Stay of Execution (9 page)

 

Chapter Twenty-­One

W
ALKING ALONG THE
banks of the Thompson River, Cancini breathed in the thick odor of moss and the perfumed scent of wildflowers. Orange and red leaves mixed with green and hung like a canopy over his head. Rainbow trout darted in and out of the crystal-­clear water. He knew the water would be cold despite the warm temperatures outside. Flowing down from the mountainside, it bubbled over the jagged rocks, rushing past him. Even after a successful fishing season, the river was still well stocked.

He stepped carefully on the stones in a low spot on the river and crossed over to the west trail, a well-­used path that led to the lodge. He continued walking, keeping close to the water. When he got to the place, the spot where Cheryl Fornak's body had been found, he stopped. Crouching, he pushed some dirt aside, picking it up and letting it slip through his fingers. His breath caught in his throat. It had been the first body he'd ever seen in an investigation. He couldn't have known that day how she would change him, how Cheryl Fornak, dead and unable to speak, would alter the direction of his life.

Blue Hill College and the town of Little Springs had tried hard to forget the sordid events of the past. They had locked them away, focusing instead on the small and safe community they had carefully cultivated in the wake of the rapes and murders. Cancini knew what it had been like then, and he had a pretty good idea what it was like now. He, too, had done his best to forget and leave the unpleasant memories in the past, but with Spradlin's release, the memories had come flooding back.

Cheryl Fornak was his first homicide. Before the police had arrived, leaves covered half her body. One young officer had remarked it was almost a miracle the hunters had found her at all. Underneath the leaves, she'd been half naked, her shirt pushed up to her bra, her arms thrown out to her sides. The blue jean skirt she'd worn had been tossed aside, her underwear wrapped around one ankle. The girl's blond hair had appeared almost brown, covered with clumps of mud. Her flawless ivory complexion had been marred by cuts and scratches. One long leg had been bent back in an unnatural manner, bare, dirty, and bruised. Her eyes, the blue of a summer sky, had stared straight out, wide-­eyed and big, even after she'd taken her last breath. Cancini recalled how one of the hunters, a man visiting from a small town in the southern part of the state, had described the body. “Like a deer in headlights,” he'd said, “like she wanted to run and couldn't get away from a car that was speedin' toward her.” His hands had trembled when he'd told the story, and he'd left to go home as soon as the police let him.

Cancini uncurled his body and stood, the memories receding. These woods and this trail offered peace and beauty during the daytime. The sun shone brightly through the thick trees. Sparkles danced across the flowing water, catching the light. Birds called out to one another from the high branches, the only sound for miles. You couldn't hear the rush of traffic from the highway or life from the campus or town. For many an outdoorsman, this place was a sanctuary, perfect for enjoying nature's beauty. But for one night, under a starless sky, a young woman's screams had echoed through the silent trees. For Cheryl Fornak, it had been a living hell.

 

Chapter Twenty-­Two

J
ULIA WAITED ON
the front steps of the library until the doors opened. Inside, she positioned herself at a table with a view of the front door, but not fully visible to anyone who might come in. The town hadn't been media friendly so far, and she already felt like a leper. A public meeting with Spradlin was not going to help. The mayor had been right. Every attempt she had made to interview a town resident—­outside of the hotel maid—­had been met with unfriendliness and even animosity. One man, looking at her as though she were an alien, responded, “Now why in the world would I want to talk to some danged reporter who wants to make me look like a hick who wouldn't know the law if it kicked him in the ass?” She'd tried softening her approach, expressing sympathy for the families of the victims, speaking about how their loss was fresh again. She was shamed when a woman shot back, “It's always fresh, young lady. If you want breaking news, report that.”

Even so, the interview with Spradlin was an accomplishment. He hadn't granted many and was in the process of erecting a high fence around his property. She'd been told “Keep Out” signs were tacked to every tree that lined the dirt road leading up to the three-­room house. Conroy had already interviewed Spradlin and left town. Most of the other reporters were in the process of leaving, too. The news had dried up with no one talking, especially Spradlin. With no one talking, there was no story.

