by JB Skully
Bethany's mother patted her cheeks, sniffled, took a deep breath, and straightened her shoulders. “All right. I won't push on the school thing. At least not yet. She can always start back in the winter quarter. Of course. That's best anyway.” She brightened visibly as she made her plans. “Why yes, it's silly for her to start in the middle of the quarter."
Bud smiled. “Now, Virginia, do we really need more meat?"
She laughed, almost a giggle, like a happy child. “Oh silly me, what was I thinking, of course we don't."
She seemed to have completely forgotten that Bud was the one to suggest it.
Chapter Thirty-Two
"Walk Max to her car, Bud. It's dark out."
She didn't need Virginia's help, and she didn't need Bud Traynor to walk her to her car. Gag me with a spoon. Oh God. Goose bumps papered her arms beneath the sleeves of her blouse. The three helpings of mashed potatoes, umpteen slices of London Broil, and two pieces of carrot cake shifted uncomfortably in her stomach. She felt like she'd been weighted down with concrete blocks chained to her waist.
She was no closer to the goal than she'd been when she walked in the door. Yes, she'd made it into the kitchen. No, she hadn't seen the rolling pin, only an empty holder on the wall where it should have. Telling to her, but not enough for Witt—or McKaverty and Schulz—to get a search warrant.
She closed her eyes and felt the slight jerk at the back of her neck where a tension headache reared its head. “Yes, please, Bud, do walk me to my car."
They had things left to say. About last night. About the scene she'd witnessed in the kitchen as she pushed open the door: Bud standing next to Jada, the front of his gold polo shirt brushing her shoulder as he spoke into her ear, the glassy look in her eyes, the hypnotic nod of her head.
Max said her thank yous and her good-byes to Virginia. Jada had stayed in the kitchen to wash the dishes. Max wondered when she'd washed the blood off the rolling pin and disposed of it. What day was trash day on Garden Street? What had Virginia said when she'd seen it was missing?
Then Max was out on the front walk with Bud, the front porch light disappearing behind her as Bud led her down the street to her car. Outside Ladybird's house. Max prayed Witt had not decided to visit his mother tonight. She didn't think he'd understand. He'd call her obsessed. He'd be right. She was obsessed with bringing Bud down. Any way she could.
She was beginning to fear that goal was next to impossible.
Traynor stopped just outside of the circle of light of a nearby streetlamp. To her right, one light burned in Ladybird's window, the curtains were closed, and Witt's truck was nowhere in sight. Thank you, God.
"I'm so glad you came.” He emphasized the last word.
He stood a hair's breadth short of the way he'd stood next to Jada. Invading her space, making her hackles rise, causing her throat to close. She swallowed with difficulty, but refused to back off.
"Don't you even wonder why I'm here?"
He shook his head. “It only matters that you are."
"Jada invited me."
His eyes glowed. “She invited you for me."
Max snorted softly. “She invited me because you and her mother make her feel like a servant. She needed a friend."
"Jada has me. She doesn't need friends."
Jada needed a padded cell. Maybe Bud wasn't so far off, though. Maybe Max had been had. She'd wondered about the strange invitation, wondered even further when Jada barely acknowledged her existence throughout the entire meal unless it was to use her to taunt her mother.
In light of what he'd admitted, it made bizarre sense.
"Was she trying to find you a replacement for Bethany?” The thought gave her a knee jerk reaction; she bit down painfully on her tongue.
"Jada has always wanted to please me."
He wasn't just evil; he was the devil himself. “Tell me about Jada's suit against her father."
Bud beamed. “Damn, your intuition amazes me. How do you learn these things?"
"It was you Jada talked about in the trial, wasn't it, not her father?"
"I never did anything Jada didn't want, didn't ask for or even beg for.” He considered her. “A bit like you, Max. I'm waiting for the day you come to me."
It was too horribly close to what Witt wanted from her. This man defiled even that. She didn't acknowledge his words. “Did you put her up to the suit?"
