Home Fires Page 19

  “I think we always have been. Control is just an illusion.”

  “But that doesn’t mean we have to surrender every time something bad happens. I lost years mourning for Madi. I don’t want to lose that much time again.”

  “We won’t. We’ll find her.”

  They sat quiet together.

  “Hon?” Mike squeezed her hand.

  “Hmm?”

  “We need to take care of Joe, too.”

  She sighed.

  “He needs us as much as she does.”

  He didn’t. He couldn’t.

  He’d stabbed them in the back. But then, hadn’t she turned around and done the same thing? She hadn’t asked, hadn’t given him the chance to tell his side. She’d just assumed his guilt and acted on that assumption.

  “You go if you want. I think I’ll stay home.”

  He pulled on her hand. “I don’t want to leave you here like this. Come outside. It’ll do you good.”

  He could make her get in the car, but he couldn’t make her go inside the jail.

  Chapter 40

  On the interstate, Cyndi alternated between biting her lip and worrying her fingernails. She’d never been to the jail before and didn’t care to go now.

  They parked in a visitor’s spot.

  Mike got out, but Cyndi stayed in her seat.

  He came around to her side of the car and opened the door. “Come on, hon.”

  She crossed her arms. “I don’t want to go in.”

  “Well, then, we’ll wait until you do.”

  He went around to his side again and got back in the car.

  That was easy.

  Only he didn’t start the engine. He sat on his side, she on hers

  “Aren’t we going home?”

  “Nuh-uh. We’ll go inside in a minute, when you’re ready.”

  She sighed. His quiet stubbornness was so infuriating. And effective. She knew he’d never give up. She sighed again. “All right. Let’s get this over with.”

  Mike held her door open and escorted her to the entrance.

  She wanted to die.

  “May I help you?” The police academy flunky behind the desk couldn’t have been more than twenty.

  Mike read the young man’s name tag. “Um, yes, Officer Angelo. We’re here to see Joseph Talbot. He’s being held here.”

  The officer punched Joe’s name into his computer.

  “May I see your ID.” It wasn’t a question.

  Mike and Cyndi both handed over their driver’s licenses.

  Cyndi crossed her arms and looked around the room while they waited for Officer Angelo to verify their identities. The cinder block walls were painted a dark gray that sucked light out of the room. The fluorescent lights flickered.

  He handed back their IDs. A gray metal door to his right buzzed. “Sir, ma’am.”

  Mike pulled at the door handle. It swung open with a chunk. He waved Cyndi through in front of him and stepped behind her into another waiting area, painted the same industrial gray as the first.

  Through a small rectangular window in the door, Cyndi stared back at the facility’s entrance. An identical door across the room led, presumably, to the cell blocks. Was that what they were called, or was that just the term they used in the movies?

  “Nice place, huh?” Cyndi said. She chose a black plastic chair, one in an attached row of four. She sat bolt upright, her hands resting on her knees. Despite the strong odor of bleach, dust balls and hair collected in corners and along the black rubber baseboards.

  After a few minutes, the second door buzzed open and two officers entered the room. A female guard instructed Cyndi to follow, and Mike went with the male guard.

  After a thorough, but not too thorough, search of her belongings and person, Cyndi met Mike in the visiting room. She’d expected to talk with Joe via telephone through safety glass, but it looked like they’d be sitting at a table with him. She’d rather not get that close. He’d be able to read her eyes.

  “Choose a table. We’ll bring the prisoner here to speak with you.” The female guard stood in the doorway in a masculine stance. The other left and returned a few minutes later with Joe.

  Joe actually looked better than normal. He wore a clean orange jumpsuit, his hair was combed, and he appeared well rested.

  Mike shook his hand.

  Cyndi sat across from him with arms crossed.

  Mike led the conversation. “How are you?” His concern came through in his voice.

  “I’m okay,” Joe said. He scratched his beard. “The food’s not half bad in here, but the company stinks.” He let his words hang in silence for a moment before muttering, “It was a joke.”

