CHAPTER SIXTEEN

 

 

 

After visiting the steamboat in 1860 and returning to the cemetery, Justine walked home. Her thoughts were spinning, her body was weary, and her spirit was wounded. Yet the combination fed upon itself and solidified two truths: the man who was Uriah Benedict was evil. And God wanted her to stop him.

Actually, three truths. “God will use me to stop him.”

A man painting a picket fence near the street looked up, obviously overhearing her words.

“Sorry,” she said.

He nodded and got another brush full of paint. “’Put on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.’”

She stopped. “What did you say?”

He blinked. He cocked his head. “Nice day, isn’t it, miss?”

She hesitated. Had he really talked about battling the devil? “It is a beautiful day,” she answered.

He nodded and kept painting.

Justine walked on, smiling to herself. Once again, God had provided just what she needed, when she needed it.

By the time she got home she was energized. “Family? I’m back!”

They all came running. “You weren’t gone long,” Alva said.

“Actually, I was gone overnight.”

“What?”

Justine didn’t want the logistics of her travels to overshadow her discoveries. “Please sit.” Once everyone was settled, Justine began without preamble. “Uriah is evil. Pure evil.”

Harland raised a finger. “We knew that."

“You knew some of his crimes.”

“You saw more?” Thomas asked.

There was no nice way to say it. “He is a rapist.”

Everyone gasped—except Alva.

“Alva?” Harland said softly. “You don’t seem surprised.”

Her chin dropped. She looked at her lap. Her upper body folded in on itself like a wilting flower.

Justine’s heart sank. Alva had told them Uriah didn’t care about her feelings, but her reaction now—mirroring the body language of Helene—implied so much more.

Justine looked at Harland, trying to speak with her eyes. He nodded slightly and stood. He tapped Thomas on the shoulder and they quietly left the room.

“It’s just women here now,” Justine said.

Dorthea touched Alva’s arm. “Has he forced . . .?”

After a pause, Alva nodded.

“He shouldn’t do that,” Dorthea said. “Ever.”

“I know, but . . . he’s my husband.”

“Who is supposed to love and honor you,” Dorthea said.

Justine stated the obvious, “It’s not right.”

“It’s not,” Goosie said. “I don’t have to be married to know that.”

Alva stopped looking at her lap. “So what am I supposed to do? Fight him off and risk more pain? Scream and have the entire household know?”

It was a good question. Although Justine and Harland had not been intimate, she knew their love-making would be . . . love making.

Alva sat up straighter. “I am not ignorant. I know it’s wrong, and I wish it was different. But it . . .” Her countenance fell. “Isn’t.” She drew in a deep breath, as if dispelling the subject. “You said my husband raped someone in the past?”

Justine hesitated.

“Tell me the details,” Alva said. “I deserve to know.”

“Yes, you do.” Justine needed the men to know what she’d witnessed. “May I call them back?” When Alva nodded, Justine called out to Harland and Thomas.

Harland peeked around the kitchen door.

“Come back in, please,” Justine said.

They returned, warily looking at Alva. It was clear they expected her to be sobbing. ”We’re so sorry for what you’ve been through,” Harland said.

Thomas nodded. “If there’s anything we can do . . .”

“I’m stronger than I look.” Alva raised her chin. “But not as strong as I want to be.”

“We are with you,” Dorthea said. “All the way.”

Wherever that way would go.

Alva nodded her thanks. “Enough about me. Justine, tell us what happened in the past.”

Once again, Justine was amazed at the strength of Uriah’s victims. Her own courage paled when compared to that of Alva and Virginia. “I went back to 1860, and ended up on a steamboat on the Missouri River, heading to Kansas City. Lionel was there. And Caesar.”

“You got to see Caesar?” Alva asked. “How was he?”

“Under Lionel’s thumb.”

She could only nod.

Thomas had a question. “Was it the trip you and your mother were supposed to take?”

“I have no way of knowing for certain, but it proves that he had no intention of taking us along.”