He smiled.
"Did you do it to ruin your partner, to get rid of him?"
The smile grew.
"How did you get Virginia to testify?"
He crossed his arms; Max said another silent thank you as the space between them eased.
"Suppose I told you, Max, that Virginia believed her husband was having an affair and she wanted to get back at him?"
"I'd say you probably told her lies to make her believe that."
"Suppose I further told you that he hated her."
"I'd say you did something to foster that, too."
"Thank you for assigning me all that power.” He stared dreamily into the distance. “You should have seen the two of them. So much anger, such rage. They each stayed in that grand house together to spite the other. ‘Til the day he put a gun to his head.” He looked at her and punctuated his words with an arched brow.
"Why would he do that, Bud?” she asked pointedly.
"He thought he was going to lose?” Bud offered, still with that gleam in his eye.
"I think maybe he was murdered.” She slipped it in quickly, like a knife through a soft belly.
"You mean you think I killed him.” He wasn't displeased. He enjoyed her questions, her accusations, actually invited them.
She stared him down.
"Really, Max, do you think I actually need to kill someone myself?"
No. He could manipulate anyone into doing anything, even killing themselves. All the while they'd think it was their own idea. It made her blood coagulate in her veins. Who had he manipulated into killing Bethany? Her sister, her mother, her courier boy? Or his own alter ego, Achilles?
She could ask. He would only smile again. She hated that smile.
"What happened to all his money from the law partnership?” Max looked distinctly at the small duplex in the less than gracious neighborhood Virginia had probably been used to. “Why didn't his wife get it when he died?"
He rubbed his jaw, a ghost of a smile still on his lips. “I believe he might have had a gambling problem. The estate was a shambles.” He held his hand up, like a priest making an offering. “I had to loan her money for this modest home."
"You mean you stole all Walter's money."
"I'm honored you ascribe such abilities to me. I steal a man's money, his family, even his life. I get away with it.” He leaned down at her. “I even get his daughters in the bargain, don't I, Max?"
She tried to hide the shudder that seemed to come from deep inside. “I never said it was something to be proud of."
He regarded her through half closed lids, holding the tip of his chin in his fingers. “How'd you do it, Max?"
"How'd I do what, Bud?” She gave a slight nasty inflection to his name.
"How'd you get Bethany's sex line number?"
Her eyes popped wide. She hadn't believed he'd be so open about it. Nor had she been prepared for the sudden switch in conversation. He'd probably planned it that way to throw her off balance. She decided the truth could do no harm. “I asked the police to let me do it. How'd you do it?"
He gave her that special smile, using half his mouth, the smile that made her think of a hungry tiger ready to pounce on the oh-so-unaware gazelle. “How'd I do what, Max?"
If she could play the game long enough, she knew she could figure it out. “How'd you stop the trace?"
"A little device. Would you like to search my house for it, Max?"
He was saying something, she was sure. Either that he knew exactly why she'd wangled that dinner in Jada's home, or that he believed he could tell her everything, an
d she still wouldn't be able to touch him. Maybe both. “Once is enough."
He sighed. “Oh, Max, don't you know once is never enough? Some people have to keep coming back again and again. It's an addiction. They never get enough."
"Like you with Bethany, calling her every night, asking her to see you, teasing her, taunting her."
"I was waiting for her to figure out who I was."
"Maybe she did. Maybe she was still playing the same sick game you taught her as a child when you invaded her room at night.” She took a deep breath, either that or suffocate, but her lungs couldn't seem to process enough oxygen.
"Do I make you nervous, Max?"
He terrified her. She hated the way he said her name almost every time he uttered a sentence. It was a violation, a manipulation. “You make me want to puke."
"The operative word is want. I make you want, Max. Look at your nipples."
She refused to fall into his trap by looking down. “Why is it so important that I want you?"
He blinked slowly, the smile on his lips just as slow to grow. “I'm merely stating fact. I can smell it on you.” He leaned closer, breathed deeply. “I could hear it in your voice last night when we talked. A soft sigh here, a faint groan there."
