The Reckoning Trees: A Seth Browne Novel Book One Read online

  The Reckoning Trees

  A Seth Browne Novel, Book One

  Alicia Gilliam

  Copyright © 2021 by Alicia Gilliam

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, IL 60188. All rights reserved.

  Contents

  1. THE COMPLAINT

  2. TRUST ME

  3. RUMORS

  4. AWAKENED

  5. BURDENS

  6. STUCK TOGETHER

  7. GENTLE HANDS

  8. VULNERABLE

  9. THE DESCENT

  10. OBSESSION

  11. BURIAL & RESURRECTION

  12. SECRETS

  13. BETRAYAL

  14. A KIND OF FAMILY

  15. A FUTURE

  Learn more about the author

  1

  THE COMPLAINT

  From the safety of his truck, Seth studied the outline of Maplewood’s tiny shops against the backdrop of its only five-story building, a hotel that stood out like a stranger in a small town. The Maplewood Hotel had been there for years, but around here, it took that long for new things to become old things.

  There was a time he thought of himself as just another dot on this familiar landscape. People in town still treated him like the same old String-bean Seth who’d been dangling off the top of the water tower when he was seventeen. But he was feeling more like an outsider these days, wanting even now to return home.

  He gripped the steering wheel, fortifying his resolve. He was here for a reason, venturing out of the house for answers. The civil servants at the Sheriff’s Office were used to him showing up every few weeks. Seth gathered his wits and his papers and forced himself out of the truck.

  Once inside, he bypassed coffee and small-talk and proceeded directly to a back room where the Sheriff directed him quickly inside, stopping only to suspend the swinging of cheap plastic blinds hanging from his office door. Seth took a seat in a worn vinyl chair and removed his cap. When his trembling hands opened a dog-eared folder, he had to catch his papers before they hit the floor. He took in a deep breath. “I’ve got some new leads. You said to come straight to you.”

  Sheriff Harold Tate parked himself on the official side of the Hill County desk. “I did. I did. Show me what you have.”

  “I know we’ve been focused on the area where we found Amy.” He paused, still unable to bring himself to say, “Amy’s body.” He swallowed and began again. “I thought maybe if we changed our focus and looked more into clues we have about her last days of work.”

  Tate blew his bulging red nose into a handkerchief and interrupted him. “We talked about that, remember? The Gazette didn’t give us anything helpful.” He stuffed the handkerchief into his back pocket. “Did you find something at home?”

  Seth pulled a name from his file and passed it across the desk. “V. Lafayette. I can’t find a first name. But his name’s in Amy’s notes. It stuck out to me because I heard Iris down at the Double Eye refer to a Mr. Lafayette a few weeks ago. I’d never heard of him.”

  “Well, I’ll check the database, but without a first name, it’s a bit of a long shot. It might not even be a real name.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?” Seth shrugged. “If it’s the same person Iris mentioned, she probably already knows everything there is to know about him. I’ll ask her myself.”

  Tate scratched behind his ear and then folded his hands on his desk. “Anything else?”

  “I went back and looked at our phone bills. Amy was on a lot more than usual during that time, and this number keeps popping up.” He handed over another scrap of paper. “When I call it, I never get a live person, but Amy talked to that number several times for at least 10 minutes at a time.”

  “Well, there’s lots of reasons for someone not to answer the phone. I imagine you don’t answer your phone much these days.”

  “I know, but if you could look into it, find out who it belongs to, maybe that could tell us who she was talking to and if it was related to what she was working on during that time.”

  Seth watched the Sheriff push aside the scraps of paper like they were used gum wrappers. Tate leaned across his desk and squinted at him. “Like I told you last time, I can’t afford to keep my deputies working on your case anymore.” He forged a smile. “But I’ll look into it personally.”

  Seth inhaled sharply. “Last time, I gave you a name I found—a Neville. I thought it might be tied to the owner of the Orchards. Did you talk to him or anyone there?”

