by Debra Webb
“The fund-raising work you’re doing for the center is astounding,” the congressman beamed. “I can’t tell you how much your efforts mean to us.”
“Thank you, Congressman. I’m pleased I can help.”
“You look particularly gorgeous tonight,” Mrs. Weller commented, drawing Elizabeth’s attention to her and her somewhat dim smile.
“Thank you.” Elizabeth let the slight roll off her back. Older women always resented the younger ones. She supposed she would do the same one day. Or maybe the congressman’s wife recognized her husband’s fetish for young, firm breasts. Poor woman.
Elizabeth felt especially elegant tonight. She had taken care with her attire. The strapless royal-blue cocktail dress fit like a glove. The classic high-heeled, strappy sandals had been meticulously dyed to match. It had taken the cleaners twice to get it right. Too bad Carson wouldn’t see her in this outfit.
“It appears the gala is going well,” the congressman remarked, moving past his wife’s lack of tact and prodding Elizabeth back into the conversation.
“Extremely well,” Elizabeth parlayed. “I believe we’ll double our expectations.”
The congressman waved a finger at her. “Remind me to hire you as my campaign manager next go-round.”
Elizabeth beamed but didn’t respond to the offer. She liked her job. Already had a plan of her own that did not involve helping someone else attain his goals. “I hope you’ve already made your generous donation.” Might as well get the conversation back on track.
“I’m headed that way now,” Weller assured her.
Elizabeth ushered the couple to the table where pledges were being accepted before wandering through the crowd to mingle some more. Basically that was her job this evening. See and be seen. Ensure everyone pledged a large donation.
She waved to her father, then headed for the bar. Her drink had gone flat. There was little time to indulge herself at these functions, but she kept a glass in hand throughout the night. When she did take the occasional sip she preferred the wine crisp.
Her mother’s hasty retreat drew Elizabeth’s attention to the other side of the room. What now? Dutifully she followed, leaving her unfinished drink on the nearest tray. Patricia Drake had escaped to the powder room. If her mother did anything to embarrass Elizabeth …
No. She wouldn’t do that. Patricia Drake, of all people, understood the importance of appearances.
Elizabeth found her mother in the lobby of the ladies’ room. When Patricia looked up she immediately closed her cell phone.
“What’s wrong?” Elizabeth demanded a bit more sharply than she’d intended.
Patricia pushed her lips into a smile. “Why, nothing, dear.” She stared into the full-length mirror and pretended to check her makeup and hair.
Who had she been speaking with? “Mother.” Patricia didn’t look at Elizabeth as she moved up beside her. “What’s wrong?”
Patricia dropped her hands to her sides and met her daughter’s gaze in the mirror. “I’m just disappointed Carson wasn’t able to make it.”
No. No. They weren’t starting that again. “His work is important,” Elizabeth said firmly. “He felt terrible having to let me down at the last minute. But”—she gave her mother a pointed look—“I understand that his obligation to the DA’s Office has to come first.”
Worry lined her mother’s face. “Your father is certain this is a mistake, Elizabeth. There are things …” She let her words trail off with a dramatic sigh.
Rage boiled inside Elizabeth. “I don’t want to hear it.” She took a moment, carefully chose her next words. “Mother, do not allow Father to interfere. This is between me and Carson. I will not pay the price for Dane’s mistakes. It’s time you made your choice.” She let her eyes reflect her determination. “Him or me? What’s it going to be?”
Uncertainty flickered in her mother’s green eyes before she blinked it away. “You’re right, dear. You deserve whatever makes you happy.” Patricia took her daughter’s hand in hers. “I’ll make sure your father does whatever necessary to help make that happen.”
“Promise?” Elizabeth prodded.
Her mother smiled. “Promise.”
Elizabeth escorted her mother back to where her father was deep into a legislative debate with the congressman. She kissed her mother’s cheek before making her way to the bar as she’d intended. She really needed that wine now.
At the bar she waited patiently for her turn. An open bar ensured a line.
“My, my, I do believe you’ve outdone yourself tonight.”
Elizabeth’s gaze swung to the woman who had paused at the bar next to her.
Annette Baxter.
Elizabeth watched, appalled, as the woman fished a cigarette from her purse and prepared to light it.
“This is a nonsmoking environment,” Elizabeth protested. She clamped her jaws together. Calmed the beastly anger that had roared before she could tame it. She prided herself on her ability to find the good in all. But somehow she just couldn’t find anything good in Annette Baxter. Even before the investigation had begun, Elizabeth had known there was something inherently evil about the woman.
Baxter faked a smile. “Of course. What was I thinking?” She tossed the unlit cigarette onto the bar. “Vodka on ice with lime,” she said to the bartender.
Elizabeth blinked, appalled all over again. She had been here first. Holding back her impatience, she smiled for the harried bartender. “Raymond, a fresh Chardonnay when you have time, please.”
Raymond gifted Elizabeth with a smile and a nod. She knew how to treat people. Just because someone worked in the service field didn’t mean they were any less of a human being. Apparently Annette Baxter had forgotten what it felt like to service others. A righteous smile tugged at Elizabeth’s mouth, but she held it back. She had manners.
