At the Edge of a Dark Forest Read online

  Carly’s little gasp jolted Cole. He stared at his shoes. “I was the only one left with injuries. Becket, on the other hand, was left with nothing.” The confounded tear escaped. He squeezed his facial muscles trying to stop the burning in his eyes and nose. He buried his face in his arms, resting on his bent legs. “He sacrificed his life for mine, because I was too drunk to be vigilant.”

  The sound of the water rushed his eardrums. Cole wished it could wash him away. Or at least wash away the stain of his guilt. But Cole knew nothing could bring Becket back from the grave.

  The gentle touch on his shoulder startled him. The scent of coconut nearing. Carly didn’t speak. He didn’t want her to, but her presence gave him a sort of calm.

  She hadn’t left.

  He lifted from his position. “We better get back.”

  Carly stood close and held his arm to still him. She placed her hand on his cheek. He held it there with his own. She pulled up on her tip toes. Was she going to … ?

  Her lips brushed his. He moved his mouth with hers, taking in the scent of coconut and fresh pine. She pressed closer into him and kissed the scar at his lip and the line up his cheek. Cole placed his hand on her face and led her lips back to his. They worked together as if they’d known each other a very long time.

  Carly pulled back and took in a deep breath.

  His fingers went to the disfigurement of his face, remembering the feel of her lips against it. “It’s still there.” He couldn’t help but grin, thinking of their fairytale. “The Beauty’s kiss was supposed to change me.”

  She shook her head, and whispered, “I can’t change you.”

  He tapped his myo-electric arm. “But you’ve made me whole.”

  Carly winced. “No, Cole. Only God can make you whole.”

  He jolted and pivoted on his good leg. She had to ruin the moment with that word. “I don’t want your God.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  AT THE EDGE OF A DARK FOREST

  by Connie Almony

  Cole bolted up from his bed sucking in air as if it were his last. His chest filled and emptied.

  Up—Down.

  Up—Down.

  He scanned the room. The shelves of classic novels his grandfather had amassed over his lifetime had stood sentry since before it had been his father’s study.

  He was safe. Not in Iraq. No IEDs or rapid machine-gun fire. Still, the image of Beckett’s body dispersing in a cloud of smoke haunted his waking vision. He hadn’t even seen the explosion in real life, but it replayed in his mind’s eye just the same.

  Would it ever be erased?

  His diaphragm labored against the breath that struggled to fill his lungs. He scrubbed his face with his intact hand. The package seemed to call from his closet.

  No. Cole wouldn’t go there. But until he destroyed it, he would never rest. He flung off his sheets and scrambled to the floor, crawling—two limbs, two stumps—until he made it to the closet. He dug past the shoes and boxes on the floor then found the package and scanned the name again.

  Forsythe.

  Closing his eyes against the lettering, he dropped his head. He couldn’t destroy it. It’d be like murdering Beckett all over again. Cole would have to open it.

  Eventually.

  “MANNY, I NEED YOU to drive me somewhere.” Cole stood at the open door of the chauffer’s garage apartment.

  Manny blinked, ran his hand through his bed-head, and yawned big. He peered at his watch. “It’s six in the morning.”

  Cole shifted his weight to the prosthetic leg. “I know what time it is. I need to get to the liq—”

  Manny’s eyes shot wide.

  “I mean, you need to take me into Fairwilde.”

  Manny shook his head. “Man!” he spat. “I thought you were gonna do it this time. I thought you were gonna stay sober.”

  Cole fumed. “You don’t know anything. I need to get into town.”

  Manny’s gaze held firm. “I know that look. Same one my father had when he ‘needed’ a bar.” He checked his watch again. “The liquor store isn’t even open yet, but you think you need to go now.”

  Cole ground his teeth and almost hissed. He scanned through the doorway at the text books stacked beside Manny’s computer. “What would happen if you lost your job and housing before you finished your on-line degree?”

