Chapter 43
The tension between me and Abby at the dinner table was palpable, hanging in the air like a malignant fume. The longer we sat there picking at our food, the worse it got.
“So, are you and the investigator making any progress?” Abby said.
“Some.”
“Like what?”
“Little things, nothing major.”
“Such as?”
“Not worth talking about, Abby.”
“Fine.”
“Yeah, fine is right.”
Other than chatter between me and Julie and Mandy, or between the girls themselves, that was the extent of dinnertime dialogue at the Bolton household that fine evening.
I was teaching the girls to play Uno when a knock sounded at the door. It was Teddy. “Hey man, come on in,” I said.
He stepped inside, stopped, looked me in the eye. “I heard about your bail problem.”
“Somebody’s screwing with me bigtime, Teddy.”
“I heard about the bank. That’s some shit, Gray, but all this might not be the angle you’re thinking.”
“Meaning what?”
“Charlie Langford’s got one hell of a hard-on for you.” He gave a low whistle. “Pissing on you all over town.”
“I know, but sabotage my credit, Charlie?”
“Don’t put it past the old bastard, is all I’m saying. That old-country-lawyer crap is just that. Crap. He’s slick, and he’s mean as hell when somebody crosses him.”
“Anyway, you have one less problem on your mind, buddy.” He handed me a piece of paper. I stared down at it, unable to believe my eyes.
“I can’t let you do this,” I said.
“It’s already done. Listen, I’d like to stay and chat, but the wife’s dragging me to some idiot party out at the country club. Keep me posted.”
He clapped me on the shoulder, turned, and left. I stared at the receipt in my hand, the one showing a paid cash bond in the amount of $100,000, paid by Theodore Abraham on behalf of Grayson Bolton.
Abby walked up. “What’d he want?”
I showed her the receipt. She stared at it for a moment, rolled her eyes, and walked away.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I said. “This keeps me out of jail, in case you care.”
She stopped, turned back toward me. “Gray, I—” She froze, looked at me for a moment. “Never mind.” She walked away again, and I didn’t try to stop her.
* * *
A little after nine, I dialed Penny’s room.
“Hello?” she answered.
“I’m going to the shop to check the computer’s progress. Want to meet me there?”
“Sure.”
“See you in fifteen minutes.”
* * *
NUMBER OF MATCHES: 0 was the disappointing message found when I powered up the computer monitor. The progress bar for the search was at 48%, the machine still grinding relentlessly away at the problem. I told her what Teddy had done.
“Now, that calls for a celebration!” she said. “How about a drink?” Penny said. She was close enough for me to smell her breath; she’d already had a glass or two of wine. She had also changed clothes, replacing the smart business suit with a clingy sleeveless white shirt and snug black jeans. She looked good. It suddenly felt warm in the shop.
“Better not,” I said.
“Come on, it’ll do you good. You need to unwind.”
Really good. Really warm. “What the hell.”
* * *
Six beers later for me and four glasses of wine for her, we were leaving Bartholomew’s Grotto, a dark little Bohemianesque bar on the town square. We were at the silly stage, both giggling as we walked down the side of the building toward the parking lot in the rear. Also half leaning on each other. By the time we made it to my car, my arm was around her.
The giggling was over and I had a feeling the trouble phase was cranking up. I fumbled with my keys, trying to push the button on the remote to unlock the doors. Penny started trying to help and somehow we wound up nose to nose, with some serious eye contact going on. Trouble was cranked and revving her engine.
I glanced down and saw her chest rising and falling in sharp, quick breaths. Hot breaths that I could feel on my face. What the hell would it hurt? Abby had already blown the vows when she started fucking Bobby Knight. I drew a deep breath.
“Penny,” I said.
“Yes?” It was a gentle whisper.
“I can’t do this.”
“I know.” She squeezed my hand, arched on to her tiptoes, kissed me on the cheek. “You’re a good man, Gray Bolton. Go home.”
Chapter 44
Abby lay on the bed and wailed, clutching the sides of her head with both hands as searing pain ripped through her skull. It started in the center and shot outward to her ears, cycling over and over and over.
“Mommy’s crying,” Julie said from the doorway. Mandy stood beside her, now bawling in terror herself as she stared at her mother.
“Go play!” Abby said between screams. “Go on! Get out of here!” She grabbed a pillow and threw it at them, hitting Julie and knocking her down.
Julie joined Mandy in crying as she got to her feet and the girls backed out of the room, still staring. Abby jumped up, ran to the door, and slammed it.
Back on the bed, she rolled back and forth, pressing on her ears. She looked at the clock on the nightstand. Eight minutes. Three or four more to go before it started to fade. At first the pains had been only a flash. Then a minute, then two. Each round hurt worse and lasted longer. Damn that sonofabitch Bobby Knight! Breaking her heart by dying was bad enough. Putting her through this was unforgivable.
* * *
I heard a commotion from the front yard, threw open the door, and ran inside. The master bedroom was at the back of the house and it all seemed to be coming from that direction. When I got there, I found Mandy and Julie standing in the hallway, crying. The noise coming from behind the closed door to the bedroom was far worse, but I first made sure the girls weren’t hurt. That done, I said, “Okay, I want you girls to go to your room. Daddy will be there in a few minutes, okay?”