Baxter accepted her drink without so much as a token word of gratitude and savored a long swallow.
Disgusting.
Elizabeth, conversely, said, “Thank you,” before accepting hers.
Baxter turned to Elizabeth then and studied her a moment. No doubt noting how elegant Elizabeth looked compared with the skintight, floor-length sheath she wore. The lavender color was pleasant enough, but the overall effect was tawdry to say the least.
“I see the senator’s done a bang-up job of grooming you to replace him.”
Elizabeth manufactured a credible smile. “I have no plans to seek a seat in the Senate.”
Baxter mirrored that same feigned expression. “According to my sources, that is exactly the plan.”
Fury continued to pound at Elizabeth’s composure. She prayed Carson was able to send this harlot to prison for a very, very long time. “I’m afraid your sources have failed you this time, Ms. Baxter.”
The woman had the gall to laugh. “I don’t think so.”
Elizabeth squared her shoulders and prepared to give her the brush-off. “It’s a free country. You can think what you wish. Enjoy your evening.”
When Elizabeth would have walked past her, Baxter said for her ears only, “Just remember, Ms. Drake, there will come a time when you need me.”
Elizabeth glared at her. “I beg your pardon.”
Baxter smirked. “I know everything about your family, Elizabeth. Every little thing.”
It took the full measure of strength Elizabeth possessed not to dash her wine in the woman’s face. “Are you threatening me?” That was exactly what it sounded like. A threat.
“Oh, no, no, no. I would never do that.” Baxter looked directly into Elizabeth’s eyes. “I’m in the business of keeping secrets, not divulging them.” She dared to lay a hand on Elizabeth’s arm. “Trust me, your secrets are safe with me. I would never let the senator down.”
Chapter 26
9:10 PM
Dane Drake sat on the edge of the bed. He was so fucked up he couldn’t stand if he wanted to.
Not a problem. He wasn’t going anywhere.
He w
ould stay right here until the heat died down.
Otherwise he’d probably end up dead.
Zac’s dad was dead. Dane shuddered. Had to close his mouth to hold back the vomit.
According to the news he’d offed himself. The stupid report insisted it was because he couldn’t get over his son’s death. But Dane knew better. The old man had been stirring trouble and he’d gotten shut up once and for all.
Just like Dane would if he wasn’t careful.
Annette had told him to lay low.
The connection she’d given him had taken care of his needs just like she said.
But he couldn’t stay here forever.
He looked around the shabby room.
He couldn’t go home.
He was fucked.
Flopping back onto the bed, he stared at the dingy ceiling. His life was shit. Nobody cared about him anymore. He was alone.
He closed his eyes and blocked images of the blood. Blocked the sound of the gun discharging … fuck. He’d been scared to death. Hadn’t known what to do. So he’d called her, the one person he could count on.
Why the hell couldn’t this just be over?
Why’d he have to fuck up again?
This was all his fault.
But he could stop it.
Dane sat up. Scrubbed a hand over his face.
He knew how to fix this. All he had to do was make the call and make some long-overdue demands.
Dane fished in the pocket of his jeans for his cell phone. Hell yeah. He should have done this already. There was no reason for this bullshit to drag out. His father was a goddamned US senator. He should stop dicking around and get this taken care of. One call ought to do it.
When his father answered, Dane could hear the noise in the background. A party. His father was always at some fancy function or the other. That was all he cared about.
“I need your help, Dad.”
The laughter and chatter on the other end of the line sounded farther and farther away. The senator was moving away from the crowd. Didn’t want to talk to his dopehead son in front of people. Anger burned in Dane’s belly. He’d always been a disappointment to his father. Always.
“This is not a good time to talk, son.”
Of course not. Why the hell did he even bother calling him son?
“It’s never a good time!” Fury throttled in his chest. “You never have time for me. I’m not good enough, right?” Dane shot to his feet, paced the dinky room. Let the bastard be up front with him for once in his big-deal life.
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Randolph Drake insisted.
“No! We’ll talk now!” Dane was sick of this shit. The truth was, if it weren’t for his big-shot daddy he wouldn’t be in this trouble now. His whole fucking life was a direct result of his goddamned father.
“Are you high?”
No fucking way. “You know what,” Dane snarled, “damned straight I’m high. It’s the only way I can live with myself.” Emotion knotted in his gut. “It’s the only way I can live with what you’ve made me.”
The connection ended.
“Bastard!” Dane threw the phone across the room. His father didn’t give one shit about him.
The rage he’d held at bay for most of life rocketed through him, shook him hard. Randolph Drake had it all. Everyone bowed to him. While his son paid the price.
Well, Dane had had enough.
He wasn’t living with this anymore.
He was putting a stop to it tonight.
Chapter 27
9:50 PM
3200 Fernway Road, Tanner estate
Carson stood on the sidewalk and stared up at the house looming in the darkness.
He hadn’t been back here in … four years, three months, and two days.
He’d only been in the house three times since that night. October 10. Fifteen years ago.
