Mending Places (40 page)

“This may come as a shock, but we’ve apprehended the perpetrator.”

“What?”

Gram turned at her tone.

He cleared his throat. “Actually, what I mean to say is, he turned himself in.”

Her head buzzed with confusion. “What do you—who turned himself in?”

“The man who committed the crime. Or so he says.”

Her mind spun as he went on about the unusual nature of the situation. What would drive a man to turn himself in after eight years?
Your anger. Your judgmental attitude. Your unforgiveness.
Dear God, was he trying to punish himself—trying to earn forgiveness? Her heart ached.

Silence filled the lines, and she realized belatedly he’d asked her about pressing charges. “No! No, I don’t want to press charges.”

A long pause filled the line. “Ms. Landin, I know it was a long time ago, but—”

“No,” she said, as firmly as she could. “I won’t press charges.”

“We can set up a meeting with a victims advocate if you like and—”

“That won’t be necessary.”

She needed Micah to know that she forgave him, that she didn’t want him punished anymore. The sergeant was saying good-bye, and she muttered good-bye in return before she placed the receiver in the cradle.

Still in shock, she told Gram what had happened. Then it hit her. “He’s there, at the police station.” She had found him. Or rather, God had found him, and she could go to him and tell him everything.

She slipped on her boots and grabbed her coat. Turning, she snatched the journal off her desk. “I’ve got to catch him before they let him go.”

“Drive carefully,” Gram called before the door slammed behind her.

The van started reluctantly after sitting in the cold for three days. She maneuvered it out of the lot and onto the slick driveway, her whole body trembling with anxiety.

Micah’s shirt clung to him, producing a sticky layer of heat under his coat, but he couldn’t summon the will to remove it. His heart beat erratically under his clothing, and his legs felt weak and shaky, either a reminder of the breakfast he’d skipped or a hint at his emotional condition.

He saw a poster of wanted criminals, and he scanned the black-and-white photos. He was no better than they were. Hadn’t he committed a crime and evaded the police for eight years? Hadn’t he victimized an innocent woman and left her wounded? Remorse filled him, eating away at the soft coating of his heart. He tasted the pain—relished it.

His future stretched before him like a dark, dirty corridor. He hadn’t forgotten what the inside of a jail cell looked like. But he needed to pay for his crime. Maybe then he would feel forgiven; maybe then he would forgive himself.

When a bead of sweat trickled down the back of his neck, he shrugged out of his coat, letting it fall behind him on the metal chair. The door opened, and he looked up hopefully at Sergeant Whitco. Micah searched the man’s face. When Micah had given the sergeant his reason for being there, he’d looked at him suspiciously. Micah knew Whitco had thought him a nut case. One of those attention-seekers who confesses to crimes he didn’t commit. If only that were true. But Micah had known the officer would change his mind when he checked the files.

The officer dropped a folder on his desk and seated himself across from Micah. His eyes had lost that suspicious look. Accusation and distaste had taken its place. It was there in the slightly curled-up corner of his nose, in the hardened jaw and rigid posture. He knew Micah was just what he’d said. Micah shifted in his seat and focused on the cluttered desk. It had been a long time since his presence had evoked disdain. He liked it even less now than he had then.

Micah wondered what would happen next. Would a court date be set in which Hanna would testify? He hoped she could be spared that. Surely, with his pleading guilty—

“I looked in the files for information on the crime to which you admit, and the original statement of Ms.—the victim—concurs with the information you’ve given us.”

Micah waited, wanting to search the officer’s eyes for more information, but unable to look at him directly.

Whitco leaned his elbows on the desk, and Micah felt his probing eyes. “I just got off the phone with the young woman.”

Micah’s heart lurched, and he looked at Whitco. He hadn’t known they would contact her so soon.

“Contrary to my recommendation, she refuses to press charges.” The sergeant folded his hands on top of the manila folder. He seemed disappointed.

Anxiety pressed on his chest, squeezing and wrenching. “What does that mean?”

He shrugged. “Unfortunately, it means you’re free to go.”

Micah’s head tipped forward. “But—I’m turning myself in. I committed a crime—”

“Son, the DA is never going to pursue this kind of case without the victim’s cooperation.”

Dismay settled over him, mingled with a pinch of relief. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, and he used it to organize his thoughts. “But this is different. I’m turning myself in—that doesn’t happen every day—”

“Not on my shift.” The sergeant gave a wan smile.

“There must be something on the books, some way around this …”

He narrowed his eyes as if trying to figure Micah out. “Am I to understand that you
want
to be arrested?”

“That’s why I came.”

“Well, yes, I know, but—” He stopped and shook his head. “Apparently the young lady is past this—issue—or else she doesn’t want to relive it. That’s not uncommon; most rape victims don’t even report it.”

Micah closed his eyes, his hope dwindling fast. Then an idea formed, and he grabbed on to it like a lifeline. “Maybe you could go see her.” He leaned forward, clutching the desk’s edge with his fingers.
“Don’t you have some kind of counselor or something? Someone who can—”

Whitco was shaking his head. “I already offered that.” Confusion coated the man’s eyes as Micah saw him spot the WWJD bracelet he always wore.

In that moment Micah let all defenses down. He had nothing to hide. All pride had perished long ago.
Please God. I want this. I want to make it as right as I can.

