About Face

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About Face Page 24

by Fern Michaels


  He shined the beam of his flashlight around the room, looking for the rat he’d spied earlier. Gone.

  The staircase loomed before him. Not sure of its sturdiness, he knew he’d have to chance it anyway. He needed to go up there.

  He hadn’t bothered telling Vera where he was headed. There was no need for her to know, and, besides, she asked too many questions. The only drawback, he thought as he tested the bottom step with his weight, was that if the staircase collapsed with him, he’d lie there until he died. Maybe he should have told Vera.

  What possessed him to go there in this kind of weather was beyond him, but that nagging little son of a bitch voice kept hounding him until he’d listened.

  One foot, then the other. He stopped on the fourth stair and flashed his light behind him. His footprints were clearly visible on the steps as years of dust, rat droppings, and filth crunched under his boots. He didn’t care. One more step, then another. He pointed the light above him. The closed door at the top of the stairway beckoned to him.

  All thoughts of turning back left. Roland knew a secret waited for him. He had known it ten years before. Maybe he would finally find out what lurked behind that closed door.

  He pushed the door open, and that’s when he heard it.

  A scream?

  Slamming the door against the wall, Roland felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as he heard the scream a second time.

  He looked at the bed, blue-and-white-striped mattress discolored with stains.

  My God, he thought as he crossed the room, alert now, waiting for the scream to come again. They’d never even bothered to remove the bloodstained mattress. A large circle of orange-brown rust at the top right side and several smaller spots remained on the bed. Another rust-colored smear covered the entire left side of the bed, as if something or someone had been dragged across the mattress.

  A noise. He strained to hear. With the rain beating against the roof and the wind gusting through the windows, Roland wasn’t sure that he’d heard anything. His imagination was on overtime.

  How many times had the wind sounded like a woman’s screeching call? He’d always hated the high-pitched wail. That day of all days he didn’t need crap. He’d come to . . . investigate and the last thing he needed was to have the bejesus scared out of him.

  He splayed his light across the bed one last time before crossing the room to the closet. With one hand on the knob and the other holding the flashlight, Roland jerked the door open.

  The closet was empty.

  Well, jerkweed, what the hell were you expecting? Ronald Edwards’s corpse to jump out at you?

  He scanned the inside of the closet. Running his fingers along the top of the dirty shelf, he paused when he felt the rough material. Yanking the cloth down, he saw what appeared to be a purse or some type of carry-all. He hooked his arm through the strap and walked around the room again.

  He remembered that night as if it were yesterday. He’d never returned until now. He had no other choice. He flinched under his own guilt as he tried to remember how many other times he’d wanted to go there but hadn’t.

  She’d been so frightened then. Hell, he was, too. He’d done as he was told and never once questioned his own actions. But only at first. He told himself over the years he’d been young and afraid, but truly he’d just been gutless.

  The scene never did set right with him. Even back then, his inexperienced eye knew something didn’t quite click.

  He’d come back hoping to find out what hadn’t clicked.

  He mentally reconstructed the room that night to the best of his ability.

  Casey had been in the hallway. She’d been wearing a white cotton gown that outlined her figure. She trembled and just stayed in the corner, hugging her legs and whimpering. He’d taken off his jacket and placed it around her. He didn’t want anyone looking at her in the state she was in. He remembered how pretty and blank she looked. Like all the life had gone out of her.

  He’d gone into the bedroom and almost gagged at the scene. He’d never seen so much blood in his life. It was straight out of a horror movie. Blood, thickened from exposure, oozed on the wall above the bed. Blood spatters were all over the night table. A pink ballerina lamp glowed crimson. He couldn’t tell the color of the bedclothes because they were drenched in blood.

  Then he saw it.

  The body, wrapped in sheets. Parker saw the eyes of Ronald Edwards glare unseeingly back at him when he pulled the covers aside.

  Then he puked. Right there at the goddamned crime scene, he emptied his gut of everything he’d stuffed into it that day. Vomit blew out his nostrils, and chunks of his supper spewed from his insides. He couldn’t stop.

