Mortal Fear (47 page)

Oh.

I was actually dumb enough to think a Cary Grant movie could come true. But men arent wired that way. They cant handle something like that, and I should have known it. God knows I know everything else about them.

Erin

Oh, dont stop me now. Maybe I
did
know that about men. But I made Patrick promise not to ask anyway. You know why? To protect Drewe. I didnt want Drewes illusions shattered any more than you did. And I knew if Patrick found out about you and meabout HollyDrewe would eventually find out everything. In the heat of some family argument, it would explode.

Thats where we are anyway, isnt it? I point out. Except youre the one whos about to explode.

She shakes her head slowly, and I sense sadness flowing into the place where her anger had seethed. In a voice stripped of all hostility she says, Do you believe in sin, Harper?

At last I understand her strange intensity. She has finally flipped out. She is born again, saved, or whatever they call the manic grasping at straws that occurs when people whove damaged their lives beyond all repair hurl themselves into lunacy in the quest for one more chance, for that mythical clean slate.

I know youre not religious, she says calmly. Im not talking about that. Im talking about a sin against yourself. Against people you love. People who trust you. Do you understand what I mean?

I dont know what to say. When Erin speaks again, her voice is so soft I hear it as a shout.

What
do
you believe in, Harper?

Out of the mouth of a distraught woman comes the question I have tried to answer since I started thinking for myself. A question Brahma asked me only yesterday. And I am no closer to an answer now than I was when I was thirteen years old.

I guess I believe in... honor. Keeping faith. Trying to do the right thing. And consequences if you dont.

If you believe in that, you believe in sin.

Erin....

And that we have an obligation to try to make things right. Dont you?

Not the way youre talking about. Youre talking about more pain. Too anxious to sit any longer, I get to my feet and shake the tingles out of my arms and legs. You know what I really believe in? Goddamn it, its only now that I see it. I believe in Drewe. In her optimism, her trust. Her faith in happy endings, that happiness is even possible. I know theres nothing out there but an abyss, but
she doesnt
. Or shes convinced herself she doesnt. Either way, it doesnt matter. My point is that if happiness is possible, its going to be made by people like her. People with the strength to hold on to their illusions in the face of all evidence to the contrary. In the face of nothing.

Erin watches me in silence for a long time. I understand what youre saying. Some illusions are necessary. But the reality sleeping on the Piglet blanket back in my bedroom cant be ignored or suppressed or anything else. Holly may be a symbol of weakness, something wed like to shield Drewe from, but she is also real. And to have a life, the life she deserves, she needs both her parents. And I dont mean you. Im sorry, but thats the way it is.

So what do you want to do?

Not want. Im going to tell Patrick the truth about how Holly was conceived. Tonight.

Jesus God
.

And youre going to tell Drewe.

I am numb. I try to tell myself this is not happening, but the fact that my brain is trying to shut down my peripheral nervous system confirms that it is. Blood is rushing from my extremities to my core organs as surely if I were being chased by a man with a machete.

Harper?

As I stare at Erins bruised angelic faceher eyes burning with misplaced convictionseveral thoughts crystallize at the speed of light. She means what she says
about telling Patrick. She means to make me confess to Drewe. Words will not stop her.

But one thing could.

She is speaking again, but I hear only the blood in my ears. A roaring blast like a divine voice:
Shes the one who put you in this situation
...
who showed up on your doorstep and stepped naked into your shower
.
She could have told you she was pregnant before you married Drewe
.
She could have prevented ALL of this
. I feel sweat in my palms, an electrical tensing in the muscles of my arms. Forced to choose which woman is more important to me, I have chosen. With dreamlike slowness I take two steps toward Erin, then another. Her eyes widen in puzzlement as she speaks. I outweigh her by close to a hundred pounds

but Holly would never be the same, would she?

I feel as though someone just slapped me.

Are you listening to me, Harper?

I nod dully, look down at my closed fists. It was Hollys name that broke my trance. Not the fact that Drewe knows I am here, or that I would almost certainly be caught if I hurt Erin. Hollys name. There are not two women in this insane emotional equation, but three.

Im listening, I murmur, dimly aware that Ive dodged some point of no return.

