John Saul - Black Creek Crossing

“Nate Rogers never said he didn’t do it,” Joni said. “That’s the strange thing — he always said he must have done it but he just couldn’t remember. All he could recall was a voice whispering to him, but he couldn’t even remember what the voice said. He went through hypnosis and those truth drugs — lie detectors and everything else — and nobody could ever get anything else out of him. Even the doctors finally said that if he did it, he’d blotted the memory out so completely that they doubted it would ever come back to him.”

“Maybe he really didn’t do it,” Angel suggested. “Maybe—”

But before she could even formulate what might have happened, her aunt shook her head. “Oh, he did it, all right. They got enough experts in here to make sure, and by the time they were done, there wasn’t any question at all.” She frowned, recalling the reports she’d read that were in the papers at the time of the trial. “They found blood spatters on his face and clothes and hands that were only consistent with what would have happened if he’d—” Again she hesitated, but forced herself to go on. “Well, if he’d done it all himself. And there was a lot else — I can’t really remember it all. But there wasn’t any sign of anyone else having been in the house — I mean, not since the day they’d moved in.”

Myra Sullivan said nothing, scanning the bedroom, trying to picture it as it must have been the day its last occupant died. Her eyes roved over the floor, searching for bloodstains.

She looked at the walls as if seeking something — anything — that might give some physical sign of what had happened here. But there was nothing. “Did they ever find out why he did it?” she finally asked.

Joni Fletcher shook her head. “That was another of the weird things — there didn’t seem to be a motive. Everyone who knew them — their families, their friends from before they came here — said they were crazy about each other and had a terrific kid. No problems. But I guess you never know, do you?”

“So what happened to him?” Marty Sullivan asked. “They burn him?”

Joni chose to ignore the callousness of her brother-in-law’s tone. “In the end they sent him to a hospital for the criminally insane. I guess he’ll be there for the rest of his life.” She fell silent, then tugged at her sleeve and fingered the top button of the blue blazer she always wore when she was working.

“At any rate, that’s the story, and it’s why the price is negotiable. The bank took it over after Nate Rogers went into default on the mortgage, and the thing is, it appears that nobody wants to live in it. The bank keeps dropping the price, but it doesn’t seem to matter. So here it sits, and I think if you can deal with what happened, you can pretty much name your price — the bank just wants to get rid of it.”

“How come no one’s just bought it and torn it down?” Marty asked.

“Someone already tried,” Joni told him. “But as you saw from the beams downstairs and the fireplace and mantel, this is one of the oldest houses in the area — parts of it might date from the seventeenth century. So the Historical Society made sure it was protected years ago.”

Marty was quiet, as if turning it all over in his mind. Finally, he turned to Myra. “What do you think? If we really go in low and wind up getting it for next to nothing…” He let his voice trail off, leaving temptation hanging in the air.

No, Myra thought. It’s too awful. But even as she thought it, her eyes were again wandering over the room, examining every corner, searching the walls and ceiling, trying to find any trace of what had taken place here.

And then, in one of the filthy windows, she saw something. A face… the face of the Holy Mother… the Holy Mother smiling at her … As quickly as the fleeting vision came, it was gone, but it was enough for Myra. She’d seen the Holy Mother before — not often, but enough times — and knew that whenever the Virgin appeared to her, it was a sign of something good.

Something good. But what was it? Why had she appeared here, in this house?

A second later, when her husband spoke, she knew.

“Come on, Myra,” Marty said as they went back downstairs. “You’ve been talking about wanting a house for years, and maybe it’s just what we both need.”

With the vision of the Holy Mother still in her memory, Myra looked into her husband’s eyes, and for the first time in years saw the warm, gentle look he used to give her when they were dating and he could never do enough for her.

“A place of our own — a new beginning,” he said. “Maybe it’s what we all need. I can do most of the fix-up myself. You know I can.”

You can if you will, Myra thought, and instantly regretted the unspoken words. “Charity begins at home,” Father Raphaello had admonished her only a week ago. “You must be as charitable and forgiving toward your husband as God is toward you.” That must have been why the Virgin had appeared — to give her a new beginning.

“But how will we qualify for a loan?” Myra asked. “With you not working—”

“Ed’s very busy right now,” Joni Fletcher broke in. “He can use Marty. I know he can.”

Myra saw her husband’s expression darken, but then he shrugged. “If he’s got a job, I’ll take it. I say we go for it.”

Angel, her heart suddenly racing, turned to her mother, waiting.

Once again Myra moved through the rooms of the house, even going upstairs for one more look at the rooms on the second floor. At last she came back down and spread her arms in submission. “Okay,” she said. “If we can figure a way to swing it, I don’t suppose I should object. It’s not like we have anything to lose, is it?”

Five minutes later they were back in the old Chevelle, getting ready to follow Joni Fletcher back to her office to work out the details of making an offer. Angel, alone in the backseat, peered out the window at the little house at 122 Black Creek Road. Now that it might actually be theirs, it seemed to look different — as if it knew someone was coming to live in it again.

Just as her father pulled away from the curb, she looked up at the window of the room that would be her own. And for just an instant she thought she saw someone looking back at her.

So distracted was she by what she thought she’d seen in the window that Angel didn’t notice Seth Baker, standing in the shelter of the tree across the street from the house, taking pictures.

ETH?” JANE BAKER CALLED, KNOCKING SHARPLY ON her son’s closed bedroom door. As she waited for a response she glanced at her watch, then tapped her foot nervously on the floor. They were due at the country club in twenty minutes, and it was a ten-minute drive.

And she’d told Seth to be ready ten minutes ago.

When he didn’t answer, she rapped again, harder this time, then turned the knob and pushed the door open. “Seth, we have to—” she began, and abruptly fell silent.

Seth was sitting at his desk, staring at the computer screen, still dressed in the same ratty jeans and stained shirt she’d told him to change when he came downstairs that morning. Not that he ever listened to her, which Jane supposed was her penance for having given birth to a boy, instead of the girl she’d been counting on.

“Really, Seth,” she said, making no attempt to hide her annoyance. “Didn’t I tell you what time we had to leave? And you haven’t even started getting ready yet!” Quickly turning off the monitor, Seth turned to look at her, and Jane could see by his expression that there was going to be an argument.