Web of Innocence

By Henry Klooster

For eighteen-year-old Will Hulst, life should have been relatively uncomplicated. Raised in a strictly religious home, he struggled with the usual questions of youth; seemingly unanswerable questions about life and faith. Now he stands accused of a murder he did not commit. Only one person truly believes in his innocence, Barb Prescott a bright young attorney assigned to his defense, she has been assigned a case that on the surface appears indefensible. As Barb begins her defense she uncovers mounting evidence pointing to a cover-up and is drawn deeper and deeper into a web that involves, the local Police Chief out to satisfy a vow of revenge made decades before, a prominent businessman who will do anything to protect his illegitimate empire, and her love for a young Deputy that could destroy her career. Wills only hope for acquittal lies with a former girl friend (Crystal Simpson) a girl he had shunned and embarrassed, a witness who has mysteriously disappeared.
The book is filled with a rich tapestry of characters, that struggle with their own emotions and feelings; interwoven with a series of twists and turns, that all lead to a stunning and unexpected conclusion, as they are inexplicably drawn into a tangled Web Of Innocence

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468588828

Henry Klooster

Born in Rocky Mountain House, Alberta, Canada, to Dutch immigrant parents, Henry has lived the majority of his life in Alberta. He received his Elementary and High School education in Rocky Mountain House. He briefly attended the University of Alberta. Since graduating he has owned and operated various businesses, and has numerous diplomas and accreditations in the business field, having worked as a Safety Security Coordinator and Private Investigator. He currently owns and operates a Landscaping and Lawn Maintenance Business in Leduc. Henry currently resides in Leduc Alberta, is married, and the father of three sons. He is active in his local church as a teacher and elder. He has served as editor and writer for a number of local newsletters and been published in sevral local newspapers. His poetry also appears in several Canadian Poetry anthologies Henry's publishing credits include “Whispers of Life” a collection of poems and the short story “The Masterpiece” “Fundamental Bible Truths” an introductory study guide for new believers. “Web of Innocence” is Henry's first novel. He is currently working on a collection of shorts stories and a second novel.

Book preview

>Prologue<

It was dawn on a stormy spring morning. The year was 1944. On the narrow dyke that ran across the Dutch marshlands, a solitary figure turned up his collar and dug his hands deeper into his pockets. The wind plastered his pants tightly against his knees as the cold knifed through him. He felt the cold steel of the German Lugar tucked into his belt.

Jacob Hulst was seventeen, and the next twenty-four hours, although he didn’t know it then, would change his life forever. War had a habit of doing that. The Germans were slowly losing their grip on northern Europe, and with every passing day they became more desperate.

The previous night had been one of tension for the Hulst family. An American bomber had crashed in the marshlands only a few kilometers from the Hulst farm. Within minutes the local arm of the Dutch underground had been out searching for the plane and any survivors. The pilot, the only survivor had been brought to the Hulst home and hidden in the loft of the barn. He had been hidden only minutes before a German patrol had arrived.

The Patrol Commander had ordered a search of the farm, and after hours of searching turned up nothing. Frustrated they had left. The farm would however be kept under constant surveillance and the pilot would have to be moved as quickly as possible. Young Jacob Hulst had been commissioned to pass a message to the underground forces in a neighboring town and try to make arrangements to have the pilot moved.

The wind tore at him as he glanced over his shoulder, wary of any movement. The German patrols probably hadn’t seen him leave under the cover of darkness, he’d been careful, but he could never be sure. His pulse raced as he strained into the wind. He, Jacob Hulst, only seventeen, had been delegated with the responsibility of saving a man’s life, and he was determined not to let anyone down.

"Halt!’

Jacob froze, his heart leapt into his throat. Two German soldiers stood blocking his path. Jacob recognized Helmut and Wolf Braun, twin brothers stationed in a neighboring village, and part of the patrol that had search the Hulst farm earlier that evening.

Wolf Braun stepped forward, and thrust his machine gun menacingly toward Jacob.

"It’s the kliene boerenjongen," he mocked to his brother. What are you doing out here? He no doubt recognized Jacob. Answer me! He spat, disdain in his voice.

