I'm No Angel (26 page)

Tom saw his dad shake his head. “You're wrong, I tell you. He loves you. Only you.”

“Shut up,” the woman screamed. “Shut up.”

“That was my wife yelling at Chase,” Holt said, his voice breaking with sadness as he stared at the television. “And she was right, Tom. I did love your father. I'd never had a friend as close or as dear, and I haven't had a friend like him since. I loved your mother, too, but as nothing more than a friend. It was my wife I loved, more than life itself, but…” Holt shook his head. “Just watch.”

Chase stood still, the damned statue clutched in his hands.

Why didn't he drop it? Tom wondered. Why was he just staring at Holt's wife?

“Where is my son?” Chase asked, his voice begging to know. Imploring the woman to answer him, and Tom felt a shudder deep inside him.

Fear.

“He's someplace where he'll never be found—unless you do exactly as I say.”

Tom moved toward the TV screen to get a better view.

“She was mad,” Holt said. “Completely mad, but I didn't know it at the time.”

Tom kept his focus on the monitor, on his dad.

“I'll do exactly as you tell me,” Chase said, his words frantic, his voice tinged with anger and pain. His hands trembled as he held the statue in a death grip. “Please,” Chase begged, “just tell me what you've done with my son.”

“Later, Chase.” Carlotta Hudson's taped laughter rang through the library, sending chills racing up Tom's spine. “Later.”

Holt fast-forwarded again, and Tom watched his father and the woman who had to be Carlotta Hudson speeding down the hallway, into a bedroom. The tape slowed. Flickered. And Holt dragged in a ragged breath as a canopied bed popped into view with Carlotta lying in the center of it—a gun gripped in her hands.

“It was a .25 automatic,” Holt said, as the tape played on, almost in slow motion. “It was my gun. One I kept just in case someone broke in.”

Tom found the tape hard to watch. Almost like a poorly made porn flick with the characters still clothed, but ready to take everything off. Carlotta beckoned to Chase with the wiggle of an index finger. “Make love to me,” she purred. “Please, Chase, make love to me.”

“I won't.” Chase stood at the far end of the bed, his voice controlled but angry. “I won't do that to Holt.”

“Think about your son.” Carlotta laughed. “If you want him back, you'll do as I say.”

Tom plowed his hands through his hair. A sickening knot had balled up in his gut.

“This is crazy,” Chase said. “What is this going to get you?”

“Pregnant, perhaps. With your child.” Carlotta grinned, her distorted face glaring at the camera. “And once I'm with child, I can tell Holt you're the father. Then Holt will hate you and I'll have him to myself again. All to myself.”

Chase shook his head. “You're mad.”

“Perhaps. But I also have your son—sweet, precious little Tom—which means you will do as I say.”

Tom plowed his fingers through his hair. “I remember now. Oh, God.” His chest heaved with pain. “I remember.”

Holt paused the tape again. “What do you remember, Tom? Please. Tell us.”

“It wasn't my dad who took me from my bed that night. It was Carlotta. She said we were going on a picnic, that we'd play hide and seek.” Tom frowned as the memories came tumbling back. “We drove for the longest time, at least it seemed long to me. We sang songs in the car and it was dark out and then she stopped. We got out of the car and it was hot and there were mosquitoes flying around and—”

Tom took a deep breath, not wanting to remember, but realizing that this one memory had been right at the very tip of breaking through for a long time. “There was a wooden box.” He frowned, remembering the rough texture of the wood, the way it smelled, and the heat. “It wasn't all that big,” Tom said. “But Carlotta told me to climb inside because it would be the perfect place to hide.
She said no one would find me there and I'd win the game.”

“You always loved playing hide and seek,” Holt said. “We played it here and at Mere Belle.”

“I don't remember anything else,” Tom said, pressing fingers into his throbbing temples. “Just the dark and the mosquitoes. And I remember being afraid that I'd be locked away forever. Like I was in jail for being a bad boy—until my dad found me and picked me up and carried me to his car.”