Did you take something today? Erin asks, staring suspiciously at my eyes. Are you wired or what?

I laugh hollowly. Hell no. Youre the drug addict.

I resent that.

Im sorry.

Are you going to tell her or not?

Erin

Because if you dont, Ill have to.

Ill tell her, goddamn it!

She is no more shocked by my shout than a ghetto kid by gunshots. In a taut voice I add, I just hope you realize what could happen because of all this.

She laughs softly and turns away. I know better than anyone. I think about it day and night. You and I could lose everything we love. But dont you see, Harper? Its also the only way we can truly
have
the things we love.

Theyre not things, Erin. Theyre people.

She says nothing.

Nothings going to change your mind?

She shakes her head and turns back to me, her eyes wide and earnest. This is the right thing, Harper.

I give her a brief hiss of scorn.

Do you remember Chicago? she asks.

According to you, I do.

Two spots of color touch her cheeks. I remember. Do you remember the strange thing that happened? What you did for me that no one ever had?

She steps to within two feet of me and rests a sun-browned hand on her flat abdomen. I swallow and clear my throat. You mean the passing out?

She nods. You remember we talked about it? How it was like a little death? A momentary union with whatever is beyond life?

Yes.

We had it backwards, Harper. That wasnt death at all. That was
life
. The purest distillation of it, the love we felt for each other. I know what the little death is now. Its the way weve been living. Hiding our secret, pretending things are fine, every day having to pile one more lie on top of all the others to keep the house of cards from falling on top of us.
Thats
death. Dying a little each day. Dont you feel that?

I cannot quite grasp the fact that this is Erin speaking. There is absolute certainty in her voice, her eyes, in the set of her perfect mouth and the angle of her chin.

I guess theres nothing else to say, I sigh with resignation.

She steps back and smooths her sundress. Yes, there is. One thing. As insane as it is, Im glad youre Hollys father. Youre a good man, Harper. But Patrick is too, and hes my husband. Hes Hollys father now. And hes losing his mind. I have a duty to do right by him.

By forcing me to destroy my wife?

Drewe is stronger than you think. Shes stronger than any of us.

I hope youre right.

With proprietary boldness Erin crosses the space between us and raises a hand to my left cheek. Her fingers
linger there a moment, cool and dry in the heat of the house. They transmit the sensuality she has always embodied, and something more.

We probably wont see each other for a long time, she says, her eyes wide and unblinking.

Erin

She rises on tiptoe and silences me with a soft kiss on the lips, then turns and walks from the room. My face burns from her touch. As I make my way out of the house, it hits me with humbling sadness that this grown-up girl, once known merely for having the Best-looking Ass in the State of Mississippi, has much more than that. She is a woman now, and she has more courage than I.

The ride back to Rain takes half again as long as the ride to Jackson did. I play no music; I dont even run the air conditioner. I just drive with the windows down and let the hot wind tear through my hair like the fingers of a grave robber.

I never actually thought it would come to this. Incredible as it seems, I somehow convinced myself that the Fates had been on vacation during the nights I rolled around that bed with Erin, or at least that theyd been watching someone else. Perhaps my vanity convinced me that the good things Id done in my life had somehow built up a credit account from which karmic bills could be subtracted without my making any out-of-pocket payments. But I was wrong. The due date has arrived, and the bank doesnt want an installment, but the balance paid in full.

For a moment I wonder if Miles is still free and safe, but I dont spend more than a few seconds on him. The events of the last few days now seem remote, like some tragic newscast watched years ago. A thousand thoughts spin through my brain, and each has but one object: Drewe. Will she be home when I get there? No. Ill have at least an hour to prepare, maybe longer if the delivery is a really bad one. But whats the point of preparation? If she were there when I got home, I could blurt out the truth in the first thirty seconds, before doubt and fear turned me into a gutless jellyfish.

Swinging around the final turn toward our house, I see
no surveillance cars. I guess Baxter isnt as concerned with me as he used to be. But as I slow for the driveway, I spy a boxy Ford parked under the shade of our weeping willow. Baby-shit brown with a tall antenna. For an instant I think
FBI
. Then I see the Mississippi tag. I reach down and touch the butt of my .38 where it protrudes from under the seat. For all I know, Brahma could be sitting in that car.

