by Robin Caroll
"My team. The workers at the bowling alley. Oh, and the unofficial photographer for all the leagues. After we won, we took group pictures."
Houston took down the names, then closed his notebook. "Thank you for your cooperation."
Maddox headed out of the office, his mind scrambling. He'd got a sense from the guy—there was something he hadn't volunteered. Information that would help break this case wide open. But with such an alibi . . .
Houston followed Maddox outside. "What do you make of him?"
"I think he's hiding something. His body language was all defensive. Remember that butt I found at the scene? Well, Johnson reeks of cigarettes."
"Yeah, I picked up on that. And what's this about drugs? Has Layla mentioned anything to you about drugs on the site?"
"No." And he was sorely disappointed she hadn't. If drugs were involved, they could be spinning their wheels. "But I intend to ask her tonight."
Houston's phone rang. He grabbed it from his belt and held up a finger to Maddox. "Wallace here." He paused. "Yeah. Are you sure?"
Maddox leaned against his Mustang GT and glanced at the late-afternoon sky. Dark clouds swirled. The forecast called for another stormy night, followed by yet another cold front. A brewing storm to match his mood—lovely.
"Well, thanks. Appreciate you rushing." Houston shut the phone and returned it to his belt. "That was about the text message."
Maddox stood straight. "Yeah?"
"Traced it back to a throwaway. Was bought two days ago at the local Wal-Mart. Looks like whoever sent the text message paid cash for the phone and minutes."
Those throwaway cell phones were a menace to law-enforcement investigations everywhere. Maddox wished they'd outlaw them. He spun his key chain around his finger. "So that's another dead end."
"Yep." Houston unlocked the cruiser and stared at his partner over the hood. "Maybe we'll get a break soon."
"I hope so."
"I'm heading to the house to check on the boys. I'll meet you at Layla's in an hour or so."
Maddox nodded and got behind the wheel of his car.
They needed a break on this case. Something was there . . . a clue, a connection they had missed.
He needed to find out what it was.
Before someone came after Layla.
TWENTY-SIX
"All progress is precarious, and the solution of one problem brings us face to face with another problem."
—DR. MARTIN LUTHER KING JR.
BRRING!
Layla bolted upright in the kitchen chair, nearly knocking it over. What? She'd just closed her eyes for a moment. How long had she dozed? Darkness crept over the bayou. Thunder rumbled off in the distance.
Brring!
She snatched up the phone and glanced at the caller ID. Out of area? She pressed the TALK button. "Hello." Layla covered her yawn with her hand.
"Layla, it's me." Alana sounded farther away than ever.
And was that panic in her voice? Oh no . . . not Cameron. "You made it okay? How's Cameron?"
"They're getting him settled in the burn unit. Listen, you got a text message."
Definitely panic. Layla yawned again. "From who?"
"That same number. Were you asleep? Wake up, this is important."
As soon as Alana said it was the same number, Layla had come fully awake. "What was the message?"
"Let me read it to you. I didn't want to use your phone, so I'm calling from the hotel." Muffling sounds came over the line. "Okay, here's the message:
Stop looking for answers or someone closer to you will be hurt.
Alana's breathing was so fast, she'd hyperventilate if she didn't slow it down. "Layla, what are you doing?"
Guilt held Layla's stomach in a vise, tightening with every breath. "I haven't done anything." Not in the last day or so anyway. But to know her sister was in another town, unprotected and alone . . . "I don't have a clue who's doing this. Or why."
"Neither do I. You need to let the detectives know about this message. If they need your phone, I can always overnight it to you."
"Wait. They might have an agency there that can come and get it or something." The message was clear. The only person she loved was her sister, so the threat had to be against Alana. But she didn't want to scare her sister.
"I want you to do something for me." Alana's voice was steady.
"I'll ask Maddox if I can come. Considering the circumstances, I'm sure he'll let me leave—"
"No, I'm fine. No one knows where I am."
