Dead Right (28 page)

Pul ing the clock toward her, she rubbed her bleary eyes, then realized she was looking at the date and not the time and switched modes. It was just after midnight. She couldn’t have been sleeping for more than half an hour.

She was exhausted. So what had disturbed her?

Sophie? No. The cat was sleeping at her feet. Cocking her head, she listened careful y for several minutes but heard no sound.

She’d probably had another bad dream. She could even remember part of it. She’d heard a car pul up out front, the purr of an engine, fol owed by silence. Then she’d turned around, and her father was standing in her living room, smiling and holding out his arms as if she was stil the little girl he’d left behind.

She didn’t get a chance to ask him where he’d been, though. The dream ended before he could speak.

The comfort of her bed beckoned. She wasn’t sure what had awakened her, but earlier she’d thought there was a noise—and it had turned out to be nothing. She was nervous, jumpy. She’d tried to channel her unease into work, but hadn’t gotten very far.

With a sigh, she got up and walked toward the kitchen to get a glass of water, but a rustle in the next room made her heart leap into her throat. This noise wasn’t coming from outside. And it wasn’t Sophie. Sophie was at her heels but she hadn’t made a sound.

Was it Hunter? Had he come back?

She waited, expecting him to cal her name. But he didn’t.

“Hunter?” she said. “Is that you?”

No answer. What was going on? Someone was in the house. She was sure of it. If it wasn’t Hunter…was it Mike?

Thrusting a hand through her tousled hair, she peered cautiously around the corner. She could see part of the kitchen and living room, as wel as a portion of the entry.

But she couldn’t see whoever had made the noise.

Because she’d been so nervous before, she’d left the lights on for comfort, but now she felt exposed. Vulnerable.

Whoever it was might have been looking inside the house, seen her sleeping.

Heart thumping loudly in her ears, she reached for the closest light switch.

The thud of heavy footsteps nearly made her knees give out. The intruder had been near the front entry. But now he was in the living room; she could tel by the movement.

Sophie darted back into the study, but Madeline couldn’t let him catch her there. She’d be trapped.

Ducking, she ran out and caught a glimpse of someone’s shadow flitting toward the kitchen. She wished she had her cel phone, but she’d left it on the counter earlier—in the kitchen, where her uninvited visitor was now.

Grabbing one of the antique colored bottles that lined a shelf on the wal , she turned off the light switch for the living room, plunging it into darkness, too. Then she pressed herself to the wal and tried to peek around the corner.

Whoever it was had moved again. She couldn’t see anyone. He was most likely against the same wal she was, but she felt too afraid to come farther into the doorway. Why give him an advantage? She’d be smarter to draw him toward her—and her only weapon. “Who are you and what do you want?” she cried.

Again, nothing. Panting with fear, she broke the bottle by smashing it on the wal , and held it in front of her.
This can’t
be happening,
she thought. But her earlier conversation with Mol y kept echoing in her brain.
Are you scared of
him?

She was scared, al right. She’d never been more scared in her life.

“Mike, unless you want to go back to prison, I suggest

“Mike, unless you want to go back to prison, I suggest you get the hel out of my house,” she said. “Why do you think so many lights were on? I’m waiting up for the man you saw earlier, the private investigator. He just went out for a drink and should be back any minute. He’s staying with me, you know.”

Her mouth was so dry she could hardly form the words.

But her lie seemed effective. Indecision suddenly turned into action. Feet pounded across the kitchen; then the door slammed shut.

She raced around the corner, flipped off the light and stared out the window, hoping to see who it was. But al she caught was a flash of something white—a man’s head or arm—and then he was gone.

Shaking, she set the broken bottle aside and reached for the phone. The dial tone hummed warm and comforting in her ear.

Calm down. Take a deep breath.

She fumbled through 9-1-1 and final y got the police.

Then she tried to cal Hunter on his cel phone and at the motel. But he didn’t pick up.

“Where are you?” she muttered. Taking him to the motel had been a mistake.

Waiting for the siren that would tel her help was on its way, she slid down the side of the cupboards—only to sit in something wet. Confused, she got up and turned the lights back on. Then she covered her mouth.

It was blood. On the floor. Smeared by her own feet.

