"All right." She eased toward the livin room couch.
I got right to it in the master bedroom, runnin up and down the stairs to fetch my step stool and vacuum. Then I swept the whole upstairs so the noise wouldn't disturb Mrs. B later. By the time I finished all that, I done set myself with determination. First order a business was to get Mrs. B in her bed and keep her there. No way was I leavin that house without the pictures.
I carried the vacuum back downstairs.
"Done, Mrs. B." I hurried into the livin room, where she was spread out on the couch, watchin some ol movie on TV. Her eyes was at half mast. "Now I'm gettin you up to bed where you belong. We're gon take a glass a water, all your medicines, whatever you need." I looked down at her like a nurse to a stubborn patient. "I don't want to see you up again while I'm here. You need your rest."
"Oh, Cherrie Mae, you take such good care of me."
My conscience panged. "Come on now, let's get you upstairs."
I led her into the kitchen, where I fetched her water and cold medicine. "You want a plate a somethin to eat?"
"No, no." She waved her hand, lookin gray.
"You sure?"
Mrs. B nodded. Her whole body sagged. She gave me a blink long enough I wasn't sure her eyes would open up again. "I need to . . ." She gestured toward the stairs and headed that direction.
I followed behind, carryin her things. She took awhile gettin up the stairs. As she crawled into her bed I set the water and medicine on the nightstand. "Anything else I can get for you?"
She laid the back a her hand across her forehead. "Oh, my. I forgot to write you a check."
"Don't worry bout it. I'll get it Thursday."
"No really, I—"
"Mrs. B—no. Just go to sleep. I'm gon shut your doh, and I'll see you Thursday."
I turned away with purpose.
"Thank you, Cherrie Mae." Her voice faded off. "I can always trust you to be kind."
On the way down the stairs I begged God to forgive me for my duplicitous ways.
I hit the downstairs hall and strode right past my cleanin supplies. Now was the time to get those pictures. All I needed was a couple minutes. Then I could relax.
At the entrance to the office I felt a rush a cold air. I stopped in my tracks and looked around. Where had that come from? I saw no windows open. But sure as I was livin there was a chill in that office.
I eyed The Desk Drawer.
Funny thing. Now that the moment was here, and after all my plannin, I didn't want to touch that drawer. Didn't want to even go near it. Much less see those awful death scenes again.
Cherrie Mae, you better get hold a yourself.
My feet took me inside the room. Over to the desk.
I lifted up my shirt and dug in my pocket for the camera. I froze then, listenin for any sound from upstairs.
All was quiet.
I took a deep breath, placed my fingers on the drawer handle, and pulled the thing all the way open. I wasn't wearin gloves, and I'd decided it didn't matter. I'd already left my prints on the file last week. And I couldn't wipe the file clean 'cause I didn't want to take off any prints Mayor B had left.
My camera turned on with a little drring. The lens pushed out.
Leanin over the drawer, I searched for the folder. There it was. "Closet Killings." Like it was a hot piece a cornbread, I picked it up with the tips a my fingers and laid it on the desk. Then I checked the green hangin file, feelin the thump a my heart. Please be here.
The ring sat in the bottom.
I pointed my camera down toward that ring and clicked a shot. The flash went off. I moved the camera closer and took a second picture. Pulled it farther away for a third. Then took the ring out and held it up for a close-up. After that I laid it on the wood and scurried across the room for a wide shot a the desk with the drawer open, fireplace in the background. Somethin to prove this was Mayor B's home office.
Just for good measure I took a second wide-angle shot.
There. I mighta been breathin a little hard, but I'd done it. Easy as pie. Why had I laid awake nights worryin bout this?
"Fear of danger is ten thousand times more terrifyin than danger itself."
I dropped the camera back in my pocket and hurried to the desk. I put the ring back in the hangin file, ready to close up the drawer. Put the folder back inside. My fingers found the handle to push the drawer shut—then stilled.
My gaze glued to the Closet Killings folder. Holdin all those horrible pictures.
Did the police know Mayor B had those pictures? Or were they evidence against him too?
With one hand on the drawer, I weighed my decision. I wanted to be done with this. But I also knew I needed all the evidence I could get.
My head turned toward the hall. All was still. I tiptoed out the office, my ear cocked toward upstairs. Vaguely I heard the sound a the TV in Mrs. B's room.
I looked back at the file. Lord help me, I'd need to do this fast. Without lookin at one a those awful photos.
With a shaky arm I pulled up the folder. Laid it on the desk and opened it up. Eyes averted, I slid out the six pictures and lined em up on the desk, two rows a three each. My heart started to gallop. If Mrs. B come down the stairs now, I was done for. And as hard as I tried, my eyes couldn't help but land on the bodies in those pictures. Those poor women. All that blood. Seein them again shot anger through my bones. "Oh, Lord, help me catch the man who done this."
I snatched out my camera. Aimed it at the row a photos, close enough so you could see what was in em, and clicked the button. Then I backed up bout four feet and took a long distance shot a the pictures on the desk.
There. Now I was done for sure. I tossed my camera in my pocket.
