Way Back

by Williams, Abbie;

  Case’s chest expanded with a deep breath and I knew I’d caught him off guard by asking; I could tell he didn’t know how to answer. He wouldn’t sink to pacifying me, but neither did he want to confirm the likely truth. At last he said, “It was probably quick.”

  “I hope so,” I whispered, banishing images of Robbie in his apartment during his last minutes, struggling with an intruder, probably a couple of intruders, who’d pinned him down and then…and then…

  “I don’t want to be here,” I moaned. “I hate this place. But my dad…”

  “He’s in bad shape,” Case agreed. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Do you think his wife…”

  “I do,” I whispered, huffing on a restrained sob. “She’s long gone.”

  “I know he was messing around on her, but I still feel for him. Does he have friends here? Anyone he could call if he gets too depressed?”

  “I don’t know,” I whispered. “Not many, I don’t think. He’s always been so busy with his job.”

  “No job is that important,” Case said, low and adamant.

  “None,” I agreed, and stripped my husband of his remaining clothing, needing to feel his heart beating against mine.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE FUNERAL WAS HELD IN ST. HELEN’S CHAPEL IN THE gloom of a cloudy late-afternoon and the casket was closed. I thanked God for small favors, not sure if I could have held it together if confronted with Robbie’s embalmed face. I was struggling enough as it was; my breath shallow and my pulse erratic even with Case’s steady arm around my waist, I stared blankly at the mass of mostly-unfamiliar faces, recognizing only Robbie’s parents, both litigators at Damon and Benson. Asher, somber and immaculate in a three-piece suit, quietly greeted guests while Stella, ghostly and drawn, hovered near the coffin, supported by a woman who resembled her closely, likely a sister. Robbie had been the Bensons’ only child.

  Dad led us to a walnut pew on the left side of the chapel, speaking very little despite the fact he probably knew far more attendees than I did. He patted my knee once we were seated and whispered, “Doing all right?”

  I nodded and tucked my hand around Case’s bicep; my husband sat with a protective angle to his shoulders, solemn and imposing, as if daring anyone to send a threatening look my way. I realized, however ridiculously, that I’d never seen Case in a tie.

  “I don’t remember my mom’s very well,” Case had told me last night as we curled together in the guestroom bed; we’d been discussing the funerals of our past. He murmured, “I was eight, old enough to have it in my memory but I was so devastated I blocked it out, I think. And my dad didn’t have a service, never wanted one. He was cremated after he died. Gus and I scattered his ashes up in the mountains.”

  “I remember my great-grandma’s,” I’d whispered. “Gran died the summer we moved to Landon, over ten years ago, but I still miss her. I can still see her, and hear her voice. She was a lady not to be crossed.”

  “Just like the woman I’m in love with,” Case murmured, resting his lips against my temple.

  Later he’d said, “Faye’s funeral is the worst one in my past. It was like losing my mother all over again. It was so sad. I couldn’t handle my own sadness, let alone anyone else’s. And she died so unexpectedly. One morning she was alive and by that afternoon she’d been hit by a truck on the interstate. I know that’s why Marsh was so worried about Ruthie driving alone to Minnesota. He’s never gotten over his mom getting killed so sudden like that.” “I know,” I whispered, resting my forehead against his jaw as we snuggled beneath the covers. “I really do. I don’t blame him. I was overreacting that day, I was so scared.”

  “Ruthie was already out of the car before the crash, she had to have been,” Case said. We’d discussed this already, reaching no satisfactory conclusion. We could only speculate, using the extremely limited information in our possession. Building on an earlier discussion, he added, “It was the life or death situation. I think she disappeared from her car because her life was in danger.”

  “Just like the man in our barn that night, last August,” I murmured.

  “Exactly. The seatbelt was still hooked but Ruthie wasn’t in it, right? That makes me think her disappearance was just as accidental as the car losing control on the snow. As accidental as touching those letters Una Spicer wrote. And those letters were still buried in the trunk in our trailer that night. Ruthie didn’t have them. The past wanted her to come but she didn’t intend to go, not right then.”