“Mommy threw the pillow at me,” Julie said.
I drew a breath through clenched teeth and softly said, “You’re okay, just go to your room.”
“Okay.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Good girls.” They pattered away, and I tried the doorknob. Locked. I rapped on the door.
“Abby, open the door.”
“Go the fuck away!” Then the horrible moaning resumed.
“Open it or I’ll kick it down.”
More moans came from inside but the door remained locked. I stepped back and planted a firm foot just below the doorknob. The jamb splintered and the door swung open. Abby was on the bed, shrieking like a wild animal, squeezing her head so hard that the muscles in her forearm were bulging, trembling.
I rushed to the bed, sat down, and pulled her hands away from her head. “Abby, what’s wrong?”
“My head, you dumb bastard, my fucking head is about to explode!”
“When did this start?”
Abby suddenly started to relax, the wail tapering off into nothing. She sniffed a couple of times and said, “I’m better now.”
“Come on, let’s get you to a doctor.”
“I’m fine. I don’t need a doctor.”
“Like hell you don’t! Something’s obviously bad wrong with you. Did you throw something at the kids?”
“It was a damned pillow, and I’m not going to a doctor, you imbecile. Now please leave me the hell alone!”
The tone in her voice scared me. She looked like a stranger. Then, just as suddenly as the screaming had subsided, the worst of the animosity seemed to melt away.
“I’ve been having migraines lately, that’s all. I’m sorry for the language, but I don’t need a doctor.”
“All right, Abby. Whatever you say.” I left the room, checked on the gir
ls, then walked outside and dialed a number on my cell phone that I hadn’t dialed in a long time.
Chapter 45
“Dad, I can’t handle this crap right now. I really can’t. And if I had anyone else to go to on this, I would,” I said into the cell phone.
“Very well. It’s irregular, but if you’re convinced the children could be in jeopardy, I’ll find someone to sign the order. And bring Mandy and Julie with you if you like. I’ll be glad to take some days off and keep them until this blows over.”
“Thanks.” My first thought was that I wasn’t about to send the girls off, but common sense took over. It would take a couple of days to make arrangements for a baby-sitter or day care center, and I had to have immediate. Ten minutes later, I had them in the car, headed for my father’s house. It was the first time I’d made that drive since Mom’s funeral. I don’t keep the girls away from him, but he either comes and picks them up or Abby drops them off. I don’t go to the home of Jonathan Grayson Bolton, Senior, and I don’t call his number. Not even when I’ve been framed and arrested. Some things are worse than prison.
Except now I had no real choice. Abby had obviously freaked out and could be a danger to herself, or more importantly, to Mandy and Julie. She needed help, and since she refused to go to a doctor voluntarily, she was about to go under court order. There was nothing local I was comfortable with, but the hospital in Tupelo had a behavioral health center with a decent reputation, so she would be taken there by the sheriff’s department, forcibly if necessary.
The Judge, as my mom had always referred to him, had balked at first—fearing an unavoidable appearance of impropriety and conflict of interest—at any involvement in the request of his only son to have his daughter-in-law committed. He packed up his hesitation when he learned that Abby was chunking things at the girls. Didn’t matter what those things were. Soft this time. Maybe hard next go-around. Not a chance worth taking. He couldn’t sign the order himself, but a colleague could.
He was waiting on the front porch when we pulled into the wide circular driveway. He stood beneath the glow of the light with his arms crossed, Caesar surveying his empire. The girls saw him and made a beeline. “Pawpaw!” “Pawpaw!”
“Hello, my angels,” he said as he scooped them up, one on each arm.
“Dad,” I said with a nod.
“Hello, Grayson.”
Chapter 46
I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. After an hour, I got up and paced the house, trying to bleed off anxiety, wanting to figure things out. It turned into a one-man pity party pretty quickly. That disgusted me, so I turned on the lights and started straightening up around the house.
Only then did it occur to me how unusual it was that the house needed it. Yet another thing that didn’t fit with the Abby I thought I knew. She’d been a great housekeeper over the years, almost maniacal, in fact. Now a week’s worth of dishes were piled up in the kitchen, I barely had any clean clothes, and the list went on. I stood in front of a dark TV with a dusting rag in my hand and tried to remember when things started changing around home. A week? A month? Longer?
No, not a month. A month ago was when Robby and Susan Stovall had come over for dinner and a movie. The house was spotless, as it invariably was before guests were allowed to set foot inside. And there had been no need for any cleaning binge—it was just in order as it always was. But it had started the next week. Brother Rick had wanted to stop by for a brief evening visit and she declared the house unacceptable and said she didn’t feel like cleaning it. It had been about three weeks.
The biggest question remained: Why? I resumed my cleaning episode and continued to mull it over. Got nowhere, but I did a lot of mulling. Until I got to the exercise room. The room was trashed. I found three drinking glasses, a plate, an expensive looking Discman, and two flower pots, all smashed, their pieces and parts in a heap on the floor underneath the room’s brick wall. Abby had obviously thrown all these things against that wall, I presume in some sort of psychotic conniption.
