The Reckoning Stones: A Novel of Suspense (29 page)

epilogue

Jolene Brozek and Marian
Asher sat in the chintz-decorated reception area of the nursing home, chatting in the easy yet superficial way of people who have known each other for decades but never sought intimacy. Jolene still visited her father-in-law weekly from a sense of duty and because it made Zach happy. She and Zach came together sometimes and sat, hands linked, near the bed. Zach spent most of the half-hour visits praying. Jolene wasn’t sure what he prayed for and hadn’t asked. For his father, she figured, and for his father’s victims. For healing of all kinds and the grace to forgive. At any rate, that’s what she prayed for. For Marian, sitting with the comatose Matthew Brozek was the hair shirt she had donned years ago. She had long ago given up having mental conversations with him and was now content to let her mind drift where it would when she sat with him—to her grocery list, the chores she needed to tackle at the church, the email she’d received from Noah, the funny things Angel said. Today, she’d brought Angel with her and parked her in a corner of the room with crayons and a coloring book. When she had stepped out of the room to purchase a bottled water from the vending machine and run into Jolene, she’d had no qualms about spending a few minutes chatting with her, knowing Angel was occupied with her coloring.

As Jolene was telling Marian about her trip to Portland, the patter of running feet drew their attention to the hallway. Angel burst into view, dark hair flying, eyes round. “Nana, Nana! Pastor Matt woke up! He talked to me. Come see.” She grabbed Marian’s hand and tugged.

“Now, Angel,” Marian said, corralling the girl with an arm around her waist so they were face to face. “Pastor Matt can’t talk. Remember what I told you about a coma?”

“But he
is
awake. He is. He said my name and talked to me.”

The women exchanged glances and, as one, moved toward Matthew Brozek’s room. It brimmed with light, the setting sun blazing through the open windows and bleaching the walls pure white. The sheer curtain billowed outward, pulled by a breeze lighter than a butterfly’s wing flap. Angel’s abandoned coloring book was splayed open in the corner. Matthew lay motionless under the single sheet drawn over him, as unaware as ever of their presence.

“See, he’s not awake,” Marian told Angel as they approached the bed. She studied the unmoving figure on the bed, her eyes drawn to the hand nearest her, blue-veined and still as marble on the sheet. Her gaze flicked to his face with the colorless lips barely parted, the chin stubbled. Something new about his stillness startled her. Holding her breath, she watched for nearly a minute but didn’t see his chest rise and fall. She beckoned Jolene over. They studied Matthew’s face.

“I think he’s gone,” Marian whispered. A breath of air stroked her bare arms and she shivered.

Jolene felt for a pulse in her father-in-law’s neck and, after a long moment, nodded her head, conscious of no feeling but gratitude. “May God have mercy on his soul.”

“He talked to me,” Angel said crossly, folding thin arms over her chest. “Why don’t you believe me?”

“What did he say?” Jolene asked, humoring the girl.

Angel approached her gratefully. “He said, ‘Angel! So beautiful. Angel, Angel.’ I said, ‘Thank you,’ like Nana told me I should when someone says I’m pretty or smart. Then I came to get you.”

“He doesn’t even know your name,” Marion pointed out, trying not to sound testy.

Understanding seeped into Jolene. “‘Angels,’” she breathed. “He said ‘angel
s
.’”

The wonder of it held her motionless. Later, she would ponder the presence of angels in Matthew Brozek’s room, of all places, and question what it meant, what it might say about forgiveness and God’s grace. For now, she stared at the little girl, then at the husk of the dead man, then up and around, turning in a dizzying circle so her gaze swept the corners where the walls met the ceiling, the bed, and the open window, as if one could see angels merely by looking for them.

the end

Author’s Note

I have taken some
liberties with the topography near Colorado Springs in writing this novel. Although the city itself is largely as I’ve described it, there is no hamlet of Lone Pine and the ravine and rockslide do not exist in Black Forest. The landscape has more ravines and canyons 20 to 30 miles north, near Castlewood Canyon State Park, and I have simply transplanted some of that topography. The idea for the rockslide came from a visit to Slide Lake, Wyoming (near Grand Teton National Park), where 50 million cubic yards of rock and dirt sheared off and slid across the Gros Ventre River in 1925, creating a natural dam 225 feet high and a mile wide. The acres of boulders and rocks, studded with trees carried away by the slide, are much as I’ve described them in this book, although I’ve made the book’s rockslide much smaller in scale.

