Blind Side
Page 114
She looked at the statue of Roosevelt and said, “If you had lived any longer, would you have announced to the country that you were willing to be president for life? And would the people have elected you?”
She half-expected an answer, and smiled at herself when the crashing water was the only thing she heard. Then there was something else, footsteps coming up behind her. She didn’t turn. She thought it was one of her bodyguards, come to check on her, and that was comforting. She stood there, wishing something made sense, wishing she was back in Jessborough, with Miles and Sam and Keely, all of them, in her house that had been magically rebuilt, her mother smiling as she came from the kitchen, carrying a tray of cinnamon buns. She craved another evening filled with tuna casserola and laughter.
She nearly jumped straight into the air when a voice behind her said, “There you are, the little princess.”
Katie froze.
“That’s right, just stay right where you are. Don’t move a muscle.”
Katie didn’t even consider a twitch.
“All right. Turn around and face me.”
Katie slowly turned.
“Surprised to see me, Katie?”
“Yes. Everyone believes you’re dead.”
Elsbeth McCamy shook her head. “They won’t for much longer. I hear they’ve nearly dug all the way through the ruins of my beautiful house. They’ll soon find just one burned body, not two. Poor Reverend McCamy, not even buried yet, left under all that rubble, all that rain pouring down on him. No! Don’t you move, Katie Benedict!”
Katie held utterly still.
“I know I shot you on Saturday, but here you are, walking around this ridiculous memorial. I just couldn’t believe it when I saw you leave that big fancy house of yours this morning, looking all chipper, herding those children off to school like any good little mother.”
Suddenly, she started shaking, and the gun jerked in her hand. “Dammit, I shot you! Why aren’t you dead like you’re supposed to be?”
Katie heard hate and despair in her voice. And a bit of madness. She said, “It appears you’re not a very good shot.”
“I practiced, dammit, practiced for a good week before I hunted you down in that park!”
“People watch TV, see lots of violent movies, and think that when you fire a gun you kill someone, but it’s just not true. No matter how good a shot you are, it’s difficult to hit what you’re aiming at. Don’t feel too bad, you didn’t miss me. You shot me in the hip.” Katie lightly rested her hand against her upper thigh. “It aches a bit, but I’ll live.”
“I’m only two feet away from you now, Katie. When I shoot you this time, you’ll die.”
That was surely the truth. Where were her bodyguards?
“I had to stay back in the park since you were with those other federal agents, and that new husband of yours. You really landed on your feet, didn’t you, Sheriff? Nice big house, husband kissing your feet, so much money you must think you’ve died and gone to heaven.”
“Actually, I really didn’t think of it quite like that,” Katie said. Where were her bodyguards? Probably close, they surely couldn’t have lost her coming through the memorial. There wasn’t another soul around. Maybe they didn’t want to intrude on her when there was no one here to threaten her?
“I wanted servants, but Reverend McCamy only wanted God, and me. Always God first, me second. He didn’t want servants to come into our home and intrude on his privacy. So I did everything myself, even made brownies. How he loved my brownies. I made them from scratch, stirred together all that chocolate and chocolate chips and pecans, but I didn’t eat any. He didn’t like any fat on me, said it would be a sacrilege.
“Do you know that he studied his palms and his feet every single day? He prayed until his knees were raw, offered God everything he had, probably including me, if He would just bring back the sacred stigmata one more time. But God didn’t answer his prayers.”
“The story from Homer Bean was that Reverend McCamy had experienced the stigmata when he was a child. Did you believe that?”
Elsbeth McCamy nodded. “Of course. It’s all he could talk about, all he could think about. He would picture it, envision it happening again over and over in his mind, but it never did. He was furious with his parents for not recording it for posterity—to show to his congregation, to prove he wasn’t like those crooked loud-mouthed televangelists, that he was blessed by God himself.”
“I’ve given it a lot of thought, Elsbeth, and do you know what I think?”
She half-expected an answer, and smiled at herself when the crashing water was the only thing she heard. Then there was something else, footsteps coming up behind her. She didn’t turn. She thought it was one of her bodyguards, come to check on her, and that was comforting. She stood there, wishing something made sense, wishing she was back in Jessborough, with Miles and Sam and Keely, all of them, in her house that had been magically rebuilt, her mother smiling as she came from the kitchen, carrying a tray of cinnamon buns. She craved another evening filled with tuna casserola and laughter.
She nearly jumped straight into the air when a voice behind her said, “There you are, the little princess.”
Katie froze.
“That’s right, just stay right where you are. Don’t move a muscle.”
Katie didn’t even consider a twitch.
“All right. Turn around and face me.”
Katie slowly turned.
“Surprised to see me, Katie?”
“Yes. Everyone believes you’re dead.”
Elsbeth McCamy shook her head. “They won’t for much longer. I hear they’ve nearly dug all the way through the ruins of my beautiful house. They’ll soon find just one burned body, not two. Poor Reverend McCamy, not even buried yet, left under all that rubble, all that rain pouring down on him. No! Don’t you move, Katie Benedict!”
Katie held utterly still.
“I know I shot you on Saturday, but here you are, walking around this ridiculous memorial. I just couldn’t believe it when I saw you leave that big fancy house of yours this morning, looking all chipper, herding those children off to school like any good little mother.”
Suddenly, she started shaking, and the gun jerked in her hand. “Dammit, I shot you! Why aren’t you dead like you’re supposed to be?”
Katie heard hate and despair in her voice. And a bit of madness. She said, “It appears you’re not a very good shot.”
“I practiced, dammit, practiced for a good week before I hunted you down in that park!”
“People watch TV, see lots of violent movies, and think that when you fire a gun you kill someone, but it’s just not true. No matter how good a shot you are, it’s difficult to hit what you’re aiming at. Don’t feel too bad, you didn’t miss me. You shot me in the hip.” Katie lightly rested her hand against her upper thigh. “It aches a bit, but I’ll live.”
“I’m only two feet away from you now, Katie. When I shoot you this time, you’ll die.”
That was surely the truth. Where were her bodyguards?
“I had to stay back in the park since you were with those other federal agents, and that new husband of yours. You really landed on your feet, didn’t you, Sheriff? Nice big house, husband kissing your feet, so much money you must think you’ve died and gone to heaven.”
“Actually, I really didn’t think of it quite like that,” Katie said. Where were her bodyguards? Probably close, they surely couldn’t have lost her coming through the memorial. There wasn’t another soul around. Maybe they didn’t want to intrude on her when there was no one here to threaten her?
“I wanted servants, but Reverend McCamy only wanted God, and me. Always God first, me second. He didn’t want servants to come into our home and intrude on his privacy. So I did everything myself, even made brownies. How he loved my brownies. I made them from scratch, stirred together all that chocolate and chocolate chips and pecans, but I didn’t eat any. He didn’t like any fat on me, said it would be a sacrilege.
“Do you know that he studied his palms and his feet every single day? He prayed until his knees were raw, offered God everything he had, probably including me, if He would just bring back the sacred stigmata one more time. But God didn’t answer his prayers.”
“The story from Homer Bean was that Reverend McCamy had experienced the stigmata when he was a child. Did you believe that?”
Elsbeth McCamy nodded. “Of course. It’s all he could talk about, all he could think about. He would picture it, envision it happening again over and over in his mind, but it never did. He was furious with his parents for not recording it for posterity—to show to his congregation, to prove he wasn’t like those crooked loud-mouthed televangelists, that he was blessed by God himself.”
“I’ve given it a lot of thought, Elsbeth, and do you know what I think?”
