruth. What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

What was wrong? Couldn’t he see what she saw?

“Ruth!”

Her eyes were shut. Then what she saw must be inside her head. It wasn’t real.

She opened her eyes. She was free. But the face before her was—his. She screamed and fought to break his hold.

“Ruth. I’m not going to hurt you. It’s over. You’re safe.”

Safe? She gulped a mouthful of air. He still held her arms, but the soft pucker in his brow and the almost tentative way he watched her showed concern, not evil.

He dropped his hands and backed away. “Are you okay now?”

Ruth nodded, her body still shaking with residual sobs. She fished a tissue from one of the deep pockets in her skirt and pressed it to her eyes. The reality of what she’d seen began to fade.

“What happened?” Harry’s tone was gentle.

“I was cleaning up a bit, waiting for you, when I found—” Ruth’s voice broke, and she picked up the framing wire. Harry looked puzzled. She swallowed hard, and choked, “I remembered—” before starting to cry again.

Understanding dawned in his eyes and he muttered a curse. He stretched out a hand, then let it fall.

Ruth didn’t want him to see her crying, to blame himself for the memories he’d burned into her soul, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t turn away. Couldn’t do anything but stand there, tears tumbling down her cheeks, her shoulders hunched under the weight of his crimes.

His tear-blurred form shifted from one foot to the other, hands restless at his sides. “Ruth?” She couldn’t answer. The tears came faster. He took two jerky steps forward and circled his arms around her, barely touching her.

He did this to me. Ruth stiffened, then slumped against him. Let him offer comfort. They probably both needed it. She burrowed her face into his shoulder. Harry expelled a long breath, and his arms tightened into a protective shield.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered into her hair.

Slowly Ruth gained control. As soon as she stirred in his arms, Harry let go and stepped back. “You needed someone. I was the only one here.”

She looked at the soaked ball of tissue in her hand, then pulled another one from her pocket. “Thank you.”

He nodded. “When we get to the police station, they’ll find you some help.”

What could help? She’d never be rid of the memories. Was this how she’d be, fine one minute then drowning in his atrocities the next?

Harry studied her face. “You should sit down for a few minutes before we go, maybe have a coffee to recover. If I take you in looking this ragged, they’ll probably shoot me on the spot. If they don’t, your husband will.”

“I want to go home.” If there was healing to be found, it would be in prayer, and in Tony’s arms.

“Okay. There’s one more thing I want to do first.” He raised his hands when she opened her mouth to protest. “It’s quick.”