“Put her down!” Beth went down one stair, two.
“Stay back,” he warned.
Beth stopped. “Please!” she begged. “Why are you doing this?” she cried.
“Get away.” he shouted. “You don’t run me anymore, bitch.”
Beth watched him, in the hectic flashes of light, saw him shake his head, saw Mama’s feet jitter uselessly. Her heart wallowed in her chest.
Now he laughed, a huge mocking sound that fell into a low, eerie-sounding moan.
She crept down another stair, straining to see. “Mama? Mama?” A scream ripped the air. Whose? Her own? Her mama’s? Then there was a series of awful thuds. “What are you doing?” Heedless now, uncaring of the risk, Beth rushed headlong down three stairs, four. “Stop it! Talk to me, Mama. Jason, why isn’t she answering me?” But Beth knew. OhGodohGodohGod....
She reached the landing. No one was there. She could see nothing, hear nothing above the relentless drumming of the rain, and she waited, one hand on the railing, one pressed to her heart, beating thick and wild in her chest, gaze trained to the foot of the stairs, waiting for the next blaze of lightning. When it came, she gasped. Mama lay against the bottom step where Jason had tossed her, head bent at an awkward angle, blood oozing a puddle from somewhere beneath her. Beth screamed and screamed again.
She bent over, all at once couldn't drag enough air into her lungs. After one or two seconds, she flung herself back, hearing a heavy tread on the stair.
“Settle down.” His disembodied voice rose in the inky dark.
“You killed Mama,” she whispered.
“It was an accident.” The voice was thin now, like a child’s voice.
“No, I saw you.” Beth peered into the blackness. “I know what you did.” Was it Jason down there? He didn’t sound right. Goose flesh rashed her scalp and arms.
“I didn't mean to,” he said as if he was uncertain. “I don’t know what happened. I came for the papers, that’s all, and she--”
Beth lost the rest when a gust of rain pelted the window. Now a renewed flash of light showed him coming up the stairs. He was gray and damp with sweat. His silver eyes shone like mirrors.
He has no idea what he's done. The thought exploded into Beth’s mind.
“It was an accident,” he repeated.
“It was murder!” She shouted out of panic, trying to shake him, to wake him and herself from this nightmare, and she kept it up: “Murdermurdermurder!” then spinning around, she tangled her fingers in her hair. Her own hold on reality seemed tenuous. She felt herself teetering on the edge of disintegration. Calmdowncalmdown, she ordered. Call the police. Call an ambulance, nine-one-one. She groped her way down the stairs. “Have to get to a phone, call the police.”
“You aren't going anywhere.” Jason, sounding more like himself now, grabbed her wrists and pushed her back toward the landing.
An image of Chrissy, lying unprotected and vulnerable just steps away slammed into Beth’s mind. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the gallery railing and her stomach jolted at the thought of being tossed over it into the foyer below. She'd land near Mama who lay helpless, maybe dying....
“Please,” she said, “you still have feelings for me. I know it.” She fought to speak naturally. “You left this afternoon because you were angry. You had every right. But I know you still care. Remember what we shared? I've never forgotten. Don't you wonder sometimes what would have happened if--”
“Shut up.” He backed her up another step, stopped, laughed abruptly and as abruptly sobered to give her a piercing look. But then he seemed to lose his focus and tossed his head. His brow furrowed in pain or confusion. Beth didn’t know. But he kept his grip on her, kept pushing her back. “Don’t you see?” he asked in the oddly disturbed child’s voice. “I couldn't let her get away with it again.”
Beth stared. What was wrong with him? Was it a breakdown? Was he on something? She'd never known him to take drugs. “Get away with what?” she asked, moving with him. Panic bubbled through her veins. She had to get to Chrissy, had to get to her daughter. Her sudden scream caught them both off guard. She felt Jason’s grip relax and without thinking, brought her knee up hard between his legs. He let go, howling in agony, clutching his groin, falling helpless to his knees.
Lightning flashed and licked the scene with its unholy fire. A loud clap of thunder followed Beth as she tripped and scrambled back to her feet.
“Chrissy!” she shouted. “Chrissy, wake up!” She raced along the balcony.
“Goddamned fucking bitch! You're not getting away from me, bitch.” Jason shouted after her in his normal voice, an enraged man's voice. The freakish child’s voice was gone.