What the hell?
Chapter 47
I gave up housecleaning, and any hope of getting to sleep, and went to the shop at 4:40 A.M. It was with great anticipation that I turned the computer monitor on, but it morphed into vast disappointment when I saw the message: 0 MATCHES FOUND. START NEW SEARCH? Not good.
A short while later, the sky outside started shifting from black to gray, and my eyelids turned to lead. I curled up on the tattered old couch in my office and was asleep in minutes. In a dream, I heard Penny calling out over and over, “Gray! Gray! Gray, let me in!”
After about a dozen times, my eyelids fluttered open and I realized it wasn’t a dream. She was at the side door, banging away, shouting for me to let her in. I levered myself up from the couch and made my way to the door.
“I was starting to worry,” she said as I let her in.
“Sorry, what time is it?”
“Eight. How long you been here?”
“Since before five. Couldn’t sleep and decided to come check the computer.”
“And?”
I shook my head.
“Damn,” she said.
“Let’s brew some coffee and figure out what to do next.”
Over coffee, I brought her up to speed on the events at House Bolton the night before. She tilted her head and scrunched up her face in a way I had come to recognize as her trying to figure something out. “What?” I said.
“It’s just weird, Gray. Abby was involved with Bobby Knight. Bobby Knight was involved in this case. Bobby Knight gets dead. Abby goes nutzoid. A heck of a lot of coincidence in the air, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing, Penny, but I can’t figure out how the puzzle fits together.”
“We’re still missing too many pieces.”
Chapter 48
Penny, LungFao and I were in the shop. Business was slow. “Any word on Abby?” Penny said.
“The doctor is going to call me later today with an update. He asked me not to call or see her for a couple of days, afraid it’ll upset her.”
“What about your children?”
“They’ll be in heaven with their PawPaw until I can get them back home. I’m going to see them tonight.”
“You’re a good daddy, Gray Bolton.”
“It’s important to me.”
“It shows.”
I smiled. “Enough about me. What’d you do last night after...”
“Went to my room. Did a little reading. Crashed.”
“Hey, that gives me an—”
The door chimed and a thuggish-looking black guy burst in through the door, looking all around as he did so, creeping me out in much the same way on John Patrick Homestead had.
“Need to talk to you,” he said, looking my way.
“LungFao will help you,” I said.
“Not you, cracker, her.” He pointed at Penny.
“Cracker?” I started up out of my chair.
Penny touched me on the arm and gave me a pleading, please-let-it-go look. I eased back, and she walked to the counter.
“What?” she said to him.
“I think we need to talk in pri-vate, my sister.”
“This is as private as it’s going to get. Let it out or leave, my bro-ther.” She was just as good at Ebonics the Smartass Version as he was. I walked over, stood beside her.
He scowled and looked around again, being sure no one was lurking out of sight down an aisle. “Yo, word is you been asking questions ’bout Goldie.”
“Word’s right. What’s it to you?”
“Lemme tell you something, homegirl. Goldie is my nigger, you got that?” He punctuated the end of his sentence with a finger jabbed within an inch of Penny’s face. Bad move.
I grabbed his elbow with my left hand, and yanked that finger back with my right.
“Crazy sumbitch!” he screamed. “What the fuck you doing?”
I folded the finger back, just shy of the snap
point, and held it there.
“Do we have your attention, bro-ther?” I said.
“Let go my finger, you—”
I eased in more pressure on the finger. His face was wrapped in abject fear. “Do. We. Have. Your. Attention?” I said.
More nodding.
“Okay, if I let you go, you’re gonna be a good little punk, right?”
He nodded again, his face now covered in a sheen of sweat.
“If he ain’t,” Penny said, “just bust a cap in his punk ass, Gray.”
“You got the message yet?” I said.
Emphatic nodding. I released his finger and he grabbed it with his other hand as he backed away from the counter, just out of my reach.
“Who are you?” I said.
“Bump.”
“No street bullshit. I want your name, now.”
“Steve Bumpus.”
“Okay, Stevie, tell me exactly what your relationship is to Leroy Huddleston.”
“He sells product for me.”
“Product, Stevie? Product?” Penny said.
“Rock. He sell my rock.”
“And why are you here?”
“I was afraid he’d start talking to you. Don’t want him rolling over on me.”
“You’d rather him rot in jail than you have to spend a night in jail.” I said, more statement than question. Stevie didn’t answer.
“That’s what I thought. What do you know about the cop killing?”
“Goldie ain’t killed no cop. That nigger’s afraid of everything. Didn’t happen.”
“What did happen? What’s the word?”
“Ain’t no word.”
“You’re lying, Stevie.”
“No, I ain’t.”
All defiance was gone from his face—the sheen of sweat was thickening—he wouldn’t look me or Penny in the eye. Penny reached into the small of her back and came out with a Walther PPK, .380, compact, made famous by James Bond and a way nice pocket weapon.
Pawnbroker: A Thriller Page 10