by Mary Burton
He shoved manicured hands into his pockets. He jangled loose change. “I have asked God for forgiveness.”
“Is that all it takes? If I were to ask God to wipe away my sins would that be enough?”
“Baby, you hurt those women.”
“Hurt, no. Killed, yes. And I liked it.”
Color drained from his face. “My God, Baby.”
Baby raised a finger to smiling lips. “It can be our secret.”
He straightened his shoulders, clearly already assessing the fallout of this confession. His eyes sharpened with ambition. “You expect me to keep this secret?”
“I’ve never told your secret. Lots of times I could have told but I never did. Reasonable you can keep mine.”
“Baby, I can’t keep this quiet. I can’t.” His hand trembled when he shoved tense fingers through his hair. He took a step back. “Why?”
“To punish you. To show you who is really important to you.”
Disgust contorted features made smooth by Botox. “I don’t want anything to do with you.”
“I don’t believe you.” Baby had expected him to be upset. No one liked to be punished. But this punishment was in his best interest. Soon he’d see and he’d be grateful.
Revulsion darkening his features, he pointed a finger trembling with retribution. “You are the devil.”
His anger wasn’t unexpected. “You gonna tell?”
“Yes.”
He’d never tell. He didn’t have the nerve to risk endangering his empire. “The world will find out about you.”
“So be it.”
“You are Satan!” The hatred and conviction resonating from the pastor’s voice stung like rejection. Baby’s heart constricted with sadness and anger. “You never really loved me, did you? You called me your Baby but you didn’t really mean it.”
He jerked as if backhanded. “God loves all sinners, but I cannot accept what you’ve done.”
The hate twisting around Baby’s heart tightened its stranglehold. “Did you ever love me?”
“You are a monster. How could I love that?”
“I’m not a monster! You are the monster!” Shock and sadness pulsated under the words. “Sugar.”
He flinched. “Don’t call me that!”
His fear offered some solace. “But you like the name.”
“Stop!” He backed up several steps as if all the secrets of his past had scurried out of the darkness like rats and swarmed at his feet.
Baby’s hand tightened on the handle of the thirty-eight. “Don’t walk away from me!”
“We are done!”
Fury had Baby’s index finger sliding to the trigger of the thirty-eight revolver. “I thought you’d see who truly loves you. I have your best interests at heart!”
He shook his head as he slowly turned to face Baby. Tears glistened in his eyes. “You are insane.”
Baby removed the revolver and stared at it as if it were strange and wondrous. “I’m not a monster. I’m not insane. You love me. You are glad I showed you your sinful ways. Say it.”
Gary held out his hands, his gaze riveted to the gun. “Baby, where did you get that?”
Baby pointed the gun at his chest. “Doesn’t matter, does it?”
“Give it to me,” he said, his voice clear and direct as if he were the one with the gun.
“No.” Baby pulled back on the trigger and the gun fired, striking Gary directly in the heart. Crimson bloomed on his white shirt and he stood for a moment, stunned. He dropped to his knees and then fell face forward on the floor. Blood pooled under his chest and oozed out onto the carpeted floor.
Baby pocketed the gun and for a moment stared, dumbstruck as if watching a movie. “Pastor Gary?”
When he didn’t move, Baby’s anger melted into puddles of regret. “Pastor Gary, I didn’t mean to shoot you. You made me mad. You can get up now. The punishment is over.”
A small gurgling sound emanated from his chest as the last breath he’d ever take seeped from his lungs. “Pastor Gary?”
Baby’s hand trembled as tears welled. “Wake up!”
Pastor Gary lay lifeless, the gurgling fading to silence.
Baby wept.
April 15
Sugggar,
Twinkle, twinkle little star . . . I wish you could love me. Twinkle, twinkle little star . . . I wish I didn’t hate you.
A.
