The Dying Hour (10 page)

I
n Eugene, Oregon, in the upper-floor communal bathroom of the New Halo Women’s Mission, Julie Kern was drying herself off with a towel, grateful to have bathed in private.

It was the first time in weeks she didn’t have to shower with strangers. The water was hot here, the pressure strong. Halo was a good place.

No sleeping mats on the floor. No fears about someone swearing at you, punching, robbing, or raping you. No reek of body odor or urine. It was a safe place to work on her plan, she thought, walking to her private room.

It was small and barren, except for a cot. Halo’s policy and mission statement were posted above it. Among the rules, “guests” were to immediately report all communicable diseases; they faced instant eviction for possession or use of contraband, such as alcohol or illegal drugs. Halo also offered a range of services including help to those seeking it for times of “suffering, loneliness, sorrow, turmoil, danger, and fear.”

Same old, same old.

Abide by our rules, we offer a helping hand with a touch of the Good Book. The shelters Julie had known were all the same that way. Their conditions were another story. Some were so bad, Julie preferred the street, or sleeping under a stairwell, or in a bus station toilet stall, which was where Eugene police found her before they brought her here.

Julie dug deep in her backpack for fresh underwear, jeans that were fairly fresh, and a top that was pretty clean. She’d use the laundry room tonight. At the mirror she combed her hair and struggled to ignore the ravages of acne on her blotched skin and the scar that shot like a lightning bolt from her temple along her hairline, fading toward her right ear.

The mark of her fate.

Her mother and father had died in a train wreck that had left her in a coma for seven months. At age fourteen, Julie emerged orphaned and brain-damaged. She had no family to take care of her. The little insurance her parents had went to Julie’s medical bills and she lived with a succession of distant in-laws. In her last home, her aunt’s boyfriend abused her.

Julie was sixteen when she fled.

She didn’t know what she was running to, only that she had to escape. Eventually she descended to the street, becoming addicted to alcohol and crack. She turned to prostitution and small crimes to survive as she drifted aimlessly across the country. At times Julie felt she was a ghost.

Her sliver of hope was her plan.

An older cousin, the only good person she knew, lived somewhere in California. He had a successful car wash business and Julie wanted to work for him. Get off the street. Get her life together. Trouble was, she couldn’t locate him. Each time she got close, seizures from her injury and her addictions would take control and confuse her. Julie would often awake in a park, a shelter, a hospital, or a jail.

That was the extent of her life since the night her parents died.

Julie was now twenty-six. Still clinging to her plan, the only thing she owned in this world. Here she was in Eugene, Oregon, trying to get to California. This time she believed she could make it.

Halo would let her reside rent-free for sixty days. Counselors would help her find a job, one where she could save enough to get to San Diego.

Julie was certain her cousin lived there.

After brushing her hair, Julie was feeling optimistic and decided she would treat herself to a cup of tea. It wasn’t too late in the evening when she went downstairs to the basement and the large dining hall. Nearly empty except for a few women, hunched over a card game.

The walls featured colorful paintings done by children. Pictures of sunshine, rainbows, and happy-faced stick people. Above them, enlarged postings of rules and Scripture. At the far end of the hall there was a table with a coffee and tea service. Reaching for the teapot, she tilted it over a cup to pour. It was empty with nothing else in sight. She was too late for tea.

“Shit.”

“Can I help you?”

Julie turned, startled by the man who’d come up behind her.

“Oh, Father.” Julie guessed that’s what he was by his white collar. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”

He was holding an old leather-bound Bible in his hand.

“Just doing some reading.” He indicated the table in a corner near the piano. “You looked a bit lost.”

“I’m new here. First time.”

“Can I help you?”

He had a warm smile under his beard. A soft whispering voice that went with his kind eyes. Suddenly Julie was self-conscious, feeling her face blush, aware how it exacerbated her skin condition.

“No, I—thank you, Father.” She carefully set the empty teapot down.

“Anything on your mind, dear? Anything you’d like to talk about?”

Julie didn’t know what to say.

“You wanted some tea?”

Julie nodded. He glanced about the room. The women at the far end hadn’t noticed them.

“I’ll get you some. Come with me.”

He turned. Instead of walking to the kitchen door, he led Julie from the dining hall, making her a bit curious before she reasoned that maybe he was taking her to his office or a counseling room.

None of the cardplayers saw them.

As they climbed the stairs to the main floor he asked over his shoulder, “What kind of tea do you like, dear?”

“I’m not fussy.”

“Well, I have quite a selection.”

He went to the main entrance, stopped, and opened it to the street. The creaking door yawned to the night.

Julie stopped in her tracks.

