by Nora Roberts
desk. He looked at them, one at a time. A couple he'd already seen, at Biff's or at the library. While he studied them, Clare lighted a cigarette.
They were old, and obviously well used. Some of the pages were splattered with coffee or liquor stains. Passages were underlined, pages dog-eared.
“Where did you get these?”
She blew out smoke. “They were my father's.”
With his eyes on hers, he set them aside. “Maybe you'd better sit down and explain.”
“I'll stand up and explain.” She took another jerky drag and exhaled. “I found them boxed up in the attic. In my father's old office. I don't know if you were aware, but he was fascinated by religion. All religions. He also had books on Islam, Hinduism, stacks on Catholicism—any other ism you can name. Blair seems to think I should have brought these to you.”
“You should have.”
“I don't agree.” She put out the cigarette, snapping it in half. “But since Blair was adamant, I said I would. Now I have.”
“Sit down, Slim.”
“I'm not in the mood to be interrogated. I brought them to you, and you can make what you like out of it.”
He studied her in silence. Her eyes were too bright, her mouth just beginning to tremble. Cam rose from his chair and walked around the desk. As she stood rigid, he put his arms around her.
“I know this isn't easy.”
“No, you don't know. You can't know.”
“If I had a choice, I'd tell you to take the books and walk away so we could pretend this never happened.” He drew back. “I don't have that choice.”
“He was a good man. I had to listen to people say terrible things about him once. I don't think I could stand it a second time.”
“I'll do everything I can. That's all I can promise.”
“I want you to try to believe in him. I want you to see that owning these books, reading them, studying them, even believing in some of what they say wouldn't make him a bad person.”
“Then let me try to prove that. Sit down. Please.”
She did, stiffly, her hands linked on her lap.
“Clare, did he ever talk to you about these books or what's in them?”
“No, never. He talked about religions. It was a big topic, especially after—after he started drinking. He went back into the church. He was raised Catholic, but he'd had a real attitude about organized religion because of the way he was raised.”
“When did he go back to the church?”
“When I was about seven or eight. It became very important to him. Blair and I ended up going to CCD classes and making our First Communion. The whole bit.”
“That would have been about twenty years ago?”
“Yeah.” She smiled wanly. “Time marches on.”
He noted it down, wondering what events he could tie in. “Did you ever wonder why?”
“Sure. At the time I was too young to think about it. And I liked the mass and the music, the priest's clothes. The whole ritual.” She stopped abruptly, uncomfortable with her own choice of words. “Later, I suppose I figured that he'd just gotten a little older, put some distance between himself and all the things he'd rebelled against in his upbringing. He'd probably missed the security and the familiarity. He'd have been about the age I am now,” she murmured. “Nearly thirty and starting to wonder what the rest of his life would be like. He was worried about Blair and me, too. The fact that we'd had no religious training. He felt as though he'd overcompensated for his parents by going as far in the opposite direction as possible.”
“Did he say that?”
“Yes, actually, I remember him saying almost exactly that to my mother. Dad was what my mother called a fretter. Always worrying whether he'd done the right thing or, if he had, whether he'd done it well enough. He tried so hard not to stuff the church down our throats. He wasn't a fanatic, Cam. He was just a man struggling to do his best.”
“When did he start drinking, Clare?”
“I don't really know.” Her fingers began to twist together on her lap. “It wasn't a sudden thing, more of a progressive one. None of us really noticed at first. I remember him having a whiskey and soda after dinner. Then maybe he'd have two. Then he stopped bothering with the soda.”
The misery in her voice had him reaching over to still her hands. “Clare, I've been down that road. I'm the last one who would condemn him.”
“I feel disloyal. Can't you understand? I feel like I'm betraying him by talking about his flaws and mistakes.”
“He was a whole person. Whole people have flaws. Don't you think he'd have wanted you to recognize them and love him anyway?”
“You sound like my shrink.” She rose and walked to the window. “I was thirteen the first time I saw him really drunk. I'd come home from school. Blair had band practice, and my mother was at a meeting. Emmitsboro Boosters or something. Dad was at the kitchen table, crying into a bottle of whiskey. It scared me to see him that way, reeking and sobbing, his eyes all red. He kept telling me how sorry he was. His words were all slurred together, and he tried to stand up. He fell. He just lay there on the kitchen floor, crying and trying to apologize.” She brushed impatiently at a tear. “‘I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry. I don't know what to do. I can't do anything. I can't change it. I can't go back and change it.’”
