Yvonne walked away, across the room, and sat down in one of the chairs by the window. She closed her eyes, laid her hands in her lap, and moved her lips silently. She’s praying, Jolie thought.
Jolie looked directly at Curry. “Theron is convinced that his uncle, Lemar Fuqua, was not the Belle Rose massacre killer. He intends to prove that someone else killed my mother and aunt… and Lemar, too.”
Max groaned, Slanting her gaze sideways, Jolie offered him a searing glance.
“Are you Ms. Royale?” Curry asked. “Jolie Royale, the only survivor of the Belle Rose massacre?”
“Yes, I am. And I agree with Theron that Lemar Fuqua wasn’t a murderer. Theron and I both want the old case reopened. We want the real murderer found and punished and Lemar’s name cleared. Yesterday afternoon, D.A. Newman gave us permission to look at all the files pertaining to the Belle Rose case. Theron and I worked together until after eleven last night in the basement of the sheriff’s department, going through all the old files.”
“Are you saying that there’s a connection between the Belle Rose massacre and what happened to Theron Carter?” Curry asked.
“I can’t say for sure,” Jolie said. “But there very well could be.”
“Why do you think there could be a connection?” Max asked. “Did y’all find something in those files that would prove Lemar innocent?”
Jolie snapped her head around and glowered at Max. “We didn’t find the files. They weren’t there. But maybe you already knew that.”
“Damn, how could I have known?” Max squinched his eyes to mere slits.
Like two gunfighters in an old Western movie, Max and Jolie squared off, bodies tense, gazes riveted.
“Look, Ms. Royale, we’ll probably need a statement from you.” Curry’s comment momentarily reduced the tension radiating between Max and her. “I’ll pass the information you gave me along to the chief and see what he thinks. In the meantime, I’d like to check with the officers who went over the crime scene. I’m hoping they found something that will lead us to Mr. Carter’s attackers.” Curry turned to leave, paused, and glanced over his shoulder. Nodding sideways to indicate Yvonne, he spoke to Max. “Tell Mrs. Carter that we’ll do everything we can to find the”—he glanced toward Jolie—“the bastards who attacked her son.”
The minute Curry disappeared down the hall, Jolie rushed to Max, grabbed his arm, then gave him a non-too-gentle shove toward the door. “I want to talk to you. Out in the hall.”
Max obliged her without comment. Once they were in the corridor, several feet away from the surgery waiting area, he stopped, leaned back against the wall, and casually crossed his arms over his chest.
“Let’s have it,” he said.
“Theron and I found out two things today. One: somebody is pulling Larry Newman’s strings. Two: somebody stole all the files pertaining to the Belle Rose massacre case.”
“And just what does this information have to do with me?”
“Only two men in Desmond County have the power to control the D.A. and make those files disappear.”
Max shrugged.
“Damn you!” Jolie glowered at him. “Those two men are Roscoe Wells and Maximillian Devereaux.”
Max’s expression didn’t change, didn’t reveal the least bit of emotion. But there was a glimmer of something in his eyes. Something sinister? Or was it simply controlled rage?
“I didn’t even vote for Newman in the last election. And I don’t know anything about your missing files.”
“Do you expect me to believe you?”
“I don’t expect you to do anything except cause trouble. That seems to be the one thing you’re good at doing. Dredging up old memories, stirring up a stink, putting people through the misery of reliving a past better left forgotten.”
She took a tentative step toward him, pausing when only a few inches separated their bodies. “Do you honestly think that anyone involved could ever forget about those brutal murders? If you’d been shot and left for dead beside your mother’s lifeless body, would you ever be able to forget?”
“Probably not,” Max admitted. “But you have no proof that the snooping you and Theron were doing is in any way connected to those men attacking Theron.”
“I don’t need proof. I know in here”—she slapped her clenched fist on her belly—“that somebody wanted Theron stopped before he unearthed any information that might force the D.A. to reopen the Belle Rose case. And so help me God, I’m going to find out who the son of a bitch is. Theron might not be able to continue searching, to keep digging for the truth, but I can. And I will.”