  It made sense; at least more sense than anything else we had to go on at this point. I whispered, “Ruthie meant to drive to Minnesota, she was headed to Landon. She would never purposely hurt us, even if she was angry as hell. Oh God, what if…”

  “Marshall will find her. He won’t rest until he does,” Case said, and I’d let the certainty in his voice comfort, if not convince, me.

  Dad’s quiet greeting to someone approaching our pew dragged my focus back to the here and now, sitting stiffly in this ornate Catholic chapel as a grim evening encroached on the reds and blues of the window glass. It was phantasmal; I half-expected Robbie to pull a Tom Sawyer and appear at his own funeral. He’d wait for everyone to get settled, maybe let a few people begin crying delicately into their hankies before waltzing down the long central aisle to flank his own coffin. He’d scan the crowd, then laugh and say, Well. It’s nice to see who really gives a damn about me.

  “Jackson,” said an unexpected voice, one I recognized all too well; Case’s attention snapped in the same direction.

  My father rose, unaware of our bristling ire. Derrick Yancy, however, was well aware and did not dare to come any closer than the far end of the row, leaning to shake Dad’s hand while bracing against the top of the pew with his other. Derrick was unpleasantly familiar and his gaze settled on me, as it invariably did, before flickering nervously away. And then right back. I refused to give him the satisfaction of fidgeting or appearing in any other way uncomfortable.

  “Derrick,” Dad acknowledged, his back to us.

  If you ask him to join us I will make a scene like you’ve never seen, I warned my father without words.

  Derrick nodded at Case and me; despite his pristine appearance and the fact that he was an expert at hiding it I could tell he’d been drinking.

  “Jackie, good to see you,” said another man two rows back, commandeering my father’s attention. This man carried on, “Such a shame under these circumstances, though. Robert was a good boy. A fine boy. No one saw this coming.”

  Dad gritted his teeth, muttering, “Excuse me, I’ll be right back,” and stepped to the end of the row, nodding at Derrick as he slipped past him.

  Derrick continued standing there like one of the stone pillars; searching my face, he said quietly, “Patricia. Are you well?”

  Case all but gritted his teeth but kept his voice likewise low. “You’re on my last nerve, Yancy.”

  Ignoring the menace in Case’s tone, Derrick advanced a step. “I’d like to talk to you.”

  “You can’t,” I said at once, wanting only to diffuse the situation. When he appeared puzzled by my words, I elaborated, “We’re engaged in court proceedings with you. It would be a conflict of interest.”

  Derrick’s attention was snagged by someone behind us; turning, I caught sight of the Turnbulls approaching. Ron’s silver hair took on the hues of the primary colors in the stained glass adorning the chapel and Christina’s breasts led the way, as usual, her sleek hair smoothed to a glossy waterfall over her tanned bare shoulders. Her gown was uncharacteristically conservative and I watched as her smoky-shadowed eyes fluttered to the casket; was there a hint of sincere emotion on her flawless face? I suddenly realized that while she bore no other resemblance to my mother, her coloring was just the same – green eyes, golden-brown skin, golden hair. A wintry chill clutched at my spine; was this why Dad had been initially drawn to her?

  Neither she nor Ron had seen me yet.

  Immediately I sought my father,
determined to gauge his reaction to Christina; she glanced his way and her composure took a noticeable nosedive. I watched heat climb her face. Her haughty expression did not alter but she was obviously flustered and I thought of Robbie saying, It’s all Jackson, all the time, in reference to Christina. My stomach bottomed out a few more inches.

  Dad was still chatting with the couple two rows back and didn’t pause in his conversation; his gaze held Christina’s and even if I’d had no suspicions regarding their extramarital activities until just this moment, all doubts would be erased; something was broiling between them. Dad had shaved, combed his hair, and was wearing a suit, but there were deep shadows beneath his eyes. He looked abruptly away, mouth twisting in an expression I recognized as disdain. Christina’s face drained of color but I didn’t know her well enough to determine if she was angry or ashamed.

  I realized Ron had continued down the center aisle without his wife and paused at the end of our row.

