After Dark

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After Dark Page 9

by Beverly Barton


  He had always thought his aunt looked like an angel. Tall, slender and small-boned. Pale skin, strawberry blond hair and light brown eyes. Tonight she looked especially pale and thin. And the flowing white gown she wore added to the seraphic illusion.

  Will met her halfway in the middle of the huge room. Lifting her trembling hand, she placed her fingers on his cheek and stroked with the utmost gentleness. “They took you away from me and told me you were dead. But I knew it wasn’t true. You’re my own sweet baby, all grown up.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She continued caressing his face. “I’ve been sick. That’s why I couldn’t take care of you. That’s why you live with Lane, you know.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He was hearing the same old story. Whenever she was in one of her delusional states, Mary Martha thought he was her child. Why, he didn’t know. And if anyone else in the family knew, they had never explained it to him. Indeed, everyone had denied having a due as to why his aunt seemed haunted by the loss of a nonexistent child.

  She grabbed his hand and tugged in a gesture requesting he follow her. “They say that Kent is dead. But I don’t believe them. He would never go away and leave me. He promised me that he would never ever leave me.”

  How did he reply to that? What could he say that wasn’t an out-and-out lie and yet still not upset her? “Aren’t you tired, Aunt Mary Martha? Wouldn’t you like to lie down? I could stay and read to you until you fall asleep. You always liked for me to read to you.”

  “Kent used to read to me, when I was just a little girl.”

  Mary Martha led Will to the row of bookshelves across the back wall. At least a third of the books lay scattered on the floor. She stepped over some of the volumes and walked on others as she made her way to the shelves.

  “Read Hansel and Gretel to me.” She searched the row of books for the specific fairy tale. When she couldn’t find it immediately, she turned to Will. “It isn’t here. Kent hid it from me, didn’t he? He hides my book from me sometimes, until I…until I…” As if suddenly realizing that the floor was littered with reading material, Mary Martha fell to her knees and rummaged through the volumes. “I like it better when you read to me, Will.” She snatched up a thin hardback, its spine broken and pages loose. “Here it is. This is Kent’s favorite, too.”

  Will helped his aunt to her feet. The moment he placed his arm around her waist, he realized she had lost weight and was now even thinner than she had been a month ago. Lillie Mae would say that his aunt was nothing but skin and bones. He led Mary Martha to the bed. His gaze met Jackie Cummings’s inquisitive stare; then she glanced down at the unmade bed and nodded.

  “Give me a couple of minutes to put the sheets and blanket back on.” Jackie scurried about picking up the discarded bed linens.

  Mary Martha gave Jackie a disapproving glare, then shook her head sadly. “Mama says it’s getting more and more difficult to find good help these days,” she told Will in a hushed tone. “We mustn’t tell Mama that the bed was unmade. She’d be frightfully upset. Kent says we mustn’t bother Mama and Daddy. They’re both very busy. They don’t have time for us. He says we have to depend on each other. Kent loves me best. More than anyone else. And I love him best, too.”

  Jackie cleared her throat. Will saw that she had made the bed, except for adding the spread, which still lay on the floor in a rumpled heap.

  “Come along.” Will walked his aunt to her bed. She sat on the edge and smiled at him. “Go ahead,” he told her. “I’ll tuck you in.”

  “And then read to me.” The corners of her small, pale lips curved upward in a sad little smile.

  When she stretched out in the canopied twin bed, Will lifted the pink top sheet and matching blanket up to her waist. Leaning over, he kissed her forehead and then reached for the book she held in her hands. When he started across the room to bring the white wooden rocker closer to the bed, Mary Martha cried out to him.

  “Don’t leave me!”

  “I’m not leaving,” Will reassured her. “I was just—”

  Jackie quickly scooted the rocker into place in front of the nightstand.

  “Thank you,” Will said. “I think I can handle things here. Would you mind going downstairs and telling Grandmother that Aunt Mary Martha is doing much better.”

  “All right. But I won’t be long. Just in case you need me.”

  Will sat in the rocker, opened the tattered volume of Hansel and Gretel and began reading. As was their usual routine, he stopped occasionally so that she could look at the illustrations. By the time he had finished the story, his aunt was asleep, a look of angelic peace on her beautiful face.

