by Greg Iles
“I’m tired of being fat,” Lily said.
“You’re not fat, Mom.”
“Definitely not,” Waters agreed, though he knew that by Lily’s once rigid standards, she was overweight. She probably weighed a hundred and thirty-five or forty now; in the old days that would have driven her crazy.
“Just three miles,” Lily said. “Seven-minute miles, at that. Embarrassing, but it’s a start. In a week I want to be down to six minutes.”
“Don’t overdo it, babe. You haven’t run in a long time.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “I haven’t done a lot of things for a long time.”
Waters smiled, but he was worried. Changes this sudden could signal deep discord. “Anything else happen at home today?”
Lily shook her head. “Oh, Tom Jackson called a little while ago. The detective. He wants you to call him.”
Waters’s throat constricted. “Did he say what it was about?”
“Rose talked to him. Just the same old thing, I’m sure.” She cut her eyes at Annelise, who was looking at her plate. Probably the Danny Buckles business, she was telling him.
Jackson had called a couple of times over the past two weeks to keep Waters abreast of the Buckles prosecution, but that was pretty much on track. This might be something else. Like Eve Sumner’s murder. Tom Jackson worked all homicides for the Natchez Police Department.
“I’d better call Tom before it gets late.”
Lily gave him a soft look. “Why don’t you wait until tomorrow? I don’t want to think about that stuff right now, and I don’t want you to either.”
“What stuff?” asked Annelise, looking up.
“Taxes,” Lily replied, which was their catchall euphemism for anything Ana didn’t need to hear about.
“Oh. Do you know what Fletcher did today? You won’t believe it.”
Waters tried to clear his mind to listen to the story of a playground standoff, but a hundred thoughts nibbled like fish at the edges of his consciousness. As he tried to hide his anxiety from his daughter, he felt Lily’s foot touch his ankle beneath the table. She had removed her shoe, and was now rubbing his calf with her toe. She never did this kind of thing. He didn’t know how to respond. When Ana finished her story, he got up and rinsed his plate.
“You want to watch some TV together?” he asked Annelise. “I got a new DVD from Amazon yesterday.”
“What is it?”
“The Princess Diaries.”
Annelise jumped up, grabbed his arm, and dragged him toward the den. While Waters started the movie, he heard Lily cleaning up the kitchen. Normally, she would now retire to her alcove or go to work on a project around the house: stripping paint, making curtains, whatever. But tonight she came into the den, sat beside him on the sofa, and halfway through the film intertwined her hand in his. Her obvious intention to make good on her promise of the afternoon surprised and worried him. His experience in the Eola was still fresh in his mind, and he didn’t want any flashbacks while he made love to his wife.
As the movie wore on, he felt himself zoning out, his mind on Tom Jackson’s phone call. Lily went upstairs and got Annelise’s pajamas, and Ana changed while they watched the conclusion. When the credits rolled, Waters snapped out of his trance and carried Annelise upstairs, Lily close behind him. They tucked her in beside her stuffed rabbit, Albert, then walked back down, Lily in front. Reversing their usual ritual, she waited at the foot of the stairs, and when he reached the bottom step, she reached out and pulled him to her. He tried not to stiffen, but given the stress he was under, it was all he could do to remain still.
“Hug me like you mean it, John.”
He tightened his arms around her.
“That’s better.”
She pulled him off the step and climbed up onto it herself, putting them eye to eye. Then she kissed him on the mouth. Her lips were closed, but just as he expected her to pull away, she brushed her tongue against his teeth. He froze in surprise. Her tongue pressed insistently until he opened his mouth. She slipped it inside, then took his hand and placed it over her breast.
Moments like these were painfully awkward for him. He still remembered the first time she had come to him after losing the baby. She was sleeping fifteen hours a day, eating nothing. He sensed a fearsome anger buried under her depression, but she held it in, the way a bed-wetting child threatened with a beating holds his urine. Clenching, repressing, paralyzed by fear. Waters had gently broached the subject of adoption and earned himself a white-knuckled dinner without a word. Four months had passed without any sex at all. Yet Lily was not blind to his suffering. One day, without telling him, she dropped Annelise off at her parents’ house for the night. Then she followed the old psychological map she had laid out years ago, the one that relaxed her enough to respond fully. She locked the doors, washed the dishes, paid the household bills, fed the cat, turned off the phones. He almost wept when he saw her standing by the bed removing her gown. The first few minutes went well enough, but at the moment of penetration, Lily snapped back to that ultrasound room, and her body went as rigid as that of a catatonic, her eyes draining tears. Waters got off her as fast as he could and gave her the sedative her doctor had prescribed.
Months passed before she tried again. But gradually, when she sensed Waters grinding his teeth from animal frustration, she would roll over in the dark and use her hands on him, or pull him onto her for a quick mechanical release, during which her face remained painfully tight, her eyes glassy. Sex performed out of duty was almost worse than no sex at all, but how could he tell her that? Occasionally the quality of those experiences improved slightly, but never did they last more than a few minutes, and afterward Lily always looked like a lost and embittered child.