Beth reached the door of the nursery and could just make out Chrissy's small form in the daybed beneath the rain-streaked window. Once again, lightning defined her path. She grasped her daughter's shoulders and brought her limp body to a sitting position. “C'mon, Chrissy, come with Mommy, sugar.”
“Lamby.” Chrissy half-opened her eyes as Beth scooped them both into her arms. She murmured soft words of reassurance, hopeful that exhaustion from yesterday's long hours of travel would keep Chrissy from coming fully awake.
She heard Jason in the hall outside and moved swiftly into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. She fumbled one-handed to turn the lock, and just as the bolt shot home, the door shuddered under a series of knob-rattling thuds. Beth could hear Jason, his grunts of exertion, his muttered threats. Dear God, would the lock hold?
She flung open the door to the back stairs that led to the kitchen, fumbled the fancy iron key to the other side, and locked it too. Jason’s retreat to the first floor was audible. Clearly he had divined her plan.
Chrissy raised her head. “Where are we going?”
“Downstairs, sugar. Just hold onto Lamby and rest, okay?” The words squeezed out on little puffs of hard won air. Beth's loafers scraped on the wooden steps.
Chrissy tightened her grip but didn't protest, and Beth was thankful.
The thought of leaving her mama here alone, probably dying, twisted in her stomach. She bit down against the sob that climbed into her throat. If she could just get to Maizie's. Maizie would put them in her car and drive them to get help. If she could just get there, Maizie would take over, handle everything.
She reached the kitchen and stopped to listen. There wasn't a sound, not even of rain. Where was Jason? She moved toward the back door, expecting him to jump at her from the shadows. But there was no sign of him. What was he doing? Had he left?
Outside the air was damp, the ground beneath her feet sodden. As she rounded the corner of the house, she glanced at Jason’s Cadillac parked before the front steps. Would the keys be in it? But it wasn't worth the risk of checking. He could be watching, Beth decided, waiting for her to do that very thing. She angled toward the drive.
There was no light from moon or stars; still she kept well beneath the thick canopy of trees. Chrissy's head bumped on her shoulder. Beth's arms grew tired. Rain water dripped incessantly from the branches soaking her hair and running in cool rivulets down her neck. She shielded Chrissy as best she could and kept her jaw clenched against her fear. Was he coming? She stopped to listen. Yes! Oh dear God. She heard him, heard the scrape of his boot-shod steps across the veranda.
“Goddamned bitch!”
She kept moving.
“When I find you, trust me, I will make you sorry.”
Sensing her mother's fear, Chrissy clung to Beth beginning to cry.
“It's all right, sugar, all right, now.” Beth came around the barn. Nearby, even without benefit of moonlight, the drive glowed, a white ribbon of concrete. She ducked back into the trees, where the ground was rough, and the mud sucked mercilessly at her feet, but at least the deeper shadow of the leafy canopy offered them some protection.
“We have to get to Maizie's, sugar,” Beth whispered against Chrissy's hair. “Maizie will know what to do. She'll fix it somehow.” She
walked and half-ran in a haphazard path, Chrissy flattened against her, a tight bundle of anxiety. At last, they reached Maizie’s cabin, but when she looked into the carport, it was empty. Where was the Buick? Please God, don't let her be gone.
“Maizie?” Beth thought she shouted, but her voice didn't sound very loud, did it? And that was good, because she didn't want to send out an alert, did she? Use your head, she told herself, and called the old woman's name again, softly this time. But Maizie didn’t answer. “Don't be gone,” she whispered. “Please.”
Chrissy squirmed. “Put me down, Mommy.”
“Shh,” Beth warned, setting her daughter on her feet. Taking Chrissy's hand, Beth led her onto the porch and paused. She couldn't hear Jason anymore. Maybe she had thrown him off. Maybe he thought she'd headed for the road. She ran her hands over her hair. They were shaking and cold. So cold.
“I'm scared, Mommy. I want Daddy. Where's Daddy?”
“Hush, sugar. We have to be quiet. Okay?”
“But I want Daddy. Where is he?” Chrissy pressed Lamby to her cheek beginning to wail in earnest.