  All his life he had wondered why his aunt was the way she was. Why did her mind so often wander off into a fantasy world? Why, when she wasn’t at herself, did she think he was her baby? No one in the family seemed to know. Lane had tried to explain to him, years ago, that some people are so delicate and sensitive that they can’t cope with reality.

  He laid the book on the nightstand, stood and turned to leave. His grandmother waited in the doorway, Jackie Cummings hovering behind her.

  “She’s asleep,” Will told them.

  “Thank you,” Edith said.

  When Will reached the threshold, both women stepped back enough to allow him to exit. Jackie hurried past them into the bedroom, made a big to-do over checking on Mary Martha, then picked up the spread off the floor, folded it neatly and laid it across the foot of the bed.

  Standing in the hallway with Edith, Will questioned her. “What happened tonight to make Aunt Mary Martha tear her room apart?”

  A pained expression crossed Edith’s face. “I’m afraid it was my fault.”

  “How was it your fault?”

  “Buddy Lawler had paid us a visit tonight. You know how devoted he is to Mary Martha. Well, after he left, I stayed with her awhile. I’ve been so worried about her ever since Kent’s funeral. I made the mistake of mentioning Kent. The poor child adored her brother so, and she’s been distraught ever since…ever since he was murdered.”

  “My mother didn’t kill Kent,” Will said. “If Aunt Mary Martha were at herself, she’d be on Mama’s side in all this. You know she would.”

  “Don’t upset yourself, Will. No one in this family is blaming Lane for Kent’s murder. It’s just that all the evidence…well, things don’t look good for her. She is the prime suspect and—”

  “You could tell Buddy Lawler not to arrest Mama. You could tell him to find the real murderer. Buddy would listen to you.”

  “Yes, of course. And that’s exactly what he’s going to do. Find Kent’s murderer,” Edith said. “But Will”—when she reached out to touch him, he sidestepped her—“you must prepare yourself for the worst. If Lane is arrested, you know that you have a home here with James and me…and Mary Martha.”

  “If you let them arrest Mama, I’ll never forgive you. I wouldn’t come here to live with you. I don’t know why you’d want me. You’re not even my real grandmother.”

  “If you didn’t come here, dear, where would you go? Who would take care of you?”

  “I’d stay with Lillie Mae. She is my real grandmother, you know.” When Edith pursed her lips and frowned, her expression one of intense disapproval, Will grinned. “Or maybe I’d live with my father. My real father. You know, Johnny Mack Cahill.”

  Johnny Mack’s gut instincts warned him, even before he opened the door to his motel room, that something wasn’t right. Past experience told him that danger lurked just around the corner. Or in this case, just beyond the closed door.

  He inserted the key. The lock clicked. His hand covered the knob and turned it until the door swung halfway open. The interior lay in total darkness. He knew he had left a lamp burning. Hesitating in the doorway, he considered his options.

  “Come on in and close the door behind you,” a male voice said.

  Johnny Mack would have recognized that voice anywhere, anytime. For years after he had left Noble�
��s Crossing, he’d heard that voice inside his head. Taunting him. Laughing at him. Damning him.

  “I could have you arrested for breaking and entering, Chief,” Johnny Mack said, as he flipped the wall switch to illuminate the room and reveal the identity of his uninvited guest.

  “God Almighty, it is you, isn’t it!” Dressed in his official police uniform, Buddy Lawler stood on the far side of the room. His hand hovered over his gun belt. Sweat dotted his forehead and moistened his upper lip.

  “Yep, I’m Johnny Mack Cahill, in the flesh.” He spread his arms wide in a take-a-good-look gesture. “I’m back from the dead and looking damn good for a corpse, don’t you think?”

  Chapter 9

  He had often wondered what he would say and what he would do if he ever saw Buddy Lawler again. That cocky little bantam rooster had always been a thorn in his side, an irritating echo of Kent Graham’s hostility. On his own, Lawler never would have made a move. But with Kent’s backing and the aid of half a dozen friends, Buddy had beaten the hell out of him and dumped him into the Chickasaw River, leaving him for dead. For all intents and purposes, the police chief of Noble’s Crossing was a murderer. Or if you wanted to be completely accurate, just a would-be murderer.

