Wicked Game (30 page)

Zeke looked ready to fall into pieces. Mac told him the investigations into Glenn and Renee’s deaths were ongoing, but he didn’t seem to hear. He was lost in his own thoughts and when the interview concluded he rose from his chair in a daze. Together, Mac and Gretchen watched him walk out of the station.

“He thinks his fiancée wrote the notes,” Gretchen observed.

“He’s been thinking that for a while,” Mac concluded.

“You gonna let him drop that bomb on her?”

Mac shrugged. “Do you see Evangeline Adamson as Jezebel Brentwood’s killer? Following her into the maze, stabbing her in the ribs? Murdering her and her baby?”

“Zeke’s baby, too.”

“I agree with Zeke. I don’t think she has the nerve. The note sending is more her style, sneaky and anonymous. She was trying to protect Zeke, when in fact she pointed an arrow right to him.”

Gretchen’s blue eyes narrowed and she smiled her thin smile.

“What?” Mac asked.

“You better stop this, or I might start thinking you’re a decent detective after all.”

Mac harrumphed and turned away from her. He didn’t want to start liking Gretchen, either. She was a pain in the butt, then, now, and forever.

Hudson drove away from the house Tim and Renee had shared and tried not to hate the guy. All he’d wanted was Renee’s laptop and notes about the story she’d been working on, but Tim didn’t have them. Stunned that his wife was gone, Tim was a walking automaton. He acted like he didn’t hear Hudson’s request, going on and on instead about what a great relationship he and Renee had had, how much he’d loved her, how alone he felt now, how miserable. He seemed to have conveniently pushed away all the contention their relationship had been fraught with at the end. Hudson had wanted to explode at him, but had held his temper in check by sheer will, and finally Tim paid attention enough to say that the laptop hadn’t been found when her Toyota was pulled from the sea. It, and whatever luggage Renee had carried with her, had been lost. Not that a computer that had been submerged in the sea would be of much help.

“I’ll have to add that to the insurance report,” Tim said to Hudson. “Thanks for reminding me.”

In a foul mood, Hudson pushed thoughts of Tim aside as he drove home. Ignoring the calls from reporters on his answering machine, he spent the rest of the day caring for the livestock and fixing a broken gate. The physical labor of forking hay into mangers, shoveling manure from the stalls, and replacing hinges and broken boards gave him time to think and sort things out.

He tried to remember more of what she’d said in their last phone conversation, but there didn’t seem to be anything there that meant anything. He knew her user ID and password, so he switched on his computer and flipped through her unread and “kept as new” e-mails. There weren’t a lot of them. And none of them had to do with the story she was working on. Less than an hour later, he logged off in frustration.

Maybe the only way to learn something was to follow in her footsteps, like she’d followed in Jessie’s.

His cell phone chirped at the same moment he heard tires crunching on his gravel driveway. He answered the phone, then glanced up the stairs, where Becca was working on her own laptop, getting some overdue work done for her job. “Hello?”

“Hey, Hudson. It’s Zeke. I’m just pulling into your driveway.”

“Yeah? What makes you come out here?”

“Just wanted to talk to you.”

“Come on in. Door’s open.” He hung up and yelled, “Zeke’s here.”

When she didn’t answer, he headed upstairs and caught her coming out of the bathroom, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “You all right? Zeke’s just pulling up. He wants to talk to me.”

Becca grimaced. “I ate something that didn’t agree with me. I’ll be right down.”

“Okay.”

Hudson clambered back down the stairs and Becca watched from the upper rail. She’d just lost her dinner. Food poisoning, or…
pregnancy
?

Too soon to know
, she told herself with a flutter of anxiety in her already nervous stomach. She couldn’t think of it. Couldn’t hope. Yet elation was building, a sudden, blinding certainty that ran down her nerves like electricity.

No. No. Oh, please…yes!

It took her a few moments to collect herself, to quash her growing thrill and put it in perspective. This was way too early. If it was true, she was barely a month pregnant. But then, she’d known immediately last time she was pregnant as well.

Oh, God, let it be true!

By the time she joined them, Hudson and Zeke were in the kitchen. Hudson was in a chair, but Zeke was standing. Becca’s head was full of swirling thoughts and it was all she could do to even wonder why Zeke had suddenly stopped by.

“I just got back from the police station and McNally. I went home but I couldn’t stay there.”