Julia needed this interview, and she needed the mayor. He'd called twice, the first time apologizing for his abrupt departure the previous night, intimating she might get to talk to Cancini. She found this possibility not only surprising but also nerve-­wracking. The detective's manner had already convinced her he would be difficult. Not her favorite kind of interview. Still, the idea intrigued her. When the mayor called a second time, his tone had been sheepish, almost apologetic.

“I don't want to seem forward,” he'd said. “But I'd like to get to know you a little better, and since we both have to eat dinner . . .” There'd been no disguising the man's nervousness. “I haven't had dinner with a woman in quite some time.” He'd laughed a bit. “I guess you could say I don't get out much, so I would consider it a treat if you could see your way to joining me.”

She'd smiled at the old-­fashioned language. It was charming, and so was he. But she didn't know if she was ready to date. Was she even officially separated? She'd touched her ring finger. It felt bare and naked, as though a part of her was missing. She'd expected to feel the indentation from her wedding band, but it was gone. Her skin was smooth and unmarked. Sighing, Julia had realized some separations were official long before sleeping in separate beds, long before the rings were placed in the back of the drawer, and long before lawyers and judges gave speeches and rulings. Besides, wearing a ring—­being married—­had never stopped Jack. She'd closed her left hand. The mayor was an attractive, kind man. She would be divorced—­eventually—­and she wasn't dead. She'd accepted.

Julia's thoughts returned to the interview at hand. The library, Spradlin's chosen place, was far less modern than the libraries in D.C. Old steel lights hung from the ceiling, and an antiquated card file stood behind the desktop computers near the wall. Most of the tables and chairs looked exactly like the furniture in the small library of her youth. She'd spent hours in her town library, content with stacks of books in front of her until the six o'clock closing, when she'd walk home to wait for her father to return from work. She still loved the comforting, musty scent of old books.

A tall, slender librarian with dark blond hair moved stacks of books from one counter to another. Her hair was pinned back into a tight chignon, and she wore a floral dress and light sweater in spite of the heat outside. From the librarian's position behind the long desk, she would see Spradlin. Would she be like the others? Unfriendly, bordering on hostile? Julia realized that other than the librarian, she was the only person in the place. It was as close to private as they were likely to get. Maybe Spradlin knew what he was doing after all.

Julia placed her notebook, pencils, and tape recorder on the table. She looked at her watch and her stomach fluttered. Nine-­fifteen. He was late. At nine-­seventeen, Spradlin walked in, slipping through the front door carrying a small package under his arm. He was taller and leaner than he'd appeared at the press conference. His dark hair was brushed off his face, and salt and pepper stubble had erupted across his cheeks and chin. He wore a polo-­style shirt and a pair of khaki pants. It was a far cry from the prison-­issued jumpsuit he'd worn for years. He cast an eye over the old tables and dusty bookshelves, the librarian, Julia, and then the librarian again. She watched as he strode toward the front desk. The librarian's face had gone white. Her slender hand rose to her lips, her eyes wide.

Spradlin's back was to Julia. She angled her chair, trying to get a better view, but couldn't see his face. The woman seemed to be listening to Spradlin. Her color returned, and she fingered the pearls around her neck. She nodded a few times but said nothing. Eventually, Spradlin spun around, pointing in Julia's direction. The librarian nodded again. He reached out and touched the woman's shoulder. Julia inhaled. The librarian bowed her head, but not before the reporter saw tears. Spradlin's hand rose to the woman's cheek, and he brushed away a teardrop. He dropped his hand, took a step back, and came toward Julia. He stood, looking down at her, the package still tucked under his arm.

“Julia Manning, I presume?”

“Good to meet you,” she said, straightening in the chair. She held out her hand. His was cool and firm. “A friend of yours?” she asked, with a nod in the librarian's direction.

“Yes,” he said, without looking back at the woman behind the counter. His eyes, ice-­blue and rimmed by dark lashes, were deep-­set in his chiseled face. She detected a hint of amusement, not the sadness or anger she would have expected from a man worn down by prison, the victim of a miscarriage of justice. He leaned forward, picking up her tape recorder. “You won't need this,” he said, placing it back on the table.

“Oka-­ay. I don't have to use it. I don't want you to be uncomfortable, Mr. Spradlin.”

“You can call me Leo,” he said, smiling. His eyes crinkled at the corners. “And it doesn't make me uncomfortable. I don't get uncomfortable.”

