by Anne McAneny
“Let me out, Jack!” She clawed at him wildly, reaching for the handle but denied at every turn by her more athletic brother.
“Not until you admit you were scared!” He laughed and teased her by allowing quick chances for the doorknob before cutting her off again.
“It’s coming, Jack! It’s coming! Let me out!”
She shrieked then. A painful, screeching wail that must have penetrated Jack’s head like a dagger. When Janie sucked in an agitated breath to let out another, Jack stepped aside, a panicked realization growing on his face. Had he gone too far?
Janie screamed again, each howl layering atop the other. Jack pulled the door wide open, but it was too late. Janie was transfixed by the void between the carpet and the high ceiling, hyperventilating until she flung her head forward, fell to her knees, and got sick all over the floor and Jack’s shoes.
The long silence was punctuated only by Janie’s rattled gasps for air. Still on her knees, Janie lifted a haunting face to her brother. Her green eyes, shaded by dark brows and lashes, threatened a lifetime of pain as they seemed to hang in the air, detached from her body. “Don’t you ever trap me in a room again, Jack Perkins.”
Jack steadied his breathing and refused to relinquish victory. “You coulda gone out the front door.”
She reared up and, from her low vantage point, launched a fist toward his face, catching him off guard with a solid strike to the jaw. It was the first time she’d ever hit someone and it didn’t feel good. But she didn’t regret it. Jack never locked her in a room again—and he helped her clean up the mess.
CHAPTER 14
I cursed myself again for wearing a dress. Why did I choose something uncomfortable for a situation that was bound to be unnerving under the best of circumstances? And why hadn’t Emily Post ever advised what to wear while visiting your alleged father after having visited exactly never while he served time for murdering your pregnant mother? Then again, even Anna Wintour might have been stumped by that one.
I’d gone with the stupid outfit because I wanted to feel professional and grown-up, but now, covering the last few miles to Everly State Prison, I felt the zipper carving a Frankenstein tattoo along my spine. And the sick feeling I’d battled all afternoon felt like a hernia ready to burst. That was as good an analogy for Grady McLemore’s existence as any: a massive, hibernating presence that gained advantage when I felt weak.
When Jack and I were little, Grandpa Barton hadn’t held back on the particulars of our mother’s demise, so Grady had not only become our personal Boogie Man, but something crueler, because he didn’t become a childhood memory—he stayed real. The terrors ingrained in a child went deeper than any anxiety acquired as an adult. The fear bred itself right into growing bones, mellowed into hatred, and became part of the DNA. In my case, it laced the edges of every cell, like heroin and equally addictive.
The prison came into view, propped against an artificial-looking sky that seemed to reflect the pigments of the dying leaves on the autumn trees. Everly hardly looked like a prison. More like a Civil War relic, barricaded solely to keep graffiti vandals out, not murderers in. With each rotation of my underinflated tires, my desire to turn around grew stronger. I gave in—almost—by pulling over twenty feet from the entrance.
Lowering my head against the steering wheel, I let its pressure relieve the pounding in my brain. This couldn’t be worse than the nightmare scenarios I faced on the job—an emaciated child tied up in a closet, found three days too late, or the starving dogs with burns on their skin that looked healthy in comparison to their methed-out masters. For God’s sake, I could face one lousy politician, a man who hid his pregnant girlfriend from the world while preaching morality to the people whose feeble voices could only be amplified through Grady McLemore—your bullhorn in Washington.
My brother had called last month and asked my opinion on reviving the slogan for his own campaign—your bullhorn for justice. I’d slammed the phone down and ignored his calls for a week.
Knuckles rapped on my window and I jerked up to see an armed guard standing there. Lenora Dabney read her name tag. A woman of mixed race, strong and stout, with a belt cinching her waist so tightly it made me thankful for my dress.
“Help you, ma’am?” she yelled through the window.
“No,” I snapped. “I’m fine.”
“You can’t loiter here. Prison property. We gotta check the ID of everyone on the grounds.”