Unless someone was watching. Following. Fear slithered through Layla, paralyzing her. "But you're the only one I'm—"
"For once, Layla, just listen to me. Do me one favor."
She'd never heard her sister be so . . . forceful and aggressive. Demanding. In charge. "I'm listening."
"Don't worry about me. Trust me, no one knows I'm here."
"Oh-kay."
"But I want you to go check on Mom."
Layla felt dizzy and nauseous all at once. "I don't think—"
"Stop interrupting me. You said you were going to listen."
"Sorry." But the pit of her stomach roiled with acid.
"If this person doesn't know you well, he or she doesn't know you haven't seen Mom. He doesn't know you refuse to go visit your own mother because you can't forgive and move on from the past. He doesn't know you're a stubborn, hardheaded mule."
"Is there a point to the insults?"
"Yes. If he doesn't know you well, he might think you do have a relationship with Mom. She's your mother, after all. Most people do have relationships with their mothers."
The harsh words stung. Yeah, most people did have relationships with their mothers, but most mothers hadn't been drug addicts who neglected their children. Most mothers weren't so desperate to numb their emotions that they overdosed on downers and caused respiratory depression resulting in an anoxic brain injury. Most mothers didn't cause damage to themselves that rendered them helpless and caused them to have to go into a full-care nursing home.
"Layla? Are you listening to me?"
"I hear you, Alana." But she couldn't do it. Not yet. "I'll call and check on her. Maybe Maddox will get a car there or something. Or, hey, I can call Lincoln Vailes and see if the Eternal Springs police could do that."
"You aren't listening to me."
"I heard you. And I said I'd check on her."
"No, you said you'd call and check on her. I'm asking you to go. Get in your truck and drive to the nursing home. See that she's okay."
"I c-can't."
"Yes, you can. And you will. For me."
Oh, her sister knew how to play dirty. When had she become such an independent force?
"Layla, I love you dearly, but I'm sick of this."
"You don't understand. You were younger. I took care of you when she'd forget about us. When she'd be so desperate for drugs that she'd get so agitated and try to take it out on us." And Alana wasn't the one who'd found their mother out cold on the floor. She wasn't the one who had to call 911, holding her breath in fear that their mother was dead.
"I know that. I'm not stupid. I know the truth."
"Then how can you ask me to go before I'm ready?"
Alana's sigh whooshed through the phone where Layla could almost feel her sister's breath against her ear. "I've never asked you for one thing before. Have I?"
"That's not fair. I—"
"No. I've never asked you for anything. The land, you volunteered it before I even thought of it. The loan, you came up with that and didn't even ask for my input. You take charge . . . that's what you do. I love you for it, but I've never asked for a single thing. I'm asking you now. Do this for me. Go see Mom and check on her."
Maybe Layla could just duck her head into the room. See that their mother was the same as usual. That would be checking on her in person, right?
"I have to be here with Cameron, or I'd go myself." The tears were evident in Alana's voice. "Please, Layla. Go. For
me."
Guilt tightened her vocal chords. "Fine."
"You'll go?"
"I said I would." Now that she was committed, she didn't have a choice. But she'd just stick her head in the room. She wouldn't have to stay. Wouldn't have to sit there and see the damage their mother had done to herself, not caring about her family enough to break free of her addiction. "I'll go. Tonight."
"Promise?"
"Yes." Layla ground out her answer from behind clenched teeth.
"Call me when you get back. Let me know that she's okay, otherwise I'll worry all night. I mean, I'll be up anyway. I get to see Cameron for ten minutes every hour."
"That's good. I'll call you."
"Thank you, Layla. It means a lot to me."
"I'll let you know what Maddox says about the phone too."
"Okay. Well, I'm heading back to the hospital. Oh, I need to tell you where I'm staying." Alana gave her the information. "Thank you again. I love you."
"Love you too." Layla turned off the phone and set it on the kitchen table.
