The Book of James (38 page)

had money. Edward was dead. He went to the trouble of asking the

Heinzes to take Nick if something happened to him. So why didn’t

he just take him himself?”

“He wanted to. Problem was that Nick was sixteen by that

time. Not a child anymore, and he had rights. He didn’t want to go.

He and his mother were just stuck together like gnats on honey.

Nick was being pulled between the two. Then Bradford died, and

the matter was settled.”

“So then Nick just leaves? And Cora never tried to get him

back? She never called the police. It makes no sense.”

“Something about his father’s death made him want to go. And

she never called the police because of James. Another son missing?

Dragging that story up again? No. She didn’t want anyone nosing

around her personal business. She’s a very private person. She told me she was afraid it would hit the papers big, shine light on the family dysfunction, and she couldn’t take it. And she thought Nick would come home. I mean, he had no money.”

“And how did she know that Nick wasn’t kidnapped?”

“He left her a short note, just saying that he was leaving and

that if she tried to find him, she’d be sorry. And when Bradford’s will was probated, he’d left money to Nick in trust held by the law firm. There was nothing Cora could do.”

I rubbed my hands together to warm them. “So, the real ques-

tion here is what happened to James.” I looked over at Ginny. “Do you think Cora hurt James? Maybe by accident and then covered

it up?”

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“By hurt you mean killed? She was beside herself when that

boy went missing. She still can’t talk about it. My opinion? No.

Never. I think she’s filled with guilt over how she treated him when he was alive.”

“And how did he get off the property for someone to snatch

him? It’s well gated.”

“The gate was open all that morning. Delivery people had been

there, grounds people. Cora forgot and left it open. They assumed he wandered down the road and out to the street. More guilt. But

now that you know this, what are you going to do?”

“I have to think.” I stood up and began looking at the

headstones.

The oldest, most weather-beaten was in the right corner. It was

a plain stone, and the engraving was starting to erode. I squatted in front of it.
Nathaniel Charles Monroe, 1811–1857. At peace with
the Lord.

He was a young man when he died. Only forty-six. He was

buried with his wife, Elizabeth. She had lived long enough to see her son self-destruct. I turned to Ginny, who was still seated on the bench.

“Are they buried on top of each other like Cora’s parents?”

She seemed startled by the sound of my voice. “Yes, they all

are. To save space in here.”

Next to Nathan and Elizabeth was their son, Jonathan. Born in

1836, he was just shy of twenty-one when his father died. I looked down at his grave. His stone was plain and simple, engraved with

nothing more than his name and dates. I guessed he wasn’t at

peace with the Lord. He’d caused nothing but pain to every successive generation. He, too, was buried with his wife. Her name was

Victoria, and, from the dates given, she was much younger than

he. These two men were buried side by side, but Cora’s parents

were clear on the other side of the small cemetery. It was like they weren’t sure they wanted to be within the same wal s.

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Next to Cora’s parents was the smal , singular grave of Cora’s

brother, who’d been stil born. His stone was small and sad,

engraved with the one date: 1949. Edward James Monroe II. He

was the only one who was buried alone. Because he’d died with

his mother, I was a little surprised that they hadn’t buried them together, in the same coffin.

I looked over to where Ginny sat. It was dark now. The sun had

gone down, and I could just see the outline of her body. I didn’t want to be in this cemetery anymore. It was beginning to feel like a prison. And Cora wanted to bring Nick back here, imprison him

too. Request that she be buried on top of him. Smothering him

even in death.

“Let’s go,” I said to Ginny.

She stood up behind me. “Now I’ll sleep tonight. My con-

science is clear. Maybe I’ll even take my pil s.”

“You seem better without them. Why are they giving you

Benadryl, anyway? Do you have allergies?” I put the key in the

lock and shut the gate.

“I get confused sometimes. It started years ago. I have trouble

remembering the simplest details, while things that happened a

long time ago seem so clear. Harrison started giving me Benadryl

because he said it would help.”

“Does it?”

“Some days are better than others.”

She moved ahead of me into the woods, and I strained to keep

her in sight. There was no moon in the sky, nothing to il uminate the pathway. She was so familiar with these surroundings, her thin, agile legs moved her quickly out of sight.

Cora watched Mackenzie run across the clearing at the back of the house and enter the woods. Since the day the girl had driven her

Jeep through the front gate, Cora had been watching Mackenzie

run. Through the house, through the woods. Harrison had been

right. They had to get Mackenzie off the property. Cora had known he was right all along, but it was like she was seated on a train headed for destruction. The train was going to derail. She could

see the track was broken, but it was much too late to get off.

It was still light enough for Cora to get a good look at the

grounds from her window. Mackenzie was in the woods, just at the

edge of the clearing. Then Ginny’s old white head came bobbing

along. Together the two disappeared into the cover of the foliage.

“What are you up to now?” Cora whispered.

She slipped out the side door and slunk into the woods. The

sun was quickly dipping down over the peaks of houses in the

distance.

Cora didn’t have a flashlight—but then, she didn’t need one.

The woods were as much a home to her as the stone building

behind her. Under cover of cascading branches of oak and pine,

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she stopped to listen. Silence. But she knew they couldn’t have

gone far. El a was at the Cooper house, and there was nowhere else they could have gotten to so quickly. The leaves crunched under

her feet. She had to dart without making too much noise. Walk,

stop, and listen; for fifteen minutes it went on.

She was seething inside. Wasn’t breaking Ginny’s finger days

ago message enough for her to keep her mouth shut? Just thinking

about wrapping her hands around that thin, wobbly neck made

Cora feel better. Ginny had been nothing more than an annoyance

for a long time. The sentiment from their childhood days together was steadily dimming. The thought of killing Ginny made Cora’s

lips curl slightly upward.

