Killing Her Softly

by Beverly Barton

  Chapter 16

  He had spent a lifetime trying to forget, praying that God would erase the horrible memories. But he had learned that there was no escape, no way to stop the nightmares that plagued him—awake or asleep—no way to control the need to end not only his misery, but hers, too. Although he had suffered unbearably, so had she. And in her own cruel, tor­mented way, she had loved him. Hadn't she?

  The sound of her voice reverberated inside his head. He covered his ears with his hands, trying to block out the con­demning words. But it was useless. He was doomed to relive the memories of his tortured childhood again and again.

  "Don't hide from me, you little devil you!"

  Lying flat of his stomach under his bed his body shaking uncontrollably, he held his breath. If he could stay very still and very quiet, maybe she would go away. God, please, make her leave me alone. Breaking her favorite ashtray had been an accident. After he'd dumped the ashes and cigarette butts in the garbage can, he had wiped the tray clean with a wet cloth. He didn't know how it had happened. One minute he was holding it and the next it had slipped through his fin­gers.

  She had heard the shattering glass the minute the tray hit the kitchen floor and had jumped up from the table where she'd been sitting drinking a beer.

  "What the hell have you done now, you stupid little fuck-up?"

  He'd looked up at her, seen the fury in her hazel eyes and without thinking of the consequences, ran past her and through the house, straight to his room.

  The sound of the breaking glass clattered inside his head. He kept hearing it over and over again, like background music that he couldn't shut off.

  "I thought you knew better than to hide from me," she called to him. "You know that when I find you, I'll have to punish you twice. Once for breaking my favorite ashtray and again for running and hiding."

  He held his breath for as long as he could, then finally sucked in air as quietly as possible. Lying there against the cold wooden floor, he listened while she tore his room apart in her rage. Lifting his head just a fraction, he peered out from under the bed and watched while she ripped the cur­tains from the windows, yanked all the drawers out of the dresser and then jerked open the closet door.

  "If you're not in the closet, then where are you?"

  He couldn't see her evil smile, but he knew she was smil­ing. Whenever she punished him, she smiled. He couldn't understand how hurting him could make her so happy.

  When she walked toward the bed, he clenched his teeth tightly together and held his breath again. No, please, no. Don't hurt me. Not again.

  His heart beat so fast he thought it was going to jump out of his chest as she knelt down beside the bed and looked un­derneath it. He scooted as far back against the wall as he could. She was so big; and he was so very small. She had all the power; he had none. He tried so hard to be good, to please her, to prove to her that he did love her, but it was never enough.

  "If I have to come under there and drag you out, you'll be sorry."

  He froze with fear.

  She got down on her belly and inched her way beneath the bed, just far enough so that she could reach out and grab his ankles. The minute she touched him, he peed his pants.

  Oh, no. She'd punish him for that, too, for wetting his pants.

  She dragged him out from under the bed, then rose to her feet and stood over him like a menacing giant, glaring at him. "Why do you do these things?" she asked him as if gen­uinely puzzled. "Why can't you be a good boy?"

  He opened his mouth to tell her that he tried, tried so very hard to be good. But the words lodged in his throat.

  With him lying at her feet, she slid her hand into her shirt pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Then she sat down on the edge of his bed and lit one of the ciga­rettes. After placing the pack and the lighter back in her pocket, she took a long draw on the freshly lit cigarette.

  "Look at you, all wet and nasty. You pissed in your pants again, didn't you? You think just because you're so damn good-looking the rules don't apply to you? You think be­cause I love you, I'll let you treat me any way you want to? Well, you're wrong. Damn wrong!" She lifted her foot and kicked him in the ribs.

  The pain radiated through his whole body, but he kept quiet, enduring in silence. She liked to hear him cry, but he wouldn't cry for her. Not this time. He wouldn't!

  Leaning down, she stuck the cigarette in her mouth be­fore she grabbed his wrists and yanked him off the floor. She spread her legs, forced him between her thighs and then closed them, holding him in place.