For a brief moment Jacob wasn’t sure what to say, his brain spun as he searched for the right words. He mustn’t give anything away; failure wasn’t an option.

I . . . . Crack! The butt of the machine gun crashed into his shoulder, knocking him over backwards.

"Schwein! I asked you a question." Wolf towered over him.

My grandmother . . . . she’s ill and I’m going to visit her. Jacob answered lamely.

Liar! Wolf spat. You’re a courier, aren’t you? he drove the butt of the gun into Jacob’s shoulder for emphasis.

The next few moments were a blur. In desperation, Jacob grasped the Lugar tucked in his belt. The cold comforting steel burned in his hands. He fumbled for the trigger, found it, and in one motion raised the gun and squeezed the trigger. Wolf’s eyes widened, as a trickle of blood flowed from a single hole in his forehead. He crumpled to the ground in a lifeless heap. Jacob raised his gun again, firing off a shot into the darkness at the retreating form of Helmut. He heard a scream of pain as the bullet found its mark with a sodden sickly thud. Then silence.

Shaking, Jacob scrambled to his feet. The shots would no doubt attract attention, and he would have to get away as quickly as possible. In the shadow light he saw the twisted form of Wolf. Bile burned in his throat. He had never killed before. To kill was sin. He could here the thundering voice of the local preacher Thou shalt not kill! and he had killed.

Help Helmut’s strangled voice quickened his pulse. Gun drawn he approached Helmut. He lay on his knees in the reeds, his shoulder laid bare by the bullet. He turned his blood-spattered face toward Jacob as he approached. "Gott in himel, help me he gurgled. Better kill me you schwein, you killed my brother, and if I live I’ll follow you to hell" he gasped. Slowly Jacob raised his gun, his hand shaking he pressed against the trigger and squeezed. He had no choice. The gun clicked as the hammer fell. Misfire! Jacob dropped his arm, then abruptly tucked the gun into his belt and turned away. He couldn’t. He had already killed once. He couldn’t again; not a helpless wounded man in cold blood. He hadn’t the nerve.

He picked up the two machine guns and tossed them far out into the canal. Helmut would die or be found, Jacob didn’t know, all he knew was that Helmut wouldn’t die by his hand. He dug his hands deep into his pockets, and turned up his collar. In the numbing cold he could feel the accusing warmth of the Lugar in his belt. As he made his way toward the village he could hear Helmut’s voice drifting on the wind I’ll follow you to hell . . . . mingled with the accusing voice of the preacher’s, "Thou shalt not kill . . . .

>Chapter 1<

Fall had come early. It had been the last week of August, when the geese had begun their long flight south over the amber fields. They had been lucky to get the crops. Jacob Hulst had been ready. The combine had been tuned and greased, and when the first day of Indian summer, had called an uneasy truce with winter, they had worked around the clock. Winter had threatened on the last day, but the truce had held, and the bins had been filled.

Now winter, as unwelcome as it was had settled over the landscape.

Will Hulst turned up the collar on his worn wool suit, and shivered. At seventeen he had not fully come to grips with life, and now faced with death, he felt lonely, confused and empty.

Dust to dust . . . . the preachers monotone voice droned, as he addressed the small group gathered at the graveside.

Will Hulst stood six feet tall. His mop of sandy brown hair, and broad shoulders had earned him more than a second glance from the girls at Hammond High. He stood in contrast to his stone-faced, somber father, suit bulging on his short stalky frame. He had staunchly refused to buy a new suit for the funeral.

Jacob Hulst was a deeply religious man not set on airs, and his word was law. The Lord looks at the inside, not at any external trappings. He had firmly stated, and his frail wife had complied knowing better than to question his judgment. In keeping with his wishes she had donned her faded green coat, not willing to incur his wrath by asking for a new one.

The Lord is my shepherd . . . . the preachers voice droned on, distant and hollow.

The morning had broken with a dull gray pallor, the clouds driving the thin red glow of sunrise from the sky. The wind that had for days lain whimpering beyond the horizon had suddenly pounced on the landscape, spitting ice needle sleet in its fury.

