To say Jack had a complicated relationship with his stepmother was to say Gettysburg was a “disagreement.” A psychiatrist might have said that Jack had been angry over the death of his birth mother, but he was too young to even know her before she died. The truth was that Agnes, at least when Jack had needed a mother most, was not a very good one. The darker truth was that she was a terrible alcoholic.
A doctor had once told Jack that, because of the way the brain is wired, nothing triggered memories like the sense of smell. For Jack, it was the smell of gin that triggered his worst childhood memories. It was hard to recall a moment when Agnes didn’t reek of a spilled martini. The memory that had haunted him most was of the day he was looking for a hammer and nails to build a tree house in the yard. He’d gone into the garage to search his father’s toolbox. In it, he found a crucifix, which seemed like a very unholy place to keep a religious artifact. He showed it to Agnes, and she went berserk. Not until Jack was older did he learn that it was the crucifix that had lain atop his mother’s coffin, and that the toolbox in the garage was the only place Harry could hide it to keep his new wife from throwing it in the garbage or giving it away to the nearest Catholic church. It was the kind of crazy and spiteful thing she would do in her fits of jealousy, which were really about insecurity. In more than one of her drunk and tearful tirades, Jack had overheard Agnes shout that the real love of Harry Swyteck’s life was dead and buried.
So it had caught Jack off guard when, after the adjournment of Charlotte’s hearing, Harry had called to say, “Agnes would like to see you.” His father didn’t add any details. Jack hadn’t asked for any. It was the Swyteck way of doing things: matters that a family should probably discuss and sort through were left to implication and inference. Jack simply got in the car and went, the assumption being that his stepmother hadn’t asked to see him because she was feeling better.
“You can come back now, son.”
His father was standing in the hallway outside the master bedroom. Jack rose and went to him. He was trying to keep his mind focused on how much better their relationship had gotten after the drinking had stopped. The fear was that Agnes would want to talk about the “bad old days,” which Jack had simply left behind, never to speak of again, in keeping with Swyteck tradition.
“I’ll be out here,” his father said.
“You’re not coming in?”
“No.”
Jack drew a breath and entered the bedroom. The glow from the lamp was warm and soothing. The gentle sound of ocean waves kissing the beach were in the background, but it wasn’t real. It was the purr of the relaxation machine on the nightstand.
“Come in, Jack.”
He already was in, but he knew what she meant. Jack stepped closer to the bedside.
Agnes had aged ten years since summer. She wasn’t a young woman, but seeing her like this was nonetheless out of step with the natural order of life. To the extent anyone could be prepared, Jack had been getting ready for a meeting like this with his abuela, not his stepmother.
“There’s something I want to tell you,” she said.
It was an oddly distant voice, made to feel even farther away with her head so deep in the pillow, her eyes sunk in their orbits.
“Okay,” said Jack, and he could hear his own trepidation.
“Have you—”
She coughed once, and then again. The third cough was so deep that Jack almost ran to get his father.
“It’s okay,” she said. She paused to collect her strength. Her breathing returned to normal, and then she picked up where she’d left off. “Have you ever wondered,” she asked slowly, looking up at Jack. She took another moment, then found the strength to finish the question: “Why you never had any brothers or sisters?”
Her words took Jack by surprise. It was true that Harry never had any children by his second wife, but Jack had never thought it was any of his business.
“Uhm” was all he could get out.
Agnes managed a tight smile. “Not the question you were expecting, I take it?”
“No. It wasn’t.”
“Have you? Wondered?”
“I—I probably have.”
“Would you like to know?”
Jack hesitated. He honestly didn’t have the answer. “If you would like to tell me,” he said.
She smiled again, a little more noticeably. “Another Swyteck politician. God help us.”
Agnes tried to sit up. Jack reached over to help her, but she started to cough again—deep, racking coughs so powerful that Jack feared she might break a rib.
“I’ll get my dad,” he said, but Harry was already on his way.
