by Sharon Sala
He kept glancing at the floorboard and the seat of his truck as he drove away, making sure she hadn’t left anything behind. His identical twin brother, Reece, used the truck at night, and he made a big deal of keeping it clean, which Louis thought was stupid because Reece’s dog, Bobo, shed like crazy and Reece was always taking Bobo for a ride.
He got back to school and slipped right into the routine as if he’d never been gone, hauling the oversize trash cans from the school cafeteria to the Dumpsters and sweeping up the floor after the last lunch shift had ended. He stayed busy all afternoon and then went to work cleaning up the rooms after school was out, thinking all the time of the comfort waiting for him back home. Even though he and his brother shared a house, they didn’t share their lives. Louis worked days, his brother worked nights and, even though they shared a vehicle and sometimes the dog, their paths rarely crossed.
His steps were dragging as he locked up the building and headed to the parking lot. It was almost supper time, but he was going home to take a nap. He’d always taken a nap after school when he was little and he did the same thing now because routines and schedules were how Louis Parsons rolled.
The house he and Reece rented was on the far side of the park in the old part of Mystic. The houses weren’t shacks, but they were a little run-down, most of them in need of a coat or two of paint or minor repairs. Louis had fixed the front steps when they’d moved in, and painted the porch so the outside looked neat. The interior was a work in progress. He liked to stay busy during the day, even on weekends, but that meant quiet projects because Reece slept days.
He unlocked the door and entered quietly, wrinkling his nose at the doggy smell of the house as he headed for the kitchen with his to-go coffee mug. He rinsed it out to refill tomorrow, wrote a note to Reece telling him what food was available in the refrigerator for his nighttime meals and headed down the hall to his room.
He took off his work clothes without looking at his body, and slipped between the sheets and closed his eyes. Silence engulfed him as he fell asleep.
Four
Trey finished writing up the report, and then printed it out and filed it. It was almost noon before he got the schedules rearranged and his officers back on duty. And he still hadn’t checked in with Dallas. He went back into his office and shut the door, then dropped into his chair and made the call.
* * *
Betsy was still sleeping when Dallas’s cell phone signaled a call. She’d put it on vibrate so it wouldn’t disturb Betsy and was relieved to see that it was Trey.
“Hi, honey,” she said, careful to keep her voice low.
“Hello, sweetheart. How are things going? Was Mom all right?”
Dallas looked over her shoulder to make sure she was still alone.
“I thought so at first. She was making bread when I got here, but she looked so tired...almost old. I’ve never thought of your mother as old before. We went into the living room to sit down. She leaned back and closed her eyes, then for no obvious reason jumped up so fast she knocked her coffee off the table. The mug broke and coffee went everywhere. I went to get something to clean it up, and she started screaming. I ran back and found her on her knees in the middle of the spilled coffee. It was the most frightening sound I’ve ever heard.”
Trey’s heart skipped a beat. “Oh, my God, did she fall?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Dallas said. “But she acted like she didn’t know where she was. I tried to get her up to go change her clothes, and she kept looking down at the floor telling me she couldn’t leave yet because she’d just thrown up in the floorboard of the car and she had to clean it up.”
The hair stood up on the back of his neck.
“The floorboard of a car? She said she threw up in the floorboard of a car?”
“Yes. It makes no sense,” Dallas said. “I was afraid she’d had some kind of seizure, because she went right to sleep after I got her cleaned up.”
Trey frowned. “I’m coming out. Don’t leave, I’ll be there soon.”
“Oh, I’m not leaving. I have to bake the bread dough she has rising. Have you talked to Trina?”
“Not yet. As for Mom, don’t tell her I’m coming,” Trey said.
Dallas felt sick. Would this turmoil never end?
* * *
Trina Jakes was taking inventory on the number of radiator hoses they had in stock and comparing it to the computer readout of stock on hand to make sure the numbers matched.
Freddie Miller, her boss at Miller Auto Parts, was beginning to suspect someone was selling inventory at a cut rate to certain customers and pocketing the money because he kept coming up short on parts when the computer said they were still in stock.
There were only three other employees besides her who could be doing it: Tony, Elton or George, and she had to guess that since she was the bookkeeper and never waited on customers, Freddie didn’t suspect her. That and the fact that he’d asked her not to mention what she was doing made his suspicions fairly obvious.
She was down on her knees in the aisle when someone tapped her on the shoulder. She looked up.
“Hey, Red, what are you doing?”
She frowned. Not only did she not like that Elton called her Red, but she’d just been confronted, something she’d hoped wouldn’t happen. She had to come up with an explanation fast.
“Oh, I’m checking some stock numbers against an invoice I got the other day. They don’t match, and I can’t cut a check to pay until I know for sure we got the right merchandise.”
“I can help,” Elton offered.
“Thanks, but I already have the numbers I’m looking for in my head, and it would take longer for me to make you a list than for me to just do it.”
“Whatever,” he said. He grinned, and then gave a lock of her hair a little tug. “So when are you gonna dump that Daniels dude and let a real man show you a good time?”
Trina stood up. It was a defensive move she’d used on the men before because she was taller than all three of them.