Tonight’s kiss at the foot of the stairs, her placing his hand over her breast: these were not part of her repertoire of marital duty. If it had been any night other than this one, he would have been filled with joy.
“Lily—”
She put a finger to his lips. “Shhh.”
“I don’t really need to right now.”
“It’s not for you,” she said. “For me.” She pressed his hand hard against her breast, and he was shocked to feel her nipple stiffen.
“Are you serious?”
She nodded. “Let’s don’t talk about it, okay? Let’s just do it.” She took his wrist and pulled him toward the master bedroom.
By the time they reached the door, she had undone her blouse and pants enough to slip out of them in seconds. She turned and knelt before him, undid his belt, and roughly pulled down his khakis. Then she slid down the comforter and pulled him into bed.
“Lily?” He took hold of her shoulders. “What’s going on? What’s changed?”
“I don’t know.” Urgency filled her eyes. “I just want you. I know I can feel good right now. Let’s don’t talk anymore.”
She kissed him again, deeply this time. He felt trapped in a dream, his movements clumsy and unreal. Instinct told him to get the act over with quickly, lest he do something to trigger one of Lily’s depressive episodes. He slid gently over on top of her, but when he moved to kiss her mouth, she pushed down on his shoulders, something she had not done for years.
“Down there,” she whispered. “Hurry.”
He closed his eyes, then slid down her belly, kissing as he went. She responded forcefully, startling him with her moans. He had not heard such sounds from her in so long that he felt he was with a stranger. On the verge of climax, Lily dug her nails into his shoulders and pulled him up to her mouth. He kissed her and went inside, stunned by the intensity of his own arousal. The woman beneath him now he had thought gone forever. It was as though four years of self-imposed deprivation were being exorcised in minutes. Her face was flushed, her skin blotchy and covered with perspiration, her breaths quick and labored. As he shut his eyes and went with her movements, her cries became so loud that he put his hand over her mouth. The last time sounds like that had come from this room,
Annelise was four years old. She would panic if she heard them now.
Suddenly Lily locked her legs around him and screamed, her cry breaking through his fingers, her arms locking around his neck, cutting off his air. Still he pressed down with his back muscles, trying to intensify her climax if he could. Dimly, he realized that he could not breathe, but that was a small price to pay for the emotional transformation he was witnessing. Mallory used to let her head hang off the bed to deprive her brain of oxygen during orgasm. Something similar was happening to him now. He was torn between jerking his head free of Lily’s grasp or remaining still while she finished. In seconds, his will no longer mattered. He began to peak with her, and her arm came loose from his neck, flooding his brain with oxygen.
“Jesus,” he gasped, rolling off of her. “Lily…”
“I know,” she panted. “It’s been so long. I honestly forgot what that felt like.”
She started to speak again, but her words disappeared into a sob. Turning, he saw her cover her face with her hands. Tears ran from beneath them.
“I’m so sorry…I don’t know why I’ve been like I have.”
“It doesn’t matter, Lily. Don’t think about it. You just broke through a wall. Let your feelings out and try to sleep. Thinking doesn’t help with things like this.”
She reached out and took his hand. “I’m so glad I haven’t lost you.”
“Don’t worry,” he said softly. “You don’t have to worry about that.”
From nowhere, the specter of Tom Jackson rose in his mind. What could the detective want with him? Waters felt a sudden compulsion to go out to the slave quarters and get a zero-gauge Rapidograph in his hand. Make a list. Do an analysis of his situation. Vulnerabilities. Options. Possible solutions. He’d have to burn it after he made it, of course.
And what about Cole? The pumping unit? Should he drive over to his partner’s house and confront him? Or make a few discreet calls and try to discover if the rumors Will Hinson had mentioned were true? When Lily’s breathing deepened, he started to slide out of the bed, but she caught him by the arm.
“Don’t go,” she said sleepily. “Stay with me.”
“I need to brush my teeth. And call Tom Jack—”
“No. No worrying about anything tonight. Stay close to me. I feel so good right now.”
He sighed and lay back down, so hyperalert that he felt like running three miles himself. Lily’s breathing continued to deepen, but her hand did not release his arm. As he lay there, anxiety building to a crescendo in his chest, he heard the den phone ring. If the volume was up on the machine, he could sometimes hear the outgoing and incoming messages from the bedroom.
“You’ve reached the Waters house,” said Lily’s perky recorded voice. “Leave a message at the beep, and we’ll call you back as soon as we can.”
The machine beeped.
“John? Tom Jackson here. I hate to bother you at home, but I’m trying to run down some leads in this Eve Sumner mess. Just routine stuff, really, but I need to talk to you when you get a minute. Thanks, bud. See you.”
This Eve Sumner mess? Waters felt sweat beading on his brow. If it were really routine, why would Jackson be calling after ten at night? And why the hell would he be calling John Waters, unless the police had found something incriminating? Evidence Waters knew nothing about. Something from Eve’s house, for example. A scrap of paper. A photograph. God only knew what she had kept there. Or maybe someone had told them something. A witness Waters hadn’t seen. Someone drinking in one of the bars near the Eola. Or the man holding the umbrella over the pissing dog. It could be anyone. Anything. A million variables came into play when you started leading a secret life. The things you feared most were often no threat at all, while those you never thought about could tip the balance and bring your life crashing around your ears.