  Ha. Ha.

  “And, by the way, I’m innocent. But I know what you’re thinking. Nobody in jail is guilty, right?”

  Nobody but you, Cyndi thought. She wondered if the police had sent the blue thread and the knife to the crime lab for forensics.

  “They must have found some incriminating evidence against you,” Mike said.

  “I don’t know. They don’t tell you anything in here. I guess I’ll find out at my arraignment hearing. It’s not until Monday.”

  Mike slid a Bible across the table. “I thought you might like something to read.”

  “No offense, but there’s a hundred of those lying around and they don’t really seem to be doing anyone any good. So, thanks, but no thanks.” Joe pushed the book back to Mike. “Now, if you’ve got a newspaper, I’d take it.”

  “Do you have a lawyer?”

  “Nah. I figure I can defend myself. No point in turning my life over to a stranger at this late date.”

  “We could find someone for you—”

  “Like you found someone for your defense? No thanks. We’ll have to settle for the same attorney.”

  “Oh, drat,” Mike said. “I forgot. We’re supposed to be back in court on Monday morning with my new attorney all ready to present his case. I guess you won’t be able to make it.”

  “Sorry. I’m booked.” Aside to Cyndi he whispered behind a cupped hand, “Pun intended.”

  She fought the little smile that tickled at the corner of her mouth. Jokes aside, Joe had put them in a bad position. Without his defense at the trial, the suit was up in the air, along with the fate of the mall and Home Fires. And with the vandalism at the tent city . . .

  The hardest part was that she’d befriended him and been inspired by him—inspired to fill the hole in her life with meaning. Founded or not, she’d trusted him. Friendship betrayed, trust shattered. “Mike, I think it’s time for us to go.” When Cyndi stood to leave, a guard moved toward the table to escort her and Mike.

  “Just a minute,” Mike said. He faced Joe. “Is there anyone we need to contact about you being in here? Any family or friends?”

  “No, no one.” There was no loneliness or regret in Joe’s expression. “There is one thing, though. Well, two things, really. First, I didn’t do it.”

  Cyndi rolled her eyes.

  “Honest,” Joe said, a hint of angst in his tone. “I hope you’ll believe me. I might not have liked your tent city, but I didn’t wreck it.”

  “Thanks for saying that,” Mike said. “What’s the second thing?”

  Joe scratched his neck, tipping his head to the side and wincing a little in embarrassment.

  “Could you, um . . . would you take care of Wolf until I can be there for him again?”

  A corner of Cyndi’s heart melted at the old man’s love for his dog. And his admitting it. Not all of it, mind you. Just a corner. The rest of her was still hurt and angry.

  “Done,” Mike said. “Don’t you worry about Wolf. He’ll stay with us for as long as it takes.”

  She might be disappointed and angry over Joe, but she’d take in Wolf. Starting with giving him a bath.

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Mike asked once they were back in the car.

  “It’s not the jail that bothers me,” she said. “It’s Joe
. In my gut, I know he did it.”

  “Innocent until proven guilty, remember?”

  It was a nice sentiment when it wasn’t personal. But Cyndi knew he was guilty. She also knew it was her fault the police had figured it out.

  She didn’t know which was worse.

  The third night after Clark was taken, Cyndi still didn’t get much sleep. She tossed and fumed in bed, worrying over the girl and what horrible things were happening to her. Whenever she started to drift off in sheer exhaustion, she would jerk awake. She couldn’t go on like this. She needed sleep. But more than that, she needed Clark.

  Sometime in the darkness, it occurred to her that she hadn’t heard from Zach since that afternoon. If anyone was likely to know where Clark was, it was Zach.

  How late did teenage boys sleep on weekends? Probably late, but she didn’t care. As soon as the clock turned seven, she dialed the number she had for him, the one he’d used on his volunteer paperwork for Home Fires. She hoped it was a good number.

  On the third ring, he answered. “Hello?”

  Thank goodness. “Zach? This is Cyndi.”