That's when the front doh opened and Mayor B's footsteps sounded in the hall.
Chapter 24
Deena
I paced my kitchen.
The coffee in my stomach gurgled, and sweat prickled the back of my neck. Over and over I checked the clock on my oven. I could swear the hands weren't movin.
Trent had promised to call me soon as the hearin was over. As much as I wanted to be there, I couldn't go. Couldn't risk Stevie seein me and gettin all mad. That's the last thing the judge should witness.
Court session was at 10:00. Trent didn't know how long it would take before they got to Stevie. Depended on how many people had to see the judge and the luck of the lineup.
Yesterday when I got home from the jail, I'd been all wound up. Had to do somethin to channel my energy. But with Erika's funeral goin on, I knew the police station would be closed. I waited an eternity until I saw neighbors comin home. Then I barged down to the station, demandin that Chief Cotter tell me what they'd found in my brother's house. John wouldn't even let me in to see the chief. My cheatin ex just shouted me down, tellin me I had no right to even ask. And didn't I care that Erika's funeral had just let out? I nearly slapped him. Which would've put me in the slammer for sure.
I careened out of the station onto Main Street, mad and cryin. I didn't see Carl Cypress until I nearly ran into him.
"Hey, Deena, any news on Stevie?" Carl had a barrel chest and blocky face. Married in his thirties with three kids under the age of five. He managed the late shift at the plastics factory.
"Not yet." I stopped and sniffed. Hugged my arms to my chest. Carl was a good man and had always been nice to Stevie. If it had been anyone else I probably would have pushed right past him. "His hearin's today."
Carl folded his massive arms. "I'm so sorry. I just . . ." He spread his hands.
Not exactly a vote in Stevie's favor, but at least the man was talkin to me. "I know. It's hard to know what to say."
Carl glanced around and lowered his voice. "I haven't said anything to anyone, but Stevie was sure ri
led up at the end of our shift last Tuesday."
I stilled. "Why?"
"At first I didn't know. He was stompin around, mad, cussin to himself. I asked him what was wrong, and he just told me he was gonna make her pay."
Ants crawled down my spine. "Her, who?"
Carl gave me a long look. I saw compassion in his eyes—and something else. Guilt? "I didn't know then, Deena. I couldn't have known. I asked him who, but he wouldn't answer."
I felt my head nod. So now we had a witness to Stevie's state of mind that night. In a flash I saw Carl on the stand, tellin the court how Stevie had acted, what he said. How many other people would come out of the woodwork to remember this or that? A statement, a look that would help fry my brother.
I looked back toward the police station. "You on your way to tell the chief this important piece of information?"
He started to speak, then stopped. "I wasn't the only one to see him like that. But then—"
"Yeah. Sure." I ran my hand through my hair. Maybe I ought to cut it all off short—clear to my ears. Bleach it white-blonde and steal away to New York with Trent. New look, new life.
"I'm sorry, Deena."
"So's everybody, Carl." My tone went sharp. "That is, the people who'll talk to me at all."
He shook his head. "I don't think Stevie—"
"Well, if you have your doubts, I suggest you keep your insights about last Tuesday to yourself. Maybe you're wrong about what happened that night. Maybe you just might nudge the police to look all the harder at Stevie when they should be lookin elsewhere."
But in my heart I knew the truth. It was Stevie. Not Mike Phillips. Not Mayor B. It was my brother.
Carl shifted his feet and gazed down Main. "A little later that night I heard Stevie say he had to clean up 'the big mess.'"
The sun lost all its heat. I stared at Carl, Stevie's words clangin in my ears. "I worked real fast to clean the mess up. But then the blood got on my clothes . . ."
Had Stevie killed Erika before his shift ended? Had he slipped out of work and come back, only to return later to her house to clean up the "mess"?
My fingernails bit into my palms. Half of me didn't want to ask the question. "Did he explain what he was talkin about?"
"No."
My shoulders sagged. Thank heaven.
"You know Letty June," Carl said.
I snorted. "Yeah, I know her all right. My brother's best friend."
Carl's head tilted, like he knew just what I meant. "She knew Stevie was mad that night too. And I think she told Chief Cotter."
Of course she did. "That would be just like her." Steam ran through my body. I swear if I saw Letty June on the street I'd smack her down.
"But, Deena—"
"Don't!" I thrust up my hand. "Just don't say anything more, I can't take it." I turned away, sick to my stomach. "Thank you, Carl. For talkin to me."
I couldn't remember drivin home after that conversation. I couldn't remember much about the rest of the day, except goin to check on Stevie's trailer to see how badly the police had ransacked it. After a long search I found my key and walked down there. The inside was a total mess. Looked like my life. I stood there and cried.
No way could I deal with cleanin it. I'd locked the door behind me and left.
Now a day later as I paced my kitchen, my cell phone finally rang.
I rushed over and snatched it up, not botherin to check the ID. "Hello?"
"Hi. Hearing's over." Trent's voice.
"What happened?"
"About what we expected. Chief Cotter was there. The D.A. presented their case. The judge thought it was enough to hold him until the grand jury meets. Gives them all that much longer to get their case together."