I turn slowly into the drive, coast forward, and stop practically grille to grille with the Ford. There are two men inside. As I stare, its front doors open and both men get out. The driver is a big red-faced man in his late thirties, stuffed like a sausage into his polyester suit. The other man is older and darker. Something about him seems familiar. Then he smiles crookedly at me, and I recognize Detective Michael Mayeux of the New Orleans police.

Harper Cole? says the red-faced stranger, moving toward me with alarming speed.

Yes?

Im Detective Jim Overstreet of the Jackson Police Department. Youre under arrest for obstruction of justice and harboring a federal fugitive.

While I stare at Mayeux in shock, Overstreet cuffs my hands in front of me and pulls me to the side of the brown car.

You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you....

Mayeux refuses to look at me as he climbs back into the passenger seat. One of Overstreets big hands cups the crown of my head and pushes me down into the back.

... Do you understand these rights as they have been explained to you?

Wait a minute! What the hells going on here?

Overstreet leans down so that his sunburned face fills the window. Do you understand the rights I just read you,
ass
hole?

Looking to Mayeux for help, all I see is the darkly freckled back of his neck through scarred wire mesh.

I understand.

Overstreet slams the door.

I feel the passage of time like lifeblood draining away. Mayeux acts like Im not even in the backseat. He and Overstreet make small talk now and again, but not about me. My being locked in the back of this car means only one thing: a power shift has occurred between the FBI and the police. I want information, but I dont have the stamina to keep banging away at Mayeuxs sphinx act. I keep seeing Erin sitting in her dark house, waiting for Patrick to get home so she can finally blast away his obsessive suspicions with one terrible life-size truth.

How long before these idiots let me use a phone? Can I just pay my bail and go? No. Bail has to be set before it can be paid. That means an arraignment. Can I get one this late in the afternoon? Do they have night court in Jackson? The thought that I might have to spend the night in a cell waiting to go before a judge makes me lightheaded. What if I dont get home tonight? Will Drewe call Erin looking for me? Will Erin think I broke under the stress and just took off? Would she really take it upon herself to tell Drewe the truth?

Can I please ask you a question? I ask Mayeux for the tenth time.

In a mush-mouth drawl dripping irony, Detective Overstreet says, Sounds like he might be developing the proper attitude, Mike.

Whats on your mind? asks Mayeux, still facing forward.

If you dont tell me what you want, I cant give it to you.

Told you he was smart, says Mayeux.

Overstreet chuckles.

Thats how he got so rich, Mayeux goes on. Everythings a business deal with this guy.

I remain silent, and the resulting vacuum lasts a couple of miles.

Left a few messages on your machine, Mayeux says finally. You never called back.

I know. Im sorry. Look, things were really crazy then. You know what was going on. Besides, your messages didnt sound that urgent.

Didnt sound urgent enough for him, Mayeux says, exaggerating his Cajun accent.

Urgent,
echoes Overstreet, like a redneck Ed McMahon.

Mayeux laughs. Things feel pretty urgent now, though?

I take a deep breath and try to keep my voice steady. Ill tell you whatever you want to know. You dont have to do this.

I dont? Okay, lets see. Wheres Miles Turner?

I dont know.

See? Mayeux says to Overstreet. I had a feeling it was going to be this way.

Jesus, Detective, this is a really bad time for me. Ive got to take care of something important.

Bad time, Overstreet says. Shoulda called his secretary.

I dont
have
a fucking secretary!

The silence that follows this outburst is more threatening than any words. Overstreet clearly does not like his arrestees using profanity. As the Ford thunders eastward along the two-lane blacktop, I lean back and let my eyes rove across the endless fields. Here and there, red or green cotton pickers trundle through the white ocean like great metal insects. The steely clouds I saw this morning have not been scattered like all the rest in this parched summer. They have gathered steadily, like a ghostly Confederate army amassing itself from the tattered remnants of a thousand skirmishes, a fluid gray mass slowly being reinforced from unknown regions.

Lets try again, suggests Mayeux. Wheres Miles Turner?

I cant tell you what I dont know.