Jack’s father crossed the room and hurried around to the other side of the bed, more responsive than Jack could ever imagine his father being. Agnes was in an uncontrollable coughing fit, emptying her lungs of fluids that would have disgusted even an experienced hospice nurse. Harry was unfazed by it. He just wiped away the globs of goo hanging from his hands, gently cleaned her mouth with a tissue, and then held her in his arms until she stopped trembling and felt safe.
Jack just watched. The way his father cared for Agnes, doing everything a human being could possibly do to calm and comfort her, and doing it as tenderly as a human being could do it, struck Jack as one of the kindest acts he’d ever witnessed. Harry Swyteck loved her. He loved this woman who was not Jack’s mother, and he loved her with all his heart.
Agnes was the love of his life.
“Dad?”
Harry was whispering to his wife. He didn’t seem to hear Jack.
“I’ll wait outside,” Jack said, and then he quietly left the room.
Chapter 30
Charlotte left her hotel room at 9:00 o’clock.
She’d thought about calling Jack to tell him about the text messages, but he would have insisted that she call the police, which would have been a mistake. The man who’d dared her to meet him at Clyde’s at 10:00 p.m. was no stalker or political terrorist—at least not the last time she’d seen him. She took a screenshot of the text messages, just in case things had changed—in case he had changed. And she brought her Glock.
Charlotte exited the hotel through the restaurant to avoid any reporters who might be hanging around the hotel lobby. The night was cool enough for a light jacket, which afforded a more comfortable concealed-carry option. Charlotte’s “Baby Glock” was holstered outside her waistband, which, without the cover of her jacket, would have been an illegal open carry. She was almost certain she wouldn’t need it, but she was prepared.
Actually, Charlotte had been prepared all her life. Her father had made sure of it. Of the five Holmes girls, Charlotte had been closest to him, but even Charlotte had to admit that Dad was a bit over the top when it came to self-defense. Every Monday night, right after dinner, Mr. Holmes would take his girls to the garage for a dry-fire drill. He’d balance a penny atop the slide of an unloaded pistol, right behind the front sight. Any girl who could hold her aim at the wall for a count of five and squeeze the trigger without moving the penny didn’t have to help her sisters clear the dinner table the rest of the week. Any girl who took his word for it that the gun wasn’t loaded and didn’t check for herself was an automatic loser. Charlotte made it all the way through high school without once clearing the table. Another reason for Megan to hate her.
The Uber driver met her a block away from the hotel, and Charlotte climbed into the back seat.
“There’s bottled water if you want it,” the driver said.
“No, thanks.”
“Gum and mints, too.”
“I’m good.”
“If you need a phone charger, just ask.”
Obviously a new driver fishing for five-star reviews. In a month, he’d be texting while driving, and his car would smell like a taco stand at 2:00 a.m.
Charlotte gazed out the window as they headed toward Clyde & Costello’s, an eighteen-plus club that was popular with college students who were under twenty
-one and without a fake ID. Charlotte had first visited Clyde’s while still in high school, on one of her trips to FSU. It was the chosen destination—Clyde’s—that had convinced Charlotte she was going to meet an old friend—one who had for some reason chosen to torment her with texts that weren’t the least bit funny. And she was going to find out what the hell he was up to.
“You into younger men?” asked the driver.
There went his five-star rating. “What? No, I—”
“I didn’t mean anything by it. Just, if you are, there are some other bars I could—”
“No. Thank you. I’m here to—oh, forget it.”
Charlotte got out of the car, and the driver pulled away, leaving her on the brick sidewalk outside the club.
The bar scene in Tallahassee was notoriously slow on Monday nights. Clyde & Costello’s was the exception. The line to get in extended halfway down Adams Street, way beyond the green awning that ran the length of the old redbrick building. It was a queue of freshmen, or so it appeared to Charlotte; then again, since her thirtieth birthday, just about anyone under twenty-five looked like a college freshman. The Monday-night attraction, according to the poster in the window, was a rising star named Pressure, whose billing credits included “Winner of Best DJ Award” at the annual Bartenders Ball. Charlotte had never heard of him, but the Florida “electrocore” genre had been popular enough in her college days for Charlotte to recognize some of the festivals on Pressure’s résumé, like EDC Orlando. It was more than music, however, that made Clyde’s the go-to club on what, for most bars, was the deadest night of the week. It was also MMM.
