The Promise of Home (7 page)

“I will, Officer,” Daisy called as Kyle rolled up the window.

“I'd like to know how she comes up with those concoctions,” Claudia said with a giggle once they were on their way. “And I wonder what's in her Halloween potion besides orange juice?”

“I don't think I want to know,” Kyle said. He shook his head. “Daisy is something else.”

They were approaching the old covered bridge on the edge of town. Once they were past it, Kyle turned onto a small highway. “I figured I'd drive out a ways, then head back through the country and stop at the new park, if you'd like,” he said, and Claudia nodded her agreement. “So, what else do you have planned for today?”

“I've got a fitting for my wedding gown at two, with a woman named Pauline Albury. Do you know her?”

“I've heard the name, but I haven't met her,” Kyle said.

“My landlady, Ms. DiSanti, recommended her. She said Pauline does all the alterations on her business clothes, and you've seen how nice Ms. DiSanti always dresses.”

“I can give you a ride over to her place once we get back into town.”

“But then you'd see the gown!”

“Lay it in the back of the Jeep. I won't peek, promise.”

“Nope, I'm not buying that. You'll just have to wait.”

Kyle sighed. They came around a bend, and a lovely log cabin came into view.

“I really like Doc Richardson's place,” Kyle said, motioning to the house, set back off the highway. “I like living in town, too, but you get more privacy out here.”

“Do you want to look for a place in the country?” Claudia asked. “I mean, I know we're all going to live in my house for a while, but eventually?”

Kyle shrugged. “I dunno. I suppose when we're ready to buy something, we can check out everything that's available.”

“Cool. Until then, we can snuggle up in
our
little house together.”

Kyle grinned as he reached over and squeezed her hand. After another few miles, they turned onto a small paved road that headed up into the hills. There were small houses and farms along the roads, and several times, they came upon particularly stunning views. The trees were every color—flaming reds and oranges, golds and yellows so bright that they seemed to have an ethereal glow, and the deep dark green of evergreens scattered among the other hues. Kyle slowed the Jeep as they came to a large private pond, where they admired how the brilliant thicket of trees behind it was reflected perfectly on its still surface.

“Look how beautiful,” Claudia breathed. “It's like a postcard.”

“Yeah,” Kyle agreed. “Scenery like this actually makes me look forward to fall patrols.”

The road grew more narrow and curved again, passing by more houses and breathtaking scenery until it opened up into a straightaway. After a few moments, Kyle turned right onto a smaller road. A new split-rail fence appeared, running for several hundred feet until it formed a corner at an asphalt driveway and a large wooden sign that read
HAYES MEMORIAL PARK AND RECREATION AREA.
There were a few other cars in the newly paved parking area. Kyle pulled into a space next to a minivan. A small hatchback was parked on the other side of the lot.

“I haven't been here since the dedication in September,” Claudia said as she exited the Jeep. “It's even more gorgeous now that the trees have turned.”

On one side of the park, picnic tables and metal charcoal grill boxes were placed strategically among a group of bright red sugar maples. There was a large open field beyond the tables where a man was throwing a football with a gangly teenager. On the opposite side, a swing set and two configurations of shiny playground equipment reflected the sunlight. A woman sat on a bench watching two young children climbing up a ladder to a slide. Beyond the playground area were tennis and basketball courts and a baseball field, as well as a fenced-in area where dogs could be exercised off-leash. A wide walking path ringed the entire park.

“Let's go sit down,” Kyle said. He had the brown bag and coffee cup, and together they walked to one of the picnic tables. As Kyle ate, Claudia put her elbows on the table and leaned back with her eyes closed. Every few minutes, a burst of cool autumn breeze rushed over her face and caused a surge of colored leaves to rain down around them. Soon the weather would turn frigid, and it would be months before the sun's warmth returned. But this winter would be warm in other ways. She stole a glance at Kyle and smiled.

“I wonder what this place looked like when Samuel Hayes was alive,” Kyle said. “Father O'Brien said it was a Morgan horse farm back then. There used to be a big barn right where we're sitting.”

“And a farmhouse up on that little hill past the ball field, I remember him saying,” Claudia said. She looked in the direction of the hill. An elegant monument of a mare and a young woman now stood on top of it, along with an engraved plaque describing Mary McAllister's gift of the land for the new park. “It's great what they've done with the property, though. I'll bet there are towns ten times the size of Mill River that don't have a park as nice as this.” The sound of voices in the distance caught her attention. She squinted toward the parking lot, where the woman from the playground was shepherding her children into the minivan. A few minutes later, the two people who had been tossing the football climbed into the hatchback and drove away.