“Selfishly, I’m glad for that,” Thomas said. “If he had taken you away, we wouldn’t be here now.”

Very true.

“What did Lionel do on the boat?” Goosie asked.

“He befriended a schoolteacher who was coming to Lawrence to teach.”

“Befriended?” Dorthea asked.

“Charmed. And lured her into thinking he was a gentleman.”

“As Uriah charmed me into thinking the same,” Alva said quietly.

“In the evening, I heard her screams and . . . I found her on the floor of Lionel’s cabin, disheveled and crying. I helped her get away from him, back to her room.” She let them fill in the details according to their own sensitivities.

“How horrible,” Dorthea said.

“Did she report it to the captain?” Thomas asked.

“I told her to, but she wouldn’t. She said it was Lionel’s word against hers.”

“Was she badly injured?” Harland asked.

His question brought up another. “If there had been a doctor on board, and if she’d gone to him, would he have testified on her behalf?”

Harland hesitated. “I don’t know. Rape makes people squeamish.”

“Squeamish?” Alva stood. Her voice turned ragged. “It hurts body and soul. It hurts!”

Justine felt tears threaten. Uriah had raped two women—and how many more?

Dorthea drew Alva back to her seat and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

“I apologize,” Harland said. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I take it very seriously. It’s just that, not all doctors do.” He looked at Justine. “Honestly, even if she had reported it to the captain, he might not have done anything.”

“And the reporting would have made Lionel angry,” Goosie said. “He might have sought revenge.”

Justine shuddered, remembering his threat to throw her overboard.

Alva composed herself, sitting upright, letting Dorthea’s arm fall away. “You said the victim was a schoolteacher coming to Lawrence. What’s her name?”

“Helene Soames.”

Alva’s face lit up. “I’ve met her once. She teaches at Riverside School. You need to talk to her.”

“Yes, I do.” She was amazed at God’s provision. “I never thought it would be so easy to find her.”

“Thank God for that,” Goosie said.

“I do. Completely.”

Alva stood, but looked tentative. “Should we go now? I could introduce you.”

Justine admired—and appreciated—her offer. “Are you sure?”

Alva hesitated, then said, “We’re both his victims. Perhaps we could help each other.”

“That’s very noble of you,” Dorthea said.

Justine stood, ready to go, then felt a wave of weakness. She sat back down. “This may seem trivial, but I really need to eat something first. I haven’t eaten since dinner last night.”

“Breakfast today,” Thomas said. “A few hours ago.”

The timeline was hard to follow.

Goosie coaxed Justine out of her chair. “Hungry is hungry. Would you like dinner or breakfast?”

 

**

 

After having some coffee, bread, and ham, Justine was ready to meet Helene Soames.

Harland drove her and Alva to the Riverside School. Although they could have driven themselves, Justine was glad for his company as north Iowa Street was beyond her scope of knowledge.

The stone school was nearly square, fifteen or sixteen feet on either side. The windows and front door were open and they spotted children of various ages inside, huddled together, most likely working with other children in their grade level.

They spotted Helene helping some of the youngest ones.

“I never thought about school being in session,” Justine said.

Harland pointed to a table with benches outside. “We can wait.”

Justine was not good at waiting, but they had no choice.

They were just sitting down when Helene appeared at the door. Her auburn hair was tinged with gray—not surprising since she was nineteen years older than the last time Justine had seen her. “May I help you?”

Justine wished she’d given more thought about what to say to her. She approached with Alva at her side. Harland took up the rear. “Sorry to disturb you, Miss Soames,” she said.

“Mrs. Soames.”

Mrs.?

Helene looked past Justine and nodded toward Alva. “We’ve met, haven’t we?”

Alva smiled. “We have. We both worked at booths during the harvest festival. I’m Alva Benedict.”

“Yes. I remember you. You were in a church booth selling baked goods.”

“That’s right. And you were selling pencils as a fundraiser for the school.”

Helene nodded. “It’s nice to see you again.” She looked at Justine and Harland. “Have we had the pleasure?”