Mandatory Make-Out Mondays.
It was exactly what it sounded like. Usually a young woman cut a glance at the cutie on the other side of the club, and the search for true love’s kiss went from there. On a dare, Charlotte had kissed one of the servers—a woman. Later that same night, in a terrible lapse of judgment that came with underage drinking, she’d told her older sister Megan that she might do it again.
“I don’t need to see your ID,” the bouncer told her.
Between him and the Uber driver, this was getting annoying.
“I’m not going in,” said Charlotte. The text message had told her to meet “out front.” She stepped back from the club entrance and stood near the curb.
The line grew longer as the minutes passed. It was almost too chilly to sit outside, but the empty tables on the sidewalk were not weather related; MMM was more of an indoor sport. Charlotte pulled up a chair at one of the open tables and waited. She was about to check the time on her cell when she spotted a man on the other side of the street. A man who didn’t look at all like the freshmen in the line outside Clyde’s. He stopped. The glow of the streetlamp was enough for Charlotte to get a good look. He wasn’t wearing a camouflage jacket, or the baseball cap that made it hard to see his face. It was exactly the man she’d expected.
Alberto Perez was smiling as he crossed the street and joined her at the table.
“You came,” he said, grinning even wider.
“Yes, I came. What the hell is wrong with you, Alberto?”
Alberto was the friend who’d dared her to kiss a girl on Mandatory Make-Out Monday.
“Nothing’s wrong with me,” he said, confused.
“Why did you scare the crap out of me like this? I thought it was a psycho sending me death threats.”
“Huh?”
“‘A promise is a promise.’ The text you spoofed to make it look like it came from my new friend Theo’s number—what was that about?”
“Who’s Theo? I didn’t send anything like that.”
Charlotte felt a chill, and it wasn’t the night air. “You didn’t?”
“No. The only messages from me said ‘meet at Clyde’s’ and ‘I dare you.’ I read about Megan’s testimony that you don’t like men. I was the idiot who started that war between you and your sister by daring you to kiss a girl at Clyde’s. I’m sorry if I scared you. I guess I could have put my name on the texts, but I was sure you’d know it was me. Clyde’s? ‘I dare you’? Who else would it be?”
“No one else,” said Charlotte. “That’s why I came.”
“And I’m glad you came,” said Alberto. “It’s good to see you. It’s been—I guess since college.”
“Yeah. Sorry I’m so bad about keeping in touch.”
“It works both ways,” said Alberto. “I didn’t even know you were a lobbyist until I saw your name in the news about the Electoral College. I’m a doctor, by the way.”
“Wow, Alberto. Good for you.”
“Yeah. Kind of ironic, isn’t it? The guy who was everyone’s biggest pain in the ass in college goes into pain management.”
She laughed.
“The gun angle makes sense for you,” Alberto said. “You must have been some kind of lobbyist to be Madeline Chisel’s protégée.”
“She trained me well.”
“But no more guns?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t say no more guns. Just no more gun lobbying.”
“What’s your new lobby agenda?”
“We’ll see. I’m sitting out until after the Electoral College meets.”
“Health care’s big. I may have something for you.” Alberto laid a flash drive on the table between them. “Take a look.”
“What’s that?”
“Your future.”
Charlotte was suddenly uncomfortable. “I’m in the middle of a court hearing. This is no time to be sending me cryptic text messages and sliding flash drives across the table.”
He nudged it closer to Charlotte. “Just take it.”
She pushed it back. Alberto was always a bit of a schemer, and she honestly had no idea what he’d been up to since college. “Talk to me after the Electoral College meets.”
He pushed it right back. “It’s important that you see it now.”
Charlotte didn’t like his tone. “I don’t want it now.”
His voice took on a serious edge. Even a little scary. “Take it, Charlotte.”