  “Ms. Gordon.” Ron spoke with contrived politeness, ignoring both Case and Derrick. “How good to see you.”

  I mustered my lawyer voice. “My name is Patricia Spicer.”

  “My mistake,” Ron said.

  You killed him, didn’t you? The sensation of being cornered increased, sitting in a pew bracketed by Derrick and Ron. Why? What did Robbie know? What dirt did he dig up on you, you fucking bastard?

  Ron’s eyes bore into mine. “Pity about Benson. Smart boy. I hate to see a smart boy go so quickly downhill. Pressures of the job, I suppose.”

  All the air in the chapel was siphoned away. Despite the intensity of my desire to stride over to the older man and claw at his smug face, I understood that now, more than ever, I could not react. It was most certainly what Ron wanted – for me to lose my cool, to inadvertently admit I’d been part of Robbie’s undercover activities at Turnbull and Hinckley. I understood right then that Ron had Robbie’s phone; he’d seen the incriminating message from me. And I saw in his predatory eyes the confidence of his own authority, his unchallenged assumption of power. I was less than nothing to him, a trifling young woman, easily eliminated if the need arose.

  And he was reading me right now for that very reason, searching for a need.

  Christina slithered to Ron’s side before I could respond. Ron’s mouth lifted in a smile but his eyes were deadly. Christina did not look our way, instead tugging impatiently at her husband’s elbow. I watched in silence as the Turnbulls continued to the casket to greet Asher and Stella, Ron the picture of solicitous sympathy. I felt like a pitiful little goldfish chucked into an ocean crammed with writhing eels and sleek, darting sharks; the water all around me foamed and churned with predators. Sweat beaded over my skin. The service was about to start, people shuffling to their seats. I watched the priest climbing the elevated altar, lifting the hem of his long white robe like he would an ankle-length skirt.

  “I can’t…” I turned desperately to Case.

  He was pale, his eyebrows crooked in an expression of barely-contained horror. I didn’t finish the statement but he understood, gathering our outerwear and leading me from the chapel. I didn’t glance at Dad as we passed him, concentrating on nothing but getting to the door that allowed escape. Outside, I gulped deep breaths of cold February air as Case wrapped me first in my coat and then into his arms. He helped me down the front steps and then drew us to the side of the immense stone building. Sheltered against him, thick white snowflakes dusting our heads, I clung to my husband and inhaled his scent, which smelled of home. Of our dear little home in Jalesville, which we should not have left. Where we might not be safe from this point forward.

  “It’s all right,” Case kept saying. He pressed his mouth to my hair and his body was so very warm and solid, his arms anchoring me to reality.

  “It’s not all right,” I gasped. “Oh God, we shouldn’t be here…”

  “I will never let anything happen to you,” Case said with quiet ferocity, lifting my chin. Even in the gloom of the snowy evening the flecks of auburn were apparent in his dear, beautiful eyes. I could see his breath in the cold air. I wanted to beg, But what about you? Will you let anything happen to you?

  He cupped my shoulders. “Those assholes think they’re above the law, but they’re not. We’ll prove their claim on our land is false, along with Clark.”

  I wanted so badly to believe what he said was possible. “But they have so much power, it scares me so much…did you see Ron’s face…”

  “If we think like that, we’ve already lost.” Case stared deeply into my eyes. “You are the bravest woman I know, and the most determined. We will see this through together, I swear to you.”

  “But what if…”

  The double doors at the top of the steps opened and Derrick appeared between them; it was obvious he was looking for us.

  Case’s shoulders squared. “What the hell do you want, Yancy?”

  Apparently this terse question did not register; Derrick stepped all the way outside without responding, his sharp features softened by the gloaming light. Cars scrolled past on the busy four-lane, headlights beaming, wipers scraping aside the falling snow; Derrick studied the traffic as if confused. As though he wasn’t sure in this moment exactly where he was; I thought of Case telling me, not too long ago, that Derrick had no one in the world to care about him. Arrogant, entitled, devious – all words I would use to describe Derrick. But was he evil? Was he like Ron? Or was he truly an unloved second son, desiring so badly to get his father’s attention he was willing to do anything required?

