After Dark (12 page)

    Will glanced past his aunt's nurse
and quickly scanned the room. A child's room. A little girl's haven. With
dolls tossed hither and yon, the bed linens ripped from the mattress and
pillows and books scattered about over the floor, it appeared that the
little girl who lived here had thrown quite a temper tantrum.

    Mary Martha stood huddled in a
far corner, her eyes glazed, as she systematically ripped pages from a
book. The paper floated to the floor like autumn leaves drifting off
tree branches.

    "No bedtime story. No bedtime
story," she repeated again and again as she continued destroying
the book.

    Will took several hesitant
steps in his aunt's direction. He wasn't sure why, but there had always
been a unique connection between Mary Martha and him. For as long as
he could remember. In retrospect, he now assumed that he had connected
well with his childlike aunt because he had been a child himself. But
even as he grew older, the ties that bound them had not been severed. She
had often called him my baby, and when she had been in one of her moods,
his parents had allowed her to enjoy the fantasy that she and not Lane
was his mother.

    "Aunt Mary Martha?"

    She stopped her repetitive page
ripping the moment she heard his voice. "Will?" Her gaze searched
the room. When her vision focused on him, she smiled. A

    weak, delicate smile. As delicate
and frail as the willowy woman who held out her hand to him. "Will, is
that you?"

    "Yes, ma'am. It's me. Grandmother
said you weren't feeling well, so I came over to see about you."

    "Oh, my sweet baby." Mary
Martha dropped the partially destroyed book and glided across the
room like a spirit floating on air.

    He had always thought his aunt looked
like an angel. Tall, slender and small-boned. Pale skin, strawberry
blond hair and light brown eyes. Tonight she looked especially pale and
thin. And the flowing white gown she wore added to the seraphic illusion.

    Will met her halfway in the middle
of the huge room. Lifting her trembling hand, she placed her fingers on
his cheek and stroked with the utmost gentleness. "They took you
away from me and told me you were dead. But I knew it wasn't true. You're my
own sweet baby, all grown up."

    "Yes, ma'am."

    She continued caressing his face.
"I've been sick. That's why I couldn't take care of you. That's why
you live with Lane, you know."

    "Yes, ma'am." He was hearing
the same old story. Whenever she was in one of her delusional states,
Mary Martha thought he was her child. Why, he didn't know. And if anyone
else in the family knew, they had never explained it to him. Indeed,
everyone had denied having a clue as to why his aunt seemed haunted by
the loss of a nonexistent child.

    She grabbed his hand and tugged in
a gesture requesting he follow her. "They say that Kent is dead.
But I don't believe them. He would never go away and leave me. He promised
me that he would never ever leave me." How did he reply to that? What
could he say that wasn't an out-and-out lie and yet still not upset her?
"Aren't you tired, Aunt Mary Martha? Wouldn't you like to lie down? I
could stay and read to you until you fall asleep. You always liked for
me to read to you."

    "Kent used to read to me, when
I was just a little girl."

    Mary Martha led Will to the row of
bookshelves across the back wall. At least a third of the books lay scattered
on the floor. She stepped over some of the volumes and walked on others
as she made her way to the shelves.

    "Read Hansel and Gretel to
me." She searched the row of books for the specific fairy tale.
When she couldn't find it immediately, she turned to Will. "It isn't
here. Kent hid it from me, didn't he? He hides my book from me sometimes,
until I… until I…" As if suddenly realizing that the floor was littered
with reading material, Mary Martha fell to her knees and rummaged through
the volumes. "I like it better when you read to me, Will." She
snatched up a thin I hardback, its spine broken and pages loose.
"Here it is. This is Kent's favorite, too."

    Will helped his aunt to her feet.
The moment he placed his arm around her waist, he realized she had lost
weight and was now even thinner than she had been a month ago. Lillie Mae
would say that his aunt was nothing but skin and bones. He led Mary Martha
to the bed. His gaze met Jackie Cummings's inquisitive stare; then she
glanced down at the unmade bed and nodded.

    "Give me a couple of minutes
to put the sheets and blanket back on." Jackie scurried about picking
up the discarded bed linens.

    Mary Martha gave Jackie a disapproving
glare, then shook her head sadly. "Mama says it's getting more and
more difficult to find good help these days," she told Will in a hushed
tone. "We mustn't tell Mama that the bed was unmade. She'd be frightfully
upset. Kent says we mustn't bother Mama and Daddy. They're both very busy.
They don't have time for us. He says we have to depend on each other. Kent
loves me best. More than anyone else. And I love him best, too."

