A Breath Away (9 page)

Alvin Farmer twisted the end of his white beard, the pains in his stomach growing in intensity. He'd had an ulcer for going on ten years, the beginnings of it starting twenty years ago. He should never have gotten involved with the project….

“Farmer, you aren't thinking about talking, are you?”

God forgive him, but no. He was too much of a coward. He didn't want to give up his pension or the respect of the town. Not when his wife was ailing and needed him the most. Hattie had been so good to stand by him over the years, even after she'd found out he wasn't perfect.

“No. I don't know why you're so worried. With Jed dead, you and I are the only two who have a clue what really happened.”

“Not the only two.”

Sweat beaded on Farmer's neck and face. True—a few others, like Mavis Dobbins, suspected, but it would be to no one's advantage to tell all now.

“You should be grateful to find out who killed your baby. After all these years…”

Walt ducked his head, his expression forlorn. “You don't get it, do you? What if Jed lied about the confession?”

Farmer gasped. “What?” He yanked a roll of antacids from his pocket, tore off the top and downed two of them. “Good God, you aren't suggesting…”

“That his suicide wasn't real?” Monroe cut him a scathing look that Farmer had seen once before. When Monroe had come to see him about his wife's death, Monroe had claimed she was murdered and that he suspected something odd about Darlene's birth.

“Whether it is or not, it doesn't matter,” Walt continued. “What matters is that someone's asking questions, the Baker girl is back and Jed is dead. Let's just pray he took his secrets with him to the grave.” Monroe thumped him in the chest. “Just like we're going to do, you hear me?”

Farmer nodded, fear grappling with panic. If the truth ever got out, his reputation, his whole life, would be over. He might end up like Baker. Poor Hattie wouldn't be safe, either.

And Violet Baker—that girl would be six feet under, just like Darlene.

O
N THE WAY
to his father's place, Grady spotted his dad standing on the porch of Doc Farmer's small family practice. His father and Farmer had kept up over the years, although Grady didn't remember them being friends.

They had never been antagonistic toward one another before, but today they appeared to be arguing. Grady slowed and parked on the street, studying the two of them. Farmer had begun to turn clients over to the new guy in town, Dr. Gardener, but still saw a few of the old-timers who refused to relinquish their health care to a man they claimed couldn't grow face hair yet. Had Grady's dad enjoyed picking fights so much that he'd decided to choose another adversary? Or was something else going on?

A second later, his father lumbered off the porch steps and headed toward his Cadillac, his head downcast, his gait slow. Grady climbed from his car and cut him off at the corner.

“We need to talk, Dad.”

Walt jerked his head up as if startled. “What the blazes are you doing here?”

Grady frowned. “I told you we need to talk. What was going on with you and Doc Farmer?”

“Are you following me, Grady?”

His father's defensive tone heightened Grady's anxiety. “No, but this is important.”

“Then call me.”

“No.”

“Well, we're sure as hell not talking out here in front of the whole damn town.”

Grady gritted his teeth. “Then get in the car. We'll have some privacy there.”

His father dug in his pocket for his keys, flipped the switch to open the car door, and slid inside. Grady claimed the passenger side, not surprised when his father cranked the engine and turned up the air conditioner. Walt Monroe didn't tolerate the smallest discomfort, not when his money could remove it.

“I stopped by the Redbud Café today and heard you had a run-in with Jed Baker's daughter.”

“No run-in,” his father said. “I told her she wasn't welcome.” He narrowed gray eyes at Grady. “Don't tell me you're interested in
that
woman personally.”

Grady stiffened. “You haven't paid any attention to my life the past few years. Don't tell me you care now!”

Anger flared in his father's cheeks. “Jesus Christ. She's the daughter of the man who killed Darlene. You can't be serious.”

“I never said I was interested,” Grady stated. “But I'm the sheriff—it's my job to keep law and order.”

“Then tell her to put her old man in the ground and leave town…or else there'll be trouble.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

His father smacked his lips. “It means we can't put this mess behind us with her around reminding us of her daddy.”

Or Darlene.

“You knew Jed Baker as well as the rest of us, Dad. Do you really think he killed Darlene, or that he committed suicide?”

His father shoved a hand in his pocket and pulled out a cigar, then began to unwrap the tip. Just the scent made Grady crave a cigarette, but he popped a breath mint in his mouth instead.

“He said he did. What else can we believe?” Walt muttered. “He had opportunity, and he told us where to find her body. He got rid of his own kid, so she wouldn't figure it out.”

Was that what had really happened?