She and Kyle were alone…with the Jeep.

He had just finished his sandwich and pie and had taken the lid off the coffee. She waited as he drank it, watching impatiently as tiny wisps of steam rose from the cup. Finally, she tucked her hands inside the sleeves of her sweatshirt and crossed her arms.

“You know, it's getting pretty chilly with this breeze,” she said. “Do you mind if we go back to the Jeep?”

“No, I'm about done, and we should get going, anyway. Ron'll be expecting me back soon.”

When they reached the vehicle, Claudia opened one of the rear doors and quickly climbed into the backseat. “C'mon,” she said to him in a low voice.

“What? What are you— Oh no, we can't, Claudia. Seriously, I could be fired, and—”

“Shhh, I've got goosebumps. Just climb in and cuddle me for a few minutes. We won't do anything more.”

“I don't believe you,” he said, but he got in and closed the door anyway. As soon as Kyle was seated, she swung her leg over him and pulled herself onto his lap. “Claudia, it's broad daylight. Somebody else could show up any minute—” he started to say, but she took his face in her hands and kissed him.

“The windows are tinted, and no one else is here. We'll be quick. Just relax,” she whispered, and didn't give him a chance to reply. Her hands moved to the buckle on his duty belt, trying to figure out how to undo it while she kept his mouth busy.

“God, Claudia,” Kyle gasped. He grabbed her wrists. For a moment, he restrained her. She could tell by his breathing, though, that he was starting to feel the moment.

“Please, baby, I've wanted to do this for a long time,” she murmured. After she kissed him again, a tortured expression passed over Kyle's face. She smiled triumphantly when he cursed under his breath, released her arms, and dealt with the buckle himself.

Afterward, they put on what clothes they had removed and lounged for a few minutes on the soft leather seat. Claudia reached up and gently touched Kyle's face. “Thank you. That's one off my bucket list.”

“Seriously? Having sex in a car?”

“Not just any car.
This
one.”

He rolled his eyes and leaned his head back on the seat. “Well, I suppose there are worse things.”

Claudia smiled. “
Waaaaay
worse,” she agreed as she rested her head against his shoulder.

Suddenly, the radio in Kyle's duty belt crackled, and Ron's voice came through the speaker. “HQ to Hansen, come in, over.”

They both started, and Kyle grabbed the radio from its holster. He put a finger to his lips and gave Claudia a stern look before he spoke. “Hey, Ron, what's up?”

“Hey, Kyle. We just got a call from the Village Market. One of their customers locked her keys in the car with the engine running. The car's an older-model Chevy. Do you think you could jimmy the door for her?”

“I can try,” Kyle said. “I'm heading back into town now, so I'll stop over there before I come back to the station.”

“Ten-four. I'll let them know. Ron out.”

“See? It's fine. No one saw, and nobody will ever know,” Claudia said with a mischievous grin. “And don't tell me you didn't enjoy yourself.” She followed Kyle's lead, though, when he quickly got out of the backseat and climbed into the front.

Kyle shook his head. “You're unbelievable,” he said as he started the engine. “Reckless, full of bad judgment, and, and—”

“—and what?”

He looked at her, and his expression softened. It seemed he was trying to suppress a grin. He reached out a hand and tucked a strand of her mussed-up hair behind her ear. “
Very
naughty.”

Claudia smiled. “And?”

“Drop-dead gorgeous.”

Her smile grew wider. “And?”

“
Mine
.” Kyle leaned across the seat and gave her a slow, lingering kiss.

Claudia was happy down to her toes. And she knew she would never again think of Mill River's new “recreation area” in quite the same way.

Father O'Brien was in the sacristy at St. John's, removing his vestments after the morning's Mass. The celebration had been relatively uneventful, other than the short announcement he had made at the end about Karen Cooper's missing husband. He had asked everyone in attendance to say a prayer for Nick's quick and safe return.

He had spoken with Karen after Mass, once the other church members had offered her their words of comfort and left. She'd insisted that she and Ben were holding up as well as could be expected, but her pasty complexion and baggy, swollen eyes indicated otherwise. What concerned him even more was the expression he saw in her eyes—or, rather, the lack of it. There was no spark there, no trace of hope or anger or resolve, any of which he would expect to see in the eyes of someone in her situation. Her eyes were blank, emotionless. He had seen other people's eyes look that way, and it had scared him every time.