Harland stepped forward. “We have not. I am Harland Jennings, and this is my fiancé, Justine Braden.”

Justine was happy to distance herself from Susan Miller.

“So what can I help you with?” Helene asked.

Alva looked at Justine, giving her the reins. “If you have a moment, I’d like to ask you a few questions about something that happened nineteen years ago.”

Helene’s eyebrows rose. “That’s a long time past. I arrived in Lawrence around then.”

“I know.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You’ve certainly piqued my curiosity, Miss Braden.”

“I’m sorry to be so vague, but I’ll explain in full when you have some time.”

Helene consulted a watch that hung as a necklace. “I’m sure the children won’t mind if I call for lunch a few minutes early. Wait here.”

She returned to the school and cheers were heard as she announced that lunch would begin. The children rushed outside and sat in the grass, opening their tin lunch pails.

Helene shooed two boys away from the table, so the adults could sit in privacy. She was still a pretty woman, though there were lines around her eyes and mouth. She sat on one side with Alva, while Harland and Justine sat across from them.

“There now,” she said. “Let’s take advantage of the peace. You wanted to ask me about something that happened in the past?”

How to begin? “I realize this is out of the blue, Mrs. Soames, and may seem intrusive, but please know it’s very important.”

“Very,” Harland said.

“It sounds ominous.”

“I’m sure it does, but . . .” Justine decided to get to the point before the children demanded their teacher’s attention. “The year we’re interested in is 1860. I . . . I am sad to say I know what happened on aboard a steamer ship, between you and Lionel Watkins.”

Her fair skin grew mottled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Alva angled her body toward her. “We apologize for intruding on your day—on your life. And I know the subject of our inquiries is upsetting . . .“

Helene studied Alva’s face, then looked to Justine and Harland in turn. “Why are you doing this? Can’t you just leave well enough alone?”

“I wish we could,” Justine said. “But . . .” She blurted it out. “We know the man who assaulted you.”

Helene opened and closed her mouth multiple times as if fighting the words she wanted to say, against those she would say. Then she stood. “I need you to leave.”

“No. Please,” Justine said. “Please hear us out.”

Alva extended a calming hand. “I married the man who raped you. He’s done the same to me.”

Helene stood in the awkward space between standing and sitting for many seconds before sitting down again. “Then I pity you.”

Alva nodded. “I don’t want your pity. I want justice for what he did to you, and for other crimes—so many other crimes.”

Helene’s breathing turned heavy. Finally she asked Alva, “Do you have children with him?”

“I do not. I want children, but not—”

Helene nodded once. “Not with him. Believe me, you are better off.”

Alva was clearly caught off guard. “I suppose you’re right, but—”

Helene sighed. “Forgive me. I have grown too frank for anyone’s good. Your marriage is none of my business. As far as my own dealings with him, God gave me the strength to move on. I have no wish to rehash the past.”

Her mention of God gave them common ground. Justine leaned on the table between them. “But I know that God is leading me on a quest to bring Lionel Watkins to justice. To do so, I need your help.”

Helene cocked her head, then looked to Alva. “You are married to him, but your last name is Benedict, not Watkins.”

“Lionel has changed his name frequently,” Alva said, nodding at Justine. “First to Spencer Meade, and most recently to Uriah Benedict.”

Helene sucked in a breath. “I’ve heard of him. That man is Lionel?”

“He is,” Justine said. “He’s committed many crimes under many names. It’s my job to put a stop to it. To him.”

Alva’s voice was small. “He’s tried to poison me.”

“Tell her about Caesar,” Harland said.

“Caesar?” Helene perked up. “He had a manservant named Caesar on the boat.”

“It’s the same Caesar,” Alva said. “He died last week. We are nearly certain Uriah killed him.”

Helene pressed a hand to her forehead as if trying to make the information stick. “How can I help you now? I didn’t report his crime against me.” She looked down, making a fist. “After all these years, I have nothing to offer you but a tale that he will most certainly refute. I’m very sorry.”