“What was his motive, Dad? If he'd been a pedophile, he wouldn't have just stopped with Darlene.”

“He hated me. Maybe he wanted to get back at us for being better than him.”

Grady chewed his lip. “Then why not kill you instead of your little girl?”

“Hell, Son, why are you asking me? He was a sick bastard, that's why. You need more?”

Maybe he did. Baker hadn't seemed mentally ill, just coldhearted, in that he'd sent his daughter away and never mentioned her again. But twisted enough to kill an innocent child… Something about that didn't ring true. “What was going on with you and Doc Farmer?”

His father's nostrils flared as he lit the cigar. “Nothing.”

“I saw you arguing.”

“I told you it was nothing.” He gave him a hard look. “I've had enough of your inquisition, Son. Send Violet Baker packing and forget the investigation.”

Grady stared at his dad, wondering if he'd heard him right. Something had happened between him and
Farmer, something his father wanted to keep hidden…just as he'd had secrets with Baker.

Did his father really want to blame Baker so badly he'd pin guilt on him even if he were innocent? And what kind of secrets could possibly be so important that he'd risk not finding Darlene's killer to keep them hidden?

* * *

R
EVEREND
B
ILLY
L
EE
B
ILKINS
glanced out at the throng of people gathered in the big tent, waiting on the message he'd come to deliver from the Lord. He had his work cut out for him.

There were secrets in this town. And evil. A darkness that held hostage the inhabitants, an ugliness mired in the prejudices of the small-minded locals, and in the deaths of the Native Americans who'd died brutally on the land. Their ghosts lived among the burial grounds in the foothills, shimmering between worlds unknown, waiting on rectification.

But there was more.

Good people trying to weave their way into the crowds. They were hidden in the midst of the sprawling mountains and harder to find, yet wrestling with demons of their own. Good people who needed to be saved.

People who would be sacrificed or lost without his help.

Brother Wheeler stepped up to the podium, already wiping sweat from his brow with a monogrammed white handkerchief. The heat in the valley was oppressive, the only reprieve the occasional breeze brought from the mountains encircling them. Wheeler waited until the last chorus of “Shall We Gather at the River”
faded, then raised his hands in the air, commanding attention as his long robe billowed out like a vampire's cape. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, we have the special honor of having the acclaimed Reverend Billy Lee Bilkins with us tonight.”

Reverend Bilkins smiled and nodded, the words already forming in his head.

“Praise be,” several people shouted.

“Amen,” others added.

“Glory hallelujah.” Brother Wheeler raised his hands again and a hush fell over the excited crowd. “And now, let us listen to the words and meditations he has brought so that they may cleanse us of the sins fraught upon us! Let him cast the devils from our souls and lead us to the way of the God almighty!”

More shouting and words of praise erupted.

Reverend Bilkins stepped forward, smiling broadly, allowing himself to revel in the glory of the moment. He didn't prepare his sermons in advance, didn't write down or practice with tape recorders, but went by the old ways and allowed the words to come to him from the heavens.

A sea of troubled faces stared back at him, thirsty for his healing. They needed him in this town. In fact, he might have to stay longer than he'd planned. Rome hadn't been built in a day.

Evil couldn't be expunged so quickly, either.

He spotted Wheeler's grown son watching from the back of the tent, his eyes twitching nervously. Wheeler would be one of his greater challenges.

In fact, he wasn't sure he could be saved….

* * *

“L
ISTEN TO THE GOSPEL
as I speak it,” Reverend Bilkins shouted. “Repent, sinners. Bare your evil souls
to the Lord, pray for forgiveness, and I can save you now.”

Ross Wheeler's eye twitched as he watched Brother Billy Lee stalk across the stage, shouting and clapping his hands, throwing his body around in dramatic gestures as his sermon gained steam. The audience praised and amened every other sentence, hanging on to Bilkins's words as if God had beamed him down in their midst to personally change them.

But Bilkins was simply a show. Playing to the audience, getting them fired up with platitudes. Scaring them shitless with his holy roller litanies of hellfire and damnation. Then he'd be passing his hat, collecting money and feeding his empire—all in the name of glory to the Father.

As big a hypocrite as his own old man.

“I ask you now to look inside your hearts,” Brother Billy Lee shouted. “Find the seed that sprouts from evil, pluck it out and lay yourself at God's feet….”

An elderly woman at the back rose and yelled out, “Amen, brother, I'm plucking mine out now.” She swayed and thrust her hand over her heart, pulled out an imaginary seed and tossed it forward. The middle-aged woman next to her began to speak in tongues, and a chorus of “Praise be's” echoed throughout the audience.

