Johnston - I Promise (24 page)

Delia retrieved the glass of water from the counter and started down the hall. When Marsh didn’t follow, she turned and said, “Are you coming?”

“Sure,” he said, shaking his head in confusion. “Why not?”

It surprised Delia how fortifying it felt to have Marsh at her back. Maybe with him in the room, her mother wouldn’t provoke an argument.

“About time you got here with that water,” Hattie said when Delia arrived at the doorway to her room.

“Marsh is here, Mother. He came to visit. Is that all right?”

“Don’t know why he’d bother.”

“I wanted to make sure you’re all right,” Marsh said at Delia’s shoulder.

“I’m stuck in bed for another week at least,” Hattie grumbled. “Doctor’s orders.” She sat in the center of the four-poster bed like a queen on a throne, pillows piled up behind her to keep her upright. She fiddled with the bow at the throat of her quilted pink robe.

Delia felt Marsh’s hand in the center of her back urging her into the room. “Here’s your water, Mother,” she said, handing the glass to Hattie.

“Set it on the table there,” Hattie said, waving it away. “Pull up a chair and sit down, North.”

Delia had been dismissed. Hattie hadn’t been thirsty at all. Like a child that cries when it’s ignored, Hattie had simply wanted Delia’s attention.

Besides an upholstered chaise lounge that matched the curtains and the Egyptian cotton bedspread, the only other chair in the vicinity was a bent willow rocker. Marsh picked it up from the corner and set it next to the bed before he settled his large frame comfortably in it and crossed his ankle over his knee.

“How are you, Mrs. Carson?” Marsh asked.

“I’ve been better,” Hattie said.

Delia set the glass down on the table beside the bed and stepped behind Marsh, out of the way. If she had thought she could get away with it, she would have left the room. She was frantic with worry about what Rachel might be doing at this very moment. Her mind was buzzing with possibilities for contacting her sister.

“I believe I owe you my life,” Hattie said.

Delia’s ears perked up. “What are you talking about, Mother?”

“Maria told me how you gave me CPR,” Hattie said to Marsh. “If not for you, I’d have been long dead by the time the ambulance showed up.”

Delia saw the flush high on Marsh’s cheeks as he protested, “Anyone would have done the same.”

“I doubt it,” Hattie said. “Anyway, I owe you a favor, North. What can I do for you?”

That was just like Hattie, Delia thought, offering to repay a personal favor in business terms. “I’m sure Marsh doesn’t want anything from—”

“There is something you can do for me,” Marsh said.

Hattie raised an eyebrow. “Name it.”

Marsh hesitated before he spoke. “Maybe I should wait until you’re feeling better.”

“Does this have anything to do with what we were discussing the last time we spoke?” Hattie asked.

Marsh nodded.

“Go ahead and ask.”

“I’d like you to tell me how Ray John Carson died.”

Delia gasped. “Marsh, that’s enough! Everyone knows Ray John committed suicide.”

Hattie’s piercing gaze stayed riveted on Marsh’s face. “Figured it all out, have you?” Hattie said.

“I think so.”

Hattie’s mouth twisted in a bitter smile, and she gave a cackling laugh. “Maybe I will,” she said. “Maybe it’s time I did.”

Delia stood frozen, listening with disbelief to her mother’s bizarre conversation with Marsh. Her mother couldn’t possibly intend to expose Rachel’s crime to an investigative reporter. There was no statute of limitations on murder.

Hattie winced and grabbed at her chest. She took several hitching breaths and moaned.

“Now look what you’ve done!” Delia said as she hurried to her mother’s side.

At the same time, Marsh rose from the rocker and supported Hattie, who was having trouble staying upright on her own. “Do you need a doctor?” he asked.

“No,” Hattie gasped. “I’m fine.”

“You should be resting, Mother.” Delia rearranged the pillows behind Hattie, helping her to lie down.

“Plenty of time for that later, child. We need to talk,” Hattie said.

“Not now,” Delia said, her voice sharp with anxiety. “Later. When you’ve rested.”

“All right,” Hattie agreed. “But North is right, Delia. I should tell you what happened.”

“I already know what happened,” Delia said.

Hattie shook her head. “You saw what I wanted you to see.”