She stared out into the bayou, her insides churning. Lightning split the darkening skies. What had she agreed to do?
Lord, help me. Please. Help me get over the anger. Help me let go of the pain. Help me forgive as You forgive.
But she was human . . . and didn't know if she could truly forgive her mother. No matter how much she wanted.
"HEY POP. WHERE'S GEORGE?"
His father looked up from the paper. Sitting in his recliner, he didn't seem sick at all. Nothing to indicate he'd had a heart attack and had been in the hospital.
"He went to pick up some dinner and grab some clothes." Pop lowered the paper to his lap. "I appreciate all the attention, but I don't need someone to babysit me."
Maddox denied the sigh. So much for his father's words of this morning. The I'm-a-big-military-man-and-I-am-invincible attitude had returned. He sunk to the couch, determined to be the bigger man this time. "Why don't you just enjoy being taken care of for a change?"
Pop smiled. "I guess it is kinda nice. George is even getting me apple pie."
"Is that allowed? On the diet the doctor gave you?"
"I'm not a child. I think I can figure out what to eat." But he snorted. "Yes, George made sure that what I wanted was on the stupid diet plan."
Wow, ten whole minutes alone together and Maddox didn't feel belittled. Had to be a record. "How're you feeling?"
"Same as always. I think those doctors are wrong about me having a heart attack."
"Pop—"
His father held up his hand. "I know what you're gonna say, but even George thinks it's a good idea to get a second opinion."
Second opinions were good. As long as he got medical care. "I think that's a smart move."
Pop looked happier than Maddox could remember in a long time.
An unfamiliar feeling crept up his back. Maybe he couldn't remember because he'd avoided being around his father for quite some time. He blinked back the emotions, concentrating on anything else. "Can I get you something?" He glanced at the table beside his father's chair. It held a lamp, a bottle of pills, a glass of water, and a . . . a Bible?
"I'm good."
"Would you like some fresh water?" Maddox shot to his feet. "That doesn't even have ice anymore."
Pop laughed. "It's fine. I'm all set. Sit back down. Tell me about this case you've got."
Maddox dropped to the couch. Good thing because his knees were a bit weak. He couldn't remember his father asking about his work before. Ever. "Houston and I interviewed two suspects today."
"Close to solving the case?"
"I wish." He leaned back against the leather couch.
"Don't let it get you down. You're a good detective. You'll solve it."
The praise lit something in Maddox's chest. His father had never expressed pride in Maddox's job. Had never really praised him period. It was . . . strangely nice. Maybe George was right. Maybe he should try to form a relationship with his father. It'd been months since he'd visited his father's house. He'd kept their communication limited to phone calls.
"Son, I don't want to upset you, but I need to talk to you about something."
All the energy sapped right out of him. His father had softened Maddox up, only to hit him with a blow. Why had he allowed himself to hope?
"I owe you an apology, and hope you'll be able to forgive me."
His father—what? He leaned forward. "Uh, what're you talking about?"
"I made you feel like I blamed you for your mother's death. In truth, I did blame you. But it was only to cover my own guilt." Pop's eyes were moist.
What was he supposed to say to that? "It's okay."
"No, it's not. You were a kid. Supposed to miss curfew." He shook his head. "What you said at the hospital . . . you were right. I should've retired long before your mother was killed. I should've been home."
"Pop, I was just angry. I didn't mean that." Or did he?
His father smiled, but it was a sad smile. "We've gone on too long blaming one another. I never should have blamed you, but I was hurt. More than anything I've ever felt in my life. Your mother was like a part of me. When we lost her, a part of me died with her. The best part of me." Pop wiped his eyes.
Maddox felt his own eyes burning.
"That's no excuse. You had lost your mother, the one parent who actually acted like a parent. I should've been there for you, but I wasn't. I was too wrapped up in my own pain and anger. I lashed out at you." His voice hitched. "I can't tell you how sorry I am."