Acknowledgments

When I set out to write this book, I knew very little about comas, jewelry-making, prisons, or how to work the legal system to get someone out of prison. I am greatly indebted to several people for enlightening my ignorance.

Ruben Manuel, award-winning jewelry designer, shared expertise, techniques, and anecdotes that helped me create Iris Dashwood, jewelry designer and maker. I hope I have been able to transfer some of his passion for his art to Iris. (I’ve actually gotten interested enough in jewelry-making to take a metal-working class.) I also found the books
Complete Metalsmith
by Tim McCreight and
The Encyclopedia of Jewelry-Making Techniques
by Jinks McGrath very helpful.

My brother-in-law, Robert DiSilverio, offered his legal knowledge and advice on such subjects as what kinds of charges would result in a conviction long enough to keep Neil Asher in prison for twenty-three years, and how to free him once Iris realizes he is innocent. He did a lot of research on my behalf and made it possible for me to set up a scenario in this book that won’t make legal professionals groan too loudly (I hope). Any slip-ups, inconsistencies, or errors are, of course, mine. If you’re in the Bay Area of California and need a great attorney, Robert DiSilverio is your man.

I am also supremely grateful to Dr. Carroll Ramseyer, M.D., Board Certified Neurologist, who helped me understand “comas” just enough to put Pastor Matt into one and awaken him briefly, and return him to a minimally conscious state. As Dr. Ramseyer continually reminded me, it’s extremely rare for someone to emerge from a minimally conscious state after many years. However, it does happen. For those interested in reading about an individual who “awoke” from a coma after nineteen years, I refer you to the case of Terry Wallis of Arkansas.

A friend, William Newmiller, spent several hours telling me about the Arkansas Valley Correctional Facility and describing details of entry procedure, “offender” treatment and lifestyle, and layout. My thanks to him and good wishes for proving his son’s innocence and getting him released.

As always I owe thanks to many people for reading early drafts, cheering me on, and supporting me emotionally and otherwise while I write. Thanks to my critique group, Lin Poyer, Marie Layton, and Amy Tracy, and to my mother, Joan Hankins, for comments on early drafts. A special thanks to Rev. Sally Hubbell for reading the manuscript and giving me her very helpful thoughts. This book is better than it would have been because of their input.

I am grateful every day to my husband and daughters, who fill my world with joy and make everything worthwhile.

Book Club Discussion Questions

1. Neil Asher is incarcerated, yet he is not the only character who is trapped or imprisoned in some way. What other characters are imprisoned? Are these “prisons” imposed by forces and circumstances outside the individual, or are they self-built? Are the characters freed or do they free themselves in the course of the story? If not, why not?
   
2. Discuss the “rock/stone” images in this novel. Obviously, the reckoning stones were used to punish and humiliate. How are other stone references/symbols positive ones? How does Iris’s connection to stones influence the story?
   
3. How do the different characters find redemption (if they do)? Compare Jolene’s path to redemption with Marian’s, for instance. Is Iris redeemed in this story? Does she need redemption?
   
4. The ending hints that there may be forgiveness and grace even for people like pedophiles who society may consider monsters. Are there acts that are unredeemable or unforgivable? How do you interpret the ending?
   
5. Iris sometimes seems obsessed with finding and revealing the truth, even at great cost to herself and others. Is the truth all-important?
   
