by Anne Stuart
“She’s here.”
“ ‘Bout time she showed up. I thought she was more impatient than that.”
“You probably scared the hell out of her.”
“I tried. She doesn’t scare easy.”
“I noticed that,” Coltrane said. “Lureen’s doing her part, but Leroy almost blew it.”
“Leroy’s an idiot.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Coltrane said. “You coming out here, or do you want me to handle it? I can take care of her if you want me to.”
“Watch her.”
“She’s going after your granny.”
“Not my granny,” Luke said. “Jackson’s mother. If I know Esther, she’ll fill Rachel’s head so full of horror stories she won’t know which way’s up.”
“What if she calls the cops?”
“You’re the cops, Coltrane. You’ve got connections.”
“Yeah. But you told me not to hurt her.”
Luke lit a match, watching the flame flare up before he lit the end of his cigarette. He took a deep, appreciative drag on it, reveling in the forbidden pleasure. “Just watch her,” he said.
“You still in New Mexico? I thought you were going to come back here and take care of things?”
“Relax, Coltrane. I’ve got everything well in hand.”
“Where the hell are you, Bardell?”
“Close,” Luke murmured. “Closer than you think.” He pushed the button on the cell phone, severing the connection. He could just picture Jimmy Coltrane’s peeved expression.
Jimmy Coltrane was fifteen years older than Luke. He’d been a bully in his teens, a mean cop in his twenties. He was the one who’d found Jackson Bardell with half his head blown away; he was the one who’d taken one look at Luke, taken the gun from his nerveless hand, and calmly wiped the fingerprints clean. He then placed it in Jackson’s dead hand.
It wouldn’t have fooled anybody—there were paraffin tests and forensic reports, but Coltrane saw to it that no one bothered making any of those tests. Everyone knew Jackson Bardell was a sadistic drunk. No one missed him except his mama, and Esther was always crabbing about something. At least this time she’d have a reason.
Luke had never been sure why Coltrane had done it. Maybe just because he’d always hated Jackson Bardell. Maybe because he knew that sooner or later the tide would turn and Luke would be in a position to repay him. Or maybe he just liked the feeling of power it gave him.
Luke didn’t give a shit. Jackson Bardell’s body had been cremated, the files had been destroyed in a fire that had swept through the town building, and there was nothing anyone could do but listen to Esther’s ravings about that son of the devil who’d killed her boy.
She was as mean and ornery as her only child had been. She used to hurt him when he was too young to fight back, and then he’d taken off.
But now he was back again. And before he left he was going to pay a little visit to Esther Blessing.
And tell her just how her son died.
11
Sheriff Coltrane wasn’t as smart as he thought. Esther Blessing didn’t even blink an eye when Rachel showed up at the tall, white-painted Victorian house with the green sign hanging outside.
She didn’t look like Luke. That was Rachel’s first thought, and she ignored the odd strain of relief that swept through her. Esther Blessing looked older than sin and twice as mean. She was a tiny woman, wiry, with mean dark eyes and grizzled white hair that stood up all around her head. Her mouth was small and unpleasant, and she and her entire house smelled of day-old cigarettes.
She looked Rachel up and down with a disparaging glance, but it seemed as if it were the response she showed to the entire world. “We don’t get many visitors in these parts,” she said, unconsciously echoing Leroy Peltner.
Rachel had had enough time to consider her options. If the woman pulled out a shotgun, Rachel was ready to run. “I’m here doing research on Luke Bardell.”
The little old lady froze, and if anything her expression grew more sour. “Why?”
“I’m writing a book about him.”
Esther Blessing snorted. “You think he’s some kind of saint, girly?”
It was a gamble, but the last few weeks had taught Rachel that she had nothing to lose. She looked Esther straight in her mean little eyes. “I don’t think so, Mrs. Blessing. I think he’s a crook, and a charlatan, and a liar.”
“What about murderer, girly? Did you think about that?”
For some reason Esther’s avid interest made Rachel uncomfortable. She ignored the feeling, ignored her strange urge to defend her enemy. “I thought it was manslaughter.”