  Tate leaned back in his chair. “You know the harvest is in full swing, and Mr. Neville’s a very respected businessman.”

  “That’s a ‘no,’ then.” Trying to cork his growing frustration, Seth gathered his things, rose from his chair, and exited the flimsy door. He was halfway to the glass entrance when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “Now see here, boy.” Seth tensed up but did not turn to face Tate directly. “Sheriff, I get it. If I want answers, I’m on my own.”

  Seth pushed through the door and returned to his truck. He had already sweated through his shirt, and the day had barely begun. He turned on the ignition and pumped up the AC. It wasn’t just the August humidity getting to him.

  He needed a few groceries, and he’d promised himself he would check on Maggie Peterson this time. He looked down at his wrinkled T-shirt and then briefly at his face in the rear-view mirror. Miss Maggie would scold him, telling him he looked too skinny and asking when was the last time he’d eaten. If he didn’t eat something, she’d insist on cooking him bologna schnitzel.

  He turned off his truck and instead hiked over to the Double Eye Diner, where he ducked into the corner booth.

  Named for twin sisters Iris and Irene, the diner was home to the best cinnamon rolls and the latest gossip available in Maplewood. “Well, look what the cat drug in.” He might have retreated from the well-meaning busybody waltzing toward him, but the aroma of sizzling bacon and freshly baked sticky buns kept him in his seat. He’d forgotten how to eat anything that didn’t come out of a cereal box or a pre-packaged tray.

  “Hello, Iris. Coffee and the usual.”

  “Sure thing, Darlin’.” She yelled toward the kitchen. “Black water. Poppin’ pork—” But Irene was already on top of it, so Iris sat down in front of Seth and patted his hand. “We hadn’t seen you in a while. What you been up to?”

  “Nothing much. But I did want to ask you about a name—”

  She stood suddenly and began studying him like a confused purveyor of a modern art display. “Seth, you look like a chicken who’s had all his feathers plucked off.” Seth laughed. “I mean it. Look at you. I’m worried.” She sat back down and whispered as if no one could hear her. “Amy wouldn’t want you to go on like this. It’s been over a year. You’ve got to start taking better care of yourself.”

  “Thanks, Iris. I’ll be okay. I promise. About that name.”

  “You know, I have a little redhead who just moved into the area. I bet you could show her around, help her get settled.”

  “No, thanks. As you were quick to point out, I’m not up to taking care of myself, much less somebody else.”

  “You don’t have to take care of her. She has a job. Just meet her. It’s not good for you to spend so much time alone. You need to be with people your own age.”

  “Maybe later.
”

  “Leave the boy alone.” Harvey was in his usual spot, doing the crossword puzzle in the paper. “Take my word for it, son, you’ll live longer if you bypass all the female shenanigans. What’s an eight-letter word for a ‘gesture of approval’?”

  “No idea.”

  “That’s not it. But it has two words. Ends with a ‘p’.”

  “Gesture of approval?” Iris left his booth to go to the kitchen, and Seth set his mind to helping Harvey, glad that the attention had shifted away from his personal life. “Thumbs up?”

  “Ah ha. See Iris, I told you. His mind is tickin’ just fine.” Seth cracked half a smile and held his thumb up to Harvey.

  “It’s his heart I’m worried about.” Iris dropped off Seth’s breakfast and patted his scraggly cheek. The door opened, and Iris’s face lit up. “My, my, look who’s back to see us today.” She quickly waved the stranger over to Seth’s table. “Come, meet my friend Seth Browne. This is Miss Carmen Jameson.”

  He could feel himself reddening before he ever looked up. How had he walked into this? He just wanted some food. He stood and shook her hand. This was undoubtedly the “little redhead” he’d just escaped, now conveniently appearing in the flesh. Her dress was simple but curvy, and the word that came to mind was “bombshell.” Fitting, he thought, because her blue eyes made him want to run away like a man in danger.