6. What is innocence? Are there any characters in this book who are innocent?
   
7. How do the flashbacks work to give the story more depth? Do they make Iris a more sympathetic character? What about Jolene?
   

I love meeting with book clubs and would be happy to join your club in person or via Skype if you discuss
The Reckoning Stones
. Contact me through my web page, www.lauradisilverio.com.

About the Author

Laura DiSilverio is the nationally best selling author of the Readaholics Book Club series, and more than a dozen other crime novels. Past President of Sisters in Crime, she pens articles for
Writer’s Digest
, and conducts workshops and speaks at writers’ conferences, universities, and literary events. A retired Air Force intelligence officer, she plots murders and parents teens in Colorado, trying to keep the two tasks separate.

An Excerpt from
Close Call
the Next Book by Laura DiSilverio

one

Sydney

Washington D.C., Wednesday, 1
August

When someone starts a conversation with “Are you okay?” and you have no idea what they’re talking about, it’s a sure sign that fate has trampled you with cleats and you just don’t know it yet.

That thought zipped through my head as I slowed in the middle of a rush hour D.C. sidewalk to answer a cell phone call from my mom.

“Are you okay?” she asked, anxiety tightening her voice.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” A man jostled me and I walked faster. The sidewalk was almost as jammed as the street and the pedestrians had fewer hesitations about ramming each other.

She inhaled sharply. “You haven’t heard. Oh, my God. Sydney, it’s George.”

“George?” There had only ever been one George in my life, one George who had
been
my life, but I asked anyway, “Manley?” The name brought with it a whole lot of memories I tried to keep corralled in an “Off Limits” part of my brain. Nausea roiled my stomach and I swallowed hard. “What about him?”

“He’s dead.”

“How? Wha—” I was abreast of an Electronics Emporium and the display window was filled with high-def TVs. Images of me and George from long ago played on the screens. I hung up on Mom without apology and edged closer to the window. I was thirteen years younger and twenty pounds heavier on the screen; it was like looking at a badly distorted image, a fun-house mirror. My face flamed and I looked over my shoulder. No one was pointing or staring. People trotted down the Metro stairs. Jaywalkers snarled traffic. Thank God for small favors. I turned back to the window as my younger self shrouded her head with a coat to escape the reporters jabbing microphones at her.

George’s image filled the screens. Oh, my God. In his sixties, his silver hair matched the gray of his suit and his hooded eyes challenged the viewer. A name and a brace of years underscored the photo: “George Manley (D/Ohio), former Speaker of the House, 1953–2016.” He was really dead. Oh, my God. My knees buckled. I splayed a hand on the cool glass to keep from falling.

“Hey, lady, this yours?” A beefy stranger held my briefcase. I hadn’t even felt it fall.

“What? Oh, thank you.” I strangled the handle, torn between wanting to know what had happened to George and an unwillingness to hear newscasters rehash our past. The anchor, face solemn, narrated silently, and I tried to read his lips. Had he said “heart attack?” Anger prickled in my scalp and in my hands and feet. I swung away from the window. God knew I had plenty of reason to hate George, but he was dead. Why did the networks always—
always
—have to zoom in on the sordid? How sad—tragic, even—that our affair was haunting George even in death. He’d have wanted to be remembered for his education bill, for three decades of public service, not for screwing a co-ed younger than his daughter. Even if that girl had loved him more than … more than was safe.

Anger, humiliation, and something that wasn’t quite sadness—more like regret—mixed up in my stomach as I pushed open the door of Sol’s Deli, four storefronts away. A bell tinkled, drowned by customers shouting their orders to harried clerks, cell phones spraying Bach or the Beatles, and cash registers pinging. I inhaled a peppery hint of salami and the vinegar tang of pickles and pepperoncini. Better. My jangled nerves quieted. Leaning against a glass-fronted case, I let the cool seep through my sweat-damp dress. D.C. summers could double as one of Dante’s circles of hell—one reserved for politicians, George used to say. I tore my thoughts away from George Manley. Even though I’d never live down my teenage mistake, I didn’t have to relive it just because George was dead. I didn’t need the painful memories spoiling my evening with Jason.

