Into the Light Read online

  Entermann’s had purchased it two years earlier from a bankrupt developer. The developer, Uriel Harris, had snatched up numerous run-down and vacant properties over a ten-year span. His plan had been renovation, all hinging on tax breaks and grants. Though the tax breaks had been approved, the revenue base continued to drop. That was when Entermann’s stepped in and bought it for pennies on the dollar.

  Before Harris, HBA Corporation made a bid on the property. It’s one of the largest builders of hospitals in the country. I understood that the size of the building meant it would have made a good hospital, and the area needed health care; nevertheless HBA was outbid by Wilkens Industries. Fifteen years earlier, Wilkens had paid $5 million for the property, purchasing it from Highland Heights.

  What I found interesting was that the old firehouse and the large building beside it had at one time also been owned by Highland Heights. The money trail for the firehouse was different, but currently it was owned by Wilkens Industries. The building housing The Light was owned by The Light, a not-for-profit, paid in full, having been given to the ministry by Marcel Clarkson, a wealthy benefactor.

  I made a note to research Marcel Clarkson and tried another route. I called a friend at Preston and Butler.

  “Jenn?” I asked, hearing her voice on the other end of the line. She and I’d hung out after work on more than a few occasions. Her choice in men always lent itself to some late nights filled with plenty of beer and pep talk. I hadn’t seen her in a while, not since leaving the firm, but I hoped we were still close. “It’s Stella Montgomery.”

  “Hey, Stella, what’s up? How are you doing?”

  “I’m good. I’ve been working a story, and I was wondering if you could help a friend out?”

  “I’m not sure,” she replied. “But I’ll give it a try. What do you need?”

  “I’m following a trail on some property. I keep seeing Entermann’s Realty coming up. I remembered that the realty firm was a client of Preston and Butler. Would it be possible to send me a list of all the properties they currently own?”

  “Jeez, I’m not sure.”

  “Jenn, I totally get it, but if you could, you’d save me a ton of time, and I can’t tell you how depressing this has been. I keep coming up empty on all counts.”

  “Stella, for all those times you sat and listened to me bitch about Jimmy, I’ll give you this. Can you give me a day or two to get it all together? Then I’ll e-mail it to you.”

  I bit my lip. “How is that scumbag?”

  She laughed. “You always did have a way with words. I actually kicked his lazy ass to the curb.”

  “Good for you!”

  “Yeah, you convinced me I didn’t need a man around. We need to hang out sometime.”

  “We do. I’d love to catch up. Guess what?”

  “What?”

  I smiled. “I’m kind of dating someone.”

  “No way! Single-for-life Stella . . . we do need to catch up. Just tell me he’s not like Jimmy.”

  “So far no, and he’s employed.”

  “Sounds like a winner. I’ll get that list together as soon as I can and send it to your e-mail.”

  “Thank you!”

  I hung up and tried a search for Wilkens Industries. Founded in the early nineties by the original CEO, Marcel Clarkson . . . ding ding . . . it served as an umbrella for a few defined subsidiaries. In 2000 Clarkson stepped down due to medical reasons and was replaced by Matthew Lee. He was still the CEO. Under Lee’s supervision Wilkens Industries had grown exponentially. The board of directors read like a who’s who of nobodies. With last names like Smith, Johnson, and Jones and first names like Robert, Steve, and John, I couldn’t have found the individuals unless I’d entered a board meeting and asked for their Social Security numbers. Being as Wilkens was a privately owned company, accessing its payroll records would take some time. Though it was private, I was able to access tax information through IRS records. Currently the net worth of Wilkens Industries was listed near $55 million, with a plethora of diverse investments and subsidiaries, one of which was Entermann’s Realty. Ding.

  Interesting.

  As the clock neared four fifteen, I closed my search and sent a text to Dylan.

  Stella: I’M MEETING A FRIEND FOR DRINKS. I’LL CALL WHEN I GET HOME.

  Dylan: IF YOUR FRIEND IS A FIREMAN, WE NEED TO TALK BEFORE THEN.

  I grinned.

  Stella: YOU’RE THE ONLY PUBLIC SERVANT I PLAN ON TALKING TO. MY FRIEND’S FEMALE.

