by Rita Herron
Then they’d smoked another joint, Trash had taken the butcher knife, slipped into her room by her big four-poster bed with the fancy white satin comforter, and driven the point into her heart. Tommy smothered her scream with the pillow, while Trash twisted the knife deeper and deeper. Blood spurted and spewed, running like a red river down her white gown and soaking the sheets until they turned a crimson color.
“That serves her right for trying to ruin my life,” Trash said as they dragged her lifeless body onto the Oriental rug, rolled her in it, then carried it to Trash’s new pickup truck.
“Free at last, free at last,” Tommy sang, reliving the euphoria he’d felt when he’d finally rid himself of his own old hag.
They tossed the body in the back, climbed in the truck and drove toward the woods.
“I’ve got an idea,” Trash said, wired. “Why don’t we leave her on that crazy old Lady Bella Rue’s doorstep?”
Tommy laughed. “Good idea. The old witch will freak out when she wakes up and finds a dead body waiting for her.”
“Then we have to go back and clean up the blood,” Trash said.
“Bleach will do the trick.” Tommy’s chest puffed up with confidence. He’d read all about destroying evidence on the Internet. But they’d party first, clean up later.
The truck bounced over the ruts in the road, fresh rain falling and soaking Trash’s mother’s body in the back. Tommy squinted through the fog as Trash slammed over a stick in the road. A stray animal darted out in front of them, and Trash swerved. Tommy yelled and gripped the dashboard. Trash’s mother’s body in back bounced, flying across the truck bed and slamming against the side.
“Whoopee!” Trash yelled, barely missing a row of trees as he rounded the curve. “Mama’s going for her last ride.” He screeched to a stop when they reached the overhang where they parked to hike into the woods by the river, and they both climbed out, laughing.
“Shit, she’s heavy,” Trash said as they dragged the body from the back of the truck.
“Yeah, but she’s one weight off your neck now.” Tommy grabbed her feet while Trash braced her head and torso in his arms, then they stomped through the muddy woods toward Lady Bella Rue’s.
Tommy wished he’d brought his camera so they could take a picture of the witch’s face when she found her present in the morning. Then again, by then, they’d be sleeping like babies.
MATT’S STOMACH HAD cramped into a permanent knot. This couldn’t be happening—not again. To be arrested by his former best friend only carved the knife deeper into the open wounds he’d lived with all these years. A.J. didn’t really believe he’d killed his father, did he?
And who had?
All these years Matt had thought his dad had simply run off and deserted his family. Although the truth be told, he’d been relieved when his father hadn’t come home. It had meant no more beatings for his mother. No more abuse for him or his brothers. Hope had even seeped through that he and his brothers might have a chance at life.
But that had fallen apart for Matt a few years later. And after he’d been imprisoned, his brothers had had their own troubles. He wondered where they were now.
Still, he couldn’t pretend he regretted that his old man was dead.
“Matt, have a seat.” A.J. gestured toward the battered wooden chair by his desk, and Matt settled into it, reminding himself to be grateful A.J. hadn’t handcuffed him. Although Matt already felt the weight of metal cutting into his wrists, his ankles, felt the hard thin mattress in the cell, saw the endless nights of nothingness stretching ahead. Sweat exploded on his forehead and trickled down his neck.
Dammit, he wouldn’t lose control in front of A.J.
“We both know you hated your old man,” the sheriff began.
Matt shrugged. “I don’t remember you being all that close with yours.”
A.J. flinched slightly, then chewed his lip. “Look, Matt, I don’t want to do this any more than you do, so why don’t you explain what happened and let’s get it over with?”
“How can I tell you something I don’t know?” Matt glared at him. “You don’t really believe I killed my father, A.J. I was eleven years old when he left. You and I were shooting the bull, learning to play pool, cutting school. I wasn’t out killing people.”
“You’d already taken a bat to him a couple of times.”
“To defend my goddamn mother.”
