What would Caroline lose?
“What the hell are you doing out here?”
Caroline started at the unexpected interruption, but recognizing the voice as Jack’s, she didn’t bother getting up. She peered back to find him walking purposefully down the dock toward her, as handsome as ever, even when he was unkempt. The man really needed a woman’s touch so he didn’t look like he’d crawled out of a laundry basket.
“Trying to keep up with the Joneses?”
Caroline caught his reference, and shivered, despite the heat. “Where’d you pick up that morbid sense of humor, Mr. Shaw?”
He winked at her, but didn’t answer.
Apparently, that was Jack’s price to pay—the loss of his innocence—what little he’d held on to after his mother’s death. “The real question is . . . what are you doing here?”
“Apparently, I couldn’t wait around like a good little boy for you to call me.” He bent behind her, nipping her playfully on the shoulder.
Caroline shivered again, drawing her knees up, hugging them defensively—a last bulwark against the ambush he waged on her body and heart.
He sat down beside her. “Seriously, this is not the place for a beautiful woman to be alone.”
Caroline laughed. “Beautiful?”
“Quite!”
Even through his joking, she picked up the note of concern in his tone. “I’m within plain sight of the house,” she reasoned.
“So was the late Ms. Jones.”
Except that house was empty, with no guardian eyes peering out from inside; still, Caroline didn’t bother pointing that fact out. She didn’t want to talk about Amy Jones right now, and she knew Jack better than to believe he couldn’t wait for a phone call from her. He was the most stubborn man she had ever known and he had gone an entire ten years without calling her even once, despite the fact that he claimed to love her. His patience was not always a virtue. But he was genuinely worried, she realized. “It’s still light out. I would have gone in,” she reassured. “Eventually.”
“Eventually could get you killed,” he persisted.
“Jack . . . there haven’t been any more murders.”
He brought up one knee and linked his hands before him, looking down at the dock. “I know.”
“Jesus! Don’t sound disappointed!”
“It’s not that, Caroline. I know what I know. It’s not over.”
Caroline bit the inside of her lip. “What if you’re wrong, Jack?”
He squinted against the setting sun. “I hope I am.”
“But you don’t believe you are?”
He shook his head.
“I’m just throwing this out there . . . and it’s not a personal indictment, because I am just as guilty . . .”
He threw a hand up to stop her. “I know what you’re going to say even before you say it.”
“Listen, Jack . . . I ran that story because I believed in your intuition, but at some point, we have to concede that maybe Jack Shaw’s infallible gut is not really all that infallible.”
He remained silent, listening.
“I’m just thinking out loud here, but so far, we have nothing but circumstantial evidence—not one thing. . . .”
He was still listening, so she kept talking.
“You can’t even get CPD to publicly acknowledge the possibility of a serial homicide, because no matter how you look at it, there is still only one body. And everything both of us have done since the discovery of that body has hinged on one thing: the fact that you believe there’s a killer out there.”
He tilted her a questioning look. “Look, all I’m saying is that maybe we are wrong, Jack . . . maybe we should start thinking about that.”
“I can’t,” he said darkly.
“Can’t or won’t?”
He grinned suddenly, unexpectedly. “Can’t—because my feeble, male brain has been hijacked.” He winked at her when she cast a questioning look his way.
He was staring at her, Caroline realized, specifically her mouth, and the realization that she still had that sort of power over him gave her a heady feeling. Her voice softened and she smiled. “So what are you really doing here?”
He gave her a lopsided grin. “You think I lied about not being able to wait for your phone call? Apparently, I’m about as disciplined as a junkie in a meth lab where you’re concerned.”
Caroline laughed. “Now you’re comparing me to meth?”
He reached out, grasping her chin. “No way . . . you have something way more addictive!”
Caroline’s grin turned suddenly mischievous. “Yeah, what?”
Her breath caught as he reached over and brushed the vee between her thighs, burrowing softly, teasing her. “This,” he whispered.
“Jack,” she protested, even as she let him drag her down to the dock and lifted her hips into his hand. “It’s still light out.”
“Not for long,” he whispered.
Chapter Thirty
The rain began Monday afternoon, swept in by bloated, gray clouds that drained the color from the landscape.
In a way, it felt like it was storming indoors, as well. Caroline longed to barricade her office door against the deluge—not the least of which included Augusta’s announcement: her sister wanted to offer a reward for information leading to the safe return of Amanda Hutto.
She sat in the facing chair, her chin lifted in challenge.
“That’s not a good idea, Augusta!”
Augusta straightened in her chair. “Why not? You think you’ve got some exclusive right to go after the truth?”
Caroline didn’t know what to say.
“Mom may have put you in charge of the Tribune,” Augusta persisted, “but technically, we all own a share—whatever, if you don’t break this story, you’ll just have to publish it second- or third- or fourthhand! Because, like it or not, I will take it to the Post and every news channel in this city!”
Caroline was only beginning to understand that every decision she made in regard to Amanda’s disappearance would have an impact on how the Huttos ultimately dealt with their grief. After so long without a word, maybe it was best that Karen Hutto begin accepting the fact that her daughter might not come home. “You’re giving her false hope.”
