Missing Pieces (17 page)

The lone ally for John was his sister, Julia.
My brother loved Lydia. He would never hurt her, never do this to his family.

Sarah picked up the pile of photos from the seat next to her and began to organize them by the small number written on the back of each. Her eye snagged on a familiar image. She took a closer look. A pair of hands. Even without the notation that identified the subject as Jack, she thought she'd know them anywhere. Jack's hands. His knuckles were bruised, fresh lacerations looked raw and painful. The next photo showed the palms of Jack's hands; three half-moon indentations marred each palm. What would cause such marks?
A murder weapon?
Sarah shoved the thought from her mind.

They knew who committed this murder: John Tierney. The only reason he wasn't arrested, tried and convicted was because they couldn't find him. A small voice buzzed in her ear like a pesky insect: Then why had Jack lied to her about everything if he didn't have something to hide?

The final photos showed Jack without a shirt. He was slim and bony chested, large footed and large handed, a boy who hadn't yet grown into himself. No other marks blemished his body, no wounds of any kind. Surely, if he had been Lydia's attacker, she would have fought back, scratched and clawed trying to protect herself. Unless, of course, the attacker was your son, and the blows were unexpected.

Sarah knew that she would never get the graphic images of Lydia from her mind and wondered how Jack could possibly have recovered from finding his mother in that awful state. No wonder he rarely came back to Penny Gate, didn't want Sarah here or his daughters. It made a little more sense now.

Sarah peered into the box. She had breezed through every single piece of paper. There were photocopies of the school attendance records and even the handwritten rosters that the teachers used to mark whether a student was present or absent for a particular class period. Highlighted in yellow on three of the rosters was Jack's name with a capital
A
written beside it. As Jack had stated in his interview he had skipped three of his afternoon classes.

There were copies of phone bills in the months leading up to the murder. The same number was highlighted three times. At the bottom of the page someone had scrawled
Raymond Douglas—known drug dealer.

Had Jack been using drugs as a teenager? Had his parents found out? Had he skipped school that day in late May and been confronted by his mother. Had he lashed out violently? No, it wasn't enough. Plenty of kids used drugs and didn't murder their mothers.
But plenty of kids did
, a small voice whispered in her ear. She had just heard a news story about a teen from Great Falls who killed both his parents in their beds after they had threatened to send him to a rehab center.

Sarah shook her head in frustration. Why couldn't she just let it go? Jack had lied to her, yes, but it didn't make him a murderer. Besides, the sheriff was confident he knew who the killer was: Jack's father. John Tierney had murdered his wife and taken off. Tragedies like that happened every day.
But how did he get away?
that small, insistent voice asked. According to the sheriff's notes, John's truck was found hidden in the cornfield that separated the Quinlan farm from the Tierney
farm. What had Celia said when she was driving Sarah to her home? She could walk straight through the cornfield from her house and it would take you fifteen minutes to get to Hal's. How would John have left town without his truck? Did he have an accomplice? None were mentioned in any of the files.

Sarah returned the last of the files to the box and caught sight of another audiotape at the bottom. She pulled it from the box. She rubbed her eyes and checked the time. It was nine o'clock.

Could the tape wait until the next day? She was so tired. She slid the cassette into the manila envelope that held the other audiotapes. She would listen to it tomorrow.

Though she hated to, she needed to get back to Dean and Celia's house. She had no idea how she was going to explain her extended absence. Could she put on a mask, just like Jack had for all these years? Could she pretend that all was well with her marriage, that she didn't know all the sordid circumstances surrounding Jack's youth and his mother's death? Sarah started the car and pulled onto the winding road that would take her back to her husband, now a stranger. How was she going to casually discuss her day and chat about their daughters with him?

And more importantly, how was she going to crawl into bed tonight with a man she knew was a liar and who could have been capable of so much worse?

14

SARAH PULLED DOWN
Dean and Celia's lane, past the barn, past the clothesline where Jack's mother once hung the freshly washed sheets, and pulled up in front of the kitchen window where she had surely looked out and watched her children in play. Sarah turned off the ignition and sat staring at the house. The porch light illuminated the declining condition of the home. Sarah recalled the crime-scene photos where there was an array of flowers cascading from pots that hung from the eaves, a stark contrast to the yellow crime tape stretched across the porch.

She hated the thought of going inside, but she was exhausted and she wanted to let Jack know she was done with his lies. She would stay through Julia's funeral, but then she was going back home. She glanced over at the box. She peeled Margaret's jacket from her shoulders and laid it across the box, hooked her purse over her shoulder and stepped from the car. She glanced at the house to make sure know one was looking out a window and quickly transported the box to the rear of the car and closed the trunk with a soft click.

