Rising Darkness
Authors: Nancy Mehl
Tags: #FIC042040, #FIC042060, #FIC053000, #Mennonites—Fiction, #Women journalists—Fiction, #Man-woman relationships—Fiction
© 2015 by Nancy Mehl
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
Ebook edition created 2015
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meansâfor example, electronic, photocopy, recordingâwithout the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4412-2886-4
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible or from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.⢠Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide.
www.zondervan.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Dan Pitts
Nancy Mehl is represented by The Steve Laube Agency.
To the One who takes away our ashes
and gives us beauty instead.
The look on Snake's face when the bullet hit his chest was burned into Terry's mind. No one was supposed to die. They had planned it so carefully. He silently ran over the list in his head: Wait for the guard. Follow him inside. Tie up the guards. Get the money. Get out. It had seemed so easy. One of the guards was working with them, and they'd assumed the other guard would hand over the money without a struggle. But that hadn't happened. Now two guards were dead, and Snake was barely clinging to life.
Terry looked down at his own arm. Thankfully, the bullet had gone right through. It was still bleeding, but he would recover. Snake had caught the worst of it. He couldn't even remember Snake's real name. Did he have a family? He seemed to remember him mentioning a sister, but he had no idea where she was. Did the guards have families? He swore under his breath. Of course they did. Everyone had a family, didn't they? Except for him.
He suddenly noticed his speed. Ten miles over the limit. He slowed down, allowing other cars to whiz past. He couldn't risk being pulled over.
He glanced again at Snake. He was pale and breathing quickly. What could he do to save his partner? Where could he get help? Had the car been reported stolen yet? How much time did he have?
Although it was risky, he decided to take Snake to a doctor he trusted. He'd convince him to help the injured man, if it wasn't too late. He'd seen death before, and Snake was as close to the abyss as anybody could get. He hoped the doc would be quick. He needed to clean up, divide the money, ditch the car, and lie low for a while. Thankfully, he had a friend who'd agreed to hide him until the heat died down. Then he'd buy another car and head to his next destination. A place where he could disappear. A place so safe no one would ever find him.
He had no intention of letting Snake know where he was going. If Snake lived, he couldn't risk giving him too much information. His crimes had graduated beyond theft now. He could face the death penalty.
He ran over everything in his mind once again. Even though he was almost sure he hadn't left anything behind that could lead to his capture, he was smart enough to know that nothing in life was certain. All it took was one slip. One forgotten detail. If he could just get through the next few days while the city of St. Louis buzzed with the story of one of the greatest crimes it had ever seen, his plan would play out. Once he got to Sanctuary, he could fade into the background, disappearing until the world forgot all about him.
One
There was something about the smell of a prison that made me feel an almost overwhelming urge to run. It wasn't the high fences that surrounded the facility in El Dorado, Kansas, or the dour-faced security guards, or even the electronic doors that slid shut behind me as I made my way to the room where visitors met with inmates. For some reason, it was the sharp aroma of bleach and disinfectant that made me feel as if something dark lurked beneath the unpleasant smell.
I glanced around the large room at the other visitors who had come to meet with prisoners. Although most of the conversations seemed relaxed, even friendly, there was something about the men who wouldn't be walking out the front door when their visit was over. The panic in their eyes that came from the reality of knowing there was no way out. I shivered involuntarily and stared down at the cold, white tabletop. Even though it was only March, the air-conditioning in the room was turned up high. I pulled my jacket tighter around me, trying not to shake.
The door to the room opened, and a guard led a man in. I almost didn't recognize him. Tom Ford had changed. His dark, greasy hair was cut short, and his acne-scarred face had cleared. He was still small, but his matchstick-thin arms now had muscles. It seemed bizarre to think he was actually healthier now than he had been as a free man. He didn't meet my gaze as he approached the table where I waited for him. When he sat down, the chains around his ankles rattled.
“He needs to be back in his cell in thirty minutes,” the guard said brusquely before he turned and walked over to stand next to another guard who leaned against the wall. I smiled at them but was rewarded with blank stares. I had the distinct feeling they felt the friends and family of prisoners were as guilty as their chargesâas if they were somehow responsible for their criminal behavior.
The guard who had led Tom into the visitors' room watched me with narrowed eyes, his expression bordering on antagonism. His attention made me uncomfortable, so I swung my gaze back to Tom, who appeared to be ignoring me. I began to feel claustrophobic and extremely uncomfortable.
Finally, Tom looked up and frowned at me. “You're that reporter from the newspaper in St. Louis, right? When you called here, I told you not to come. That I changed my mind.”