  I hated myself for feeling a flicker of sympathy.

  Derrick looked away from the traffic and blinked a couple of times, refocusing. He’d left the chapel without his coat or scarf and snow fell on his suit jacket, on his uncovered head. And then, sudden as a wind gust, urgency radiated from him. He descended the stone steps at a jog, peering down the sidewalk behind Case and me; I resisted the desire to look over my shoulder. One stair from the snowy ground he stopped, his breath creating a steam cloud in the cold air. He said, “You two should go.”

  Case met my eyes and asked without speaking, What the hell?

  Thinking of the conversation I’d tried to initiate with Derrick last autumn, in the parking lot of The Spoke on the night of Marshall’s birthday party, I responded to my husband, Give me a second here.

  Keeping my tone neutral, I asked, “Why is that?”

  Instead of answering, Derrick’s eyes detoured to my stomach. Extending a solicitous hand toward me, just short of making physical contact, he whispered, “When is the baby due?”

  A deep, hostile sound issued from Case’s throat at the same instant a strange, powerful rush of awareness hammered at my senses. That night last autumn, Derrick had also mentioned a child.

  Driven by instinct, I played along. “In November.”

  Derrick looked between our faces, his own pale and grim; he was on the very precipice of revelation. Despite the chill winter air, fresh sweat beaded on my skin. My heart accelerated with each breath but now was not the time to lose control. I scoured my mind for anything I could use and then it occurred to me. Franklin doesn’t exist. Robbie’s last text suggested he’d found something on Franklin. Growing desperate, I grabbed Derrick’s forearm and played my ace card. “Why would you say your brother doesn’t exist?”

  Derrick froze, eyes becoming ice chips – but they were fixated on something down the sidewalk.

  “Charles and Patricia Spicer,” someone said from behind us. “Leaving so soon?”

  Case and I turned to see a stranger approaching through the falling snow, tall and slender and with the sort of superficial, angular features seen on men in expensive cologne advertisements. He wore a charcoal greatcoat and matching scarf but no hat over his blond hair. His eyes were pale and penetrating. He stopped with two squares of sidewalk concrete between our bodies and I squinted in confusion, struck by the sense that I’d seen him before. He’d addressed us with barely-concealed derision.
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  “Who are you?” Case demanded, angling in front of me.

  “Why do you ask, Charles?”

  “How the fuck do you know my name? Answer me.”

  The man’s repellent smile only widened.

  I hardly recognized Derrick’s voice as he asked, “What are you doing here?”

  That was all it took for me to understand; I realized I’d once seen his picture on a brochure for their company, Capital Overland. Elusive older brother, Number One, the reason for Derrick’s inferiority complex. It hadn’t occurred to me he might appear at Robbie’s funeral, but of course the Yancy home base was in Chicago. I looked for their father but no one else was in sight. Just an empty sidewalk, dusted by snow and his striding footprints. I felt the first stab of fear.

  Before I could bite my tongue I whispered, “Franklin.”

  At the sound of his name his upper lip lifted just slightly, not quite a sneer.

  Derrick hadn’t moved from his perch on the steps. With more insistence in his tone he repeated, “What are you doing here?”

  Franklin’s eyes flicked to his brother. A bluish glow emanating from a nearby streetlight made blades of his cheekbones and his eyes were as remote as a reptile’s, but he was flesh and blood, standing before us. Existing, as it were.

  You two should go, Derrick had said. He’d attempted to warn us.

  “Far from home, aren’t you?” Franklin asked, addressing Case. “Dirt grubbers don’t much like to leave their dirt, isn’t that so?”

  Case seemed constructed of cement; he’d shifted so that I was behind him, shoulders rigid with tension. Though every bit as mystified by this bizarre confrontation, I sensed Case’s measured calculation – gauging each movement, each potential threat. He refused to dignify the question with a response.

  Franklin’s attention swung my way; studying me like a scientist would a lab rat, amusement gained the upper hand in his expression. He wasn’t a physically imposing man; slim and fine-boned, his features almost delicate in structure – but then something stirred in the depths of his pale irises and my bowels turned to ice.