Father O'Brien stood at the altar, looking out at the pews to make sure all was in order, when he suddenly realized how tired he was. His head felt as if it were spinning, and his knees were a bit wobbly. Perhaps it was because he hadn't eaten breakfast that morning?

Of course that's it,
he thought. He'd had his usual coffee and a small glass of juice, but he'd gotten so absorbed in making a few last-minute changes to his homily that he hadn't had time to eat anything. Carefully, he left the church and walked the short path to the parish house.

In his kitchen, he grabbed a banana to eat while he grilled a sandwich. The heat from the stove burner felt good as it radiated toward him, and it reminded him of the paperwork for the new heating assistance program that Jim Gasaway had requested he look over. The weather was already getting colder, and winter was a few short months away. He wanted to make sure that the funds Mary McAllister had left for the program could be used as soon as possible.

When he closed his eyes, he could still envision Mary's smiling face. His dearest friend had been gone nearly nine months. He missed her terribly, especially in the quiet moments he had to himself. It comforted him to know that he was helping to carry out her wishes to care for the people of Mill River. Throughout her lifetime, she had done so much for her community, and her estate would provide even more help to those in need.

Still, there were limits to what Mary's love could do. If she were alive, he undoubtedly would have told her of Karen Cooper's situation, of his prayers for Nick's safety and the well-being of Karen and her son. She would have shared his concern. He knew, too, that as much as Mary would have wanted to help, there would have been nothing she could have done to find Nick Cooper and return him to his family.

Saturday, March 31, 1934

F
or an instant, Michael was too shocked to move. A second scream from his mother launched him into action. He threw open the door and raised his rifle.

The large man in the kitchen towered over his mother. He stood with his back toward Michael, holding her firmly by the wrists and pushed up against the counter. She was struggling against his hold, kicking and thrashing, but she was no match for the man's strength.

“Take your hands off her!” Michael yelled. Never before had he aimed his gun at a person. He pressed his cheek to the side of the rifle, trying to steady the weapon in his trembling hands. The man turned, revealing a dirt-streaked face and an unkempt beard. Michael made eye contact with the intruder and took aim at his forehead. At that moment, two thoughts rose up in his mind.

The man was standing in close proximity to his mother, which would make firing extremely risky.

His loaded rifle held only a single shot.

“Or what, little boy?” In an instant, the man had produced a knife and whirled his mother around in front of him, where he held the blade to her throat. “Careful. You wouldn't want this knife to slip, now, would you?”

Michael stayed frozen where he stood. His finger was positioned just in front of the trigger, and his heart was hammering in his ears.

The intruder squinted at him before stretching his mouth into a taunting smile. “Come on, now, pretty lady. Tell this little boy of yours to put the gun down before you get hurt.”

“Please, Michael,” his mother gasped. “Do what he says.” Her head was turned, pressed back against the intruder's chest, and she was looking at him out of the corners of her eyes. Michael could see how forcefully the man held the knife against her neck by the way her skin rose up around the point of the blade. It would take only one jab, one slight flick of the intruder's wrist…

“Be a good lad, now, and listen to your mommy,” the man growled.

Michael's eyes made brief, intense contact with those of his mother before he focused again on the intruder's face.

“Please, please, Michael—” his mother began again, but the
crack
of the rifle next to his ear prevented him from hearing what more she said.

The intruder's head snapped backward. The hand holding the knife dropped away from his mother's throat as its owner sank to the floor.

Michael rushed forward and grabbed his mother by the arm. She stepped away from the body convulsing at her feet. A drop of blood appeared on her neck where the intruder's blade had nicked her skin, but she didn't seem to notice as she hugged Michael close.

“Anna? Anna, what's going on? I was halfway across the lawn with the milking and heard a shot.” Lizzie came through the back door, out of breath after running from the barn. His grandmother looked down at the dead man and then at the rifle that Michael held. “Michael?”

“I came in from hunting and he had her pinned against the cupboard,” he whispered, lowering the butt of his rifle to the floor. “He had a knife.”

His grandmother stared at him, her mouth open far enough that he could see the gaps where her teeth were missing. She walked over to the body and peered down at the man's face. “You shot him right through the eye.”