“Change what?”
“His drinking, I suppose. He couldn't control it. He didn't think he could change it. He told me he'd never wanted me to see him that way. He was really frantic about that. He'd never wanted me to see, wanted me to know.”
“Wouldn't that have been around the time he was making the deal for the shopping center?”
“Yes. And the closer all that came to being a reality, the more he drank. My father was a very uncomfortable criminal. His ambitions might have gotten out of line, but his conscience made him pay.”
“I want you to try to think. Did he go out at night with any regularity? Did he go out with someone or a particular group?”
Sighing, she turned back. “He belonged to all kinds of groups, Cam. The Jaycees, the Optimist Club, the Knights of Columbus. He was out quite a bit for meetings, dinners, to show houses after hours. I used to ask to go with him, but he would tuck me into bed and tell me I had to wait until I grew up, then he would make me his partner. One night I snuck into his car—” She broke off, eyes panicked, cheeks paling.
“You snuck into his car?” Cam prompted.
“No, no, I didn't. I only dreamed I did. You can keep the books if you think they'll help. I need to get back.”
He took her arm before she could bolt for the door. “What did you dream, Clare?”
“For Christ's sake, Cam, my dreams are certainly my business.”
She had the same look on her face, precisely the same look, as when he had pulled her out of the nightmare. “Where did he go that night?”
“I don't know. I was dreaming.”
“Where did you dream he went?”
She went limp, seemed to fold into herself when he eased her into the chair again. “I don't know. It was a dream. I was only about five or six.”
“But you remember the dream. You still have the dream.”
She stared at the books on Cam's desk. “Sometimes.”
“Tell me what you remember.”
“It didn't happen. I woke up in my own bed.”
“Before you woke up?”
“I dreamed I hid in the back of the car. I knew he was going out, and I wanted to surprise him, to show him that I was big enough to be his partner. We didn't go to a house. We were outside. I followed him. It seemed like such an adventure. There was a place, and other men were there. I thought it was a meeting, like the Moose or the Elks, because … they all wore long black robes with hoods.”
Oh, God, Slim, he thought. What did you see? “Go ahead.”
“They wore masks, and I thought that was funny because it wasn't Halloween. It was spring. I hid in the bushes and watched.”
> “There were other men. Who were they?”
“I don't know. I didn't pay attention. I was looking at my father. They made a circle and rang a bell. There were women. Two women in red robes. One of them took off the robe and lay down on top of something. I was fascinated and embarrassed all at once. There was chanting and a fire. A big fire. I was sleepy, and I couldn't understand it all. The man in the big mask had a sword. It glinted in the moonlight. He would say things, then the rest of the group would say things.”
“What things?”
“I couldn't understand.” But she had read the books, and she had remembered. “They weren't names I knew.”
“Names?”
“Oh, God, Cam, the names in the books. The calling up of demons.”
“Okay, take it easy.”
She swiped the heel of her hand over her cheek. “I was cold and tired, and I wanted Daddy to take me back home. But I was afraid, and I didn't know why. The man in the mask touched the woman, fondled her. They brought out a goat, a little white goat, and he took a knife. I wanted to run, but I couldn't. I wanted to run away, but my legs wouldn't move. The men took off their robes but left their masks on and danced around the pit of fire. I saw my father. I saw him with blood on his hands. And I woke up screaming, in my own bed.”
He pulled her out of the chair to hold her, and his hands were gentle. But his eyes stared over her shoulder and were cold with fury.
“It wasn't real,” she insisted. “It didn't happen. I woke up in bed, just as I always do when I have that dream. My mother and father were there.”
“Did you tell them about the dream?”
“I couldn't at first. I guess I was hysterical. I remember my father rocking me, stroking my hair and rocking me. He kept telling me it was a dream, just a terrible dream, and that he would never let anything bad happen to me.”
Cam pulled her back, looked long and deep into her eyes. “It wasn't a dream, Clare.”
“It had to be.” Her hands shook. “It had to be a dream. I was in bed. My father was there with me. I know you're thinking about the books. I thought about them too. He must have bought them afterward. He was worried about me, about why I had the dream, and that it kept coming back. He wanted to understand. He was worried about me. For weeks after, he would come into my room at bedtime and tell me silly stories, sing songs, just be there.”
“I know he was worried about you. I know he loved you. But I think he was involved in something he couldn't control. Just like the drinking, Clare.”
She shook her head, frantic, furious. “I'm not going to believe that.”