“And that’s somehow worse than implying her daughter was strangled and murdered by some ex-priest?”
“We have never published those words!”
“No, but you’ve suggested it at least a dozen times in a dozen different articles, Caroline. This entire city—including Karen Hutto—believes Patterson is guilty of murdering her child. You’re ruining the man’s entire life!”
“We’re trying to get at the truth!” Caroline argued, throwing Augusta’s own words back at her. “We didn’t fabricate the charges he has on record.”
Augusta glared at her. “Well, I’m doing this whether you like it or not. You are not talking me out of it. I came to you first so you can publish it first. You can either do that, or be the last to report it—it’s that simple. In fact,” she added, “if you’re smart, you’ll use it as a public service opportunity and donate money in the name of the paper. At least then, it shows you’re trying to be objective and that you haven’t already decided Amanda’s fate and Patterson’s guilt.”
Whatever she was going to say to counter Augusta’s declaration, that simple truth stopped her. Caroline had to admit that Augusta had a point. She had, in fact, started out with an agenda, and offering the reward would at least interject some measure of objectivity and do some damage control.
Augusta sensed she was caving, because she quickly added, “Never mind the money—I’m offering the reward—I don’t need any credit.”
She had that determined look in her eyes Caroline knew only too well. “Will you at least hold off long enough to let me check in with Daniel to make sure there aren’t legal implications?”
Augusta sat back, considering it a moment before nodding. “Fair enough.”
&n
bsp; Feeling a little as though she’d negotiated a cease-fire with an unfriendly nation, Caroline said, “Jesus, Augie! When did we end up on opposite sides?”
Augusta stood, her eyes glittering fiercely. “Clearly, you don’t know me very well, sister dear, because I’ve only ever been on one side,” she said. “The right side!” And with that, she made her exit.
Caroline watched her go, thinking the line between right and wrong had never seemed so thin.
The elaborate Fourth of July celebration planned for Brittlebank Park was canceled. Provided they could find high enough ground to set up a fireworks stage, a small-scale fireworks exhibit was still in the works so people could celebrate from the safety of their homes. But the city was inundated. Flood-producing tides had been predicted, but two days of summer storms put half the downtown streets under water.
By Tuesday morning, the City Market area was deluged, along with Calhoun Street, Ashley and Lockwood Avenues. The headlines shifted to topics of a more aqueous nature. The morning edition of the Tribune read: RAIN, TIDE FLOOD CITY accompanied by a shot of resourceful citizens navigating floodwaters in their kayaks. One woman was spotted out searching for her dog, who’d lost his way home but took refuge on one of the historic porches, under a joggling board. She was pictured holding the little schnauzer to her bosom. Yet another article showed people in their waders—one holding up a copy of the Tribune—not that anyone was actually going out for newspapers. However, not even Mother Nature could stop the presses.
A skeleton crew manned the Tribune office, while most of the reporters worked from home. Caroline hijacked her mother’s home office, but neither Savannah nor Augusta complained. Savannah, who still could do little more than peck with her right hand, embraced any excuse not to work, even with the antique typewriter. Augusta took her laptop into the kitchen where she could easily persuade Sadie to give her a taste of the goodies she was busy baking.
During their childhood, rainy days in the Aldridge house were typically filled with incredible scents—everything from cobbler to brownies and pineapple upside-down cake. The great thing about Sadie was that she had a philosophy that too much was never enough and Caroline noticed no one was all that focused on her weight any longer.
She and Augusta forged a temporary truce—wholly necessary when three grown women were stuck for any length of time under the same roof. For the most part, they kept out of each other’s way, but Augusta poked her head into the office late in the afternoon. “How’s it going?”
Caroline peered up from her laptop. “Okay . . . but this is the sort of day I wish we had a better Web presence. It would be great to be able to give people better updates—street openings, closings—that sort of thing. Plus I’m sure they are cancelling fireworks shows all over town.”
“In due time,” Augusta said, venturing into the office. “I have no doubt you’ll manage everything phenomenally—that’s why Mom put you in charge, you know.”
Caroline blinked at the unexpected compliment.
“Sorry about everything,” Augusta said. “I guess I’m just a little unnerved about being here, and I probably took some of my frustration out on you.”
Caroline shrugged. “Actually, you made me think a lot about the things you said. You were right.”
Augusta came in and sat down in one of the two brown paisley-upholstered armchairs facing Caroline’s desk. Leaning across the polished mahogany wood, she tested the surface for dust. There was none. For a moment, they were both silent.
Outside, the rain continued to pelt the leaded glass windows. More than nine inches had fallen during the last twenty hours, and they were nearing the all-time record high since 1988.
“What if I fail at my task, Caroline . . . what if I can’t fix this house . . . or even stay under this roof? On days like this, I feel like I’m going clean out of my skull!” Augusta confessed.
Caroline pushed her laptop away and looked soberly at her sister. “There’s a lot at stake here, Augusta. But you can only do what you can do. If you can’t stay . . . no one is going to make you. We’re not going to starve and we’re not going to hate you. Some charity will just get an awful lot of money.”