“He didn't have a choice.” Anna finally found her voice, although the tears were coming and she seemed to have difficulty speaking. “That man had a knife at my throat, and he would've killed us both—or worse—if Michael hadn't done it.”

“Anna, come sit down,” his grandmother said. She pulled out a chair, and Michael helped his mother over to it. “Thank goodness you're all right. Thank goodness. Maybe now you'll listen to me about feeding strangers who show up here. You can't trust anyone you don't know during times like this. Do you hear me? You can't trust
anyone.
”

“It's all right, Grandma,” Michael said in a soothing voice. “Now's not the time for scolding.”

His grandmother had worked herself up, and she, too, was looking unsteady. Michael carefully leaned his rifle in a corner near the kitchen door and pulled out a chair for her next to his mother.

“You're right,” she admitted as she sat down, “but we do have to worry about what to do with him.” She jutted her chin in the direction of the dead man on the floor. “Why don't you check his pockets, Michael? See if he's carrying identification.”

Michael hesitated, not wanting to go near the body.

“We should call the police,” his mother said, but his grandmother vigorously shook her head.

“Not so fast, Anna. We wouldn't want Michael to get into any trouble. We know it was self-defense, but you'd have to convince the authorities of that. What if they didn't believe you? Michael could be arrested. And they'd probably want to know where Niall is. If they contacted him, you know he'd leave his job and rush home.”

His mother was silent for a moment. “That's true,” she said slowly. She wiped under her eyes with the heel of her hand. “I'm not hurt, after all, and I wouldn't want him to lose that job or worry about us here.”

“In my experience, the police sometimes make a mess of things,” his grandmother said. “No, this is something we should deal with ourselves, if we can. Now, Michael, go see what that fella had on him.”

He steeled himself and went over to the corpse. It had pretty much stopped twitching, but there was no avoiding the gruesome sight of the man's face, with blood filling the eye socket and spilled in rivulets down his cheek. The man obviously hadn't bathed in some time, as the stench from his body was acrid and nearly overpowering. Gingerly, Michael reached into the pockets of his filthy coat and pants. When he found nothing, he pulled open one side of the coat to reveal a bulging interior pocket.

There was a soiled, wrinkled handkerchief tucked inside, along with a gold pocket watch, two quarters, and a crumpled one-dollar silver certificate. Michael brought the items to the table for his mother and grandmother to see. “The watchcase is engraved. ‘B. D. Woods,' ” he read, looking down at it. “But it might not be his.”

“From the looks of him, I doubt it is,” his grandmother said. “And if there's nothing in the way of solid identification, then good. If he's a nobody, he won't be missed. We ought to wait a little longer and then bury him while it's still dark.”

“Lizzie,” his mother said in an anguished whisper, “I don't…I
will not
allow him to be buried out there. Not out there with my…my—”

“I didn't mean
there,
” his grandmother said. “Of course not. The ground's frozen anyway. No, the only place we could dig a grave for him would be underneath the haystack beside the barn.”

“We'd have to move a ton of hay,” Michael said. “It's covered in snow, too. It would take hours to expose a big enough piece of ground.”

“So, we'd bury him, on Easter Sunday, no less, and then what?” his mother asked. “Would we just go about our business, knowing all the while that there's the body of a criminal festering out there next to the barn? What if someone does come looking for him? No, we're not going to bury him here. Absolutely not.”

“Then what do
you
suggest, Anna?”

Michael looked from his grandmother to his mother. He didn't want the man buried anywhere on their property, either, but what else could they do? “Could we move him…the body…to some other place?” he suggested.

“Not us,” his mother replied. “But maybe someone else could. I'm going to go call Frank. He'll know what to do.”

For as much of his early childhood as Michael could remember, there had been no modern conveniences of any kind in the farmhouse. It still had no indoor plumbing, other than a hand pump at the kitchen sink that drew up water from the cistern. The electricity now supplied to his grandparents' farm was a recent upgrade made possible only by the farm's close proximity to the main road, where the power lines had been run. Residential telephone service was still a luxury reserved for wealthy city households, though. If his mother needed to make a phone call, she had no choice but to drive to a Union Oil station on the edge of Burlington, where there was a public call box.

Michael was putting his rifle back in the gun cabinet when he heard the familiar rumbling of the family's truck outside. His mother was back already, and when she came through the door, the relief on her face was plain. “I got hold of him at the rectory. He's already started the Easter Vigil, but he said he would come as soon as he can.”