Tom swallowed hard, trying to get rid of the damn lump in his throat. He breathed deeply, and Angel stepped behind him, put her hands on his shoulders, and gave him some measure of comfort.

“We sat in the car together, just my dad and I, and he was humming to me and telling me everything would be all right.” Tom frowned, his whole body wracked with anguish. “And then my dad just stopped speaking. He stopped humming. His eyes were open and he stared straight ahead—at nothing.”

Tom looked up at Holt, standing just on the other side of the TV, and saw tears in his eyes. “You knew all of this, didn't you?”

“Not all of it.” Holt shook his head. “I know exactly what happened while your father was here in the house. As for what happened between here and the Everglades, I didn't know, not until I read in the papers that you and your father had been found by park rangers.”

Anger and frustration ripped through Tom.
“What I've just seen on the tape isn't what's on the police report?”

“For the most part, what you read on the police report is what I believed had happened,” Holt admitted.

“But you had the tape,” Angel said, her eyes narrowed. Questioning.

“I had a distraught wife who told me she'd almost been raped,” Holt said. “She was frantic. Almost incoherent. On top of that my best friend had been shot. He'd disappeared and so had his son.”

Holt dragged in a deep breath. “I didn't even think about the tape until days later, after the doctors had been here and the police. You've got to understand, I was nearly as grief-stricken as my wife and I wasn't thinking straight.” Holt pressed his fingers into his neck, as if trying to soothe away pain. “After I saw the tape, I saw no need to let the world know that my wife had gone insane that night.”

“I still don't know why you shot my dad that night,” Tom said. “Were you jealous? Did you catch him with your wife?”

Holt shook his head. “It's all on the tape if you want to see it.”

“I already have memories of my father dying. I don't need new memories of seeing him shot. I just want to know the truth. Why you shot him.”

“It's all on the tape,” Holt said. “Perhaps—”

“No, damn it,” Tom said. “Just tell us what happened. It's time you bring it all out in the open the way you should have done twenty-six years ago.”

Holt walked to the window again and looked
outside. “Your father did as Carlotta asked—up to a point. She begged him to make love to her. Pleaded for him to treat her in a way that she felt I'd never treated her.” Holt shook his head, as if he wished he could shake off the memories. “The tape's all fuzzy. You saw how bad it is, but…but Chase got on the bed with Carlotta. He caressed her face. He kissed her. He told her he'd never loved anyone but her.”

“And that's when you came in?” Tom asked, his breathing labored. Bitter. “Is that when you shot my dad?”

Holt turned slowly and shook his head. “Carlotta was mad. Chase must have realized it that night, just as I realized it a few days later. He played along with her. Made her believe he loved her, and then he asked her to tell him what she'd done with you.”

Holt crossed the room and slumped in a chair. “Your father could charm anyone and he charmed Carlotta that night. She told him exactly where she'd left you—a place where we'd gone once or twice before, when Amélie was still alive. And as soon as Chase knew the truth, he tried to leave, but she grabbed his hair, tore at his shirt. She was wild and he put his hands around her neck to stop her and…” Holt stared at Tom, sadness reddening his eyes. “Carlotta shot him. Not me. Carlotta. She shot him once, twice, but her hands were shaking so badly that she only grazed his sides. That's when he let go of her throat. He was bleeding, holding his sides, but he managed to get away from her, to get off of the bed. And he was cursing at her, telling her that if
his son had been hurt, he'd come back and kill her.”

Holt paused, looking into Tom's eyes.

Tom had never seen such sorrow. So many tears streaking down a man's face. And then he looked at Pop, his face pale, expressionless, his gnarled fingers gripping his cane.

“What happened then?” Tom asked.

“Chase turned to run, but Carlotta kept on shooting.”

The room became deathly silent, except for the strains of Beethoven coming from the ballroom, which seemed a billion miles away.

“I'm sorry,” Holt said. “Deeply sorry.”

“Where were you when this happened?” Angel asked.

“Sailing. I'd been gone, just like it said in the police report. But I didn't get home to see Chase attacking my wife. I got home not more than ten, fifteen minutes later to see her sitting in a bloody bed with an empty gun in her hand.”