I nodded and swallowed several times, trying to calm my ragged nerves.
“Why didn't you listen? It's not like anyone's beatin' down the doors to talk to me. No one else even bothered to answer my letters.”
I took a deep breath. “I want to hear what you have to say.” My voice was nearly a whisper, and I forced myself to breathe
in and out slowly. I had an important task to accomplish. I needed to focus and finish what I came to do.
“I was wrong to write to your paper,” Tom said gruffly. “Terrance Chase is dead.”
“Did your letter have anything to do with that special on TV?” I asked.
He didn't respond, just stared down at the table.
“That show brought a lot of attention to the robberyâand Chase. What did you see that prompted you to write to us?”
Still no answer. Just a cold glare, probably designed to make me back off.
“Over six million dollars stolen. Two guards dead, along with Chase's partner.”
No reaction. I met his gaze head-on.
“You don't recognize me, do you?” I said finally.
“I ain't never met you. I'd remember.”
I managed a small smile. “The name Sophie Bauer didn't help?”
He shook his head. “Still don't know you.”
“I'm Sophie. Sophie Wittenbauer.”
He still looked confused, and I wanted to slap him.
“From Kingdom?” Bringing up the small Mennonite town in Kansas where I'd grown up made my stomach clench. Breaking free from that place had been the best thing I'd ever done, and I was certain everyone in Kingdom felt the same way.
This time his jaw dropped, and recognition chased away his perplexity. “You look totally different. Your hair's different. And you're not . . .” He colored and pursed his lips.
“Fat?”
I'd had my ugly, dishwater-blond hair cut short and streaked. Now I wore it in a cute bob I felt looked good on me. Of course, losing so much weight had changed me more than anything else. And trading my one simple, faded, dirty black dress for attractive modern clothes made a world of difference, too. Thinking about the dress I'd worn in Kingdomâtwo sizes too small and with a hem that reached to my anklesâmade my stomach turn over. I would never be that person again. Gone was the unkempt teenager I had once been. And good riddance.
“You look different, too,” I said.
He nodded. “Prison will do that to you.”
“So will changing your life.” I clasped my hands together on top of the table because I didn't know what else to do with them. “After I left Kingdom, I got my GED. I'm working my way through college and will earn a degree in a little over a year. Right now I'm working for the
St. Louis Times
.” I neglected to tell him my current assignment was obituaries and the occasional restaurant review. But hopefully, Tom Ford would be my ticket to writing bigger stories. Stories that mattered.
He stared off into the distance. “Yeah, I understand. I'm hopin' to get another chance someday, too. But right now I'm lookin' at a long stretch.” His eyes locked on mine. “That's why I wrote those letters. Thought maybe my information about Terrance Chase might get me a deal. But nobody believed me. Nobody even got back to me. Until you, that is.”
“There have been a lot of rumors about Terrance Chase. Especially after that TV special. But most of the information has been bogus. Just people wanting to insert themselves into the investigation. The overwhelming belief is that Chase is
dead. An old friend of his swears to it. Says Chase was ambushed and killed. The money taken.”
Tom shrugged. “Maybe I was wrong. Wouldn't be the first time.”
I sighed. “Look, Tom. I saw a copy of your letter. You sounded convinced that Chase is alive, and that you know where he is. Then suddenly you change your mind? It doesn't make sense. Are you afraid of something?”
Tom grunted. “In here?” His gaze darted around the room and then came back to settle on me. The bold, cocky expression he'd been exhibiting slipped a notch. His voice was so soft, I could barely hear him say, “Of course I'm afraid.”
A chill ran through me. I wanted this story. Even if I had to lie. “You don't have to worry,” I said, ignoring a brief twinge of conscience. “Talk to me off the record. I won't print anything you don't want me to. But if you give me something I can use to find Chase, I could go to bat for you. You know, try to get you a reduced sentence.”
His eyes narrowed. “I'll need more than that. You gotta get me outta here, Sophie. Less time and a new prison. Someplace where no one knows me. I . . . I feel like I'm being watched all the time. Ever since I sent those letters.”
Part of me wanted to tell him the truth. That I had no ability to help him. That I was just a peon at the paper. But what came out of my mouth was fueled by my determination to be
somebody.
To prove I wasn't the worthless human being my father had told me I was. An image of his leering face floated through my mind, and I felt ill. “You have my word. I'll do everything I can to protect you. My paper has a lot of contacts. With people who can help you.”
