Don't Cry (20 page)

“We're just talking in general terms,” Zoe told her. “Nothing specific. Not that I know anything specific. Since I've been living with him, he's dated less than half a dozen women. Five, I think. Five in a little over a year isn't very many. And he's had an ongoing thing with only two. There was some woman named Denise back in Memphis when I first went to live with him, and for the past few months, it's been Holly.” Zoe huffed loudly. “Holly's an A-Number-One bitch, if you ask me. And before you say anything, Holly doesn't like me any more than I like her.”

“If your father is in a serious relationship with Holly, then you may have to find a way to get along with her.”

Zoe snickered. “Serious relationship? J.D.? You've got to be kidding. You just wait and see if Dr. Woodruff doesn't come to the conclusion during our sessions that he's got commitment issues.”

Audrey smiled. “Have you been psychoanalyzing your father, young lady?”

“He's not so hard to figure out. He had a bad marriage. Got burned. Enjoys being a loner. The last thing he ever wanted was a kid messing up his bachelor life.” Zoe stood, stacked her soup bowl onto her plate, and carried them over to the sink.

Audrey cleared the rest of the table, and together she and Zoe loaded the dishwasher. “I think your father is trying, but he just doesn't know how to be an instant father.” She laid her hand on Zoe's shoulder. “You haven't exactly been helping him, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. But it's not easy when it's obvious that he'd rather I didn't exist.”

“Oh, I don't think that's true. Actually, I think he loves you, but he just doesn't know it yet.”

“He doesn't love me. He just sees me as an obligation. He's not a bad man. He's got his principles and all. If he didn't, he'd have turned me over to social services and washed his hands of me.”

“Then we agree that J.D. has some good qualities,” Audrey said. “And I'm sure these sessions with Sally Woodruff will benefit you and your father. Given time, I think y'all will be able to build a solid father/daughter relationship.”

“You're an optimist,” Zoe told her.

Audrey draped her arm around Zoe's shoulders. “I try to be. Like right now, I'm optimistic in believing I'll be able to help you with this science project. The truth of the matter is that I'll probably do more observing than actually helping. I don't think a girl with your IQ needs anybody to help her with a simple science project.”

Zoe looked at Audrey with affection. “You're very smart yourself, Dr. Sherrod. You saw right through my fabrication.”

“Zoe, you don't need excuses to spend time with me. I'm here for you whenever you need me. And that includes our just hanging out together.”

Zoe's smile widened, so bright and honest and filled with gratitude.

 

When J.D. got home a little after seven, he tossed a frozen meal in the microwave, heated it for five minutes, and then wolfed it down with a beer before he settled in to work for a while. An hour later, just as his vision began to blur and he wondered if he might need bifocals soon, his phone rang. At first glance, he didn't immediately recognize the name and number, and then it hit him—Cara Oliver—she was Zoe's friend Jacy's aunt, the woman who had chaperoned the girls' trip to the mall.

“Hello,” J.D. said.

“Hi, J.D., this is Cara Oliver. I hope I'm not disturbing you, not interrupting anything important.”

“Not a thing.”

“How's Zoe?”

“She's fine.”

“I wanted to apologize again about—”

“No need,” J.D. assured her. “What happened wasn't your fault.”

“Nevertheless, I feel guilty. Jacy's parents grounded her for a month, but I imagine Zoe's already told you about that.”

No, Zoe hadn't told him. But then, his daughter spoke to him only when he spoke to her. “Actually, she hasn't mentioned it.”

“Oh, well, I'm sure she will.” Cara hesitated, as if she was considering what she was going to say next. “The other reason that I called…other than to apologize is…well…I was hoping you might want to go out for dinner. Sometime soon. I'm sure you're busy tomorrow night—”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”
I'll be giving Holly a good-bye fuck.
“But how about Saturday night?”

“Saturday night would be great.”

