Proof of Innocence

by Patricia McLinn

  “Yes, I understand. But first you have to tell me, Scott.”

  “I listened. To all of them. Mother, others. Listening, always listening when they needed someone. But they wanted…dirty things. Like Mama. But with Pan … oh, Pan was different. No one else knew. I told her it was because of working for her divorce lawyer — confidentiality. I had her all to myself. She asked me things, asked about me. She loved me. It was over with Rick. She hardly even talked about him. We were going to be happy. Really happy.

  “Then Carson came and she stopped calling, stopped seeing me. She didn’t have time. But she had time for him. Every day, every night. Everybody in town talking about it. That’s how I heard. Not from her. She had told me everything, every thought and fear and feeling. And now she wasn’t telling me anything. I had to call to know if she was home or out. I had to follow her to know where she went.

  “The other times at the clearing, they’d talked in the car and I couldn’t hear. But that day, when he got out, she followed. Calling out, throwing herself at him. Practically begged him to fuck her. Hanging on him, touching him like a common whore. Needs — God, needs! Need more than companionship. Need a man. Even when I didn’t want to, even when it was disgusting. But she needed — she needed everything!”

  That last wasn’t about Pan, was it? His voice had changed. Risen, out of control. Now he sucked in air, calming himself.

  “It was ruined. She ruined everything.”

  “Laurel, too,” she murmured.

  Laurel wouldn’t have hesitated to use Scott as a convenient and sympathetic audience. And once she thought she had Eugene by the short hairs to dump him.

  “That tramp told me she didn’t need me, because she’d fixed things just how she wanted. Like she got to decide.” His sneer faded into resolve. “This time it’ll be different, Maggie. It’ll be perfect. Roy’s out of your life. Just one more.”

  J.D.

  Was he stirring?

  “But Teddie?” she prompted.

  “Like Mother — memories all jumbled. They’d start jabbering. Telling what was secret. Had to go.

  “Got him stinking drunk. Cost a hell of a lot more than I’d counted on. And then Carson scooped him up like some fucking guardian angel, and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do.

  “I wasn’t doing that again. Next day, got out ahead of him, put good skidding gravel in the right spot, brought the car around, and came straight at him. That bike hit the gravel, he jerked the wheel, and plop, over he goes. No more moron. Perfect. Never touched him. No forensics at all.

  “Like with Pan. Even when I didn’t have time to plan, I thought of everything. Leaving her because it was close to his shack. Wiping out the prints — because that’s what he’d do. He should have been convicted! Death row. I dreamed of recording those words. Now I have to finish the job.”

  “No!” She forced calm into her voice. She had to delay him. Someone would see the smoke. Someone would call it in. Dallas. Evelyn. A neighbor. Someone. Help would come. “No, Scott. Think. We’ll call the sheriff. He’ll be tried. I’ll prosecute. I’ll get a guilty verdict this time.”

  “No. I’ll finish him, my notes will burn. I have you to myself.”

  He raised his arm, aimed at J.D.

  She dove.

  Her shoulder slammed into his chest, she swung her elbow into whatever it could find. He made a sound, mixed of surprise, rage and yes, pain. She clawed at his arm, his hand. Empty.

  Where was the gun?

  She pulled back. Looking frantically. She hadn’t heard it against the wood floor, but—

  And then she saw it at the back of the window seat cushion under the middle window.

  Scott saw it, too.

  They reached it simultaneously. He had the stronger grip, but she had a better angle.

  If he gained control, there would be no talking to him, no delay tactics. It would be over before anyone had a chance to help.

  J.D.

  Trust your gut, Maggie.

  She released the gun, grabbed Scott’s arm and pushed with all her weight behind it. Caught off guard and off balance, he offered no resistance. His wrist cracked against the window frame. He screamed and released the gun. He lunged for it, but it was gone, scratches tracing its path as it skidded down the roof, then a glint in the dark when it skied off the edge.

  She never heard it land.

  Scott lunged. Pain exploded in her jaw. The blow knocked her back off the window seat. She felt herself falling.