Youll have plenty of time to remember in your cell.

This is crazy, Detective.

He nods at the windshield. Ive been thinking that for several days now.

Another image of Erin flashes through my mind. She faces Drewe across a brightly lit room, both women screaming, both in tears. To hell with Mayeux and his head games. Its time to pull out the stops. Detective Overstreet?

The Mississippi cop grunts behind the wheel. Yeah?

I get a phone call, right?

Eventually.

Well, for your sake it better be sooner than later. Because I dont think the person Im going to call is going to like a Louisiana cop coming up here and arresting the son-in-law of one of his asshole buddies.

Very slowly, like a hog looking around for the source of a mildly interesting noise, Overstreet heaves himself around in his seat. His forearm looks as thick as my thigh. Who you think you gon call, boy?

I try not to look past him to see whether were going off the road. The governor of the State of Mississippi. The first time you let me near a telephone.

His face does not change. Hes heard a thousand threats like this.

Hes bullshitting you, says Mayeux.

Take the wheel, says Overstreet.

Mayeux obeys.

Now, boy. Whose son-in-law you say you were?

I didnt say.

Well say, goddamn it.

Bob Anderson.

Overstreet stares without blinking, a long measuring gaze. Calling the governor to save my ass in the name of my father-in-law is the last thing I would ever do, but he doesnt know that.

You know this guy Anderson? asks Mayeux, his voice edgy.

Bob Anderson from Yazoo City? asks Overstreet, his eyes boring into mine.

Thats him.

Shit.

What does that mean? asks Mayeux, trying to hold the car on beam and watch me at the same time. Huh?

Overstreet blows air from distended cheeks and takes his time about answering. It means you might have talked me into biting off a big piece of trouble, Mike.

Mayeux groans furiously. What the fuck are you saying? You saying some people are above the law up here?

No. Overstreet lifts his forearm and lets his weight slide him back into position behind the steering wheel. But some peoples tails you dont step on unless you absolutely have to. And dont tell me its any different down in New Orleans, cause I know its
worse
.

Shit, curses Mayeux, slamming the dash with an open hand. Shit! Im sick of people protecting this son of a bitch. He
is
obstructing justice. I can prove it.

Hes obstructing it in Louisiana, not here.

Its a federal case! He harbored a federal fugitive in Mississippi. Youre holding Cole for the FBI.
Your chief okayed the arrest!

Overstreets voice sounds even more somnolent than before. Most of thats bullshit and you know it, Mike. Im out of my jurisdiction and you dont even want the Bureau to know weve got this guy.

Are these state or federal charges against me? I ask.

Shut the fuck up, snaps Mayeux. Ill take full responsibility, Jim. Youre not suggesting we let him go, are you?

No. But the minute we hit the station, Im telling the chief how things stand. If he wants to let Cole walk, hes gone.

The remainder of the ride passes in frosty silence. I wish theyd let the windows down, so I could sniff the air for the rain smell. Rain wouldnt do the cotton any good now, but after months of drought my need for water is almost physical, like the dull headache I get after going too long without caffeine.

As we pull into Jackson, I ponder a backup plan. If the chief wont kick me loose on the basis of my relationship
to Bob Anderson, I know three or four friends from college who practice criminal law here, plus at least thirty more who do corporate work. There are probably more Ole Miss lawyers in Jackson than there are cops. Ive got money in a couple of banks here, so bail shouldnt be a problem. The problem is time.

Suddenly a string of letters flickers before my eyes, and I hear them as if read aloud by a chilling digital voice:
I am subject to one god above me, and that god is TIME.

Brahma knows whereof he speaks.

Thirty-six minutes after Mayeux and Overstreet walked me into Jackson police headquarters, I was released on my own recognizance with an assurance that no arrest would be recorded against my name. I guess my father-in-law wasnt exaggerating when he said he had connections. God only knows what ties Bob Anderson has to the people who run this state, but right now I dont care. The oft maligned old-boy network seems pretty wonderful when youre sitting chained in a police station. Of course, that system only works if you have access to it, but Ill worry over the moral implications when I get time. Like maybe next year.