I lowered my window. “I’m about to enter. I’m visiting someone.”
She looked me up and down as best she could and smirked. “Oh . . . You one of Grady’s Ladies?”
“Excuse me?” The tone conveyed my answer.
“Sorry. It’s just you’re the type that usually shows up.” She filled the ensuing pause with an amused stare. “You look more like ’er than most. Course, we got some new ones coming in now that he’s getting out soon.” She shifted her stance, settling in for a chat, like we were old pals shooting the shit in the prison yard. Yes, let’s yuk it up about the assorted neuroses of needy, self-loathing women.
“Some of the old faithfuls,” she said, “they stopped showing ’bout six months ago. Reason they showed up in the first place was ’cause he was incarcerated, right? Least that’s my theory. Puts them in charge. Once he’s out, he’s just another wife beater, am I right?”
If she next slapped the top of my car and doubled over in laughter, I’d have to run her over. Some people shouldn’t be left to work alone all day.
“You’re talking about Grady McLemore?”
“Uh, yeah, sorry. Figured you knew. Who you here to see?”
My teeth clamped so tight I wasn’t sure I could utter the name without cracking my face. “Grady McLemore.”
Her little grunt begged me to step on the gas and aim the tires in her direction. How dare she assume I was some psychotic groupie? I had my own insane admirers and, for the first time, had to resist bragging about them.
My white knuckles on the steering wheel beamed out at me like four sets of accusing eyes. “Can we just proceed as if we didn’t have this conversation?”
She shrugged and kept grinning. “Sure thing. I’ll meet you there by the booth.”
I immediately regretted my snappishness to a fellow member of the law enforcement community, but come on, she needed to reel in the enthusiasm. By the time I freshened my appearance and pulled up to the booth, she’d made her way back in.
“Can I help you?” she said. Well, at least she was acquiescing to my wishes, but really, this was like slicing through a scar.
“As I said, I’m here to see Grady McLemore.” I rushed out the last two words lest they tattoo themselves on my tongue.
“Grady McLemore,” she uttered to herself while scanning a list. “Let’s see . . . Grady McLemore, Grady McLemore.”
After the third utterance, I helped her out. “Murderer. Lying sack of shit. You seemed to know who he was a minute ago.”
“ID.” She extended her hand toward me while staring off at an angle like a pissed-off dog that didn’t like being put in its place.
I handed over my driver’s license, the one with the distorted picture that made my face look red and angry. She wrote down my name, returned the license, and then examined what she’d written, as if reading each letter individually. “Ohhh,” she said, drawing out the syllable for the entire length of her exhalation. “Right.”
Yes, that’s right, genius. I’m Bridget Perkins’s daughter. Usually, I had no problems carrying the burden of my last name. It was common enough and didn’t cause people to jump to conclusions. But tied directly to a small blonde with green eyes and a bitchy attitude visiting Grady McLemore, there was little room for doubt. I probably needed to tone it down or this chick would be on the phone to TMZ and Homeland Security before I reached the parking lot. I forced a slight smile.
“You
go right ahead, Miss . . . Perkins,” she said. “Park there to the left. And if you don’t mind my saying so, Senator McLemore isn’t nearly as bad as you think. I work inside most weeks and I’ve gotten to know him pretty well. You might be in for a bit of a disappointment.”
I wiped away the smile, letting the full brunt of my personality regain strength over the wishy-washy childhood bullshit that had built up on the ride here. “It’s senatorial candidate. And I do mind.”
I parked my car, slammed the door, and strode toward the double doors, fully prepared to meet the man who’d murdered my mom. For the first time.
CHAPTER 15
Bridget Perkins, 30 Years, 8 Hours Ago
Bridget Perkins arrived at Field Diner thirty minutes late. While such tardiness might spell trouble for Lucinda, the bucktoothed, oft-bruised waitress, Bridget knew that Mickey the manager would merely give her a half-eyed leer while checking to see if the thirtieth week of pregnancy had added any bulk to her swelling breasts. While Bridget unwillingly provided material for Mickey’s jerk-off fantasies, all the employees knew that Lucinda didn’t do it for him, because he declared it every time she screwed up an order. Christ, Lucinda, bad enough I gotta keep you from poppin’ into my head when I’m doin’ the dirty, but you’re a sucky waitress on top o’ that.