  And they’d simply stood by and watched him.

  After cleaning himself as best he could with his handkerchief, it had been difficult to play the role of big bad sheriff.

  Bentley knew it. And took advantage of it.

  The noise came again, startling him from his reverie. This time instead of a scream, it sounded like a whimper.

  Roland moved to investigate the sound.

  He raced down the stairs, all concern for his own safety gone. He stopped when he reached the bottom step.

  “Help!”

  He ran through the front room and opened the door leading to the porch.

  It was her.

  She was bleeding, and her clothes clung to her like cellophane. Her short curls were plastered against her head. She leaned against the house moaning, unaware she’d been discovered.

  “Casey,” he whispered, not wanting to startle her.

  She rolled her head to the side, and he knew he’d scared her when her eyes widened and she tried to stand.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay, Casey.” He held his hand out to her.

  She took his offered hand and pulled herself into a standing position, using the back wall of the porch for assistance.

  The shutters slammed against the rotted wood. Torrential rains pounded the roof. He cast a quick glance upward, hoping the roof wouldn’t blow away. The stone path leading to the front door had long since flooded, and the water was rising rapidly. He wished now he hadn’t walked; he wished for his cruiser with its radio and heater.

  Getting Casey inside and examining her injuries became his top priority. Gently he lifted her in his arms and opened the screen, then shoved the door aside. He scanned the room. There wasn’t anyplace to put her. Before giving it a second thought he bolted up the stairs and entered the room that just seconds ago had caused him to shudder.

  Carefully he placed her on the stained mattress. She continued to moan and toss from side to side. He could tell by the glazed look in her eyes, that she had no idea what was happening.

  He used his already damp handkerchief and blotted her wet face as he searched for the source of the bleeding.

  On her right temple he saw a fresh wound about two inches long. Grabbing his flashlight from his hip pocket, he shined the light for a closer look.

  The cut looked deep. He’d have to get her to the hospital or at least over to Blake’s so he could stitch her up.

  Then he’d have to answer questions. Right now that was the last thing he needed or wanted.

  Casey thrashed about as if she were feverish. Hell, maybe she’d been ill, and he didn’t know it. And why in the damn hell had she come back there? More to the point, why in the damn hell had he come back there himself?

  He’d get answers as soon as she was coherent. He cleaned her wound as best as he could.

  “What . . . where am I?”

  Parker smoothed back Casey’s wet hair and continued to apply pressure to her cut.

  “It’s okay. You’re here with me. I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said, hoping that this time he really wouldn’t let anything happen to her.

  Casey sat up using the wall behind the mattress for support. He watched as she focused on the room and saw the questions in her eyes.

  “Sheriff?” her voice s
cratched.

  “Yes. You need to lie still, you’ve been hurt.” He looked away from her then, afraid she’d read more into his look than that of a concerned sheriff. And she’d be right.

  The glazed look left her, and in its place her emerald stare became more questioning and . . . frightening.

  “What happened to me? Why are you here?”

  “Looks like you were hit by something. A shutter must’ve come loose, catching you on the side of the head.”

  “Yes, the wind. But . . . No! I saw a shadow as I pulled the door aside. Then everything went black.” She sat Indian style on the bed. The bleeding had stopped, and she took a tissue from her pants pocket and swiped at her wound.

  “We need to get you to the hospital, or at least have Doc Hunter take a look at you. You’ve got a pretty nasty gash there.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said as she eased herself off the dingy mattress. She walked around the room, went inside the closet, came out and stood next to the curtainless window before speaking. Her words were solemn when they came. “This is it, isn’t it?”

  He didn’t have to ask what she referred to. “Yes, it is.”

  Casey stepped away from the window to stand at the foot of the bed.

  Roland saw she was staring at the stains on the bed and realized the stupidity in bringing her upstairs, in this room of all places.

  She looked up at him. “Sheriff, could I have a minute alone?”

