The Reckoning Stones: A Novel of Suspense by Laura Disilverio

Outback Cottage provided it. It would take a team of draft horses to drag her through that door again.

eleven
    mercy
    Twenty-Four Years Ago
    Outback Cottage originally belonged to the house, the
out-of-place Victorian built by a fanciful settler in the late 1800s who prized both isolation and ostentation. His only surviving son, an early Community member, had willed the house and cottage to the Brozeks. Pastor Matt’s mother-in-law, Zach and Esther’s grandma, had lived in the cottage until she died the summer before Iris started eighth grade. Pastor Matt declared that he was donating the cottage for the use of a caretaker who would be responsible for janitorial and maintenance work at the church, but when no candidate stepped forward, the cottage stayed empty. The first time fourteen-year-old Mercy Asher stepped over the threshold, she thought it smelled like an unemptied cat litter box mixed with the kind of floral perfume that made her think of Nana Asher. She sneezed. She couldn’t imagine why Pastor Matt wanted to meet her here, instead of in his office or one of the worship center’s meeting rooms, but he’d said something about an important project.
    A gilt-framed mirror hung over a narrow table in the tiny entry hall and a two-foot tall iron cross, thin but heavy looking, hung across from it. Fusty old people furniture and knick-knacks—lacy doilies over faded brocade upholstery and porcelain figurines and glassware—made the cottage feel like old Mrs. Wellington had just stepped out. Mercy felt uncomfortable, like an intruder, even though the woman had been dead for a year. She almost expected one of Mrs. Wellington’s six or seven cats to come wind about her ankles, but they were gone, too.
    “Pastor Matt?” When there was no answer, Mercy poked her head into the kitchen, dim with the shutters closed. A gleam caught her eye and she traced a forefinger over the spout of a delicate china teapot painted with forget-me-nots. It sat on a ledge that ran at eye level around the attached dining area.
    “No one saw you come in, did they?”
    Pastor Matt’s voice sounded behind her, and Mercy whirled, long braid whipping. “No, sir. You told me to keep it a secret.”
    He smiled, big white teeth out-gleaming the fine china. “Good.”
    Mercy relaxed a tick, happy to have earned his approval, and wished she could open a window to let in some light and air. The stuffy rooms felt smaller somehow, now that Pastor Matt was here, even though he wasn’t that tall. He gave the impression of being bigger than he was. Partly, it was his squared shoulders and thickening torso, but mostly it was his personality. He had a kind of presence that enveloped you, that draped itself over you, Mercy had thought more than once, that made people feel good about themselves and him. Not like her mom who too often made people feel smaller with the way her eyes cut away from them, or that little sniff she gave to signal contempt or disappointment, or the way she was all the time cleaning, cleaning, cleaning, like her family tracked in more dirt and left more grubby fingerprints on the walls than any other family in the Community. Mercy remembered she had yet to dust the baseboards and blinds; she wouldn’t get dinner until she’d done her chores.
    Pastor Matt interrupted her thoughts. “You know the church’s twentieth anniversary is coming up and I want to do something special. With your artistic talents, I think you’re just the girl to help me. What do you say?”
    Half flattered and half confused, not understanding what sort of project he meant—a mural of some kind, maybe?—Mercy said, “Thank you. I’d be happy to help.”
    “Let me show you what I have in mind.” Gesturing toward the table, Pastor Matt unrolled the tube of paper he carried and spread it out, anchoring the curling corners with cat-shaped salt and pepper shakers and a yellow sugar bowl that still held dusty cubes. He explained his plan for a triptych of