  Dylan: GOOD TO HEAR.

  “That’s the best smile I’ve seen on your face all day.”

  I looked up at Foster. “I haven’t had a lot to smile about.”

  “Still coming up empty?”

  “I just feel like I search for days and all I do is go in circles.” I shook my head and stood. Oh, my back didn’t appreciate sitting at a computer all day, but after my scare in Highland Heights, I wasn’t in the mood for surveillance either. “Hey, I meant to tell you. I spoke to Dylan. Whatever you found isn’t connected to him. His parents are deceased, and he doesn’t have a rich uncle.”

  He nodded. “I haven’t had a chance to follow up. I know you don’t want me to, but I probably will anyway, just to keep Bernard happy.”

  I shrugged. “Fine, have at it. You’re wasting your time. I’d rather have you help me figure out how Uriel Harris is connected to Wilkens Industries.”

  “Uriel Harris, the developer?”

  “Yeah. He owned some property I’m looking into.”

  “He owned a lot of property, paid way too much for it, and lost his shirt.”

  “That’s what I saw. His loss was definitely Entermann’s gain.”

  “Are you looking into Entermann’s holdings or their tax write-offs? They purchase shit property all over the city so they can take the loss. It’s not uncommon, but they’re one of the best.”

  I nodded. “That makes sense. I was wondering why they owned so many dilapidated buildings. I hope to get the full list of their holdings soon.”

  Foster smiled. “I’ll be glad to take a look when you do. Sometimes two sets of eyes are better than one.”

  “Thanks,” I said, grabbing my purse and phone. “I need to run.”

  “It was good to see the smile.”

  I grinned as I made my way to the elevator.

  This time as I walked into Jumbo’s, Tracy was waiting for me. She had a short glass of a dark drink. It looked like Coke, but judging by the way her face scrunched as she sipped, I suspected it contained something stronger. “Hi,” I said, sitting down. “Bad day at the morgue?”

  She huffed, blowing her bangs in the air. “Is there ever a good day at the morgue?”

  CHAPTER 27

  Sara

  Despite everyone’s best efforts to the contrary, my past continued to begin the day I awoke in the clinic, nearly four months ago. My cast was gone and my body healed. It was my mind that couldn’t remember. Over time my closest friends, Raquel and Elizabeth, shared secrets from our past, and Jacob continued to remind me of forgotten memories. Each story or statement helped me reconstruct a time I couldn’t recall and gave me glimpses into my former self.

  Since the end of our banishment and our return to The Light, the community, and our lives, when I was with Jacob, whether in public or in private, my movements no longer required conscious effort—they belonged to him. While my mind continued its struggle, my body willingly submitted. With a touch, a glance, or one word, his expectations were made clear. Though some small part of me resisted, the sensible part of me wanted to be the best wife an Assemblyman could have. After all the support from the unified Assembly wives, as well as the way Father Gabriel had welcomed us back to the congregation, I understood that Jacob and I truly were part of the chosen. The idea that I’d somehow almost jeopardized it made my heart hurt.

  After we first returned to the community, I had problems. Often I’d awake in the middle of the night chilled to the bone, my heart racing, engulfed in
darkness. The terrors of my nightmares included dragons with foul breath and razor-sharp teeth as well as a faceless man screaming stop in the darkness. Once awake I’d fall victim to an overwhelming sense of remorse—guilt over what I’d almost taken away from not only Jacob, but myself. When I felt that way, I was careful not to wake my husband. I’d usually move from his embrace, cling to the far edge of the bed, and muffle my tears with my pillow.

  I knew Father Gabriel’s teachings; I studied hard. According to him, once a correction was complete, the transgressor was freed from the responsibility of the sin. It was done, as if it’d never happened. Yet I didn’t feel free.

  One night as I clung to the far side of the bed and my body shuddered with muffled cries, Jacob’s warmth came behind me. I froze, completely unable to move and fearful that he’d be upset. Instead, his arms once again surrounded me and he asked, “What is it?”

  I’d been crying too long; my words didn’t form. All I could do was shake my head.

  Gently he rolled me toward him, and in the darkness he asked me two things: “Who are you?” and “Who am I?”