“It’s in my wagon.” He smiled. “I have some donations there. I thought perhaps you would help me move a few small boxes into the Mission.”

She considered his request. It was common for shelters to ask the people they helped to help them with light chores. He gestured with his Bible hand and smiled.

“I’m just parked down and across the block.”

Julie smiled and stepped outside. Fog had rolled up from the Willamette River, clouding her vision as she walked with him. A shiver rippled through her mind. Funny, he would park such a distance and out of sight from the shelter, especially when he had boxes to carry.

“Not much further.”

They crossed the street to an alley as Julie recognized the outline of an RV. Keys jangled, he inserted one, then opened the door for her to step inside. It was dark. She took a few steps from the cabin area. The door thudded closed behind them and lights came on.

Looking toward the rear, Julie took stock of the RV, its lamps, its veneer paneling. What she saw next raised the tiny hairs on the back of her neck as the reverend raised his arm high, growling as he smashed his fist against Julie Kern’s head, sending her into a world of darkness.

J
ason Wade led his story with Marlene Clark’s belief her sister was not dead.

It was human nature to hope. An act of faith, until proof to the contrary stared back at you from a crime scene, a morgue, or a coffin.

Forty-five minutes later Jason filed to Vic Beale on the night desk. Then he polished off the cold remainder of his burger and fries, ruminating on Marlene Clark’s resolve, floating back to his timeworn hopes of seeing Valerie again, or learning the truth about why his mother had walked out on him and his old man.

Jason shook it off as he crumpled his burger wrapping.

He had work to do. He pulled out his notes of his interview with Gideon Cull, then ran Cull’s name through the Internet. He got about thirty hits. Most were from the last five years, for conferences, lectures. A couple of color profiles in community weekly papers on his ecumenical and charity work. A few years back, he was with a group that traveled the Pacific Northwest in RVs helping homeless people and motorists stranded on the Interstate.

Helping stranded motorists. Like Karen Harding?

Man, he was getting a bad feeling about this guy. There had to be something more to Cull.

Astrid Grant and Ben Randolph stopped at his desk.

“Jason, you’re back from your trip to the hills,” Astrid said.

“Here I am.”

“I liked your stuff,” Ben Randolph said. “How was it out there?”

“A beautiful but lonely place to die.”

“How can you stand writing that murder stuff? I can’t even read it,” Astrid said. “It makes my skin crawl.” She pointed at the emergency scanners. “And how can you write with this incessant noise going on? This is inhumane. God, it would drive me absolutely insane.”

“It’s my job,” Jason said. “You two are working late.”

“I’m wrapping up an exclusive,” she said. “Animal surgeons at the zoo are going to perform an organ transplant between two lions.”

“Cool.”

“We have great pictures. Neena loves it. It’s going on page one tomorrow,” she said. “Oh, Ben’s got a big one coming.”

“Yeah, what’s that?” Jason asked.

“Finalizing permission to ride along in a 747 to Tokyo and back,” Benjamin said. “Security’s been tough, but a source of mine from the FAA is making calls. I’m going to do a feature on a day in the life of a charter pilot. If clearance comes, I’ll leave in a few days.”

“Wow.”

“Just read your latest on the Benton County body,” Ben said. “Looks like a drug-addicted hooker from Spokane had a bad date.”

Astrid suppressed a giggle.

“She was someone’s daughter, you know,” Jason said.

“That sounded cold, I know, but judging by your piece there’s no link to Seattle at all. And unless something breaks, it looks like the missing college student story could sputter.”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss it.”

“We’re going to the cafeteria,” Astrid said. “Can we get you anything?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

It was clear to Jason they didn’t consider him or his work competition, he thought, watching them walk away. To hell with them.

All seemed quiet, so he resumed pursuing Cull, informing the night desk he was going to the newsroom library, tucked in the far corner of the floor. Nancy Poden, the sole librarian on night duty, raised her head from her monitor when he leaned on the counter.

“Oh, a customer.” Nancy was thirty-one, had a pleasant, well-scrubbed face, brown hair with a jawline page cut. “You’re one of the interns. Jason?”

“Yes, hi. I was wondering if you could help me with a search. But keep it confidential.”

She poised a sharp pencil over a small pad. “What’re you looking for?”

Jason glanced around to be sure they were alone.

“The man’s name is Gideon Cull.” He spelled it. “He’s in his fifties, a minister or chaplain. Also a college teacher of religion. Here’s a page from the school’s Web site. He might be affiliated with prisons, street ministries, stuff like that.”

“What do you need?”

“I need to know as much about him as possible, going back as far as you can go. He lives here now but could be from anywhere.”

“You want a shotgun search then?”