  He didn’t think it was in her best interest to leave her in that room, but he’d already screwed up when he brought her up there. What could a couple minutes by herself hurt?

  “Sure.”

  He quietly left, praying he was doing the right thing. He couldn’t, wouldn’t let any more harm come to her.

  Chapter 19

  Casey looked around the room and tried to remember what it had been like living there, sleeping there, dreaming there, killing there. She couldn’t.

  She viewed her former room through the eyes of a stranger.

  The striped mattress was shoved against the wall. A nightstand covered with years of grime stood next to the bed.

  Casey looked down at her feet. Hardwood floors, maybe shiny and slick once, were covered with mouse droppings and layers of dirt. What might have passed for a throw tossed at the foot of the bed was nothing more than a thin strip of cloth. She picked up the tattered material and saw the faded pattern. Ducks and rabbits? A child’s blanket. Hers? She didn’t know.

  She put the blanket back and went to the closet. She hesitated.

  A flash of a child? No, it was a young girl. Pulling clothes from hangers. And she was angry. Angry enough to kill.

  As she stood in the entryway to the closet, Casey knew the girl she saw in her mind was herself. Not wanting to stop the flood of memories, she stepped inside the dark closet and closed her eyes.

  She crammed shirts and a pair of jeans into her book bag. She had to hurry.

  Today she’d free herself from this hellhole. After a trip to Atlanta, there’d be no evidence left. All traces of him gone. She paused and thought about her plan. Was it wrong? No! She would not question her actions. No one in their right mind would blame her for what she planned to do.

  Casey felt hot tears flow down her face. All the shame, fear, and rage she’d experienced as a young girl returned. Only this time, she knew why. And this time, she understood. She was retrieving the past, just as Dr. Macklin had predicted.

  Roland strained to hear. It was quiet. Not wanting to disturb her, yet needing to make sure she was all right, he climbed the rickety stairs.

  He saw her silhouette in front of the window. She seemed to be in deep thought. He quietly walked over to her and led her to the door.

  “Let’s get out of this place.”

  “All right.”

  Side by side they walked down the steps to the front room. Parker searched for a spot to sit, but the damn room was still covered in filth and garbage, and there was no place to sit down.

  He took his jacket and placed it on the bottom step.

  “I need to go. Flora will worry,” Casey said as she sat next to him.

  For a minute he thought she was still dazed from the blow to her head.

  “They think I’m napping,” she added.

  She was coherent!

  “Let’s wait till this storm lets up, then we can hoof it to my office. I’ll drive you back to Swan House.”

  “Hoof it?” Casey questioned with a slight smile.

  He laughed. “Just a country boy’s way of saying ‘walking.”’

  “A country boy? I wouldn’t have known.”

  He grinned. “Thanks. I guess.”

  “You don’t seem too happy being a ‘country boy,’ Sheriff. Why is that?” Casey asked.

  Could he tell her? It wasn’t the fact that he was from Ellajay—you didn’t get more country than that. It was because he’d compromised all he’d believed in. His momma thought she raised a man with backbone and integrity, when in reality he was nothing more than a big coward. If he’d been half the man his mother thought, he’d never have agreed with that son of a bitch. No, he couldn’t tell her those things. If he was lucky she’d never know. But, his luck bucket was about as empty as his life.

  “Sheriff?”

  “I don’t mind being a country boy. It’s just . . . local politics getting in the way, that’s all.”

  “Well, I guess that goes along with the job. But Sheriff . . .” She paused, and he knew what was coming next. “Why are you here?”

  “Like you, I’ve got some unclear memories of that day. I thought coming back would help.”

  “And has it?”

  “Yes and no.” He didn’t know what to say to her. How could he explain that he was the one responsible for fumbling the entire investigation? His screwup had sent her to Sanctuary for ten years.

  “I know what you mean.” She took on that faraway look again. “When I was upstairs, I remembered something, yet I’m positive I’m missing the main part. It’s like all these little hints are being tossed my way, courtesy of my subconscious, then my conscious self tries to piece them together, and all I’m coming up with are jagged bits of my life. Nothing that explains why I . . . killed Ronnie.”