A.J. leaned forward, fists on his knees. “I didn’t say I blamed you. Hell, maybe this time you can plead self-defense, get a suspended sentence.”
Another court case. More jail. Locked in a box. His record tainted again. The air froze in his windpipe. He’d die first.
“How was my father killed?” Matt finally asked, curious.
A.J. closed his eyes briefly as if he was grappling for control, then opened them, his gaze steady and level. “You tell me.”
“I don’t know,” Matt said between gritted teeth. “I’m sure the medical examiner informed you of the cause of death.”
The telephone rang, slicing into the moment, and A.J. picked it up. “Sheriff Boles here.” A hesitation. “Listen, Lady Bella Rue, if this is another—” He paused, then dropped his head into his hands. “Shit. I’ll be right there.”
Matt held his breath while he waited, praying the call didn’t have anything to do with Ivy. Surely she wouldn’t have ventured out to that old woman’s house.
“I need to go.”
A.J. stood, then gestured for Matt to do the same. “I have to hold you. We’ll finish this later.”
Matt breathed through clenched teeth. “You don’t have to do anything, A.J. You were my friend. And you know that if you release me, I’ll stick around.”
A.J. hesitated, but shook his head. “I’m the sheriff now, sworn to uphold the law, and I have another murder on my hands to deal with.” He gestured toward the back door and Matt’s stomach heaved. He knew what was behind that door. Bars. A cell. Prison all over again.
He contemplated running.
Only pride locked his legs in place. And the fact that hiding out years ago had cemented the seal on his conviction.
“Go on inside, Matt. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Matt held his head high and walked toward the cell, the familiar clank of the metal door slamming shut ringing in his ears.
IVY QUICKLY DIALED Abram Willis’s number and left a message explaining Matt’s situation. Hopefully, he could keep Matt from spending any more time in jail.
She hung up and twisted her hands together, feeling only marginally better. What should she do now? The sun was barely rising in the sky, but there was no way on earth she could sleep. Not until she did something more to help Matt. The injustice of him sitting behind bars turned her stomach. How would he handle being locked up again after finally tasting freedom?
Furious at the circumstances, she started at the sound of a car motor outside, then jumped up and peered out the window. Another squad car. So Sheriff Boles had sent his deputy out to check on her as he’d said. Small consolation for carting Matt off to jail.
Rage heated her bloodstream again. She felt so helpless. She had to do something.
The sheriff had said he’d stopped by Mrs. Mahoney’s house to tell her about her husband before coming to question Matt. Surely she knew her son was innocent. His mother had to stand up for him this time. Just as Ivy did.
And she had to find a way to remember the truth about what had happened that night her parents had died. Only finding the real killer could end this horror.
Fueled by her emotions for Matt, she tugged on boots and her jacket, grabbed her keys and headed out the door. The deputy had circled the cabin and was already leaving. She ran to her Jetta, then drove toward the trailer park, hoping she would recognize Matt’s mother’s trailer.
Mud and leaves spewed on the black asphalt as she rounded the curvy road, and fresh rain drizzled onto the windshield. A sliver of sun fought to break through the clouds, but failed and d
isappeared quickly. Just as her fleeting peace with Matt had when A.J. had hauled him away.
She wanted more moments in bed with Matt, evenings where they lay enveloped in nothing but the warmth of each other’s bodies. Where nothing could touch them except their feelings for one another. Where she could finally feel his body pulsing inside her.
She would no longer run from life or her past, or the fear that someone would rob her of happiness. Without Matt, nothing else mattered.
The trailer park looked old and even more dismal in the thick gray light. Too early for children to play outside, the silence of morning seemed ominous and dreary, reminiscent of the lifestyles of the people who lived in the rusted trailers.
Ivy vowed that she and Matt would end the vicious cycle that had kept oppressed women and men trapped in the town, tied to poverty and abuse, without hope for a brighter future.