  Then nothing.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  Coughing dragged Maggie upright.

  Smoke. Fire. Pain.

  The circle of her senses widened. Grunts and curses. Movement. A moan.

  J.D.

  She opened her eyes.

  Scott had J.D. on the window seat. Grunting against the dead weight, he was trying to position J.D. at the open window so all it would take would be a good shove to tumble him out, down the steeply pitched roof, into the rock-strewn creek bed.

  “No!”

  Maggie launched herself at Scott. Trying for his eyes.

  He yelped, but his elbow connected with her cheekbone. Maggie stumbled, caught herself. But her ankle folded under her. No chance of catching or protecting herself, she went down, the side of her head slammed against the floor.

  She wouldn’t pass out again. She couldn’t.

  She reached her knees, holding her breath against the swirling smoke.

  Scott had J.D. in the open window. He pushed. Pushed again.

  “God dammit!” Scott screamed.

  J.D. held the frame with one hand. He was alert enough and strong enough to do that. Thank God.

  Scott pried at J.D.’s fingers.

  Maggie surged to her feet, lurching, reaching out.

  J.D. disappeared from the frame.

  No! No!

  A dual cry rose. Her horror, Scott’s triumph. But no sound from J.D.

  She pulled herself onto the window seat, leaning out the second open frame while Scott did the same beside her, trying to see. There was nothing. But she heard. Creaking wood. Grunts. A soft swish, a sharper rip.

  Then a thud.

  Solid male tumbling to wooden floor, wasn’t it?

  Or was it the cracking and shattering of something in the house below them from the fire?

  But how could he have — She didn’t care how, just please, please, let it be.

  “You’re like them — all of them. Leave me for some shit who fucks you. I’ll show you like I showed them. You bitch! You godamn bitch!”

  Scott lunged to push her out the window after J.D. She feinted one way. He fell for it. She scrambled off the window seat and toward the door.

  One step from the windows and the thick, dark smoke stung her eyes. She covered her mouth and nose with one hand, crouched and plunged deeper in. A patch of flames brought some illumination. The bed, she realized. She’d gone too far to the left. She had to get around it to reach the door. She scuttled to the right, her eyes streaming. Coughing wracked her.

  And then, out of the hot swirls, a hand grasped her wrist.

  She couldn’t break the hold. She couldn’t breathe.

  He swung her around like children playing Crack the Whip. She had no strength left to save herself from crashing into the window seat.

  He was on her immediately, shoving her legs out the window. She grabbed for anything. Her fingers scraped across raw wood gouged by J.D. She held on, scrabbling for a foothold on the slanted roof. Scott jammed the heels of his hands against her, driving splinters deeper. She clung.

  “You’re just like her. Trying to throw me away. No more!”

  He loomed above. Standing on the window seat. In the flash before his foot stomped on her fingers, she released one hand, dangling now.

  His foot landed on the frame where her other hand had been, barely missing her one-handed. She caught his ankle and yanked. Momentum already carrying him forward, he pitched out the window, landing on the
roof beside her. She heard his hands tearing at the shingles, trying to catch hold, anything to fight the gravity pulling him.

  Maggie reached up to grasp the frame with both hands, the motion swinging her feet to one side.

  Oh, God! Scott had caught her left foot.

  His weight pulled her like the rack. Arms, shoulders, torso, left leg, all screamed with the burning stretch.

  “You, too, Maggie. You, too.”

  The harsh whisper came from the dark closing over her. She had no voice to beg for her life.

  She felt the yank on her foot, knew he was no longer trying to save himself. He wanted only to kill her. To kill her as he had Pan and Laurel. She would be a victim, like the women in her photographs. No longer there to fight for them.

  Like Aunt Vivian.

  She saw her face. Heard her.

  Maggie.

  It would be okay. Aunt Vivian would fold her in her arms, and it would be okay. She wouldn’t fight any more. She could let go…

  No… No, Maggie. Live. Not for me. Live for yourself. Fight, Maggie. Fight. And live.