They chatted for ten more minutes. Small talk, which J.D. hated. But women in general seemed to feel it was necessary, especially pre, during, and post the first couple of dates. Cara gave him her address and the directions to get from his house to hers and told him how much she was looking forward to their date. And then J.D. sat back on the sofa and smiled. It was great the way women had no problem taking the lead and inviting a man out for dinner. If he recalled correctly, Holly also had been the one to make the first move. Holly, who was on her way out. And Cara, who was on her way in. An old saying came to mind:
There are always more fish in the sea.

His relationship with Holly had pretty much run its course, and they both knew it. She had become a little too demanding to suit him. And although he appreciated her unique talents in the bedroom and admired her barracuda lawyer's mind, Holly wasn't the kind of woman he needed in his life. In the future, any woman he dated more than a couple of times had to not only be sexy, attractive, and agreeable to a no-strings-attached affair, but had to like his kid.

J.D. checked his watch. Eight twenty. He was supposed to pick up Zoe before ten, but since the drive from his house on Signal Mountain to Audrey's town house in downtown Chattanooga would take about fifteen minutes, there was no reason for him to head out now.

What the hell. It wouldn't make any difference if he showed up a little early, would it? He might actually be able to help Zoe and Audrey finish up Zoe's school project.

Maybe he should shave and change his shirt. He had a heavy five o'clock shadow and his button-down was wrinkled.

What was the matter with him? He was just going to pick up Zoe, so who cared if his shirt was wrinkled and he needed a shave?

J.D. grabbed his jacket, flung it over his shoulder, and headed out the door.

Since traffic wasn't bad, he found himself in front of Audrey's town house on Second Street twelve minutes later. The fashionable and expensive Walnut Hill townhomes were within walking distance of numerous restaurants and tourist attractions, including the Walnut Street Walking Bridge, the Hunter Art Museum, and the Art District, as well as the Riverwalk. After parking his Camaro and getting out, he wondered if he should think of an excuse for showing up more than an hour early.

“I had dinner downtown.” “I worked late and came straight here.” “I thought maybe y'all would finish up early.”

By the time he reached Audrey's front porch, he had decided that if neither she nor Zoe mentioned how early he was, then neither would he. When he walked up the steps, the porch light came on, thanks to a motion sensor. As he approached the front door, he noticed a long, white rectangular box braced against the right side of the black iron railing that ran along both sides of the porch and down the front steps. He studied the box more carefully, then picked it up and saw the emblem of a local florist attached to the mauve ribbon circling the box. Someone, probably Porter Bryant, had left a bouquet for Audrey. Why leave it on her porch instead of delivering it in person? A lover's surprise?

The last time J.D. had bought flowers for a woman had been for his senior high school prom date.

With florist box in hand, he rang the door and waited.

Audrey opened the door and glanced from his face to the box.

Before she got the wrong idea, he said. “They're not from me. I found them propped up against the porch railing.”

“Please, come in. Zoe and I were about to dip up some ice cream.”

“Then y'all are finished with the…er…project?”

“A science project,” Audrey whispered. “And all I did was watch her work and give her a little praise, which is all she really needed.”

“Thanks.”

Okay, so he should know more about Zoe's schoolwork, but short of giving her the third degree on a daily basis, he wasn't likely to learn one damn thing about it. It wasn't as if Zoe volunteered any information.

After J.D. entered the small foyer, Audrey closed and locked the door and then took the florist box from him. Keeping her voice low and soft, she told him, “Zoe's project required a great deal of research. She finished the research tonight and we compared her findings. This weekend she'll write the paper. And in case you'd like to know, the topic is Design Considerations for Solar Cell–Powered Homes.”

“That's a ninth-grade project? Things sure have changed since I was in ninth grade.”

“The hope is that each generation will be smarter than the one before.” Audrey smiled. “I assume you know that your daughter has a brilliant mind.”

“God only knows where she would have gotten it,” J.D. joked. “Carrie wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, and I'm sure no genius.”

