Shivaree (22 page)

FORTY-FOUR

“I’ve called the funeral home, to have them come for the body,” Corinne said, placing her hand gingerly on Lucille’s shoulder. “If Dr. McAvoy wants to examine the body before signing the certificate of death, he can do so at the mortician’s.” It was hot, and the body soon would begin to give off an unpleasant odor. There was no need for anyone to suffer through an unnecessary indignity. “They’re sending a car over.” She had sensed no attachment to the Judge on Lucille’s part, but the maid had insisted on sitting with the body. Corrine reminded herself that not everyone had grown as inured to death as she had. For some, it still held a kind of mystical or sacred import. For her, after witnessing the death of so many, it was just another passing. She’d watched younger and—judging by the company he kept—better men die.

“I’ll stay with him till they get here.” Lucille looked over her shoulder and placed her hand on Corinne’s.

Corinne nodded. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Lucille turned in her chair until the two women were facing each other. “Oh, it is no loss to me. That man. He thought he owned me. He swore he’d never let me leave him.” She turned back to face the sheet-covered corpse. “No, this here is my emancipation. This here is my Independence Day. And I ain’t taking my eyes off of him until they cart him out of here feet first.” Lucille paused, her complexion going gray. “I’m sorry, Miss. It was wicked of me to say such a thing.” Her dark eyes moistened. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“Of course not. I understand.” Corinne didn’t understand, but having never been in a position similar to Lucille’s, she couldn’t. “I’ll be downstairs. I’ll let the funeral people in when they arrive.”

The women locked eyes for a moment. Corinne sensed there were a great many things Lucille wanted to share with her, but the other woman’s lips pulled tight and she looked away. In spite of the heat, Corinne felt a sudden chill. She pulled her arms tight around herself. That was when she noticed the scent. Not the normal smell of decomposition, but some sort of spice. No. An incense. Myrrh.
The odor of sanctity.
Catechisms, long thought excised from her soul, rose up before conscious thoughts.

She forced herself to shake off the sense of dread that had begun to descend on her. “I’ll be downstairs.” She was repeating herself, but Lucille didn’t seem to notice. She stepped out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her, and made her way down the hall, the sound of insistent knocking causing her to hurry down the stairs. It was still full light outside, but the sun had passed over to the far side of the house, leaving its entryway gloomy. She switched on a lamp to bring light to the shadowy hall.

She had expected to see a proper mortician in a black suit. The two young men looking back at her through the door’s upper window certainly didn’t match her expectations. Of course, who knew what passed for proper in these parts? They both wore wide-brimmed hats and dirty, long-sleeved shirts that looked more like you’d expect to see on factory workers. The oddest thing was that both had wool scarves tied around their necks.

“We’re here for the Judge,” the one closest to the window said.

She opened the door.

“Where is he?”

Corinne was even more surprised to see that both men were wearing gardening gloves. “Come in. The body,” she said, feeling uneasy, “is upstairs. Shall I show you?”

“Not necessary,” the second man said. “We’ll find him.” As they trudged up the stairs and vanished into the Judge’s room, Corrine turned to shut the door, gasping out loud when she saw that, rather than a hearse, the mortician had sent the men in a red pickup truck that was a dead ringer for the one that horrible Charlie Aarons man drove.

She barely had time to shake off her surprise when the two reappeared at the top of the stairs. They’d rolled the Judge’s body up in a sheet from his own bed, and the studier of the two had hefted the corpse over his shoulders. Corinne struggled to hide her distaste, but a part of her felt she should voice an objection. Lucille followed behind them, a confused look on her face.

One of the men brushed past Corinne and opened the door; then the one bearing the Judge strode out without a single word. “Ladies,” the first said and doffed his hat before closing the door behind them.

Lucille turned to Corinne, her mouth agape, a crease running down the center of her forehead. “Miss, I thought you called the funeral parlor.”

“Well, I did . . .” Corinne said, flustered.

“Then why did they send those Sleiger boys?”

FORTY-FIVE

McAvoy came to, cold and hurting. He didn’t know where he was, but he felt earth beneath him. He struggled up to his side, then onto his knees. Something held him by the leg.

He was surrounded by absolute darkness. No, there to his left, a pair of tiny blue flames burned, but they illuminated nothing. He tried to make out their source, but gave up as a wave of nausea hit him. He then registered the fact that his head felt as if it had been crushed in a vise. When he reached around to the back of his head to search for the source of the throbbing, he felt the stickiness of congealed blood. He listened to the sound of his own breathing, trying to piece together what had happened. The last thing he could remember was being pummeled by the Sleiger boys.
What in the hell possessed them?

A loud whistle sounded, and white sparks floated up before his eyes. He winced in pain. He knew that sound. It was a train wailing out its approach. The length of the whistle’s shriek told him it was probably drawing near the unprotected crossing just south of Conroy, as conductors familiar with the line liked to give a good long warning before reaching that point.

