by Lila Dare
“Lindsay!” The word exploded out of Mark as if torn from his lungs and vocal cords by a superhuman force. “You didn’t—”
“I only talked to him,” Lindsay said. “About . . . you know. That’s all. Just talked.” Her eyes searched his and she strained against Hank’s hold.
“I Mirandized her,” Hank said, restraining her easily, despite her height and athleticism.
“In here.” Dillon took charge and shepherded Hank and Lindsay and Mark and his parents into the small parlor. I slipped in just as he closed the door in the face of the astonished crowd who were being herded into another part of the mansion by two uniformed police officers, Hank’s partner and another woman.
“We’re going home right now,” Joy Crenshaw announced, drawing her lips into a tight circle.
“After we’ve sorted through a few things,” Dillon said amiably. He directed the Crenshaws to the horsehair sofa against the wall and nodded Lindsay toward a ladder-back chair with a needlepoint cushion. Hank released her at a nod from Dillon and she settled on the chair, ostentatiously rubbing her arm. I hovered near the door, hoping Dillon wouldn’t order me to leave.
“You can’t keep us here,” Joy said angrily. “We haven’t done anything.”
“You and Captain Crenshaw are free to go, if you wish,” Dillon said, still in a calm voice. “But I’m afraid Mark has to stay so we can question him about lying to a police officer and obstructing a murder investigation.” Very deliberately, he spoke his name and the date and time into a small recorder, then pulled a card from his wallet and Mirandized Mark.
“You don’t—You’re not going to file charges?” Joy gasped. “He’ll lose his appointment to the Naval Academy if you arrest him!”
“Good!” The surprising word came from Mark.
“You don’t mean that,” his mother said, slewing on the sofa to face him. “You wanted to follow in your father’s footsteps. It’s been your dream for—”
“It’s been your dream,” he said. “I don’t want to go. I’ve been dreading it.”
“You’re just upset,” Joy said, reaching out to pat his hand. “That’s understandable, what with finding out that Lindsay—”
He yanked his hand away. “Leave Lindsay out of it. The thought of going up there—of all the pressure—was making me sick. Braden knew it.” Mark stood and faced Dillon. “Arrest me.” He held his wrists out as if expecting Dillon to slap handcuffs on him. “Arrest me, God damn it, and make sure to notify the Academy.”
“But, Mark,” Lindsay cried, “if you lose your appointment, how will we be together? I’m going to Maryland to be near you. If you’re not there—”
“He’ll be there,” Joy said, standing. Her wiry body vibrated with emotion. “Although you’ve been a bad influence from the start, distracting him from his studies and from football.” She eyed Lindsay with loathing.
“I’m not going, Mom,” Mark said, turning to face the sputtering woman. “Even if this”—he gestured to the room at large—“turns out okay, I’m not going. I’m declining the appointment. I’ll fax them the letter today.”
“You are going.” Joy’s hand swung back, and before anyone could guess what she was doing, she slapped Mark across the face. The smack of flesh on flesh was shocking in the small room and no one moved as a dull red handprint surfaced on Mark’s face, right on top of the bruise I’d noticed the other day. Joy drew her hand back again, but Mark caught her wrist as she swung at him again. Now I knew where her bruise had come from.
Ye gods. I’d had it all wrong. Mark’s father wasn’t abusing him. It was his mother.
Joy flailed at Mark with her other hand, landing ineffectual punches on his torso before Dillon stepped forward to haul her away. She batted at him, shrieking hysterically and almost incomprehensibly about “Your father . . . Do what I say . . . Ungrateful . . . You must!” Dillon nodded at Hank, who pulled her arms behind her back and cuffed them. Throughout, Captain Crenshaw stood as if turned to stone, his eyes never leaving his wife’s frantic figure. Tears slid down Mark’s face and I looked away, not wanting to intrude on his anguish.
“Have an officer take her to the station,” Dillon said, and Hank nudged the woman forward. I leaped to open the door for him, and Hank gave me a wink as he propelled Joy Crenshaw through the opening.
She swiveled her head to look over her shoulder into the room. “Eric! Help me, Eric. Don’t let them do this.”