Kerry Cantrell, the waitress at the Redbud Café, moved up beside him, hugging the edge of the tent as if she wasn't quite sure what to make of the service. “He knows how to fire up a crowd, doesn't he?”

“Yes, he does,” Ross said, surprised the attractive young waitress had spoken to him. She barely paid attention to him at the café. She was always flirting with
the sheriff, practically flaunting herself to get his attention. Maybe she was getting tired of being turned down.

So tired she'd decided to look elsewhere. Ross laughed at the irony.

She probably hadn't heard yet about his reputation. Or maybe she didn't care.

Not that the rumors had it right…. Not even his father knew the truth.

If it wasn't for the reverend, Ross would have moved on a long time ago. Someplace where no one knew about his tainted name. Someplace where he could start all over again.

Only now he'd found a lover here. A reason to stay.

“I haven't seen you at our church,” he said. “Thinking of visiting?”

“Maybe.” She thumbed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Truth is, I've never been much of a churchgoer.”

“I was never anywhere else on Sunday,” he admitted. “Or Wednesday night.”

“Must have been difficult being a preacher's son.”

She had no idea. And was he mistaken or had her voice turned sultry? Maybe she liked walking on the edge….

“I managed.”

“Yeah, but always having to be good. Living under the microscope all the time.” She sighed, her breasts heaving.

His breath caught in his throat. His father would like this one. “You sound like you've been there.”

“Let's just say my folks had high expectations.” She laughed, a soft melodic sound that twisted his stomach. She wanted him. It was almost funny.

But he had other plans tonight.

Yes, the temptation was too strong for him to resist. He'd been thinking about his lover all day. He couldn't wait any longer.

It was time for him to slip from the crowd, to become invisible and find his pleasure.

* * *

V
IOLET HAD NEVER FELT
so alone. At least when she'd moved, she'd had her grandmother. But, here, in her father's old house, all she could do was stare at the dingy walls and remember the events that had brought her to this homecoming.

She couldn't bear the memories any longer.

The solitude felt like a vise choking her. She checked outside to make certain no more kids were driving by to harass her, then hurried to her car. Where should she go? It was already late, the evening shadows reminding her that the woman who'd cried out to her for help didn't have much longer. If only she could see where the killer held her….

Shivering and needing a safe haven herself, she drove toward the Redbud Café. Maybe Laney could explain the meaning of the Native American expression.

A few minutes later, she parked. Laney wasn't in the café but in her apartment above it. Violet felt more at home at Laney's than she had at her own father's. Laney welcomed her inside with open arms and handed her a cup of herbal tea as if she was expecting her. Violet settled onto the faded patchwork-covered sofa, admiring the familiar Indian artifacts, rugs and simple crude furniture. Something peaceful emanated in the air around Laney, a kind of satisfaction with herself and her soul that Violet wished she possessed.

Although it was hot outside, and the apartment had
no air-conditioning, the room felt cool and comfortable. “Where's Joseph?”

Laney shrugged. “He needs to be alone,” she said. “It is his time to commune with the earth. Enjoy the hunt.”

“He's proud of his heritage, isn't he?” Violet said.

Laney smiled and nodded, draping her long braid across her shoulder. “It is a miracle he is, but yes. If we forget who we are, then we are nothing.”

Violet frowned, studying the tea. Who exactly was she? The daughter of a killer? A woman possessed by evil, able to see other's pain but unable to stop it?

“It is hard for you here,” Laney said, more as a statement than a question.

“Yes.” Violet sipped the tea, giving herself time to relax.

But the woman doesn't have time. You need to hurry or she'll die, just like Darlene.

“I think I'm cursed, Laney.” She closed her eyes as the querulous admission rushed out.

Laney didn't react, simply rested a hand on top of Violet's. “Why would you think that, child?”

Violet opened her eyes, expecting to see the condemnation she'd seen from Grady and his father, but found only compassion and wisdom.

“Tell me, dear, and you'll feel better. Together we can solve this.”

Together? Violet had been alone so long she didn't know how to lean on anyone else. Besides, saying the words out loud made them sound even harsher.

“You came to me for help. I cannot give it if you are silent.”

Violet twisted her hands in her lap. “Do you remember when Darlene Monroe was kidnapped?”

Laney's mouth pinched with sorrow. “No one in this town will ever forget.”

“I heard her crying for help that night,” she said, the truth spilling out. “Laney, I told my father where to find her.”

“Yes, I heard that.”