Sadly, all the waitresses also knew that for Mickey, doin’ the dirty meant a solo event. None of them knew what he called the duet version—and doubted they’d ever find out.
Bridget didn’t appreciate Mickey’s special treatment. In fact, she treated him worse than any of the other girls did, but guys like Mickey, threats egged them on. They lacked that sense that distinguished between flirtation and repugnance. Bridget’s rejections excited him, often sending his fingers on extra trips through his greasy mop of hair. It was his sexual tell, those slippery fingers. Not much of a stretch to imagine that if he wasn’t in public, he’d be using them to stroke a different head.
Lately, there’d been disturbing rumors that his misdeeds were escalating, so on the nights Bridget closed the diner by herself, she double-checked the parking lot in case Mickey had doubled back from his mouse-infested trailer to stare—or worse.
“Hey, Mickey,” she said. “Sorry I’m late. Car trouble again.”
Mickey’s eyes licked her body—slowly—from the ankles up. She could practically feel him tongue-lashing her thick, straight hair into a bouffant. Lucinda, who was filling lemonades for some boys in booth eight, gave Bridget a sympathetic wink before glancing at a waiting customer—her way of saying, Get moving, we’re busy. Bridget felt a little better about her earlier fib to her dad when she saw that both of Lucinda’s eyes looked bright and fresh today. Maybe she’d finally thrown that boyfriend of hers to the curb.
The next few hours saw a hungry crowd, including a soccer team, a group of septuagenarians who’d skipped their weekly bridge game, and kids who wanted milk shakes that had to be mixed on the slow machine Mickey refused to replace. Its grinding gears competed with the din of the customers, but the night went fast and Bridget liked fast. If things slowed, her extra weight took more of a toll, so when Lucinda sat a party of one at the small round table in her section, Bridget skedaddled over. She checked out the customer’s reflection in the window as she approached: short and compact with keen eyes, a snub nose, and a head of light brown hair that was just starting to make itself scarce on his globe of a head.
“Hi, how ya doin’ tonight?” she said. “Saw you in here last week, didn’t I?”
His darting eyes found hers for a flash, then rushed back to the menu. “Yes, oh yes. Very kind of you to remember.” His voice came out tinny, closer to a whisper than anything resembling sonorous tones. “I’d like the turkey Reuben tonight, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure. Anything to drink?”
“Oh, yes. A glass of your sweetest lemonade, please.”
Bridget swiped his menu. From his startled reaction, she may as well have torn away his security blanket. “Did you want to hold on to the menu?”
He looked flustered. “Oh, no, no. You take it. It’s fine.”
Bridget spun around to put in his order and nearly tripped over her own feet when she saw Lucinda leading another customer to her section. When the customer raised his head, Bridget’s shimmering eyes became trapped in the slow, syrupy gaze of Mr. Abner Abel, neighbor, meat trucker, slow driver, and semi-absentee father—except when it was time to knock up Mrs. Abel and add to their passel of brats. Quite a machine, that Mrs. Abel, outlasting Fords, Chevys, and wobbly delivery trucks.
Mr. Abel nodded at Bridget as his lanky body flowed toward the table like an unfurling flag in a mild breeze. Bridget had never realized how short he was, but as he stood next to Lucinda, it became obvious. The height illusion must have come from the skin and bones, with little to fill the spaces between.
Bridget forced a quick smile and tried to catch Lucinda’s eye, but she was deep into a story that required wild gesticulations as she sat Mr. Abel two tables down from turkey Reuben guy. Bridget handed in her order to the kitchen and geared up to wait on Mr. Abel, willing herself to remain composed.
“Evenin’, Mr. Abel,” she said. “No Mrs. Abel tonight?”