“What’s wrong?” Hudson asked, frowning.

Zeke hesitated, clutched his fingers around the back of an empty chair, then rocked back on his heels. “The DNA proved I’m Jessie’s baby’s father.”

“What?” Becca asked softly and Hudson stared at Zeke like he was speaking a foreign language.

“The body has to be Jessie’s,” Zeke went on raggedly. “It has to be, because I didn’t sleep with anyone else…except Jessie…at that time.”

“You slept with Jessie,” Hudson repeated. Zeke’s gaze implored his friend’s, but Hudson was having trouble shifting gears.

“You can hate me, man. I wouldn’t blame you if you did! She was just trying to get back at you and I was a fucking idiot. I don’t know. I don’t have any excuse. She was just hot and I wanted her. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry!”

Becca’s pulse shot into the stratosphere. Her mind was a jumble of pieces of information.
Jessie’s baby wasn’t Hudson’s. Zeke slept with Jessie. Hudson’s best friend slept with his girlfriend. Jessie’s baby
wasn’t
Hudson’s!

“Who killed her?” Hudson asked in a strangled voice.

“I don’t know, man. Not me.”

“Did you know about the baby?” Hudson demanded.

Zeke shook his head. “No way. I just thought she ran off, maybe because we were screwing. She was messed up. So was I. I’m sorry.”

“Do you think she knew?”

“About the baby? It was, like, a few months along. That’s what McNally said.” He turned blindly to Becca. “Girls know that stuff, don’t they?”

“Yes,” Becca said weakly.

“I don’t think she knew I was the father. I mean, you and her…” Zeke struggled for words, his gaze on Hudson, who’d gone unnaturally quiet. “You were together during that time?”

There was a long silence. Zeke’s anxiety and torture over wondering what Hudson was thinking and feeling filled the room. Becca felt light-headed and sank onto one of the kitchen chairs. The past consumed the present.
You’re not pregnant
, she told herself.
You just want it so badly your subconscious is making you think you are.

But you haven’t used birth control, have you? Haven’t thought about it!

Hudson’s cell phone rang and Zeke and Becca both visibly jumped. He pulled it from his pocket and checked the Caller ID. “It’s Mitch,” he said.

“Maybe I should go.” Zeke looked to Hudson for confirmation, but his friend had turned his attention to his cell. Becca nodded to him. There wasn’t much more to say, and Hudson was clearly still processing.

Zeke hesitated, but when he heard Hudson say, “Hey, Mitch, what’s up?” he left, shoulders hunched, through the back door.

Becca glanced over and saw Booker T.’s empty water dish. She wondered when Hudson was going to put it away. The dog wasn’t coming back.

But maybe there’ll be a baby…

Hudson listened for a few moments, then said into the phone, “Why don’t you just tell me, Mitch? I don’t think anything could surprise me now. If you know who killed Glenn, just say it. And don’t tell me it’s Jessie, because I just learned those bones are definitely hers. Yes. For a fact.” His gaze met Becca’s and he said into the receiver, “That’s right. Jessie did not send the notes because she’s dead.” He listened a little longer, then half sighed and said, “You’re at the garage? How long are you gonna be there?” A pause. “Sure, I’ll stop by.” He shrugged to Becca as he hung up.

“Mitch is working late at the garage and wants me to stop by so he can talk to me about who killed Glenn.”

“All your friends are suddenly into confessions,” Becca murmured.

“You still feel sick, or do you want to go with me?”

“I’m okay. I can go. Think it’ll be all right with Mitch? Maybe he wants to see you alone.”

“To hell with that. I want to be with you.” He pulled her into his arms. She hugged him so hard he started laughing.

“Are you all right?” she asked, her face pressed into his chest. “After what Zeke said?”

He exhaled a short breath. “Y’know, I’m almost relieved. Thinking the baby was mine, and I never knew…pissed me off. I’ve been really mad at Jessie—and she’s been dead for twenty years! She never told me. I don’t know how to explain it, but I was goddamned mad at her.”

“I understand.” A whisper of fear swept over Becca’s skin. She’d kept that same secret herself.

“I’m not mad at Zeke. I would have been at the time, but a lot’s happened and I just don’t care.” He stroked her hair. “And I believe Zeke. He didn’t know she was pregnant. I don’t know why she was killed—maybe she just ran into the wrong person—but I don’t think it has anything to do with the pregnancy.”