  Iris and Carmen chatted over him while he ate. “What do you think, Seth?”

  He was a daydreaming middle schooler again, the one who just got called on by the teacher and who didn’t even know the question, much less the answer. He responded with a pubescent, “Uh, sure?” to which Iris replied, “Wonderful! You can meet here tomorrow at six and go over together!”

  Seth’s face could not hold back the horror of the moment, and he knew it. He faked an excuse of having a headache and quickly escaped the diner with only cursory goodbyes. Without another thought of groceries or Miss Maggie Peterson, he cranked up his old truck, rumbled down Main Street, and followed the ruts in the road that conducted him safely home.

  Frank Neville was trying to fill out a form in his primary doctor’s waiting room. His birthday? He’d been a patient here for over 30 years. Didn’t they know when his birthday was by now? He flipped the pages on the clipboard. Five pages. Only one question about his actual symptoms. Ridiculous. He got up and knocked on the glass at the front window.

  “Yes, sir?”

  He handed her the nearly blank form and poked his crooked finger across her desk. “I’m in your little computer there. Just tell Dr. Barnett I need to ask him some questions.”

  “Is there an insurance card?”

  “You’re new here, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve been here about two months, sir.”

  “Just tell Dr. Barnett I’m here, okay?”

  He had always carried his broad shoulders and thick chest proudly, but he’d found it hard to walk upright lately. The pain in his abdomen was growing. He needed to know—was it his gall bladder? An appendix about to burst? Cancer?

  He returned to the waiting room chair, and his phone rang. “What’s wrong?” He adjusted his tie. “Because you only call me if something’s wrong. Well, what did he say exactly?” The color drained out of his face.

  Mr. Neville looked tentatively around the room and walked outside. “If she left a paper trail, why are we just now finding out? You’ve had a year . . . .” He ducked into the backseat of his dependable Cadillac Deville and noted the distracted face of his driver in the rear-view mirror. “You’ve had a year to bury this thing, Tate.” He closed his eyes and dug his finger into the groove between his collar and his neck. “You know I prefer not taking such extreme measures.”

  “Carmen? She’s a delivery girl. Why drag her into this? Yes, she is, but she’s already got her hands in practically everything. Besides, do you think she’ll keep to your plan?” He rubbed his hand over the creases in his forehead. This was bad news all the way around. “Very well, but let’s meet and go over the details. I’m not comfortable with this yet.”

  After returning his phone to his suit pocket, he patted down the remnants of his fine grey hair and motioned for his driver to leave. His stomach would have to wait.

  Seth pulled his clunky blue truck into the clearing beside his home, a long-standing clapboard house that had aged alongside the trees that surrounded it. He noted a familiar little boy wandering through the woods toward him. He waved and called out, “Hi, Benji. You hungry?” It was only then that the forgotten groceries came to mind; he wondered what was left in the kitchen to share.

  But Benji shook his head no and stopped short of coming closer. It was an unusual move; the boy usually came for food and then left. If he wasn’t here for food, then what? “Everything okay?” Seth approached slowly, stopped a few feet away, and squatted to get eye level. “You need something?” No reply. “Want to sit with me?”

  Benji moved cautiously closer and sat on the ground, legs crossed, his cheeks resting in his hands. Seth mirrored him, and they both stared at the ground between them, a kind of no-man's-land. He reached out to point at the superman emblem on the boy’s shirt, but the little face pulled back instantly. Seth threw up his hands. “I’m sorry.”

  They sat on the edge of his yard in the shade of a thick oak where grass refused to grow and leaves had collected over years of neglected raking. Seth found a small stick and wiped a clearing in the leaves. After drawing a tall stick figure and a short one in the dirt, he wrote their names, circled the picture, and labeled it. He pointed at all the words he’d written. “Benji. Seth. Friends.”