Surprisingly, she found Matt’s homestead quickly. The years fell away, as if it had been only yesterday when she’d seen Matt outside, tinkering with that old junker. He hadn’t asked for much in life, had been willing to accept the scraps from the junkyard and build a ride for himself with the brittle leftovers of the junkers people had discarded.
He deserved more than leftovers.
She stopped, slipped the car into Park and let her mind carry her back in time. She saw him as a young boy, angry but with the promise of life ahead of him. She had to convince his mother that the boy still lived inside Matt, and that he deserved the life he’d been robbed of because of Ivy’s memory loss.
Inhaling to control her emotions, she climbed out and picked her way through the overgrown, rocky path, then mounted the steps. Praying the woman didn’t slam the door in her face, Ivy knocked softly at first, then more forcefully. Footsteps clattered inside, and finally a small, gray-haired woman peered through the opening, clutching the robe around her.
“Mrs. Mahoney, please, I need to talk to you.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Ivy Stanton.”
“Stanton?” the woman screeched. “I heard you were back in town. What do you want with me, girl?”
“I need to talk to you about Matt. Please open up, it’s important.”
“I lost my son a long time ago,” she said, her voice breaking. “Now go away and leave me alone.”
“But you shouldn’t have lost Matt, Mrs. Mahoney, and if you don’t talk to me now, you might lose him again.” Ivy waited, whispering a silent prayer and finally the door screeched open.
She could see the wariness and anguish in the woman’s tight expression. Matt’s mother looked so frail and beaten by life. She had suffered greatly because of Ivy, just as Matt had.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Mahoney, for all the pain I’ve caused your family,” Ivy murmured, assaulted by guilt.
The woman’s eyes widened in shock. “Pain you’ve caused us? Girl, are you crazy? My boy killed your parents. Have mercy, but you should hate us.”
Ivy moved past her, and the woman tottered behind her into the small cramped den. She faced Mrs. Mahoney, her heart in her throat. “That’s just it—Matt was innocent. Didn’t you see the exoneration papers?”
Mrs. Mahoney cut her gaze toward the back room, her chin wobbling. “I…didn’t believe them.” She flapped her bony arms around in circles. “You can’t trust the government these days. They’re always letting murderers and thieves go free. Can’t afford to keep the criminals in jail so they turn ’em loose.”
“And sometimes they make mistakes and put innocent people in jail,” Ivy said firmly. “That’s what happened with Matt, Mrs. Mahoney. I repressed memories of my parents’ murder that night, or I could have helped him.” She paused for a breath. “I know that he isn’t a killer. He saved me the night my parents were killed. He found me in the junkyard, running for my life. Someone, whoever killed my parents, was chasing me, and I fell in the mud. Matt picked me up and carried me to safety.” She took the old woman’s frail hands in her own. “Don’t you see? Matt is not a killer, he’s a hero.”
“But…”
“It’s true,” Ivy said, squeezing her hands. “I’m sorry about your husband. I heard they found his body, but Matt didn’t kill him, and I’m sure you don’t believe that, either. Not really.”
The woman paled even more and collapsed into a faded, overstuffed chair.
“The sheriff has taken him into custody again,” Ivy said. “We have to do something, Mrs. Mahoney. We can’t let Matt go to prison again, not for another crime he didn’t commit. It will kill him.”
EILEEN MAHONEY ROCKED BACK and forth in her rocking chair, clickety-clacking against the linoleum. Knotting the afghan in her lap, she studied the faded threads and broken stitches, trying to weave a thread that had come loose back through the knitted pattern. The blanket was old and frayed now, just as she was, all these stitches coming unraveled just as her life had.
Fifteen years ago she had spoken the truth at her son’s trial. Had believed that he had killed those Stantons. Heaven help her, she’d known he had meanness in him, just like his daddy.
But now…now that little Stanton girl was saying he really was innocent. And Matt was sitting in the sheriff’s office being questioned for killing his daddy.
Her hands began to shake, and she dropped the thread, knowing her fingers were too gnarled, weak and unsteady to weave it back through the pattern. Was it too late for her son, as well?
