City of Masks (42 page)

41

T
HE MAN WHO PICKED UP
Charmian wasn't from Crescent City Confidential Services. His two gold teeth, the checked shirt, those too-small oval sunglasses, and the posture of deliberate negligence showed him for what he was. As variously described by Ronald and the people he'd referred her to find him, he was a "fixer," a "hitter," a "handyman" - someone willing to do dirty work for pay. Just how dirty, Charmian wasn't sure, but the way he looked, slouched behind the wheel of his beat-up Cadillac, driving with one wrist, she wouldn't put much past him. He was a scrawny, chain-smoking, hatchet-faced Cajun swamp rat who leered when he told her his name was Pierre Lapin Peter Rabbit. When he'd first taken the driver's seat and tugged his jeans up, Charmian saw the end of a switchblade over the top of his pointy, ankle-high, bayou lounge-lizard boots.

She wasn't sure how you went about asking his type if murder was part of his resume. She wasn't sure she could bring it to that in any case. Three people had died already, her
daughter
had almost died yesterday - the swath of pain cut by that long-ago act was more than broad enough. But it was an outcome she was willing to accept if it proved necessary, and they'd have to discuss it before they got to Port Sulphur.

The Crescent City Confidential man she'd hired to watch Cree, after Charmian's last conversation with Paul Fitzpatrick, had phoned from Port Sulphur to say that Miss Black had located Josephine. As Paul had predicted. It infuriated her that in ten days this out of towner, a woman, a parapsychologist, a Yankee, could find a person the region's supposed top detective firm hadn't been able to. She let him hear her fury for a moment before telling him to wait there, that she would be there in just over one hour, that he was to follow Cree if she left Josephine's house and report in on the cell phone if she did.

Cree's finding Josephine meant that she would know the truth - most of it, anyway. There was only one fallback position now. If Cree didn't go for it, if she didn't agree on the solution, Pierre would be given an opportunity to become one very rich swamp rat.

It was bad enough that she had to spend over an hour with Pierre Lapin in his cigarette-reeking Cadillac. But the real problem was that there was nothing to say to such a lowlife, even if she did have need of his services, and the silence left time for her thoughts to whirl. The image of Lila, pathetically asleep in the hospital bed, her arms at her sides and bound to the bed, interposed itself between images of the past.

That night, and the following days, chiseled into her memory, replayed itself as it had so often in the past few months. It was becoming an obsession: searching every detail, every word said and every assumption made, in a hopeless quest to find ways she might have done it differently, done it better. With the wisdom of hindsight, she found many. But no amount of second-guessing or soul-searching could change what had happened.

It had been a particularly good party at the Hardings' that year, and the revelation of the ruse pulled by Richard and Brad had topped it off perfectly. Charmian had danced several times with her own brother, not knowing who it was, thinking only that Richard was affecting a different style of movement. She had watched the ostensible "Brad" stealing caresses from women old and young - only to shock them later by revealing himself as the ordinarily staid Richard! The only flaw in the otherwise perfect evening had been the way Brad looked, after they had taken off their masks: so sweaty and uneasy, his skin pasty. At the time, thinking she knew the reason for his poorly concealed misery, she'd felt a pang of sympathy for him. Susan Lattimore, Brad's most recent flame, had been noticeably absent from the party. Earlier, he'd confessed to Charmian that he was considering proposing to Susan, getting serious at last. Her absence, and Brad's appearance when he unmasked, suggested what her response had been.

And of course he'd been drinking heavily all night, lifting his boar's-head mask just enough to tuck tumblers of whiskey to his lips. They'd all had too much to drink. Excess was de rigueur at the Hardings'.

And then the nightmare of that morning: Josephine, storming into her bedroom study with a basket of laundry, her grave countenance afire with righteous anger. She was panting, so worked up that her voice came out more a scraping sound than a whisper: "Bradford come home crazy, he rape Lila when you's all still at Hardings'. He hurt that girl worse than any thin'."

"What are you talking about?" Charmian's headache pounded, and all she felt was irritation at the nanny's irrational outburst.

