Gone to Ground (20 page)

"No." Trent cleared his throat. "They had an additional piece of evidence, Deena."

Oh, no. "They find somethin at his house?"

"They didn't mention finding anything at the house. But they did get preliminary testing of the blood on the uniform over the weekend at that private lab."

"So fast?"

"One of the officers hand-delivered the uniform on Friday, and Chief Cotter must have promised to pay a bundle for immediate processing."

I almost didn't dare ask. "What did they find?"

"It's not good, Deena. The blood
is
human. And the type matches Erika's. It's AB, Rh negative. Of all types, that's the rarest, found in less than one percent of the population."

My gaze fastened on the toaster. Slick and silver, like a knife blade. I turned away and stumbled to a kitchen chair. Leaned over, forehead almost to my knees.

"Erika's rare blood type explains why Chief Cotter arrested Stevie so fast." Trent's tone remained objective. So reporter-like. As if his news hadn't pierced right through me. "The chief would have learned of it through the autopsy report. He was betting the blood on Stevie's uniform would be the same rare type—giving them stronger evidence to keep your brother in jail. If Erika's blood had been more common, the defense could argue a match in type didn't mean much."

"You think he did this?" My voice was barely above a whisper.

Trent hesitated. "It doesn't look good, Deena."

"You said you loved me." My voice caught.

"I do."

"Then stop bein such a reporter!"

"I thought you wanted to know what happened."

"I do, but . . ."

Silence.

"You want me to tell you Stevie didn't do it?"

A sob rolled up my throat.

"Okay, maybe he didn't." Trent sounded nonplussed.

"Say it like you mean it."

"Well, we still don't know for sure."

"So go prove he's innocent!"

"Deena. I'm not a detective. I'm a reporter. I just write what—"

"I don't
want
you to be a reporter." I shoved to my feet and propelled myself around the kitchen. "I want you to be a friend. You know about crime and the courts. So use your knowledge to help someone else for once!"

Our breathing collided over the line.

"Listen to me." Trent's voice was low and tight. "You want the truth? I'm not sure he is innocent anymore. At first I thought no way. But the stuff they've got on him . . ."

I strode into my livin room and threw myself on the couch. Who cared if I was being irrational? I couldn't stand for Stevie to be guilty. And so he wasn't. And so I had to help him. "
Don't
remind me what they've got on him. Think what they
don't
have."

"The DNA tests will prove whether or not that blood is Erika's. All you can do right now is wait for that, Deena. If it's not hers, this will be over. If it is, you'll have to accept it."

You
. Not
we
. Nothin in his words about stickin beside me.

"I'm sorry to have to tell you all this."

I stared at the blank TV, rememberin the moment Stevie banged on my door six nights ago.

"Deena?"

"What."

"I have to return to Jackson now."

"Of course you do."

"I wish I didn't. Wish I could be there with you."

I slumped back against the couch, my anger drainin away. I was too tired for it. "I'd be lousy company."

"I know a lot's been happening. But have you thought more about coming to New York with me? I'm moving in a month."

He was asking about this
now
? "How can I go to New York and leave Stevie here?"

"He's in jail. There's nothing you can do to change that."

"I can go visit him."

"Really? After what happened the last time?"

My mouth clamped shut. A new wave of despair washed over me. Trent had a point. Still, did he have to be so callous about it? "I just won't ask him any questions that'll get him upset."

"I know life in Amaryllis can't be easy for you now. You could break free of that."

My eyes closed. What was it with this guy? "But I wouldn't be free, can't you see that? No matter where I am, my brother's still in jail. He still may be a murderer. And
that
, Trent"—my voice broke—"is goin to keep me in chains no matter where I am."

I clicked off the line.

Part of me wanted Trent to call back. He didn't.

For a long time I stared out my front window. My thoughts rolled around and around, no place to land. Was Cherrie Mae at the Bradmeyers' house now? Had she gotten the pictures of Erika's ring in Mayor B's file? That had to mean somethin.

But Mayor B would have some explanation. That ring was nothin compared to the victim's blood on my brother's clothes.

It
was
her blood, wasn't it. In my heart, I knew.

And how had Tully gotten through the weekend? I checked my watch. Too early to call. When Mike left for work I'd phone her.

"The blood type matches Erika's."
Trent's words rang in my head.
"The rarest of types."

Then whose blood was on Tully's swabs?

I huddled in my rocking chair in the nursery, gazing
at the room. Everything was ready for little Michael. A month ago my mom and the ladies at the Methodist church had given me a baby shower. The crib was set, with its blue blanket and a mobile. Disposable diapers sat on the shelf of the changing table, next to a closed-lid trash can. The little dresser was filled with outfits, everything from newborn to eighteen months. It was all so pretty.

My hand went to my stomach.

Mike was in the living room, watching some sports station on TV. He'd barely spoken to me since we got up. I'd tried to act like nothing ever happened, but a black cloud hung between us and neither of us could find our way through it.

My thoughts turned to the swab hidden in my drawer—and sudden panic rose in me. What if Mike went through my things? If he found that . . .

My body went hot.