He’d awakened in his car or at least he thought he had. He had driven from the Mountain Brook Park. As best he could determine the time had been eight or eight thirty. The house had stood in the darkness, as it did now. Staggering up the steps that night, he had dropped his keys twice before reaching the front door.
He retraced those steps now. He was exhausted. He’d left Holman and driven around with no destination for a while. Then he’d come here. The entire trip, scenario after scenario had played out in his head. None made sense. None added up to a logical conclusion.
As he reached the door, he recalled that on October 10 fifteen years ago the front door had been unlocked. Ajar. The realization had confused him at the time, but then he’d still been fairly inebriated. Later, though, he had remembered vividly that the door was unlocked and partially open.
The investigating officers had suggested that he’d wanted to remember it that way.
Maybe he had.
Carson reached into his jacket pocket and removed his cell phone. He entered the number and waited for her to answer. “You know where I am. Meet me.”
Tonight he would have the answers he needed. All of them.
From the only source willing to give him the truth, as ironic as it might be.
Annette Baxter.
How fucked up was that?
Carson slid the key that he still carried on his key ring into the lock and opened the door.
The musty odor of disuse filled his lungs. The house no longer smelled like home. New carpet and fresh paint a few months after the murders had stolen the stench of death as well as the scent of his family from the air.
A flip of a switch filled the entry hall with light. A maintenance crew kept the house in good order so that he didn’t have to think about it or come here. The furnishings were free of dust, the floors pristine. No one would ever know that the worst man could do to man had been carried out here against man, woman, and child.
The sickening sensation that expanded in his chest whenever he thought of that day did so now, tightening his muscles, threatening to explode.
He stood at the bottom of the staircase, his left hand on the newel post. The police had dragged him away that night. For hours he had remained covered in his family’s blood … until Senator Drake had taken him to his own home and helped him clean up. He’d dressed in Dane’s clothes until his own could be salvaged from the wreckage that had been his life.
Carson took the first step upward. His shoes sank into the thick carpeting that lined the treads. His heart pounded. Sweat dampened his skin.
Another step, then another, until he reached the second-story landing.
He halted there. Couldn’t force his feet to move.
If he turned to the right, he would find his bedroom and his sister’s. Katie had been playing a game on her computer. To the left, at the other end of the hall, was his parents’ suite of rooms. His mother had been resting after a particularly stressful day at her office. But her stress hadn’t been the usual kind related to her patients. It had been about Carson.
I hate you! Do you hear me, Mother? I hate you!
Just before five that day he’d stormed into Dr. Olivia Tanner’s office and confronted her right in front of her patient. He’d demanded to know why she and his father no longer wanted him to see Elizabeth … why they wanted to ship him off to a private academy for the next three years. He hadn’t gotten any answers … only the hurt in his mother’s eyes as he’d told her that he hated her.
She’d given so much of herself to her family, to her patients. Children had come from all over Alabama as well as the surrounding states to be treated by the very best child psychologist in the region.
His mother … and Carson had hurt her in the most devastating way a child could.
Then she was dead and there was nothing he could do to fix it … to make it right.
The pounding in Carson’s chest accelerated until he could scarcely draw in a breath.
He turned right. Put one unsteady foot in front of the other until he reached the door to his sister’s room. For an eternity he stood there and stared
at the brass knob. Told his hand to reach out, take hold, and then turn. He trembled with the effort.
Finally he forced the movement, opened the door, and turned on the light.
For several seconds he kept his eyes shut tight. Knew the room by heart. Pink walls, white canopy bed. Loads of stuffed animals. Dance trophies.
When he opened his eyes he saw none of that.
He saw the blood.
On the bed.
On the floor.
And his sister’s slim, pale body sprawled there. Her throat slit and gaping. Her eyes staring unseeing at the ceiling.
He remembered dropping to the floor beside her. Trying to wake her. Trying to stop the blood that had already emptied from her pale body and congealed.
Carson closed his eyes against the images. He tried to set aside the emotion and think of all that he had seen … besides the blood and the body. Nothing downstairs had been disturbed. The intruder had walked into the house and gone straight upstairs. The front door had evidently been unlocked since there had been no sign of forced entry.
No murder weapon. No prints. No usable evidence at all.
Fifteen years ago he had left his sister’s room and rushed to the other end of the hall.
Carson followed that route slowly. His legs were heavy, his feet reluctant to make the journey. He’d fallen to his hands and knees midway. Puked. Sobbed. Screamed. Then he’d gotten up and run the rest of the way.
He stood at the closed door. Repeated the same ritual he’d gone through at his sister’s. Inside the room looked exactly the same as before that horrific day. Then the memories rushed in, filling his vision with the gore that had surrounded his parents’ bodies. His mother on the bed … his father close by on the floor.
Craig Tanner had been at his weekly poker game with his professional cronies, as Carson’s mother had called them. Drake, Wainwright, Holderfield, Roper, the biggest investment banker in Birmingham, and Weller, then a state representative, now a US congressman. The police had concluded that Craig had arrived home in the midst of the killing frenzy. His death had been markedly more violent.