Redemption Road(100)

“Jesus…”

Beckett scrubbed his hands across his face, but barely recognized himself. He felt sick in his heart, and not from the shattered face or the gray bones or the slick, vinyl bags birthed from beneath the church.

It wasn’t even about Liz.

He braced his hands on the shower wall, water beating down, but none of it hot enough or hard enough. He thought of Adrian’s trial and of all the women dead in that goddamn church.

It had to be Adrian.

But what if it wasn’t? What if the bodies in the crawl space were only five years old? Or ten? If Adrian wasn’t the killer, did that mean his conviction paved the way for someone else to hunt and kill for thirteen more years?

Nine women under the church.

Lauren Lester.

Ramona Morgan.

Beckett felt them like a weight, as if their souls were stone and steel and stacked eleven deep on the crown of his head.

“Sweetheart…”

That was his wife’s voice. Distant.

“Charlie?”

It was louder that time, cutting through the steam as the bathroom door swung open.

“Hang on, honey.” Beckett dashed water from his eyes and peered past the curtain. Carol was in the robe she always wore, her hair tousled from sleep. “Hey, baby.”

“Why are you in the guest bath?”

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Are you all right? You look a little green.”

“It’s just the heat, the shower.”

“You seem upset.”

“I said it’s the shower!” She shrank away from his voice, and he apologized immediately. “It’s been a long night. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so abrupt.”

“It’s okay. I can tell you’ve had a long night. Do you want some breakfast?”

“Ten minutes?”

“I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Beckett finished the shower, then shaved and put on fresh clothes. He studied his face until it was steady, then went to the kitchen to find his wife. She looked beautiful as he walked in, a little heavier than the month before, a little more lined and tired. But he didn’t care about that. “How’s the love of my life?”

She turned from the stove, and her smile faded when she saw that he was fully dressed. “You’re going back to work?”

“I have to, baby. No choice.”

“Is it that awful man?”

For an instant Beckett feared she saw his thoughts too clearly, that she somehow knew. But it was the television, he realized, Adrian’s face on the silent screen, his photo inset beneath a long shot of the abandoned church.

“He’s part of it.”

“I can’t believe he’s been in our house, eaten at our table.”

“That was a long time ago, baby.”

She picked up the remote and switched off the set. Lines deepened at the corners of her mouth. “Were you with Liz all night?”

“Not this time.”

He slipped an arm around her shoulders, squeezing. She’d always been jealous of the time he spent with his pretty partner. He’d tried for years to make Carol understand that Liz was a friend, and nothing more. But Carol could not accept how much their marriage meant to him, or the lengths he would go to protect it. That was the thing about guilt. Everyone had some tucked away, the only question being how much and how much damage had it done.

He kissed the top of her head; poured a cup of coffee.

“So, where were you last night?”

“The church. Adrian’s place. The hospital.”

“Is that because of the poor guard who was beaten to death?”

Beckett hesitated. “You know about that?”

“Yes.”

“We kept his death out of the news. We were very specific. Doctors. Nurses. We shut that all down. How do you know about it?”

“Oh. The warden stopped by last night.”

“What?” Beckett stood so fast his chair scraped across the floor and toppled. “He was here?”

“Jesus, Charlie. You spilled your coffee.”

“That doesn’t matter. What did he want?”

“He was very upset.” Carol dropped paper towels on the spilled coffee, then righted the chair. “He said the dead guard’s name was Preston, and that he had a wife and a son, and that they were friends. The warden feels responsible. I assume he wanted to talk to you about it. It’s all so horrible.”

“When was here?”

“What?”

“Goddamn it, Carol. When? What time?”

“You’re scaring me, Charlie.”

Beckett released his fists; knew his face was red and swollen. “I’m sorry, Carol. Just tell me when.”

“I don’t know. Midnight, maybe. I remember he was apologetic about the time. He said he’d been trying to reach you all day, and that you weren’t returning his calls. He said he’d come by again this morning.”

“Son of a bitch.”

Beckett crossed the room, flicking the curtain to peer outside. It was still dark, but the car was already at the curb. “Wait here.”

Carol said something, but Beckett was in the hall, then out the door. He kept his stride steady; it wasn’t easy. “What the hell are you doing here?”