Chapter Nineteen
Friday, October 21, 6 AM
Deke parked behind the three marked cars with flashing lights on Taylor Road, bordering the Cumberland River. Trucks backed up to bays loaded with dirt and gravel and beyond that a ribbon of trees buffered the property from the river. A long brick building was located on the property next to an abandoned field and a metal shed had long ago collapsed under the weight of age and rust. A peeling blue water tower stood tall, empty.
At the crime scene, Deke strode toward the uniform. “Deke Morgan. Why the call?”
The uniformed officer’s crisp brown shirt accentuated a long lean build. “Found the body of a CI that might be of interest to you.”
“Who?”
“Max Quincy.”
Deke drew in a breath. “Where?”
“The body is by the river.”
Dirt and crushed stone crunched under his feet as he followed the uniform toward the green brush. They picked their way through thick underbrush, the scent of the river growing stronger as they travelled. The woods stopped feet from the muddy shores of the Cumberland. Yellow crime-scene tape blocked access to the final remaining feet. Max lay on the shore, faceup, eyes open and his blue mouth agape.
He pulled rubber gloves from his back pocket. The scent of death was foul, as it often was with victims pulled from the water.
“Where is Forensics?”
“On the way. It’s been a crazy morning and they are scrambling. And this guy, well, he wouldn’t be the first drunk to end up in the water.”
Deke studied the configuration of the body, which had all the hallmarks of a body adrift in the water. “Any sign of trauma?”
“I checked when I first arrived. No gunshots or ligature marks. I pulled up his rap sheet on my computer. He was released a couple of days ago from jail. His latest arrest was for drugs. My guess, he either stumbled too close to the water and fell in or pissed off the wrong person.”
Deke would have agreed with the scenario a week ago. But Max had been his father’s CI and he’d been the key witness in the Jeb Jones case. He was another severed link to the thirty-year-old murder case. “Call Forensics and have them get here sooner rather than later.”
The uniform rested his hands on his hips. “What’s the rush?”
The skin on the back of Deke’s neck tightened as it had during his undercover days minutes before a buy went bad. Something was off about this. Wrong on more levels than he could articulate. “This guy didn’t fall in the river or screw up a drug deal. He’s linked to the Annie Dawson case.”
His cell rang. “Morgan.”
“Deke, it’s Rick.”
“What do you have?” A man of minimal words, his brother called when he had real news.
“Digging through those files and saw the name Beth Drexler. She was Annie’s roommate. She died in a car crash ten years ago.”
“Okay.”
“Her first husband was Pastor Gary Wright.”
“The boyfriend who had a crush on Annie?”
“So it seems. Beth was also the sister of Kate Tilden, his secretary for the last thirty years.”
His mind wove connections. “Gary could be Sugar.”
“He’s the right age. He also had a lot to lose if the affair with Annie was discovered.”
“Beth or Kate could have forged the letters. But only Kate could have sent them to Rachel.”
“Kate’s pretty ill. My money is on her daughter, Brenda.”
Tumblers clicked, puzzle pieces fell into place. “Brenda Tilden?”
“Yeah.”
“Brenda Tilden has been dating KC since late summer.”
A thick silence filled the line. “This isn’t good.”
“No, it is not.”
“Where you headed?”
“To see Brenda and Kate.”
Squirming memories in Nikki’s head felt like snakes newly hatched under her skin. Crawly and slithery, they nipped at her nerves and her tendons. She put her mop and bucket away and instead of going up to her room to watch television, like Rudy had told her, she walked into the bar and stood in the empty room. They’d not open for hours and the place stood silent as if it dozed before the next shift. She liked this time. Quiet. Simple. Not the buzz, buzz of the people talking or the music blaring so loud it cracked and splintered her head into pieces.
She moved to the bar, skimming her hand over the polished wood. Rudy liked the bar nice and neat. Start clean, end clean. He said it all the time.
