"Oh, hi, Gibb." She hoped he would attribute her breathlessness to something besides fear. He was wearing outdoor clothes. His boots were as muddy as Matt's, and he, too, smelled of smoke. He had come straight from a bloody execution, but no one would ever have guessed that from his benign smile.
"You two still up?"
She glanced over her shoulder, almost expecting to see Matt staggering from the bedroom massaging the bloody lump on his head.
If he wasn't dead.
She formed what she hoped was a demure smile and turned back to her father-in-law. "Actually no. I mean . . . well, we weren't asleep yet. Just . . . you know." She simpered, southern belle style. "I can get Matt for you if it's really important that you see him right now."
He chuckled. "I doubt it's as important as what he's doing."
"Well," she said coyly, "we're in the middle of making up.
We had a squabble earlier." Playing a hunch, she added, "Didn't he mention it?"
"Matter of fact, he did, although he didn't tell me what I -the quarrel was about. I came over to see if I could help smooth things over." Grinning broadly, he winked at her. "I see that my peacekeeping services aren't necessary. So I'm going to mosey on home and leave you two to your business." When he reached out and squeezed her arm, she feared she might vomit again. "You get back to your husband. Good night, now."
"Good night."
He turned and tromped down the steps.
For good measure, Kendall called after him, "Come back for breakfast, why don't you? I'm hungry for your famous waffles."
"I'll be here by eight."
She watched until his taillights disappeared, then she dashed back into the bedroom. Matt was just as she had left him.
She couldn't bring herself to touch him, even to check for a pulse. What difference did it make?
Whether he was dead or alive, her life as she had known it was over.
Chapter 19
by name is Kendall Deaton Burnwood. What I'm going to tell you will sound beyond belief. You'll think I'm insane. I assure you I'm not." She paused to take a sip of the Coke she'd bought at the motel vending machine.
"I'm listening."
Agent Braddock of the FBI sounded sleepy and put out.
Too damn bad. What she had to tell him would jar him awake. To lend plausibility to her implausible story, she had introduced herself as a public defender. Otherwise, he might have thought he was talking to an absolute kook.
"For almost two years I've been living and working in Pros per. Tonight I discovered a secret vigilante group that is committing unspeakable crimes, including murder. The group is comprised of some of the town's most prominent men. They call themselves the Brotherhood. My . . . my husband is one of them.
"By his own admission, they mete out punishment to anyone they feel deserves it, but who has somehow slipped through the cracks of the legal system.
"I can't guess how many people they've eliminated over the years, but I witnessed a murder tonight." She then told him about Michael Li's execution and finding Bama's remains. "He wasn't a criminal, but I suspect them of killing him, too."
She told the agent what she had seen in the woods, keeping her account factual and precise, her voice composed. Too much emotion would jeopardize her credibility. "This clearing is deep in the woods in a remote area. They slaughter hogs there And, I guess," she added shakily, "not only hogs."
She paused, realizing that he had remained silent throughout the telling. "Are you still there?"
"I'm still here. It's just . . . Well, ma'am, this is quite a tale. Did you report this alleged murder to the local police?" "They're in on it."
"The police, too? I see."
Clearly, he didn't see at all. She was being humored. What could she say to convince him that she wasn't a mental case?
She pushed back her hair and took another sip of her drink, Tension had brought on a stabbing pain between her shoulder blades. She had driven 150 miles before she felt it was safe to stop. For each of those miles, she had kept one eye on the road ahead, and one on the rearview mirror.
When would Matt regain consciousness and alert the other members of the Brotherhood that she was on to them? Or if she had killed him with that vase, when would his body be discovered? She hoped it wouldn't be before eight o'clock that morning, when Gibb would come to the house to cook waffles.
She looked at her watch. It was already past two. Time was running short.
"Agent Braddock, I warned you that this would sound unbelievable."
"You must admit it is a bit farfetched. What I know of Prosper is that it's a neat little community."
"That's how it appears, but the innocence is camouflage Look, I know you get outrageous stories from wackos every day, but I swear to you I'm telling the truth. I saw that boy nailed to a cross."
"Calm down, Mrs. Burnwood. We won't get anywhere if you get hysterical."
"We won't get anywhere if you ignore me, either."
"I'm not ignoring"
"Then what are you going to do about this?"
"You've named some pretty important people," he said, hedging. "Men with authority."
"Don't you think I realize that? At first I couldn't believe who was involved. But the more I think about it, the more sense it makes."
"Why do you say that?"
"There's a pervasive attitude in that town. I can't exactly describe it, but I've felt it since I moved there. The people aren't as flagrant as skinheads. They're not aggressive like some of the better known neo-Nazi groups. But their philosophies are similar.
"That's disturbing."
"All the more so because they operate so subversively. You can't spot them. You don't recognize them immediately for what they are. They're men who hold positions of trust and authority, not rabble-rousers with shaved heads and swastikas carved on their foreheads. They don't wear robes and peaked caps. They don't hold rallies where they scream racial slurs and preach white supremacy. Come to think of it, being Anglo isn't even good enough for them. Billy Joe Crook is white.
So was Bama."
"Billy Joe Crook?"
She told him about the juvenile offender and his "accident."
"I suppose that in the eyes of the Brotherhood, one must be white and Rosen," she said with ill-disguised disgust.
The FBI agent exhaled a deep breath. "You sound like a reasonable person, Mrs. Burnwood. I don't think you could have fabricated all this. I'll file a report and see what I can do."
"Thank you, but filing a bureaucratic report won't cut it.
I won't be safe until they're all behind bars."