  “How the hell did you…” With nervous fingers, Buddy unsnapped the flap on his holster and rubbed his thumb across the butt of his Magnum.

  “What are you planning to do, shoot me?” Johnny Mack grinned. He was about as afraid of Buddy as he would be of a piss ant. Funny thing how a man who had once nearly killed him could now seem so insignificant and oddly pathetic.

  “I would have bet my life that you were dead, Cahill. I even told Miss Edith that I was sure of it.”

  “And what did she say?” Johnny Mack held up a restraining hand. “No, don’t tell. Let me guess. She wasn’t as sure as you were that I was dead. What did Miss Edith do, put out a death warrant on me the way Kent did fifteen years ago?”

  “Miss Edith doesn’t want you here, that’s for sure.” Buddy’s voice quivered ever so slightly. “I came here to see for myself if it was really you.”

  “It’s really me.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re not wanted in Noble’s Crossing any more now than you were fifteen years ago.” Buddy surveyed Johnny Mack from head to toe, his gaze searching, as if looking for any sign of a weapon. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave town. Tonight.”

  “Ah, but that’s the problem. I never did know what was good for me, did I?”

  “You don’t want to wind up the way you did back then, do you? Only this time, we’d finish the job.” Buddy stuck out his chest and tilted up his chin with false bravado.

  “Are you threatening me?” Johnny Mack’s smile widened.

  “Just giving you a friendly warning.” Buddy rubbed his sweating palms up and down on either side of his hips, one hand never far from his holster.

  Oh, how he loved watching Buddy sweat. Large circles of moisture spread out under his arms and stained his immaculate tan shirt. A crimson flush tinted his cheeks. Perspiration dampened his entire face and trickled down his neck and beneath his collar. Johnny Mack smelled fear. It was a scent he recognized easily. Men who knew they were going to lose—and lose big—always had that odor about them. In his business dealings over the past ten years, he had put that kind of fear into many a man. And now, his presence—his very existence—had scared the shit out of Buddy Lawler.

  “I’m not leaving,” Johnny Mack said.

  The throbbing pulse in Buddy’s neck protruded. “I’m going to be honest with you, boy. If you haven’t hightailed it out of here by tomorrow morning, I’m going to find some excuse to put your sorry ass in jail. And I can arrange for an accident to happen while you’re incarcerated. Do I make myself clear?” Keeping one hand near his pistol, he balled the other into a tight fist.

  Nobody had called Johnny Mack boy in that condescending tone since he’d left Noble’s Crossing. The use of the word as an insult brought back unpleasant memories. He had been the boy from the wrong side of the tracks. The bad boy who couldn’t be trusted. The white trash boy who did yard work for the rich and wasn’t good enough to speak to their womenfolk. The boy who wouldn’t bow and scrape and be grateful for the crumbs his betters had tossed him.

  When Buddy moved cautiously toward the door, Johnny Mack blocked his path. The scent of fear intensified. His expression one of sheer terror, Buddy, who wasn’t more than five-feet-nine, looked up at Johnny Mack, who stood a good seven inches taller.

  When Johnny Mack slapped his big hand down on Buddy’s shoulder, Buddy shuddered and swallowed hard. Their gazes met and locked. Fear collided head-on with fearlessness.

  “Let me make myself perfectly clear to you,” Johnny Mack said. “Nobody’s running me out of Noble’s Crossing. I’ll stay as long as I want to stay. I’m not the white trash poor boy I used to be. Y’all will find it a lot harder to get rid of me now.”

  “You’re making a big mistake going up against Miss Edith.”

  “She’s the one who’ll be making a mistake, if she goes up against me. I want you to give her a message. Tell her that trouble’s back in town and there’s a bad moon rising, so she’d better watch out.”

  The back door opened and closed. Lane rose from the chair in the den where she had been sitting waiting for her son to return home. She caught him just as he reached the staircase. The moment he saw her, he stopped dead in his tracks.

