by Sandra Brown
“Connie, please,” Cecil said in an attempt to stave off trouble between Connie and his brother. “Be quiet. Me and Carl are talking.”
“What am I,” she asked testily, “invisible?”
“No, it’s just that—”
She interrupted. “Long as I’m here, I’m entitled to my opinion.”
“What the fuck were you thinking, Cecil?”
Although the verbal eruption awakened Myron, annoyed Connie, and startled Cecil so much that he nearly swerved the car off the road, he was relieved that Carl had finally exploded. He didn’t have to dread it any longer. Now the air could begin to clear. Even so, he didn’t particularly like the tone Carl had taken with him.
“What’d I do?”
“What’d I do?” Carl mimicked. “I want to know when you got it into your thick skull to bring her along.”
“Why aren’t you asking me?” Connie said.
“Because I’m asking my brother.”
“I can speak for myself!”
“Shut up!” the two brothers barked in unison.
Awake now, Myron went rooting for a booger in his right nostril.
“I met Connie at the bank,” Cecil began. “You know, on Fridays when I went to cash my check? We started talking. Every Friday I’d look forward to seeing her. Then she shows up at the garage, asking for me to fix her car. One thing led to another. We hit it off and began going out.”
“I don’t give a shit about your love life,” Carl said scornfully. “I want to know why you brought her into this. A goddamn broad? Are you crazy? I don’t like it. Not a bit. Not a fucking little bit.”
Whenever Carl got that evil glint in his eyes, whenever he could say an entire paragraph with practically no movement of his lips, it was time to talk fast. Nervously, Cecil said, “Connie talked about how much she hated the bank and her co-workers. How they were always sucking up to the bosses. How they were all snobs. How she wished she could pay them back for snubbing her and treating her like dirt. And so it just came to me one night.”
“Like a vision or something?” Carl asked sarcastically.
“Well, yeah, sort of.” Ignoring Carl’s snort of derision, Cecil continued. “I started teasing her, saying things like, ‘We ought to rob that bank. That’d show ’em.’ Stuff like that. Then I wasn’t teasing anymore, and she knew it, and she said yeah, we ought to do just that.”
“Satisfied?”
Once again Carl threw a glare in Connie’s direction. Then to Cecil: “You damn blind fool. She pussy-whipped you. That’s what happened. She fucked you into bringing her along.”
“Give me some credit, Carl,” Cecil said angrily. “It’s not like that. She’s been a huge help. Do you think we could’ve pulled it off so smooth if it wasn’t for her? She was working it from the inside, and we needed that. You yourself saw her kill that cop.”
“Which turned up the heat on us.”
“Which saved your hide!” Connie shouted from the backseat. “He was aiming at you, jerk face. Besides, don’t blame me for the heat. You drew first blood when you killed that biker. And this booger-eating freak did his share of killing, too.”
Carl looked across at Cecil. “Seems, big brother, that the only one who didn’t kill somebody is you. But that’s the way it usually goes down, isn’t it?”
Cecil slammed on the brakes and brought the car to a screeching halt in the middle of the road. Not that it mattered. There was no other traffic on this ribbon of macadam that wound through dense piney woods. If the road had a name or number Cecil wasn’t aware of it. It was unlikely that it appeared on any map. He had boasted to Carl that the hideout he had prepared was so well hidden in the thicket that daylight had to be piped in.
But he wasn’t being cute or funny now when he turned to Carl and demanded to know what he had meant by his snide remark.
“What I mean is that every time something gets fucked up, it’s me has to shoot us out of it,” Carl said nastily before turning to Connie again. “Did Don Juan here ever tell you about his wussing out in Arkadelphia?”
“My gun jammed!” Cecil exclaimed in a high, thin voice.
“That’s what you told me at the time, but what you testified to in court was that when push came to shove you couldn’t pull the trigger, that you couldn’t bring yourself to shoot that guy.”