“Shit,” he whispered, listening to Lily’s steady breathing. “I need help.”
chapter 12
“And when I woke up,” Waters said, “Eve was dead.”
Penn Cage did not speak or even blink. He looked exactly like what he was, a former lawyer who had heard almost everything in his time.
“And now Detective Tom Jackson is trying to reach me,” Waters added. “He says it’s about Eve, but that it’s routine. That’s all I know.”
“Do you think you killed her?” Penn asked.
“I don’t know. I honestly don’t think I did, but as far as I know there was no one else in the room.”
Penn sighed and focused somewhere in the middle distance. Waters had made his choice of confessor in the depths of the night, after long reflection. He had no desire to talk to a psychiatrist. For one thing he didn’t know any. For another, a shrink couldn’t give him legal advice. He had known Penn Cage since he was a child, and though Penn no longer practiced law, he had served for years as a prosecutor in Houston, Texas, where he’d sent more than a dozen killers to death row. Penn Cage knew about murder.
He also knew about human frailty. After writing several successful legal thrillers, he had given up the law. Then his wife died of cancer, and his writing stalled. When he returned to Natchez with his young daughter to try to make sense of his life, a widow’s emotional appeal had caught him up in an old civil rights murder. Penn had ultimately turned those experiences into a novel called The Quiet Game, the book that the Hollywood producers staying in Bienville this week had come to Natchez to explore filming.
Some people might see Penn as a straight arrow, but those same people probably saw Waters as one too. Waters had read The Quiet Game very closely, and it was clear to him that its author was haunted by the past in a way not unlike the way he was haunted. This, combined with their childhood friendship, had finally convinced him that Penn Cage was the best possible confidant under the circumstances.
When he arrived at Penn’s home that morning, a stately town house on Washington Street, a maid had shown him to a spacious office at the back of the ground floor. Penn seemed pleased by the surprise visit, but he resisted any talk of legal representation.
“John, you know I don’t practice law anymore.”
“You took the Del Payton case,” Waters pointed out. On the bookshelves behind Cage, he saw studies of criminology and law, but also an extensive collection of psychology and philosophy.
“That was different. I was essentially defending myself.”
“Penn, I need help.”
“Is it the EPA thing?”
“Compared to why I’m here, the EPA investigation is nothing.”
“Something that could wipe you out financially is nothing?”
“Yes. You don’t have to represent me. I just need the benefit of your experience. And I need…”
“What?”
“Your confidentiality. And to absolutely ensure that, I need to hire you.”
“I could take that as an insult.”
“Please don’t. If you’re put on the stand one day and asked questions about me, I don’t want you to be held in contempt for trying to protect me. You can plead client privilege.”
“Jesus, John. What the hell have you got into?”
“Real trouble.”
A deep stillness settled over Cage. “Give me a dollar.”
Waters took out his wallet and slid a bill across the desk. Penn took it and slipped it into a drawer.
“Talk to me.”
Waters began at the soccer field and went on from there. The Dunleith party, Eve’s warning about danger at the school, the kiss at the cemetery, the matching handwriting, all of it, omitting nothing. Penn listened with absolute concentration, rarely interrupting except to ask for clarification. And you told Cole about this? She actually stated that she was Mallory Candler? Waters concluded with his blackout and waking up to find Eve dead, but the expression of shock he expected did not come.
“And you don’t remember strangling her,” Penn said.
“No.”
“Not even as erotic play?”
“N
o.”
“You say you passed out during your orgasm?”
“As best I remember.”
“Had you ever done that before?”
“Never.”
“Were you taking drugs of any kind? Cocaine? Amyl nitrate? X?”
“X?”
“Ecstasy. MDMA.”
“God, no.”
“This isn’t the time to hold anything back, John.”
“No drugs.”
“Not even a prescription drug?”
“No.”
“Was Eve using cocaine? Any other drugs?”
“I have no idea. I never saw any.”
“But you drank some wine.”
“One long swallow. Half a glass, maybe.”
“There could have been something in the wine.”
“I suppose so. But I never felt drugged with her before. What do you think?”
Penn moved back in his chair and picked up a blue Nerf basketball from the floor. “I don’t know yet. I’m processing what you’ve told me. Obviously, you could be in very serious trouble soon.”
“I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“This is why you asked me about Lynne Merrill. Whether you ever get over a relationship like that. You were talking about Mallory.”
“Yes.”
“She was only a year ahead of me at St. Stephens. I thought I knew a fair bit about her. I see now that I didn’t. I didn’t see much of her at Ole Miss. Obviously, you did.”
Waters nodded.
“John, you’ve referred to Mallory’s psychosis, to terrible things that happened, evil things she did. But you haven’t said what those things were. You did say that Eve had started to display the kind of behavior Mallory did when she started to lose her mind.”
“She did.”