Too late for her?
A knock sounded at the door, and she jerked her head up, unable to stop her hands from trembling as Larry Lumbar walked in. He’d been a good friend all these years. Land sakes alive, she didn’t know why. She’d never encouraged him. Oh, he’d wanted more and he’d been patient, but after living with Jerry Mahoney, she’d never have married again. But she’d finally learned to trust Larry. He would know what to do.
His face looked tired as he entered, his thinning hair worn, his scalp red where he’d run his hand over his bald spot. “You sounded upset, Eileen,” he said as he stepped toward her.
He smelled like coffee and rain as he knelt to press a kiss to her cheek.
“I can’t believe this nightmare,” she cried, her voice so shrill it didn’t even sound like hers.
“I know, I heard they found Jerry’s body.” His expression was grave as he slumped onto the sofa beside her chair. Splaying his beefy legs, he leaned forward. “But it’ll be all right, Eileen. You didn’t want that boy bothering you. Now A.J. will lock him up, and you won’t have to worry about him again. You can put him out of your mind just like you have for the past few years, and you’ll be safe.”
Tears pushed against her eyelids. “That’s just it, Larry. I can’t let them lock Matt up for killing Jerry.”
Larry steepled his hands and rested his chin on them. “Yes, you can, Eileen. That boy inherited a violent streak from his daddy. We both know it.” He paused and wheezed a breath. “And when his father run off, I was glad to see it. I always thought your Matthew killed him, but I let it go and didn’t look too hard for him because I was glad he was dead.” His voice turned gravelly. “I thought once he was gone, that you…that I…might have a chance.”
The tears broke free and rained down Eileen’s face. “Oh, my word, Larry, what have we done?”
He grabbed her hands and pressed them to his chest. “Don’t cry, Eileen, it’s all right. Why do you think I tried so hard to make sure Matt was convicted of the Stanton slayings? I knew the violence had to stop. I was afraid he’d hurt you one day.”
“No…oh, God.” Her voice broke. “You did that because you thought he’d killed Jerry?”
“Hell, yes. I was afraid he might hurt you next, so I had to stop him some way.”
“But he didn’t kill his daddy,” Eileen sobbed. “And if that was the reason you arrested Matt, then maybe you were wrong. Maybe he didn’t kill the Stantons, either.”
“What are you saying, Eileen? That you don’t think he was guilty?”
“Reme
mber what I told you back then—”
“I thought you were trying to protect him,” Larry argued.
She shook her head. That Stanton girl had been so convincing. She believed Matt was innocent of her parents’ murders. And Eileen knew the truth about her husband. “All I know for sure is that Matt didn’t kill his daddy.”
Larry sucked in a sharp breath. “Don’t…Eileen, don’t try to defend that boy now because you’re his mother.”
“It’s not that,” she argued. “I’m speaking the truth.” For the first time in fifteen years, Eileen believed in her son again. But he would never forgive her for being too late.
“Eileen?”
She stood, her arthritic knees popping and cracking as she forced strength into her voice. She was going to need it. “I have to help my son now, Larry. I have to tell the truth.”
Larry gripped her arms. “Tell the truth about what?”
“That Matt didn’t kill Jerry.” Her legs wobbled but she pushed forward and grabbed her raincoat. “I know he didn’t, because I killed him myself.”
IVY HAD MADE MRS. MAHONEY face some harsh truths, and only prayed she’d persuaded her that Matt was innocent. Now, Ivy had to face some harsh truths herself.
Finding out what had happened fifteen years ago was the only way to really save Matt. Maybe if she could convince A.J. of Matt’s innocence, the sheriff would be more apt to believe him about his father.
The familiar stirring of a panic attack seized her chest as she neared her childhood home. Her breathing grew erratic, her heart pumped, her face felt flushed and her hands trembled. She fought her way through the attack with deep breathing, refusing to run back to the safe patterns and routines that had trapped her all these years.