Revenant (13 page)

Since I'd determined to make a conscious effort to eat better, I stopped at the Ruby Room for some fresh vegetables. As I ate, I scanned the restaurant. The lunch crowd was a mixed bag. There were lawyers from the courthouse, fishermen, secretaries and tourists. The chatter of the clientele was somehow soothing, and I sipped my tea.

My cell phone rang, a rude violation in a restaurant. I got up and took the call outside.

“Carson?”

I recognized the voice, but couldn't place it immediately. “Yes?”

“It's Michael. I have to ride up to Poplarville this evening to check some mares. I thought you'd enjoy the drive. We could have dinner with the owners of the Lazy Q.”

My automatic response was to refuse, but I didn't. “Sure. That sounds like it would be nice.” I think I was as surprised as Michael.

“I'll pick you up about five-thirty?”

“My address is—”

“I know.” He chuckled softly. “You have no secrets where your family is concerned.”

“I suppose you know my ovulation schedule, too.”

He laughed hard. “Your mama didn't lay much finish on you, did she, girl?”

“Not from lack of trying.”

“As you remember, horse people are casual.”

“I won't embarrass you by being overdressed.” I hung up and returned to my meal with the strangest sensation, as if I had a secret. A good one.

M
y jeans were worn, the waistband nothing but threads in one place and the cuffs a ragged white. No pair I'd ever bought fit better, so I continued to wear them, even though my mother would have banished them to the trash. To offset the jeans, I wore a green silk blouse. I even ironed it, and touched my eyes with liner and mascara and my lips with a hint of lipstick. The summer humidity hadn't set in yet and my hair was straight, a heavy mass of dark blond. When appearances had been important to me, I'd kept it highlighted. Stress had taken care of that for me. I already had clumps of gray, not the salt-and-pepper sprinkling of Dorry's, but heavier ropes of silver.

Michael was on time, a feat for a veterinarian who was often waylaid by illness and emergency. He came up the sidewalk through the gathering dusk with a long, country-boy stride. It was the gait of a man who'd walked many a field in search of a cow or horse that was down or missing. Michael's love of animals had been a source of teasing in high school, when he refused to hunt with the other boys. He didn't make an issue of not hunting, but when asked, he'd simply said that killing gave him no pleasure.

“Do you want to use my shower?” I asked from the darkness of the porch. I could only imagine where he'd been and what he'd been up to.

“Muley Phillips has one in his barn. I cleaned up before I drove over.” He came up the steps and I smelled cologne and soap. He wore jeans, a cotton snap shirt and a straw hat.

“If they retire the Marlboro man, you could fill in,” I said. He was handsome in the lean economy of an Old West cowboy.

“Smoking's bad for you.” He wasn't biting. “I don't think they do that ad anymore. Politically incorrect.”

“The money that man made posing on a billboard would be mighty tempting. I never even saw him with a cigarette in his mouth.”

“It's hard to believe a man can make a living by posing for pictures,” he said, smiling. “You look good, Carson. I guess it's just a lifetime habit with you.”

His words opened the door of the past, that long-ago time when he'd greeted me with a smile that said I belonged to him. “You look good,” was always the first thing he'd say. Instead of making me uncomfortable, it gave me the smallest connection to the girl I'd once been.

“I'm ready whenever you are,” I said. I was holding my purse, suddenly eager to go.

“At your service.” He tucked my hand through his arm as he escorted me to the truck. Michael had learned a little suavity since our high school days.

The night had turned crisp, and Michael put the heater on low as we drove north to the rural stretches. He kept the truck at a steady seventy-five, and I recalled that even as a teenager he hadn't been one to speed. He'd never been reckless or careless.

“I've been reading your stories,” he said. “You won't be here long, Carson. Soon the big time will be knocking on your door again.”

“If I can get my drinking under control.” I said it without bitterness.

“Everybody has something they have to master. If you want my two cents' worth, I'd say you don't have a problem with alcohol.” He hesitated. “You have a problem with living.”

If anyone else had lectured me, I would have gotten angry. Then I realized that wasn't true. Mitch Rayburn had offered help. Mitch was practically a stranger, and Michael was someone I'd once known intimately. I allowed them to counsel me, though I refused tenderness or concern from my husband or family. I couldn't have said why.