  I tilted my head to the side, pondering his unusual questions. With stuttering breaths I replied, “I’m Sara Adams and you’re my husband, Jacob Adams.”

  He tenderly wiped my cheek with his thumb, and brought our noses together. Whispering softly, he said, “That’s all that’s important. Go to sleep.”

  Though it seemed too simplistic, he was right. Concentrating solely on us, I curled into his warmth and laid my head on his chest. With the sound of his steady heartbeat against my ear, I drifted to sleep. When I awoke the next morning, I remembered not having been able to answer him the first time and my overwhelming sense of guilt and loneliness. I expected a reprimand, more questions about what had happened, or a lecture on how all my thoughts were his. He didn’t mention it.

  The next time the dragon’s hiss woke me, instead of rolling away, I cuddled close and remembered his questions. As his even breaths flowed across the top of my head, I reminded myself of who I was and who he was. Before long I drifted back to sleep. In time the dragons faded away.

  Although I knew I should talk to Jacob about my nightmares and guilt over the accident, my courage to do so waned with each passing day. After all, if I’d followed Father Gabriel’s teachings, I would’ve told Jacob immediately. I knew the penalty for disobeying; I’d experienced it more than once.

  It wasn’t until I had multiple consecutive nights of uninterrupted sleep, while we were alone in our apartment, that Jacob asked me again about what had happened. He led me to the sofa and calmly demanded answers.

  “Sara, I’ve been waiting for you to tell me this on your own. Obviously you haven’t. I’m not sure why, but I want answers. Tell me why you were crying during the night.”

  I took a deep breath, wanting to be truthful, but equally fearful of his reaction. “It started as nightmares. I think.” I tried to explain. “That’s what woke me, but then I believe it was my guilt.” My chest heaved. “I still can’t believe I risked everything here, you and our friends, by taking your truck. I don’t understand why I’d do that. I don’t think I would, but obviously I did.” A tear fell from the corner of my eye.

  He lifted my chin. The way he stared stripped me bare. His soft brown eyes sought not only me, but my honesty. I didn’t look away, nor did I want to. Captive in his grasp, I needed him to see my sincerity. Holding my breath, I waited for his gaze to narrow and his voice to lose emotion.

  “What does Father Gabriel say about correction?” His eyes still searched, while his tone remained full of emotion.

  I exhaled. “I know. I do. I know we were banished and now we’re back. I know it should be gone.” Unable to move my chin, I lowered my eyes and slid my lip between my teeth. I’d confessed and now all I could do was await the punishment I deserved for doubting Father Gabriel’s teaching.

  “Sara, it’s not that it should be. It is.”

  I nodded, and my body trembled. “I do believe it, but I just don’t know . . .”

  He lifted my balled hands and opened my fists, finger by finger, until he could kiss my palms. Then, with his thumb, he gently freed my lip. “Why are you so tense?”

  “Because I know Father Gabriel’s word, but I must not be living it. If I were, I wouldn’t have those thoughts, a-and I don’t know what you’re going to do.”

  “What do you think I should do?”

  My heart sank as the dinner we’d just eaten churned in my stomach. I hated when he asked me. Those simple questions turned the responsibility back to me. I didn’t want it. It was his. Again I tried to lower my chin, but to no avail. I sighed and added to my transgressions. “I’ve also kept something from you. I didn’t tell you that this was going on for a few weeks.”

  His grip on my chin tensed.

  “I didn’t want you to worry,” I added hastily.

  “Have you felt this way lately? Have you awakened in the middle of the night upset without telling me?”

  I shook my head. “Not since the night you asked me who we were. Well, only once, and when I did, I did what you said: I reminded myself of us and stayed close to you. Since then, nothing.”

  Jacob exhaled. “Sara Adams, what does that tell you?”

  “That I should be punished for not telling you sooner?”

  His hands slipped to my arms, moving up and down with a ghostly soft touch. “It does say that you should have told me sooner, but no, this isn’t about correction. It’s about learning. Thoughts come and go; it’s dwelling on them that’s detrimental. The way you let them go is to release them to me. If I punished you for your thoughts, why would you share them with me?”

  I hadn’t thought of it that way.