“I already have a real man, and quit calling me Red,” she drawled. She then strolled up the aisle and back into her office.
The phone was ringing as she walked in the door, and she hurried to answer.
“Miller Auto Parts. This is Trina.”
“Hey, sis, it’s me.”
Trina had already heard about Paul Jackson’s death, so she guessed why he was calling.
“Hi, Trey. Sorry about Mr. Jackson. You guys caught a bad one this morning, didn’t you?”
“Have you talked to Mom?”
She frowned. “Not since I left for work. Has something happened?”
“She freaked out again when she heard about Paul’s death, just like she did when she found Dick Phillips’ body. Dallas is with her, but I wondered if you could give me your opinion of how she’s been acting recently.”
All of a sudden Trina felt anxious. “Secretive, weepy, a little frantic at times, and then most of the time she’s Mom. What’s going on?”
“Not sure. I’m going out to check on her shortly. If you feel worried about her at any time, night or day, call me, okay?”
Tears suddenly blurred Trina’s vision. “You’re scaring me, Trey.”
“Yeah, well, she’s scaring me, so that makes two of us. Listen, I’ve got to go. Remember, call if you need me.”
“Do you think we should call Sam?” she asked.
Trey thought of their oldest brother, an ex-military, hard-core private investigator and the last member of their family to put up with bullshit from anyone.
“Not unless we need someone to put out a fire or start a war,” he drawled.
Trina giggled. “Yes, you’re right. Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on Mom.”
“Good deal. Talk to you later.”
The click in her ear signaled the end of the conversation, but it had just begun a whole new set of worries. This stuff scared her. She needed to talk to Lee. She was having dinner with him tonight. H
e was the rational one in their relationship. He would make everything all right.
* * *
Betsy woke up to silence and for a few moments wondered why she was in bed, and then she remembered. She threw back the quilt and sat up on the side of the bed, absently rubbing the scar along her hairline. She distinctly remembered throwing up, but the bitter aftertaste was absent. And she’d been screaming. They were going too fast. That was it—they were going too fast! But that made no sense because she’d just woken up in bed, so had she dreamed it?
“Betsy?”
Startled by the sound of another voice, Betsy stood up as Dallas entered the bedroom.
“Dallas? Oh, yes, you were here, right? How rude of me to go to sleep.”
Dallas wanted to hug her, but there was something about the way Betsy was standing that told Dallas not to push her.
“It’s actually time to work your bread. I was going to do it, but since you’re up I thought you might want to do it yourself.”
Betsy blinked, and just like that she was back. She smoothed the hair away from her face and slipped into her shoes.
“Yes, the bread! I love that first rising when you go to punch it down, don’t you? It’s like popping a big rubber balloon! Let’s get that bread in the baking tins and then make something for lunch, okay? You can stay, right?”
Dallas smiled. “I’d love to have lunch with you.”
Betsy patted Dallas’s cheek as she sailed past her on her way back to the kitchen. She knew what to do now. She had purpose.
A short while later Betsy had the dough in the pans and was covering them up for the last rising. Dallas was heating up some soup Betsy had taken out of the freezer when they heard the front door open.
“It’s me!” Trey yelled.
“We’re in here,” Betsy called. Then she looked at Dallas and smiled. “Good thing we got the big carton out to reheat. Trey loves beef-and-barley soup.”
Dallas smiled and kept stirring. When Trey walked into the kitchen he went straight to her.
“Hey, honey, thanks for coming over,” he said softly, and kissed the back of her neck.
Dallas nodded and then glanced toward Betsy, who was already getting out the ingredients to make grilled cheese sandwiches to go with the soup.
“Something sure smells good,” Trey said. “I hope you made enough for me.”
“Always,” Betsy said. “One sandwich or two?”
Trey kissed her cheek and smiled. “One is enough, thanks. What can I do to help?”
“You can set the table. You know where everything is, right?”
“Sure,” Trey said. He began getting plates and bowls from the cabinet, and flatware from a drawer.
“Can you talk about the case?” Dallas asked.
Trey shrugged. “Not much to tell right now. It was a bad scene. Mack is in about the same shape you were when I called you.”
Dallas sighed. “I am so sorry. This is just a horrible thing to have happened.”
Trey glanced at his mother. She was far too cheerful. “Mom?”
Betsy flipped the two sandwiches on the grill and then looked up. “What, honey?”
Trey stopped what he was doing and walked over to the stove, took the spatula from her hand and then wiped away the tears running down her face.
“Come sit. I’ll do the last sandwich,” he said.
Betsy complied without comment.
Dallas turned off the heat under the soup.
“Should I dish up the soup or wait?” she asked.
“Wait until I get the last sandwich grilled,” Trey said as he took the finished sandwiches off the grill and put on the last one.
“Betsy, honey, would you like a cup of coffee?” Dallas asked.
Betsy wrapped her arms around herself and began rocking in her chair.
“Does it feel cold in here to you? For some reason I’m freezing,” she said.
“I’ll turn up the heat,” Dallas said, and headed for the thermostat in the hall.
Trey glanced toward the table. His mom had lost all color in her face.
“Mom?”
Betsy looked up. “Hmm?”