  He watched helplessly, completely terrified as she re­moved the cigarette from her mouth and brought it down to his arm. When the burning tip pressed into his skin, he keened quietly, but he didn't cry. She lifted the cigarette and moved it up his arm a couple of inches, then pressed it into his skin again. Tears welled up in his eyes. He clenched his teeth as tight as he could. She repeated the torture again and again until she had inflicted eight burn spots—four on each arm.

  "Damn, you. Cry. Any normal kid would cry when he's being punished."

  She yanked his unbelted jeans down, taking his cotton briefs with them.

  "Don't, please, don't. I'll cry for you, Mama. I'll cry."

  "Too late, you little shit."

  When he tried to escape her tenacious hold, she grabbed him by the shoulders, lifted him off his feet and flung him onto the bed.

  He cried then, cried as loud and as hard as he could.

  But it didn't matter. She was going to do what she was going to do no matter what. When he tried to cover himself with his hands, she prized his hands away and while he struggled fruitlessly, she stuck the red-hot end of her ciga­rette to the tip of his little penis.

  Valerie Miller waited until their housekeeper, Eula, placed her breakfast plate in front of her, poured her coffee and re­turned to the kitchen, before she spoke to her husband. Randall sat at the far end of the dining room table, this morning's Commercial Appeal in his hand his gaze riveted to the front­page.

  "Something interesting in the news this morning?" she asked.

  Randall folded the paper and laid it beside his plate. "Another woman has been murdered. Kendall Wells. She was Quinn Cortez's lawyer."

  "Interesting. He's one of the other suspects in Lulu's mur­der, isn't he?"

  "Damn it, Val, I'm not a suspect. The police simply ques­tioned me because my name was in Lulu's date book several times."

  "You would be a suspect, my darling, if the police knew you didn't have an alibi for the time Lulu was murdered." She loved the fact that she held her husband's fate in her hands. If she told the police the truth—that he hadn't been with her during the time he said he was—he would be in ter­rible trouble. She didn't know if Randall had killed Lulu Vanderley and really didn't care. The woman had been trash. Rich trash, but trash all the same.

  Randall picked up the newspaper and held it out to her. "You should take a look at this. The reporter all but accuses Quinn Cortez of killing both Lulu and Kendall Wells. My name isn't even mentioned in the article. That should please you."

  "Don't get too smug, darling. Until they make an arrest in the case and actually convict someone of Lulu's murder, you don't dare breathe a sigh of relief."

  His facial muscles tensed. There, that's better, she thought. She wanted him to worry, wanted him to suffer. Privately, of course.

  "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" He glowered at her, pure hatred in his eyes.

  "Am I enjoying watching you sweat? Yes, I am. As long as your involvement in this affair doesn't become public knowl­edge, I'll stand by you and pose as the supportive, loving wife. However, if you were to be charged with Lulu's mur­der, I would play the wronged martyred wife who couldn't believe her husband was such a monster."

  "I didn't kill Lulu. How many times do I have to tell you?" He slapped the paper against his open palm. "This ar­ticle implies that the two murders are connected and that connection is Quinn Cortez. For God'
s sake, Val, I didn't know Kendall Wells. There's no way I can be involved."

  "For your sake, I hope the police believe you."

  "Read the article." Randall threw the folded newspaper across the table.

  When it landed a few inches short of her plate, Valerie glanced at it, then lifted her Haviland china cup and sipped on her morning coffee. Eyeing her husband over the rim of the cup, she said "Do you have an alibi for the time when Kendall Wells was murdered? If not, perhaps you'd like for me to lie for you again."

  He stared at her, a puzzled look on his face. "Why would I need an alibi?"

  "Because it's possible the police will find out that you ac­tually did know Ms. Wells, that her law firm represented your friend, Tom Wilson, six months ago, when he was charged with manslaughter in a hit-and-run case."

  Randall's face paled. "I—I'd forgotten all about that. But just because she was one of Tom's lawyers, doesn't mean—"

  "It means you did know her. You testified as a character witness for Tom, didn't you?"