  “Hi.”

  “How are you holding up?”

  “I’ve been better. They haven’t told us if he’s going to come out of the coma or not. It’s pretty tough seeing him like this, and Mom’s exhausted.”

  Coma? “Wh-what are you talking about? Who’s in a coma? What’s going on?”

  “I thought you knew. Dad had a terrible stomachache. He passed out. He hasn’t woken up yet. That was . . .” He paused. “I think it was three days ago. I’ve kind of lost track of time.”

  “Are you okay?”

  On the other end of the call, Zach choked up. “I’m pretty scared.”

  “Which hospital are you at? I’m coming over.”

  “Riverton Memorial.”

  Cyndi let out the breath she’d been holding. “I’ll be there in a little while. You hold tight, okay?”

  “I will.”

  She was about to hang up when he asked, “What were you calling about?”

  “Sorry?”

  “If you didn’t know about my dad, why did you call? You’ve never called me before.”

  Cyndi didn’t know whether to mention Clark or not.

  He already had a full plate. But he also had the right to know what was happening with the girl he loved.

  “I—we—went by Clark’s place, the address she gave me, and she’s not there. The house is empty. I was hoping you had heard from her.”

  “No,” he said. And then an aching silence.

  “Zach? I’m sorry. I just, maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “It’s okay,” Zach said in a flat voice. “I, um . . . I’ve gotta go.”

  The connection broken, Cyndi slammed her phone down on the table.

  Why now? Why was God putting so many burdens on them at once?

  “Mike?” she called up the stairs. “I’m going to the hospital. You’re on your own for breakfast!”

  She didn’t hear an answer, but she didn’t exactly wait for one either before she closed the door behind her.

  Cyndi found Zach curled up on the waiting room couch in the critical care wing.

  She sat near his head and smoothed his mussy hair. “Are you awake?”

  He rubbed his eyes and sat up. He looked worse than she felt. Neither one of them had slept in days. “Kinda.”

  “You don’t look so good. Let’s go get you something to eat.”

  In the hospital cafeteria, Zach chose a bagel and cream cheese, but when they sat at the table, he pushed it away.

  Cyndi took a knife and spread the cream cheese on his bread. “You’ve got to eat,” she said, thrusting the food at him. “What happened?”

  “Like I told you, he got a really bad stomachache. He turned kinda green; then he passed out.”

  “Do they know what it is? Appendicitis, maybe?”

  “Pan-something-itis.”

  “Pancreatitis?” She didn’t know much about the disease, but knew it could be very, very bad.

  “Yeah. The doctor said it can come from drinking too much or doing drugs, but my dad didn’t do any of that kind of stuff. He said it’s—hold on.” Zach opened his hand and showed her his palm. Written on it in ballpoint pen were the words hypertriglyceridemia and necrotizing pancreatitis. “He said it could be hereditary. That means I might have it, too, right?”

  Cyndi placed her hand over his to cover the words. “No, Zach. Not necessarily.”

  “He might die. They didn’t say it in front of me, but I overheard them. They said he has a 30 percent chance of full recovery. That’s not very high.”

  “No, it’s not. But it’s not nothing.” They weren’t promising odds.

  “They’ve got him lying on his back. He hates sleeping on his back. If we folded his arms across his chest, he’d look like a corpse.” Zach pulled the bagel toward him and took a bite, then another and another. It didn’t take him long to down the whole thing and chase it with a full glass of cola. “I need to get back up there,” he said. “I don’t like leaving Mom alone for too long.”

  Chapter 41

  Zach led Cyndi down the hall to his father’s room.

  Cyndi paused outside the door, unsure whether or how to intrude on his parents.

  He motioned her in, holding a finger to his mouth to tell her to be quiet.

  His father lay in the bed.

  From the doorway, Cyndi could see the bumps his feet made in the pink woven blanket.

  Zach’s mother sat next to his bed, her back to the door. She held her husband’s hand, caressed it with both her thumbs.