She nibbled her lip as her gaze roamed over a stack of morning mail. The mailman left it here a lot. He knew Rudy and Rudy knew him. They’d been friends forever. Chapped, cracked fingers skimmed the stack covered with words and letters that jumbled and danced whenever she tried to read. She’d like to be able to read. Rudy said she’d once been able to. But now the words were locked up as tight as the liquor in the storeroom.
Sometimes she would hold up a paper and stare at it as if she understood. Rudy often watched, saddened, not amused by her display. She pushed the letters around on the bar until a colorful picture drew her gaze. She stared at the face of the smiling man who stood in front of a large cross.
“Cross.” The man’s smiling face drew her, holding her attention tight as if he’d reached out from the page and grabbed her face.
Memories rooted deep and dark in the shadows swirled in her brain, but as much as she coaxed them into the light, they refused. Frustrated, she crumpled the flyer in her hands. Her head pounded. Pictures and sounds pounded in her head making her head throb. She squeezed her eyes shut, and took a deep breath to calm the pain. When her heart slowed, she cracked open an eyelid and peered at the image of the man.
The man.
She knew him. Carefully she opened the second lid and touched the image, gently tracing a fingertip over the full smiling lips and even white teeth. He was a pretty man. Soft. Smooth. Not like Rudy. Gruff. Angry. Smelling of cigarettes and beer.
More images flashed in her head. A man smiling at her. Touching her face. The smell of a sweet scent . . . roses. She studied the man’s face. More images flashed. Did he have the key to her brain?
She moved behind the bar and found the tip jar. Shoving her fingers in, she fisted a thick handful of bills in her hand. Grabbing the picture of the man, she walked outside to Broadway. The bright sun made her wince and cringe and the sound of passing cars revved her heartbeat. She looked back at the doors and fearing a mistake moved toward them. She didn’t go outside often and when she did it was after dark with Rudy.
One step back toward home and more images flashed. A bottle of perfume. A locket. The smiling man. Music.
She squeezed her eyes shut, her pulse racing hard to make her veins explode. For several seconds she rushed to catch her breath. Finally, her breath slowed. The noises around her calmed, allowing her to shove aside fears and turn toward the street. On the corner sat a yellow car. A man got out and handed the driver money.
She glanced at the money clenched in her bony fist. She didn’t know how much she had, but hoped it was enough as she walked to the yellow car and shoved her money and the picture toward the car’s driver.
The driver looked at the picture and the rumpled bills scattered over his lap. “You want to go to the church?”
Words swirled in her head like buzzing flies and it was hard for her to know which ones to grab and use and which ones to let fly away.
She swallowed the rising panic as the sun glared in her face. She nodded.
The driver studied her with squinting, leery eyes. “The church. You want to go to Pastor Gary’s church?”
Pastor Gary. That sounded right. She didn’t know how, but she knew. “Yes.”
The driver eyed her. “How much money you got?” He counted the bills and then after he’d arranged them into a neat stack, he nodded. “Enough to get you there at least.”
She waited, not sure what he meant.
Frustrated, he raised a brow. “Okay. Get in.”
She studied the door handle and for a moment had to think about how it worked. It was simple to work, wasn’t it?
Trembling fingers slid over the metal handle and then slid under it. When she pulled up, the door clicked open and she sighed, relieved. She slid into the backseat and pulled the door closed. The cab smelled like the bar—cigarettes, booze, and bad perfume—and strangely it lulled her against the cracked warm leather seats. When the cab lurched into traffic, she straightened and curled her fingers into tight fists held against her thighs.
Time rarely meant much to Nikki. There were days it passed fast and other times moved at a snail’s crawl. Rudy often yelled at her when she lost time. Daydreaming, he’d say. Crazy as a shit-house rat, he’d say.
She stared out the window and watched the buildings on Broadway pass as they moved over a large bridge and toward green trees. Rudy wasn’t a bad man. He could get mad. Yell. But he’d never hit her. And when he’d come upstairs at night, he always checked in on her and made sure her head wasn’t pounding or she wasn’t thirsty or hungry.