"That was me gagging on your every word."
"Is that why you kept on playing the game, Max?” he whispered, his breath ruffling her hair. She shivered against the insane warmth of it.
"I did it so they could have enough time to trace you."
He stepped back, his eyes dark outside the circle of lamplight. “I like the way you fight me, Max, the way you fight yourself. It's such a challenge. But you know that, don't you? You know a good challenge is my little addiction.” He licked his lips. “Tell me, Max, would you go down on your knees and suck me off right in front of your boyfriend's mother's house if you thought it would get you the proof of what happened to my dear, sweet, luscious Bethany?"
The evening's meal rolled over and threatened to explode back up her esophagus. He'd tried the very same trick on her once before. She hadn't fallen for it then, she wouldn't now.
"Slow to answer, aren't you?” He wagged a finger. “I really don't expect you to answer at all. But I do know you'll think about it in your dreams tonight. Think, Max, if you had a one hundred percent guarantee you'd learn the truth.” The smile reached his cheeks, created lines and hollows in his face. “Would you do it?"
Of course not, because he'd lie. It would never be one hundred percent with him.
"Would you do it if you knew I wouldn't lie, couldn't lie,” he whispered as if she uttered the words aloud.
Would she? If it meant Bethany could rest, that they all could rest, that she, herself, could go back to her comfortable life before women started dying in her dreams and possessing her body in her waking hours? Blessed freedom again. She yearned for it, dreamed of it, and ached with the need for it.
"Would you, Max? If I answered your every question."
She was terrified the answer might be yes.
Chapter Thirty-Three
She couldn't remember getting in her car. She couldn't remember driving home. Couldn't remember unlocking the front door and scrambling up the stairs, nor getting to the bathroom. She only knew she'd made it to the toilet before she stuck her finger down her throat like an old friend.
She retched until her head pounded and her chest burned, until she'd lost every ounce of food and fear and fury. She lay exhausted on the floor, the cold tile against her hot cheeks. Her eyes wouldn't stay open. Her limbs felt numb. Her stomach alternately cramped and eased. She felt nothing, no emotion, no thought, no question. She felt only her body, the tenderness with each swallow, the ache behind her eyes, in the back of her neck, the hard tile floor along her right side, the cool air of one shoe off, and the tightness of the other shoe on her toes.
Lastly, the taste of truffles like Bethany's mother used to make. With raspberry sauce. Despite the spasms in her belly, the imagined scent of chocolate calmed, caressed, and comforted. As it always had.
Cameron's voice was a faint noise in her drumming ears. Faint, but soothing. Oh so soothing. She imagined she could feel his hands on her arms, feel him pick her up off the floor of the bathroom onto his lap, wipe a warm washcloth over her face and her throat, finally to hold a glass of water to her lips.
She opened her lashes a millimeter and stared into Witt's blue eyes. “Oh God."
"No, just me."
Just Witt. Always Witt. Only Witt. She closed her eyes again. “I don't think I can handle the phone calls tonight.” It was the closest she'd come to begging for his help.
"Came by to tell you Schulz canceled them. Didn't figure they'd learn anything new.” Witt smoothed the still warm cloth across her brow, one arm holding her tight against him, his t-shirt soft against her cheek. “Why ya crying, sweetheart?” Only Cameron had ever called her sweetheart. Until now.
"I'm not crying,” she whispered. “They're puke tears."
He gently wiped them away. “I know. Max Starr never cries."
"That's right.” She had the terrible sense that she wasn't like other people. She had no feelings. She didn't hide her tears, she simply wasn't capable of them.
"Why ya sick?"
"I ate too much."
The cloth was gone, now his fingers traced her eyebrows, the line of her nose, then her lips. “So much you got sick?"