“Clare, he must have been sick at the thought that you had seen him and what went on. A few years later, you're still having nightmares, he sees that it's not going to stop. And he tries to pull out. He goes back to the religion of his childhood.”
“You didn't know him the way I did.”
“No, I didn't.”
“He would never have hurt anyone. He wasn't capable ofit.”
“Maybe he didn't hurt anyone but himself. Clare, I don't want to hurt you, but I'm going to have to dig deeper. Part of that will be looking into whatever information is available on the land deal, the shopping center business. And your father's death.”
“Why? What possible difference can any of it make now?”
“Because what you saw that night is still going on. Have you told anyone else about your dream?”
“No.”
“Don't.”
She nodded. “Are we finished?”
“No.” He pulled her close again, ignoring her rigid stance. “I'll just wait you out, Slim,” he murmured. “You can step back, build a wall, run away, and cover your trail. I'll just wait you out.”
“I can't think about you and me right now.”
“Yes, you can.” He put a hand under her chin, lifting it until their eyes met. “Because when the rest is done, that's all there is. I love you.” He tightened his grip when she would have turned away. “Damn it, that's one bit you're going to have to swallow once and for all. I love you, and I never expected to feel this way about anybody. But it's a fact.”
“I know. If this could have happened without the rest—”
“It happened. That's the bottom line. I want to know what you're going to do about it.”
She put a hand on his cheek. “I guess I'm going to love you back. That's about all I can do right now.”
“That'll be fine.” He kissed her. “I wish I could fix it for you.”
“I'm old enough to fix things for myself. I'd rather have a friend than a white knight.”
“How about a friend and a black sheep?”
“It's a nice combination. I wasn't holding this back from you. I was,” she corrected before he could speak. “But I was holding it back from myself first. I need to go home and think things through. You'll want to keep the books?”
“Yes. Clare …” He brushed the hair back from her cheeks. “We're going to need to talk again, to go over everything you remember in more detail.”
“I was afraid you'd say that.”
“Why don't we table it for tonight? What do you think about dinner at a Mexican restaurant? They've got pots and paper flowers.”
“I think that sounds like a great idea. Can we take your bike?”
“A woman after my own heart.”
“I'll be ready by seven.” She went to the door, then stopped. “Rafferty, you made it easier than it might have been. I appreciate that.”
Alone, he sat at the desk and studied his notes. He was afraid he wouldn't be able to make it easy for long.
Chapter 25
MIN ATHERTON WAS THE KIND of woman who kept candles out for a centerpiece with the cellophane still wrapped around them. Almost everything she owned was for show and not for use. She would buy pink or purple candles—her favorite colors—and place them in the genuine brass or crystal holders, where they would stay snug in their clear wrap, never to be lit.
She liked buying things. More, she liked being able to buy things—particularly things her neighbors couldn't afford. Often, she left the price tags on, hoping a guest would take a peek at the base of a vase or statuette. In their place, she would. And did.
Min considered flaunting a responsibility. She was the mayor's wife, after all, and she had her stature to uphold. She knew they were the most well-to-do couple in town and her husband was devoted to her. Hadn't he bought her a pair of honest-to-God diamond earring clips just last Christmas? One-half carat each, too, counting the baguettes. Min showed them off at the Church of God every Sunday.
She made certain her hair was tucked behind her ears and that she tilted her head from side to side as she solemnly sang the hymns so that the stones would catch the light—and the envy of the congregation.
Her home was crowded with furniture. She didn't believe in antiques, no matter how expensive or valuable they might be. Min liked things new, brand spanking new, so that she was the first to use them. She only bought brand names. In that way she could talk about her La-Z-Boy, her Ethan Allen, or her Sealy Posturepedic as if they were members of the family.
Some of the less charitable people of the community said it was a shame she didn't have less money and more taste.
But Min recognized green-eyed jealousy when she saw it and hugged it to her like a medal of honor.
She loved her big, rambling brick house on Laurel Lane and had decorated every inch of it herself, from the living room with its pink and lavender floral sofa and matching draperies, to the powder room with its wild rose ceramic tile and hyacinth wallpaper. She liked big statues of dancing ladies in ball gowns and men in waistcoats. All of her plants were plastic, but they were tucked into precious containers in the form of woolly sheep and cottontail rabbits.
Min's creativity didn't stop with the interior. Goodness no. Many of the residents of Emmitsboro would never have the privilege of being invited inside the Atherton castle. Min felt they deserved some glimpses of the glam
our within.
