Beyond Reach (5 page)

“That sounds reasonable.”

“But it seems she changed her thinking. In her letter, she said that she wasn't really certain that Peter had actually used at all, claiming they'd never done it together, and she'd never seen him do it. Brett had told her Peter was using, and she simply believed him.”

“Where's this Brett dude now?”

“We're not sure. Last we could track him, he was living in a small town in eastern Oregon, but he's not there now.”

“So how do you know that Faith is reliable? I mean why, after all these years, has she suddenly decided to tell Peter's parents this?”

“In her letter, Faith said she'd gone through rehab and has been clean for several years now. She recently got married and is expecting their first child. She wanted to leave all this behind her, but it seems her conscience got to her. That's why she e-mailed Peter's parents telling them that she had a strong feeling Peter didn't kill himself. She said she couldn't Rrove anything, but she felt sure that Brett Carnes was involved somehow.”

“Wow, that's quite an accusation.”

Ebony nodded. “And quite difficult to prove.”

“Where is Faith living now?”

“We don't know. She wants to remain anonymous. Even the e-mail was sent from an address that no longer exists.”

“Well, if what she's saying is true, you can't blame her,” I point out. “I mean, if I was involved with something that gnarly then cleaned up my act and was living a decent life, I'd want to leave it all behind too.”

“Plus, being pregnant, she might be concerned for her safety if Peter's death really was a murder.”

I sigh and shake my head. “Poor Faith.”

“So, we really don't have much to go on,” says Ebony. “Peter's untimely death, with physical evidence that all points to a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Faith's mysterious e-mail. A missing friend with a reputation in this town for dealing drugs. And the big question—did Peter really kill himself? Or was foul play involved?”

“But you mentioned that suicide website. Why would Peter get caught up in something like that unless he was really looking for a way out? And what about the suicide note?”

She nods. “Yes, lots of questions…not many answers.”

“Do you think it's possible Faith has an ax to grind with Brett, that she might've written the e-mail hoping to get him in trouble?”

“The thought occurred to me. But according to what we can find, Faith Mitchell left town shortly after Peter's death. Brett didn't. In fact, he remained involved with the Clark family. He even befriended Peter's younger brother, Cody Plus if Faith's still in contact with Brett and wants to get him in trouble, why wouldn't she give Peter's parents information regarding Brett's whereabouts?”

“I suppose you're right.”

“Would you be willing to come out to Peter's house with me this afternoon?”

I shrug. “Okay. But, like I said, I'm not sure it'll do any good.”

“I know. And it's not that I expect anything. But I'm just doing the asking thing. After hitting nothing but dead-ends, I've been asking God to show me the answers. And naturally, that made me think of you.”

Peter's family's house is in a slightly run-down neighborhood of older homes. Mostly split-levels with yards that could use some TLC. Not impressive. I wait as Ebony knocks on a beat-up door in need of paint. In fact, the whole house looks like it has seen better days. Or maybe it's just sad. A worn-out-looking middle-aged woman with mousy brown hair answers the door, and when she sees
that it's Ebony, a trace of hope flickers across her faded blue eyes.

“Have you discovered something new?” she asks.

“We're still working on it,” Ebony assures her, introducing me. “Samantha has helped me on other unusual cases. She has a gift for things like this.”

Mrs. Clark looks curious, but thankfully doesn't press me with questions. “I just want to find out the truth,” she says to me. “I feel like I can't rest until I know what really happened—why it happened.”

“I understand.”

“Samantha's father died tragically too,” says Ebony. “She knows what it's like to lose someone dear.”

Mrs. Clark pats my arm. “I'm sorry for your loss.”

“I hope I can be of help,” I say, feeling totally helpless.

“Do you mind if we go down to the basement?” asks Ebony.

“Go right ahead.” Mrs. Clark nods toward a door near the kitchen. “But I won't go down there…I can't.”

“That's okay,” says Ebony. “I don't blame you.”

A preteen boy looks up from where he's using a PlayStation that's connected to the TV in the family room. “Are you the policewoman?” he asks Ebony in a flat-sounding voice that doesn't seem to match his inquisitive blue eyes.

“I am.”

“This is Cody,” says Mrs. Clark. “Peter's younger brother. There's no school today.”

We introduce ourselves, and I can't help but ask about the game he's playing since it's the same one my brother,
Zach, used to play—until Mom discovered how violent it was and banned it from our home. “Is that
Killer7T

He looks somewhat surprised, then nods. “Do you play it too?”

“It's too violent for me,” I say, hoping his mom will take a hint. I can't believe she lets this kid play a game that's all about murder and killing, especially in light of his brother's tragic death. But despite my comment, she seems totally oblivious.

As we go down the steep wooden stairs to the basement, Ebony tells me that Peter died down here. “I'm surprised his family continued living here,” she says in a hushed tone, although I'm sure Mrs. Clark can't hear us. “But I suppose Mrs. Clark had no choice since their marriage broke up shortly after Peter's death. Suicide can be hard on everyone.”

“They got divorced because of Peter?”

“I don't know all the details. I just know that when someone takes his own life, everyone tends to feel guilty.”

I remember how guilt ridden I was when my dad died. I blamed myself for not believing the dream God had given me—for not warning Dad—not that it would have changed anything. Still, it took nne years to get over it. So, in a way, I can understand how the Clarks might be feeling now. So sad.