Ignoring his self-criticism, Audrey said, “Zoe's in the kitchen. Come on back and join us. I understand vanilla is your favorite ice cream flavor, and it just so happens that I have a half gallon of vanilla.”

“Lead the way.” J.D. fell into step behind her.

When she opened the kitchen door, Zoe looked up from where she stood at the counter busily dipping ice cream into a crystal bowl. “You're early,” she told him as she dug the scoop back into the container.

“Audrey said you're finished with your research for the science project. Solar power, huh? An interesting subject.”

Zoe stared at J.D. and for half a second he saw genuine pleasure in her eyes. His daughter had been pleased that he actually knew not only what kind of school project she'd been researching, but knew the topic. And then realization dawned and that glimmer of pleasure disappeared.

“Audrey told you, didn't she?” Zoe glanced away and focused on putting ice cream in a second bowl.

“Zoe, would you please dip up some vanilla for your dad?” Audrey walked over beside Zoe and laid the florist box on the counter by the sink.

“Sure.” Zoe glanced at the box. “I know he didn't bring you flowers, so who are they from?”

“I guess I'll have to open them to find out.”

Audrey slipped the mauve ribbon off the box and lifted the lid. J.D. looked over her shoulder as she picked up the small card lying near the long stems of a dozen red roses. When she read the card, the muscles in her face tensed.

“Who are they from?” Zoe asked again as she placed the Turtle Tracks ice cream in the freezer and removed the carton of vanilla.

“Porter Bryant.” Audrey crushed the card in half and held it tightly in her clenched fist.

Zoe didn't notice, but J.D. did, and he sensed that Audrey was not only displeased and annoyed, but slightly unnerved.

“A dozen roses,” Zoe said. “How romantic. I don't think I've heard you mention him. Is he your boyfriend or something?”

“No. Porter and I dated for a while. We are…were friends.”

Audrey dropped the crumpled notecard back into the florist box and left the box on the counter. “J.D., would you like chocolate sauce or nuts or whipped cream on your ice cream?” She removed another crystal dessert bowl from an upper cupboard and set it on the counter.

“No, thanks. I'll take it plain.”

“Are red roses your favorite?” Zoe removed the lid from the carton of ice cream.

“No, actually, they aren't.” Almost as an afterthought, speaking more to herself than anyone else, she said, “I've always loved white gardenias.”

“I like daisies,” Zoe said as she dipped into the vanilla ice cream. “And lilies and carnations. But I guess I like roses, too. But not red ones. Pink. That's my favorite color.”

While Audrey and Zoe were busy discussing flowers, J.D. reached down inside the florist box, picked up the wrinkled notecard, and unfolded it. He read the message quickly and then dropped the card back into the box.

Well, I'll be damned.

Just what did the message mean? Was the guy begging for a second chance or…?

Whatever was going on between Audrey and her former boyfriend was certainly none of his business. He had no intention of becoming involved in her personal life. But it was obvious that she didn't want anything to do with the man or his flowers; and the accompanying note had rattled her usually composed demeanor. Had Porter Bryant been harassing her?

J.D. hadn't been aware that she'd broken up with the ADA, but why should he have known? She didn't know any details about his love life. They didn't have the type of relationship where they shared that kind of personal information. Apparently Audrey had been the one who had ended the relationship with Bryant, and he was having a problem letting her go.

Not that it was anything to him one way or the other, but he was glad, for her sake, that she'd dumped Bryant. There was something a little too smooth and slick about his appearance and something a little too superior and condescending about his attitude. A guy like that wouldn't take kindly to being told to “hit the road, Jack.” Maybe the flowers and the note were just his way of trying to woo Audrey back into his arms.

But so help me God, if I find out that he's actually threatening her, I'll have a man-to-man come-to-Jesus talk with the son of a bitch.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Grace Douglas asked Wayne.

Keeping his eyes glued to the road ahead, he replied, “I'm sure.”

“What will happen if anyone finds out that you've shared confidential information with Steve Kelly?”