“Why not tell the truth?” Tom asked. “Why all the lies?”

“As I told you. Carlotta told me Chase had tried to rape her. She told me he'd stolen the statue. She told me she'd shot him but he'd escaped. I didn't want to believe the worst of Chase, but I loved my wife. I had to believe her, and what she told me was exactly what I told the police, except for the part about who shot Chase.”

“But why tell the police that you'd shot my dad?” Tom asked.

“Because Carlotta was fragile. Because I was afraid if she wasn't completely mad, she would be
if the police questioned her over and over again. Because I wanted to protect her; and when it was over, and up until the time she died, I wanted to protect her from gossip. From prying eyes.

“If the truth had come out,” he continued, his anguish unmistakable, “she would have gone to prison, but she was already in a prison in her mind. And I imprisoned her in our home, afraid of what she might do if she left. That's why very few people ever saw us after that night. My reasons were selfish, too. Carlotta had said on that tape that I didn't love her, but I did. And I never left her after that night. I did everything in my power to show her that she was loved, even when she got to the point where she couldn't recognize me.”

“Carlotta's been dead for six years,” Angel said, standing as close to Tom as he could hold her. “Why not tell the truth after she was gone? Why not clear Chase's name? And why wouldn't you talk with Tom?”

“Self-preservation, I suppose. Selfishness. Old friends remembered Carlotta for her generosity and I didn't want them to remember her madness. I didn't want anyone knowing what I'd done, how I'd let my best friend take the blame.” Holt looked at Tom, tears in the corners of his eyes. “She used to hold you when you were a baby. She'd rock you and, just like your father and I, she'd play old tapes of your mother playing the piano. We were the best of friends once, and then everything fell apart.”

Holt sighed heavily. “As for why I didn't want to see you, well, I just couldn't bear to face you, Tom. In a sense, you're the only family I have, and
I knew you'd hate me when I told you the truth.” He laughed nervously. “Who could blame you, after what I've done? I abandoned you. I allowed your father to be called a would-be rapist. I made a lot of mistakes, and I don't expect you to forgive me. But now that this is out in the open, maybe I can move on.”

“You're right, Holt. I can't forgive you,” Tom said, his body aching with anger.

“I can,” Pop said. “I would have protected my wife until the ends of the earth, too. That's an emotion I can understand. As for my son…I loved him dearly, but he wasn't a saint. No, he didn't deserve to be shot, and God knows I wish he were here now, wish he'd been able to watch Tom grow up. But at least now I know that Chase hadn't turned bad…again. I know he had good reasons for everything he did.”

Using his cane, Pop walked toward Holt and put a hand on his shoulder. “I've made mistakes, too. It's gonna take me a long time to forgive you for the mistakes you made, but something tells me you're redeemable, just as my son was redeemable.”

“What about the stories about Chase being broke?” Tom asked Holt. “What about him asking you for money and the two of you getting into an argument? Was all of that a lie, too?”

“That, I'm afraid, is the truth. That's why I went fishing that night. I hated the fact that Chase and I had had such a horrible argument that morning. I was trying to decide if I should loan him money again. In the end I decided against it, not that it mattered after that. When Carlotta told me that
Chase had broken into the safe and taken the statue, it made perfect sense. He needed money and the statue was worth a fortune.” Holt shrugged. “What better way to get back at me than to take the statue and my wife—one way or another? It made perfect sense to me and it made perfect sense to the police.”

“But you had the tape,” Tom said. “You had proof that my dad was innocent. That Carlotta had taken me, that she'd threatened my dad.”

“As I said, I didn't see the tape until later. Not until the case was closed. By then the damage was done. And as I told you, I needed to protect my wife and, yes, I wanted to protect my good name, too.”

“So what happens now?” Tom asked.

“I send the press release off,” Holt said. “I tell every person here the truth. And then your father's name will be cleared.”

“He'll still be branded a thief,” Tom said. “Unless you know the whereabouts of
The Embrace
.”

“I honestly don't know if Chase had it with him when he left or if Carlotta had hidden it.”