“Because in the end only one thing can make it right.”
“What?”
“Choice.” Elizabeth cupped the girl’s face with a palm. “Your choice.”
9
Ellen Bondurant married young and well, then at forty-one learned a bitter truth about fading looks and selfish men. At first she was bewildered, then heartbroken and sad. In the end she was numb, so that when her husband presented papers, she signed them. Her attorney said she was being na?ve, but that was not the truth, either. The money embarrassed her and always had: the cars and parties and diamonds as large as acorns. All she wanted was the man she thought she’d married.
But he was long gone.
Now, she lived with her dogs in a small house by a creek in the country, and her life had become a simple thing. She trained horses to make money and liked to walk the open spaces when she could: low country by the river if she was feeling contemplative; ridgelines to the old church and back if she wanted views.
Today, she chose the church.
“Come on, boys.”
She called the dogs, then set out on foot, the route taking her on a steep angle to a trail that followed a line of hills to the southeast. She felt light as she moved, and younger than her forty-nine years. It was the work, she knew, the early mornings in the saddle, the long hours with longe line and whip. Her skin was leathered and lined, but she was proud of what her hands could do, how they worked unceasingly in snow and rain and heat.
She stopped at the top of the first hill, her house, far below, like a toy dropped behind plastic trees. Ahead of her, the trail curled higher, then leveled for three miles as the ridgeline bent west and the earth fell away on either side. When the church appeared, its stark and stately beauty struck her as it always did: the granite steps, the iron cross, fallen and twisted.
Slipping a bit as the trail dipped into the saddle of the forgotten church, Ellen felt the difference without understanding it. The dogs were agitated, their heads low as they tracked an invisible scent and whined low in their throats. They went halfway around the church, then came back at a run, noses snuffling at the base of the broad steps as they crisscrossed each other’s path and fur lifted in strips between their shoulder blades.
She whistled for the dogs, but they ignored her. The largest one, a yellow Lab she called Tom, lunged up the stairs, his nails clicking.
“What is it, boy?”
Grass whispered on her legs, and she noticed tire tracks near the door. People did come here; it happened. But they usually parked on the dirt road or in the gravel lot. These tracks went all the way to the door.
She stopped at the bottom step and, peering up, realized what else was different. The doors were slabs of oak, the handles black iron as thick as her arm. For as long as she could remember, the handles had been chained together, but today the chain was cut, and the right-side door stood ajar.
Suddenly afraid, Ellen looked longingly up the hill. She should leave—she felt it—but Tom stood at the door, a whine in his throat. “It’s okay, boy.” She caught the dog’s collar and stepped through the door. Beyond the threshold, it was dim, the darkness cut by blades of light through boarded windows. The ceiling rose, vaulted and dark, but the altar held her. On either side, boards had been pulled from the windows so that light spilled in and lit it like a jewel. She saw white and red and black; and her first thought was Snow White. That was the feeling; a stillness that bordered on reverence, the hair and skin and nails stained red. It took five steps to realize what she was seeing, and when she did, she froze as if her body, entire, had turned to ice. “Sweet Lord.” She felt the world freeze, too. “Oh, my dear, sweet, merciful Lord.”
*
Beckett sipped coffee in the back booth of his regular diner. It was a favorite local joint, the booths filled with businessmen, mechanics, and mothers with young children. A plate of bacon and eggs was pushed off to the side, half-eaten. He hadn’t slept much and wanted to smoke for the first time in over twenty years. It was Liz’s fault. The worry. The stress. She liked to maintain a border between the personal life and the professional. Okay, fine. She wasn’t like other partners he’d had, didn’t want to talk about the opposite sex or sports or the difference between a good lay and a great one. She kept quiet about her past and her fears, lied about how much she slept and drank, and why she cared enough to be a cop in the first place. But, hey, that was cool. Space mattered—freaking boundaries—and that was fine until the lies went from small and harmless to scary, frightful, seriously fuckin’ dark.
She was lying.