  The heart monitor beeped out a steady rhythm, its green line spiking with each beat. A respirator sucked and sighed, and its accordion pump danced up and down like a morbid jack-in-the-box.

  Cyndi wanted to clamp her hands over her ears. Hospital disinfectant stung her nostrils with its nursing home scent.

  “Spence?” Zach’s mom whispered. She took a sip of water from a paper cup on the dining cart. “Can you hear me?”

  Cyndi shrank back in the doorway, not wanting to intrude but not wanting to abandon Zach.

  Even Zach didn’t go all the way into the room. He stood, frozen, letting his mom have her moment with his dad.

  “You wouldn’t believe the huge words the doctors have thrown at me today. Thrombophle—I can’t even pronounce them. No one will even tell me if you’re going to get better or not. I don’t know what to do.”

  Zach’s momrested her forehead on the back of her husband’s hand.

  “Mom?” Zach said.

  She startled.

  He walked around to talk to her.

  “What time is it?” she mumbled through a fog of exhaustion.

  “I don’t know. Morning. How’s Dad?”

  “He’s okay,” she said, based on nothing but wishful thinking. “We’ll know more later today. You should go home and get some rest.”

  “I’m not leaving, Mom.” Zach waved Cyndi into the room. “We’ve got a visitor.”

  Cyndi took a step or two closer to the bed.

  “Mom, this is Cyndi. Cyndi, this is my mom.”

  Zach’s mom turned around. Her eyes, hollowed with exhaustion, met Cyndi’s.

  No. It couldn’t be.

  Zach’s mom was Allie Ridley. And there in the bed lay Spencer Ridley, the leader of all the protests against Home Fires.

  Zach’s parents were the ones suing her.

  Fight or flight.

  Cyndi’s legs chose flight. She ran down the hospital corridor, her scarf streaming behind her.

  Why, oh why? Why did his parents have to be the Ridleys?

  She burst through the doors of the chapel. She hadn’t meant to come here, didn’t mean to end up here. How many hours had she spent in this very room, begging for the life of her daughter? How many times had God answered no?

  Diffused light streamed in through a giant blue skylight in the ceiling. A ro
und stained-glass window in the front of the room drew her to the first row of chairs. The chapel, large enough for thirty or more, had only ever held her.

  Her alone.

  She spoke aloud.

  “Do you think this is funny? Well, it’s not.”

  Her words echoed back to her.

  “You’re not clever or funny . . . or nice. You’re . . .” She searched for the right words. “You’re a bully.”

  He wasn’t. She knew it. But it sure felt like it. She wanted to hit something. They should put a punching bag in front near the altar. She would have worn it out long ago. Her and a lot of other people.

  She went to the wall and pressed her face up against the cool paneling. “Why?” It was a question to which there was no answer.

  The room filled with all her memories, all her disappointments, all her failures.

  And the faintest of whispers, not even loud enough to be heard.

  “Love.”

  “I can’t,” she said. “It’s too much.”

  She thought of those she’d loved and lost, like Madi and Clark.

  She thought of those she’d loved in spite of . . . like Zach and Joe. Now she found herself struggling over her feelings for Zach. When he was an edgy skater kid with a big heart, he was easy to love. But as the child of those people?

  And Joe. Homeless Joe. How could she not love him? Until she didn’t. Helpless Joe she could love. Independent Joe? Not so much.

  And now Allie and Spencer.

  “I can’t do it, God,” she said. “I can’t. They’ve done nothing but tear us down, humiliate us, sue us.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t.”

  And in the depth of her heart, she felt the word love.

  She put her head in her hands and prayed. “You have to show me how.”

  How long she sat in silence, letting his love wash over her, she didn’t know. When she was finally ready to leave the chapel, she did the thing she least wanted to do in the world.

  She walked down the hallway to Spencer Ridley’s room and tapped on the door. “Allie?” she whispered. “Sorry to bother you. Do you want me to sit with your husband so you can go home and get some rest?”