  With a creased forehead, Benji stared at the picture for a long time. Seth started to wipe it away and draw something else, but Benji stopped him without the use of words or touch, just sounds of displeasure which reminded him of a wounded animal. “We’ll leave it there. And if the wind blows it away, we can draw it again, okay?”

  Benji sniffed, nodded, and stood up. Seth held out the stick, and the little boy shyly took it and ran back through the woods. It had been an agonizing twenty minutes for Seth. He wanted to take the child into his lap and give him a hug and a place to cry, but it wasn’t Benji’s way.

  He brushed the leaves off his jeans and went into the house, where he dropped into a worn leather chair. The day had exhausted him, and it wasn’t even noon. He dozed off in front of his laptop.

  When he awoke, his computer was dead and his neck stiff. He searched for his charger in the bedroom and found instead a haunting image of himself in the mirror. His normally thin frame was gaunt, his hair was sticking well beyond the boundaries of his cap, and his five o’clock shadow had become an untamed forest of ash brown. His eyes were hollow. He tried a fake smile. I look like a scarecrow.

  He looked around the bedroom. Clothes dropped everywhere. An empty cereal box by the bed and crushed water bottles piling up in the corner. His box of pictures spilled on the floor. Iris was right. Amy would be ashamed of him.

  After making overdue use of a razor and the hair clippers, he stood in the shower longer than necessary, procrastinating.

  Finally, he returned to the doorway of his bedroom. He needed to clean up, but the spilt photographs across the room would not let him. He should be able to walk over there and throw them back in the box and put on the lid. But it was like Pandora’s box; once opened, he couldn’t stuff the contents back in. Once looked at, he couldn’t stop the cycle. He hated being controlled by it; he wanted freedom, but he couldn’t relinquish it either.

  He left the house without touching them. He couldn’t be here right now. Too many ghosts.

  He took a walk through the woods and found himself sitting on the pier of Sweetgum Pond. The few tourists that made it this far east might have enjoyed the view of beautiful sweetgum trees reflecting in the still waters, but local barefoot swimmers kept their heads down to watch out for the spikey balls scattered up and down the shore.

  He wondered if he could drown in the
few feet of water below him. People had drowned in less, but not on purpose. He knew his instinct to survive would kick in. If he was going to go, he’d have to be more aggressive about it. Iris would tell Harvey, “I told you so.” Harvey would tell Iris, “Let the boy rest in peace.” Sheriff Tate would be glad to get rid of him.

  That last thought was just the little spark needed to light up the embers that had been smoldering since this morning. He had started to do a little searching on Tate but forgot to go back and charge the laptop. Not that he actually expected to find anything; he needed a private detective but couldn’t afford one.

  Tate had been the sheriff in Hill County for as long as he could remember. Seth had believed him, that the case was cold, that clues had dried up. But for the last few months, Tate had become increasingly evasive. He wasn’t even trying that hard to appear helpful anymore.

  Seth headed home, hooked up the charger to his laptop, and tried cross-referencing Harold Tate’s name with all the other names he had brought to the Sheriff’s office. He spent three hours confirming what he already knew: he wasn’t qualified for research jobs.

  He pulled out a small bulletin board propped up against the wall in his bedroom and added an index card with Tate’s name on it to the sparse collection of names and numbers and measurements he had collected related to the investigation. He set it up against the mirror and studied it. This is how he’d seen them do it on CSI, but it wasn’t working in Maplewood.

  He had suspected Tate of laziness and incompetency, and he was beginning to wonder if the sheriff had thwarted the search for Amy’s killer. He could never prove such a thing, but that was an easier pill to swallow than the thought of her death being permanently labeled “unsolved.”

  He flopped himself face down on the bed and then remembered why he’d left the house again. After flinging himself across the floor, he crammed the pictures into the little pink box and ran outside. He seized the first thought that popped into his mind and hurried to his workshop, where he hastily buried the box under a pile of scrap wood. He stood staring at it, as if waiting for the box to come to life and chase him back to the house.