Delia paused, stunned and confused.

“Get out of here and let me sleep,” Hattie said. “Come back later.”

Delia felt disoriented. What did her mother mean? Delia had heard the shot, seen Rachel with the gun in her hand. She stood staring at Hattie until Marsh grasped her arm and drew her away.

He put a firm, reassuring hand around her shoulder and ushered her downstairs to the kitchen.

“I think you could use a cup of tea,” he said.

“I’ll make it,” she replied, moving around the kitchen putting the teakettle on the stove and getting tea bags from the canister on the counter. She turned to face Marsh with her back to the sink.

He was leaning against the back door with his arms crossed. “Are you all right?”

“No. What did you mean by confronting Mother like that?”

“Hiding from the truth won’t make it go away.”

“How do you know what the truth is?”

“I don’t, but Hattie does. All you have to do is listen.”

Delia put her hands to her ears. “I don’t want to listen. I’ve had my fill of handling crises.”

Marsh grimaced. “I’m sorry to hear that, Delia. I wish I didn’t have to do this right now, but I don’t think it can wait.” He drew the newspaper from his back pocket and held it out to her. “It’s the op-ed page of the
New York Times.”

Delia frowned and took the paper from him. She was having the
Times
delivered to the ranch, but it arrived late in the day. Her blood ran cold as she read the headline:
BROOKLYN’S HANGING JUDGE: TOO TOUGH, OR TOO INEXPERIENCED?

She scanned the article and certain phrases leaped out at her.

Won’t cooperate to keep the system operating. Refuses to accept plea bargains agreed on by the DA and PD. Inefficient ratio of trials to plea bargains. Woman with a personal ax to grind. Should be relieved of her responsibilities, or better yet, resign.

The article pointed out she was one of the youngest judges ever elected to the Brooklyn Supreme Court and suggested she had needed more seasoning than the bare minimum ten years’ experience as an attorney required before taking such a responsible position. The article mentioned she was on a personal leave of absence and finished,
It would be better if The Hanging Judge stayed in Texas, where they’re more used to vigilante justice.

Delia raised stricken eyes to Marsh. She had thought she had more time before something like this happened. She had thought the
Times
would wait until its reporter could talk to her. It was hard to speak past the Gibraltar-sized lump in her throat. “Sam Dietrich is behind this. He wants me out, and he saw a way to do it and earn some political points along the way.”

“Are the accusations true?”

“How can you even ask?”

“I’m a reporter. It’s my job to ask questions. Are the accusations true?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “The only way I can help you is if I know the facts. Are the accusations in that article true?”

“No. Yes. Some of them.”

“Well, I’m glad we got that straightened out,” Marsh said with a rueful smile. “Maybe we should sit down with a cup of tea and discuss this some more.”

Her shock at the attack on her by the
Times
was quickly followed by anger. “Sam Dietrich isn’t going to get away with this!”

“Who’s Sam Dietrich?” Marsh asked.

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time to listen.”

“Something more pressing needs my attention right now,” Delia said curtly.

“More pressing than your job? More pressing than your life’s work?”

“Didn’t you hear what I said when you came to the door? At this very moment my sister may be looking for Cliff McKinley with a gun in her hand. I have to find a way to reach her. I have to find a way to stop her.”

Delia felt frantic inside.

Upstairs her mother waited to reveal the truth about Ray John Carson’s death. She was terrified of what she was going to hear. And she had realized too late the seriousness of Frank Weaver’s warning to watch her back. She had a fight ahead of her to keep her job. And unless she could think of something fast, her sister might end up murdering a U.S. Congressman.

“Let me help, Delia,” Marsh said. “What can I do to help?”

“Hold me,” Delia said. “Just hold me.”

Marsh’s strong arms closed around her, and Delia laid her face against his muscular chest, finding a haven of solace as he rocked her and crooned soothing words in her ear. Marsh’s comfort gave her the brief surcease from worry she needed to allow her to pause and think.

Suddenly, she lifted her head and said, “I’ve got it!”

“What?”

“A way to help out Rachel.”

“What?” Marsh repeated.

“Cliff is going to get an urgent call at his office in Dallas requiring him to go
immediately
to Washington. Rachel can escape with Scott while he’s gone. All I have to figure out is who I know with enough clout to make such a request, and then get hold of Rachel to explain everything to her.”

