When Sparrows Fall (41 page)

She found two file folders labeled with her name and Carl’s. She opened the one marked with her name and recognized her own words written in
Mason’s crisp, square printing. He’d always been a stickler for neatness and accuracy.

Her hands shook as she hid the files in her gigantic purse. Without revealing the Walmart bag’s contents, she tucked it into Abigail’s box.

“Make sure you take the bag all the way to your destination,” Miranda said, keeping her voice low. “I’m returning something that belongs to you.”

“Thank you, dear.” Abigail smiled, but the strain showed.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. I’ve already said all I can say, but his heart hasn’t changed.” Her eyes snapped with anger. “I could have picked a different time, but this is perfect. He’ll have to explain my disappearing act.” She set the box down long enough for a hug so quick that nobody would have noticed if they hadn’t been looking at exactly the right moment.

“Good-bye,” Abigail whispered. Taking the box, she walked into the sunlight, right past Jack, who waited on the driveway. He nodded. She nodded back and kept going.

Miranda rejoined him, her heart pounding.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Just watch. And don’t get involved, whatever you do.”

As casual as could be, Abigail proceeded to the middle of the lawn. She looked up at the men on the roof, then at the women working in the flower beds.

“I hope you all know how wonderful you are,” she said.

Some of the women smiled at her; some kept their eyes on their work.

“I love you all,” she added in a brisk tone, “and don’t you ever forget it.” She shifted the box in her hands. “Has anybody run across any more boxes marked for the thrift store?”

“Not me,” somebody called back.

“All right then,” Abigail said. “I’ll put this one in my car.”

It was hardly an award-winning performance, but it served its purpose.

Her shoulders squared, she walked down the steep slope, her skirt swaying
with her gait and her old-lady shoes sending bits of gravel flying. She disappeared behind the curving line of dark pines. Moments later, the Buick’s engine came quietly to life, its sound muffled by the belt of trees. No one paid attention.

Abigail was on her way. Miranda had no more excuses. Even if DFCS swooped down on her house, they wouldn’t find the children, who would be either with Yvonne or with their legal guardian. Safe.

She heard Robert Perini’s gentle voice and looked over her shoulder to confirm it. His gray hair sprinkled with sawdust, he’d joined Wendy on the lawn. They shared a smile of approval as they surveyed the flower planting.

Miranda looked up at Jack. “I wish I’d been able to tell you everything days ago,” she said quietly. “Weeks ago. Years ago. But it wouldn’t have been fair to you.”

His forehead wrinkled. “Would you please speak in plain English?”

Define terms
, she thought, lightheaded.
Dig for the truth. Earn it, and you’ll own it
.

“The truth is coming out. About a number of things.” She stopped, wishing she could halt time long enough to be sure she knew what she was doing. No. She could only proceed. “Jack, do me a favor, please. Take out your phone and dial a number.”

He pulled his phone from his pocket. She recited the number she’d memorized as she’d sat facing the fridge with that shiny black cape over her shoulders.

Frowning, Jack placed the call and lifted the phone to his ear. “Who am I talking to?”

“Not you. Me. I’m doing the talking.” She held out her hand. “Please.”

“Darlin’, I’ve just about had it with your little mysteries,” he said, but he relinquished the phone.

Thomas Dean answered, and she spoke into a cell phone for the first time in her life.

thirty

J
ack was convinced of it this time. His ears had gone bad. Miranda could not have called the cops—on herself—for some vague, generic crime. “That’s right, 3742 Hollister Road. I’ll be here.” She handed the phone back.

Numbly, he hit the “end call” button. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Taking away the weapon he’s been using against me.”

“Who?”

“Mason. They’ll believe him, they’ll follow him, unless I deal with him. Once and for all.” She made a slashing gesture with her hand. Her purse gaped open, revealing manila folders.

“What the—”

She placed one finger on his lips. “Hush. It’s my turn to talk. Let me handle this. I mean it, Jack. Don’t get involved.”

With her head held high, she walked across the grass and onto the porch steps. She drew some looks, but she also caught friendly smiles from the friend
with the baby bump and her pale, shy daughter who’d baked those dreadful sourdough muffins. The Perini women.