  Manny’s mouth dropped open, but he stood taller as if to defend his position.

  “I expect you dressed and ready to drive me by eight o’clock.” Cole hobbled down the wooden stair case. “Otherwise your own car better be packed with your belongings.”

  EIGHT O’CLOCK. Cole, now showered and ready for the day, came out to find Manny’s VW Bug loaded, and Manny carrying a large, green trash bag. He glanced at Cole. “I’ll have to come back for the rest of my stuff. It won’t fit in my car.”

  Cole’s nostrils flared. This was not what he had in mind. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m fired, right?” Manny shrugged. “I’m leavin’.”

  “Where’re you going to live?”

  Manny shrugged again. “I don’t know. I’m hopin’ maybe Sam’ll take me in. He’s pretty cool.”

  Yes. Everyone seemed to think Sam cool.

  Cole narrowed his eyes. “You’d leave before taking me to a liquor store?”

  Manny dropped the trash bag into his trunk. “Either that or become complicit in your alcoholism. After seeing you go through the DTs, man,” he shook his head warily, “I’m not doin’ that again.”

  Why had Cole allowed himself to be so exposed? “Become complicit?” His jaw ached as it oozed of sarcasm. “Such big words they teach on-line college students these days.”

  Manny stared at his feet.

  “You’re willing to lose your job rather than take me?”

  Manny nodded, still watching the ground.

  “You have nowhere to go. Fairwilde isn’t teeming with opportunities.”

  “I’m not taking you.”

  “Then give me the keys to the limo.”

  “Joe’s got ’em.”

  “What?” Cole seethed. Manny knew Cole would never get them from Joe. He stomped back toward the manor, but stopped at the edge of the drive and turned. “Go back to your garage, Manny. You need me too much.” Cole waited until Manny raised his eyes.

  Your staff would crawl over broken glass for you, Cole.

  Cole straightened to full height. “Just know this, I don’t need you.” He pivoted and entered the side door. He strode through the hall to his bedroom, lifted the cordless phone off the receiver, and punched in Jurvis’s number.

  “Hello.”

  “Jurvis, I have a job for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  Cole listed off the items he’d been craving over the past month.

  Jurvis sighed contentment. “It’s about time. I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

  COLE HAD WAITED by the side entrance, but would not allow Jurvis to come in. He’d send Jurvis on his way after he retrieved the bags of goodies he’d ordered.

  “The others don’t know yet, huh?”

  Cole grasped the sack and shook his head. Why did it feel so underhanded to do what one wanted to do?

  “If you’d like, I could take you out to lunch. Have some drinks there.”

  Cole shook his head again. “Got business here to tend to.”

  “Maybe another time, then.”

  “Sure.” Cole stomped through the door and toward his room before anyone could discover what he carried. He hid one bag under his bed and opened the other.

  Scotch. His old friend.

  He drew in a breath and cracked the seal of the bottle, licking his lips like a starving lion.

  It burned as it first slid down his throat, but seemed to fill gaps aching for its sustenance. He sighed deep and hard, before taking another swallow.

  The closet door didn’t seem so ominous now. One more sip, and he could open it, rummage for the package, and uncover its ho
rrors.

  He tilted the bottle and swallowed … and swallowed … and swallowed, again … until the bottle was drained.

  Cole dropped it to the floor, licked the remainder of liquor from his lips and closed his eyes relishing the last drops on his tongue.

  He walked across the floor, toward the closet, but his prosthesis seemed to protest against the working of his mind. Had he forgotten how to make the leg move?

  He’d get there if he had to crawl.

  The door squeaked as he hinged it opened. He dropped to his good knee and lifted the envelope from the floor.

  The name taunted him so he held fast with the myo-electric grip and shredded the paper with his left hand like an animal devouring its prey.

  There was nothing left of the envelope. Only the black, leather book it contained, and a piece of paper sticking out from the pages, folded over the title: The Holy Bible.