Will looked around at the small group of mourners that had braved the weather and gathered to pay their last respects to Oma Hulst. The gaping grave stared heavenward; it’s cold darkness ready to envelop her lifeless body. He shivered. The cold gnawed at his ankles, left exposed by his too short suit pants. The wind cut through his thread-bare suit, cold as death.

His thoughts turned to Oma. He would miss her, her kind smile, and her quiet strength; the tender words of encouragement, his mother never gave. Oma had been his strength, his source of joy in another wise harsh world. Life at home was hard. Jacob Hulst was a gruff, unemotional, domineering man. Millie his mother lacked affection and emotion; diligently catering to Jacob’s every need. She had been different once, before Will’s older brother Jan had left home. Jan was her favorite. Now most of her attention seemed to be focused on Beth, Will’s younger sister. But Oma had always been there. She understood. Although she had never said anything to discredit her son and his wife, Will knew she understood.

Life for Oma had not been easy. She had immigrated along with her husband, from the marshlands of Holland shortly after the end of the war. They had settled with their three children, one son and two daughters, on a homestead just outside the town of Hammond. The first years in a new land had proved difficult, and by the third year her husband had been forced to seek employment to supplement the meager income the homestead yielded. He had found a job with the railroad, and was gone for months at a time. With the help of her son, they had plowed and planted, the crop in the hand cleared meadow, south of the house. Word had come in the late summer that her husband had been killed working the trains. Despite the set back Oma had carried on.

In time the homestead had become productive, and when Jacob married, he had taken over.

The small group had begun to sing Abide with Me. Jacob Hulst glowered at Will, silently chastising him for not singing along. Will joined in. When the song ended the small group began to disperse. Will stared at the gaping ground. Oma gone forever. Forever! He felt the firm grasp of his father’s hand on his shoulder. As he turned to follow his father, the workmen began lowering the casket into the ground. He fought back the tears. The loneliness, the emptiness and the sudden realization of his loss turned in him like a dull knife. He could show no emotion. His father had said that Oma had gone to a better place, a place they could only hope for, a place of eternal joy and peace before the face of God. There was no room for sadness and tears. Although she would be missed the assurance of her eternal joy should bring joy and peace to those left behind. Sorrow had no place, only quiet reflection.

It puzzled Will. Did no one care? How could they not be sad? How could they not cry? Did they not feel the pain he felt? But for now there would be no tears, they would come later when he was alone.

Come on son, its time for chores. Jacob took his wife’s hand and made his way to the old Ford. The car sputtered and lurched as if it too was in grief.

As he sat in the backseat, Will’s thoughts once more turned to Oma. He had been present when she died. He had gone to visit her as he did every day only that day had been different. She hadn’t been feeling well for some time, but this day he had felt a cold shiver as he approached the house. On entering he had noticed that the stove had not been lit. Oma had been lying on the bed, her body racked with fever. He knew instantly he had come too late. He had thought of going for help, but realized it would be futile. She clasped his hand, her life slowly ebbing away. I’m ready. She had whispered thickly, her eyes dull. He had clung to her then, hoping, praying, to no avail. She shuddered; her breath coming in short raspy bursts. Then she had gone limp. Will had let go, and as he did he saw a glow pass over her face, and a smile form on her lips. She had seen the gates of heaven opened, and he, Will had been there to see it. It had been her parting gift to him, a gift that left him confused and filled with questions.

Her death had left him empty and cheated. What loving God would take away someone so pure and sweet, someone so loving? Did God not know that she was his strength? What was he to do now? His father had been no help. He didn’t have any answers for the questions either, just empty platitudes and vague explanations.

The old two-story farmhouse was almost invisible against the pale sky, as they drove up the narrow driveway. No one had spoken on the way home, each one seemed lost in his or her own private grief. Beth, who had earlier in the day been filled with questions, too was silent, staring blankly out of the car window.

Once inside, Millie dutifully put on the coffee, and Jacob disappeared into the bedroom to change his clothes, as did Will. Beth overwhelmed by the events of the day curled up on the couch and was soon sound asleep.

I want you to bring a load of hay over to the main barn, we’re almost out, and if it starts to snow, it could be a few days before we can get to the stack. Jacob Hulst poured his steaming coffee into his saucer and took a sip. Make sure the horses have enough straw and hay down. It could get cold tonight. He continued. He turned his now empty cup over onto his saucer, signaling he wanted no more.

