Unspeakable

by Sandra Brown

  The boy shook his head.

  “Didn’t your grandpa ever tell you about me and my brother Carl?”

  Again David shook his head no.

  “No? Oh, yeah, Carl and me ran wild as Indians all over this place.” Coming back around to the huddled trio, he said, “It just breaks my heart the way that old man turned his back on us and shut us out of his life.”

  He gave a sad sigh, then clapped his hands together. “But that’s what I hope to fix while I’m here. I came to mend fences. So, I’ll be getting on my way and let y’all go back to your breakfast.”

  He backed up toward the open door connecting to the laundry room. “Pleased to meet you, Anna.” He spoke louder than normal, as though volume would penetrate her deafness. “Catch you later, David,” he said, winking at the boy. Jack he ignored.

  As soon as he passed through the back door, Jack followed. Through the window in the door, he saw Herbold climbing into a ten-year-old Mustang. He was alone. Jack watched him make a careful turn and head for the front of the property. He locked and bolted the door, then jogged through the kitchen, down the center hall, and watched through the front window until Herbold had cleared the gate and was no longer in sight. He bolted the front door, too.

  When he turned, Anna was standing there looking as anxious as he felt. It seemed Herbold’s visit had robbed them all of appetite. Breakfast had been forgotten. He forced himself to smile for David’s benefit. “Hey, Rocket Ranger, have you made your bed this morning?”

  “I didn’t sleep in my bed last night, Jack.”

  “Oh, yeah, right.”

  He looked helplessly toward Anna, who signed something to her son. “It’s not time for my programs, Mom,” he whined. She signed more. “But Sesame Street is for babies.” She made a shooing motion with her hands. David, rolling his eyes, went into the living room and turned on the television set.

  Jack pulled Anna down beside him on the bottom step of the staircase. He looked earnestly into her eyes. “You should take David and leave.”

  She stared at him, aghast.

  “Go… somewhere. Galveston. San Antonio. Somewhere David would enjoy.”

  She started to get up, but he pulled her back down. “Listen, Anna, listen.” He clasped her hands between his before she could indicate to him that she couldn’t listen. “You know what I mean,” he said impatiently. “Why do you think Cecil Herbold showed up here this morning?”

  She shrugged and shook her head, at a loss for an answer.

  “I don’t know either, but I don’t like it. I’ve been reading about these guys in the newspaper. They’re trouble. Delray wouldn’t want him lurking around. He wouldn’t like it at all, especially with Carl on the loose. I’m going to call the hospital and tell them that under no circumstances are they to let Cecil in to see Delray. You agree?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go get packed and take your luggage with you. You can stop at the hospital for a brief visit with Delray and then leave from there.”

  She signed what he knew to be an objection to his plan.

  “It isn’t safe here, Anna,” he argued. “Delray was afraid Carl would come here. I think that’s one reason he hired me. To have some extra protection around the place. He would want you and David out of danger. I’m acting on his behalf, telling you to do what I think Delray would tell you.”

  She got up and moved quickly into the office beneath the stairs. Jack followed her. She was writing on a pad. “I will not leave Delray. I will not!”

  “These guys are killers, Anna.”

  She wrote, “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  “No. Just deaf.”

  She flung the notepad aside and tried to move past him, but he caught her by the shoulders. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. That was a stupid, thoughtless thing to say.” Her face remained angry and closed. He pressed his fingers tighter around her shoulders. “Delray would never forgive himself if you and David got hurt. I wouldn’t forgive myself if you got hurt. Let me help you.”

  Wriggling free, she backed away from him and picked up the notepad again. When she had finished writing, she turned the spiral booklet toward him. “Delray didn’t trust you. Why should I?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Carl’s piss factor was at an all-time high.

  The vacant fishing cabin where he and Myron had taken shelter stank of stagnant creek water and mildew. He supposed they were lucky to have found it at all, but its only attributes were its isolation and a roof that provided shade from the brutal sun.