My heart sank. "No bail?"
"No." Trent cleared his throat. "They had an additional piece of evidence, Deena."
Oh, no. "They find somethin at his house?"
"They didn't mention finding anything at the house. But they did get preliminary testing of the blood on the uniform over the weekend at that private lab."
"So fast?"
"One of the officers hand-delivered the uniform on Friday, and Chief Cotter must have promised to pay a bundle for immediate processing."
I almost didn't dare ask. "What did they find?"
"It's not good, Deena. The blood is human. And the type matches Erika's. It's AB, Rh negative. Of all types, that's the rarest, found in less than one percent of the population."
My gaze fastened on the toaster. Slick and silver, like a knife blade. I turned away and stumbled to a kitchen chair. Leaned over, forehead almost to my knees.
"Erika's rare blood type explains why Chief Cotter arrested Stevie so fast." Trent's tone remained objective. So reporter-like. As if his news hadn't pierced right through me. "The chief would have learned of it through the autopsy report. He was betting the blood on Stevie's uniform would be the same rare type—giving them stronger evidence to keep your brother in jail. If Erika's blood had been more common, the defense could argue a match in type didn't mean much."
"You think he did this?" My voice was barely above a whisper.
Trent hesitated. "It doesn't look good, Deena."
"You said you loved me." My voice caught.
"I do."
"Then stop bein such a reporter!"
"I thought you wanted to know what happened."
"I do, but . . ."
Silence.
"You want me to tell you Stevie didn't do it?"
A sob rolled up my throat.
"Okay, maybe he didn't." Trent sounded nonplussed.
"Say it like you mean it."
"Well, we still don't know for sure."
"So go prove he's innocent!"
"Deena. I'm not a detective. I'm a reporter. I just write what—"
"I don't want you to be a reporter." I shoved to my feet and propelled myself around the kitchen. "I want you to be a friend. You know about crime and the courts. So use your knowledge to help someone else for once!"
Our breathing collided over the line.
"Listen to me." Trent's voice was low and tight. "You want the truth? I'm not sure he is innocent anymore. At first I thought no way. But the stuff they've got on him . . ."
I strode into my livin room and threw myself on the couch. Who cared if I was being irrational? I couldn't stand for Stevie to be guilty. And so he wasn't. And so I had to help him. "Don't remind me what they've got on him. Think what they don't have."
"The DNA tests will prove whether or not that blood is Erika's. All you can do right now is wait for that, Deena. If it's not hers, this will be over. If it is, you'll have to accept it."
You. Not we. Nothin in his words about stickin beside me.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you all this."
I stared at the blank TV, rememberin the moment Stevie banged on my door six nights ago.
"Deena?"
"What."
"I have to return to Jackson now."
"Of course you do."
"I wish I didn't. Wish I could be there with you."
I slumped back against the couch, my anger drainin away. I was too tired for it. "I'd be lousy company."
"I know a lot's been happening. But have you thought more about coming to New York with me? I'm moving in a month."
He was asking about this now? "How can I go to New York and leave Stevie here?"
"He's in jail. There's nothing you can do to change that."
"I can go visit him."
"Really? After what happened the last time?"
My mouth clamped shut. A new wave of despair washed over me. Trent had a point. Still, did he have to be so callous about it? "I just won't ask him any questions
that'll get him upset."
"I know life in Amaryllis can't be easy for you now. You could break free of that."
My eyes closed. What was it with this guy? "But I wouldn't be free, can't you see that? No matter where I am, my brother's still in jail. He still may be a murderer. And that, Trent"—my voice broke—"is goin to keep me in chains no matter where I am."
I clicked off the line.
Part of me wanted Trent to call back. He didn't.
For a long time I stared out my front window. My thoughts rolled around and around, no place to land. Was Cherrie Mae at the Bradmeyers' house now? Had she gotten the pictures of Erika's ring in Mayor B's file? That had to mean somethin.
But Mayor B would have some explanation. That ring was nothin compared to the victim's blood on my brother's clothes.
It was her blood, wasn't it. In my heart, I knew.
And how had Tully gotten through the weekend? I checked my watch. Too early to call. When Mike left for work I'd phone her.
"The blood type matches Erika's." Trent's words rang in my head. "The rarest of types."
Then whose blood was on Tully's swabs?
Chapter 25
Tully
I huddled in my rocking chair in the nursery, gazing at the room. Everything was ready for little Michael. A month ago my mom and the ladies at the Methodist church had given me a baby shower. The crib was set, with its blue blanket and a mobile. Disposable diapers sat on the shelf of the changing table, next to a closed-lid trash can. The little dresser was filled with outfits, everything from newborn to eighteen months. It was all so pretty.
My hand went to my stomach.
Mike was in the living room, watching some sports station on TV. He'd barely spoken to me since we got up. I'd tried to act like nothing ever happened, but a black cloud hung between us and neither of us could find our way through it.
My thoughts turned to the swab hidden in my drawer—and sudden panic rose in me. What if Mike went through my things? If he found that . . .
My body went hot.
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