“I ain’t talking about the Polack he killed in a bar,” Esther said. “I’m talking about my son. Jackson Bardell. Murdered in cold blood by that little bastard.”
Shock turned Rachel cold. “He killed his own father?”
“Aren’t you listening to me, girl? He was a bastard. Marijo MacDonald was already knocked up when she tricked my boy into marrying her. She spread her legs for that traveling preacher man, and when he abandoned her with a bun in the oven she turned to my boy. Hell, it was no wonder. That boy was the prettiest thing you’d ever seen, and he could talk just about anyone into anything.”
“Luke?”
“No, his real pa. He went from town to town, preaching the Gospel, healing the sick, and sleeping with the pretty girls. Till someone kilt him, which served him right. That didn’t do Marijo much good, though.” Esther cackled.
“It sounds like he takes after his real father.”
“Never trust no preacher man’s son, girly. Especially if they’re bastards. Jackson tried to teach the two of them about repentance, Marijo and that bastard son of hers. Didn’t do no good, though. And look what happened.”
The smell of cigarettes warred with old sweat and some kind of overpowering air freshener, and Rachel knew if she tried to vomit all she’d manage to bring up would be coffee. She bit her lip, concentrating on the turkey-red carpet beneath her feet.
“What did happen?”
“You know how his mother died. The fool girl killed herself, she did, when her guilt got too much. She always was a silly fool, no match for my Jackson. He hated her, and the boy too.”
“Why didn’t he divorce her?”
“We don’t have divorce in this family,” Esther said flatly. “It ain’t godly.”
“What makes you think Luke killed your son?” Rachel persisted. “Why haven’t you told anyone?”
Esther’s coarse laugh was like chalk on a blackboard. “Honey, everyone already knows. They drove him out of town back then, when they couldn’t prove nothing, but now that he’s got buckets of money they’re falling all over him, trying to kiss his ass. You better watch your step, girly. They don’t want anyone tarnishing their local saint, even if he is the spawn of the devil. He means money for this town. The first industry we’ve ever had.”
“How do you feel about that, Mrs. Blessing?” Rachel asked faintly.
Esther Blessing leaned forward and her breath was fetid on Rachel’s face, whiskey and cigarettes and decades-old venom. It was all Rachel could do to stop her instinctive recoil.
“I’m gonna kill him, girly,” the old woman said with a soulless cackle. “He can’t get away with murdering my boy. Sooner or later, I’m gonna kill him.”
The bedroom Esther Blessing allotted her had to be the fussiest, ugliest room Rachel had ever been in. The walls were covered with a lime-green-flocked wallpaper; there were ruffles and knickknacks everywhere. There wasn’t a clear space of room atop the dresser or the small table, but neither was there a speck of dust in the place. With all those porcelain bunny rabbits and kissing kinder it must have been a full-time job for her landlady.
She didn’t want to be there. She should be used to the feeling—it could hardly feel less hospitable than the austere cell in Santa Dolores.
But this felt different. For all the fuss and frills, for all t
he ruthless cleanliness, there was a sense of sickness and decay in the tall white house. A sweating evil that seeped into her pores and covered her with a slimy film of decadence that nothing could wash away.
She laughed at herself as she stood beneath the lukewarm shower. She was becoming melodramatic in her old age, when she’d always prided herself on coolheaded practicality. She’d always avoided grandstanding, since her mother had been so very good at it. But now that Stella was dead she found she was falling into the trap after all. The curse of inescapable heredity.
When she was a child she used to dream she was adopted. That Stella had swept down on some orphanage with her money and her jewels and picked out the infant who most resembled her. She’d grown tired of her new toy, of course, but somewhere in the world Rachel’s real, loving parents were looking for her.
By the age of nine she knew that was bullshit. Stella had popped her forth all right—she still complained about the fourteen-hour labor when she’d had enough martinis. And the physical resemblance was undeniable—they had the same eyes, the same elegant bone structure, and beneath Stella’s constant dye jobs, the same mousy brown-blond hair.