  The three small windows and one door didn’t allow for much ventilation, so the heat was enough to make a saint yearn for Hell. The mattress on the narrow cot felt like it was stuffed with bowling balls. Myron’s farts were so noxious they could be bottled and used for chemical warfare.

  Was it any wonder he was in a bad mood?

  His misery was such that he was beginning to doubt his decision to include Cecil in his plan. Maybe he should have gone this one alone. After all, this was the big granddaddy of his career, his—what did they call it?—opus? Yeah, this was his opus. His grand finale.

  If they hadn’t had to hang around waiting to rendezvous with Cecil, he and Myron could have been across the Rio Grande by now, languishing in a tropical paradise, a bottle of tequila in one hand and a señorita who didn’t know the meaning of no in the other. Yet here he was, holed up in the backwoods, home to bugs as long as his thumb and snakes as long as his leg, steeping in his own sweat, sweltering in a steam bath of a climate.

  But Cecil and his contribution were essential to the quality of life they would have once they reached Mexico. In the long run, Carl supposed this delay and all the hardships it imposed would be worth it.

  It was the idle time that was eating on him and making him fractious. With nothing to do except fight off biting insects and count the endless minutes of each day, he was thinking too much. Self-doubt nibbled at him as rapaciously as the rats that came at night to scavenge in his and Myron’s trash.

  One of the things he was thinking was that he probably shouldn’t have killed that guy at the gas station. He hadn’t wanted a witness to the burglary. But, hell, the police had lifted prints off the candy counter—Thank you, Myron—in no time flat. The gas-station owner would have identified them a few hours earlier, that’s all. They still would have had a good head start. Maybe he should have just tied the guy up and left him.

  If he had it to do over again, he might not take the girl, either.

  But he got a boner just thinking about that adventure, and knew that whatever other circumstance might have prevailed, he would have taken the girl. And who could blame him? She had been his first woman in twenty years. Twenty years, for Christ’s sake! He couldn’t work up a hard-on for Mrs. Bailey or the spinster sister. Their saggy bodies had been a turn-off for him, although Myron hadn’t seemed to mind the lack of youth and muscle tone.

  But that tender young thing in the shorts and tall sock… Hmm, hmm, hmm, had she been sweet.

  Might not have been the smartest decision to kill her afterward, though. That kind of thing pissed off everybody. The cops, the courts, the public, even other criminals. Every law enforcement agency in three states, along with the feds, was frothing at the mouth over that girl. They were leaving no stone unturned looking for her violator. He was beginning to feel the pressure. Hell, he wouldn’t be human if he didn’t.

  His worst fear was of being recaptured. Because if you go raping and sodomizing kids, and killing them afterward, not only did you get the book thrown at you at trial, if you got slammed back into the joint your ass became the property of every other con, and the guards pretended not to see how rigorously it got reamed. He would live the rest of his natural life either in solitary for his own protection or getting raped every day. What a choice.

  But he wouldn’t go back to the joint. He would die first. He would rather take a bullet in the head from some redneck peace officer out to bag himself an escaped convict than
go back to prison. At least getting shot would be quick and painless. Not like getting raped every day till he died of injury or disease.

  Of course he would rather not be recaptured or killed. First choice would be to come out of this alive in sunny Mexico. But between him and Mexico sprawled Texas, eleven hundred miles of a fucking state that had brought him nothing except bad luck since his first arrest as a juvenile.

  It would help to have someone to discuss these anxieties with. He might just as well be talking to a stump as to Myron. So even though this goddamn waiting was a necessary evil, all things considered, he would be glad to reunite with his brother. Cecil would share and understand some of what he was feeling.

  “Tomorrow’s our big day, Myron.”

  “Uh-huh.” He was picking at a scab at his elbow.

  “You ready to see some action?”

  “Yeah, Carl.”