“Neither do I.”

“Are you ready to go see Mitch?” he asked.

She curled her fists into his shirt and said, “Would it be bad of me to say, ‘not just yet’?”

“Did you have something else in mind?” She heard the thread of amusement in his voice.

For an answer, she took his hand and led him back upstairs.

The garage was full of the smells of oil, dirt, and stale cigarette smoke, though no one was allowed to smoke inside. Mitch swiped the sweat from his brow with a red cloth stained with grease. He was sweating like a pig and trying like hell not to freak out. The card he’d received had scared the shit out of him, but now he had other worries loading him down. He’d had stomach problems ever since Glenn had died in the fire at Blue Note. He forced a picture of Glenn trapped in that damned inferno from his mind, but hell, he missed him. They’d been good buds. He’d listened when Glenn pissed and moaned about Blue Note or Gia. He’d been there.

And he and Glenn had bonded over getting their asses kicked by The Third and Jarrett time and again. Jesus, those bastards could make life miserable if you had a few extra pounds or some other kind of weakness.

Good old Glenn.

He tasted acid burning up his throat.

“Just the medication,” he said, then clapped his trap shut. He didn’t want Mike, the owner of the garage, to have any inkling that he was on prescriptions. Mike, an ex-druggie, was death on anything put in a person’s bloodstream, even those prescribed by a doc.

So Mitch kept his pills on the down-low. No one but his doctor knew what medications were in his night table drawer or his body. But lately these new antidepressants coupled with his sleep aids had been playing tricks with his mind. He’d been hallucinating.

Or at least he thought he was. Who the fuck knew?

“Hey.” Phil, the skinny sixtysomething mechanic whose craggy, collapsed face might scare little kids, lifted a hand as he headed through the bay and out the big garage doors. “You’re closin’ up, right?”

“After the Grand Am.” Mitch checked his watch. He still needed to put in some time on the car, and Hudson had agreed to stop by. Mitch wasn’t sure how much he was going to say to him. He hated being a tattletale, especially if his ideas were wrong. And it was kind of a betrayal, too. But Glenn was gone…and Renee, too, though he still was blaming that one on Jessie.

“She’s dead,” he reminded himself aloud. Hudson had confirmed it.

It just sure didn’t feel like it.

“You talkin’ to me?” Phil asked.

“Hey, change the channel back to country and close the doors, will ya?”

“Look who’s the boss.”

“You want to work on the damned Pontiac?”

“Fine, fine.” Phil adjusted the station from the all talk radio that Mike always insisted upon and soon Randy Travis’s voice boomed through the bays. “Tomorrow,” Phil called as he pressed the electronic opener button so that the doors began their clattering descent. Before they closed completely Mitch caught a glimpse of Phil as he pulled himself up into the cab of a pickup that was jacked two feet into the air to support its huge tires.

With Phil gone, Mitch was completely alone. Everyone else, including Elsa, the greyhound, Mike’s rescue dog and unofficial garage mascot, had already left for the day.

These days, Mitch didn’t really like being completely alone.

With an effort, Mitch turned his attention to the Pontiac supported by a hydraulic jack. Something wrong with the front-end U joint. A big job. Shit. He slid beneath the vehicle on the creeper, rolling it into position, then began working. He hooked a lamp over the axle and frowned at the under-carriage. A trick one, this, but he’d always enjoyed working on cars, ever since he’d been a freshman at St. Elizabeth’s, years before he could drive legally. He began humming along to Brooks and Dunn, spying what looked like another oil leak—more problems—when he heard something…a scrape of a shoe? Or just some static from the radio?

No one was in the place.

Mike had been gone since two.

Phil had left less than twenty minutes ago.

Mitch strained to listen over the sound of country twang and the thrum of guitar chords.

It was the damned medications, making him all paranoid. All the weird shit surrounding those bones, and the damned notes, and the fire and Glenn…and then Renee up and dying. Made him crazy, that’s what.

Still nervous, he slid out from under the Grand Am bumping his head on one of the rims. He stepped outside for a smoke, and ducked under the awning of the overhang where they’d once pumped gas. Now the old tanks were empty and Mike only did auto repair work. The parking area under the overhangs was used for cars waiting for a part. Rain was starting to fall again, beating on an old tar roof.