“That’s what my lawyer told me to say. He made me say that, Carl. You had that fire-breathing liberal Yankee lawyer with the ponytail. Fat lot of good his high ideals did you, huh? My lawyer said to show remorse, and so I did.”
“Yeah, well, I’m inclined to believe what you testified to on the witness stand. Meaning, big brother, that you’re a chickenshit coward.”
Cecil lunged across the seat and seized Carl by the throat.
Carl jammed the barrel of his pistol into Cecil’s stomach.
Connie screamed. “What in the hell are y’all doing?”
Cecil fell back, gasping for breath and clutching his midriff.
Carl started laughing, replacing the weapon in his waistband, then reached across and clasped Cecil’s red face between his hands. “I was just testing you, big brother. Wanted to see if you’d finally got some starch in your drawers, and, by God, I think you have. Whooee! The way you came at me. You see that, Myron?”
“Yeah, Carl.”
“We could have used him back in Tucker to help us with those mean niggers, couldn’t we, Myron?”
“Sure could’ve, Carl.”
“You’re all crazy, is what,” Connie huffed. But she was laughing, too, now that the pressure had eased up and everybody had let off a little steam. “Crazy as bedbugs.”
Carl lightly slapped Cecil’s cheek. “You okay, Cec?”
Cecil was still trying to catch his breath, but at the risk of disappointing Carl, he signaled that he was fine.
“Then get this chariot cranked up again and drive, big brother, drive. Let’s get to this cabin of yours, so I can get out of these goddamn clothes. Me and the late G. R. Bailey didn’t share the same taste when it came to fashion.”
“Who’s G. R. Bailey?”
“History. Him, his old lady, and her pudgy sister,” Carl said. “In fact, everything’s history. I’m looking only to the future. We’ve got lots of plans to make, Cec. Sooner the better. Je-sus, it’s good to be back in business!”
“Sure is, Carl,” Cecil wheezed. “Feels damn good to have the Herbold brothers reunited.”
Carl turned to Connie. “I’m hungry. Can you cook?”
“Eat shit and die.”
Again, he laughed and clapped Cecil on the shoulder. “Smart and sassy. No wonder you like her.”
* * *
Nothing called forth tradition more readily than death. Even if the deceased had fallen out of favor with God and man, customs were steadfastly upheld. Delray Corbett’s passing did not go unnoticed and unobserved by the community in which he had lived.
The morning following his death, the newspaper ran an obituary written from the factual information supplied by Marjorie Baker on Anna’s behalf. The Benevolent Committee of the church was in charge of food, the delivery of which fell to ladies who Anna figured had drawn the short straws. Feeling awkward talking to someone who couldn’t talk back, they arrived at the house bringing casseroles, cakes, platters of fried chicken and baked ham, and, as soon as it was even moderately polite, departed.
Delray was buried between his wife and his son with a minimum of fanfare. Old-timers were the ones who clung to funeral rituals, but it was also the old-timers who remembered the Patsy McCorkle incident and the connection that Delray had to it through his incorrigible stepsons. That guilt by association followed him even into his grave.
During his lifetime, he had cultivated only a small number of true friends. He had shunned them in favor of his self-imposed exile for the past several years. So only the few who felt the most obligated attended the service in the chapel of the funeral home. Still fewer followed the hearse to the cemetery for t
he interment.
Anna, seated with David in the shade of a canopy, gazed out over the handful of people in attendance. A few of Delray’s former domino-playing buddies were there. She was surprised to see one of Dean’s friends who had been a groomsman in their wedding but whom she hadn’t seen since Dean’s funeral.
When Dean died, she had thought it wrong of Delray to sever contact with these young men, who also were grieving their loss. It wasn’t until later that she realized that Delray had felt threatened by them. In addition to not wanting them around to remind him of Dean, he hadn’t wanted them around her. He had considered any man a possible suitor and therefore his competition.
Marjorie Baker was the only friend she could claim at the gravesite. Not even Jack Sawyer had come. He excused himself by saying that he would be of more use working at the ranch than sitting at the funeral, and that he didn’t have the proper clothes to wear. But Anna wondered if those excuses were the real reason for his not attending.