Miranda stood tall on the top step, her jeans and bright sweater in sharp contrast to the drab dresses and skirts of the pansy planters. “Don’t move to McCabe,” she said in a clear, strong voice.

In front of her, a ripple of surprise ran through the pansy brigade. Behind her, the teenager lowered his paintbrush and frowned at her back.

“Ladies, don’t let your husbands sell your homes,” she said. “Don’t let them quit their jobs. Mason never had a word from the Lord. Mason had a word from Mason, and it was:
Run.
”

A tall woman, a formidable tower of denim, stepped out of the ranks with a pot of bright yellow pansies in her hand. “Miranda Hanford, you should be ashamed of yourself. Touch not the Lord’s anointed.”

All stony determination, Miranda kept going. “Mason is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He—” She stopped.

The wind had picked up, slapping the halyard against the flagpole in a repetitive, annoying jangle. Clamoring for attention, it competed with Miranda, but she’d stalled.

She looked at Jack, her eyes filled with tears and misery. “I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can,” he said, “if you should.”

She studied her toes, then raised her head and addressed the crowd again. “Mason has been unfaithful to Abigail. I’ve spoken with her, and it’s true.”

Miranda’s pregnant friend gasped, the color draining from her face. “It’s Nicole, isn’t it? I had a bad feeling about those two.”

“Nicole,” the woman’s husband echoed quietly.

People standing nearby caught the name and repeated it on a dozen startled tongues.

“Nicole? What about Nicole?”

“I thought so … I saw things …”

“This explains …”

The pregnant woman, Wendy Perini, put her arms around her husband. They clung to each other. They were listening. They were giving Miranda her chance to speak, and Jack blessed them for it.

“It’s over,” Miranda told the crowd. “Mason’s leaving town to keep it quiet. That’s why he wants all of us to move. That, and he wants the tithes from the profits when we sell.”

“Tithes,” Jack said. “I knew it. Money, power, sex.”

“Somebody needs to drag that man outside,” Wendy said. “I want a word with him.”

The teenager set his paintbrush on the lid of the paint can. “I’ll get him, Mom.”

He disappeared inside the house. One of the older women followed him at a run.

Miranda’s shoulders sagged as if she’d spent all her energy. Jack tugged her toward the edge of the lawn. She gripped his arm with both hands, like Martha had clung to the newel post in fear of coyotes.

News of the drama in the front yard spread fast. People began to drift outside, through the half-painted front door and through the garage. One of the men on the roof climbed down the ladder and sat cross-legged on the grass, combing it with his fingers. Everyone watched the house and waited. The halyard smacked the flagpole again and again, clanging and banging like an alarm bell.

The tall woman in denim began gathering like-minded people to her side. She twisted her hands together, over and over, speaking quietly. Rallying her troops. But an equal number of people drifted away from her, toward Miranda and the Perinis.

The church divided itself into two camps, about equally matched. A few people, including the man who sat combing the grass with his fingers, remained uncommitted.

The Perini boy exited the house, leaving the door open. “He’s coming.”

Mason stepped into the doorway. His pleasant smile faded as he took in
his waiting audience. “What’s going on?” He zeroed in on Miranda. “What are you doing here?”

Miranda disentangled herself from Jack. “Mason, would you tell us about your relationship with Nicole, please?”

Mason shook his head. “What relationship? You have an evil imagination.”

“How do you know I wasn’t asking about a pastoral relationship?”

He spread his hands wide, appealing to the crowd. “You know Miranda,” he said. “She has a history of this kind of thing. Lies and insinuations.”

“Oh, really,” she said. “I do remember disagreeing with you about a number of things, but I don’t recall lying about any of it.” She turned toward the Perini couple. “Robert, you’re in the inner circle. Do you recall that I told lies?”

“No,” Perini said bluntly. “Never.”

His wife kicked an empty plastic flowerpot, sending it onto the sidewalk with a shallow clatter. “Never,” she echoed. “Miranda’s not a liar.”

Mason smiled sadly. “Come now, Wendy. You aren’t privy to everything that goes on in this church. Neither are you, Robert. Trust me, though, when I say that Miranda’s rebellion has been brewing for a long time. She wants to malign my good name, after everything I’ve done for her, and that hurts.” His voice remained steady. Calm. He knew how to work a crowd.