Whitco’s chair creaked, and Micah blinked to see him leaning back in his chair, his chin nudging upward as if he’d just figured Micah out. “You’re a Christian.”

Micah’s brows drew together.

“I saw your bracelet.” The sergeant drew in a deep breath and let it out in one whoosh. “I get it. You did something wrong before—and now you want to pay for it.”

“It’s more than that …”

“Maybe it is, but you’ve got to get over it. I can’t arrest you; the victim doesn’t even want me to. She’s beyond it; now you need to get beyond it too.”

The man didn’t understand. He couldn’t possibly. Micah stared at a V-shaped scar on the oak desk. Where would he go now? What would he do? How could he get on with his life when his crime hung over him like a black thundercloud?

Sergeant Whitco’s chair scraped across the floor as he stood. He extended a hand.

Numbly, Micah stood and took it.

“Good luck, son. Sorry I can’t help you.”

Micah turned mechanically and left the building. His cycle stood right where he’d left it, with two bags piled on its back. He remembered Hanna helping him fix it. He remembered Hanna clinging to his back as the wind ruffled their hair.

He remembered Hanna’s expression when he’d told her who he was. The disbelief—the refusal to believe. Then the horror, the hurt, the
anger that raked over her features. Her eyes turning an intense green with splinters of gold fire. Her skin stretched taut across her cheekbones.

He peeled out of the lot, giving no thought to direction. His heart pressed against his rib cage with the heavy load of guilt. Memories flashed like lightning in his mind. Hanna retching from the shock of his confession, Hanna singeing him with her eyes as he stoked the fire, Hanna staring in revulsion at his disfigured flesh.

He drove aimlessly, the pictures scalding him like acid. Why couldn’t he escape the guilt? God had forgiven him. Why couldn’t he forgive himself?

He hadn’t known where he was headed until his cycle pulled to a stop alongside the road. He dismounted, tugged off his helmet, and scanned the place. A canopy of pine needles sheltered the white ground. The sun moved behind a cloud, casting a shadow over the area.

His feet moved forward, toward the place. He trudged through the shin-deep snow without a thought. He didn’t feel the cold wetness against his ankles. He didn’t feel the wind’s chill on his skin. He felt only the driving need to get there.

The ground sloped suddenly downward, and his feet stopped. A picture flashed into his mind. Something he’d forgotten until now. It had been dark. The landscape had been painted in dark shades of gray. He hadn’t seen the gully, and they’d fallen down it, rolling and twisting until they’d jammed against a tree. His hand had slipped off her mouth, and she’d screamed in the dark.

He could hear it even now. He closed his eyes, trying to block it out, but it replayed in his mind like a haunting nightmare.

I’m sorry.

He’d had no mercy on her, had given no thought to the person she was or to her pleas. He covered his face with his hands.
I’m so sorry.
His legs buckled. He sank to his knees in the cold, wet snow and sobbed.

Hanna drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, her foot aching to press harder on the accelerator. Although the plows had cleared the roads, a smooth glaze clung to the pavement, making it slick. White clouds of snow drifted across the road like knee-high ghosts.

At this rate she wasn’t going to make it to the station before Micah left. Why hadn’t she asked the sergeant to keep him there? Now she might miss him, and she had no idea where he’d go. He might leave town or leave the state, for all she knew.

She braked for a stop sign but didn’t come to a complete stop before accelerating again.
Please, God, get me there in time.
The sun emerged from behind the clouds and reflected off the white surface, blinding her with its glare. She squinted and flipped down the visor.

What would she say to him? Would he listen to her? Would he believe she had forgiven him? What if he’d convinced himself he was no good for her? Hadn’t she behaved in such a way the last two days? Hadn’t she treated him like he was nothing? How could she explain that the story of his past had brought understanding and eventually forgiveness? She patted her coat pocket to reassure herself the journal was still there.

Her mind was so preoccupied, she nearly passed the motorcycle before she recognized it. She slowed and looked in her rearview mirror. It was his.

And it was
there.
Where it had happened. She pulled into an empty lot and got out of the car, jogging carefully back to the cycle. His two bags were stacked on the back, and his helmet lay carelessly on top.

Footprints cut through the deep snow, and she followed them, placing her own feet in the center of each one. Brambles and thickets pulled at her clothing, but she trudged ahead heedlessly. Her veins surged with trepidation at returning to the spot where the attack had happened, but it hardly seemed like the same place. The landscape was different than it had been that night. The air had been dark with shadows, and now it was crisp with light. The ground had been dry and hard, and now it was softened with a blanket of snow.

She walked on, around the trees and scrub, stepping in Micah’s footprints. Her breath came in rapid puffs. The snow beneath her feet crunched softly with each step.

Through a cloud of vaporized breath, she saw him. Kneeling on the soft-packed ground, sitting back on his heels, his head bowed forward. She stopped. Her breath caught, and her heart clamored, urging her onward. Her eyes clung to his back, her footsteps made prints of their own. She could hear him now, whispering words she couldn’t make out in a pleading tone that constricted her heart.

When she drew close, his head jerked toward her. His face was wet and drawn. His red-rimmed eyes looked dazedly at her as if not quite believing she was there.

She opened her mouth to speak and realized she didn’t know what to say.

He didn’t seem to either. His gaze fell to a spot at her feet and slid away to his own hands on his thighs.