“What’s happening?”
She shivered again. “I don’t know, Trey, but I think I’m losing my mind.”
Trey flipped the sandwich and turned off the grill, then handed Dallas the spatula as she walked back into the kitchen.
She moved to the grill as Trey sat down beside his mother and took her hands. Her skin was clammy, and he could feel the tremor in her muscles.
“Talk to me, Mama. You told Dallas you threw up in the floorboard of a car.”
Betsy touched the scar again. “I just dreamed that, didn’t I?”
Trey shrugged. “I don’t know. Was it a dream, or were you remembering something that already happened?”
Betsy pulled her hands away and covered her face. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
He’d never seen her like this, but she seemed so fragile, he was afraid to push her.
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll figure it out together, okay?”
Betsy swiped the tears off her cheeks, took a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose as she stood. “It’s time to put the bread in the oven.”
“And lunch is ready,” Dallas said as she carried the sandwiches to the table.
“I’ll pour the coffee,” Trey said.
“I’ll dish up the soup,” Dallas added. She headed back to the stove while Betsy set the timer for the bread.
“That bread is going to smell so good,” Betsy said.
Trey watched her turn back into the mother he knew and felt a chill run up his spine. He didn’t know what had happened the night she graduated, but he would bet his retirement that they’d either been a part of something illegal or they’d witnessed something bad. What he couldn’t figure out was why they were being eliminated now. What was happening that made getting rid of them so important? If his theory about these deaths was correct, she would be next, and he couldn’t let that happen. He needed to find that old accident report. Maybe there was something in it that would help him make sense of all this.
* * *
Mack had gone through the desk, the computer files, the old lockbox his dad kept in the back of the closet, the shoe boxes full of old income tax papers and every place he could think of looking for anything resembling a journal or a diary. If there was nothing wrong with the lift, then they needed answers to this nightmare, but he couldn’t find a thing.
He sat down on the corner of his dad’s bed and closed his eyes. The faint scent of diesel, probably from an old pair of his dad’s work shoes, coupled with some manly aftershave, was so reminiscent of his father that he kept thinking the man was going to walk in at any moment. Mack took a deep breath, choking back tears, but before he could gather his thoughts, someone was knocking at the front door.
He got up with a heavy heart, and when he saw one of the ladies from his dad’s church on the porch holding a covered dish, he sighed.
Feeding the grief stricken had begun.
* * *
Lissa, standing in the hall outside her bedroom, was bordering on what felt like a full-blown panic attack. The thunder of her heartbeat was so loud in her ears that at first she didn’t hear her cell phone ringing. By the time it dawned on her what was happening the call had gone to voice mail. Since she didn’t want to talk to anyone, she didn’t bother checking to see who it had been.
The only person she needed to talk to was God. She mouthed the proper words, and then cried until her eyes were so swollen it hurt to blink before she dropped to her knees. Despair was heavy, weighing her down as she stared at the floor in disbelief.
Why had this happened?
She felt like she was being punished, and yet Paul Jackson was the one who had died. So was it his punishment and she’d just become the tool, or was it hers and his life was gone because of it?
Sick at heart and too exhausted to get up, she slid for
ward, stretching out facedown on the cold hardwood floor, and closed her eyes, wishing she could disappear forever.
* * *
Along about 6:00 p.m. Jim Farley, the pastor from Paul Jackson’s church, stopped by to express his condolences. By Mack’s count he was visitor number seven, and when this one left, Mack was leaving, too. He couldn’t take any more well-wishers and didn’t want anyone else to pray for him. He didn’t want prayers. He wanted answers.
Mack took a deep breath, bracing himself for yet another painful conversation. “Pastor Farley, thank you for coming,” he said.
The little man smiled, which made the scar across his upper lip—the result of a hockey puck gone wild during his youth—pull sideways just the tiniest bit.
“Good afternoon, Mack. I came without calling. I hope that’s all right,” Farley said.
“Of course it’s all right. No one stands on ceremony here,” Mack said, as he led the way to the living room.
The pastor took a seat in the recliner as Mack said, “I have coffee. Would you like a cup?”
“That would be wonderful. It’s a bit chilly outside today. As for the coffee, I take mine black,” the pastor added.
“I’ll be right back,” Mack said and headed for the kitchen. He came back a couple of minutes later carrying two mugs.
Pastor Farley took his mug, then cupped it in his hands to warm them as he took the first sip.
Mack set his aside and waited.
The pastor was just as off balance as Mack. The horrific nature of Paul Jackson’s death was the elephant in the room. He took a second sip of the coffee and then set his cup aside, too.
“Of course I came to offer my condolences,” the pastor said. “The news of your father’s death is heartbreaking. I am so very sorry for your loss.”
Mack swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Thank you.”
“Is there anything I can do?” Farley asked.
Mack shrugged. “I appreciate the offer. Of course I’ll have a memorial service, but I can’t think about that just yet.”
“Of course, of course,” Farley said. “You just let me know your wishes and we’ll make it happen for you.” He took another sip of coffee and then leaned forward. “Know that prayers are being said for you, son. Know that we weep with you. Your father was my friend.”