"He rape her! He chase her and rape her and scare her half to death and now you got to do somethin'!" Josephine threw the laundry at her feet, and Charmian saw the sheets, the blood on them. "You look here and see what he done!" There too were Lila's pajamas and underpants, ripped, spotted with blood.

Charmian's world rocked in something like an earthquake; the room seemed literally to tilt and shake as shock after shock hit her. First and foremost, concern for Lila - an agony of sympathy and fear for her future. But immediately after came fear and pity for Bradford, her beloved, charming, ne'er-do-well baby brother who had now truly become a lost soul. And then a thousand other shocks: a shrieking sense of failure, for having failed to protect her daughter. For having failed to help Brad become something better. For not having seen how far Brad had fallen. For having failed to protect her family, now gouged with a deep wound that could never knit. And then the shame of it! And the shame of knowing this servant knew of it. And fear of Richard, what he'd do when he found out, and

And in that moment she knew that she had to take control. It was up to her to repair this, to manage it. Josephine was never again going to act as Lila's mother, that had gone on long enough. She, Charmian, and she alone, was going to do that now. And she'd never fail again.

Charmian groaned out loud, causing Pierre Lapin to turn his buglike sunglassed gaze to her. Charmian inched away from him, up against the door, turning her head to look out at the disgusting commercial strip that had sprung up along Highway 23 in the last twenty years.

Another wave of pain came, but this time she weathered it silently: yes, she'd vowed never to fail Lila again. But only five minutes later, she had done so, maybe the worst way.

She found Lila in her room, sitting on the floor, cocooned in private misery, her body rocking slightly. One look told Charmian that, yes, her light had changed; that was the most awful thing, worse by far than the bruises on her face. She didn't return Charmian's hugs and caresses, but sat with arms at her sides, closing herself in hard. Charmian saw herself in the reaction: the strength of it, the determination. The anger and shame that fired her resolve to yield nothing to no one, to trust no one. And clearly, Lila blamed her mother for some share of her pain. She was right to. Charmian damned herself to the lowest level of hell.

Charmian knelt two paces away, as close as Lila would allow her. "Lila, tell me what happened."

Delayed response, an accusatory look: "You already know. Josephine told you."

"I want to hear it from you."

Delayed answer, eyes not looking at Charmian, or anything. "He chased me. I wasn't sure at first."

Charmian waited. "Sure o f - ?"

"Sure what he wanted! I thought he was playing! The way we used to. But then he really hurt me and wouldn't stop when I told him to." Lila's lower lip was trembling so that it shook her whole, soft, child-round face. Her rocking intensified, growing desperate as determination warred with defeat in her features. When Charmian came to her again, Lila pushed her away. It was a short, hard push, the small hand flat on Charmian's chest. It left a brand she felt there for months.

Lila began to sob and moan but would not let Charmian touch her. So Charmian decided the only course was to provide an example of mastering bad things. She had to tell her daughter,
show
her that her pride could endure, her sense of self could endure. That if she sought it and asserted it hard enough, she'd still have some control.

"Lila, listen to me. There are times when you have to be strong. At some point, every woman has to deal with something that hurts her, very badly, very deeply. Every woman! Sometimes the only way through is to act like nothing happened! If you act it hard enough, it will become true, because you'll show yourself it can be done."

Crying, crying, crying, and still not letting Charmian near her. Crying, crying, crying, as her mother spouted more useless homilies on strength and self-control and stiff upper lip and time healing all wounds, crying and crying until Charmian grew too frustrated, too frustrated with herself for having let her relationship with her daughter turn into this, where in the poor girl's moment of greatest need she couldn't turn to her own mother. Frustrated with Lila for keeping her away. Crying, crying, until Charmian hissed at her, "Lila! Stop crying. Right this minute! You have to stop crying. If you can do it now, you'll prove to yourself you can do it anytime you choose to. Show yourself that. This is
not
the end of the world! Show some spine! You are a Beauforte! You
can
be strong. No one can take away the strength inside you unless
you let them!"