  Roland knew the risk he took before asking his next question, but it had just occurred to him what seemed odd about the room, or the mattress to be more specific.

  “Casey, do you remember what side of the bed you slept on?”

  She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind.

  “I’m not sure. Do you think it will help if I have another look?” She stood and headed upstairs to her former room. “I’m coming with you.”

  “Of course.”

  Parker observed her as she looked at the lump of stuffing on the floor. He could see her trying to concentrate, to remember.

  She plopped down on the mattress sending bursts of dust particles into the damp air. She rolled from side to side before getting up.

  “I’m sorry, Sheriff, I don’t. But I do remember I was planning to leave that day. I’d never been so angry in my life. I wanted to kill . . .” She covered her mouth with a shaking hand.

  “Stop, Casey.” He went to her to place his arms around her slender shoulders. She trembled in his embrace. He inhaled. She smelled of rain and flowers. He took another deep breath before gently pulling away.

  “It’s over. You’ve served your time. Quit apologizing.”

  Her green eyes lit up the dull gray room. “Is it, Sheriff? Or is this just another pipe dream? I don’t think it’ll be over until I remember everything.”

  Parker noticed that the rain had slowed to a steady drizzle as he stared out the grimy window. “Then we have to work on getting it back.”

  “That should do it. It might throb after the anesthetic wears off. If it does, take these.” Blake gave her a small envelope filled with white pills.

  Casey put the packet on the end table. “I’m fine, you guys, really. I’m sur
e I’ll live.”

  “Sheriff, I’ll take her home. I appreciate you bringing her in.” Blake shook hands with Roland.

  “Anytime. Now, Casey,” the sheriff said before leaving Blake’s office, “if you feel the urge to investigate, please call me. I’ll pick you up.” He tipped his hat and left.

  “Sure thing,” she said to the closed door. She felt sorry for the sheriff and didn’t know why. He’d looked sad as he drove her to Blake’soffice.

  Blake gave her his terry robe to wear while her clothes were drying. “A question,” she called from the laundry room off the kitchen, “What’s with Sheriff Parker? Does he have a family or anything? He seems so . . . lost.”

  “He keeps to himself. Always has. As far as marriage goes, I don’t think he’s ever taken the plunge. Why?”

  She stepped out of the laundry room, warmed from the heat of her dried clothes.

  “Just a feeling, that’s all. I think he had another reason for visiting my former home. I don’t think he wanted to tell me.”

  “That’s his right, Casey. Especially if it’s police business.”

  “See, that’s it! I thought he might’ve been there because of . . . well, because of me and what happened. He even said as much.”

  Blake handed her the phone after he punched in the number. “Flora. She’ll be worried.”

  “Oh damn! I forgot. Story of my life.”

  “Julie, it’s me, Casey. I took a walk. No, really I’m fine. Tell Flora not to call the sheriff. I’m at Blake’s now. He’s giving me a lift home.” She raised a brow at the next question.

  “Dinner?”

  He gave her the thumbs-up sign.

  “Uh, yes, he’ll stay. Okay. And thanks, Julie.”

  Casey returned the phone to Blake. “Julie said to tell you Flora made your favorite. Pot roast.”

  “Then let’s go. We’ll talk on the way.”

  Robert paced the empty office. He’d arrived half an hour early to familiarize himself with the floor plan. All appeared to be in order. He wished his client would hurry. He had more important things to do.

  Like locating Dewitt. Dewitt had tricked him last night. Besides Norma, the one thing Robert liked least was to be fucked over. Why the slimy shit even bothered to set up a meeting confused him. Had that insane Edwards woman opened her trap, or was the good doctor playing with him? Most likely the latter, he thought as he crossed the wide expanse of the empty office suite. He stared out of the thirty-seventh-floor window. Peachtree was wall-to-wall traffic. Cars whipped in and out of lanes, and Robert wondered briefly what it would be like to step in front of one. Or shove someone under the wheels.

 

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