Max uncrossed his arms and eased away from the wall. “If what you believe is true, then you could wind up getting yourself hurt, maybe even killed.”
“Is that a threat?”
Groaning, Max rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. Then before Jolie realized what he intended, he grabbed her upper arms, whirled her around, and pushed her up against the wall. Her heartbeat accelerated. Wide-eyed and mouth parted on a shocked gasp, she shivered as he splayed his big hands on either side of her head.
“I don’t make threats. I learned from Louis to make promises and to always keep those promises.”
“What else did you learn from my father? Did you learn to lie and cheat and betray people who loved and trusted you? Did he teach you how to manipulate the law and to keep the truth hidden?” That’s it, Jolie, keep staring right into those cold blue eyes. Show him that he can’t intimidate you.
“My God, listen to yourself.” Max’s scowl fixed menacingly on Jolie’s face. “You’re implying that Louis was somehow involved in the Belle Rose massacre.”
“Only indirectly. He would have protected Georgette. If your mother had hired someone…or if she had persuaded you to—” The fiery wrath burning in Max’s eyes silenced her. She suddenly felt as if she were trapped at the summit of a volcano that was on the verge of erupting.
Without saying a word, Max lifted his hands from the wall and moved away, then strode down the corridor. Not until he turned the corner and was completely out of sight did Jolie breathe again. Heaven help her, she had goaded a fire-breathing dragon. Now, she couldn’t help wondering if it were only a matter of time before his searing anger burned her alive.
Even Aunt Clarice had been unable to persuade Yvonne to leave the hospital, so they had banded together and set up a flexible schedule for themselves to make sure she would never be alone. Aunt Clarice took the day shift; Amy Jardien took the evening shift; and Jolie took the night shift. Nowell Landers kept Aunt Clarice company and watched over Clarice and Yvonne like a guardian angel. The more Jolie got to know Nowell, the better she liked him. If he wasn’t in love with Clarice, then he deserved an Academy Award for his performance. Members of Yvonne’s church—the Freewill Baptist Church—visited regularly, checking on Yvonne, joining Reverend Chapman in several prayer vigils and bringing meals to the hospital for Yvonne and Clarice.
Sandy Wells had agreed to be on call in the evenings so that Amy didn’t have to deal with patients during her shift at Yvonne’s side. Ike Denton came by around eight every evening and had stayed until midnight the past couple of nights, not leaving until Yvonne and Jolie bedded down on the sofas in the ICU waiting room. The first night Ike came by, Jolie had told him that she planned to continue the investigation into the Belle Rose case, but after seeing how upset her declaration made Yvonne, she made sure that Yvonne didn’t hear her future conversations with Ike.
The police had come up with a big fat zero as far as identifying Theron’s attackers. Chief Harper swore that the Sumarville Police Department would, in his own words, “leave no rock unturned, because surely the men who had brutalized Theron must have crawled out from under a rock somewhere.” The local papers gave the case front page headlines daily and the local TV station was running a piece about racial hate crimes on their ten o’clock broadcast every night. A representative of the NAACP had dropped by the hospital to see Yvonne on two separat
e occasions. And Morris Dees, founder of the Southern Poverty Law Center, had phoned Yvonne.
Jolie knew for a fact that Max came by the hospital twice a day and called to check on Theron several times between visits. But since her confrontation with Max, he had avoided her like the plague. Aunt Clarice said that Max slept at home each night but timed his arrival after Jolie left for the hospital at ten-thirty each night and then made sure he was up and gone before Jolie returned to Belle Rose around eight-thirty each morning. The time she spent at the house involved little more than taking a nap, eating lunch and dinner, and checking in with Cheryl Randall to keep tabs on her Atlanta-based design firm. Since Theron’s accident, Georgette had started taking her meals in her room, which kept the substitute housekeeper running up and down the stairs. Jolie had the pleasure of dining with Parry and Mallory, both totally sympathetic to Theron, and each blaming her for his condition. She tried to ignore them, but that was easier said than done.