“Sarah?” Jack's voice came from somewhere behind her. She scanned the farmyard and saw Jack and Celia coming her way from the direction of the large barn. They were walking side by side; just a fraction of space separated them. “What's in the box?” Jack asked.

Sarah thought fast. “Just a few items I picked up at the store since we're staying a little longer than planned. I bought a box so we could just mail the things that wouldn't fit in our carry-on bags back home.” Jack appeared satisfied with this explanation. “What are you two doing out here in the dark?” she asked. The porch light was too weak for her to clearly examine their faces, but there were no secretive, knowing looks between the two of them. No indication that something clandestine had been going on.

“We were working on the details of Julia's funeral mass,” Jack said, “and decided to go for a walk. Are you okay? Where have you been all this time?”

“I was just driving around. Thinking.” Sarah shoved her hands into her pockets. The evening air was cold on her skin and she missed the warmth of Margaret's jacket. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure, let's go inside,” Jack said, starting for the house.

“Let's walk,” Sarah suggested. She wanted to be as far away as possible from the house and out of earshot when she said the things to Jack that needed to be said.

“I'll see you inside,” Celia said. “I'll put some coffee on.”

The earthy scent of soil and manure rose up from the ground, and the gentle murmur of livestock settling in for the night was somehow comforting as Sarah and Jack walked in silence toward the barns.

From within the house someone flipped a switch and a pair of floodlights affixed to the house came on, bathing the farmyard in a warm light. Sarah wondered why Celia hadn't turned on the same lights for her little walk with Jack. Sarah wished she would turn them off. What she had to say would be easier said in the dark.

“What's going on, Sarah?” Jack asked once they started walking. “I was getting really worried.”

Sarah wasn't sure where to begin. “I'm glad you tried to go and see Amy. She's really scared.”

“Thanks for getting the attorney lined up.” Jack stopped walking. “There's just so much going on with getting ready for the funeral. Dean is sure that Amy did it and it just looks really bad for her and for a minute there...”

Sarah glanced back at the house and saw a silhouette in an upstairs window. Too wide and tall to be Celia. It had to be Dean or Hal. She kept walking, wanting to reach the shadows at the edge of the floodlights. “I know that Amy could never have hurt Julia,” Jack finished as he jogged to catch up with her.

“Her arraignment is tomorrow morning. I scheduled a meeting at eight with her lawyer. I don't know if Amy did it or not, but she's your sister and I think you should be there,” Sarah said, slightly out of breath as they reached the large barn. She leaned her back against the worn, rough boards and looked back toward the house. “You know, Amy thinks that Dean might have been the one to hurt Julia.”

“Dean?” Jack laughed, then sobered quickly when he saw that Sarah wasn't joking. “That's crazier than thinking that Amy did it. Dean loves...loved his mom.” Jack ran a hand over his mouth. “Why would she think that?”

“She said that he was the one who brought a bunch of boxes over to her house, including the one with the bale hook. And—” Sarah hesitated “—the other day I saw Dean grab Celia really hard and he didn't let go until she slapped him.”

Jack frowned. “That doesn't sound like Dean. Or Celia. I mean, Dean's always had a bit of a temper, but I always thought the two of them got along fine. Maybe it's just the stress of everything that's been going on.”

“I don't know what happened. I just thought you should know what I saw. But that's not why I wanted to talk to you.” Sarah stood upright, pushing herself away from the barn with one hand. The sharp bite of weathered wood digging into the palm of her hand caused her to wince. She raised her hand to her face and tried to examine the sliver left behind.

“Did you hurt yourself?” Jack asked, reaching for her hand.

Sarah pulled away. “I'm fine.” She tilted her head back and looked up at the night sky. It was black and all encompassing, and she felt as if she was being swallowed up by the night, by this town, by her husband's past.

“Sarah?” Jack asked uncertainly. He sounded scared.

“Right after the funeral I'm going home,” she said, trying to keep her voice even and unemotional.

“I don't plan on staying any longer than I have to, either,” Jack said.

“I mean it—the minute the funeral is over I'm getting on a plane and going back home to the girls. And when we're home we have to talk about where we go from here. I can't live with a liar, Jack, I just can't.” Her voice cracked on the final word. Though she had practiced saying these words the entire way back to Celia's house, it was harder than she thought it would be.

“What? You want me to move out?” Jack asked in surprise.