“I've shared the same information with you,” he reminded her.

“And I've told no one, not even Lance. And you have no idea how much I want to tell my son. But I would never betray your trust. Are you sure you can trust Steve Kelly?”

Wayne didn't respond immediately; instead, he mulled over her question. Could he trust Steve? Hell if he knew. But he did know one thing for sure—Steve Kelly had a right to know about the DNA results on the two toddler skeletons. Sooner or later, the police would have to release that information to the press about the toddler skeletons and the DNA results. Steve needed to be told beforehand so the news wouldn't catch him off guard. He needed to be prepared for the possibility that if Whitney Poole became the Rocking Chair Killer's third victim, when her body was discovered, she would probably be holding a tiny skeleton. And since the first two victims had been holding the first two Baby Blue toddlers, then the odds were that the next toddler skeleton would belong to Devin Kelly.

“You didn't have to come with me,” Wayne told Grace.

“I didn't want you to have to do this alone.”

He didn't reply. He couldn't. If he did, he might cry. And damn it, Wayne Sherrod didn't cry. Not in front of anyone, not even the woman who loved him.

Grace understood him better than anyone and accepted him as he was, warts and all. He was a lucky bastard. Not many men got a third chance at happiness. Yeah, damn straight. Grace made him happy. And he hoped he made her happy. He tried, did the best he could. What had begun as a friendship cemented with their mutual grief had gradually grown into love, and now, he couldn't imagine his life without her.

They rode along in silence until they reached the turn-off for the Cedar Creek Mobile Home Park. Then Wayne said, “If you change your mind, you can always wait in the car.”

As he pulled to a stop, Grace reached over and laid her hand on his arm. “Is there some reason you don't want me to go in with you?”

Wayne tensed. “He's living with some woman. A pretty rough customer. I'm not sure…Hell, you know what I'm trying to say. She's a different kind of woman than you are, and I wouldn't want you to be offended by—”

“Oh, I see.” Grace leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Wayne Sherrod, you are, without a doubt, an old-fashioned gentleman. You're the type who still divides women into two categories, ladies and whores.”

Wayne cleared his throat, but didn't look at Grace.

She laughed. “Considering the fact that you and I have been fornicating like crazy for a number of years—”

He turned, grasped her shoulders, and looked right at her. “You, Grace Douglas, are a lady through and through.”

Grace smiled at him; then apparently something caught her eye as she glanced over his shoulder.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It's Steve Kelly,” Grace told him. “Or I think it is. A man just opened the door to his trailer and is standing there looking at us.”

By the time Wayne got out, rounded the truck's hood, and opened the door for Grace, Steve had walked out into the small yard at the side of his trailer. He stood there and waited for them.

Steve inspected Grace from head to toe. “I see you brought somebody with you.”

“This is Grace Douglas,” Wayne said. “Her son Shane was the fifth Baby Blue toddler.”

Steve's gaze softened. “Ma'am.” He nodded and then turned toward his trailer. “Y'all come on in.” After opening the door and stepping aside on the small attached porch, he glanced back and looked from Grace to Wayne. “Juanita's not here. She…uh…reconciled with an old boyfriend.”

Wayne breathed a little easier knowing that Grace wouldn't have to meet the skanky Juanita.

Steve's trailer was as neat inside as it was outside, even if the furniture was old and worn, as were the appliances in the kitchen. He indicated for Wayne and Grace to sit on the sofa. After they sat, he settled into the ratty leather recliner.

“When you called, you said you had some information about the Baby Blue kidnapping cases.” Steve stared at Wayne. “I figure it's not good news.”

“The DNA from the two toddler skeletons found with Jill Scott and Debra Gregory belonged to Keith Lawson and Chase Wilcox.”

Grace slipped her hand over Wayne's and entwined her fingers with his.

Steve didn't say anything. Moisture glazed his eyes.