  Cole swallowed as he struggled to control the burn in his eyes, his nose, his throat. He opened the cover and read the name written in a familiar chicken scratch: Beckett Forsythe. Why had someone sent him this book?

  Cole pulled the paper from inside. He’d gone this far, he might as well open that too.

  “What are you doing to me, Beckett?” He pressed the letter flat. “Will you ever let me be?”

  The handwriting was tidy. Not Beckett’s. Who could have sent this? He scanned the missive to find out.

  Dear Second Lt. Harrison,

  I’m sure you are wondering why we are sending our son, Beckett Forsythe’s, Bible to you at this time. You see, it was his request we do so upon his death. I’m sorry to say when we first received it so many years ago with instructions on his wishes, I could not part with it. Beckett, being my only child, it was all I had left of the man who’d gone off to war and it was a reminder he’d remained strong in his faith till the end. Notions like that give a mother much comfort, because it reminds me I will see him again one day.

  Please forgive me my selfishness, taking so long to honor his wishes. I needed time to read through the passages he’d underlined since becoming a Marine and run my finger over his notes in the margins. I’d missed the boy he’d grown from, but now had an opportunity to meet the man he’d become.

  I understand why he’d want you to have his most prized possession. He’d often spoken of you and how you’d helped him become a better Marine. As his mother, I am truly grateful. I suspect you may have had something to do with the maturity of his faith since he left home. Otherwise he wouldn’t have wanted you to have this gift.

  Again, please forgive me for holding it from you for so long. Beckett’s father and I would love to meet you some day. If you are ever in town, you are welcome as our honored guest.

  Sincerely,

  Julia Forsythe

  Cole leaned back against the side of the bed and heaved reluctant oxygen into his lungs.

  Honored guest? She’d spit in his face if she knew the truth.

  The maturity of his faith? Ha!

  Cole crunched the letter in his fist and peered heavenward. “I hate You.” How could he hate something that didn’t exist? Or did it? “Why are you taunting me, God?”

  He lifted the black book to fling it across the room, but a section of pages dropped out from the middle. He picked up the unbound section of the book and peered at the title across the first of its pages.

  Psalms. Beckett’s favorite. Written by the warrior king. Was his name David?

  Cole tossed the pages and the book on his bed and exited the room.

  CARLY CAME FROM the kitchen and almost ran into him. “Cole. Where’re you going?”

  He continued on, heading out the back patio door, the lingering scent of alcohol in his wake. She followed.

  He strode with force and purpose toward the stable.

  “Cole!”

  He didn’t turn. Something was very wrong. Carly was set to leave the next day, and she suspected Cole had had a relapse.

  He entered the stable. Carly heard his and Joe’s voices in heated debate. She opened the door.

  “You’ll ride Lightning drunk over my dead body.” Joe stood a good six inches shorter than the ex-Marine who’d made a point to tower over him. With or without limbs, there was no doubt Cole could fulfill Joe’s wishes.

  Cole balled his fist and seemed to consider the option. He skirted left. Joe blocked him. He skirted right to find Joe there again.

  “Out of my way.”

  Joe didn’t budge.

  “This is my property.”

  “Do you hear yourself, Cole? You sound like a spoiled little boy.”

  “And you’re not my father.”

  The words seemed to stab Joe. “Then fire me.”

  Cole’s jaw hardened. “Don’t tempt me.”

  Joe stood taller.

  “You can’t stand here all day.”

  Joe glowered.

  “Fine.” Cole pivoted and strode past Carly as though she weren’t even there. “I’ll be back,” he called over his shoulder.

  Chapter Fourteen

  AT THE EDGE OF A DARK FOREST

  by Connie Almony

  Carly packed her car to the gills with every last bit of her things. Tempted to leave behind a book or two—a statement she’d be back—she changed her mind, reasoning she might need something to read at the courthouse between hearings. It was as if something here drew her and frightened her at the same time? The sound of the trunk slamming shut thumped through her bones—like the period at the end of a sentence.