Eric Crenshaw swallowed, his Adam’s apple working. “I’m staying with Mark,” he said. “He needs me.”
I closed the door on Joy’s outraged face and shriek of anger.
Silence lingered in the room for thirty seconds, broken only by the creaks and moans of the house as the wind buffeted it, before Dillon cleared his throat. Pulling up a delicate, gilt-legged chair, he sat on it, facing Mark. He placed the recorder on the marble plant stand at Mark’s elbow. “Now, Mark, why don’t you tell me what really happened Saturday night.”
“I don’t know!” Mark looked at Lindsay, but she was staring into her lap.
“Okay. Tell me what you do know. You arrived here with the science class, accompanied Dr. Mortimer on a tour to hear about Cyril Rothmere, and then what?”
“We went to our station—in the master bedroom on the second floor,” Mark said. “We took readings on the Mel 8704 and recorded them, just like we were supposed to.”
“And then?” Dillon prompted when Mark showed no sign of continuing.
“Then . . . then we started, you know, kissing and stuff.” A slight stain of red suffused his cheeks. I looked at Lindsay, but she didn’t react beyond raising her head to watch Mark.
“How long did you fool around?” Dillon asked.
Mark scrunched his brows together. “I don’t know . . . maybe half an hour? Until just before the fireworks started. Lindsay had to go to the bathroom.” He leaned toward his girlfriend, apology in his eyes. Betrayal stiffened her face before she bit her lip and turned her head away.
“Why didn’t you tell us this before?” Dillon asked sharply. “Why did you lie about being together the entire time?”
“It was a . . . a woman thing,” Mark said in a strangled voice. “She had her, you know . . . and she didn’t want me to say anything.”
I looked at Lindsay with new respect and wondered how much of this she had preplanned. She’d found a surefire way of making sure Mark wouldn’t say anything to the cops; no teenage boy can talk about menstrual periods.
“So . . . you waited for her in the bedroom?”
Mark shook his head. “No, I went out to watch the fireworks. Lindsay caught up with me.”
Dillon searched his face. “You knew there were going to be fireworks?”
“Oh, yeah. Lonnie planned it. He said ghosts didn’t know how to party, but he did.” Mark half smiled before his face turned somber again. “Ten o’clock was party time, he said.”
Two or three flashes of lightning lit up the yard outside the window like daylight. Thunder rumbled. The room was quiet for a moment, then Dillon asked, “Did you bring a sheet with you that night? A ghost costume?”
Mark was nodding before Dillon finished. “Yeah. We were going to have a competition to see who could be the scariest ghost, but—” He broke off. “Is that it? Did Lindsay—?”
For the first time, Lindsay broke in. “I went to the bathroom. I changed my tampon.” She put a sneer into the word. “I met Mark by the fireworks. No one can prove differently.” Her face was impassive, her voice steady. Only her hands betrayed her as her fingers twisted in the wet hem of her shirt.
Mark’s gaze stayed on her face for a long moment. Then, he looked at Dillon, me, his father. “Braden was my best friend,” he cried. “I wouldn’t ever have hurt him. He knew how I felt about going to the Academy. He knew I was having trouble with depression again. He was afraid I’d . . . I’d hurt myself if I had to go to Annapolis. He said he was g
oing to send the superintendent a letter, tell him about my time at Sandy Point, my suicide attempt. That would’ve been enough to deep-six the appointment. He was only trying to help me! I wish he’d done it weeks ago,” Mark said savagely, “that he’d told them without even telling me! Then I would never have discussed it with—”
A loud crack from overhead drew our eyes to the ceiling. The hurricane had hurled a large tree branch against the roof, I figured. We all froze as if someone had hit the “pause” button until it became clear water wasn’t going to start pouring through the ceiling.
“I think that’s enough, Mark.” Eric Crenshaw broke the silence, speaking for the first time. His voice was rough, like he’d gargled with glass. He leaned forward to put a hand on his stepson’s shoulder. “Maybe you shouldn’t say any more until we get a lawyer.”
He was a little late with that advice, I thought. Mark let his chin droop to his chest and covered his eyes with one forearm as he sobbed. I felt sorry for him, caught between the expectations of an abusive mother and a crippling depression.