She slumped against a tree. She knew if she didn’t find them

soon, these woods would surely set off some horrible memory for

her. She couldn’t afford to be distracted now.

“. . . controlled her thoughts . . .” The words floated to her. They were soft and broken, but it was definitely Ginny’s voice. The space around her was dark, empty. She knew instinctively where she was.

But where could they be?

“She . . . happy . . .” and then nothing for a few seconds, and

then, “. . . father was happy too . . .” She heard her life story being told in fragments. She moved toward the sounds as they became

clearer: “. . . she’d had a boy.”

Then she knew. They had to be in the cemetery. It was the only

thing that made sense. But how the hell did they get in? The only key was in her pocket. Or so she thought.

Cora crept to the edge of the stone wall and sat. She could lis-

ten to the entire conversation without being discovered.

“. . . something happened . . . Nick was about a year and a

half . . .” Ginny’s voice.

The cold dampness of the ground seeped through Cora’s

clothing to her skin. She put her hands to her face. She heard the pounding of blood in her ears as though her head might explode.

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Every word that came to her over the wall made her angrier. It was her life, her story that Ginny was telling in detail to this girl. This stranger. This nobody.

“. . . turpentine . . .” Cora’s failed attempts to abort James.

She started rocking, her back slamming into the stone wal .

She hit that wall so hard with her back, it left her cut and bruised.

It was the only way she could keep from screaming.

“Why did she treat James so differently?” Mackenzie’s voice.

Cora wanted to smash the girl’s face into a bloody pulp.

Harrison wouldn’t stop her this time. Slam—her back hit the wall

so hard it shook her teeth. She saw flashes of her father in front of her. She heard his voice in her ears. It blended with the voices coming from the cemetery. They mixed and they swirled around

her. She started rocking harder, faster.

“When I tell you to do something, you do it right. Do you

hear me?” His voice was right there. He pounded his fist onto the kitchen table. Then he reached for her and grabbed her by her

hair. She was five. The feeling of her face hitting the table came next. Blood spilling from her nose and face. “Clean this up!” he

screamed. She tried to get the cloth to wipe up the blood, but it was coming out as fast as she could wipe. She was on her hands and

knees with a rag. His foot hit her side. She fell over. He grabbed her hair again.

“. . . happened to that baby she’d be disinherited.” Ginny’s voice.

“And he never got her help?” Mackenzie.

Now she was ten. She and Harry were standing in the carriage

house. It was dark. The smell of horse was all around her, though there hadn’t been a horse in the carriage house for years. The floor was dirt and packed so hard it felt like concrete under her bare feet.

She could see Harry walking in front of her.

“I just want to look. That’s al , Cora. Relax.”

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“This isn’t a good idea. Let’s just go back to the woods.”

She shifted her weight from foot to foot. She had a bad feeling

inside her.

“I’m just looking for a few small pieces. He won’t miss them.”

“I don’t know when Daddy is coming back. Hurry up.” She felt

the edges of her worn white slip dress against her shins. Her brown hair was in her face. She pushed it behind her ear.

Harry was crouched down in the corner, looking at iron scrap-

metal pieces. There was a fairly large pile that took up almost half the carriage house. Cora’s father had a preoccupation with scrap

metal that had started when he was just a child. When he had

made enough money, he bought warehouses to store his pieces.

Then iron ores. His interests extended up and down the East Coast.

“You have to listen and watch, Cora,” he’d told her. “I knew

more wars were coming. Big ones . . .” Hitler invaded Poland in

’39, and her father’s obsession proved lucrative. When the war was in full swing, those warehouses, that pile, those ores, were worth millions.

Iron scrap metal was so scarce because most of it was used

in manufacturing armory, weapons, war materials. After the war

ended, her father still refused to get rid of his hoard. Harry was engrossed. He was looking for parts to make a little scooter or

go-cart.

“I’m just going to take this.” He looked up at her and held out

his hand. “And this . . .” Neither of them saw the door open. Cora heard her father’s voice behind her and saw the light flooding in at the same instant.

“Boy, are you stealing from me?” She had nowhere to run.

They were trapped against the old horse stall; everything was happening so fast. “Are you stealing my metal?” He grabbed Harry

by the back of his shirt and held him. Harry was crying now. Her

father couldn’t kill him, could he? The thought flickered through her head. He could. Her father hated the Coopers and he hated

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thieves. “What’re you doing on my property, boy? Tell me. Stealing?

Filthying my daughter?”

“No, Daddy. I did it. I was giving him the metal to sel . Then

we’d split the money.”

The words spilled out. She’d made it up to protect Harry. She

just needed him to let her friend go.

“I’d send him to town to buy things for me.” She dug in her

pocket and produced an old gumball that Harry had given her ear-

lier. Her father dropped Harry, and the boy ran. Cora heard his

feet moving on the floor, but she didn’t see him go. She felt the old metal chain whip against the bare flesh of her legs, and she was

blinded with pain.

“As long as Cora’s father was still alive, his hands were tied . . .”

Ginny’s voice again.

The wet ground soaked into her dress. She felt chilled, weak,

petrified. What was happening? Now she saw just darkness all

around her. She was twelve. No sunlight could reach her. She was

afraid she would live like that forever. In darkness. Suddenly so much light poured in she couldn’t stand it. “Just let me die,” she whispered. A startled maid pulled her out of the closet. Protocol dictated that the woman not ask any questions about what had

happened or why Cora was in the closet. The maid was hired help,

a servant. She simply stared, helped Cora to her feet, asked if she could bring her anything, then went back to work.