She didn’t see that it made much difference.
Upon concluding his remarks, the minister closed his Bible and came over to where Anna sat. “My prayers are with you and David, Anna.” Speaking through Marjorie, she thanked him, and it was over.
David had been solemn and abnormally still throughout the two services, his exuberance for once stifled. He was probably overwhelmed by the foreignness of the hushed voices and soft organ music, the flowers and muted lighting, and the casket with its spray of yellow chrysanthemums.
Kneeling on his level now, Anna told him that it was time for them to leave and asked if he wanted to tell his grandpa good-bye. He looked at the casket and, for the first time, seemed to make the connection between the strange ceremony he had just observed and his grandfather. Assailed by the permanence of death, he pressed his face into Anna’s shoulder and began to cry. She held him close. She didn’t rush him, but let him cry wetly and noisily.
Eventually, he raised his head and swiped the back of his hand beneath his nose. “Ready to go now?” she asked.
“Can we go to McDonald’s for lunch?”
Smiling tearfully, Anna agreed that that was a good idea. Hand in hand, they moved toward the limousine provided for the family. Unfortunately, just before reaching it, Emory Lomax stepped forward and blocked her path.
* * *
He had been born under a lucky star. What other explanation could there be for this incredible stroke of luck? He was a favorite son of the angels, of the good fairies, of elves and nymphs. Whoever the hell it was that doled out the good fortune loved Emory Lomax. He’d been lavished with it.
When the minister began the final prayer over Delray Corbett, Emory bowed his head, but he kept his eyes open and smiled down at the green cemetery turf. Corbett was dead. It just didn’t get any better than this. Just when Connaught and the suits at EastPark were getting antsy and demanding results, Emory had had the pleasure of phoning them to report that the biggest obstacle to their acquisition of the prized property was being buried that morning.
A meeting had been scheduled as early as day after tomorrow. He was on a roll.
“Amen,” he said, in chorus with the minister.
The kid was crying. Anna Corbett was holding him. Respectfully, Emory joined the dispersing congregation, giving the family some private moments at the grave. The epitome of decorum, he walked back toward the row of parked cars with his head slightly bowed, his gait slow and respectful, when actually he could barely keep himself from dancing a little jig and hurdling the headstones.
He would be EastPark’s hero. The rewards would be so tremendous that just thinking about them made his head spin. His ranking in the company would skyrocket. He would bypass the grunt work and all the wannabes in lowly positions who couldn’t hold a candle to Emory Lomax.
The bank and its stuffy president and his tight-assed heir, his unattractive secretary Mrs. Presley, all could kiss his ass. He was gone, baby. There was nothing now to stand in his way.
Well, there was one small matter to clean up. One tiny snag that could cause a major unraveling if not tied off.
Emory frowned behind his RayBans. He wasn’t sure how to go about handling it. It could be real tricky. It would require…
He was thinking so hard about it, he almost missed Anna as she walked toward him flanked by a tall, gray-haired broad and the kid. He stepped in front of them.
“Mrs. Corbett.” He sandwiched Anna’s hand between his, stroking and patting it. “I’m so sorry. So very sorry.”
Enunciating carefully so she wouldn’t miss one heartfelt word, he expressed his shock and grief over her father-in-law’s untimely passing. “At a time like this, words are so inadequate.”
She nodded coolly and tried to reclaim her hand. He continued to hold it and pressed a business card into her palm, then closed her fingers around it. “It’s vital that you call me at your earliest convenience. You’ll be facing some difficult financial decisions which should not be put off. You’ll need some guidance.”
She yanked her hand away and signed something, which the tall broad interpreted. “Anna says thank you. She also says that she appreciates your offer, but that Delray left all their financial matters in good order.”
Emory’s smile faltered. “Your father-in-law was a meticulous man. That’s why I admired him so much.”
She treated him to another of those snooty, condescending nods.