“Well, good,” his grandmother said. She had just retrieved the pail of milk she'd left midway between the house and the barn and put it down in the root cellar, where the milk would keep for the time being. “In the meantime, we ought to move the body onto the back porch. From the looks of it, he's probably crawling with lice, and that stink is god-awful.”

His mother nodded in agreement. “I'm going to be sick if I smell him much longer. Michael, you take his feet. Lizzie and I will grab his hands. Maybe the three of us together will be able to drag him out back.”

“We need something to put over his head or we'll have a bloody mess smeared on the floor. Anna, where are the old burlap sacks we use for the garden vegetables?”

Michael glanced at his mother in time to see her flinch at the question.

“Oh! I know right where they are. Just give me a minute.” His mother made meaningful eye contact with him before she hurried out the back door to the root cellar.

They managed to drag the body from the kitchen. It was all they could do to get it outside and position it in the corner of the back porch, where it was out of the way. His grandmother fetched an old horse blanket from the barn and covered the body.

The three of them stood outside, resting after the exertion of their task. It was a relief to get some fresh air, even though it was cold, and Michael had no desire to go back into the bloodstained kitchen. He realized that his game bag was still suspended across his shoulder and chest. “Mother, I got two squirrels while I was out,” he said in a quiet voice. “Should I go ahead and dress them?”

“You might as well. I have no appetite whatsoever, but after we clean up the rest of the mess in there, I suppose I should finish cooking. Frank might be hungry when he gets here.”

Grateful for his mother's answer, Michael headed for the barn.

Onion, the family's Holstein, lowed and shifted in her stall when he flipped on the lights. Michael passed her on his way to a supply closet at the end of the barn, where he grabbed an old bucket that was no longer used for milking. He carried it back to a worktable pushed up against the end of the stalls. Tabby, the resident barn cat, meowed hopefully from the hayloft as he took off his game bag and removed the squirrels and his hunting knife.

“You already had your milk for the evening, old girl,” he said to the cat. “But maybe you could do with a bit of squirrel liver as well.” His mother didn't care for liver of any kind, and she rarely served it because she couldn't stand the odor of it cooking. Of course, that smell would have been an improvement on the stench already in the kitchen.

Michael took hold of the first squirrel and readied his knife to cut through the fur on its back. It usually took him less than ten minutes to field-dress a squirrel, but tonight he found it difficult to force the knife through the pelt to begin the process of skinning the animal. His hand, no, his whole arm was shaking. Slowly, he put the knife down and began to take deep breaths. For some reason, he felt unsteady, as if the tremors in his hand were spreading up into his shoulder and throughout his whole body. The barn began to spin, and it was all he could do to stumble over to one of the milking stools and sit down.

He had killed a man.

The very hands that rested on his knees, the hands that were suddenly unable to do what he wanted them to, had held a rifle and ended a man's life. Up until now, he hadn't allowed that realization to sink in, or maybe he'd been in shock and incapable of any rational thought. The weight of it, regardless of the man's actions toward his mother, was immense.

He had done it in defense of his mother's life. He was acting out of instinct and a duty to protect his family and the farm, as he had promised he would. His father or his brother, and even his feisty grandmother had she been in his position, would have done the very same thing. He was pretty sure that killing to protect another wasn't a sin. And yet, the slight recoil of the rifle shot that had killed the intruder seemed to reverberate again and again in his hands and in his mind. Each replay of the memory battered him with a wave of guilt.

At that moment, Michael wished more than anything that he could speak with his father. The Great War had ended before he'd been born, but his father had fought in it and survived. Surely, his father had to have shot many enemy soldiers to emerge from the trenches in one piece. Maybe he would have some advice about how to get past it—the reality of having killed another person, the shock and the remorse of it—even if the killing had been in self-defense or the defense of another.

His mother had cautioned him not to bring up the war in any conversation with his father. “It haunts him, Michael,” she'd said once when he'd found an old photo of his father wearing his Army uniform. “Your father wouldn't tell me much about it, but I know he must have seen and done things he never imagined he would. He was quiet for a long time after he came home, and after all these years, he still cries out in his sleep sometimes. He lost both his brothers, bless their souls. War's cruel like that, you know. It can take away people you love. It can change a man, the kind of person he is, at his core, and not in a good way. Thank goodness
that
didn't happen to your father. He came back from the war the same man I married, but I respect his wishes not to talk about it. He wants to move forward with his life, not be caught up remembering the horrors he experienced across the ocean.”