The Law of Moses (46 page)

“I’m here to question you in the disappearance of Lisa Kendrick,” he said, finger on the trigger, eyes on my knife, waiting for me to make my move so he could make his. “When you’re dead, I’m going to find her here. Tied up somewhere. Drugged. And no one will question me, no one will care if you’re dead.”

I didn’t know if he was crazy or if I was just missing something again.

“You mean Sylvie Kendrick?” I asked, my head spinning.

“I mean Lisa. Such a lucky break for me, seeing her walking along the street last night. And I knew you drove her van when you came to the jail to get David Taggert. It was like a little miracle. Just for me.”

“Did you kill my mother? Is that how this all started, Sheriff?” I asked softly, trying to put the pieces together as quickly as I could.

“I didn’t kill her. I loved her. I loved her so much. And she was a whore. Do you know how it feels to be in love with a whore?” He laughed, but it sounded more like a sob and he stopped immediately, gritted his teeth and kept his hand steady. But I’d touched a nerve. I’d touched THE nerve.

“You don’t look like me at all. I couldn’t believe it when I saw you. Just a tiny little thing hooked up to a bunch of machines. I thought they must have made a mistake. I thought you were mine,” he said, and slapped his chest with his left hand. “I thought you were mine, but I’m the wrong color, aren’t I?” Another laugh that made me wince, inch for the door, and grip the knife in my hand. He took an aggressive step toward me, but he wasn’t finished talking.

“You sure as hell aren’t mine! I was so stupid. Jenny was sleeping around, obviously. I would have given her anything she wanted. It didn’t make any sense to me. Does that make sense to you?” Jacob Dawson peered up at me in puzzlement, clearly wanting me to say something that he still hadn’t come to terms with in twenty-five years.

“She was messed up. I thought I could fix her, but she couldn’t leave the shit alone. She couldn’t leave it alone. Just like Molly Taggert and Sylvie Kendrick. They reminded me of her. Pretty girls, but so messed up. Hurting their families. I did them a favor. They were heading the same direction as Jenny, taking drugs, running away from home, selfish bitches. I did them a favor. Saved them from themselves, saved their families from more hurt.”

“How many others were there? How many others girls did you save?” I asked, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “And what about Georgia? That was you, right? At the stampede. You tried to take Georgia. She doesn’t quite fit your profile, Sheriff. Neither does Lisa Kendrick.”

“I didn’t mean to take Georgia. Her back was turned to me, and I thought she was someone else. But then you came and I had to cut her loose. You actually did me a favor, you know. I would have hated to hurt Georgia. And Lisa will be fine. She won’t remember anything. I shot her so full of shit she’ll be lucky if she remembers her own name.”

I didn’t say anything. He wasn’t very tall, wiry and lean, and much smaller than I was. I towered above him and probably outweighed him by sixty pounds. But he had a gun. And he was completely out of his mind.

Grief, guilt, twisted logic, and years of trying to keep his sins locked away, of trying to hide his face from the people who loved and trusted him had slowly eaten away at his humanity, at his reason, at the light that separated him from the darkness that waited for him. And here he was, standing in my grandmother’s kitchen, on the spot where she left this life, showing me exactly who he was. It must be a relief. But he didn’t do it for absolution. He didn’t do it to gloat or to explain. He did it because he was going to kill me, if the inky smear clouding the edges of my vision were any indication. And they always were. The lurkers knew his intentions. And they were there, waiting for him to carry them out.

“I knew you were just messing with me all this time. You painted Molly Taggert’s face on the overpass and I knew that somehow, someway, you knew. I knew you must have seen me that night at the Stampede. But you never said anything. You acted like you didn’t know.

“But then I saw the walls, after Kathleen died.” His eyes bounced toward the living room, toward the wall that neither of us could see from where we faced off. “All those pictures on the walls. The girls. You painted the girls! And still . . . you never said anything. I didn’t know what you wanted. I tried to stop. I wanted people to think it was you. But then I saw her. On the fourth, I saw her. The same day Jenny died. And she looked like Jenny. She smiled at me, just like Jenny used to. And she was strung out. Higher than a kite. I followed her home that night. And I took her.”

I didn’t know who he was talking about, but I guessed it was the girl who’d been missing since July, the girl Tag had seen on a flyer at the bar in Nephi.

“Then last night, I’m at the old mill with my nephew, he’s dropping a few things off, I’m waiting in the truck, and I see Georgia Shepherd slink out of there and run like she’s seen something that’s scared her to death. I had Terrence drive by her house and I see her heading to your place, all wrapped around you. Does she know? Have you told her about me?”

I waited, not sure what he wanted, not sure if it mattered. But I wasn’t in the mood for pillow talk.

“And why do girls always want the trash? Jennifer did. Georgia does. I don’t get it.”

I waited again, the irony that a murderer of countless women was calling me trash not entirely lost on me.