I look around a frumpy room, which has bad wood paneling and a really pathetic plaid couch. “This kind of reminds me of
That 70s Show,”
I tell her. “Only in a Stephen King sort of way.”

“I know what you mean.” Ebony goes over and stands next to a coffee table that has fake wagon wheels for legs. “But Peter and his friends liked hanging down here. There used to be an old TV and VCR over in that corner. But I guess they moved that out.” She looks around. “Everything else is pretty much the same.”

I slowly walk around the room, hoping for something— I'm not sure what—but nothing happens. The room smells musty, as if it hasn't been opened in years. And it's cold— very cold. I'm glad I still have my coat on.

“He shot himself over here.” Ebony stands in an open part of the room not far from the only small window, which is so encrusted with dust that it barely lets in light.

I nod without saying anything. What can you say? This is so depressing. All I want to do is get out of here. “I don't see how his mom and brother can stand living in this house,” I suddenly say as I turn away. “It seriously creeps me out. And why she lets him play that awful video game.

“I feel the same way,” Ebony says in a sad voice. “But I thought it would be worth it to visit… I mean, if it helped at all.”

I stand for a long moment, eyes tightly closed, barely breathing, as I focus in on God, begging Him to show me something. Reminding Him of what Ebony said about
“Ask and you shall receive
.” But nothing happens. No answers come. Not even the tiniest speck of a vision. Just silence so thick that I can feel it pressing in on me from all sides. Why won't God talk to me? Have I angered Him? Offended Him?

And suddenly I begin to cry. Not just quietly either. I am sobbing.

I
—I'm not going to—to be any help to you,” I choke out the words, embarrassed by the uncontrollable tears now streaming down my cheeks as I stand across from the grimy window where Peter supposedly took his life.

Oh, Samantha.” Ebony comes over and puts her arms around me and gently pats my back as I continue to cry. After a while, she tells me that she's sorry and that she shouldn't have brought me here. “I'm probably just trying too hard.”

“No, it's not your fault.” I step back and wipe my wet face with the backs of my hands. “It's just—just that God isn't talking to me anymore,” I blurt out. “He hasn't given me a dream or a vision or anything. Not since—since I told Him to give me a break.”

Ebony looks like she's about to laugh.
“You told God to give you a break?”

I nod, swallowing hard to hold back my tears. “After we got back from Phoenix, I told God I was tired. I asked Him to leave me alone and give me a break.”

Now she actually does laugh. “Well, you
needed
a break, girlfriend! You'd been strung pretty thin over the whole Kayla affair. And God certainly used you in a big
way down there, and then we had that terrorist business on the flight home. Good grief, who could blame you for wanting a break?”

“But I shouldn't have said those things to God. I sounded so ungrateful and whiney and—”

Oh, Samantha, do you really think you could possibly offend God? Do you think you could stop God from doing what He wants to do?”

I just shrug.

“Don't you remember Jonah? How he tried to ditch God by hopping on a slow boat to China, or something to that effect? But God never left that man alone.
Remember?”

“Yeah.” I replay the old story through my head. The reluctant prophet who didn't want to tell the people God's warnings and how God didn't let him off the hook, so to speak. Then even after being swallowed and barfed up by a whale, Jonah still tried to ignore God. But eventually Jonah had to listen—and obey.

“So, can't you see? If God wants to give you a vision or dream,
He will.
He's not going to let something you said stop Him, Samantha. He's a whole lot bigger than that.”

I sort of laugh. “Now that you put it that way, I do sound pretty silly, huh?”

“So, just lighten up. God is the Giver of the gift, and it's up to Him. Right?”

“You're right.”

“Now let's get out of here.”

Mrs. Clark is expectantly waiting upstairs. I can see that she is desperate for us to tell her something, anything—like
a starving dog waiting for a tiny morsel—the smallest bit to help her through her agony. I actually shoot up a silent prayer, begging God to give me something that will bring comfort.

“Would you like to see pictures of Peter?” she eagerly asks us, almost as if she's afraid to let us go quite yet.

“Sure,” I say, although I would rather not. His story is so sad. I just want to get out of here and away from it.

Then she leads us past where Cody is still glued to his game and shooting people with all sorts of weapons, taking us over to the brick fireplace, where some cheaply framed photos of Peter and his soccer team are arranged on the wooden mantel. I look at Peter with his trombone, Peter holding up his little brother when Cody was still small.

“He was a nice-looking guy,” I say for lack of anything better.

“He was a good boy too,” she says in a slightly defensive tone. “I don't care what others say. He
was
a good boy. “

“I'm really asking God to show us something,” I tell her. “I believe that He is the one with all the answers, and I'm asking Him to give some to us.”

She peers, at me. “Are you a Christian?”

I nod. “I am.”

She frowns. “I used to go to church back when the children were small, but I don't have much use for God anymore. Not after all this. What kind of a God lets these things happen?”

“I know how you feel,” I say. “I felt the same way after my dad was murdered.”

She looks slightly surprised by my confession.

“But I finally got to the place where I decided that I would rather be unhappy
with
God than unhappy
without
Him.” I smile at her. “After that, I discovered that God is the only one who could make me happy again anyway. So it was sort of a win-win situation.”