  “How’s Mary Martha?” Lane asked.

  “She’s sleeping now. I read her a bedtime story.”

  “What was wrong? Why did your grandmother…why did Miss Edith think you were needed?”

  “Did you know that Aunt Mary Martha hadn’t spoken a word since the day after Kent’s funeral?”

  “No, I had no idea. There hasn’t been any communication between Miss Edith and me since the funeral.”

  “Aunt Mary Martha needs help, Mama. She needs it bad. She’d ransacked her room before I got there, and Grandmother wouldn’t let Jackie give her another sedative.” Will shrugged. “All I could do was calm her down. Temporarily. She thinks Kent is still alive. And she was doing that thing again. You know, when she calls me her baby and says crazy things about her being my mother. She isn’t…I mean, there’s no way she could be my mother, is there?” He gazed at Lane, his dark eyes filled with questions and accusations.

  Will sighed loudly, then dropped down to sit on the third step from the bottom. When he looked up at Lane, she thought her heart would break. His expression said it all. Her son was lost and confused and hurting. And she wasn’t sure there was anything she could do to help him.

  Lane sat beside him and placed her arm around his slumped shoulders. “Mary Martha isn’t your birth mother. I realize you have no reason to believe me since I’ve lied to you your whole life, but I’m telling you the truth now. Johnny Mack Cahill is your biological father and Sharon Hickman was your biological mother. DNA tests would prove those facts. I explained all of this to you after Kent…after Kent found out the truth.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Will speared his fingers together, locking them crossways and rubbing the heels of his palms with his thumbs. “You let me read the letter Sharon wrote Kent. It’s just that Aunt Mary Martha—”

  “Mary Martha has severe mental problems. She’s been unbalanced all her life, even as a young girl. And she has been fixated on you ever since the first time Kent placed you in her arms. I can’t explain it. I’m not sure anyone can.”

  Will stared down at his feet, his clasped hands dangling between his spread knees. “You know, I’m glad that Kent wasn’t my father. He was a terrible man. A drunk. A real loser. And he treated you like…” Will lifted his head and looked at Lane. “I wish you were my birth mother. I don’t give a damn who my real father is, but I wish…”

  Lane tightened her hold about his shoulders, then leaned her head against his and placed her hand on his knee. “I know, my darling, I wish I were your birth mother, too,
but you couldn’t be more mine if I had given birth to you.”

  “Mama.” He turned and went into her arms, then laid his head on her shoulder and wrapped his arms around her. Lane wasn’t sure whether she was comforting Will or he was comforting her. Perhaps both. Each wishing for the impossible.

  “Everything will be all right.” Lane caressed his head as if he were a toddler, her fingers stroking the soft silkiness of his black hair.

  “Why did you marry Kent and adopt me?” Will lifted his head enough to make direct eye contact with Lane. “You never loved Kent and you knew I wasn’t really his baby, so…. Sharon Hickman wrote in the letter she sent Kent that you wanted me because I was Johnny Mack Cahill’s son. Is that true? Is that the reason you wanted me?”

  Lane took Will’s hands into hers and stared deeply into his eyes, praying that she would choose the right words. “Yes, that’s the reason I wanted Sharon’s baby. I was nineteen at the time and had fancied myself madly in love with Johnny Mack since I was fourteen. We were never lovers. Only friends. His choice, not mine. But I was so in love with him that I would have done anything to save his baby.”

  “I can’t believe someone like you could have loved a man like Johnny Mack Cahill.” Will pulled his hands from her grasp. “Kent told me what kind of man Johnny Mack was. He was nothing but white trash. A high school dropout who made a living doing yard work and got his kicks by screwing every woman in town.”

  “John William Graham!”

  “I want to know the truth about my real father. My mother was trash and so was my father, wasn’t he? Kent didn’t lie about that, did he?”

  “No, Kent wasn’t lying. But his rendition of the truth was slightly prejudiced. Kent had despised Johnny Mack since they were kids, and the two were always competing. You see, honey, the reason you look a little bit like Kent is because he and Johnny Mack were half brothers. Your grandfather Graham was a womanizer and—”

 

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