Tears filled Maddox's eyes, blurring his vision of his father. "I blamed you, Pop. I thought if you'd been home, nothing like that would happen. But that wasn't fair. It wasn't your fault. I needed someone to blame. Someone to be angry with. You were the easiest target." The words were so much easier to say than he'd ever imagined. And he wanted to say them. Wanted to move past this hurdle keeping him from his father. "I'm sorry, Pop. And sorry I haven't ever been able to find her killer."
Pop spread open his arms. Maddox found his legs under him and rushed to his father. He leaned into the embrace. Feeling the warmth. Smelling the familiar scent of his father's soap. Holding his father as Pop clung to him. His father shook as he sobbed. Maddox couldn't hold back his own emotions. It was as if a dam had burst and all the pain he'd felt as a little boy gushed through.
He gave his father a final squeeze, then pushed back. Maddox smiled as he sat in the chair beside Pop's recliner.
"You don't need to solve her case, son. Not for me."
"But wouldn't you like to know why? Why her? Why not the woman next door? Why not the woman down the street? Why was Mom singled out?"
"Sometimes we aren't meant to know. We just have to accept."
This wasn't his father at all. Maybe the medications really were causing emotional side effects. "How can you say that?"
His father reached for his Bible and opened it. He turned to a place marked by a ribbon. "It says here in the book of Job: 'How great is God—beyond our understanding.'"
Unbelievable. "You're . . . quoting Scripture to me?"
"I can't tell you how much becoming saved has changed me. My entire life. I love reading the Bible, digging into God's Word." He shook his head. "I owe you another apology. I should have made sure you continued to go to church after your mother died. She'd started a great thing in you, and I let it fall away just as I did so many things."
"I didn't want to go, Pop. And I don't buy all that Bible garbage."
"Don't say that. God loves you. He's been waiting for you to come back to Him."
"Where was God when Mom was murdered? Why didn't He stop someone from breaking in and killing her?" The old, familiar anger swelled inside of Maddox.
"Son, you're still so angry. You have to let go. God can't heal your heart until you let go of the anger."
"Heal my heart? Mom died in my arms. I don't think God or anybody is going to heal me from that." The memory haunted him in his dream
s. Sometimes seeping over into his waking hours.
"God can. And He will. If you ask Him. Psalm 18:2 promises that. It says, 'The LORD is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge. He is my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.'"
His father had become one of those religious nuts. Maddox shook his head. "I'm glad you've found something that gives you peace. Makes you okay with Mom's murder. I really am." He scooted back in the chair. "But I can't buy into all that. I deal with real people every day. People who kill for a reason, and some who kill just because they can."
"Oh, Maddox." Pop's eyes filled with tears again. "You have to forgive whoever killed your mother. Forgive him, so God can forgive you. He will. And He can help you forgive too. Just ask."
Tears again? Twice in one day? He'd never seen his father cry. Ever. Even at Mom's funeral Pop had sat there like a stone statue.
His cell phone vibrated. Maddox yanked it off his belt. "Hello."
"Maddox? It's Layla."
Her voice brought her image to the forefront of his mind. "Is something wrong?" What if someone was trying to break in? He stood, pacing the small living room of his father's house.
"Alana got a text message on my phone. From the same number."
His body went stiff. His feet took root in the carpet. The blood clogged in his veins.
Layla was in trouble.
TWENTY-SEVEN
"We must be our own before we can be another's."
—RALPH WALDO EMERSON
KNOTS BUNCHED IN HER body, threatening to sink her in an ocean of misery.
Layla could do this. It was in and out—go there, stick her head in and make sure no one had tried to bomb the nursing home, then head back home. She could tell Alana that she'd kept her promise.
Layla had dressed in jeans and a sweater and now paced the living room in front of the windows. Maddox had told her not to move until he arrived. But she was losing her nerve with every minute that fell off the clock.
Car headlights shone through the window.