The sleet that had been falling earlier in the day had stopped and the wind had shifted to the northeast, as Will stepped outside. Dad’s right, it could get cold tonight. He thought to himself.

Chores seemed to take longer than usual, with the added duty of getting a load of hay, and his mind still on the events of the day. Will methodically went through the motions.

He trudged toward the lean-to barn where the horses were stabled for the winter. It was simple pole structure, enclosed on three sides for most of the year; however in winter the fourth side had been enclosed, to protect the horses from the wind and snow.

The wind had started to pick up, and small swirls of snow twirled in the air. He pushed open the make shift door, and stepped inside, the two horses, Red and Bill, stood comfortably at one end, taking no notice of him as he entered.

Will pulled a bale of hay from the stack in the corner, the aroma of clover and fescue filled the air. Methodically, he threw down several bales of straw and with the three-tined fork spread them around. The barn shook violently as a gust of wind tore by. Better hurry. He muttered. He reached for the water tap and turned it. Frozen! he muttered. Better get the torch.

Darkness had fallen and the wind had begun to gust as Will trudged toward the tool-shed to procure the torch. It was snowing heavier, he noted. Securing the torch he returned to the barn. Careful not to catch any of the straw on fire he trained the torch on the tap. The tap gurgled and spit, briefly, then sent a steady stream of water into the trough. It took all of ten minutes to fill the trough, he dare not leave until the trough was full, as there was no telling when he could return if a storm hit. The trough full he checked the tank heater took one last look around the shed and stepped outside.

The fury, with which the wind greeted him, sent Will reeling and gasping for breath. The driving snow had turned the darkness into a surreal gray world. He could barely see the light of the house. He focused his eyes on the light, fear welling inside him. They had not yet put up the rope for the winter. The rope, that ran from building to building in the winter, a lifeline, without which one could become hopelessly lost. The wind drove the snow in vicious circles, obscuring the house. Will braced himself and pushed on to where he had last seen the light, scolding himself for not having worn a heavier coat. The snow caked his eyelids, stinging his cheeks,

The light? Where is the light? He strained his eyes, only to see gray nothingness, like a blanket enveloping him. Panic welled inside him. It couldn’t be that much further. If only he could find the light.

He trudged on, straining to see the light, any light. Thoughts of old Ed Bruce entered his mind. They had found him last winter only a few feet from his front porch, frozen, not knowing how close he had been. Now seized by panic he began to run, he couldn’t die! Not now! His feet felt like lead, snow coated his jacket, and filled his eyes, his breath became short and labored, the cold air burning his lungs. Will stopped, he would have to turn around, make it back to the barn. Better to spend the night with the horses than to die here in the snow. He was so tired, he wanted to sit down, wait for it all to pass, but he knew that would be deadly. He pushed on, the will to survive driving away the urge to give in.

He felt the searing pain of the barbed wire as it tore at his leg. He looked down and saw the tear in his pants, and the jagged red tear in his leg. Blood ran from the wound and froze in small clumps on his leg. In horror he realized he had turned only half around, and was not heading back to the barn at all. No telling how far he was from the barn now. He grasped the wire in his hands. He would have to follow it.

Which way? The wire would either lead him to the shed or miles out into the open fields. He tried to think. The wrong decision would be fatal. It would mean certain death. He made up his mind and grasped the wire, the barbs cutting into his palms. Droplets of blood clung to his coat. Dear God, if you can hear me, don’t let me die. He prayed. But somehow his prayer seemed empty. Was this the punishment for his unbelief? For his doubts? For questioning Gods motives at Oma’s death? Somehow his prayer seemed lost on the wings of the screaming wind. Suddenly his hand struck something hard. He fumbled at it. The barn! His heart leapt into his throat. He had made the right choice, he had guessed right, he had saved himself. He made his way around the shed until he found the door and pushed it open. Exhausted he collapsed.

Jacob found Will the next morning, cold and fevered; he carried the body of his son into the house. Quick get some blankets, he ordered, as he laid Will on the bed. Millie scrambled to obey.

He’ll be okay. Jacob stated as Millie passed him