“What if somebody from the
Washington Post
offers to do a feature article on the congressman at work?” Marsh suggested. “He’d have to be in Washington for that.”

“Perfect! That’s the kind of publicity no politician can turn down, especially not somebody as ambitious as Cliff. Once Rachel gets here with Scott, I can help her make Cliff keep his distance while we get the divorce proceedings started and work on the custody issue.”

“What about going back to work? I thought you planned to be out of here as soon as you could find someone to manage the Circle Crown. That seems even more important in light of that attack on you in the
Times.”

“New York can wait and wonder,” Delia retorted. “I don’t have to prove anything. I shouldn’t have to defend myself. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

Marsh shook his head. “More than one innocent person has been convicted by public opinion,” he said. “Lord help you if the rest of the press jumps on the bandwagon.”

“I can’t leave now, Marsh. It simply isn’t possible. They can’t pillory me if I’m not there, can they?”

“Depends on how anxious this DA fellow is to see you kicked off the bench.”

“The plea bargains Sam Dietrich offered me were absurd, Marsh. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the man was getting paid off,” Delia said.

Marsh’s eyes narrowed. “Really?”

“He was asking for ridiculously light sentences for violent crimes and multiple offenders. In fact, Sam came to me about a case the day I left New York. A boy from a gang in Flatbush, Leroy Lincoln, killed another kid in a drive-by shooting. The evidence against him was overwhelming. Sam wanted five years probation with review in eighteen months.

“That’s no more than a slap on the wrist. The way the system works, in eighteen months the DA’s office will recommend the kid be released from probation because he’s been a model citizen. End of case. Meanwhile, grass has barely grown over the victim’s grave.

“Is it any wonder I won’t go along?” Delia said.

“Have you ever thought maybe Sam
was
getting paid off?” Marsh asked quietly.

“By a street hoodlum? Where would a kid from Flatbush get the kind of money it would take to bribe the Brooklyn DA?”

“There’s money in drugs.”

“You don’t really think Sam might be dirty, do you? I worked with him a lot of years before I became a judge.” She rubbed her nose thoughtfully. “I never saw any of these sweet deals then.”

“Maybe he kept the cases he was fixing away from you. It would explain why he wants to get rid of a brand-new judge who won’t go along with him,” Marsh said.

“I would never be able to prove it,” Delia said.

“Let me work on it for a while,” Marsh said.

“Don’t you have responsibilities keeping you busy here in Uvalde?”

“Of course. But even though I’ve been on hiatus from work, I like to keep up with what’s going on in the world. I’m connected by phone and fax and computer modem to all sorts of sources. I can work on this in the evenings from home.”

“I appreciate the offer, Marsh.”

“My pleasure,” he said. “Shall I call my friend at the
Post
now?”

“Let me try to reach Rachel one more time.” Delia picked up the phone in the kitchen and dialed Rachel’s number. This time it rang. And rang.

“Her answering machine must be turned off,” Delia said, her heart in her throat. “She’s not at home, or she’s not answering the phone. Scott wouldn’t let it ring. Unless she’s telling him not to answer it.”

“Give me the phone.” Marsh called his friend with the
Post
and asked for the favor. The conversation left little doubt that Marsh and his “friend” had once been intimate. “How do I know what kind of feature you can sell to your editor?” Marsh said. “Use your imagination. Thanks, Jan. I appreciate it.”

He hung up the phone.

“Who’s Jan?” Delia asked, insatiably curious and, to her dismay, jealous at the thought of Marsh with another woman.

“Janelle Perkins. I met her when the communist government fell in Czechoslovakia.”

Delia raised a brow.” And you became very good friends?”

Marsh smiled. “I haven’t fallen in love with anyone but you, Delia. I never said I’d been a monk.”

Delia was surprised by the admission. “What about Ginny?” she said. “You loved her, didn’t you?”

Marsh riffled his hair with his hands. “I married Ginny because I wanted to prove to myself that I was over you. I thought I loved her. It wasn’t the same as what we had. I used my job as an excuse to stay gone, because we fought too much when we were together. The marriage ended long before it was over.”