The silence in the truck had grown lengthy. “I can't sleep. I drink because I can't sleep. I can't take any more sleeping pills. They make me feel drugged and dead, and it's too hard to come back from that.” In the gentle rocking of the truck, it seemed like an intimate confession.

“Nightmares?”

“Yeah.” The word was raw. My emotions were always so close to the surface. It shamed me.

“I've talked a little with Dustin Yoder about his dreams. He suffers.”

“I know.” I'd seen my fate in Strange's desperate need for solitude. He didn't drink. He just lived alone, letting nature offer solace and companionship because he couldn't trust that offered by man.

“Dustin can recount how every man in his company died. He carried them out, sometimes in pieces, but it was Billy that undid him. He couldn't save your brother, and he can't stop blaming himself. He just relives that day over and over again in his dreams. I'm not sure if he's hoping for a different outcome or if he's punishing himself.”

I'd revealed as much as I dared. “Speaking of a drink.” I pulled a pint of Jack Daniel's from my purse. “On the night of my high school graduation, you came home from Auburn to help me celebrate. Remember?”

In the light of the dash, I could see that he was smiling. “I remember. You wanted to climb the water tower and spray paint your initials.”

“You wouldn't let me.”

“I brought you liquor, but I did have a little common sense.”

A silence fell between us. We'd drunk the bourbon straight from the bottle and gone skinny-dipping in Bluff Creek. Then Michael had asked me to marry him. Both of us naked and shivering, he'd dropped to one knee in the white sand of the creek bank and offered me the ring.

“You made the right decision,” he said, as if he was able to hear my thoughts.

“Did I?” Since Annabelle's death, I'd often wondered if I'd ever made a single right decision. Our conversation was about to flounder in deep emotion. “The decision now is, do you want a drink?” I'd meant the pint to be celebratory, not a reminder of a past that couldn't be reclaimed.

He took the bottle, held it a moment, then passed it back to me. “I've still got work to do.”

I hit it lightly, screwed the cap on and put it on the seat between us. Jack Daniel's had more burn than the vodka I usually drank. It felt good.

“Are these people we're going to visit friends of yours and Polly's?” I wanted to know the terrain.

“They know Polly, but I wouldn't say they were friends. Stephanie Jennings is the horsewoman. She's very bright, and gutsy. You'll like her. Richard is a doctor. It's a nice combination because no matter how hard Stephanie works, she isn't going to make a fortune with horses. Not here.”

“Would Polly be upset about this visit?”

He considered it. “Yes, probably so, but not because she cares about me.” He paused for at least a minute. “I was in Ocean Springs because I saw a lawyer. Polly knows this. She wants to believe I'm the cause. The easiest thing to do would be to blame me for cheating on her, which I haven't. But you'd be a perfect scapegoat if she knew about this. Then she'd never have to think about her role in what went wrong.”

Michael wasn't being hard on his wife. I'd known Polly since first grade. She'd never been one to take the blame for her actions. “What about your daughter?”

“The truth is, I work too much. She'll be better off with her mother. Polly's a devoted mother. It's for the best.”

I glanced at Michael furtively, studying his mouth. He would give Polly everything and start over. Money had never mattered to him. “I'm sorry, Michael.”

“Penny will be sixteen next October. She's almost grown, Carson. She's on the phone 24-7. She's so boy crazy it scares me. She wants parties and fun. Polly will give her that.”

He was right, of course. It still didn't make it easy. I snapped on the radio and found a country station with more music than chatter. We drove in silence for a while, the crescent moon guiding our way. The farther we got from the coast, the more the traffic thinned until we stopped passing other vehicles. The trees crowded close to the two-lane, and I was reminded of another time, when I was a teenager and Michael and I had driven into the woods at every chance to park and make love. I could remember it well, but it seemed a borrowed memory. Surely I had never been that young and carefree.

We drove into Poplarville and then through it. When we came to what seemed like a two-mile stretch of white vinyl fencing over pastures that looked inky-green in the truck lights, I knew we were at the Lazy Q. The barn was huge and lit like a cruise ship. When we got out, we were met by four Mexican workers and a woman in riding jeans, Western boots and a burgundy velour top that hugged her body. She was lithe and fit, and she held out her hand for a shake as she walked toward me.