“Exactly, any criminal convictions on the database. And check old wire stories, profiles. Anything and everything, no matter how obscure.”

“I’ll get started right away.”

“Thanks. Please keep this just between us.”

It would be good to get something concrete on Cull. Something he could check out, he thought. As he walked back to the newsroom he thought he heard someone call his name.

Someone familiar.

He dismissed it until he was actually in the newsroom and heard a commotion.

“Jason!”

He froze.

Heads turned to a man trudging through the newsroom. He was in his fifties, wearing an open plaid work shirt over a T-shirt, worn jeans, work boots, and a ball cap.

“Jason Wade! Somebody please tell me where he is!”

It was his old man.

Jason hurried over to him, keeping his voice low.

“Dad, keep it down. What is it?”

His father’s bloodshot eyes widened in stunned recognition. He swayed, then his expression contorted as he focused on Jason, raising his arm to point a finger. “How come you don’t call me back? Huh? Whatzamatter, huh, Jay!”

“Please lower your voice, Dad.”

“Answer me!” Spittle shot from his mouth.

“I’m sorry.” Jason looked around the newsroom. Concerned night staffers had stood, bracing to come closer. “Dad, let’s go sit down over there.” He nodded to a darkened, empty reception area.

“No!”

Two female copy editors peered from behind the half-opened door to the women’s restroom.

“Dad, please.”

“You listen to your old man!”

Jason took his father’s shoulder, but he shrugged it off hard, nearly losing his balance. “Don’t I matter to you anymore, Jay!”

“Dad.”

Beale rushed up with more men who’d emerged into a circle around them. Jason’s face burned. Astrid, Ben, and a few others were back from the cafeteria in time to witness the scene. Astrid was picking at a muffin. Ben was eating an apple. Keys jingled as a security officer trotted up.

“I’m sorry, folks. He just got by us.” The officer extended one hand. The other went to his utility belt and pepper spray. “Sir, you’ll have to come with me now.”

Beale raised his hand.

“Hold up, Larry.” Beale looked at Jason. “I think it would be a good idea for you to take your father home now.”

Jason was paralyzed with humiliation.

“Jason,” Beale repeated.

Jason approached his father, who surrendered in silence, satisfied he’d made his point. As he hurried to collect his things to go, Jason noticed Astrid smile in disbelief at Ben.

“Ben,” Beale said. “Can you pull some overtime at the cop desk, listen to the scanners for a couple of hours?”

“Sure.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jason said to Beale and the others as he escorted his father from the newsroom, the security guard walking closely behind them. “I’m really sorry.”

Jason managed to load his old man into the backseat of his Falcon.

Driving through the city, he felt everything slipping from him. Felt all he had worked for had died right there in the newsroom. His skin prickled at the faces of the night staff who’d witnessed the spectacle.

“Jay,” his father mumbled from the back. “I just wanted to tell you how proud I am of you, son.”

Jason stared out at Seattle’s skyline. Then out at the bay as he rolled south on 99, south beyond the airport until the brewery loomed, with its somber cluster of brick buildings, their stacks rising into the night, capped with the blinking red strobe lights. Then came the stench of hops. It invaded the car, coiled around him, slithered inside him, angering him, for he now realized it was something he could never, ever escape.

He wheeled through his old south neighborhood, familiar with every turn, every bump, every pothole, every timeworn, weather-beaten tree, fence, and landmark that had been there since he was a kid.

He parked his Falcon in the driveway, found his key to the house, and got his old man into bed. After working off his father’s boots, Wade covered him with a blanket.

On the floor, a few ancient snapshots faced upward.

Wade’s father smiling in uniform. Before Wade was born, his old man had been a Seattle cop. He had to quit the force after two years. Wade never knew why. It was something he never,
ever
spoke of. His father then failed to make a go of it as a private investigator before he ended up working in the brewery.

There was another photo of his parents beaming, his mother’s arms around Wade, who was glowing. He was seven with his new red bike. Their faces, all of them, radiant on a day when his world was perfect.

Wade wouldn’t leave tonight, in case his father needed him. But he refused to sleep in his old room. He had left this house. He had a place of his own. Still wound up, he found an old Bogart movie, watched it with the lights off, trying not to think about anything. When it ended, he pulled out a blanket and pillow and stretched out on the couch, his skin still tingling over what had happened.

He could hear his father snoring.

Here they were, two men who had pushed away the women in their lives, alone in darkness. And it was going to get darker. He sure as hell expected to be fired from the
Mirror.
Suddenly he was gripped by the image of the brewery. If he didn’t rise above his circumstances he would be drowned by them. He stared into the night, thinking of Karen Harding and Roxanne Palmer.