    Jackie cleared her throat. Will
saw that she had made the bed, except for adding the spread, which still
lay on the floor in a rumpled heap.

    "Come along." Will walked
his aunt to her bed. She sat on the edge and smiled at him. "Go ahead,"
he told her. "I'll tuck you in."

    "And then read to me."
The corners of her small, pale lips curved upward in a sad little smile.

    When she stretched out in the canopied
twin bed, Will lifted the pink top sheet and matching blanket up to her waist
Leaning over, he kissed her forehead and then reached for the book she
held in her hands. When he started across the room to bring the white wooden
rocker closer to the bed, Mary Martha cried out to him.

    "Don't leave me!"

    "I'm not leaving," Will
reassured her. "I was just-"

    Jackie quickly scooted the rocker
into place in front of the nightstand.

    "Thank you," Will said.
"I think I can handle things here. Would you mind going downstairs
and telling Grandmother that Aunt Mary Martha is doing much better."

    "All right. But I won't be
long. Just in case you need me."

    Will sat in the rocker, opened the
tattered volume of Hansel and Gretel and began reading. As was their
usual routine, he stopped occasionally so that she

    could look at the illustrations.
By the time he had finished the story, his aunt was asleep, a look of angelic
peace on her beautiful face.

    All his life he had wondered why
his aunt was the way she was. Why did her mind so often wander off into a
fantasy world? Why, when she wasn't at herself, did she think he was her
baby? No one in the family seemed to know. Lane had tried to explain to
him, years ago, that some people are so delicate and sensitive that
they can't cope with reality.

    He laid the book on the nightstand,
stood and turned to leave. His grandmother waited in the doorway, Jackie
Cummings hovering behind her.

    "She's asleep," Will
told them.

    "Thank you," Edith said.

    When Will reached the threshold,
both women stepped back enough to allow him to exit. Jackie hurried past
them into the bedroom, made a big to-do over checking on Mary Martha,
then picked up the spread off the floor, folded it neatly and laid it across
the foot of the bed.

    Standing in the hallway with Edith,
Will questioned her. "What happened tonight to make Aunt Mary Martha
tear her room apart?"

    A pained expression crossed
Edith's face. "I'm afraid it was my fault."

    "How was it your fault?"

    "Buddy Lawler had paid us a
visit tonight. You know how devoted he is to Mary Martha. Well, after he
left, I stayed with her awhile. I've been so worried about her ever since
Kent's funeral. I made the mistake of mentioning Kent. The poor child
adored her brother so, and she's been distraught ever since… ever since
he was murdered."

    "My mother didn't kill
Kent," Will said. "If Aunt Mary Martha were at herself, she'd be
on Mama's side in all this. You know she would."

    "Don't upset yourself, Will.
No one in this family is blaming Lane for Kent's murder. It's just that all
the evidence… well, things don't look good for her. She is the prime suspect
and-"

    "You could tell Buddy Lawler
not to arrest Mama. You could tell him to find the real murderer. Buddy
would listen to you."

    "Yes, of course. And that's
exactly what he's going to do. Find Kent's murderer," Edith said.
"But Will"-when she reached out to touch him, he sidestepped
her-"you must prepare yourself for the worst. If Lane is arrested,
you know that you have a home here with James and me… and Mary Martha."

    "If you let them arrest Mama,
I'll never forgive you. I wouldn't come here to live with you. I don't
know why you'd want me. You're not even my real grandmother."

    "If you didn't come here, dear,
where would you go? Who would take care of you?"

    "I'd stay with Lillie Mae. She
is my real grandmother, you know." When Edith pursed her lips and
frowned, her expression one of intense disapproval, Will grinned.
"Or maybe I'd live with my father. My real father. You know, Johnny
Mack Cahill."

    Johnny Mack's gut instincts warned
him, even before he opened the door to his motel room, that something
wasn't right. Past experience told him that danger lurked just around
the corner. Or in this case, just beyond the closed door.

    He inserted the key. The lock clicked.
His hand covered the knob and turned it until the door swung halfway
open. The interior lay in total darkness. He knew he had left a lamp burning.
Hesitating in the doorway, he considered his options.

    "Come on in and close the door
behind you," a male voice said.

    Johnny Mack would have recognized
that voice anywhere, anytime. For years after he had left Noble's
Crossing, he'd heard that voice inside his head. Taunting him. Laughing
at him. Damning him.

    "I could have you arrested
for breaking and entering, Chief," Johnny Mack said, as he flipped
the wall switch to illuminate the room and reveal the identity of his
uninvited guest.