It seemed pretty clear that Braden, having met Mark at Sandy Point where he was apparently recovering from a suicide attempt, was better at reading Mark than his parents or girlfriend were. He saw Mark’s increasing anxiety and depression—his mother saw it, too, I realized, but wrote it off as her son being a “worry wart”—and was going to take the only action he thought would save his friend. Talking to Mark’s folks certainly wasn’t going to do the trick, not with Joy Crenshaw so fixated on seeing her son follow in his father’s footsteps. So, Braden was going to get Mark’s appointment cancelled or rescinded or whatever they called it by telling the Academy about his mental health issues. No wonder he’d wrestled with whether or not to intervene! What a horrible choice for a teenager to have to make: destroy your best buddy’s college plans or watch him fret himself into another suicide attempt.
Dillon looked at me where I stood by the door. I saw weariness and a certain level of satisfaction on his face. “Grace, would you ask one of the officers to come in here please?”
I nodded and slipped through the door into the foyer. The storm’s noise was louder here, the rain drumming on the roof amplified by the open space, maybe. It felt like hours had passed, but in reality it had probably been only twenty minutes since we entered the parlor. Crewmembers from The Spirit Whisperer did things with cameras and lights. I glanced up at the landing but didn’t see Avaline.
“Do you know where the police officers went?” I asked a man fiddling with a camera.
“They were taking statements in the ballroom,” he said. “A lot of folks have left, though, so maybe they’re done? You might try in that woman’s office, the one who thinks she’s the reincarnation of Scarlet O’Hara or something.”
“Amelia Rothmere,” I corrected him, heading down the hall to Lucy’s office. The door was open and I heard voices as I approached. They were almost drowned out by the howling wind that rattled the old house like a terrier shaking a rat. I touched a hand to the wall, maybe to steady myself and maybe to assure myself it was sturdy. Pushing open the office door, I found Lucy, Mom, Althea, and Hank gathered around a small radio, listening to weather updates. Mom and Althea sat in chairs at the small dinette set that served as a conference table. Hank stood with his shoulders propped against the far wall, cleaning his fingernails with a pocketknife while Lucy stared at him with revulsion from the chair behind her desk.
“Join the party,” Althea said when she spotted me. “Not that it’s much of a party.”
“Are you okay, honey?” Mom asked, looking at me with concern. “We waited for you.”
“Thanks,” I said, leaning down to give her a kiss. I straightened and looked across at my ex as he snapped the little knife closed. “Hank,” I said, “Agent Dillon needs you to take the Crenshaws down to the station while they wait for a lawyer, or something.”
“No can do, darlin’,” he said, shaking his head. “Horatio has heated up out there. Radio says it’s not safe to travel. It looks like we’re stuck here for the duration. I put dibs on the master bedroom for you and me.” He swaggered closer, thumbs tucked into his utility belt.
I rolled my eyes while Althea swatted him with a dried cattail she took from an arrangement on the table. It exploded into a cloud of fluffy seedlets, speckling Hank’s uniform, the table, and the floor.
“Now look what you’ve done, Althea,” he said, brushing at the tan flecks on his sleeve. They clung stubbornly.
“Maybe next time you’ll think before you open your potty mouth,” she said, pulling another cattail from the vase and waving it threateningly.
Mom hid a smile behind her hand as Hank stomped into the hall. I followed him, anxious to get back to the parlor. “There are worse things than being stuck together for the night in an old plantation home, right?” Hank said. “Remember that B and B we stayed at, over near Vicksburg? It was a lot like this place. We had ourselves a real good time there.” Hank waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
“We are not stuck ‘together,’ ” I said, picking up my pace so I was half a step ahead of him. “You are here in an official capacity. I am here with my mom and Althea. Separate. Apart.” I pushed open the parlor door before he could reply. It didn’t look like anyone had moved or said anything in the few minutes I’d been gone. Mark and his stepfather sat side by side on the sofa, not looking at each other. Lindsay stared at Mark as if willing him to look at her. Her telepathic powers weren’t working because he kept his eyes fixed on the floor as if memorizing the rug’s pattern. Agent Dillon sat on his tufted chair, flipping through the pages of the notebook he had propped on one knee.