Right now I have one overwhelming need: transportation. Inside the station I was thinking of making some kind of deal with Mayeux for a ride back home, but he stomped out right after the chief told Overstreet to cut me loose. Now my only options are to hit up a friend for a car or take a cab to the airport and rent one. My hand is on the sticky receiver of a parking lot pay phone when a blaring horn forces me to cover my ears. The driver keeps jabbing it, and I look around angrily, searching for the source of the deep-throated honk.

Its Mayeux. Hes parked about thirty feet away in a vintage blue Cadillac, waving for me to come over.

Stuck? he calls genially, as if the past two hours never transpired.

Ill get back.

I could give you a ride.

Like hell, I say, but Im tempted. Riding with
Mayeux would save me some embarrassing calls. Plus, he could ignore the speed limit all the way if he wanted to.

Why did you pull this crap? I ask him, walking toward the Cadillac. Why didnt you just talk to me when I got home?

His smile disappears. Because the FBI has fucked up this investigation from the get-go. Today was the first chance I had to get at you without having to go through them, and I was sick of your evasions. I knew youd hold back whatever you wanted in your own house. I figured a police station would loosen you up a little. I just didnt count on you having that much juice. The fucking governor. Jesus.

Look, I really need to get home fast. Ill go with youand talk to youon one condition.

Whats that?

You floor this bastard all the way.

Mayeux grins and cranks the Caddy. You waitin on me, you walkin backwards,
cher
. Jump in.

He pops a magnetized blue flasher on the roof and switches it on before we even reach the city limits. Something going down? he asks, cutting his eyes at me. That why youre in a hurry?

I dont know. The sky to the west, toward the Delta, is nearly black with piled cloud. I have a foreboding sense of things spinning out of control, like battlefield blindness, where you know only what is happening where you stand but are dimly aware that great wheels of action are whirling in the fog around you. Just a bad feeling, I tell him, trying to push it all away.

Hey, I been there. Something I might need to know about?

Its personal.

He nods gamely. Mayeux isnt happy, but he can deal with it. Maybe his drive up from New Orleans wont turn out to be a waste after all.

Bad weather, he says, raising a forefinger off the wheel to point ahead. Heat lightning splashes through the sky, giving the cloudscape the massive scale of an Ansel Adams photograph.

I ask him why he thinks the FBI messed up the investigation.

Baxter and Lenz kept us from sweating you in New Orleans. Wed have played the whole thing different. Woulda been better for you and better for us. And maybe wed have that son of a bitch by now instead of the FBI running around embarrassing themselves and everybody else by arresting the wrong fuckin guy.

I doubt this, but I dont say so.

I gotta tell you, for a while I was wondering if it wasnt Lenz himself doing those ladies. I mean, classic case, you know? Shrink does the murders for his own kinky reasons, then takes the starring role in the hunt for himself. Mayeux laughs. Serial killers love that kind of shit. Making fools out of cops, staying involved in the crimes long after theyre done. This guy sure hit the doctor where it hurts, didnt he?

Lenz is smart, Detective. He just lost sight of the danger. I knew a lot of guys like him in Chicago. Trading futures. One day they were bulletproof, the next somebody was padlocking their houses and seizing their bank accounts.

After a couple of beats, Mayeux says in a confiding tone, I play a little in the market myself. Nickle-and-dime stuff. Never tried commodities, but Im open to it. Got any tips for an honest cop?

You sound like Columbo. The Cajun Columbo.

He pulls a sour face.

Buy mutual funds and blue chips and forget them. Anything else is a losing game for you.

Why?

Because you cant beat the market from where you are. You havent got the money or the time.

He nods sagely, but hell drop a few thousand on some half-baked brother-in-law tip before six months are up.

What about Turner? he asks. That boys got alibi problems.

I know. But hes not the killer. I pause. I wasnt sure at first, but I know now.

He cuts his eyes at me again. Okay. But look, is he
queer or what? It aint like I care or anything, but itd clear up my thinking, you know?

I wonder where Mayeux is getting his information. I dont know if he is or isnt. And I dont care. I think hes trying to protect a married lover by keeping quiet about his whereabouts on the nights of the murders. Whether that lover is a man or a woman is anybodys guess.