Her mouth pursed when I spoke his name, that word sour to her senses. “I received everything from congratulations cards to scrapbooks people had put together of news articles surrounding Joshua’s case to floral deliveries, as though I was celebrating a wedding or mourning a funeral. Depended on the day.”
“I know some of the other victims’ families mentioned that they received notes claiming responsibility when the news broke of these suicides being murders. Did you or your husband receive anything similar?”
“Of course we did.” She rose from her chair and moved toward the big window, staring at the curtains she’d drawn closed on the world. “I stopped counting the number of people who claimed they’d killed Gerald Volkner when I got to fifty.”
“Would it be possible for me to see these notes?”
“Why?” she asked, her tone taking on a cool edge.
“To help me find a killer.”
“You call this Huntsman a killer. I call him a hero.” Her arms drew around herself. “All of us who’ve lost children think of him as such. But I do begrudge the Huntsman one thing.”
Folding up my notebook, I tucked it back inside of my purse, able to recognize a stonewall from years of interviewing people in similar situations to Jean Price’s. “What’s that?”
“I wish it would have been me.” Her head turned back at me, the first sign of emotion registering in her eyes. “I should have been the one to avenge my son by killing the man who took him from me, did unspeakable things to his small body, then killed and dumped him as though he were something to dispose of once his use ran its limit.” She went back to staring at the drawn curtains, a tremor running down her back. “It might have cost me my freedom, but the alternative has cost me far more.”
Standing, I angled toward the door. “Not everyone feels that revenge is the ideal means of vengeance. Some decide to forget, others slip into denial. Some people choose forgiveness.”
Another rumble rattled in her chest. “Forgiveness is for those who haven’t had a child ripped from their home at night by a man who is sexually aroused by young boys. Forgiveness is for those who haven’t had to bury an empty coffin in place of their child’s body, which is decomposing somewhere I’ll never be able to visit. Forgiveness is for those who don’t lay awake at night wondering what their precious child’s last moments on this planet were like, and how many times he cried out for me, wondering why I wasn’t coming to save him. Forgiveness is a colloquial word reserved for Sunday mornings and lovers’ quarrels. This grieving mother wants none of it for herself.”
“Mrs. Price—”
“Gerald Volkner kidnapped, raped”—she choked back the rising sob, squeezing her eyes shut—“and killed my son. The only reason he wasn’t punished for it was because there was no body to prove it. The eyewitness accounts of Volkner stalking our house the weeks leading up to Joshua’s kidnapping. The previous victims Volkner had served time for who were the same age and had the same physical features as Joshua wasn’t enough. The fact that he didn’t have an alibi for the night Joshua was kidnapped. None of that mattered because the law and the court and the jury said it wasn’t enough. Your sacred law failed to punish a guilty man, and in so doing, failed to avenge an innocent boy.”
I took a few steps toward the door, then stopped. “I don’t mean to upset you. I want you to know I’m on your side.”
“And yet you’re asking me to help you find the person who dealt retribution to those who deserved it.” Mrs. Price unfroze from her place in front of the window, whisking toward the door. “You’re asking me to aid you in putting away a man who put down a wild animal because he broke one of your precious laws that also failed to protect my child.” Swinging the door open, she stepped aside, half appearing as though she was willing to throw me out if I didn’t leave of my own volition in the next thirty seconds. “I suppose I’m not the only one who doesn’t sleep at night.”
I paused, unsure of how to proceed. Uncertain of what side of the equation I stood on and whatever side that was, if it was the correct one.
“Sometimes the line between right and wrong isn’t as clear and definitive as we like to believe,” I said, filing down the steps one at a time.
“That’s exactly what they want us to believe,” Mrs. Price replied.
“They?”
“Those in power—the media, the government, the corporations. They rise to and maintain it thanks to the doubt and fear driven into society.” Her eyes locked on a couple of children riding their bikes down the sidewalk, and it was impossible to tell if she wanted to smile or sob. “What’s wrong is obvious. And what’s right is simple. Strip away the layers of the superficial lifestyle you’ve draped yourself in, and the truth will blind you.”
Below the large window, something caught my eye. A circular concrete medallion had been laid into the soil, the handprint of a small child pressed into it. Immediately behind it, a crawling vine bursting with brilliant white flowers flourished along the supports of a trellis.
Mrs. Price must have caught me staring at it. “I remember how mad I was when I walked out to find Joshua had pressed his little hand into the new concrete patio. He was five, old enough to know better but too young to overcome curiosity.” She padded down the porch steps, eyes soft as she smiled at her son’s handprint. “I took away his TV privileges for a week—James and I had been skimping and saving for months in order to get that patio poured, and our son goes and does something like that.”
She leaned down to brush off whatever real or imagined dirt had settled on the concrete circle. “Now this handprint is one of my most cherished memories of him. It’s funny how that works, isn’t it? The annoyances, the gripes, the flaws are what you cling to when your loved one is gone. I wish I could go back in time and redo that moment. Take back the shouts and grounding and speeches of being disappointed and frustrated. I wish I could just go back and realize that precious little handprint in the fresh concrete was going to be my favorite reminder of him.” Her finger traced the outline of the impression, her hand fitting over the small handprint after.
“I’m sure you were a wonderful mother,” I whispered through the ball forming in my throat.
“Was,” she breathed. “You stop being a mother when your only child dies. I’m no longer a mother—or a wife. I’m not sure how much of a human being is left of me either.”
“It’s a lovely memorial,” I said, looking away when she discreetly dabbed at her eyes. Being one of them, I recognized another soul who was uncomfortable expressing emotion in front of others.
“It’s a miracle this thing is still alive.” Mrs. Price moved on to preening the flowering vine, plucking away dead leaves and petals. “A few years ago, after receiving it, I planted it and forgot all about the thing until the following spring when I noticed the flowers blooming despite the lack of tending and care. It’s a hardy plant, one that can withstand most climates and doesn’t require much maintenance.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said, taking a few steps closer to examine the white flowers that were fighting the onslaught of fall. “What is it?”