In that moment, Augusta’s face lost all of its hard lines, softening to that gentle, compassionate gaze she’d had as a child—the little girl who had started a cricket hospital to save all the “one-legged” insects. The one who was heartbroken when Josh took them out to use as fishing bait. She didn’t forgive him for weeks.
“Mom isn’t around to make you do anything, Augie. Whatever you decide to do, you do of your own accord.”
She blinked and Caroline spied the telltale gleam of unshed tears. “But I don’t even know where or how to start!”
Caroline shook her head. “Of course you do! You already have. That auction is the first step, Augie. You’re doing a great thing there. You’re uncluttering this house before diving into the real work and you’re getting rid of stuff none of us will ever put on our mantles. Mom’s gone, and none of us are all that attached to anything in this house.”
Augusta laid her head back down. “Some of us would like to see it all burn,” she said without any real passion.
Caroline couldn’t help but laugh, despite the low-grade threat. She knew Augusta wasn’t serious. “They already did that once, right? Didn’t work. They rebuilt the house and bought more shit. Besides, while this crap would make an awesome bonfire, it’s too damned hot out there to burn anything—and ashes won’t put food in a homeless child’s belly.”
They sat there looking at each other, and Caroline felt compelled suddenly to bring up the topic of Ian Patterson. Something about Augie’s defense of him gave her an odd feeling . . . like maybe her interest was hovering on advocacy. The last thing Augusta needed to do was get involved with a suspect. Maybe he wasn’t a murderer, but he sure wasn’t “safe.” But Caroline knew her sister well enough to realize that bringing it up would only push her in the very direction she was afraid she’d go.
“Good point,” Augusta said, and got up. “Thanks for talking me off the ledge . . . for now.” She started to walk away. “More to the point, thanks for not pushing me off.”
Caroline’s lips curved into a half smile. “Thanks for not tempting me,” she countered. Augie laughed and walked out, leaving Caroline to gnash her teeth over murderous financials. These were not fun, and she hadn’t realized just how much they were integral to her job. She was not a journalist any longer, she was a damned strategist.
Chapter Thirty-One
The girl wasn’t his type.
Lucky for her, she had been in the right place at the right time to help him prove a point. That’s what he had to remind himself, because with the impending celebration, it felt more like he was accompanying the wrong date to the prom.
The only satisfaction he would glean from this one was the simple joy of watching them scramble to find clues, watching them beat their little heads against the walls while they tried to figure out how something like this could happen right under their noses. But that was a hollow triumph.
This game was not fulfilling.
Nothing about the girl excited him.
He positioned her with as much love as could be mustered for the wrong prom date, making sure she was ready to flash her tits for the world.
He started to leave, but something beckoned him back . . . that prickling sense of intuition that always seemed to lead him to the special ones.
Right there, when he least expected it, he felt the stirrings . . . that hot pulse through his veins and the quickening beat of his heart.
The boy was perfect.
From the water, he watched the man onstage continue to work on his fireworks display, oblivious to the world outside the periphery of his spotlights. His four- or five-year-old son sat a short distance away, looking longingly over his shoulder at the father, who, during the short time he was watching, had already yelled at his kid twice to stay put.
Sitting beyond
the radiance of the spotlight in the shadows of the night, the boy was scared. You could read it clearly on his face. He watched the kid, desire spreading through his groin.
Or maybe it was just piss in his wetsuit.
The kid turned, and his heart somersaulted. The boy’s eyes slanted as he squinted, peering into the night, placing a little hand to his forehead to shield his face from the manufactured lights.
Brave boy.
Facing his demons.
There was innocence left in that face, but the resentment was growing like a cancer, bubbling up from the depths of his soul like a cauldron of putrid blackness. There was nothing so potentially dangerous as an unloved child.
The boy was seated on a bench facing the water, his lips contorted into an ambivalent twist. Despite the warm night, he crossed his little arms over his chest, an attempt to bolster himself.
His father remained committed to his work, never once looking back.
He was within reach. Like a gator with its prey, he could snatch the kid before the father realized there was danger....
Gently, silently, he treaded water, feeling powerful, primitive, invulnerable, eternal.
He recognized the instant the boy’s eyes focused on the spot in the water where he quietly waited. His little brows collided, though it took him another moment to feel the threat from the darkness. Once he did, he leapt up from the bench and ran screaming to his father, who was stubbornly committed to his fireworks stage.
“Daddy!” the child shrieked. “I see a frogman!”
“Tommy! Sit down, godammnit! You’re going to get us both electrocuted !” He picked the kid up, hauling him unceremoniously back to the bench and sat him down so hard the wooden slats reverberated in their steel frame.
The dad walked away, and the kid jumped up to follow. “No, Daddy! I see a frogman with giant yellow eyes!”
The dad spun about, grabbing the kid and backhanding him across his bare thigh, not once, but three times, the crack of his hand sounding a little like tiny firecrackers as his fingers impacted against skin.
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