"I agree, but before we start rounding up suspects, I'm going to dispatch an agent to take a look at this clearing you've told me about. If we brought someone in for questioning, your husband for instance, that would alert the rest of them. They could scatter. Go underground. We need some physical evidence before we make any arrests, and then it must be done in an organized manner."
He was right, of course. That was the best strategy. But she wouldn't take an easy breath until her Husband, Gibb, and the others were in custody. "When will You begin?"
"If you'll give me directions to the site now,, I'll send some body out there at first light.?"
She told him where he could find Bama's body. She was almost certain that when Michael Li was found, he would be a corpse, too. It would be interesting too hear how his disappearance from the Prosper jail was explained.
In recounting her struggle with Matt, she had told Braddock only that she had knocked him unconscious. She didn't tell him that she feared she might have killed Tim. She would cross that bridge only if and when she had to» .
"Where are you?" he asked. "If we find evidence that backs up your story, you'll be a key witness and will Need the government's protection."
She didn't argue with that. "I'm in a town called King wood." She gave him the number of the state highway that ran through the center of town. "I'm at the Pleasant View Motel. You can't miss it. It's on the highway. Room 103.
What time will you be here?"
"Nine o'clock."
Seven hours. Could she stand to be alone' that long? She had no choice. She had called in the cavalry; she would have to wait for it to arrive.
"Stay put," the agent told her. "Don't get stupid and mistake it for bravery. If what you've told me is true and I'm beginning to believe it is these are extremely dangerous men we're dealing with."
"Believe me, I know. If they find me, they'll kill me without a qualm."
"I'm glad you understand that. Don't venture out for any reason. Could you have been followed?"
"I would swear I wasn't."
"No one else knows where you are?"
"No. I drove in circles and didn't stop until I thought it was safe. I called you first."
"Good. I'll be driving an unmarked government car. It's a plain gray sedan."
"I'll watch for you."
"I'll be there at nine o'clock to drive you straight to our main office in Columbia."
"Thank you, Mr. Braddock."
Kendall hung up but kept her hand on the receiver. Should she call her grandmother? A call of any sort at this hour would alarm the elderly lady. This particular call would terrify her.
She picked up the phone and dialed.
"This had better be damned important."
"Rick) Sue, it's me."
Her friend went from disgruntled to surprised in an instant.
"Kendall, what"
"Is someone with you?"
"Does the Pope wear a beanie?"
"I'm in trouble."
"What's going on?"
"It will take too long to explain it now. Can you please go out to Grandmother's house and stay the rest of the night with her?"
"Like . . . now?" Ricki Sue asked unenthusiastically.
"Like immediately."
"Kendall, what the hell"
"Please, Ricki Sue. You know I wouldn't ask unless the situation was critical. Stay with Grandmother until I call you back. Lock the doors and don't open them to anyone, not even Matt or Gibb."
"What"
"Don't answer the phone unless it rings twice first. That'll mean it's me. Okay, Ricki Sue? Give Grandmother my love and assure her that for the moment I'm safe. I'll call as soon as I can. Thanks."
She hung up before Ricki Sue had time to object or ask further questions. If Matt had survived, and if he and Gibb started hunting for her, they would look for her first in Tennessee.
Grandmother's life was in as much danger as hers. So was her child's.
Kendall was suddenly struck by the far-reaching effects of her predicament. In the best-case scenario, all members of the Brotherhood would be apprehended to face trial for their crimes. She would be a material witness for at least one murder.
She would be under the government's protection for months, possibly years, while prosecutors hashed through the evidence and constructed their case. The investigation itself could take years. Then there would be postponements, delays, appeals, a hopeless snarl of legal machinations that could drag out indefinitely. She and her child would be at the center of the tangle.
Until the case was closed, her life would belong to the government. Everything she did would be monitored. She would need the government's permission for every move she made. She would have no more decision-making authority over her own life than would a puppet.
She covered her face with her hands and groaned. Was this to be her penance? Was this how she was to atone for what she had done to get that job in Prosper?
When the feds began poking around in the dim corners of their prime witness's life, would they ever receive a big surprise.
They were bound to uncover everything about Kendall Deaton. How much credibility would she have when her secret came to light?
She was caught in a trap of her own making and had no one to blame but herself. She longed to cry, but she feared that if she started she would be unable to stop. If Agent Braddock found her weeping uncontrollably when he arrived, he would dismiss her as a woman who'd had a spat with her husband and had dreamed up a fable guaranteed to embarrass him.
To calm herself and ease her aching, tense body, she took a hot shower, but kept the shower curtain open so that she could see through the bedroom to the door. She had fled with only the clothes on her back. Her suit was stained and torn, but she put it back on and lay on the bed.
As exhausted as she was, she couldn't sleep. She dozed, waking to every sound no matter how slight. With annoying frequency she checked the time.
It was a long night.
"Want a sweet roll to go with that? We've got some good honey buns this morning."
"No, thanks, just the coffee."
It was only eight-twenty. Kendall had been up since six o'clock, pacing the orange shag carpet in her motel room, counting each minute that crawled by. Deciding she couldn't stand the room a moment longer, and craving a cup of coffee, she had disobeyed Braddock's order not to venture outside.
Constantly looking over her shoulder for vigilantes in hot pursuit, she had crossed the street to the diner.
Kendall paid the friendly cashier and left with her coffee. She spotted a telephone booth at the corner of the building. One more quick call to Sheridan, just to make certain they were all right? She could always use the telephone in her motel room, but the fewer charges she had on that bill, the better.
It was an old-fashioned phone booth with a hinged, folding door. She pulled it closed and placed her call, using coins She let the phone ring twice, hung up, then dialed again.
