Depth Perception (2 page)

Dear God; not now,
was all she could think.

She tried to finish writing the check, but her hand fumbled the pen. Her arms drooped as if they were paralyzed. It was a terrifying sensation to be trapped inside her own body and unable to control her limbs. She was aware of her left hand grappling for the pen. Her nails cutting into her palm. Her knuckles going white as .her hand. swept across the check.

"Lady, are you okay?"

She heard the words as if from a great distance. Vaguely, she was aware of the boy looking at her strangely, She wanted to answer, to reassure him that she was fine. But the breath had been sucked from her lungs. Words and thoughts tumbled disjointedly inside her head. She tried to focus, but his face kept fading in and out of her vision.

An instant later her legs buckled. Her knees hit the floor with a hollow
thump!

"Oh, good Lord!"

Nat heard alarm in the pregnant woman's voice. She heard the shuffle of shoes against the floor. Felt a gentle hand against her shoulder. "Honey, are you all right?"

Slowly, she became aware of cool wood against her cheek. She was lying on her side, still gripping the pen. She wanted to get up, but she was dizzy and disoriented and an inch away from throwing up all over the woman's Nikes.

"Ma'am, are you sick?" came the boy's voice.

Bracing her hand against the floor, Nat pushed herself to a sitting position and shoved her hair from her face. "I'm okay," she heard herself say.

Her checkbook lay on the floor next to her. She picked it up, saw that her hand was trembling violently.

"You need me to call Doc Ratcliffe for you?" the woman asked.

Nat shook her head. "I'm fine. Really, I just ... got a little dizzy."

Shaken and embarrassed, she rose unsteadily to her feet and brushed at her jeans. The vibrations had quieted, but her thoughts remained fuzzy and disjointed. She felt as if she'd just stumbled off some wild amusement park ride and had yet to regain her equilibrium. She glanced at the boy behind the counter to see him staring fixedly at the check, his expression perplexed.

"What's that?" he asked.

bad man take ricky. kill again. hurry.

Gasping, Nat snatched the check off the counter. "Nothing," she muttered.

The woman shot her a wary look. "It said something about killing."

Unwilling to explain--not sure she could, even if she knew what to say--Nat shook her head. "I just ... must have gotten confused for a second. right before I blacked out." She tried to smile, but was too shaken to manage. "I have epilepsy."

"Oh." But the woman didn't look appeased.

Nat knew it the instant the woman recognized her. Her eyes widened, then she took a step back, as if she'd ventured too close to something dangerous. "You're Nat Jennings."

Sliding the ruined check into the pocket of her jeans, Nat began writing a second one. She had wanted anonymity for her return home. She should have known that was the one luxury she would never have in a town the size of Bellerose.

"That's right," she said.

The clerk and the pregnant woman exchanged - startled looks. Nat did her best to ignore them, but her hand was shaking when she tore off the check and handed it to the clerk. “Thanks for the gas."

"If I'da known who you was, I never would have let you pump here," the clerk muttered.

"Yeah, well, it's too late to' do anything about it now." Nat started toward the door.

"Bitch," he said to her back.

Nat felt the word as keenly as if he'd thrown a rock at her. She'd known her return would be met with hostility, but she wasn't going to let that keep her from doing what she'd come here to do. She'd waited three unbearable years for this moment.

Once in her car, she pulled the note from her pocket and read it again.

bad man take ricky. kill again. hurry.

A chill passed through her as she studied the child-like scrawl. Aside from seeing that justice was done, there was nothing she could do for the ones who were already gone. Nat knew all too well that the dead could not be resurrected. But if she could prevent the death of a single child, whatever she faced in the coming days would be worth it.

Staring at the note, she set a trembling finger beneath the words.

 kill again.

"Not if I can help it, you son of a bitch," she whispered and jammed the car into gear.