    "God Almighty, it is you,
isn't it!" Dressed in his official police uniform, Buddy Lawler
stood on the far side of the room. His hand hovered over his gun belt. Sweat
dotted his forehead and moistened his upper lip.

    "Yep, I'm Johnny Mack Cahill,
in the flesh." He spread his arms wide in a take-a-good-look gesture.
"I'm back from the dead and looking damn good for a corpse, don't you
think?"

    He had often wondered what he would
say and what he would do if he ever saw Buddy Lawler again. That cocky little
bantam rooster had always been a thorn in his side, an irritating echo
of Kent Graham's hostility. On his own, Lawler never would have made a
move. But with Kent's backing and the aid of half a dozen friends, Buddy
had beaten the hell out of him and dumped him into the Chickasaw River,
leaving him for dead. For all intents and purposes, the police chief of
Noble's Crossing was a murderer. Or if you wanted to be completely accurate,
just a would-be murderer.

    "How the hell did you…"
With nervous fingers, Buddy unsnapped the flap on his holster and rubbed
his thumb across the butt of his Magnum.

    "What are you planning to do,
shoot me?" Johnny Mack grinned. He was about as afraid of Buddy as he
would be of a piss ant. Funny thing how a man who had once nearly killed
him could now seem so insignificant and oddly pathetic.

    "I would have bet my life
that you were dead, Cahill. I even told Miss Edith that I was sure of
it."

    "And what did she say?"
Johnny Mack held up a restraining hand. "No, don't tell. Let me guess.
She wasn't as sure as you were that I was dead. What did Miss Edith do, put
out a death warrant on me the way Kent did fifteen years ago?"

    "Miss Edith doesn't want you
here, that's for sure." Buddy's voice quivered ever so slightly.
"I came here to see for myself if it was really you."

    "It's really me."

    "Yeah, well, you're not wanted
in Noble's Crossing any more now than you were fifteen years ago.''
Buddy surveyed Johnny Mack from head to toe, his gaze searching, as if
looking for any sign of a weapon. "If you know what's good for you,
you'll leave town. Tonight."

    "Ah, but that's the problem. I
never did know what was good for me, did I?"

    "You don't want to wind up the
way you did back then, do you? Only this time, we'd finish the job."
Buddy stuck out his chest and tilted up his chin with false bravado.

    "Are you threatening
me?" Johnny Mack's smile widened.

    ''Just giving you a friendly warning.''
Buddy rubbed his sweating palms up and down on either side of his hips, one
hand never far from his holster.

    Oh, how he loved watching Buddy
sweat. Large circles of moisture spread out under his arms and stained
his immaculate tan shirt. A crimson flush tinted his cheeks. Perspiration
dampened his entire face and trickled down his neck and beneath his
collar. Johnny Mack smelled fear. It was a scent he recognized easily.
Men who knew they were going to lose-and lose big-always had that odor about
them. In his business dealings over the past ten years, he had put that
kind of fear into many a man. And now, his presence-his very existence-had
scared the shit out of Buddy Lawler.

    "I'm not leaving," Johnny
Mack said.

    The throbbing pulse in Buddy's
neck protruded. "I'm going to be honest with you, boy. If you haven't
hightailed it out of here by tomorrow morning, I'm going to find some
excuse to put your sorry ass in jail. And I can arrange for an accident
to happen while you're incarcerated. Do I make myself clear?" Keeping
one hand near his pistol, he balled the other into a tight fist.

    Nobody had called Johnny Mack boy
in that condescending tone since he'd left Noble's Crossing. The use of
the word as an insult brought back unpleasant memories. He had been
the boy from the wrong side of the tracks. The bad boy who couldn't be trusted.
The white trash boy who did yard work for the rich and wasn't good enough to
speak to their womenfolk. The boy who wouldn't bow and scrape and be grateful
for the crumbs his betters had tossed him.

    When Buddy moved cautiously toward
the door, Johnny Mack blocked his path. The scent of fear intensified.
His expression one of sheer terror, Buddy, who wasn't more than five-feet-nine,
looked up at Johnny Mack, who stood a good seven inches taller.

    When Johnny Mack slapped his big
hand down on Buddy's shoulder, Buddy shuddered and swallowed hard. Their
gazes met and locked. Fear collided head-on with fearlessness.

    "Let me make myself perfectly
clear to you," Johnny Mack said. "Nobody's running me out of Noble's
Crossing. I'll stay as long as I want to stay. I'm not the white trash poor
boy I used to be. Y’all will find it a lot harder to get rid of me now."

    ''You're making a big mistake going
up against Miss Edith."