“If you hadn’t joined forces with Yvonne’s boy, I doubt anything would have ever come of his plans to get the old Belle Rose case reopened,” Parry had said. “You could have saved everybody around here a lot of trouble if you’d just gone back to Atlanta after Louis’s funeral.”
“I wish you’d been the one they attacked!” Mallory had told Jolie. “Nobody wants you at Belle Rose. You have no right to be here. We all hate you!”
Mallory was a brat. God, had she been that much of a smart-mouthed know-it-all at eighteen? And Parry Clifton puzzled Jolie. He vacillated between vaguely disguised hostility and some sort of weird flirting, apparently unable to decide whether he despised Jolie or desired her. She supposed she could write off his unnerving flirtation to the fact that she resembled her aunt Lisette. Perhaps sometimes Parry looked at her and saw Lisette. That was the only explanation for his odd behavior.
Five days had passed since the brutal attack on Theron. Although his prognosis had improved—the doctors now believed he would live—he hadn’t come out of the coma.
When the elevator doors swung open, Jolie stepped out and headed straight for the ICU waiting room. She’d brought a thermos of decaf coffee and a half-read paperback with her. Often she found it difficult to sleep at the hospital and needed something to pass the long hours while Yvonne rested.
She stopped dead in the doorway. The waiting room was empty. She checked her watch. Ten-fifty. The last visiting time for ICU was at ten o’clock. Where were Yvonne and Amy? Where was Ike? No need to keep wondering, she told herself. After placing her thermos and book on the sofa in the waiting room, she headed straight for the closed ICU door. She lifted her hand to knock, then through the glass pane in the center of the door, she saw a nurse coming toward her.
The door opened and the nurse—Connie Markham, a plump, petite brunette with a Moon Pie face—smiled at Jolie. “Ms. Royale, please come with me. Mrs. Carter said to bring you right on back the minute you arrived.”
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Connie replied. “Mr. Carter is responding. When his mother went in to see him at ten, he squeezed her hand.”
“Then he’s conscious?” Jolie asked. “Has he said anything?”
Connie shook her head. “His eyes are open and he’s squeezing his mother’s hand and Dr. Jardien’s hand. But he hasn’t moved or spoken. We put in a call to Dr. Bainbridge about thirty minutes ago and he’s on his way here.”
The minute Jolie reached Theron’s ICU cubicle, Ike Denton stepped out to greet her, a wide smile on his face.
“You go on in, Ms. Royale. Mrs. Carter won’t leave his side and the nurses are being very considerate, but I don’t think they’ll allow four of us in there at the same time.”
“Thank you.” Jolie patted the sheriff’s arm as she passed him and went over to where Yvonne stood by Theron’s bed. She draped her arm around Yvonne’s shoulder.
Even though he looked better than he had right after surgery, Theron still looked as if he’d been run over by a transfer truck. His nose, several ribs, both arms, and both legs were broken. His face and other areas of his body were bruised and discolored. He had suffered a severe concussion and extensive internal bleeding. Dear God, he was lucky to be alive. Just the sight of him filled Jolie with rage. She wanted the men who had done this to him caught and punished. Hell, what she really wanted was each of those men to be beaten within an inch of his life.
Yvonne eased her arm around Jolie’s waist. “He’s getting better. He can hear what we say to him and he can respond. He squeezes my hand once for yes and twice for no.” Yvonne nudged Jolie closer to the bed. “Say something to him. Ask him a question.”
Jolie reached down and took Theron’s limp hand. “Hey, there. It’s about time you quit sleeping and let us know you’re okay.” He lay there, seemingly lifeless, his eyes open, but he appeared not to see anything. “Are you in pain?”
He squeezed her hand once.
“Can’t they give him anything?” Jolie asked Yvonne.
“He’s on the medication prescribed by Dr. Bainbridge,” Amy Jardien, who stood on the other side of the bed, explained. “As soon as his doctor examines him and concludes that Theron is conscious and responsive, then he’ll alter the medication.”
Theron’s grip on Jolie’s hand tightened. “What is it?” she asked. “Is there something you want me to do for you?”
