After Frank Rath left, Dana took the letter out of her robe pocket. The pink letter soiled with blood.
Her daughter and granddaughter came into the room and Dana waved them off. “Give me a minute?” she said.
Alone again, she unfolded the letter and read it.
Dear Mr. Preacher,
Many have said you are a monster. An animal. A beast. The Lord knows this is not true. I know this is not true. No man is a monster. You are a man. A human. Made in his image. With the beast inside you. I followed your story. I learned you have found the Lord, and through him, found your release to freedom. I hope you have also found forgiveness and peace through Christ. As you enter the world from prison, you will still be seen as a beast by others. But not by me. If no one else forgives you, know I forgive you. Know I, though a woman, know, as you do, how women can be. They are not free of sin themselves. They lust. They tempt. I confess, I am not without sin. Only love can rid you, or me, of the beast. Know that Christ loves you. And that I love you too. My love can rid you of the beast, if you’ll have it. If you’ll have me. Will you? Will you have me? If so, bring this flower I’ve given you, this rose, back to the end of your road and place it on the rock. Then I will know you’ll have me. That you will receive me. Receive my love. Take my love. I will come to you soon, if the flower is placed on the rock. I will come for you.
I am Love.
She folded the letter and reached into her other pocket and took out the Polaroid.
Not the one her daughter found that day.
The other one.
The one Clay Sheldon had taken a picture of and shown to her on his phone that night on the Wayside porch.
It had pained Dana to lie to Frank Rath, but she’d done what she needed to do. She remembered everything on the store porch that night.
She remembered fighting and screaming and kicking at Sheldon, terror splitting her in two it seemed, a nightmare awakened.
Finally, he’d calmed her. Explained. About Ned Preacher being his prison mate, about Ned Preacher being the Great Pretender, not a lick of remorse for his crimes. The crimes he’d bragged about inside. Not a drop of regret. As if he’d never committed them. Never caused pain. Like the pain Sheldon’s daughter had felt, and the pain Sheldon had felt on behalf of his daughter. Preacher had not committed the crime against Sheldon’s daughter, but he bragged about much worse. Bragged.
It was what had happened to Sheldon’s daughter that decided it for Dana, that and the dozens of photos Sheldon had shown her. Dozens of photos Preacher had kept hidden in a metal box in the woods, behind Dana’s old house where Preacher had originally attacked her. Behind her home. Photos that Preacher had traded for a lousy old truck. A truck he planned to use to get around in, once the dust settled.
Preacher would deny the photos were his if Sheldon ever designed to use them against him. Preacher. Who’d killed that kind Frank Rath’s sister and brother-in-law. And others. Girls. Preacher, who was out of prison. Alive and living. Without regret or remorse. Waiting to start again.
So close.
Too close.
She’d seen it in his eyes the night at his house. Seen what he had in mind for her.
After Sheldon found her at the Wayside, she and Sheldon had hidden her and her car in an old, abandoned barn in New Hampshire. She’d written the letter and mailed it to Preacher. Sheldon had driven past Forgotten Gorge Road and seen the rose out on the rock. A second letter, which she also now had in her robe pocket, was sent. The date set for a few days later, so Dana could prepare herself, and she and Sheldon could plan it perfectly.
The night of her date, she and Sheldon had crashed her car into the trees using a barbell to weigh down the gas pedal. Straight over the bank, on a curve, where the car would never be seen, even if there was no fog. She’d eaten almost nothing since that first night at the Wayside. Couldn’t eat out of nervousness and fear and trauma. It was a good thing she hadn’t. She’d appeared weaker when found, like a woman trapped in a car for days.
Preacher had not recognized her. Had looked her in the eye, the gaze of his dead black eyes crawling all over her body, and not known who she was. Not until she had undone her third button on her dress and he had begun to see her ruined and scarred flesh he’d carved.
After she’d done what she needed to do, Sheldon had picked her up on the road. Driven her to her crashed car and struck her ribs with a piece of firewood. As she’d sat in the seat, he’d cracked her forehead with a violent blow of a fiberglass ax handle, then taken her by the hair and cracked her forehead again, against the wheel.
She’d known worse pain.
The plan was to have her awaken from the blow and wander out onto the road and be rescued. But Sheldon had struck her so hard she’d been knocked out and too weak and concussed to move for a couple days. It was for the better. The wounds were older, crusted. She’d grown even weaker and thinner. She realized now if she’d stumbled out earlier, the wounds would have been too fresh. Perhaps raised suspicion about her crash, and who knew what else. It was a good thing poor Clay Sheldon had struck her so hard. It was a good thing the utility man had come along. She may have died if she’d gone much longer without water or attention. It was a miraculous coincidence. If that was what one chose to call it.
She’d not thought of that when she’d thought the original plan was perfect. She wondered what else she and Sheldon had overlooked, but she did not worry about being caught. Not now. Even if she were caught, she’d do it all over again.
Dana got up slowly from the couch and walked to the fireplace.
She stared into it, then tossed the photo and the two letters into the flames.
“What are you doing up?” her daughter said behind her, startling her.
The photo and letter curled on themselves and were gone.
“I was cold,” Dana said.
Her daughter wrapped her arms around her from behind. “Just tell me next time and I’ll turn up the heat.”
“I’m fine now.”