Half a pound of sharp cheddar, I forced myself to think instead, two roasted chicken dinners, and a few of those garlic olives Jason liked. Did we need more coffee? Supplies like coffee and toilet paper seemed to evaporate with Jason in the house. One more week and he’d be back in his newly-renovated condo. A pang zipped through me and I bit the inside of my lip. It’d been a little claustrophobic at first, having Jason around, but I liked bumping against him now as we cooked dinner in the small kitchen, liked hearing the details of his day and snuggling with him every night, not just on weekends. I could live with the whiskers in the sink, but his racing bicycle couldn’t stay in the living room. We’d have to find somewhere else to keep it if—

“Ma’am? It’s your turn.” A man nudged me from behind. He bounced from one foot to the other, horn-rimmed glasses balanced on his sharp nose. “Can you hurry it up? I’ve gotta get my kids from daycare. They charge ten bucks for every minute you’re late. Per kid.”

“Sorry.”

I stepped to the counter with its four cash registers and ordered, on impulse getting a piece of chocolate cheesecake for Mrs. Colwell, my neighbor with the chocolate jones and fixed income. I had to lean forward to be heard over the men on either side, both jabbering into their cell phones. The aproned clerk dumped two white bags with handles on the counter, and my phone rang.

“Sorry.” I checked the number displayed on the cell phone. Mom. Calling back to check on my okay-ness. I didn’t answer. I put the phone beside the deli bags and pulled out a fifty as the man on my left slapped his phone on the counter to inspect the contents of six pizza boxes and the man on my other side set his phone down to pick up coins he’d dropped.

“Sorry. I don’t have anything smaller,” I told the clerk, a youth with pimples and straw-colored hair. Good grief, I sounded like the battered women I’d set up Winning Ways to help: “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

“It’s cool,” the clerk said, making change. He peered at me in a way I’d come to dread. “You look familiar—”

I didn’t need this. “Thanks.” I gave him a five and a nervous smile, sidling away, desperate to be gone before he said more.

“Hey—I just saw you on TV!” He jerked his head toward the tiny television suspended above the far end of the counter. “Cool! You’re that—”

Impatient, the man behind me elbowed me aside and knocked against a jar of pickles, sending a stream of briny water over the counter. The clerk sprang back. Warty green pickles rolled across the formica and plunked to the floor. I swept my phone and damp change into my purse and almost ran out the door, praying that no one had heard the clerk.

“Jesus H. Christ!” and “Oh, shit, I’m sorry!” followed me out of the deli.

Two blocks away, I paused to take a deep breath, not minding the exhaust fumes held at street level by the oppressive humidity that slicked my skin. In another half hour, this part of D.C. would quiet as the commuters fled to suburbia. Jason and I could enjoy dinner on the balcony, have a glass of wine, talk. I picked up my pace. Ten minutes brought me to the one-way quiet of G Street Southeast. Townhomes lined both sides of the street, cooled by mighty oaks old enough to remember flames shooting from the White House just three miles away, the eerie quiet of the streets during the flu pandemic, and windows darkened by blackout curtains.

A block from home, I heard the faint brrr of a cell phone, a plain ring, not my “Rhapsody in Blue” ring tone. I looked around. No one in earshot. Funny. It trilled again, from inside my purse. I knew what must have happened even as I set the deli bags down and found the phone. It was a simple pay-as-you-go model. I hadn’t had a cell phone contract since my account got hacked by unscrupulous journalists when my relationship with George made the headlines. A man’s voice started speaking before I could even say “hello.”

“There are some new parameters to the Montoya job. It’s got to look like an accident. And there’s a bonus if you take care of it before the election.” The voice was terse, accentless, male.

“I’m—”

“Payment as previously arranged. Make it happen.” Click.