Redemption Road

19

Crybaby called it a cabin, but that was not accurate. The driveway cut through private forest for over a mile, ending on a bluff above a mirrored lake that blurred into the feet of distant mountains. The cabin, made of stone and wood, was massive and so permanent looking it could have been carved from the earth itself.

Elizabeth climbed from the car and took it all in: the hundred-year oaks, the plunging views. “‘The cabin’s yours,’ he says. ‘Have a drink, relax.’”

That wasn’t going to happen.

She followed a walkway to the back of the house. Bushes were overgrown, but the grass had been cut often enough to hold the forest back. She found the key where he’d said it would be, beneath a flat rock on the other side of the empty pool. Unlocking the main door, Elizabeth disengaged the alarm and entered the house, passing through a vaulted foyer and into the main room, where a wall of glass framed views of the lake and mountains. The fireplace was large enough to sit in. She saw sheeted furniture, books, a table long enough to feed thirty people. Dust covered everything, with tracks where the caretaker had been through on previous occasions. She followed them into the kitchen, then upstairs, and outside onto an upper balcony that felt like the roof of the world.

“Damn, Crybaby.”

She’d forgotten the magnitude of his success, the raw power he used to wield both in and out of court. Back inside, she studied photographs that stretched back six decades or more: Crybaby with past presidents, celebrities, the woman who’d been his wife. The distraction bought five minutes peace, then she moved onto the porch that faced the drive. It was fifteen feet deep and forty long. A dozen rocking chairs were turned upside down to protect them from the wind. Righting one, she dragged it to the low, stone wall that fronted the drive. The old lawyer would follow the drive, so that was the place to wait.

But, waiting was hard.

She sat. She paced.

The soft, warm day ate her alive.

The first sign of his arrival came midafternoon: a sudden stillness in the forest, then the hum of tires. By the time the limousine appeared in the clearing, Elizabeth was off the porch and in the drive. Her hand was on his door before the vehicle came to a complete stop.

“What?” She read his features the instant she saw them. “What went wrong?”

The old man extended a hand. “Help me, if you would.” She helped him from the car. He looked tired in the wrinkled jacket and put more weight on the cane than usual. “Are you hungry? We stopped for a few things…”

“I’m not hungry. Where’s Channing?”

“Take my arm.”

“Faircloth, please.”

“Take it. Walk with me.” He firmed as he moved, guiding her to the shade of the porch. “Would you?” He gestured at a second chair, and she turned it over for him. Dropping into the chair, he told her, “Sit, sit.” She ignored the chair beside him, choosing instead to settle on the stone wall so their knees nearly touched. “We used to have such parties here. People would come from all over, you know. Europe and Washington and Hollywood.”

“Faircloth…”

“We thought it the ultimate expression of a life well lived. Powerful friends. A job that mattered. Look at it now, emptiness and dust, all those exciting people dead or close to it.” He craned his neck to look at the stacked-stone pillars, the massive beams. “I offered the place to my wife when she left. She refused to take it, though, knowing how much I loved it. She said it was a manly space and needed a man inside it. That was good of her, don’t you think? That kindhearted lie.”

“You’re stalling, Crybaby.”

“Perhaps.”

“It’s bad, then?”

“Your partner convinced her to do the noble thing.”

“Beckett? What?”

“He felt he had no choice, not with the indictment. He asked me to tell you as much in the hope you might find a way to forgive him.”

“Forgive him?” Elizabeth stood. The betrayal was too much. “He did exactly what I asked him not to do.”

“That may be so, but when I describe the young lady’s actions, I don’t use the word noble lightly. Channing confessed to make sure you were safe and well. No threats were made against her, no leverage or offers of leniency. She offered the truth for a splendid reason, and that is rarely a simple thing.”

“Is she in state custody or local?”

“Local for now. Charging decisions remain unmade.”

Elizabeth stared into the forest. Charging decision or not, she saw how it had to be. The girl would be in processing, now. Stripped of her clothes. Examined. Violated all over again.

“She wanted you to have this.” A piece of paper appeared in the old lawyer’s hand.

Elizabeth took the folded page. “Do you mind?”

“Of course not. By all means.”

Elizabeth walked to the far end of the porch. The note was in a beautiful hand, and brief.

Dear Elizabeth,

You told me wounds heal, but only if we’re strong and if we’re right. I try to be strong, and think maybe I can be, but nothing I do will ever make things right. You were in that basement because of me, and not in the way you think. Your partner can explain. He figured it out, and I know you would too, in time. The thought of that is more than I could bear, worse even than the memories of what we suffered together. Please, don’t hate me for telling the truth about what happened. I love what you tried to do, but I pulled the trigger and nobody else. It’s my fault, all of it. Please, don’t be angry. Please don’t hate me.

Elizabeth read the note a second time, then let her gaze fall to the lake. How could she hate her? They were sisters. They were the same.

“Are you quite all right, my dear?”

“I don’t think I am.”

Crybaby appeared beside her. “The indictment against you has been rescinded, and the state police have no further interest in you. I can take you home if you like. Your car will be fine until tomorrow.”

“May I stay for a while?”

“As long as you wish. I made no joke about provisions. There’s food, liquor. Enough for a week, if you like.” She nodded, and he pressed closer. “Was there comfort?” he asked. “In the young lady’s note?”

“No. Not really.”

“Then let me tell you a thing I’ve learned in my eighty-nine years. This house, the friends and memories-I’d trade it all for a chance to do what that young woman just did: a noble act, freely undertaken. How many of us have such a chance? And how many the courage to take it?”

“You’re the kindest man I’ve ever known. I’m sure you’ve had many chances.”

“To put one’s freedom above my own? To risk my life for another I barely know?” He shook his head, serious. “What I see here is the rarest of things, and the loveliest: her sacrifice and yours, what you’ve tried to do for each other. One in a million would do the same. One in a hundred million.”

Elizabeth studied the keen eyes and white brows, the lines that furrowed his face as if to show every hard decision he’d ever made. “Do you really believe that?”

“With every ounce of my soul.”

She looked away and swallowed in a dry throat. “You’re a good man, Faircloth Jones.”

“I’m an old fart, actually.”

Elizabeth folded the note and took his arm. “You said something about liquor.”

“I did.”

“Is it too early for a drink?”

“Not at all, my dear.” Crybaby leaned on the arm and steered for the door. “I have found, in fact, that on days such as this the whiskey lamp is most always lit.”