She laughed, but again there was no humor. “Sheriff wouldn’t say. No way to know if the person even existed.”
“You don’t have much faith in law enforcement, do you?”
She leaned forward and looked directly into my eyes; I could have sworn I saw something burning in hers. “My brother went to the electric chair for a crime he didn’t commit. How in God’s name could I trust them?”
“Okay,” I said, raising my hands. “I get what you’re saying here, and it does appear there could have been some evidentiary issues during the trial—there’s no denying that. But to be perfectly honest, what you’ve told me doesn’t necessarily scream out his innocence, either.”
She reached into her bag and removed a sheet of paper. Slid it across the table, and said, “How about this Mr. Bannister? Does this scream it loudly enough?”
She watched me carefully as I picked it up and read it.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It was a handwritten statement:
I Emma Louise Stephenson hereby swear the following is true:
I was with Ronnie Lucas from the hours of 4pm to 5 pm on June 29, 1976.
My hand shook slightly as I took it in. I said to Nissie, “Why wasn’t this introduced during the trial?”
“Ronnie didn’t tell anyone he had an alibi.”
“Even though it would’ve saved his life?”
She was rolling her hands against one another. “It’s complicated, but let me see if I can explain. Emma was Ronnie’s on-again-off-again girlfriend. Mostly off again. A real winner, I might add. She was in the process of losing her two-year-old girl in a custody fight. Her ex claimed she was an unfit mother, which she was.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Drug problem,” Nissie said, “and the father was worse. Abusive as hell. He liked to beat the crap out of Emma, even smacked the kid around a few times. That’s when Emma decided enough was enough, that it was time to get out of the marriage. Of course, she had Ronnie’s arms to run into. They’d been carrying on together for quite some time by then.”
The waitress came by to refill our coffee cups. We paused, watching and waiting for her to finish and leave. She flashed me another Big Texas Smile as she left the table.
Nissie continued, “So one day, Ronnie calls, wanting to meet, but she tells him she can’t, that she has the baby at home and doesn’t have a sitter. Of course, he couldn’t come to her. His parole officer wouldn’t allow him to go near any minors, and obviously, Emma couldn’t bring the baby with her, either. But he insisted, told her he was thinking about ending the relationship. Well, that was all Emma had to hear. She put the baby in the crib for a nap and rushed off to meet him at The Alibi bar a few blocks from her house.” She saw my response to the name and smiled. “I know, talk about irony, huh?”
“And this is the same time that Nathan went missing...”
“Yeah. The exact time.”
I held the paper up. “So why didn’t he use this to clear his name?”
She raised her hand. “I’m getting to that. So, they argued for a while, and then they made up…it took a while. Fast forward to when she gets back home. She finds the baby on the floor, bleeding. She hadn’t closed the crib properly and the baby fell out and hit her head. Emma panicked. She rushed to the emergency room and told them the baby had fallen while playing in the driveway.”
“Knowing that if she told the truth, she could lose the kid.”
“Exactly, yeah. Then Ronnie gets arrested, and here’s where it gets complicated: if she provides an alibi, it all comes out in court, that she left the kid unattended.”
“Tough decision for a mother to make,” I said. “Let Ronnie die or lose custody of her daughter.”
“Yeah. Of course, he felt partially responsible. I mean, he was the one who insisted she come see him in the first place.”
“So what happened next?”
“Emma decided to put the alibi in writing and give it to Ronnie.”
“In other words, putting the ball in his court.”
“Right.”
“But he never used it.”
Nissie raised a brow. “Part two—the trickiest part of all. The baby didn’t actually belong to Emma’s husband.” She rested her arms on the table, crossed them, then leaned in toward me. “She belonged to Ronnie.”
“Wow.”
“Understatement. So there he was, between a rock and a hard place. Use the alibi, they’ll take his daughter away from Emma for sure. And then who gets her? The scumbag, abusive husband.”
“A risk he wasn’t willing to take,” I said.
“Exactly.”
“So it all boiled down to keeping himself safe or keeping his kid safe?”
She nodded, shrugged. “He rolled the dice on a trial without the alibi.”
“And lost.”
“She gazed down at the table and frowned. “Unfortunately, yes.”
I thought about what it must have been like for him. The sacrifice. To put his child’s life before his own because of love. Then something else crossed my mind. “How come you didn’t convince him to use the alibi, and then you fight for custody yourself?”
She shrugged. “I never had the chance.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t know about the note until after Ronnie died. He left it for me. I guess he wanted me to know he wasn’t the monster everybody thought he was.” She shook her head, a hint of anger mixed with sadness. “But I already knew that.”
I tipped the note up. “And you never gave this to the folks at The Observer? They never saw it?”
She straightened her spine as well as her facial expression. “I wouldn’t give those people the time of day.”
“How come?”
“Because they’re scum, that’s why.” She looked away and sneered. “The way they covered the trial was shameful. They had him convicted before he ever set foot in the courtroom. Banner headlines every day, practically calling him a pervert child killer. They turned it into a damned circus carnival, and when I tried to complain, they wouldn’t hear it.”