Beth put her palm over Chrissy's mouth and bent to her ear. “Do you want a spanking?” she asked in a low, harsh voice, but then she dropped to her knees, pulling Chrissy into her embrace. “Oh, sugar, I'm sorry. Mommy didn't mean it, but you have to be quiet. Okay? Please?” She rocked back on her heels and held her daughter at arm's length, brushing wayward curls from Chrissy's face. “I need you to be quiet as a little mouse. Will you do that for Mommy?”
Chrissy nodded solemnly as if in spite of the softness, she caught the imperative note in Beth's voice. “But is Daddy coming? Is he coming here?” Chrissy bounced her finger indicating the place where they stood. Beth looked down at Chrissy's small bare feet. How could she be expected to walk any distance without shoes? Why hadn't she thought to pick up Chrissy's shoes?
“Daddy said maybe he would come later. Okay?” Beth cupped Chrissy's cheek, hating the lie and the tears that rose in her throat along with the bitter flux of resentment. Chrissy always asked for her daddy, but he was never where they needed him.
She swallowed and straightened, and tucking Chrissy's hand in hers, she turned the knob on Maizie's front door.
Chapter Fourteen
Charlie kept an eye on the simulcast monitor while he drank his beer. He liked the fourth race at the Meadowlands in New Jersey and scanned the entries listed in the racing form again. The number six horse, a fifteen-to-one long shot named Lover's High, looked good. He'd seen her run before at the Fairgrounds in New Orleans and thought she was under-valued. If he was to put her in an exacta box with the one horse, a four-year-old colt named Jelly Bean, the co-favorite, he'd have his lucky numbers covered. What other sign did he need?
The old man at the ticket window never looked up when Charlie pushed a ten dollar bill under the grate, named the track and the race and asked for a six dollar exacta box on the six and one. He pocketed the change, but kept his ticket in his hand, and went to stand in front of the monitor broadcasting from the New Jersey track.
While the horses were brought into the gate, he made his usual bargain: if he won, he'd stay for another race; if he lost, he'd leave. He wondered if he’d actually stick with it.
“Who d'ya like?”
Charlie swung his glance around, but didn’t see who had spoken until he dropped his gaze almost a foot. The guy was short, not much over five feet. Charlie bet he didn't weigh a hundred and twenty pounds either, even with all the cowboy gear: Levi's, green-plaid snap shirt, big silver-buckled belt and fancy lizard boots.
Charlie indicated his tickets and explained his bet.
“Lover's High? Number six? She's under-valued.”
Charlie nodded, pleased to have his opinion validated.
The cowboy took a long swallow of the beer he was holding. From the blood-shot look of him, it wasn't his first. “She could surprise somebody.” He squinted up at Charlie. “I bet her straight up. I think she’ll win it.”
“I hope you’re right.” Charlie gestured toward the monitor just as the horses broke from the gate. “Guess we’ll find out here in a minute.” He settled into a stance formed from practice, arms crossed, feet spread wide, and forgot the sawed-off cowboy beside him, forgot Maizie and the war in his head that had started with her revelations. Forgot Beth, her confession and her tears, the terrible grieving look of her huddled on the porch.
The field of eight horses hadn't reached the eighth mile pole to the left of the tote board before Lover moved up to fifth place. It was hard to tell from the screen, but Charlie imagined he could see her massive chest muscles working and the delicate flare of her nostrils as she took air deep into her lungs to fuel her run.
He coached her silently, C'mon baby, c'mon.” Unconsciously, he made fists of his hands, pulling them back and forth just a little, as if he were in the saddle and held the reins. The camera panned the back stretch as the horses thundered into it, their hooves churning the dust beneath the lights. Where was Lover? Had he made a mistake? Should he have picked the order one and six instead of six and one? Jelly Bean was still in second on the rail. Jockey looked like he was just waiting to get the finish line in his sights before he cut loose. But no, Lover was making a move.
The cowboy nudged him. “What'd I tell you?”
Charlie spared him a brief glance. He was grinning up at the screen. He might have been one of Santa's elves, Charlie thought, grinning too and when he looked back at the screen, he was in time to see Lover cross the finish line in front, beating Jelly Bean by a nose. Immediately the two men high-fived their mutual victory.
“Whaddya think she'll pay?” the cowboy asked. “That was old Frank Pendleton on the back of her. That old coot ain't won a race in a while. If I was there, I'd go congratulate him.”
