All Chapters of The Mourner's Cradle: A Widow’s Journey: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

LOSSIIn the spring of ’79, the efforts of Damon Sharpe’s research reached a pinnacle. He had in part been victorious, he believed, in his battle to unearth a truth obscured by time. He had only to look on it with his own eyes to verify the success as more than personal, though it remained a victory few recognized as authentic.The only things that made Damon different to his wife, Anne, were that she loved him and that he was who he was—and he had loved her, even if no one else seemed to remember her. Damon’s wife, they probably called her, the ones who knew he had a wife. The invisible woman. Spring became summer, which faded into early autumn. The leaves turned and fell.Anne lay among the sheets of the bed with her head against a flat white pillow. As the wall clock ticked away, she stared at the empty space on the other side of the bed.At the age of 38, her husband had died of a heart attack and Anne was alone with a house full of things, unfilled wishes, dreams, and remn

TAKING FLIGHTIThe St. Charles Regional Airport was only semi-crowded today. Anne rushed across its expanse to the nearest pay phone she could find and dialed Ruben’s number again. This time, he answered.“This is Ruben Ramirez.”“Ruben, this is Anne.”“Anne. How are you?”“I’m at the airport. Can you meet me here?”“At the airport?”“Can you meet me here or not?”Ruben paused. Anne’s voice had remained neutral, but her delivery was concise. She didn’t care to squander the minutes away, not now. If anyone would understand, she thought, Ruben would.“All right,” Ruben said. “Tell me exactly where you will be and I’ll meet you there.”“There is a café here,” she said. “A small one in the airport. I think it must be new. I’ll be waiting for you there. Is your passport current?”“Excuse me?”“If it is, bring it.”“What is this about, Anne?”Finding a beginning wasn’t easy. With everything coursing through Anne’s mind, she ran the risk of spewing it out in an incomprehe

STRANGERSIThe van ride wasn’t pleasant. The driver seemed to plow through every single bump and dip in the road. Anne’s bones jarred with each bounce. She clenched her teeth and fired a glare at Ruben, but he already knew her agitation. He kept looking out the window in the opposite direction.While Anne and Ruben sat in the back of the van, Raul was in a seat in front of them. He made occasional quiet exchanges with the other two at the front.The vehicle’s driver was a large man with a shaved head who spoke almost entirely in grunts. The other man, who sat in the passenger’s seat, was a skinny man with a bunched wad of dark curly hair on top of his head. The driver kept his eyes on the road. The other man kept turning his head toward the back of the van and looking at Anne a bit too often.Anne was grateful when they rolled into Huancayo. She climbed out with Ruben and Raul. Raul went to business with assembling supplies for their journey. Ruben went with him. Anne also d

FIRE IN THE NIGHTIRuben began to rise. Raul held up a finger in caution.“Wait here,” he said. “I will look.”While Raul walked toward the mouth of the cave to investigate the sounds, Ruben came to his feet. Anne decided it wise to do the same. Her legs wobbled when she rose. Ruben put out an arm to steady her.The crunching sounds had desisted. The heavy outside winds renewed their fury. Anne and Ruben watched Raul’s dark form step into the light of the cave’s opening.In the middle of the cave, the soup bubbled.The explosion sent Raul staggering backward. His body struck the cave floor. Blood streamed from the bullet hole in his forehead.Anne cried out and rushed toward him. Ruben grabbed her arm to pull her back. She yanked away from Ruben but quickly understood he was right; Raul was already dead. Nothing could be done, and whoever had done this was still out there. Hardly able to sort out what had happened, she forced her feet forward and rushed to the back of the ca

AWAKENINGIIn a moment of blurred consciousness, Ruben seized the pain and discomfort, awful as it was, and pushed against the beckoning sleep.He raised his head from the snow and saw his own blood. He pressed a cold, shaking hand to his head, and felt wetness. He trembled when his fingers met the wound, rough and tender, and pain coursed through his senses.He was lucky, in a manner. Although the injury was bloody, the shot had shaved away skin and nothing else.He probed the site with his fingers. It made him gasp, but he had to verify his assessment of the injury.It ran from the top of his cheek to his temple. It still bled. He pressed his hand against the open flesh to seal the wound. It burned with the pressure of skin against raw exposed meat. He winced. It hurt—a lot. He did his best to shake away his daze and tried to pull himself up.He slid and struggled for traction. After almost a minute, he managed to climb to his feet. He backed away from the sharp slant th