The car stopped, jerking her from her thoughts.
She glanced through the glass at the driver.
“We’re here. The New Community Church like you showed me in the picture. That’s thirty bucks.”
He counted out money and then shoved the balance back at her through the opening in the glass separating them. She took the money, knowing Rudy always talked about getting money. He would be glad she took it.
She glanced at the door, reached for a handle and pulled up. It didn’t budge. Getting frustrated, she tugged harder.
“Wait a minute. You’re going to mess up my door,” the driver said.
He got out, came around and opened her door. Simple. Just like that.
Glancing at the door, she stepped away from the cab, sorry to be away from the smells.
“Do you want me to wait?” the driver asked.
She would have worried over the question if she’d not glanced up and seen the white chapel.
It ate up the land and reached so high, she imagined it touched the sky. Large colorful windows stretched and caught the light. So beautiful. Drawn, she moved to the large doors and into the building.
“Suit yourself,” the driver said. The wheels of his car squealed as he drove away.
Nikki pushed open the doors. Cool air greeted her and the tension banding her chest eased. Rows and rows of seats lined up on either side of a red-carpeted aisle that led to a large stage. Behind it hung the biggest cross she’d ever seen.
Nikki walked down the aisle letting her fingers skim the tops of the polished wood seats. She moved to the stage and stared back at the room. A familiar jolt of nerves tugged at her but it wasn’t a bad feeling. Standing here felt good.
She touched her fingertips to her hair and brushed the gray strands over the indentation in the side of her skull. She smiled and imagined the sound of people clapping.
More images flashed in her head. This time they came in rapid fire making her head pound. Noises popped and exploded in her head, drowning out her thoughts and making it nearly impossible for her to stand. She pressed her hands to her ears and staggered away from the edge of the altar.
Scared now, she crept behind the altar, ready to hide and wait for the sounds to go away. She wasn’t sure how she’d get back to Rudy. She didn’t know how to call and feared asking more strangers. Rudy had said strangers were dangerous and bad.
But as she moved to hide, she saw him. The man with the smiling face. He lay on his back, eyes open and glazed as he stared at the ceilin
g. His shirt was stained red but his face, well, it looked perfect and peaceful.
She knelt beside him and for a long time didn’t dare touch him. She half expected him to reach out and grab her.
When he didn’t touch her, she grew braver. With trembling fingers, she touched his jaw. Cold and smooth. Rudy’s face was warm and rough.
She poked him. He didn’t move; in fact, there was a stillness that frightened her. She backed away and then slowly rose. Terrified, she turned, fearing if she didn’t hide something bad would happen.
A door came into focus and she hurried toward it. With a jerk of the door she found a cool, dark closet. Grateful for the small, safe space she scampered inside and closed the door behind.
When Rachel’s door all but burst open, she glanced up from a court brief she’d been writing. Georgia stood in the doorway, her face pale and worried.
Rachel had seen Georgia several times under stressful situations but never once had she seen her upset. She rose. Her thoughts went to Deke who’d left her bed early this morning. He’d kissed her, made no promises to return, and left. “Everything all right?”
Georgia closed the door behind her and crossed the office. “I received a call from Margaret.”
“Annie’s sister.”
She nodded, rolled her eyes and sounded as if she couldn’t believe her own words. “My aunt called me. Margaret Miller.”
Rachel hesitated. “How did she find you? Your adoption was closed. Did you contact her?”
Georgia ran a trembling hand over her hair. “No. I’ve thought about it but I never really summoned the nerve. I don’t know how she found me.”
“You spoke to her.”
“Yes.”
“What does she want?”
“She wants to meet me. Says we need to talk. About Annie.” Georgia flexed her fingers. “I’m scared.”
Rachel remembered Bill Dawson’s warning about Margaret. “You don’t know her. That’s reasonable.”