  "Yes, I did, but—"

  "Perhaps you and Ms. Wells became acquainted. Very well acquainted. For all I know you could have had an affair with the woman. A man who's been unfaithful once could easily have been unfaithful twice."

  Randall gasped.

  Valerie smiled. "Of course, I'd never suggest such a thing to the police. Unless . . ."

  "Whatever you want," he said. "Just name your price."

  "My price?" She laughed softly. "Whenever I say jump, you'll ask me how high."

  Quinn felt like crap. He'd gotten home around midnight, undressed and fallen into bed; but he'd slept fitfully and fi­nally gotten up at six. His life hadn't been so messed up since he'd been a kid, fending for himself and trying his best to stay out of his mother's way. Back then, he hadn't been able to do anything right and that bad karma had followed him around until he'd met Judge Harwood Brown. From that day forward, his luck had changed and he had fought his way to the top. No easy task when you started at rock bottom.

  He'd never been an emotional man, having learned at an early age that if you cared too much about somebody they'd just wind up hurting you. But in his own way, he had cared about Lulu. He'd miss her. Miss all that wild exuberance. Why the hell would anybody want to kill her?

  And Kendall. He couldn't honestly say he'd loved her, but he had respected her brilliance as a lawyer and her loyalty as a friend. He still couldn't believe she was dead. But she was gone, murdered just as Lulu had been, and if Griffin Powell's theory turned out to be right, then both women had died be­cause they'd been involved with him. Because they had been Quinn Cortez's lovers.

  After showering and shaving, Quinn dressed in casual khaki slacks and a button-down light blue shirt. He'd learned early on how important appearances were. Only at the ranch did he ever dress just to suit himself. At all other times, he was aware, even subconsciously, that he needed to project the Quinn Cortez image he had worked so long and hard to obtain. Judd Walker was driving in from Chattanooga this morning, and when meeting with friends, clients, business associates and rivals, Quinn always put his best foot for­ward. Dress for success was his motto, even in an informal situation.

  Judd had told Quinn last night that he'd see him around eight this morning. As Quinn lifted the glass pot from the coffeemaker, he eyed the wall clock. Seven forty-five.

  Just as Quinn pulled out a chair from the table, Jace came through the back door, today's newspaper in his hand. He had sent Jace out ten minutes ago to find the morning edition of the Commercial Appeal. There was bound to be a big spread about Kendall's murder and he'd bet his last dime that the reporters would connect her death not only to Lulu's re­cent murder, but to him. After all, as everyone kept remind­ing him, he was the common denominator, the only link between the two women.

  "Marcy and Aaron not up yet?" Jace asked as he laid the newspaper down on the table.

  "I haven't heard a peep out of either of them," Quinn said.

  Usually Marcy was up by seven at the latest and ordinarily would have had breakfast prepared. Aaron, on the other hand, would sleep until noon, unless told to set his alarm. "Want me to wake them?"

  "Yeah, if they're not up in the next five minutes. I'm ex­pecting Judd Walker, a lawyer from Chattanooga, to show up around eight. We spoke on the phone last night and I may be hiring him to take Kendall's place."

  "It's awful about Ms. Wells. I know you liked her a lot, that you two were friends as well as. . ." Jace cleared his throat. "Do the police think you killed her? If they do, they're crazy."

  Yes, Kendall had been his friend. And his lover. And a ba­sically good person. Lulu's death had been tragic and had gotten him into a heap of trouble. It seemed impossible to believe someone so vibrant and alive was gone. He'd cared about Lulu, but not in the same way he'd cared for Kendall. In time, Lulu would have been nothing more than an old lover, but Kendall would have always been his friend.

  "I'm sure I'll wind up being a suspect in Kendall's mur­der just as I am in Lulu's, since I don't actually have an alibi for a couple of hours yesterday evening."

  "How come you don't have an alibi? You were here with Aaron and Marcy until you left for Ms. Wells's house. There couldn't have been more than thirty minutes while you were driving over there that you were alone."