  A sob sucked air into her lungs. She kicked out with her right foot. Once. Twice. And again.

  She caught him the third time. His head, she thought. He screamed. The unbearable drag on her leg disappeared, and he screamed again. The descending crash of branches swallowed the scream. But not its echoes.

  Finally, she heard only her own wheezing pants, and the voracious crackle of fire.

  She was beyond pain. Beyond struggle. Beyond letting go. She would stay here. Right here. Until… Until.

  Smoke billowed out of the windows. She coughed. Turned her face to the side.

  The harsh pebbles of the shingles pressed into her cheek. She closed her eyes and concentrated on a pain she could fathom.

  “Maggie.”

  Was that the last thing in her mind before she died? J.D. saying her name? Shouldn’t her entire life flash before her eyes? Or was it a mercy to not get her entire life? To have simply his voice?

  She looked up, but smoke filled the window above her.

  Then she felt a strong hold across the back of her waist. From here, out on the roof.

  “J.D.?” He was real. “You’re here.”

  “Yeah.” He was doing something. Lying on his stomach next to her, but not sliding.

  “You didn’t fall off the roof.”

  “Caught the gutter. Swung into the porch.” He was tying a rope. That’s what he was doing. Tying a rope around her waist. Connecting it to himself.

  “Scott fell off. Down—”

  “I know. I tried to get back before— But you’re not going to fall. We’re getting off together.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good.” He tugged at the rope. “Draw your legs up to the side, like a frog. Good. Use the side of your feet. Press against the shingles. That’s right. Now, let go of the window.”

  Her fingers wouldn’t open.

  “Maggie, I’ve got you.” His arm crossed over her back. “You can let go.”

  Sooty tears slid into her mouth. “I’m trying.”

  He shifted, reached over her, and pried her fingers open. Fire licked at the vertical window frame.

  “Here we go,” J.D. said. Calm, unhurried.

  They edged their way across the roof like peculiar crabs. No, frogs. He’d said frog.

  She focused on his voice. And the inch in front of her.

  Voices came from below. Voices shouting about their safety. About the fire. She listened to only one voice. The one closest to her.

  They reached the edge, it was easier to breathe here. Slightly. Though with each breath that benefit lessened, as the smoke followed.

  J.D. checked the rope.

  “The ground’s not solid enough where the roof’s lower. We have to drop to the ground from up here. I’m going over the edge first, Maggie.” He brought his face close to hers. Looked into her eyes. “When I tell you, lower yourself down. Wait for my word, then let go and I’ll be there.”

  He stroked her hair once. Looked as if he might say more. Instead, he left. And she was alone.

  “I won’t be able to hold here long.”

  Who was she telling? J.D.? Herself? Vivian? Jamie and Ally? Bel and Landis? Nancy?

  A little longer, Maggie, they all said.

  A little longer.

  She’d do that. She owed it to all of them.

  A little longer.

  “Maggie.” His strong voice came from below. She released the breath she hadn’t known she held. He hadn’t disappeared into the abyss. He’d reached ground. “Slide over the edge now.”

  Her muscles shook as she slid one leg then the other over the edge of the eave, each move accompanied by the scrape of the shingles. She didn’t have the strength to lower herself slowly, her weight jerked her down.

  “Okay, Maggie. Let go.”

  She couldn’t. She hung, her hold weakening, the stretch in her shuddering arms becoming more impossible each second. But she couldn’t let go.

  “I’ll get you.”

  She closed her eyes. And she saw his face. Seeing the blood. Seeing the pain. Seeing the loner. The survivor. The innocent man.

  “Trust me, Maggie. Trust me.”

  She looked down, between her arms and to the side. Saw a slice of his face.

  “Shut up.” She gulped in air. “And get me on the damn ground.”

  He grinned, altering the path of the blood running down his cheek. Stretched his arms higher, narrowing the gap she would fall but unable to close it.

  “C’mon, then.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  Monday, 10:32 a.m.