Spotting Madeline’s hulk of a brother in the far corner, Hunter started toward him, trying not to smel the alcohol that seemed to say “welcome home.” Instead, he focused on the cigarette smoke that hung thickly in the air, burning his lungs and nostrils. California had outlawed smoking in most public buildings years ago. Evidently, Mississippi was as far behind in public safety as it was in everything else, including fashion.

Most of the men around him were wearing Wranglers—

so tight Hunter didn’t know how they could stil father children—wool, button-up shirts with T-shirts underneath and cowboy hats. Except for two old men at the bar, dressed in overal s, Clay seemed to be the exception. He had on a pair of worn, faded jeans with a fashionable rip in the knee. Funny thing was, Hunter suspected his rip had actual y come from wear.

“So you got me out of bed. Now what?” Clay said gruffly.

Hunter took the seat opposite him and didn’t respond because a waitress was already approaching.

“Can I get you boys somethin’ to drink?” she asked.

“I’l have a Sam Adams,” Clay said.

Hunter wanted a beer, too. There might be cigarette smoke in the bar, and maybe they were playing country-western music—two things that set this place apart from the trendy pubs he used to frequent in California. But a bar was a bar. Hunter’s conditioned response to the atmosphere, from nearly a decade of visiting such places, was to order a real drink, then another…and eventual y sink into oblivion.

But this was his first time inside a bar since he’d given up alcohol. He wasn’t going to blow it.

“Club soda.”

They sat without speaking until the waitress returned.

Then Hunter tried not to watch Clay take his first drink.

Averting his eyes, he stared out over the dance floor, where a bunch of women were laughing drunkenly while trying to do the Macarena.

Apparently that song was stil popular in some parts of the country.

“You ready to tel me why we’re here?” Clay asked.

“I’ve found something,” he said.

Clay’s arm froze momentarily before carrying the bottle to his mouth. After another long swig, he set his drink back on the table. “What?”

Hunter took Madeline’s puffy journal from his coat pocket and slid it across the table.

“You found a child’s journal?” he said without picking it up. He slouched lower in his chair but watched Hunter closely.

“It’s Madeline’s,” he explained. “From when she was eight and nine years old.”

“We were living in Boonevil e then,” he said with a shrug.

“Whatever’s in it couldn’t refer to me. Or any of my family.”

“I realize that, of course.”

Clay lifted his half-empty bottle with two fingers and swung it from side to side. “Then why are you showing me her journal?”

“Have you ever read it?”

One lazy eyebrow arched up. “Aren’t journals supposed to be private?”

“She gave it to me.” Hunter took it back again, opened it and began to read aloud.

“Katie has another sore on her neck. She won’t tel me how she got it. But Daddy said someone must have grabbed hold of her necklace or something. Why would that be such a big secret?”

Clay regarded him with half-closed, heavy-lidded eyes.

“So Katie was teasing her about some minor injury. What’s that supposed to prove?”

Hunter flipped through a few more pages and read another entry.

“I’m so mad at Mom. Daddy wanted me to go to Jacksonvil e with him to see his cousin. We were going to stay two whole days. But she wouldn’t let me go. And when I started to cry, she shook me hard.”

“What do you have to say about
that?
” Hunter asked.

“From what I hear, Madeline’s mother wasn’t right in the head.” Clay spoke in a monotone. “Committed suicide. It was a real tragedy.”

“I think it might’ve been her father who was sick,” Hunter said meaningful y. “And now I’m wondering just
how
sick.”

Clay broke eye contact and gazed at the candle flickering in a red votive glass at the edge of the table. “I should warn you that won’t be a popular opinion around here.”

“Fortunately, I’m not running for office.”

Clay said nothing.

“When did you find out about it?” Hunter asked.

“Find out about what?”

“What he was doing to your sister.”

Clay appeared relaxed, but Hunter suspected that il usion was created only at the expense of great effort. “He didn’t do anything to my sister. Ask Chief Pontiff. She told him as much last week.”

“Why don’t I ask
her?
” Hunter countered softly.

“Because you’d have to go through me first,” Clay said.