  “We’d better get up early in the morning, give ourselves plenty of time. We don’t want to get there too early and draw attention to ourselves. But we can’t be late.”

  “Can’t be late.”

  “I hope Cecil knows what the hell he’s doing. If he’s screwed this up, I’ll kill him, and I don’t care if he is my big brother.” He nudged Myron to draw his attention away from the freshly bleeding elbow. The colorless, unblinking eyes focused on him but registered little. “Just remember one thing, Myron.”

  “What, Carl?”

  “If there’s any discussion, any argument, about how things are supposed to go down, you do what I say. You got that?”

  “Yeah, Carl. Do what I say.”

  “Me, Myron.”

  “Me.”

  “Goddamn…” Carl threw himself onto the uncomfortable cot and stared up at the spider-infested ceiling. His accomplices were a hopeless retard and a brother who periodically came down with a bad case of cowardice. He hoped to God Cecil had been cured of that. For Cecil’s sake he hoped that. Because if the shit came down on them, Cecil was on his own this time. Carl was not taking another rap for him. No way.

  Cecil had better not do anything stupid, or…

  Well, he had just better not.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It amazed Anna that a critically ill patient would be assigned to CCU. How could anyone hope to recover in such a busy place? If the noise were comparable to the bright lighting and the level of activity, it must be a very loud environment indeed.

  Nurses and other medical personnel bustled about. Several were speaking into the telephones at the central desk. A janitor was mopping the floor while another was emptying wastebaskets. All were dodging an excessively large woman delivering food trays from off a metal cart, which she maneuvered like a tank.

  When Anna entered Delray’s private enclosure, a nurse was checking the IV drip. He was awake. The nurse made a notation on his chart, then withdrew, leaving them alone.

  Anna moved to his bedside and signed, “I’m so glad you’re better.”

  “Not so you’d notice.” His eyes roved over the paraphernalia that was feeding him, monitoring his heartbeat and respiration, emptying his bladder, pumping oxygen into his nostrils, doing for him what he couldn’t do for himself.

  “The doctor says you’re much better. You look better than you did this morning when I was here.” He registered surprise. “You were asleep, so I didn’t disturb you. Were the tests too bad?”

  “Bad enough.”

  That’s all he said and Anna didn’t pressure him to elaborate, knowing that he didn’t mind the discomfort as much as he resented the helplessness. The worst part of his heart condition was that it was humiliating, making him self-conscious and weak.

  Besides, the doctor had already briefed her. “Mr. Corbett is doing as well as can be expected after such a severe heart attack,” he told her. The angiogram and sonogram had borne out the original diagnosis. Furthermore, Delray’s heart had been damaged by this and previous attacks that had gone unnoticed, probably mistaken for indigestion or heartburn. “A good portion of his heart is infarcted. It can’t be healed.”

  On the upside, he was encouraged by Delray’s response to the blood pressure medication. He was in good health otherwise and exceptionally strong for a man his age. The doctor had concluded by saying that he was guardedly optimistic.

  “How’s David?” Delray asked her now.

  She told him that his grandson was being tended by Marjorie Baker in the waiting room, and that he was coloring a picture for his grandpa, which she would bring him on her next visit.

  “I’ll look forward to seeing that. Everything all right at the ranch?”

  She assured him that all was well. She did not tell him about Cecil Herbold’s visit to the house. Any mention of his stepsons caused him distress. In his present condition, that kind of upset could be deadly.

  Besides, Cecil had already left town. His reason for coming was still unknown, but local police had assured her that he had been followed until he was well out of the county.

  “Sawyer seeing to everything properly?”

  “Yes.”

  Delray idly scratched his jaw. “You know I didn’t trust him at first.” He paused as though waiting for her to disagree or comment. When she didn’t, he continued. “I mean, when you think about it, how can you trust a guy who shows up out of nowhere? He seemed harmless. Likable enough. But something was out of kilter. For a while, I thought he might have had something to do with killing those cows.”