“I don't know, Cowboy. But these babies ought to be worth something.” Charlie raised his tickets.
“Yeah, buddy. You want another beer? I'll buy this round. You win the next race, you can do the honors. Deal?”
Charlie winked. “Deal,” he said.
Within five minutes, the numbers flashed on the board. Charlie did some fast calculating and let out a low whistle. He’d make over five hundred off his six dollar exacta bet. Who could walk out on a beginning like this?
But the next race, against a gut-born hunch that said don't do it, Charlie dropped part of what he'd won on a two-to-five favorite named Miss Clawdy. She stumbled out of the gate and was never in contention. Stupid nag finished fourth. Charlie shoved the losing tote ticket in his pocket, and taking his beer, sat down to study the form.
He knew better. Putting money on a two-to-five favorite was for suckers. He glanced at the monitor. Ten minutes until the sixth race at Meadowlands. But the fifth at Turfway was set to go off in less than five. What the hell. He'd look at it. Maybe a change of tracks would re-ignite his lucky streak.
He studied the entries. Almost immediately, a nine-to-one shot caught his eye. The colt's name nearly made him laugh aloud: Goodtime Charlie. He imagined telling Maizie about it and the laugh they'd have as he studied the horse's statistics. His last time out, Goodtime had dueled down the stretch and finished third in a six furlong allowance race. He was off now at eight-to-one, and at this shorter distance, Charlie figured the horse had a better than good chance to win.
“So you switching to Turfway?”
Charlie glanced up at Cowboy. “Yeah.” He gestured him into an adjacent seat. “You?”
Cowboy nursed his beer, winked. “I'm already down. Who d'ya like?”
Charlie rotated the form and indicated Goodtime Charlie with a grin. When the cowboy wondered why it was so funny, Charlie explained. “Can't turn my back on my own namesake, can I?”
“Nah. You could be his daddy.”
Charlie bet a hundred dollars straight up to win and then wished he hadn’t. He hardly ever parked it all in one place like that. But what the hell? He was playing with track money, wasn't he? O
n his way back to his table, he spotted a bank of pay phones. He ought to let Beth know where he was, but then, after a half second’s consideration, he raised his hands as if in dismissal.
Chapter Fifteen
Lucy lay where she had fallen; her face like a pale moon floated up at him. Her eyes were wide, white-shocked, horrified. Jason scooted his gaze to the dull halo of her hair. Only just beginning to go gray, it made a rough, dark fan around her head. He remembered how once it had been shiny with a feel of satin. He remembered when they first met how he had been so startled by her resemblance to his mother that he had very nearly made an ass of himself. He had wanted so badly to embrace her, to bury his face between her breasts, into the well of her lap. He had wanted to have the feel of her mouth on his flesh, and then his thoughts, the images had so sickened him even as they compelled him that he had worried Lucy would notice. He hadn’t known then how she anesthetized herself and her own memories. He wiped his hands down his face now and across his lips. God, he had hated her and loved her. Them. Lucy. His mother. Beth. The bitches. All of them had ruined his life.
Had made him weak.
He knelt down, touched a finger to Lucy’s cheek, then slid the flat of his palm over her face; he let it rest on the cold swell of her belly. And when he came back to himself—was it minutes? hours?--he jerked his hand away, lurched to his feet, did a three-eighty, gaze shooting up the stairs, around the foyer. Images crashed into his brain, a kaleidoscope of nonsense. Lucy in his grip, Beth at the balcony rail. Now Lucy lay here? Jason stared at her again.
No one would blame him. Even if it were not an accident. He walked into the library, got the decanter of Old Granddad off the bar and returned with it to the foot of the stairs. The storm had passed and the buzz in his brain wasn’t more than a light comforting hum that separated him from the silence that was more terrible. He raised the bottle to the ambient glow of light that fell through the tall stairway landing window as if in salute. In prayer. And then he drank some and poured the rest over Lucy, anointing her in her poison of choice. It seemed fitting. Right somehow. A death she might have chosen for herself. And looking down on her he found himself becoming aroused. He had made her sorry, hadn’t he? Jason started to grin. Couldn't get sorrier than dead, could you?
The Last Innocent Hour Page 7