“I wanted to see what Georgia was up to. What you both were up to. So I went back to the mill after Terrence dropped me off. I haven’t been inside since it shut down thirty years ago. Never had reason to. Imagine my surprise when I saw your painting on the wall. Molly, Sylvie, Jenny, others too, lots of others. I don’t know how you figured it out, or what you want, but you came back to Levan when I told you to stay away. I gave you every opportunity to just go. And now you’re back here, painting again.” His voice rose on the last note, desperately, as if he truly thought I’d been playing with him all this time, a game of cat and mouse that finally made him break. He thought I’d come back to Levan for him. He thought the painting at the old mill was new, a new attempt to smoke him out. And it had pushed him over the edge.

I wasn’t afraid. It was the strangest thing. My heart pounded and it was hard to breathe, but those were physical responses. In my head, in the part of me that saw things that nobody else did, I was okay. I was calm. People are afraid of the unknown. But it wasn’t unknown to me. Death didn’t scare me. But leaving Georgia at the mercy of Jacob Dawson did. If he thought she knew what he had done, he would kill her.

I might die, but Jacob Dawson had to die too. I couldn’t let him live. Even if Eli saw me kill him.

And Eli would see.

He stood to my left, just beyond the length of my outstretched hand, standing there in his Batman pajamas, complete with hood and cape. He smiled at me a little, that same sad smile that made me wonder how much of the child remained. He didn’t have a body anymore, a body that could grow, a body that indicated the passing of years and the gathering of experience. But he wasn’t a four-year-old little boy waiting for someone to explain to him what was happening. He knew. And he’d been trying to tell me all along.

He’d been lingering to take me home.

Georgia

IT SOUNDED LIKE AN ENGINE back-firing in the distance, muted, unthreatening. But Dale Garrett and I both turned toward it, our ears cocked, brows furrowed.

“That was a gun-shot,” he mused, his eyes trained on the back of Kathleen Wright’s home across the field. And I started to run.

“Georgia!” Dale Garrett cried. “Stop! Georgia! Son-of-a-bitch, girl!” I didn’t know if he was behind me or if he was digging out his cell phone, but I hoped it was the latter. He was old and fat, and I didn’t want him killing himself trying to chase me across the field.

I don’t know how long it took me to get through the round corral, across the field, and over the fence into Kathleen’s back yard, but it felt like years. Decades. When I reached the back deck and threw myself at the sliding glass door only to find it locked tight, I screamed in frustration and dread. Moses had been out on that deck for the greater part of the day, but he’d still locked the damn door when he was done. I ran around the house, fear making my thoughts pop like firecrackers, whizzing around uncontrolled in my head.

A white, Chevy Tahoe with Juab County Sheriff’s Department written along the side in gold lettering was parked out front next to Moses’s black pick-up and as I rounded the corner and ran toward the front door, a black Hummer swung in, gravel flying as it lurched to a halt. David ‘Tag’ Taggert shot out of the vehicle with a gun in his hand and murder on his face, and I almost collapsed in relief.

But that was before I heard the second gun shot.

“Stay here!” Tag roared, running for the front door. So I followed him. I had to. And when he burst through the front door without pausing, the first thing I noticed was the smell. But it didn’t smell like paint this time. It didn’t smell like pies either. It smelled like gun powder, and it smelled like blood. And then Tag roared again, and I felt his arm jerk as he fired his gun, and then fired again. Another shot rang out and a bullet hit the dining room window. Glass shattered as Tag stepped over something and then sank to his knees. At first I thought he was hit and I reached for him, my view of the rest of the room blocked by his big back. Then I realized Tag had stepped over Sheriff Dawson who was sprawled, staring up at the ceiling, a huge knife sticking out of his chest, a gunshot wound to his head.

And then I saw Moses.

He was lying on his side on the kitchen floor, blood growing in an ever-widening pool around his body, and Tag was turning him, trying to staunch the flow of blood, cursing Moses, cursing God, cursing himself.

And just like when Gigi died all those years ago, when Moses was covered in paint instead of blood, when death was on the walls instead of in his eyes, I ran to him. And just like before, I was helpless to do anything for him.

Moses

IT WAS LIGHT, I FELT SAFE, and I was perfectly aware of who I was and where I was. Eli stood beside me, his hand in mine, and from a distance there were others too, coming toward me. If I had to paint it all, I doubt I could, but maybe paint could better capture it than words. Yet even with the soft effervescence and the unyielding light all around me, it was Eli who held my attention. He lifted his chin and contemplated me, searching my face. And then he smiled.

“You’re my dad.” His voice was clear and sweet, and I recognized it from the memories he’d shared with me, though it was easier to hear now, unfiltered, crystalline almost.

“Yes,” I nodded, gazing down at him. “I am. And you’re my son.”

“I’m Eli. And you love me.”

“I do.”

“I love you too. And you love my mom.”

“Yes,” I whispered, wishing with all my soul that Georgia was here. “I hate that she’s alone now.”

“She won’t be alone forever. It passes so fast,” Eli said wisely, even gently.

“Do you think she knows how much I love her?”

“You gave her flowers and said you were sorry.”

“I did.”

“You kissed her.”

I could only nod.

“You painted her pictures and hugged her when she cried.”

“Yeah,” I whispered.

“You laughed with her too.”

I nodded again.