“So after that, Emma ended up keeping the girl?”
She shook her head. “Overdose. She died right after the execution. I wondered if it was guilt about Ronnie, but—”
“Then the little girl went to the ex-husband anyway? After all that?”
Nissie’s expression changed to one of determination. “Hell, no. I fought long and hard, but I finally won. She’s my kid now.” And then she smiled.
I smiled, too.
She pulled out her wallet, flipped it open, turned it toward me. With alternating glances between it and me, she said, “Jessica.”
“She’s beautiful.”
“That was at her college graduation. She’ll be thirty-five in August. A lawyer, if you can believe it.”
I looked from the photo to her and said, “Something good came out of something bad.”
A tear filled her eye. She wiped it away, a bigger smile now spreading across her face. “Yeah, something did … after all.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
My mother’s needs always came first, with mine getting pushed to the end of the line. Not only that, but she used me to help satisfy those needs, placing me in danger and going places other parents would never tread. I don’t know if she understood the damage she caused or the demons she left with me: The demon of, You are Worthless. The demon of, You’re a Sad Excuse for a Human. The demon of, Nobody Loves You.
I fight those demons every day.
I was eight years old. My mother decided she needed a radio for the kitchen, and as was often the case, dragged me along to Pete’s Discount Mart.
She found one she liked, until she saw the price.
“Highway robbery,” she mumbled as she shoved the radio back onto the shelf, then shot an angry look toward a nearby salesman. “These people are criminals.”
She moved a few paces down the aisle and grabbed another radio.
; “Like the price on this one better,” she said, holding it up, examining it, “except it’s a piece of crap.”
Then she looked down at me, and I could practically see the up-to-no-good flashing in her eyes. She put the radio back, pulled me farther down the aisle, then knelt and whispered into my ear, “I’m going to go around the corner to the next row. Once I’m out of sight, you take the price off the crappy radio and put it on the good one. Then put the tag from the good one on the crappy one. Understand?”
“I don’t think we’re supposed to—”
“It’s fine,” she said, “Trust me. Nobody will know the difference. These people are making a killing.”
“But what if I get caught?”
She laughed and rolled her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. You won’t get caught. Nobody even notices you. It’s like you’re invisible.”
I didn’t say anything, just shook my head.
Her expression grew more serious. “Good boys listen to their mothers. If you want me to love you, then you need to trust me.”
I looked at the salesman, who was busy flirting with the cashier.
“Go ahead,” my mother said, waving me on. “Just do it.”
I stepped tentatively down the aisle, my hands clenched, my shoulders tight and stiff.
“I’ll be in the next aisle, honey,” she said, speaking loudly now so everyone could hear.
My heart began to pound.
I moved over to the cheaper radios. Grabbed one. Glanced at the front of the store; the salesman caught my eye, smiled, then went back to charming the cashier. I turned the box over and found the price tag, began peeling it off.
Then, a short time later, “It’s over here on aisle six, ma’am. I’ll show you.”
I looked up. The salesman was gone, and the cashier was busy reading a magazine.
I kept peeling.
“This toaster is our most popular model, and it’s on sale right now.”
They were in the next aisle.
The label began tearing in half. My fingertips were sweaty and I felt like I was about to lose it. Everything was turning into a mess. I wiped my hands on my pants and grabbed another radio. Began peeling again.
Then I felt a firm hand on my shoulder.
I jumped.
The salesman glared down at me. “You mind telling me what you’re doing, son?”
Fear and panic silenced me.
“I said, son?”
“I was…I…”
“You want to tell me why you’re removing price tags from our merchandise?”
“I…”
My mother stepped around the corner. With hands clamped to her hips, head tilted, and an angry scowl on her face, she said, “Patrick! What have you done now?”
“This your boy, ma’am?”
She walked toward us shaking her head, and with irritation in her voice said, “Oh for heaven’s sake. What has he gotten himself into this time?”
“I caught him removing price labels from our merchandise,” the salesman said, pointing to the shreds still stuck to my pant leg. A group of people began gathering around, watching us.
Watching me.
“You apologize to this nice man!” she shouted. “Do it right this instant!”
And so I did, with tears rolling down cheeks, barely able to get the words out.
My mother turned to the salesman. “I’m so sorry. I really am. He’s a problem child, and I’m just at my wit’s end. His father passed away, and me being a single mother and all, you know… I just don’t know what to do with him. I’m so embarrassed.”
Then she dragged me by my arm, through the crowd and out of the store, shouting the whole way.
I don’t remember much about the ride home, except for the humiliation I felt.
And this:
“Congratulations,” she said, once we were on the road. “You really fucked that one up.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Yet another storm.
This one came barreling in off the coast, slate gray skies and rain drifting through the air in sheets.
A perfect match for my mood…and the turbulent feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Figuring out Nathan Kingsley’s murder was like peeling away the layers of an onion: the deeper I got, the more it stunk. The less sense it seemed to make, too. No wonder I’d had such a hard time figuring out Ronald Lucas’s connection to all this. He didn’t really have one.