  Dallas sat at the kitchen table when Evelyn came in. She studied him as she put on an apron.

  She’d stayed last night — the hell with what her boys or anyone else thought — she wasn’t leaving him with all this.

  The fire.

  J.D. and Maggie.

  Scott.

  She’d persuaded Dallas to bed as dawn came, but sleep was another matter.

  “Morning, Dallas. No stirring from the guest rooms.” Maggie and J.D. had followed the doctor’s orders to rest, but not until most of the night had gone in questions, answers … and horrors, as officials worked along the creek bed to retrieve Scott’s body.

  Dallas grunted. “When they get up, tell them I’ve gone to the sheriff’s department. Have a lot of things to go over. They say confession’s good for the soul. I’ll be confessin’ my blindness and my arrogance.”

  It was worse than she’d thought.

  She’d known he would blame himself for not seeing signs of Scott’s problems. At some level maybe he had known. Those dizzy spells, the tiredness, all the ways his body tried to make him listen to what his heart couldn’t bear.

  All because he and that strange son of a strange mother shared a trickle of blood. The old fool.

  Her old fool.

  “Dallas, I have something to say.”

  He looked up, not much interested.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “Yes. I’ll marry you.”

  A spark lit his eyes, but then they narrowed. “Why now?”

  “Because before you thought you were rescuing me.”

  Automatic denial came to his lips. He stopped it. “I’ll have to think about that.” He added, “So now my name is disgraced, you’re rescuing me?”

  She made a sound. “As if roaring into court as the underdog wouldn’t get your blood pumping like it hasn’t in years. Besides, you know as well as I do that if there’d been rescuing — one or the other — we would have suited all this time.”

  He lowered his eyelids. “Then why now?”

  “Don’t go closing your eyes like you think it’ll stop me seeing into your head. Why now? Because I’ve got the imagination to live with you, but I’m not sure I have enough to live without you.”

  * * * *

  Charlotte Blankenship Smith’s laughter could b
e heard throughout the jail.

  Sheriff Roger Gardner could still hear it long after he’d informed the prisoner she was no longer suspected in her sister’s murder, although she continued to be held on charges associated with the attack on Maggie Frye.

  Charlotte had hardly seemed to hear what he’d said about how Scott’s confession to Maggie and J.D. of murdering Pan and Laurel affected her. She was already laughing.

  Laughing and laughing.

  Maggie had heard it, too. Probably why her exit just now had been speedy.

  She’d likely be back for an official tie-up, but for now she was headed home.

  Home.

  The sheriff locked his office door. At the front desk he told Dorrie, “Abner will be back when they finish dismantling at the gym. I’m going home. I’m going to sleep for a week. If you need me tonight or tomorrow—”

  “I won’t. You sleep well, Sheriff Gardner.”

  She put on her headset, even though the phone hadn’t rung.

  He hoped it shut out Charlotte’s laughter.

  And her occasional shouts. “Scott Tomlinson! Fucking Scott Tomlinson! The one man she didn’t screw!”

  * * * *

  She stood at the prosecution table, her fingertips trailing over the wood.

  “Maggie.”

  She whirled, the way she had a week ago when he’d startled her in this same spot. This time, she relaxed as J.D. stepped out of shadow.

  She even gave a half-grimace, half-smile. “Who sent you to see if I’m okay? Dallas or Evelyn?”

  “Came on my own. Are you okay?” He leaned in. “Your hair doesn’t smell like smoke anymore.”

  “Thanks to Doranna. Even cleared her shop so I wouldn’t be bothered by questions. I will be okay. You?”

  “Better than you.”

  “Right. Because you only got shot. In the head.” Her sarcasm slid away. “I still think—”

  “No hospital. Mostly scalp wound. After your tangle with Charlotte, you know how they bleed. Besides, I told you, I was mostly playing possum to gain the element of surprise.”

  She took his arm, trying not to wince at the bandage on his head and those mostlys, and started toward the door. “You couldn’t have surprised him before he threw you on the roof?”