“The CPD and the TBI are pretty sure that the Rocking Chair Killer abducted Whitney Poole,” Wayne finally said, breaking the silence. “If he has her…if he kills her…and poses her in a rocking chair with a toddler skeleton in her arms, then…”

“Then that toddler could be Devin.” Steve closed his eyes. “He was the third child who disappeared. Whitney Poole is the third woman.”

“The information about the DNA results hasn't been released to the press. Not yet. I thought you had a right to know now, to be prepared, just in case.”

Steve looked at Grace. “Your son was the fifth little boy that she kidnapped, wasn't he?”

“Yes.” Grace clenched her teeth tightly and Wayne knew she was fighting back tears.

“That woman did more than just kill our little boys,” Steve said. “She destroyed so many lives. If you ask me, she got off way too easy just being confined to a mental hospital for life.” He dropped his clasped hands between his knees and looked down at the floor. “I went to see her, you know.”

“We all went to see her,” Grace said. “You and Wayne and I and Chase Wilcox's mother and Keith Lawson's parents. We all wanted her to tell us if she had taken our babies…if she had killed them.”

“I'm not talking about more than twenty years ago. I went to see the bitch about a week before she died.”

“Why would you do that?” Wayne asked. “What possible reason—?”

“It was Devin's birthday. He would have been twenty-nine. All I could think about was that damn crazy bitch and how she was alive and Devin was dead and…”

Grace stood, walked over to Steve, and knelt in front of him. “Steve.” She spoke his name in a soft whisper.

He looked up at her. “I wanted to kill her,” he said. “I wanted to strangle her with my bare hands. After all these years, I still wanted—” He squinched his eyes tightly shut. Tears squirted out from the closed lids and dampened his face.

Grace took his big clasped hands and covered them with her own much smaller hands. “I understand. Wayne and I both understand. We've felt what you've felt.”

Steve opened his eyes, but couldn't speak. Grace released him and rose to her feet. Wayne came up behind her and slid his arm around her waist. They were three kindred souls, each a parent who had lost a child to the same madwoman's senseless actions.

 

The Hideaway was a bar. It wasn't an upscale, urban white-collar hangout or a redneck roadhouse watering hole, but something in between. Hart knew that this was the kind of place he should avoid, a place where beer flowed like water and a guy could easily score a hit in the men's room. So far, he had been able to withstand temptation because he hadn't come here tonight looking for a fix. He'd come here to meet Jessica Smith, the long-legged, dark-eyed manicurist that Audrey had warned him to stay away from.

He had considered listening to his sister's advice. She was right about him being too old and too worldly for a kid like Jessica. But when he thought about Jessica, how she had responded to him, all giggles and fluttering eyelashes, he'd done what he knew he shouldn't do. He'd called the spa and asked to speak to her.

She'd been the one who suggested they hook up at seven-thirty, here at the Hideaway. The girl couldn't be all that sweet and innocent if she frequented places like this. His big sister had to realize that not all women—young or old—had her high moral standards. Some women liked sex for the sake of sex, with or without love being involved. Just as many women as men enjoyed an occasional walk on the wild side.

It might be good for Audrey if just once she would come down off her high horse and wallow in the mud with the rest of the peasants.

Hart laughed at the thought of his sister literally wallowing in mud. Even as a kid, Audrey had been fastidious. Her room had always been neat and clean, nothing out of place. She had ironed her clothes and his, too, and reminded him to comb his hair and brush his teeth.

And God, she was a chronic hand washer. She kept both hand sanitizer and lotion in her purse and in her car. A bottle of liquid soap and a bottle of lotion were by every sink in her house and office.

He loved Audrey. Even though they weren't biological siblings, they had bonded as brother and sister during the first year of their parents' marriage. In all the years since Blake's death, no matter what he did or how many times he screwed up, she had never deserted him. He owed her, owed her more than he could ever repay.

Maybe he should have listened to her and not gotten in touch with Jessica.

“Hey there,” a female voice said. “I'm not late, am I?”