He managed to stand, pushing himself up from what his hands told him was a dirt floor, but felt a cold bite on his ankle when he tried to take a step. He bent over and felt around. A chain. He’d been chained by the leg to an iron loop set in a large concrete block. He tugged on the chain, but it was a hopeless endeavor. He licked his lips, preparing to call out and see if anyone might come to his rescue, but before he could make a sound, a familiar voice reached his ears.

“You wouldn’t believe how they tortured him. I listened to his screaming again and again. It must have gone on for hours. It may have gone on for days. I don’t know. It all blurred together after a while.”

McAvoy clutched his chest, very nearly teetering over. It was Ruby’s voice, although it sounded different than when he’d last heard it, drier and with a slight rasp. Still, it was unmistakable.

“Tortured?” His voice croaked, but his question would go unanswered.

“He was so smart,” Ruby said. “So beautiful. So bored. You purchased the pleasure of his body, and when your money stopped being enticement enough for him, you introduced the drugs to keep him dependent on you.”

“I couldn’t bear the thought of losing him,” McAvoy confessed, guilt bringing hot tears to his night-blinded eyes. “He would’ve never left on his own. Not if he hadn’t had you to prop him up.”

“He didn’t belong in a town like Conroy. Neither of us did. It was his idea to get away from here. To get away from you. He said we could be stars. God, what a cliché.” Ruby let loose a mirthless laugh. “We left here hoping to make something of ourselves, but there were others out there who were even worse than you. Hollywood chewed us up and spat us out. And what can I say? The studios didn’t come calling.” Her words slowed, her voice grew more faint. “The money went so quick. And the drugs were everywhere. We both ended up selling ourselves—sometimes for the cash, sometimes for release. Sometimes separate, sometimes together.” For several moments there was silence. “When the great Myrna King took an interest in us, I thought maybe, just maybe, things would work out after all.” A bitter laughter filled the unfathomable darkness around him. “I figured maybe my face wasn’t meant for the silver screen after all, but there would be other ways a girl like me could get ahead. I couldn’t wait to meet her fancy friends. To learn
all
. . .”—the word danced in the darkness—“. . . their secrets.” Her cold, glowing eyes pierced his soul. “Oh, and I learned their secrets all right. All of them.”

McAvoy began weaving under the weight of his guilt. He rocked back and forth in the darkness, moaning until the words finally came to him. “What did they do to you out there?” He had intended to ask what they had done to Dylan, but his courage failed him.

“They turned me into this.” Her voice boomed as the light of her eyes swooped in on him. He flung his arms up before his face to hide himself from those lights. “Or at least they started the process. You finished it.”

“When you came back, you were so ill. You would be fine one moment, and then you’d start speaking absolute nonsense and the darkest of slander the next.”

“But that isn’t why you killed me, is it, Doctor? It wasn’t because you were afraid that I might speak the truth about you. It was because I took Dylan from you.”

“I gave you a gentle death.” His voice trembled. He felt a cold hand brush his swollen cheek.

“I’m sure you’ll understand why I can’t find it in my heart to return the favor.” The intense beam of a flashlight burst to life, the brightness stunning his eyes. The light traced along the floor to find a bundle wrapped in a white sheet. “It may take hours or it may take days, but when he wakes up, he’ll be awfully hungry.” Something metallic skidded along the floor and bumped up against his foot. The flashlight’s beam shifted to the spot. It was a straight razor, its blade glinting in the light. “If I were you, I’d use this on myself before he comes to.” And then the light died.

FORTY-SIX

Bell was left to do the driving. Rigby, his damned fool of a deputy, had been nearly in a trance since they’d left the Dunne farm. Bell tried to cut Rigby some slack. He’d grown up with Elijah Dunne, even spent time out on the family’s farm. But the deputy had been misfiring on all his cylinders for days. Maybe he just wasn’t cut out for police work, and maybe it was getting near time to tell him so. Bell needed to find Elijah first, see to it that justice was served, and then he’d deal with Rigby.

The Dunnes were both dead. And it wasn’t either of them who’d done the shooting, since they found the gun a good fifteen yards from the bodies, lying out in the yard in a pile of women’s clothing. That left Bell to think he must have been wrong about the boy. He would’ve bet his bottom dollar Elijah was as innocent as a lamb, but he should’ve known better. Should’ve seen the signs. Something had caused Elijah to snap. The sheriff had seen it happen to soldiers before, after World War II. Young men would come back changed by battle, unable to flip the switch and return to the niceties of peacetime. Yes, the more Bell pondered the recent turn of events, there could be no doubt about it: Elijah had killed his best friends, and now his parents.

Old Charlie Aarons had been dragged from his home and ripped apart in the woods that separated the house from the Dunne farm. That brought the murder count up to at least five. The Sleiger brothers were still missing, so they’d likely been casualties of Elijah’s madness, too. Bell didn’t need any more headaches, but as he turned the wide curve down by River Road, he realized he had another problem.

“Up ahead,” Bell said, tapping the dashboard to get Rigby’s attention. About a hundred yards in front of them, at the bend, the car he recognized as belonging to Frank Mason had taken on an ancient oak and lost. “Damn it,” Bell said, easing the patrol car up behind the wrecked vehicle. He put the car in park, and scratched his head as he leaned out the window. “Stay here,” he ordered Rigby, although there was nothing to indicate the deputy had planned on moving.