But if he didn’t do it, who did?
The mysterious Sam I Am entered my mind. His role seemed to be pushing its way toward center stage. I wondered if he could have killed both Jean and Nathan Kingsley. But why would he want either of them dead? And why then spare Dennis?
And what about my mother and Warren? I still had no idea what they were doing in the middle of all this.
Nissie Lambert helped me fill in a lot of empty spaces where Lucas was concerned. Still, what she told me was just one piece to an already confusing puzzle. If her brother was in fact framed, I had no idea who was behind it, or why.
Jackson Wright had represented Lucas during his trial and during the subsequent appeals process. Back at the motel, I powered up the computer and did a search. He was still practicing law in Corvine with an office on Prospect Street. Good. Hopefully, he could help me take Nissie’s information to the next level.
Questions without answers—they were building too quickly. So too, was my exhaustion, because for the second night in a row, I passed out cold without even turning off the lights.
***
I shot straight up in bed, thinking I’d heard something like a door closing. Not slammed, more like being pulled gently closed. A dream?
I turned the alarm clock toward me: 8:07 a.m. I was still wearing my clothes from the night before. The word overworked came to mind, and after that, underpaid.
I pulled my mobile phone from the nightstand and checked messages. Nothing. Then I dialed CJ’s number at work.
“Norris,” she said, sounding groggy and tired. She wasn’t the only one.
“It’s Patrick.”
“Hey, you. How’re things going?”
“They’re going. Listen, I need to ask you a question.”
“Lay it on me.”
“Ever hear the name Michael Samuels?”
She paused for a moment, and then, “No. Should I?”
“Not necessarily. Just wondering.”
She spoke her words slowly, and I could hear her smiling. “Whatcha workin’, Pat? Wanna tell me?”
“Don’t get too excited. So far all I’m doing is running in circles and getting doors slammed in my face.”
She didn’t respond.
I said, “You still there?”
“Yeah. Uh-huh.”
“Why the silence?”
“Oh, nothing. Just trying to figure out why you’re giving me a snow job instead of the truth.”
“I’m not giving you a snow job.”
“It’s a small town, remember that, Pat. People are talking. Also remember that I’m not stupid.”
“Never said you were.”
“Hmm. Yeah. Okay. Well good luck on that. Gotta go.” And she hung up.
I stared at my phone for a moment. Smart girl, that CJ, no doubt. Attractive too, and clearly single; I wondered why, then laughed at myself for asking such a stupid question. I hardly had room to talk.
I started a pot of coffee, went to the door to grab the morning paper.
It was unlocked. I was surprised at first, but I’d passed out so quickly the night before, I figured I’d simply forgotten to lock it.
I poured the coffee, brought it to my bed. Cheap motel, cheap coffee, but at least they gave out free newspapers. Not much going on in Corvine today: the front-page story was, City Council Meets to Discuss New Traffic Light on Fifth and Cedar, complete with a photo of the council, all two of them. They didn’t look particularly excited about the issue.
Turned the page for more of the same. Swap meet coming
up this Sunday at the Baptist church. Missing German Shepherd; answers to “Mike.” Wondered who in the world would name their dog that.
I yawned.
From the looks of things, Nathan Kingsley’s kidnapping was the most exciting news this town had ever seen—probably enough for them, I guessed. They’d had their fill.
Since both the newspaper and coffee had failed to stimulate, I decided to get in the shower and get moving. I had an appointment with Jackson Wright in about an hour, figured I’d walk around town for a bit, maybe grab something to eat.
I lathered up in the shower and tried to organize my thoughts. No luck there; far too many of them floating around and far too confusing. I rinsed off, got out, grabbed a towel.
And froze.
Written on the steamy mirror, a message:
u spy
now u die
Adrenaline pumped up my spine and made me shiver. I sucked in a breath, forgetting for a moment to let it out as I moved closer. This time it sounded like more than a threat. It sounded like a promise.
Things were moving to a bad place.
The door I’d heard closing wasn’t a dream; it was real. Someone had been in my room while I slept.
But the message wasn’t written while I was in the shower. It was an old trick I remembered as a kid. Write something on a dry mirror with your fingertip, and the oil residue will cause the words to appear once it mixes with steam.
Clever.
This wasn’t just about pushing the envelope anymore; it was about crossing a line. Someone was aggressively pursuing me. I didn’t know who, but I knew one thing: the rules of the game were changing at breakneck speed. While they hadn’t harmed me yet, it would only be a matter of time before they did.
Time to be proactive.
I checked out of my motel and into another several miles outside of town. Paid with cash and used an alias. My name was now Ron Braverman as far as they or my stalker were concerned. Next, to the local gun store—I wasn’t taking any chances. Unfortunately, that ended up being a bust. The owner refused to sell to out-of-state customers. I’d have to get by without one for now.
The Lion, The Lamb, The Hunted Page 9