“Stephanie Jennings,” she said. “I've been reading your stories. I'm impressed.”

“Thanks.” I shook her hand.

She turned to Michael. “Let's finish with these mares. Carson, if you'd rather wait at the house, Richard has made a pitcher of martinis.”

“I'll wait here.” I'd seen horses checked for pregnancy, and I took a seat on a hay bale and waited as Michael examined three beautiful mares, all with positive results. The barn was immaculate. Fluffy shavings filled each of the twenty stalls. Horses with alert eyes and refined heads looked back at me. Gleaming leather halters hung in front of each door, which held a nameplate for the horse. Doc's Best Babe, Little Lulu Bar—I read the names.

“Do you race?” I asked Stephanie.

“No, we breed for competitive events and cow work. These mares are cow bred. Their foals from four years ago are taking top honors now in cutting. I could run through the bloodlines.” She grinned.

I shook my head. “Sorry, it would be Greek to me.”

“Michael said you ride.”

“Just for pleasure.”

“You'll have to come out sometime. We have a lot of trails and plenty of horses.”

It was a kind and generous offer to a stranger.

“Thanks, I'd like that.”

Michael washed up in a bathroom with hot water, and we walked up to the house, a trio chattering about horses and riding. The doctor met us on the patio with the promised pitcher of martinis. They were chilled to perfection and I sipped mine with pleasure. The night was magnificent. Stars glittered like fairy-tossed silver in a sky undimmed by the pollution of city lights.

“This is lovely,” I said. “I grew up in the country and I miss it. My work often keeps me in a city, but this is where I feel I belong.”

“We love it,” Stephanie answered. “Richard has a long drive to New Orleans, where he practices, but he only goes in three times a week.”

“You're not a surgeon, then?” I half stated.

“No, psychiatrist,” he said. His smile was wry. “You know what they say, the people who go into psychiatry are there because they're crazy.”

I laughed, but I cut my eyes at Michael. It occurred to me that this was a setup. Then I knew better. Michael didn't deal from the bottom of the deck. Not even for my own good. He would never sandbag me.

“What kind of practice do you have?” I asked.

“Primarily pediatric. A lot of mental and emotional disturbances present themselves at puberty, but the conditions actually start in early childhood.”

He didn't seem reluctant to talk about his work, and I was curious. A maid came out with a tray of canapés. Everyone was looking at me, so I took a small pastry topped with pâté and black currants. It was rich and delicious, a nice contrast to the dry martini.

“Would you mind if I asked some theoretical questions about a story I'm working on?” I asked him.

“Heavens, please ask him,” Stephanie said, laughing. “When Michael is here, Richard has to listen to our endless jabber about horses. No one ever asks him about his work.”

Richard laughed easily. “She's right.”

I was serious. “You've read about the murders on the coast?”

He nodded. “Terrible. I feel for those families.”

“What would make someone stop killing for twenty-four years and then resume?”

He thought about it, his gray eyes unfocused behind his glasses. “Remember, I specialize in children. This would fall more in the realm of criminal psychiatry. With that said, I'll make an educated guess. I'd say that either the killer had moved away and was continuing to kill elsewhere, because this type of killer doesn't stop, or else he was confined so that he couldn't kill. Prison or a mental institution.”

“What if the discovery of the bodies prompted him to begin killing again?”

Richard paced the patio, the olives bobbing in his drink. “My understanding of the pathology of this kind of killer is that they can't stop or control it. To have a dry spell of twenty-four years indicates fairly disciplined control. That's virtually unheard of.”

Richard cocked his head as he thought, an owlish man trained to follow the twisted thoughts of the insane. “I'd say it's far more likely that this last murder was committed by a copycat.”

“But how would a copycat have known about the missing ring fingers?” Too late I realized I'd spoken out of turn. “I'm sorry. That was privileged information. Please don't repeat it.”

“So, the killer cuts off the ring finger of each victim. He takes a trophy.” Richard considered. “If he is a copycat, he has inside knowledge of the crime. He's a police officer, member of the media, relative or close associate of the original killer.”