  “The accident,” he went on, “is over, and now that you’ve shared your sense of guilt, it’s over. I want all of you”—he caressed my cheek—“even if it’s a part that hurts and makes you cry. Give it to me. Once it’s mine I won’t let it hurt you anymore, and no more apologizing for what’s in the past. Remember, it’s as if it never happened.”

  Nodding, I fell against his chest. Even though in my mind our history was short, as his arms wrapped around my shoulders, I knew I was where I was meant to be. My earlier feelings of doubt no longer existed.

  As we made our way through the temple, when Jacob slowed or stopped to speak to other followers, I’d slow or stop with him. As we arrived at the room where the Commission and Assembly wives met for prayer, he reached for my hand, and I peered up through my lashes. When my light-blue eyes met his, my heart swelled at his silent message. I might not remember the beginning of our life together, but we’d found our way back. In the crowded hallway, his brown eyes, the slight upward turn of his lips, and the squeeze of his hand said more than words. The shimmer of suede in his eyes and partial smile told me that he loved me, while the grasp on my hand warned me to think before I spoke. I didn’t need the warning because I had no intention or desire to receive his correction.

  Though I’d relearned Father Gabriel’s lessons well and knew my place, my continual area of downfall was my inquisitiveness. No matter how hard I tried, there were times when my mouth spoke before my brain could tell it to stop.

  Eleven of the women gathering in the room I’d entered were my sisters, equal sisters under Father Gabriel. All the Assembly wives had made a significant sacrifice for me when they cut their hair. Truthfully, it had also been a show of support for Jacob. Without their husbands’ consent, it never would’ve happened. As I glanced about, I was glad that all our hair was growing. Most of us could at least gather it at the backs of our heads, but nevertheless I’d never forget their gift. As we gathered together, we showed affection with a hug, squeeze of the hand, or warm greeting. Although the Commission wives hadn’t cut their hair, they’d also welcomed me back without reservation, even Sister Lilith.

  Father Gabriel taught to forgive and forget. That was what Jacob said I should do with Brother Timothy and Sister L
ilith. While I’d forgiven, forgetting wasn’t as easy. Not only did I remember, I also wondered why they hadn’t been punished for the way they’d treated me. After all, Jacob had said it wasn’t their place. The night I voiced that question aloud, to my husband, gave a prime example of my mind not controlling my tongue. As soon as I had asked my question, it hung in the air like a cloud, and I immediately knew it was wrong.

  “Sara?” Jacob said, using his emotionless tone and narrowed gaze. “Who are you that you can question Father Gabriel’s decisions?”

  In the past he’d told me not to kneel; an Assemblyman’s wife shouldn’t be on the ground. The first time he’d mentioned kneeling, the idea had seemed incomprehensible. Yet four months later, when his voice and eyes reprimanded, I had an almost irresistible urge to fall to my knees. It wasn’t that I wanted to beg for mercy; mercy was at his discretion. It was that his simple cues filled me with an overpowering sense of shame as I realized that I’d failed him once again. Instead of kneeling I respectfully bowed my head and, through veiled eyes, apologized: “I’m sorry. You’re right; I don’t have the right to question Father Gabriel’s decisions.”

  Thankfully, that night I received only the tone and the gaze. Though Jacob was probably more lenient and patient than many of the other husbands, since I’d awoken I’d received correction by Jacob’s belt a total of three times. Never, other than when I first awoke, had he struck me with his hand, and never had he willfully harmed me. He made it clear that it was as he’d explained: discipline, not abuse, and even though each time my transgressions outnumbered one, he never gave me more than five lashes. That was more than enough to help me remember to try harder.

  As everyone sat for prayer, I noticed Deborah, one of the Assembly wives, wince. It wasn’t obvious; however, since we’d all experienced it firsthand, we were proficient at catching the subtle signs of correction. Each time, we’d offer support, while reminding our sister, as Raquel had reminded me after my first correction—in my new memory or new past, as I liked to think of it—to thank God and Father Gabriel for a husband who loved enough to correct. Yet as Deborah settled into her chair, I knew my thinking was wrong and I needed to confess it again to Jacob. Instead of telling her to be thankful, I wanted to tell her to talk to one of the Commission wives, and I wondered why they didn’t notice.