Ada Unraveled (39 page)

A small pile of the child’s clothing--socks,
shoes, underwear and a Dora the Explorer shirt--was found in the
same bedroom with the boarder.

A pediatrician’s examination of the little
girl, whose name I will not reveal, showed no evidence of sexual
assault, no real physical damage, save some bruises on her upper
arms. But, psychological damage aplenty, no doubt.

A child psychologist would assist the
parents. She would help them keep the horror of what the little
girl had experienced from burying itself deep inside her psyche,
like a splinter, where it would surely fester.

Mosby had added, near the end of his call to
Matt, that a couple of old-fart deputies had been “early-retired”
without the usual gold watch, in retaliation for their stonewalling
and corruption. Sounded like the Sheriff was holding his own with
the Stowall clan.

And then he’d dropped the bombshell.

In the past hour, Eddie Stowall had
disappeared with Mary Stowall. The cop assigned to keep an eye on
him had been talking with Martha and Anne in a hospital visitor’s
room when Eddie made his escape. Don’t ask me how a man fresh out
of hip-surgery gets up and walks out.

There’s not a lot of love lost between cops
and child molesters, either. Maybe Eddie was becoming some sort of
hero in their minds.

I stroked Wisdom’s soft fur and sighed. He
listened.

Mostly I thought of Eddie as a victim. When
I honestly reviewed my memory of the Saturday afternoon shootout, I
now saw two children in the picture before me, holding hands in the
shadows. One child was clearly in shock, the other shockingly
scary. I needed to believe I would never have shot him if he hadn’t
shot me first.

A call from Harry relieved us of our family
worries. His unit wasn’t going into a war zone after all. Instead,
he would be coming our way sometime in November for a retraining
exercise on California’s Camp Pendleton. We were gleefully dreaming
of having his whole family over for Thanksgiving for the first time
in several years.

I was pretty sure Ruth would never sew
again. Her eyes remained closed to the world even when they were
open. Hannah was currently planning to bring her home from the
hospital, to the Lilly farm.

Matt swears he’ll get the guy or gal who
rammed me on the freeway. But tomorrow is on the way and we’ve got
full plates in store, although my meals would be served at home for
a few more days.

An hour ago, standing looking down at Ada’s
quilt, Wisdom always at my side, I’d become certain; the quilted
figure of many colors in the ninth square was Eddie.

Matt has no forgiveness for him. He thinks
Eddie should be put away permanently, that he’s too damaged to be
trusted.

He’s probably right. If a woman’s soul can
be severely damaged by watching her mother be beaten and
brutalized—as in the case with Ada--wouldn’t the same thing happen
to a man’s soul after watching his father beat and brutalize his
mother?

But does having a damaged soul make you
evil? Dangerous? Because if it does, then I fear for most of
us.

Matt seemed satisfied that we were done with
the Stowall mysteries. I wondered how Eddie’s saga would end, or
rather begin. Would the Stowall’s bad blood continue to leave
stains? Who would Eddie become, out in the big wide world?

A second mystery niggled at me as well. I
still wanted to know if Ruth McMichaels ever really had magical
powers. I still wondered about the dream I’d had while in a drugged
state, recovering from my injured neck, where she mentioned Paul to
me for a second time. Had she been communing with her long dead
husband, on her hospital bed, and somehow her coma-dreams had
slipped into my drug-dreams?

A light breeze lifted my hair. I thought I
heard the braying of a zebra and turned my head to better catch the
wildness of it.

But it was Ruth.

Love them anyway.

My heart stilled; my hand on Wisdom’s soft
coat stayed.

“Love who?”

All of them.

It was the first clear message, the first of
many that I would receive from her.

Ruth’s latter-day messages to me had begun.
And then the moon rose in all its glory.

Thank you for reading my book. If you enjoyed it,
won’t you please take a moment to leave me a review at your
favorite retailer?

Ripping Abigail

Embroidering Andrea
.

I was raised in the New
England area and thus steeped in the local lore which included
headless horsemen and witch-dunking. Add those images to my already
dark childhood memories due to my parents’ long struggle with
alcoholism and perhaps you can see the roots of my
writing.

I began writing stories
very early. My first book, a mystery, was three and a half pages
long, written when I was eight. My mother saved it for me. I found
it within the boxes and drawers of memories she kept. Only after
her death would I hear from my other relatives that she was thought
of as the family historian. I wish I’d found that little mystery
before. It would have saved me from years of experimenting in other
genres.

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Grateful acknowledgement is
extended to my daughters, sisters and nieces for their patience and
support. Without their encouragement I might have given up on the
effort.

I also wish to thank the many friends who
unstintingly accepted my need to write. Some of you even found a
way to help me make my writing better. A special thanks to you.

None of this would have been possible if I
hadn’t been rescued decades ago by my brave Marine.

This book is dedicated to Rosalie.