The minute he looked at Jessica Smith, any second thoughts he'd had disappeared instantly. The girl looked good enough to eat. She had freed that mane of dark hair so that it hung around her shoulders in thick curls, the ends almost reaching the tips of her high, firm boobs. Boobs that obviously needed no assistance from a bra in order to stand at attention. The silky red top she wore clung to her body and did nothing to hide her erect nipples. And damn if she didn't look like she'd been melted and poured into her black jeans.

“No, ma'am, you're right on time.” Hart slid his arm around her slender waist.

“I'm starving,” she told him as she cuddled against his side. “This place has some great burgers.”

“Let's find a table and we'll order dinner.”

“Burgers, fries, and beer for me.”

“You are over twenty-one, right?”

When she giggled, he wondered if maybe she wasn't legal drinking age, but she assured him she was.

“I'm twenty-two. Almost.”

As they searched for a table in the crowded bar, Hart caught a glimpse of someone he recognized sitting alone at a table near the dance floor. When Jessica noticed him staring at the man, she punched him gently in the ribs.

“Somebody you know?” she asked.

“Yeah, a…uh…fellow recovering alcoholic and addict.” He should have told Jessica the truth about himself before he asked her out. But better now than later.

“Oh, somebody you just see at meetings, or are you two buddies?” Jessica asked, seeming unfazed by his admission.

He stopped, turned, and looked at her. “Did you already know about me?”

“That you've had problems with alcohol and drugs? That you haven't been out of rehab for long? Yeah, I knew. I'm your sister's manicurist. She's mentioned you and I asked around. People talk.”

“And you don't care about—?”

“You're clean now, aren't you?”

“Yeah.”

She shrugged. “Then who cares? It's not like we're getting married or anything. This is just a date. Two people grabbing a burger and getting acquainted.” When he smiled, she continued talking. “And just so you know, I don't have sex on a first date. Kissing is okay for tonight. And heavy petting on a second date isn't out of the question.”

“And sex on date three?”

“Sometimes. It just depends on how much I like you and how persuasive you can be.”

Hart smiled. He liked Jessica Smith. There was a lot more to her than just perky tits and a pretty face. And if things went well tonight, maybe there would be a second date and possibly a third. It had been quite a while since he'd thought about actually dating a girl long enough to get to know her and even longer since he'd actually cared about someone.

As for love—there had been only one girl.

“Want to ask your friend to join us?” Jessica asked.

“Nah, let him find his own date.”

 

The lullaby replayed itself inside her head, the melody and lyrics, once sweet and familiar, now bitter and terrifying.

Hush, little baby, don't you cry…

She was alone. Lost in the darkness. Only a glimmer of faraway light in the pitch blackness. Her heartbeat the lone sound in the unbearable solitude. Sometimes she thought she heard insects crawling all around her, on the floor, on the walls, on the ceiling. But she couldn't see the floor or the walls or the ceiling. Her world had shrunk to the size of one chair. A rocking chair.

She had stopped struggling, stopped fighting against the degrading confinement, stopped pretending that there was some way she could escape. She had become reconciled to her fate. Oddly enough, she had reached the point where she feared living far more than dying. Living like this, strapped to a chair, her feet bound, unable to do more than wiggle her toes and fingers and twist her head from side to side was un-endurable. But endure it she must. Until he killed her. And he would kill her.

But far worse than being bound to the damn rocking chair or even knowing her captor would eventually end her life were those moments when he laid the tiny bundle in her arms, the body of a little child wrapped in a blanket. The skeleton of a toddler, just bones, baby teeth, and wisps of blond hair.

Poor baby. Poor little dead baby.

When he killed her, when she became his next victim, would anybody remember her name?

“I'm Whitney Poole!” she screamed. “I'm Whitney Poole and I don't want to die! I want to live! I want somebody to find me and get me out of this horrible place!”

Her voice echoed in the stillness. The room where he kept her had to be large and empty to create such an echo.