“Alberto, no. I said I don’t want it.”
A man approached their table. He was middle-aged and carrying the proverbial rubber tire around his waist, not at all like the younger crowd in line to enter Clyde’s. “Hey, is this guy hassling you, lady?”
His voice was deep, which matched his frame. He was big, in the Paul Bunyan sense of the word, not particularly muscular but imposing nonetheless.
“Mind your own business,” said Alberto.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” he said sharply. Then to Charlotte: “Is this man hassling you, ma’am?”
“It’s okay,” said Charlotte. “I can handle myself. But thank you.”
The sound of her voice seemed to trigger a spark of recognition. “Hey, aren’t you that elector lady in the news?”
It was exactly what she didn’t want to hear. “You must have me confused with someone else.”
“Yeah, it is you. Hey, I change my mind,” he said to Perez. “You fuck with her all you want, pal.”
“Go fuck yourself, pal,” said Alberto.
The man started away, mocking Perez’s accent in a cartoonish “Speedy Gonzalez” voice. “‘Go foke yo-safe, señor.’ Wetback.”
It was all the provocation Alberto needed. He sprang from his chair and went after him.
The man turned on a dime, as if expecting Alberto’s reaction. “Got fire in my pocket! Back off!”
Alberto didn’t listen. He only charged harder.
The man reached into his pocket.
Charlotte pulled her Glock from her holster. “No!” she shouted, and in the same breath, she squeezed the trigger.
The man dropped to the sidewalk, and the crack of gunshot was like a starter’s pistol, scattering the crowd in mass panic. Dozens of screaming college students broke ranks from the long line in front of Clyde’s, running for their lives down Adams Street. The stampede sent tables and chairs flying, and the table slammed into Charlotte’s
knee, knocking her to the ground.
“Holy shit!” shouted Alberto.
Charlotte lowered her gun. The man hadn’t moved.
“Oh—my—God,” she said, her fractured voice quaking, her words barely audible in the hysteria all around her.
Chapter 31
Jack and Theo were just outside Tallahassee, headed back from the Gulf, when the call came from Charlotte.
“I’m in the back seat of a police car,” she said.
Jack sat up in the passenger seat. “Stop talking and listen to me.”
“I shot a man.”
“I said stop talking.”
“He’s dead.”
“Charlotte, stop right now.”
Of course Jack had a slew of questions—who, why, how?—none of which any competent lawyer would want his client to answer on her cell from the back seat of a squad car. He stuck to the essentials.
“Are you hurt?”
“No. Well, my knee got banged up in the stampede. But I’m okay.”
“Good. Listen to me carefully. Do not answer any questions from anyone.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t turn over your cell phone if they ask for it.”
“I already did. They gave it back.”
Damn. “That’s okay,” Jack said, even if it wasn’t. More than likely, every bit of data on her cell and cloud—photographs, text messages, contacts, call history—had already been downloaded under a broad interpretation of “consent.”
“If they ask to see it again, or if they ask you anything at all, tell them you want to speak to your lawyer first.”
“Okay.”
“Now, tell me exactly where you are.”
She did. “I’m on my way,” Jack said. “Other than ‘I want my lawyer,’ don’t say another word to anyone until I get there. Understood?”
“Yes,” she said, and the call ended.
Jack had his second conversation of the night with Theo about the “speed of light,” which cut the remaining travel time in half. Theo parked as close to Clyde’s as possible and stayed with the car. Jack walked the rest of the way and stopped at the yellow police tape that closed off the street. A pair of perimeter-control officers stood on the business side of the tape. Portable transformers and crime-scene lights brightened the street in front of Clyde’s. Outdoor tables and chairs were scattered about like lawn furniture after a windstorm, making it easy for Jack to envision the panic unleashed by the shooting. Farther down was the blue swirl of police beacons, and Jack assumed that his client was waiting inside one of the squad cars. Jack told the perimeter officers who he was. One of them radioed the detective in charge of the crime scene.
The Big Lie Page 17