She must have groaned again, because Pierre Lapin turned to her once more, throwing his left wrist over the wheel as he used his right hand to take off his sunglasses. He peered at her with small, bloodshot eyes. "You sick or somet'ing? Don't go t'rowing up in my car, just had the interior done."

"I'll bear that in mind, thank you," Charmian told him witheringly. "Frankly, it would help if you didn't smoke so much."

He put the glasses back on and kept driving. After a moment, he used his free hand to tap another cigarette out of its pack, then flicked it expertly so that it spun up and into his lips. He made sure she'd caught the move before he lit it with the dashboard lighter. Charmian bristled at his impudence but admired his reflexes. Small, but wiry and quick, that was good.

They were past the strips now and into the open country, the downriver land of po' white trash and po' black trash and nouveau riche trash in their taseteless, ostentatious houses. The flat, scrubby fields drifted endlessly past, dusted with pollution from chemical plant chimneys. This area had always been Charmian's idea of hell.

"Can't you drive any faster?" Charmian complained. "At this rate, it'll take us two hours."

The sunglasses only half turned. "Tell you what. I don't tell you how to be a rich bitch, you don't tell me how to do my job."

And she realized he was right. You drive the speed limit or under so that you never, ever, elicit the notice of the police. It was another slight demonstration of professionalism that reassured her. But, still, it wouldn't pay to let the help get uppity. It was time to take control of Mr. Lapin.

She didn't raise her voice, but she put an edge into her tone that would etch glass. "Don't you ever talk to me that way again." He swiveled his head to look at her and would have come up with some other insolent wisecrack, but she cut him off: "You don't know who you're dealing with," she hissed. "You see an old lady with a limp. But this old lady has more money than you could imagine. This old lady has more resources, more friends in high places, more clout than trash like you ever
dreamed
about. And Pierre Lapin is cute, but I really much prefer Loup Garou, your nickname at the Bayou Cane bars you frequent. I know which trailer you live in. You think I'd get in a car with garbage like you if I didn't know I could bag you up and discard you anytime I choose?" That begat some resistance, so she opened her purse to show him the glint of stainless steel there. She put her hand on it and through her teeth continued, "I am also an old lady with a Smith & Wesson CS9 automatic in my purse and I will kill you with it. Act right, and you end your day with more money than you usually make in a year. Talk to me like that again, or do
anything
other than exactly as I tell you, you are dead. Your place in the scheme of things is four classes lower than my yard boy. Know your place, Loup."

He had sobered up when she mentioned his local nickname, Werewolf, and the other information she'd paid her Crescent City Confidential man to obtain. Now he didn't answer, just turned his attention back to the highway. It took a while for his grin to sneak back. It looked a little forced, she thought, but not entirely: There was some grudging admiration there.

"Okay, Gran'mere, you the boss for sure," he said at last. "Make my own gran'mere look sweet, you."

She smiled, glad he had taken it in stride, thinking that maybe he was indeed worth his pay.

Putting him in his place gave her a moment's satisfaction, but actually, she
did
feel sick. And it wasn't caused by his cigarettes or even the chemical air down here. It was what she'd said. How it must have sounded to Lila.

Charmian had been on the verge of crying herself, that choking ache that grew and you tried to swallow and it wouldn't go down. But she had to set the example. Lila looked as if she'd go truly to pieces, turn into a puddle of tears and quaking flesh. Charmian had to prove you could stave off complete collapse if you just kept your back straight. So she did. She did not let herself appear overly emotional. Not ever during that whole awful time.

She didn't become aware of Lila's misperception until another week had gone by. Pdchard had been out of town on business for several days. Charmian had tried many times to reach Brad, had driven over to his apartment, but he never answered his phone or the doorbell. She hung in an agonizing indecisiveness. No, paralysis. Bradford had to be punished, that was clear. But Charmian couldn't decide what to do, how to begin. Call a doctor to look at Lila's injuries? Old Andre Fitzpatrick was loyal, they could count on him to be discreet. Call a psychiatrist to deal with the emotional aftermath? Call the police? She could probably prevail upon Commissioner Deelay to keep it out of the press.