I was crazy for keeping that swab here. I needed to get it out of the house. Let Deena or Cherrie Mae keep it. But how could I do that? Mike wouldn't let me go anywhere, and he probably had Jeff and his wife, Becky, across the street spying on me. I could just imagine him telling them how I was trying to do too much. How I needed to keep off my feet—

The doorbell rang.

My head cocked, listening.

The TV muted. Mike's footsteps thudded against the carpet. The front door clicked open.

"Mornin, Mike." A man's voice. "Tully here?"

"Why?" Mike sounded suspicious.

"I need to talk to her."

"What for?"

I pushed to my feet, heart hammering.

"We just need to talk to her."

"Maybe I don't want you talkin to my wife."

I waddled out of the nursery and around the corner. Down the hall. In my doorway stood Officer Ted Arnoldson in uniform. Mike turned and glared at me.

My stomach hit the floor. Was this about my pact with Deena and Cherrie Mae? The swab? Couldn't be that. How could they know?

"Mornin, Mrs. Phillips." Officer Arnoldson gave me a tight smile. He stood over six feet—taller than Mike. His blond hair looked mussed, like he'd been in a hurry. "I'd like you to come with me down to the station." His ice blue eyes drilled into me.

"
What
?" Mike's faced flushed.

I bunched the neck of my T-shirt. Could he see my bruises through the makeup? "Why?"

"We need to talk to you. I'll bring you home soon as we're done."

"My wife's not goin anywhere with you." Mike flexed back his shoulders.

I couldn't answer. My knees were about to give way.

"Mrs. Phillips, you need to come down to the station."

"What
for
?" Mike stepped toward the officer.

"It's business between her and the police."

Mike's hand raised. "I'm her husband."

Officer Arnoldson stiffened. "Mr. Phillips, move back."

"You tell me why—"

"Move. Back."

"You are
not
takin my wife!" Mike swung the door to shut it.

Officer Arnoldson shoved his foot in the threshold. "Stand back now! Or I'll put you in cuffs."

"For
what
? Protectin my wife?"

"Wait, Mike." My voice shook. "Don't get in trouble. I'll go."

"You're not goin anywhere."

"It's okay."

"No, it ain't!" Mike swiveled toward me, his back to Arnoldson. "What have you done?" he hissed.

I shook my head, my throat stuffed with cotton. Whatever this was, I couldn't let the cop go now—and leave me alone with my husband.

"Mr. Phillips, move aside." The policeman reached for the mike at his lapel, ready to call for backup.

"It's okay, I'll go." I tried to move around Mike.

"No you're not." He pushed me back.

"Hey!" Officer Arnoldson stomped through the doorway.

Mike swung toward him. "You stay outta this."

Arnoldson clamped a hand on his arm. "You assaultin your wife in front of an officer?"

My husband jerked away. "Get off me!"

"Mike, stop!" He couldn't get arrested. Not now. What if they did know about the swab and told him? "I'll come right back."

"Step away." Arnoldson pointed a finger in Mike's face. "Or I'm takin you in."

The vein in Mike's temple throbbed. He glared at the policeman, chest heaving.

Michael, don't.

Mike's tongue ran across his bottom lip. His eyes shifted to me, full of rage. He'd kill me for this.

With a slow blink, Mike leaned back. He sneered at Arnoldson. "You gonna tell me what this is about?"

"I don't need to." The policeman motioned me toward his car. For the first time I noticed it sitting at the curb. What would the neighbors say? The news would be across town in a heartbeat.

I didn't dare look at Mike. Head down, I shuffled out the door. He and Arnoldson argued some more, but I barely heard above the blood pounding in my head.

Somehow I made it down the sidewalk. Arnoldson opened the front passenger door of his car. I fumbled into the seat. He closed the door—and I swear all oxygen sucked away.

Not until we started off did I glance back at Mike. He stood on the porch, arms folded, body rigid. A look to kill in his eyes.

Mayor B's footsteps sent my body into a freeze. I
gawked at the pictures lyin out in rows, the open drawer.

The footsteps headed my way.

I flung myself to the desk.

The steps slowed. Mayor B must be starin at my cleanin supplies in the hall, wonderin what I was doin without em.

"Eva? Cherrie Mae?"

He sped up again.

With a heave a both arms I whisked the photos and the empty folder across the wood and into the open drawer. They landed askew on top a the hangin files, no time to set em all straight. I slid the drawer closed.

"In here, Mayor B." I snatched up his ashtray and spun around. He appeared at the office doh. He carried two blue folders in his hand.

We stared at each other.

Suspicion creased his forehead. "What're you doin?"

I raised the ash tray. "Just emptyin this." My heart skittered round like a cornered muskrat.

He eyed me. "Where's Eva?"

"She still feelin poorly. I made her go to bed. I cleaned your room first so she could rest. Look like it's flu, leastways a bad cold." I picked up the waste can by the desk and started toward the kitchen, where I'd empty it and the ashtray. My ankles liked to shake my feet clean off.

Go upstairs, Mayor B!
I had to get back in the office and straighten that drawer. The way the man was lookin at me, I half expected him to check it soon as I left the room. But I couldn't just stand there and wait for him to leave.

His gaze followed me as I passed him into the hall.

"You might want to look in on her, see if she need anything." I walked on toward the kitchen, head up, like my whole world hadn't gone spinnin. My fingers nearly dropped the ashtray.