Chapter 2

Melted asphalt stuck to the soles of Nick's boots like hot chewing gum as he made his way down the narrow road toward his father's farm. Stopping at the mailbox, he let the sight of the ancient live oaks and sweet gums arching over the white gravel lane sink into his brain. Growing up, he'd never seen the farm as anything except an endless hellhole of backbreaking work and a combat zone for him and his father to do battle. Now, even though the place was by no stretch of the imagination picturesque, there was a primal beauty in the way the hundred-year-old farm embraced the land.

The lane curved like a capricious river for a quarter of a mile. When the old house loomed into view, it was like seeing an old friend to whom the years hadn't been kind. The two-story frame had a wide front porch and tall, narrow windows. It had been built at the turn of the century and added onto a dozen times over the decades, giving it the haphazard look of a structure that had been thrown together. The house had never been pretty. Neglect had made it downright unsightly. The wood siding that had once been as white as winter frost was weathered gray and warped from the elements. The windows were grimy and dull with neglect. The shingles on the roof curled like palsied fingers.

Nick wondered if his father had fared any better. If the years had been kinder, the storms of his life gentler. If the Alzheimer's was as bad as Mike Pequinot had intimated.

On either side of the lane, fields that had yielded a hundred years of. sugarcane and cotton stood barren and overgrown with weeds as tall as a man. The Ford tractor Dutch had bought used twenty years ago sat in the side yard at a cockeyed angle, its right rear tire as flat as the Louisiana countryside.

"Home sweet home," he muttered as he took the concrete steps to the porch. The wooden planks creaked as he crossed to the front door. Setting the duffel at his feet, he knocked and tried hard to convince himself he'd' done the right thing by coming back.

A minute ticked by before the door groaned and slowly

opened. An. instant later he found himself looking at a man who was far too old to be his father. Eyes as dark as molasses swept down to his boots, then back to his face to glare.
"T' as du gout."
You've got a lot of nerve.

The years had been as brutal to Dutch Bastille as they had the house. Eyes that had once been as sharp as a cane knife were rheumy and bloodshot. Skin that had once lain like fine leather over strongly boned features now sagged from jutting cheekbones. Hair that had once been as black as a raven's breast had faded to a sallow color that was part gray, part yellow. With a two days' growth of white beard, he looked washed out and pissed off and none too pleased to see his only son.

"Hello to you, too, Pop."

Dutch made a sound that was part growl, part disgust. "I was wondering when you were going to show up."

Nick stared at him, not sure if he was more taken aback by his father's appearance or the rancor in his voice. He hadn't expected a warm welcome, but he hadn't expected open hostility either. At least not right off the bat. "The bus ride took a while," he said. "A lot of stops along the way."

"You look like a goddamn convict."

Nick looked away, focused on the overgrown fields. "I guess I do."

Dutch's eyes landed on his' forearms. "Why the hell did you go and get yourself tattooed like that? You think anyone's going to hire you with your arms tattooed like some carnival freak?"

"Just passing time.”

"I guess you figure you haven't already embarrassed me enough, huh?"

"Nobody's trying to embarrass you, Pop."

Dutch cackled, the sound of a bitter old man. "You've been an embarrassment to me since the day you took a match to that fancy restaurant of yours. You finally get a break, a chance to make something of yourself, and you fuck it up. Don't that sound familiar?" he said sarcastically. "I guess you've always been your mama's boy, though, haven't you?"

Nick met his gaze, felt a flare of what he could only describe as hatred burn deep in his chest. Of all the emotions he was feeling at the moment, that he could hate his own father when he hadn't seen him in eighteen years hurt a lot more than he wanted to admit. "I might be guilty of a lot of things, but arson isn't one of them."

"I lost my job at the mill because of that stunt you pulled."

Nick looked at him closely, wondering how much of the bitterness had to do with honest disappointment and how much was a result of the Alzheimer's disease. "You lost your job because of your memory, Pop."

"That's bullshit. My memory's as good as it ever was. This is all political. Those bastards wanted my job. Thanks to you, I got the boot."