“Okay.” She waved her hand toward the recorder. “I'll be honest, though. I'm terrible at shorthand. That's why I use the recorder.”

“You won't need it.”

“Fine. But I'll warn you, you'll have to be patient with me.”

“I'm used to being patient.” His gaze never left hers. “I've had more practice than most.”

“Oh.” She gripped her pen, unable to stop staring at the man. “Right. I'm sorry.”

“Don't be sorry, Julia.” He said her name slowly, his husky voice elongating the syllables. “You had nothing to do with it.”

Warmth spread from her chest to her neck. She tried to fight it, flipping to a blank page in her notebook, hoping the flush would pass unnoticed. She waved a hand at the empty chair. “Do you want to sit?”

“No.”

She bent her head, focusing on the blank page. It was awkward with him standing and her sitting, but it couldn't be helped. Her questions waited on the tip of her tongue, bursting to be asked. Was he resentful? Was he angry? Did he want restitution? Would he sue? They were all good questions—­the kind Conroy would ask—­but the ones she was most eager to ask ran deeper. What was he like as a child? How was high school? How hard was it to grow up without a father? What dreams did he have? Why did he think he was a suspect? How had this experience affected his mother? How horrible had it been all those years in jail? How had that time changed him as a person? What would he do now?

This could be her only shot. He'd endured enough, hadn't he? Still, he was to be admired, not pitied. She blinked and raised her eyes to his. “First, let me say how much I appreciate you talking to me. I know it was a short list of journalists, and I'm honored to be among them.”

His expression didn't change. “Okay.”

“Second, I want you to know that I hope to do more than rehash the old case and the trial. I'd like to write a story that lets ­people get to know you. I already have most of the facts regarding your background. I would like to learn more about you, as a child, about your teenage years, your hopes, your dreams . . .” Her voice trailed off, her gaze touching briefly on the librarian. The woman pulled the sweater tightly across her chest before disappearing behind a door. Julia licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry. “I can either ask you questions, or you can start wherever you'd like and tell me about yourself.” She put her pen to the page, poised to write. “How does that sound?”

A few seconds passed. “Boring as hell.”

Her chin shot up. “I'm sure it's not—­”

“Yes it is. Boring as hell.” He shifted his weight, moving the package under the other arm. “Look, I don't like talking about myself—­never have. Probably why I had a little trouble in the legal department. They want you to talk and I'm not real big on answering questions.”

Pursing her lips, Julia put down her pen.

“You're angry,” he said, his eyes crinkling again.

“No. Well, yes.”

To her complete amazement, he burst out laughing, the sound echoing across the empty library. She glanced quickly toward the front desk, but the librarian was still out of sight. “I admire your spirit,” he said when the laughter died in his throat. “I should apologize. I don't mean to be rude. My social skills aren't all that great. Actually, they never were. I can see I've confused you.”

“Maybe.” It wouldn't do to scare him away. She thought of where he'd been and what he'd had to suffer. She needed to be patient and make it work. “I don't know if I can avoid all questions, but we can freeform it if that sounds better to you. Would that be okay?”

“Are you close to your mother, Julia?”

Her face paled. The old anger bubbled up, and she pushed it down, same as always. It shouldn't matter anymore. The past was dead and buried. After counting to ten, silently, until her pulse slowed, she said, “My mother left when I was five. I haven't seen her since the day she walked out on my dad and me.” She kept her tone neutral. “So, you could say I'm not exactly close to my mother. But your relationship sounds different. I heard your speech the other day.”

“I know.” His eyes followed the movements of the librarian as she returned to the front desk.

Julia cleared her throat. “Uh, it sounded like you and your mother were close.”

Leo took the package from under his arm and set it on the table. “This is one of my mother's diaries,” he said. “She kept a daily journal her whole life.” He pushed the package in her direction. “Go ahead. Open it.”

Julia untied the string and carefully pulled off the brown paper. She slid out the book. It was thick with a black leather cover, worn and faded, held together by a large rubber band. A scrap of notebook paper was under the rubber band. She pulled it out, holding it between her fingers. It was blank except for a phone number.

“My cell,” he said, looking down at her. “Call me when you've read it.” Without another word, he walked out of the library.