  “Got everything?” Joe approached from the long drive.

  “Yep. I guess it’s time to go.” A hollowness echoed through her. Was it really time to go? She thought of Cole’s drunken behavior yesterday. There seemed to be so much unfinished business. Did he regret their kiss? Did she?

  “How long will you be away?”

  She blew a strand of hair from her face. “No telling how long the trial will take.” Her gaze seemed to drift past Joe on its own hoping to see some movement inside, telling her someone else would come out to say goodbye.

  “He’s asleep.” Joe answered the question she wouldn’t ask. “Or passed out. Not really sure. He had one drained bottle on his nightstand, another untouched.”

  Why did she want to sob on Joe’s shoulder right now? “Is he drinking because I’m leaving?”

  “No. You didn’t cause this. Mrs. Rivera says he’s been acting strange since he got a package the other day.”

  Carly shifted. “A package? What was in it?”

  “No one knows.”

  She shook her head. “It feels wrong leaving now. Maybe I can do something. Help him. Challenge him again.”

  Joe placed a hand on her shoulder. “No. You’ve done all you can. You need to be with your father, now.”

  “But—”

  Joe raised a palm. “You can’t let his drinking rule your decisions.”

  “I don’t want to leave him like this.”

  Joe’s smile was melancholy. He searched her face as if knowing all that was in her heart. How she felt about the man she would not see for a very long time. “Leave this one to God, Carly. I believe He’s called you away because He needs to do this work with Cole alone.”

  “But Cole doesn’t believe in God.”

  Joe chuckled. “That’s what he keeps saying. It’s his way of telling God, ‘talk to the hand’ when in reality he’s just mad. He needs to get over his tantrum and finally hash it out with his Creator.”

  Carly’s shoulders fell. “He won’t do that.”

  “Oh, yeah? Then why did I find him in bed asleep with a Bible on his nightstand and loose pages of it beside him?”

  “Loose pages?”

  “Yeah, like they’d fallen out from over use.”

  Could she hope? “Where’d he get a Bible?”

  “Who knows.” Joe opened her car door. “Don’t worry about Cole. You take care of your dad.”

  She sighed long and hard as she stepped into the vehi
cle.

  “And don’t forget to pray.”

  COLE PRIED HIS EYES open one at a time. Boy, was that sunlight bright. He should have pulled the blinds before he’d fallen asleep reading the tiny type and worn notes of Beckett’s psalms. He hadn’t even thought of sleep. It just took him on its own.

  His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as he peered at the clock’s LED display—12:07PM. Half the day gone already.

  Was Carly gone too? He groaned at the thought of missing someone who never really belonged to him. His fingers touched the side of his face, remembering the tenderness of her lips against his scar—like maybe she could love every part of him. Or maybe she had only pitied him.

  Why let people in when they only left?

  The amber liquid of the Jim Beam bottle behind the clock came into focus. He unstuck his tongue and wet his lips. A shot glass sat beside the bottle—unused. He’d brought it from the kitchen hoping to feel less savage in his attempts to slay another bottle from the stash Jurvis had bought him, but the bottle had yet to be opened. The black, leather book sat in front of it.

  Beckett’s pages. Where were they? He lifted the comforter, the sheets. Nothing. The pillow beside him. A deep sigh escaped as he grasped them from the mattress.

  It was only then Cole noticed the dull ache in his head. A bottle of scotch will do that to you. He placed the palm of his intact hand over the front of the Psalms, then ran his fingers over the notes in the margins—the ones Beckett’s mother had cherished. The ones that taught her about the man he’d become. Cole had spent the last part of the day and into the night reading through those pages and deciphering the handwriting, trying to make sense of the young man who sought death to save him.

  Why would anyone do that? Beckett had everything to live for—a family who loved him. And yet he risked it all to extend a useless life.