Suddenly feeling very tired, Nick lowered his head and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "I'm not going to argue with you about your job. Pop. If you want me to leave. just say so. There's a halfway house in New Orleans I can go to. I just thought.. . after eighteen years, you might want to ... " For the life of him, he couldn't find the words to finish the sentence.

Growling like an old bear, Dutch swung open the door and stepped aside. "You may as well stay here. Just don't think you're going to sit on your ass while I work my tail off around this dump."

Nick picked up his duffel. "Wouldn't dream of it," he said and stepped inside.

#   #   #

Sheryl Crow was belting out a tune about leaving Las Vegas when Nat took the Mustang across the old steel bridge that spanned the muddy water of the Bellerose River. She slowed for a curve in the road, then made a quick left onto the gravel driveway. The two-story Victorian hadn't changed in the three years she'd been away, and the utter sameness of it shook her. The wraparound front porch still beckoned one to sit on the swing and sip sweet tea. At the dormer window, she could see the frilly curtains she'd hung a lifetime ago. In the front yard, the magnolia she'd planted the year Kyle was born was still in bloom, and it shocked her anew that the tree had outlived her son.

In the last six months Nat had made this pilgrimage a thousand times in her mind. She'd seen the house as it stood now, as Southern and pretty as a belle. A snazzy For Sale sign in the front yard touted the word
Reduced
in big red letters. The house had been on the market for over a year now. According to the real estate agent, lots of people had looked, but not a single offer had been made. She supposed people just couldn't get comfortable with the idea of living in a house where a brutal double murder had taken place. Especially when the killer had never been caught . . .

Trying not to think about that, she parked the Mustang and slid from the car. She felt as if she were walking through a void as she crossed to the porch and took the steps to the door. She knew it would be locked but tried the knob anyway, found it secure. Leaving the porch, she took the flagstone walkway to the rear of the house. The backyard was mostly wooded. At one time, there had been a path through the trees that led to the river a quarter mile away. She and Ward and Kyle had walked that path countless times-for swimming or fishing or just to watch the water meander through the forest. Nat could still make out the mouth of the path, but the trail itself was overgrown with tall grass, wild honeysuckle, and tangled kudzu.

She crossed to the French doors. Standing on her tiptoes, she reached for the key in the porch light, exactly where the realtor had said he would leave it. He'd been more curious than disappointed when Nat had taken the place off the market. The realtor had asked about her plans, but Nat hadn't elaborated, she figured the less people knew about why she was back, the better off she'd be.

The house smelled of stale air and mildew. Hardwood floors that had once been glossy and waxed were now coated with dust. To her right was the kitchen with its speckled granite countertops, glossy oak cabinets, and stainless steel appliances. Straight ahead the living room stood in the shadows of late afternoon.

Nat hadn't set foot in the house since the night her life had been tom apart by violence, and it was bizarre being back now. She'd almost expected to see the place as it had been three years ago. Full of laughter and life and the dreams of people who'd been utterly certain the future held good things for them. But the house was as silent and hollow as her heart.

Dr. Pettigrew had warned her against returning so soon. He'd told her that while her physical recovery had progressed better than expected, her psychological recovery could take longer. He'd told her that pushing herself too hard, too soon, could set her back. But Nat had already lost three years of her life. She'd lost her family. Her heart. She'd nearly lost her mind.

Her legs were shaking when she entered the living room. Someone had draped the furniture with sheets, and for a moment the room seemed to be filled with ghosts. Annoyed with herself for letting her imagination run amok, she walked quickly through the room, yanking the sheets from each piece of furniture as she passed. Dust motes exploded as the sofa and chair and occasional tables appeared. She crossed to the foyer and jerked the sheet from the console table. She stared down at the glass top where some kind soul had placed the framed photographs facedown. And even though Nat knew better than to look, she remembered each photograph with startling clarity, as if she'd placed them on that table just yesterday. Kyle on his rocking horse when he was three years old. She and Ward on their wedding day, their faces young and beaming with happiness. Ward and Kyle in his fishing boat for Kyle's first fishing expedition. He'd been six years old and so kindhearted he hadn't been able to bait the hook...