“Listen up, folks,” he continued in that friendly tone. “Miranda’s been through a lot, and maybe she’s a little unhinged right now. She needs our prayers, not our condemnation.”

Perini let go of his wife and closed in on Mason. “I don’t think you’re telling the whole story. I’m starting to understand why Nicole left the church.”

“Nicole left because she’s a rebel with an attitude problem,” Mason said.

Wendy Perini put her hands on her hips, accentuating her pregnant belly. “I should call and get her side of it.”

Mason’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and he clenched his hands into fists. “Don’t—don’t you bother that young lady,” he said, his face turning red. “She has nothing to do with Miranda’s crazy stories.”

“We’ll see,” Wendy said. “We’ll see.” She turned to Miranda. “Where’s Abigail?”

Miranda shook her head. No one else tried to answer the question.

Mason’s eyes darted every which way as murmuring spread through the remnants of his flock. Several of the younger women sat on the grass in a semicircle. Some of them began to cry. A handful of men drifted out of the garage and stood in the sun, talking in low voices.

Apparently satisfied with the damage she’d wrought, Miranda returned to Jack. Taking his hand, she whispered in his ear. “I almost feel sorry for him.”

“Don’t,” Jack said. “He doesn’t deserve mercy.”

“Neither do we. That’s why it’s called mercy.”

Jack didn’t know how to answer that.

The man who’d remained on the roof came down the ladder. He retracted it with a great metallic rattling, tipped it sideways, and gave a mocking salute to Mason. “I’ve heard enough. I’ve seen enough. You can finish your own roof.”

“You don’t understand,” Mason said.

“I do,” said the Perini kid. “I understand.” He ran lightly up the steps, right under Mason’s nose, and replaced the lid on the paint can. He had the same pale coloring as his old-maid sister, but the set of his jaw hinted that he’d be making his own decisions. “I’m done,” he said.

The door was half green, half brown, with a few stray brush strokes of green encroaching on the brown. He left the door open and joined his parents and his sister on the grass.

The tall, denim-clad woman stalked up the steps to stand beside Mason, and a few of his other supporters joined her. Five men and three women, they huddled there with Mason, speaking quietly. Jack strained his ears but couldn’t make out what they were saying.

Down on the road, a vehicle slowed. Silence fell, like the dark hush before the first drops of a rainstorm. No one spoke. No one moved.

Mason squinted toward the road, and his face changed. Smiling like a crafty fox, he waited.

About the time Jack had reached the end of his patience and was on the verge of saying something—anything—Mason cleared his throat and struck a pose like a politician on the campaign trail. Head high, chest puffed out, hands relaxed.

“Let’s get back to Miranda’s problems, shall we?” he said. “Why doesn’t somebody ask her about her son who died? Her first son. The one she never talks about.”

Jack wanted to storm the steps and pop the guy in the jaw. “That’s off limits.”

“It shouldn’t be. She concealed the death of a child. Her own child. Check it out, Jack. There’s a secret grave on her property.”

“What?” Jack sought Miranda’s eyes. “Concealed? Secret?”

She nodded her head, barely.

Stunned, he tried to process it. He’d assumed Jeremiah was buried in a cemetery somewhere, beside his father’s grave. Legally. Or cremated, legally.

“A secret grave,” Mason repeated. “That’s a felony. Isn’t it, officer?”

Tom Dean walked slowly onto the grass. His gun hung from his hip. Handcuffs too. They glinted in the sun. He stopped a few feet from Miranda.

The cavalry had shown up again. This time, it was on the wrong side.

Dean had never looked more mournful. “Mrs. Hanford, is there any truth to this allegation?”

“It’s true,” she said in a steady voice.

“Let’s walk down to my car, ma’am.”

Jack’s mouth filled with a metallic taste, and he wondered wildly if Dean would read Miranda her Miranda rights. A sick joke.

Jack seized her arm. “She’s not going anywhere.”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Hanford,” Dean said. “I can’t pretend I didn’t hear what I just heard in front of a crowd of witnesses.”

“Don’t interfere, Jack,” Miranda said. “Please. Don’t do anything to get yourself arrested. The children need you.”

Dean gave him a warning look. “Let me do my job. Don’t even follow us down to the road.”