  "I made a stop along the way," Quinn said, but didn't elaborate. He didn't want anyone to know about the odd spells he'd had the night of both murders. Not exactly black­out spells, but something similar. Once things were cleared up about Lulu's and Kendall's deaths and he was allowed to return to Houston, he intended to make an appointment with his personal physician and find out if something was physi­cally wrong with him. The thought had crossed his mind that maybe he had a brain tumor, but he'd dismissed the notion. Quinn Cortez was invincible, wasn't he? He'd spent the past twenty years proving to the world that nothing could con­quer him, that no matter what the situation, he was the kind of man who came out on top.

  "Didn't anybody see you wherever it was you stopped?" Jace asked.

  Quinn shook his head, put his coffee mug on the table and then sat. He eyed the newspaper. "Did you take a look at it?"

  "Yeah."

  Quinn could tell by the tone of Jace's voice that the news was bad. He picked up the Commercial Appeal and flipped it open so that the entire front-page was visible. Holy shit! It was a lot worse than he'd imagined. There on the front-page were three photographs. Kendall on the left. Lulu on the right. And smack dab in the middle was a picture of him. The headline read: cortez real lady-killer.

  "You can sue them for slander, can't you?" Jace's voice quivered with outrage.

  "Probably not," Quinn replied. "My guess is that they stopped just short of calling me a murderer. There's a thin line between journalistic freedom and slander."

  Quinn scanned the article. Just as he'd thought. The im­plication was that he was a suspect since the only connection between the two women was the fact that they had both been personally involved with Quinn Cortez. Although the ex­pression lady-killer could be taken more than one way, its use in the headlines would be viewed in the worst possible light, whereas in the article, the reporter referred to Quinn as having a reputation as a charming, playboy-type lady-killer.

  Quinn's gaze paused on one particular line in the article. Although the police are not free to give out the exact details of either murder, we have discovered that both women were murdered in the same way, leaving the police to believe the same person killed both Kendall Wells and Lulu Vanderley.

  "When Judd Walker arrives, I want to see him alone, so after you wake Aaron and Marcy, tell them I'd like all three of you to go out for breakfast. On me, of course." Quinn folded the newspaper, laid it aside and lifted his coffee mug to his lips.

  "Don't you trust us?" Jace asked, a hurt expression on his face. "You think there are things you can tell your lawyer that you can't tell us. Is that why you want us to leave?"

  "You shouldn't take my req
uest personally. Stop and think for a minute. What I tell my lawyer is privileged infor­mation."

  "Oh, yeah, you're right. Sorry. I wasn't thinking."

  Quinn reached up and patted Jace on the arm. The boy had little self-esteem and was one of the most sensitive peo­ple Quinn had ever known. He seemed to thrive on the atten­tion Quinn gave him. Aaron said that Jace hero-worshiped Quinn. God, he hoped not. Being a professional role model to boys like Jace was one thing, but he sure as hell didn't want anybody imitating his actions in his personal life. He'd never done anything purposefully to harm another person and he'd always tried to be up-front with the parade of women who came and went in his life. But here he was nearly forty and he had no one truly special in his life. No wife. No chil­dren. No real family. And until recently, those things hadn't really mattered to him.

  He could easily continue being a lady-killer, going from one lovely, entertaining woman to another. Why not? Other men envied him, didn't they? What guy wouldn't want to have his life?

  He could tell himself that Lulu's murder, followed by Kendall being killed, had affected his way of thinking about life in general. And although that was true enough, their deaths alone hadn't made him question his personal values. He'd been restless for a couple of years, but especially the past few months. Neither his work nor his love life gave him the pleasure they once had. And then there was Annabelle Vanderley, a lady who'd gotten to him in a way no other woman ever had. They were all wrong for each other, even on a temporary basis. The lady was a class act in every way. He on the other hand had been called a wetback, a bastard (although his birth certificate stated his parents had been married), a son of a bitch, a lady-killer, a womanizer and even a shyster. He had made something of himself, become rich and powerful despite his humble beginnings, but all the money in the world couldn't buy him what Annabelle pos­sessed. Class. Real class. And it had nothing to do with how wealthy she was.