Justine knew she was right. “As usual, there is no concrete evidence against him.”

Helene glanced toward the children. Their time was short. “I only told one person about it: a young woman who helped me that night and stayed with me.”

That was me!

“I tried to find her the next day, but I lost track of her on the boat. Then we landed in Kansas City and I fled, wanting to get as far away from Lionel Watkins as I could. I think her name was Susan something.”

Susan Miller.

Justine felt Harland’s stare. He understood the implications. The only person Helene had confided in was Justine. Who couldn’t testify.

A ball flew past them as many of the children were finished eating and were playing tag and tossing a ball back and forth. Their time was up.

Justine rose. “Thank you for talking with us. I’m sorry to intrude and to bring up bad memories.”

“I can see that it was necessary.” Helene turned to Alva. “I’m sorry for your current pain. Get out. Get away from him any way you can.”

Alva nodded. “I’m trying.”

Helene walked toward the school, then turned. “How did you know about any of this? As I said, I only told one—”

Suddenly, she looked at Justine in an odd way. “You resemble that Susan woman.”

Justine’s stomach flipped. “I do?”

Helene shook her head. “It’s been nineteen years but . . . hmm,” Helene said. “How odd.”

Indeed.

 

**

 

After dinner, Harland and Justine found refuge on the porch swing. As usual, he sat on the left, she on the right.

“This has become our place,” Justine said, setting the swing in motion with her toe.

“What will we do when it’s snowy out? Where will we go?”

She sighed deeply, but it was all for show. “I guess we’ll have to cuddle in front of the fire.”

“I don’t think so. My mother and your father might claim that spot.”

“Then we’ll have to get a house of our own.”

He stopped the swing. “Our own? Are you ready to get married?”

She put a hand to her heart. “I’m ready in here. But . . .”

He sighed. “You still have work to do.”

She slipped a hand around his arm and leaned her chin against his shoulder. “There will be an end to all this. I am making progress.”

“Mmm.”

She pulled back to look at him. “I found Helene.”

“Another victim who can’t or won’t testify against him.”

She got up from the swing to face him. “What do you want me to do? I have no control over where I travel to, or when.”

“I know.” He patted the swing and she returned to it.

“I have to hold onto my faith that God has a reason for each trip. In the end, none of it will be without a purpose. Nothing that happens is wasted.”

He raised his arm so she could slip beneath it. “Stand firm. Your work for the Lord is not in vain. Keep doing what He asks you to do.”

Justine nodded against his chest and they swung up and back. Up and back.

She let herself drift with the motion and was almost asleep when he said, “After we marry . . . I will never . . .”

She wasn’t sure what he was talking about.

“I will never force you.”

She snuggled against him. “I know you won’t.” That’s all that needed to be said on the subject.

But it brought to mind something else. “I detest being a witness to such wickedness. Sometimes I long to be the ignorant, naïve debutante again.” She sat upright. “I was so oblivious and carefree. And now . . . I hate what I’ve seen.”

“I wish I could travel with you, to protect you.”

She liked the essence of that, yet shook her head against it. “I have God to protect me.”

He looked taken aback. “Well then.”

She took his hand. “I don’t mean that as an insult.”

He chuckled. “I know God’s protection is far superior to any I could offer you.” His face grew serious. “But because I love you, I hate for you to suffer or be frightened. Ever.”

“I don’t particularly enjoy it either. I feel so ill-equipped.”

He nodded. “’Put on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.’”

She sat upright. “Where did those words come from?”

“The Bible.”

She pointed down the street. “On the way back from the cemetery I was walking past a man painting a fence and he said those exact same words. Out of nowhere. I wasn’t even talking to him. He just said it.”

“How did you respond?”

“I didn’t. I stopped, but then he commented about the weather, as if he hadn’t just talked about armor and God and the devil at all.”

“I love when God does that.”

Of course! “It was Him, wasn’t it?”

“There is no other explanation.”

“Are there more verses about armor?”

“There are, but I don’t know them by heart.” He stood. “Just a minute.”