He squeezed once.
How would she ever know what he wanted? Was there any point in playing twenty-questions. Probably not, but what choice did she have?
“Do you need something from your apartment?”
Two squeezes.
“Does it have anything to do with Yvonne?”
Two squeezes.
“Is it about the night you were attacked.”
No response.
“Is it about why you were attacked?”
One squeeze.
“The Belle Rose massacre case?”
One squeeze.
Yvonne and Amy both leaned in closer, their eyes glazed with tears.
“Maybe you shouldn’t go any further,” Yvonne suggested. “We don’t want to upset him.”
Theron squeezed Jolie’s hand twice, paused, and then squeezed twice again. He repeated the two negative squeezes over and over again.
“I think he’s trying to tell me not to stop questioning him,” Jolie said.
He squeezed once. Jolie smiled. Yvonne gulped a gasping sob.
“You want me to do something for you about the Belle Rose massacre case?” Jolie asked.
One squeeze.
“You want me to go ahead without you and try to get the case reopened.”
One squeeze.
Letting out a relieved sigh, Jolie glanced up at Yvonne. With tears streaming down her face, Yvonne nodded. Jolie lifted Theron’s hand and rubbed it against her cheek.
“I promise you that I’ll get the case reopened. Just as soon as you’re better, I’ll—”
He squeezed twice.
“You don’t want me to wait, do you?”
Two squeezes.
“Okay. I’ll start first thing tomorrow. I promise.”
One squeeze, then he uncurled his fingers, showing his apparent exhaustion. Jolie released her hold on his hand, turned and walked out of Theron’s unit and straight to Sheriff Denton who still waited outside the cubicle.
“Did you hear?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Are you willing to help me?”
“In any way I can,” Ike said. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
“I want to start by talking to all of the deputies who worked in the sheriff’s department twenty years ago. And I’d like to find out if Sheriff Bendall is still alive and if so, where he lives now.”
“I can get you a list of the people who worked for the sheriff’s department in the early Eighties, and if Bendall receives a pension from the state, it should be easy enough to find out where those checks are sent.”
&nb
sp; “Great.” She held out her hand to Ike. “Tomorrow we move forward with the investigation.”
She and Ike shook hands.
Connie Markham took a bathroom break fifteen minutes later. When she entered the nurse’s lounge, she checked it out thoroughly, making sure she was alone before using the telephone. Situated where she could keep an eye on the door, she lifted the receiver and dialed the number.
A growling voice answered the phone. “Who the hell is calling so late?”
“It’s me, Connie. Connie Markham over at Desmond County General.”
“Ah. Have you got news on Theron Carter?”
“Yes, sir. He’s conscious. He can’t move or speak, but he’s able to respond by squeezing someone’s hand.”
“Damn! He was supposed to die.”
“He’s recovering. And…and tonight he was able to relay his wishes to Ms. Royale. He wants her to continue trying to get the Belle Rose massacre case reopened.”
“Son of a bitch.”
Connie heard footsteps out in the corridor. Her heart ceased beating for a millisecond.
“I want her stopped and I want Carter out of the way.”
“But Mr. Wells, I’ve already told you that I won’t kill Theron Carter. I’ll do anything else you ask, but I will not commit murder for you.”
“Calm down, Connie. I’m not suggesting you take care of it yourself. Although I could make you do it, couldn’t I? You know what will happen if you don’t cooperate. One word from me and your brother will never get out of the pen alive.”
“Please, Mr. Wells…”
“You just do what you’ve been doing—keep me informed. If Carter continues to improve, I’ll send someone to take care of him. But for now, Jolie Royale is my immediate problem.”
Chapter 16
Ike Denton handed Jolie a cup of iced tea. Looking up at him from where she sat behind his desk, she smiled. “Thanks.”
“Now, don’t get discouraged,” he told her. “We’ve still got Linden Singleton to question. He’ll be here any minute now. And we know Willie Norville moved to Oklahoma to live with his daughter, so we can call him later, as soon as Nellie gets us his number.”
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