He swung open his door and climbed out, pausing for a moment to take in a breath as his feet contacted the earth. He ambled toward the car, not really wanting to get close enough to see what had become of the Judge’s boys. The car’s passenger side had clipped the oak, so he made his way to the driver’s side. The seat was empty, but what was left of Bayard was slumped over in the seat next to it. His head had connected with the dashboard and busted open like an overripe melon.

“Not quite sure what happened, Sheriff.” A voice caused Bell to turn, nearly jump. Frank Mason was reclining in the tall grass only a few feet from the wreck, smoking a cigarette. “I think maybe someone messed with the steering.” Frank inserted the cigarette between his lips and scrambled to his feet. “Don’t suppose you could give me a ride into town?”

Bell bit his lip. Frank and Bayard had been partners for years and, Bell believed, friends since boyhood. Still, Frank showed no distress over Bayard’s demise. “Can’t do that, son,” Bell replied. “I’ll radio in for an ambulance to fetch your buddy, but since you can still walk, I ain’t got time to taxi you around. I’ve got a man out there killing just about everyone close to him.”

“Really?” Frank’s eyes lit up with interest. Bell forced himself not to react. He turned and took determined strides back to the patrol car, the sound of Frank’s footfalls alerting Bell to the fact that he was being followed. He looked back over his shoulder and reached in to grab the radio’s microphone.

“Who you looking for?” Frank asked, craning his neck to get a gander at Rigby.

To hell with it.
“Elijah Dunne, know him?”

Frank straightened. “Course. He and Ruby used to date.”

Yes, of course, that makes sense,
Bell thought to himself.

“His new woman, the nurse, she’s out at the Judge’s house right now.”

Bell flung the radio’s microphone back to the seat, striking Rigby. The deputy didn’t react. Bell jumped in and slammed the door behind him. He cranked the engine and shifted into reverse to clear the wrecked vehicle, then peeled out forward, leaving Frank in a cloud of dust.

FORTY-SEVEN

The patrol car sent a piece of gravel shooting straight into Frank’s shin. “Son of a bitch!” Frank yelped in pain and bent over to grab his leg. The stone’s sharp edge had connected hard enough to put a hole in his pants and take a bite out of his skin. “Son of a bitch,” Frank repeated, this time thinking of the officer who’d caused his problem.

Frank started limping down the dusty road toward Conroy. He cursed the sheriff, cursed the heat, then cursed the damned horsefly that had begun buzzing him, dogging his every step. His hand managed to connect with the fly, swatting it hard to the ground, where it rested on its back for a couple of seconds, only to begin kicking its legs and rocking itself back into an upright position. Its wings began to flutter, and Frank raised his foot to crush it when a singular thought stopped him. “That you, buddy?” he asked. He knew it was madness, but for the tiniest slice of a second he wondered if it might be possible that Bayard had slipped into this pest. But no, that was just regret speaking.

There hadn’t been a choice, not really. He’d known from Bayard’s expres
sion that it was finally time. All those wrestling matches and drunken
fist
fights between them that had ended in draws, neither of them managing
to piss any higher on the tree than the other. They’d both always wondered,
and they’d both always known, they’d have to scratch that itch someday to
find out. Frank had long suspected it would come down to smarts, in which
case he’d win. But not knowing, well, that was what kept life interesting.
Now a part of him was missing. Killing Bayard had felt a lot like cutting off
his own right arm.
If thine eye offend thee
—words from a nearly forgotten
Sunday school lesson flitted back from nowhere, buzzing around him like
the horsefly that was once again circling, a tad more distant than before.

He carried on down the road, still swatting at the bug but with less vehemence, until he registered the sound of an approaching car. A blue station wagon piloted by a prim middle-aged woman with puckered lips and disapproving eyes moved just fast enough to kick up a low thin cloud of dust around it. He clambered out into the road and waved his hands to signal her to stop. She hit the gas and swerved clean but close around him. He jumped back. “Son of a bitch,” he repeated for the third time, like he intended to seal a charm.

He was about to set off again when another vehicle came around the bend. This one slowed as it approached him, though he hadn’t even tried to catch the driver’s eye. Two young guys in a rusting red pickup.

“That your car back there?” the one on the passenger side leaned out the window and asked him. It was one of the Sleiger brothers. Frank thought it was Wayne, but he didn’t know the boys all that well.

“Yes. Yes it is.” Frank noted that they seemed dressed for deep winter, even though it was probably ninety-five degrees in the shade. At the same moment, the fly that had been circling him zipped away like it suddenly remembered it had a previous appointment.

The two men turned to face each other and exchanged a few words that Frank couldn’t make out, then the passenger stuck a gloved hand out the side and motioned with his thumb to the bed of the pickup. “Hop in back. We’ll drive you into town.”

Frank hesitated, but only for a moment. “Much obliged,” he called out, and hefted himself over the side of the truck and onto the bed.