He went inside, returned with a Bible, and sat next to her. “I think it’s in Ephesians.” He searched and quickly found it. “Ephesians six . . . it’s verse eleven. But it continues.”

“Read it.”

“’For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.’”

“That makes me shiver.”

“’Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand.’”

“This isn’t calming me,” she said.

Harland read silently ahead. “It tells you how God’s equipped you. You’re to wear a belt of truth and a breastplate of righteousness.’”

“I’m far from righteous.”

“You have integrity and are pursuing justice with God behind you. That makes you righteous.” He continued, consulting the verses. “Your feet will be fitted with shoes that help speed you on to share God’s gospel of peace.”

“Armor and peace? That doesn’t fit.”

He raised a hand, stopping her interruptions. “You will use faith as a shield to stop Satan’s fiery arrows, and you’ll wear the helmet of salvation and use the sword of the Spirit—which is God’s Word.”

She wrapped her arms around herself, staring past the porch, past the yard, past the street in front of her. “This really is a battle.”

He nodded. “The final instruction is to pray for yourself and others.” He closed the Bible.

“If I was overwhelmed before . . .” She shook her head. “This is more serious than I imagined, Harland. I have the feeling Uriah’s sins are worse than those I’ve dealt with before, worse than those of Quinn Piedmont and his ancestors.”

“Quinn was evil too. He tried to kill your father. His great-grandfather killed an entire family.”

Justine shuddered. “Uriah has killed at least three times: Virginia’s father, Caesar, and another man that Caesar told me about.”

“And he raped Helene.”

“And Alva,” she added.

“And committed Virginia against her will.”

“Yet he is revered in town. His picture is on the front page of the newspaper.”

“All the more reason for him to be brought down.” Harland put a hand on the Bible. “If Uriah isn’t worse than Quinn, he’s certainly more prolific.”

“And I’m not done with him yet,” she said. “There’s more for me to see. Uncover.”

“Is there? Perhaps you are done.”

She shook her head with utter certainty. “I’m not done until I find proof against him.” She was exhausted at the thought of it. “Tomorrow I need to go again.”

“You could wait a day or two.”

Justine stood. “I can’t. Alva is safe here—for the moment. But time it ticking . . .” She took his hand, pulled him to standing, and wrapped her arms about him. “Pray for me, Harland. Pray I’m strong enough to fight this battle.”

Or battles.

 

**

 

Justine sat at the desk in her room and took out the Ledger. She had three more life-lines to add to the list.

The first, from her mother. She carefully wrote: Mavis Tyler Braden 1860: “A woman who reveals too much of her body, reveals too little of her mind.”

Justine smiled at the memory of Mother saying this many times as she was growing up. Justine had resented each and every time. Especially when she was sixteen and having her coming out party. The dressmaker had come to the house for a fitting of her elaborate white, custom-designed dress. While Mother and Mrs. McKenzie chatted, Justine turned down the neckline to reveal more bosom. She’d been thrilled that she actually had cleavage.

Thrilled until the women stopped talking and saw what she’d done. Mother yanked the neckline where it belonged. “Don’t be cheap, Justine. A woman who reveals too much of her body, reveals too little of her mind.”

At sixteen Justine didn’t much care if young men cared about her mind. She just wanted their attention. But the neckline remained modest and Justine was better for it.

First, her mother, then her father’s wise words: Thomas Piedmont 1879: “God is never late and never early.” She found much comfort in God’s perfection.

Now for the words of another woman.

Justine made another notation: Helene Soames 1860: “Free will isn’t free. There are consequences.”

Helene had learned this the hard way.

Justine remembered asking her father, Noel, a question about free will. “Wouldn’t it be better if God just ran our lives and didn’t give people choices? The world would certainly be a better place.”

His answer had stayed with her all these years. He’d put a finger under her chin and had gazed into her eyes. “But what’s the good of that? Choosing to do the right thing has far more value than being forced to do it.”

He’d been such a good man.

Justine honored him by adding his life-line to the list.