Hank explained the situation, concluding with, “No one’ll be able to leave until the eye passes over in another hour or so.”
Dillon nodded, accepting the inevitable. “All right. Find a room for Mr. Crenshaw and his son. They want to call a lawyer. Stay with them.”
Hank nodded and made for the sofa as if to pull Mark to his feet. Eric Crenshaw forestalled him, standing and helping Mark rise with a hand beneath his elbow. It wasn’t until they were halfway out the door that Lindsay cried, “Mark!”
He started to turn around, but his stepdad nudged him forward and Hank closed the door.
“I don’t have to say anything,” Lindsay said belligerently, crossing her arms over her chest.
“No, you don’t,” Dillon agreed. He turned back to his notebook and crinkled his brow as if puzzling over something on its pages.
I drifted to the window and watched the rain slanting down, a solid silver sheet in the light from the windows. The wind ripped at the live oak tree closest to the window, flailing its branches and making it genuflect to the great god hurricane. Water puddled on the lawn, turning it into a shallow lake, and I wondered uneasily exactly how far Rothmere was from the river. The house stood on a rise, but the storm surge could push the water up the hill in a scarily short time.
“Look, all I did was talk to Braden.” Lindsay’s exasperated voice broke the silence.
She leaned forward and I noticed the upholstery around her was damp from her wet clothes and hair. She must be freezing. Dillon flipped a page in his notebook, not even looking up.
“You’re not listening!” Lindsay’s fist pounded the cushion beside her. “I was really going to the bathroom, but then I saw Rachel go in and I knew Braden was on his own. I thought it would be a good time to talk to him about what he was doing to Mark. He was going to tell the Naval Academy stuff he had no right to tell them. He was going to ruin Mark’s life!”
Or save it, I thought.
“So I slipped on the sheet, thinking I could give him a scare, even if there was no one else around, and I glided onto the landing, making this sort of moaning sound.” She demonstrated. It was a low, pain-filled sound, not at all like the yowling Lonnie and Tyler had used. “Braden came up the stairs and then, I don’t know how, he tripped and fell.”
“Really?” Dillon raised
his brows in pretend puzzlement. “I thought you said you talked to him?”
“Well,” she hesitated, looping a strand of hair around her forefinger and pulling on it. “I guess I might’ve said something about how he was wrecking Mark’s life and he should just mind his own effing business.”
“And then he just fell,” Dillon said, nodding as if it were plausible.
Lindsay’s eyes shifted from side to side, like she knew her story was weak, but she said strongly, “Right.”
Anger at her callousness fizzed in me like a carbonated beverage shaken too long. “Then why didn’t you get help?” I blurted.
Dillon shot me a “shut up” glare, but Lindsay answered. “I could see he was dead and I was scared. I didn’t know what I was doing, so I just ran down the back way and out to where they were doing the fireworks.”
“But he wasn’t dead,” Dillon said softly.
“I thought he was,” she said. A self-satisfied smirk crept across her arrogant young face. “That’s how it happened. I admit I lied to you at first, okay, because I was scared about how it would look. But it was an accident and you’ve got no one to say it wasn’t.”
Dillon looked her dead in the eyes. “Except Braden McCullers.”
Chapter Twenty-two
“YOU’RE LYING!” LINDSAY’s EYES WIDENED, AND ONE trembling hand pulled her hair again, squeezing drops of water from it.
Feeling like I’d been punched in the stomach, I looked at Dillon. His eyes were on me, not Lindsay, and he mouthed, “Sorry,” before turning back to the girl.
Anger, shock, and relief warred within me. Suddenly, little things I hadn’t understood made sense. Like Braden’s family leaving town immediately after his death. Like no funeral or memorial services. Like Catelyn referring to Braden in the present tense. He was alive. He’d survived the attack and the police and his family had put out the word he’d been killed to forestall other attempts on his life. Was he still at the hospital in Brunswick, or had they moved him? Had he come out of his coma? A moment’s thought told me that if he had, he didn’t remember much about his encounter with Lindsay at Rothmere; if he did, Dillon would never have sanctioned the charade this evening.