    "She's the one who'll be making
a mistake, if she goes up against me. I want you to give her a message.
Tell her that trouble's back in town and there's a bad moon rising, so
she'd better watch out."

    The back door opened and closed.
Lane rose from the chair in the den where she had been sitting waiting
for her son to return home. She caught him just as he reached the staircase.
The moment he saw her, he stopped dead in his tracks.

    "How's Mary Martha?" Lane
asked.

    "She's sleeping now. I read
her a bedtime story."

    "What was wrong? Why did your
grandmother… why did Miss Edith think you were needed?"

    "Did you know that Aunt Mary
Martha hadn't spoken a word since the day after Kent's funeral?"

    "No, I had no idea. There
hasn't been any communication between Miss Edith and me since the funeral."

    "Aunt Mary Martha needs
help, Mama. She needs it bad. She'd ransacked her room before I got there,
and Grandmother wouldn't let Jackie give her another sedative."
Will shrugged. "All I could do was calm her down. Temporarily. She
thinks Kent is still alive. And she was doing that thing again. You know,
when she calls me her baby and says crazy things about her being my mother.
She isn't… I mean, there's no way she could be my mother, is there?"
He gazed at Lane, his dark eyes filled with questions and accusations.

    Will sighed loudly, then dropped
down to sit on the third step from the bottom. When he looked up at Lane,
she thought her heart would break. His expression said it all. Her son
was lost and confused and hurting. And she wasn't sure there was anything
she could do to help him.

    Lane sat beside him and placed
her arm around his slumped shoulders.' 'Mary Martha isn't your birth mother.
I realize you have no reason to believe me since I've lied to you your
whole life, but I'm telling you the truth now. Johnny Mack Cahill is your
biological father and Sharon Hickman was your biological mother.
DNA tests would prove those facts. I explained all of this to you after
Kent… after Kent found out the truth."

    "Yeah, I know." Will speared
his fingers together, locking them crossways and rubbing the heels of
his palms with his thumbs. "You let me read the letter Sharon wrote
Kent. It's just that Aunt Mary Martha-"

    "Mary Martha has severe mental
problems. She's been unbalanced all her life, even as a young girl. And
she has been fixated on you ever since the first time Kent placed you in
her arms. I can't explain it. I'm not sure anyone can."

    Will stared down at his feet, his
clasped hands dangling between his spread knees. "You know, I'm
glad that Kent wasn't my father. He was a terrible man. A drunk. A real loser.
And he treated you like…" Will lifted his head and looked at Lane.
"I wish you were my birth mother. I don't give a damn who my real father
is, but I wish…"

    Lane tightened her hold about
his shoulders, then leaned her head against his and placed her hand on
his knee. "I know, my darling, I wish I were your birth mother, too,
but you couldn't be more mine if I had given birth to you."

    "Mama." He turned and
went into her arms, then laid his head on her shoulder and wrapped his
arms around her. Lane wasn't sure whether she was comforting Will or he
was comforting her. Perhaps both. Each wishing for the impossible.

    "Everything will be all
right." Lane caressed his head as if he were a toddler, her fingers
stroking the soft silkiness of his black hair.

    "Why did you marry Kent and
adopt me?" Will lifted his head enough to make direct eye contact
with Lane. "You never loved Kent and you knew I wasn't really his
baby, so… Sharon Hickman wrote in the letter she sent Kent that you wanted
me because I was Johnny Mack Cahill's son. Is that true? Is that the reason
you wanted me?"

    Lane took Will's hands into hers
and stared deeply into his eyes, praying that she would choose the right
words. "Yes, that's the reason I wanted Sharon's baby. I was nineteen
at the time and had fancied myself madly in love with Johnny Mack since I
was fourteen. We were never lovers. Only friends. His choice, not mine.
But I was so in love with him that I would have done anything to save
his baby."

    "I can't believe someone like
you could have loved a man like Johnny Mack Cahill.'' Will pulled his
hands from her grasp. "Kent told me what kind of man Johnny Mack was. He
was nothing but white trash. A high school dropout who made a living doing
yard work and got his kicks by screwing every woman in town."

    "John William Graham!"

    "I want to know the truth about
my real father. My mother was trash and so was my father, wasn't he? Kent
didn't lie about that, did he?"

    "No, Kent wasn't lying. But his
rendition of the truth was slightly prejudiced. Kent had despised
Johnny Mack since they were kids, and the two were always competing. You
see, honey, the reason you look a little bit like Kent is because he and
Johnny Mack were half brothers. Your grandfather Graham was a womanizer
and-"