Lying snug and safe in his arms, she debated telling him the truth, deciding in favor of it. Food had not been a problem for only Bethany and Jada. Perhaps it was her own history that allowed her to understand the two of them. “When I was a high school kid, I kinda used to do a little bingeing and purging stuff. I guess having Bethany hanging around got to me a little more than I expected."
"Bingeing and purging?"
"Technical terms. You stuff yourself, then you puke it all back out.” She skipped the laxative alternative. Too much information he didn't need.
"Lovely.” She heard his grimace.
She raised her lids only enough to see him through the slits. “So what do you think of me now, Detective?"
He was silent so long, she had to close her eyes again.
"Remember I told you there were things I'd seen and things I'd done?"
"Bad things.” Very bad things. She didn't want to hear and didn't want to share. Not that. Not the bad things. She could never return the trust enough to tell him hers. Not the worst stuff. Never.
"Was a beat cop in San Francisco. Shitty neighborhood. Drugs and guns and whores and fathers who beat their kids and wives black and blue.” The band of his arm across her back stiffened, his fingers stilled on her face. Then she felt him relax again. “I watched this girl grow up. Sweet little black thing with pigtails and the whitest teeth I'd ever seen. Gave me a Jolly Rancher whenever she saw me. Never saw her when she wasn't smiling. One day it all changed. Just like that, night and day. She musta been thirteen or so. Got a call one night, her apartment. Father had beaten the living crap out of her. He said she was a whore, and she was pregnant."
Taking a deep breath, Witt held it, then let it out, the warmth of it cascading across her face and chest. “She told me it was his."
Max shuddered, couldn't find her breath. The pain in her gut lasted only a second, then she snuggled closer, putting her arms around his waist to hug him close, offering something back in the only way she could.
"I wanted to kill him, had my hand on my gun.” A pause. She tightened her grip on him. “I really wanted to,” he murmured. “You can't possibly know how much."
She rubbed her face against his chest. “You didn't."
"What I did was worse."
He held her, rocked her, rocked himself. Then he told her worse. “I went back after I locked him up. I brought her home with me for the night, and the next day I took her to a place.” He laughed, a broken sound. “A place.” She felt the difficulty he had dragging in a breath. “I gave her money, and I waited outside while..."
She opened her eyes to the tears on his cheeks, put a hand up to touch them, but stopped. “You don't have to say it."
"Yeah, I do."
She knew, with those words, that he'd never told another living soul. The idea that he was going to tell her filled her with dread. Yet she couldn't find the words to stop him.
"I waited outside while they aborted it."
Max squeezed her eyes shut, pulled her hands into her chest and her emotions back deep into her belly. The words that came out of her mouth seemed like someone else's, someone she'd never known. “That's okay. The thing was an abomination anyway."
He sucked in air. She heard him swallow and didn't dare look at him because she couldn't say where the hell those words had come from. She sure as hell didn't want to know. The shock or censure in his gaze would have been way more than she could handle.
He started talking again, a hint of unsteadiness in his voice. “Three days later I found out she'd lied. Her boyfriend got her pregnant. I didn't even know she had one. And I gave her the money to kill that baby."
She thought of his wife, how he'd left her when he found out she'd killed their baby. Left her without a backward glance.
Oh Jesus. Oh God. She was so cold inside, so cold outside. Her limbs started to shake, and she wanted to throw up again. This time she wouldn't even need her finger.
"So what do you think of me now, Max?” He said her own words back to her.
DeWitt Quentin Long knew nothing about the really bad things a person was capable of. He didn't even have a clue. He was a knight in shining armor riding to the rescue. It had killed something in him to find out his little princess was tarnished. What would it do to him to hear the truly bad things Max had done? What would it do to her to testify to her crimes aloud?
He was a fixer. Maybe that's what attracted him. She was the little lost girl he thought he could fix. Men got off on that. But he couldn't fix what she'd done. He couldn't fix her.
Max sat up, pulled away.
He drew his legs up and draped his hands over his knees. Leaning his head against the tile wall, and looked at her, lids at half-mast.