  “But not now?”

  “No, not now. Why would he kill my cows but save my life? And he did, you know. He saved my life, Anna.”

  Jack had worked tirelessly to restore and then to maintain Delray’s heartbeat and respiration until the paramedics arrived. With total focus, he had continued pumping on Delray’s chest until sweat had dripped off his nose and trickled over his bare chest and streamed down his arms. Even when Anna offered to relieve him, he wouldn’t stop. He had done it with an intent and purpose beyond saving Delray’s life. It had been as though Jack’s life depended on keeping Delray alive.

  “If harming me was what he was after, he could have let me die. But still,” Delray said, his brows drawing together, “I feel like there’s something about him that I’m overlooking. Something I’m missing. But what could it be?”

  It could be that Jack had a connection to Cecil Herbold just as Delray did. Different, certainly. But just as solid.

  Jack had recognized Herbold immediately. That she knew. He might have known him through the media attention he and Carl had been receiving, but he had known him. He had been alert, wary and cautious, the way an animal is when it senses danger. And this attitude had been instantaneous, before Herbold introduced himself, not after.

  “What do you think of him, Anna?”

  Because her opinions of Jack Sawyer were conflicted, she lied. “I don’t think anything of him.” Then she compounded the lie. “I haven’t been around him that much.”

  She had spent all night not more than an arm’s length from Jack Sawyer. She had known when he was truly asleep, and when he had been faking it, as she had sometimes feigned sleep. Why had she played that silly game of ’possum?

  Because it was easier to pretend that he wasn’t there than it was to pretend that she didn’t get a little quivery when he was. It was a self-defense tactic. She didn’t want to get hurt or to make a fool of herself.

  Striking first had always been her policy with people, especially men. She had developed it to protect herself against randy young men who had wanted to experience the novelty of sleeping with a deaf girl.

  The pattern had been set during adolescence. A boy would flirt with her, ask her out, then expect sexual favors in return for his charitable attention. Unable to handle the rejection, the boys boasted of conquests that never took place. As they topped one another’s stories, the myths about her grew. So, although there was no basis for it, her bad reputation had thrived. Who was going to believe the silent protestations of a deaf girl? Not the boys
hopeful to cash in on the sexual bonanza they’d heard so much locker-room talk about. Not the girls who scorned her as a slut but were secretly jealous of her desirability among their male classmates.

  Her parents had urged her to date the boys who called. They desperately wished for her life to be as normal as possible. It seemed reasonable to them that she would have boys calling, and they looked upon that as a positive sign that she was just like any other teenage girl. They didn’t know the real reason for the calls, and Anna hadn’t had the heart to disillusion them about her popularity.

  It hadn’t taken long for her heartache to turn to hate. She assumed a bitchy attitude that staved off friendships with men and women alike. It had almost frightened away Dean Corbett. Believing him to be no different from the rest, she had initially declined his invitations. But he persisted until she accepted a date. He seemed to expect nothing in return except the promise of another.

  They saw each other nearly every night for months before he worked up enough courage to caress her breast, and then he had stammered a request for permission. Perhaps that was when she knew she loved him.

  He proposed marriage immediately after the first time they made love. She teasingly told him that he need not go that far, that she had every intention of sleeping with him again whether he married her or not. He had assured her that it wasn’t just sex he was after. He wanted Anna to be his partner for life.

  Unfortunately, his life had been all too short. After he died, her chances to meet men had been greatly reduced. She was a hearing-impaired widow, with a young child, who lived with her father-in-law, on a ranch miles from town. Singly, any of those circumstances would have sent eligible bachelors scuttling for cover. The combination of them was a death knell for any social life or romance.

  The nasty gossip about her and Delray was another repellent. She caught the speculative glances of people whenever they were out in public together. On those rare occasions, she kept her head high and her expression cool and remote, as she had learned to do early in her life to ward off pity and cruel curiosity.