He appeared to consider my offer. Once again his eyes scanned the room. The tension in his expression tugged at my emotions, but I couldn't back down now.
“Tell me why you changed your mind about sharing what you know,” I said. “And tell me the truth.”
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I got a note. Found it stuck under my breakfast plate.”
“What did it say?”
“Snitches get stitches.”
I raised my eyebrows. “No mention of Terrance Chase? How do you know the note was about him?”
He scowled at me. “Believe me, I know. This isn't summer camp, Sophie. When you get warned, you gotta take it serious. You ain't never been in prison. You don't understand.”
“Did you talk to anyone about your suspicions?”
Tom shook his head. “There's only one guy here I trust. A guard. He's been helpin' me get my mail out. After I sent the letter to your newspaper, he came and warned me that I shouldn't let my mail go through the warden's office anymore. I could bring lots of trouble on myself. He smuggled all my other letters out of here himself.”
I frowned at him. “I'm glad you have someone you can trust, but I still don't understand how you know that note was about Chase.”
He sighed dramatically. “It's the only thing I been sayin' that someone would get upset about. Maybe I was overheard. Or someone snatched a letter. I don't know. If one of these guys got wind Chase was alive, they'd be all over it. For the money.”
“Okay. Let's put that aside for a moment. I have some other questions.”
“Off the record. Like you said.”
I nodded. “Off the record.”
“Go on.”
“The only reason I put any stock in your letter was because I remembered a guy named Terry I saw you talking to once. If my memory is correct, he looked a lot like Terrance Chase. If it
was
him, maybe you really do know something the authorities don't.”
“It was him all right.”
I couldn't keep the skepticism out of my voice. “Why would a guy who got away with over six million dollars be hanging out with you?”
Tom smiled. “You mean why would he waste time with a lowlife punk like me?”
I wouldn't have put it that way, but I didn't correct him. It was exactly what I'd been thinking.
“First of all, I didn't know who he was back then. He called himself Terry Martin.” Tom shrugged. “I used to make some money selling license plates I knew weren't gonna be missed for a while. Terry was in the area for some reason. Don't know why. When he heard about my services, he asked for help. That's all there is to it.”
“I don't understand,” I said. “Who wouldn't miss their license plates?”
He began to pick at a piece of loose skin next to one of his fingernails. “Lots of folks in the country near Kingdom only drive to nearby small towns and back and forth to church. They don't pay no attention to the numbers on their plates. And some of the Mennies have trucks they don't use that much. I switched out their tags with those of the guys
my dad arrested. Most of them wasn't gonna be drivin' for a while so they wouldn't realize their plate was gone. If it was a newer plate, I could guarantee almost a year of safe driving.”
Tom sounded almost proud of his ingenuity. When I frowned at him, his expression changed.
“I'm not saying it was right. Back then, all I cared about was makin' money. And gettin' somethin' over on my dad.”
Tom's father had been the sheriff assigned to the county where I used to live. His son's illegal activities had cost him his job.
“How is your father?”
Tom shook his head. “He died last year. Heart attack.” He bit off the piece of dead skin and picked it off his tongue. Then he flicked it on the floor.
“Oh, Tom. I'm so sorry.” And I was. Saul Ford had been a terrible sheriff, but in the end, he'd tried to do the right thing. Even though it had meant his son would spend years of his life locked up in prison.
“Me too. But we made up, you know. He stood by me. Came to see me every week.” Tom quickly wiped away a tear that snaked down his cheek. He sniffed several times and then fought to regain the tough-guy bravado he'd obviously created to make it through life in prison.
“I'm glad. I know he loved you, Tom.”
“Don't wanna talk about that no more,” he said in a raspy voice.
“Okay.” I actually felt sorry for him. Something I'd never expected to experience when it came to Tom Ford. “Then let's get back to Terrance Chase. When you saw him, it was . . .
what . . . a few years after the robbery? Why would he wait so long to get new tags?”
Tom shrugged. “It's easy to fake stickers, you know, for different years. But the metal tag is different. His was shot. He needed new Missouri plates. Two of 'em. I happened to know about an old farmer who died while visiting his family in a small town not far from Kingdom. I took his plates. His truck was just sittin' in a field. No one cared about those plates. Then I told Terry about another guy who could make new stickers. That way you don't have to steal 'em. They can tear if you're not careful. After that, he was set for a while.”
“Did you ever see Terrance again?”
“No. There wasn't a chance. I got arrested for . . . well, you know.”
Yes, I knew. For some reason, neither of us seemed willing to talk about that. “When did you realize who he really was?” I asked.