The kid tugged on her hand. “I’m hungry, Mom. Can we go now?”
Emory could have throttled the little bastard, although he smiled down at him. “Hold your horses, sonny. Your mother and I are talking.”
Well, no they weren’t, because Anna mouthed good-bye and turned toward the limousine where a chauffeur was holding the door for her.
An image of Connaught’s scowling face wavered in front of Emory, as real to him as the heat waves that shimmied up from the pavement. He began to sweat inside his dark suit.
“Uh, Mrs. Corbett,” he said to forestall her. Then, realizing that he was addressing the back of a deaf person, he reached out and grabbed her arm, which she immediately pulled free.
“Forgive me for detaining you any longer. It’s hot out here, and your boy is hungry, and I know this is already a stressful day for you, but, well, some matters take precedence even over… uh…” He nodded back toward the grave.
Anna had impatience stamped all over her.
Emory blurted out, “I know who poisoned your cattle.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Jack was heating a can of tamales on the small butane-powered range in the trailer when David knocked on his door. “Mom says we have enough food to feed an army and it’ll ruin if we don’t eat it and do you want to eat with us. You do, don’t you, Jack?”
Jack removed the pan of tamales from the burner. “Sure, thanks. Tell your mom I’ll be there.”
“Aren’t you coming right now?”
“Five minutes.”
Jack used the time to run a brush through his hair and change his shirt. He even splashed on some aftershave. The primping was silly, but, well, he couldn’t remember the last time anybody had invited him to supper.
When Anna and David returned from the funeral, Jack had been on a ladder knocking down the dirt dauber nests beneath the eaves of the house. With enviable resilience, David exploded from the passenger door of the car as soon as it came to a stop. “Jack, Jack, wha’cha doin’? Can I help? We went to McDonald’s.”
Jack came down the ladder. “Good, huh?”
“Yeah. Can I climb up?”
“A few rungs. Not too high. Be careful.”
Anna hadn’t been as sprightly as her son. She had alighted slowly and moved as though the black mourning dress were made of chain mail. It had looked too heavy and hot for the season and too large for her small frame. Dark sunglasses had concealed her eyes, but beneath them her face was drawn and pale.
“How are you?” he asked.
She signed that she was okay.
/> “You haven’t had any real rest since leaving for the hospital two days ago. Why don’t you go inside and lie down? Take the whole afternoon for yourself. I’ll watch David.”
She signed something that Jack asked David to translate. Hanging on to the ladder with one hand, the boy had shaded his eyes against the glaring sun with the other. “She says that’s nice of you, but before anything else I gotta go inside and change my clothes.”
“Good idea.” Catching the boy around the waist, Jack swung him down. “You do that, then meet me back out here, ready to go to work. Okay?”
“Okay, Jack!”
“Don’t leave your clothes scattered all over your room. Put them away for your mom.”
“I will.” He dashed inside, letting the door bang shut behind him.
“It would be nice to have that much energy,” Jack had remarked as he came back around to Anna.
Smiling after her son, she nodded.
He removed his hat and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “This heat is something else, isn’t it? Sure could use some rain.”
Banalities. But he hadn’t known what else to say. He had wanted to console her about Delray, but, as he had learned, those were treacherous waters. He had wanted to ask how the funeral had gone, but she could have come back by saying that if he had wanted to know, he should have attended. Best not to wade into that, either. That narrowed it down to lame comments about the weather.
All morning as he went about his chores, he had mulled over what he should do. The conclusion he reached was that he should be gone by the time they returned from the funeral. He could make a clean break. No good-byes. No explanations for why he was leaving or why he had come in the first place. Maybe a brief note wishing them well and adios.
That would have been the smart thing to do. But, dammit, he just couldn’t disappear on the day they buried Delray. The Herbolds held a grudge against their stepfather, but Delray’s dying didn’t necessarily mean that Anna and David were out of danger. Jack couldn’t leave. Not until Cecil and Carl were safely behind bars again.