Sarah straightened her spine as if this simple act could give her the strength to tell him what she had learned. “I told you that I didn't want any more secrets. No more lies.”

“But I told you...” Jack began.

“Stop it, Jack,” Sarah said loudly. “Stop lying!” Sarah's voice echoed across the still night air. A face appeared in the kitchen window. Clearly Celia's. Sarah turned her back to the house and lowered her voice. “In the past few days I learned that your parents did not die in a car accident like you told me.”

“Sarah, I explained why...”

“Let me speak,” Sarah hissed. “I learned that your mother was murdered and your father was the one who murdered her. And I learned that for a time you were the prime suspect. You were arrested, Jack.
Arrested.
How could you keep that from me? Every time I turn around I learn something else that you've lied to me about.” Despite the cool night, Sarah felt heat rise to her face as she spoke. From across the farmyard she heard the creak of a screen door. Celia stepped out onto the porch, her slim frame backlit by the porch lights. She seemed to hesitate between coming toward them to find out what was going on and returning inside. “And if that wasn't enough, I learned that your cousin's wife was your girlfriend and that you apparently had a violent temper, got drunk and did drugs.” Sarah realized that she was crying and that her voice had once again risen enough that Celia decided that she needed to come see what was happening.

“Sarah, who the hell have you been talking to?” Jack asked angrily.

“Does it really matter?” she asked wearily. “Practically the entire town thought you killed your mother, Jack. I'm sorry such a terrible thing happened to your family and I'm sorry you felt like you needed to lie to me about it. But I'm done. After the funeral I'm leaving.”

Celia was coming closer.

“Sarah, you're wrong,” Jack said pleadingly. “I promise you, I never would have hurt my mother. Come back inside—we'll talk. You know me. I couldn't do something like that.” He wrapped his hand around her arm, pulling her close. She could feel his hot breath on her cheek. “Please, you've got to believe me.” His grip tightened, his fingers biting into her wrist. And for the first time she was scared of her husband.

“Let go of me, Jack, or I'll scream,” Sarah whispered. Jack dropped her arm.

Celia moved closer, picking up her pace. “Is everything okay?” she called out to them.

“Go tell your old girlfriend that everything's all right,” she said bitterly. “I just want to be left alone.”

“We're fine,” he called back to Celia. “We'll be right in.” To Sarah he said, “You're wrong, Sarah. You are completely wrong about me. I shouldn't have lied to you. But I didn't kill my mother. My father did. Or do you think I killed him, too?”

Sarah didn't answer and in not responding she knew that she might have crossed the point of no return. For all intents and purposes, she had just called her husband a murderer or at least someone who could be capable of murder. He turned away from her, shaking his head in disgust, and joined Celia, who had stopped in the center of the yard.
What if you're wrong?
she asked herself as she stood in the dark shadows of the barn and watched the two of them walk back toward the house.
What if you're wrong and you sent him right back into Celia's arms? What if you're wrong and you've lost everything?

Sarah waited, shivering in the cool air, while Jack and Celia lingered on the front porch. Talking about her, Sarah was sure. What were they saying? Was Jack telling Celia that Sarah was acting crazy, tossing out all these conspiracy theories about how Jack was the one who murdered his mother? Were they laughing at her? Jack seemed genuinely hurt by her accusations. But was he rattled by her anger or just taken aback that she wasn't going to let him get away with his lies anymore?

She watched as they finally went inside the house and followed their movements as lights behind the drawn shades were switched off for the night. First the floodlights, and then the kitchen and living room lights were extinguished. A few moments passed and then one of the rooms on the second floor darkened. A figure stepped into view from behind another upstairs window. Jack. She would know him anywhere. His tall, angular frame, the slope of his shoulders, the tilt of his head. Once the sight of her husband had brought happiness, a sense of relief. Now the image of him looming above her only brought a sense of trepidation. He remained there for what felt like ages, staring out across the farmyard. She felt his eyes latch on to hers and her heart thundered in her chest and she took three quick steps backward. Sarah knew he really couldn't see her—she was obscured in shadow—but she felt as if he could see right through her, could feel her fear.

Finally, he stepped away from the window and the room went dark. Only one light remained. The weak, cold light emanating from the listing front porch. The crime-scene photos marched mercilessly through her mind. The blood-smeared cellar door, the concrete floor, Lydia's broken fingers, her crushed skull, the cloth draped over her eyes, the pool of blood, Jack's hands.
There's no way
, Sarah shuddered.
There's no way I'm going back in there tonight.