“Hello, Bridget,” he said. “Little Annelise is down with an ear infection and I just got back from a day-long haul.”
Bridget knew he was lying, and for a split second her face betrayed her. She tried to cover it up quickly—she sure didn’t want to be the one admitting they’d passed each other on the road earlier—but Mr. Abel had caught her reaction.
“What I mean is,” he said, “I got back from a long haul earlier and then had some local deliveries.”
His sentences seeped out as if a fine-tooth comb had been run through them, the words separated uniformly, delivered in their own sweet time. It made Bridget feel spastic by comparison.
“Of course you did,” she said. “Sorry to hear Annelise is under the weather.”
“How is your father?” he said. “Haven’t seen him in a while.”
What Mr. Abel meant was that he hadn’t seen Barton Perkins in church lately, but Bridget glossed over the dig. “Daddy’s fit as a fiddle and stayin’ busy. The insurance game is goin’ well, but I tell you, the man works from sunup till sundown.”
“And on Sundays, apparently.”
“Seven days a week, yes, sir.”
“Work is good,” he said, turning the simple statement into a grand proclamation. “Keeps us out of trouble.” He turned his head decidedly toward the menu and away from the trouble growing in Bridget’s uterus.
“What can I get for you, Mr. Abel?”
As he swung his long head back toward her, an eerie smile crossed his face, although it carried little of a smile’s usual connotations. “Did I see you earlier today, Bridget? In a fancy black Mercedes 300?”
Bridget nearly dropped her pencil.
“Um, no, I don’t think so, sir.” She hated lying to him. His attitude always made her feel like a trembling girl with impure thoughts and accompanying actions, on display for the world to see. “You need a moment to look at the menu?”
“Very odd,” he said. “Because I’d swear on a stack of Bibles that I saw you out on Cumberly Road, in a Mercedes, with a man.”
Bridget remained rigid and silent as he reached a long-fingered hand out to push the menu away like it was a distasteful woman of the night. “I’ll have a cucumber sandwich on white bread with mayo, a cup of coffee, and half a grapefruit.”
Given her delicate state—as some in town called it—the order made her stomach turn. At the same time, she felt another urge brimming inside her, one she’d need to vanquish soon in order to calm down and regain control after this uncomfortable encounter with Mr. Abel.
“I’ll get that goin’ for you.” She jotted down his order as fast as she could and headed to the kitchen. Turning back
around, she became acutely aware of a persistent gnawing in her stomach, one that had nothing to do with the twins or Mr. Abel’s order. It was the bedevilment, as she liked to think of it, and she needed something solid in her hand to quell the churning gush of desire welling up inside her, cresting and teasing. She’d need to ride the wave until it crash-landed on shore, lest it overpower her.
She glanced from Mr. Abel to her other lone customer. Both easy. Both distractible. Either one would do.
CHAPTER 16
Seriously? This guy was like a walking Viagra ad. Had to be mid-sixties but would look great on the arm of any thirty-year-old. Full head of hair, less than half gray, with shoulders and pecs that put the guys I dated to shame. Even the great Grady McLemore must do nothing behind bars except lift weights and ponder how to spend his weekly dollar from doing prison laundry. Then again, with his reputed charms, he probably supervised the other inmates while demanding starched collars for his own jumpsuits.
Grady turned to the guard who’d shown him in. “Thanks, Al, I can take it from here.”
Damn. His voice. It reverberated like an entire string section and filled places in my ear I never knew existed. No wonder Mom had swooned over this guy. Couldn’t have been many like him coming into Field Diner on a regular basis.
And then I noticed something I hadn’t thought about in years: the cleft in his chin. Sure, there’d been photos forced upon me over the years, and I knew it was a dominant trait that guaranteed passage to offspring, but I hadn’t realized how perfectly his would match mine. Slightly off center with a particularly deep spot three-quarters of the way down, as if some master seamstress had flinched, pulling one stitch too tight. My brother shared the same feature, though it wasn’t as prominent.