Hunter didn’t respond to the comment. He had no intention of approaching Grace; he was sure she’d suffered enough. That was why he’d cal ed Clay instead. He’d wanted to witness Clay’s reaction—which had turned out to be exactly as he’d expected.

Locating one more entry in the journal, Hunter cleared his throat and read again.

“I saw a naked lady in a magazine in my dad’s drawer.

She had a man on her!”

Clay’s lips curved into a smile, but it seemed more nostalgic than anything else.

“Interesting that she’d find pornography in her father’s desk, don’t you think?” Hunter said. “Someone who preached so energetical y against sins of the flesh?”

“When we were kids, Madeline told us she’d found that magazine.” Clay’s odd smile lingered. “She said it was
gross.
”

“To a nine-year-old, I’m sure it was.” Hunter used his straw to stir the ice in his glass. “But when she was older, didn’t it make her question her father’s adherence to his own standards?”

“Why would it?” Clay said. “The minute he found out she’d seen that magazine, he told her he’d confiscated it from one of his parishioners, who was a ‘vile sinner on the surest road to hel .’ He burned it in front of her, said he’d planned to do that al along.”

“Bummer he had to dispose of it before he was finished with it,” Hunter said sarcastical y.

“He didn’t need it. He had other things to entertain him.”

Hunter’s stomach muscles tensed. “Like…”

Clay shrugged and wouldn’t volunteer any more. So Hunter asked him directly. “Who do the other panties belong to?”

Madeline’s stepbrother used his index finger to circle the top of his beer. “How much is she paying you?” he asked instead of answering.

Hunter shoved his club soda away. “Why? Are you going to try and buy me off?”

Clay’s gaze never wavered. “Would it work if I did?”

“No. It’s not about the money.” Returning Madeline’s five thousand was the only way Hunter could ease his guilt over what had happened between them earlier. He’d decided to send her a check the minute he got back to L.A.

“What’s it about then?” Clay asked.

“I want to help her.”

“If that’s true, you’l go home tomorrow,” he said and walked out, leaving the rest of his beer on the table.

Ray swore as he tried to stanch the blood from the cut on his right arm. The glass had sliced him so smoothly he hadn’t realized how deep the injury was. He was pretty sure he needed stitches. But he couldn’t go to a doctor. He’d seen the shows on TV, knew they’d trace the break-in at Madeline’s place back to him. It wasn’t as if he lived in a big city. He was probably the only person who’d cut himself tonight.

Holding his arm close to his body, he fumbled with the gauze from the old first aid kit he’d found under his bathroom sink. He wanted to bandage the wound, but it was awkward with just his left hand. The damn thing wouldn’t stop bleeding. Maybe if he applied a little more pressure…

A knock on his front door made him go rigid with fear.

Had Madeline seen him?
Had she sent the police? The bitch wasn’t even supposed to be home. When he found her car gone, he’d thought he was safe.

He glanced up at the tiny window above the shower. It was too smal and too high to climb out of. But he could get to the back bedroom, crawl through that window and sneak out via the woods, heading toward the highway, where he could flag down a trucker. He was just trying to calculate how much of a lead that would afford him when the second knock came. It was more insistent than the first, but the voice that accompanied it left Ray sagging in relief.

“Hey, Ray. You in there? It’s me, Bubba.”

Bubba lived next door and was always trying to bum cigarettes off him. But it was after midnight. He’d thought he was safe. “Don’t have any smokes,” Ray yel ed.

“That’s not why I’m here. The light in your car is on, man.

Wouldn’t want to let your battery run down, ya know?”

Ray had been planning to go back out and clean up the car. He couldn’t leave the blood on his seat and steering wheel. “Don’t worry about it,” he cal ed. “I’l take care of it in a minute.”

There was a long silence, during which Ray hoped Bubba was lumbering back to his own damn trailer. At nearly five hundred pounds, Bubba was on state assistance because he couldn’t work. But he managed to get around pretty damn wel if he wanted something.

“I saw you bringin’ in some groceries earlier. You don’t happen to have a beer, do ya?”

Son of a bitch.
Ray gritted his teeth. Bubba was stil there. And he’d obviously seen the six-pack Ray had carried in earlier. Which meant he wouldn’t leave until he had a cold beer in his fat hand.