She’d met her father only once. He didn’t want her, Stella had told her brutally when she was three. He was more interested in young men than a family. It had taken far too long for Rachel to understand, and the one time she’d run into him he’d been very drunk. So drunk that he’d simply looked up at her blearily, not realizing who she was.
He was dead now. So was the stepfather who’d molested her, so was her mother. And for one brief, furious moment she had one more thing to resent Luke Bardell for. He’d done what she’d always longed to do. Killed his tormentors.
The moment she stepped outside Esther’s house the humidity settled back down around her like a shroud. It was late afternoon, and the bugs were out, their incessant whine a distant drone in the back of her head. Fortunately mosquitoes never found her particularly appetizing, though this bunch were bigger and meaner than anything she’d ever run into. She headed toward the rental car, planning to close the windows and turn the air conditioner on full blast, when Esther Blessing stuck her head out the front door and screeched across the short, short grass.
“Dinner’s at seven-thirty, and if you’re late don’t be expecting kitchen privileges.” She paused, peering at her. “Where are you going, girly?”
“I’ll take care of my own food.”
Esther’s snort carried all the way out to the sidewalk. “If you’re the one who’s been responsible for it so far then you’ve done a piss poor job. You look like a stiff wind would carry you off.”
“Lucky there’s no wind, then,” she said, unlocking her car.
“Suit yourself, girly. Just don’t get caught on a back road after dark. Leroy Peltner says he’s seen the Goatsucker around here.”
“I can think of worse things,” she muttered to herself.
“What’s that you say?” Esther screeched.
“I said I’ll be careful.”
Esther didn’t look particularly gratified as she let the screen door slam shut once more, disappearing into her dark, tobacco-laden house, and for a moment Rachel regretted leaving her suitcase up in that fussy, stifling room. The afternoon air was so thick she could hardly breathe, and the town made her nervous. It was as if someone was watching her, staring at her, spying on her.
But she wasn’t going to do that, wasn’t going to run. She’d already run from Santa Dolores, and she couldn’t go back until she had more to fight him with. And she was on the right track, she knew it. How would his blissed-out followers feel if they knew he’d killed his father, if not by blood, by upbringing? When had that dangerous charm emerged? He was a man who was followed by death. Did he summon it?
She didn’t like it here in this steamy little town. It was too claustrophobic, and despite the fresh white paint on many of the buildings, there still seemed to be an air of decay about the place. As if those coats of paint covered up rotted siding and rotted souls.
She didn’t know who was going to help her, and she wasn’t going to ask. Lureen at the Cafe had already given her grudging directions on how to get to the graveyard, but she balked at telling her where to find Jackson Bardell’s old house. It was deserted, she said. Had been since Jackson killed himself. By now the swamp would have taken over.
The graveyard wasn’t beside the old church, one of the few buildings in town without a fresh coat of paint. It was on the edge of town, heading toward the deep, swampy forest, and Rachel couldn’t shake off her uneasiness as she drove in that direction, air conditioner blasting full force. This wasn’t what she’d expected to find when she’d come down to Alabama. She’d expected antebellum charm and small-town friendliness. This sense of mordant decay was playing havoc with her mind.
But then, that’s what Luke Bardell seemed to specialize in, whether she was in his unsettling presence or thousands of miles away. It was her greatest danger. He made her feel vulnerable, imaginative, two things she’d fought against for most of her life. And she wasn’t going back to Santa Dolores until she’d managed to wipe such weaknesses from her life.
The grass in the graveyard was neatly trimmed, the granite markers clean and symmetrical. She wandered haphazardly, reading names and dates, the casualties of every war since the 1850s, the usual number of children taken during times of fever. There were Peltners and Coltranes and Bardells, but nowhere could she find Luke’s parents.
Again that eerie feeling of being watched, of eyes staring into the middle of her back. Was there a gun trained at that vulnerable point as well? She could see Esther Blessing holding a shotgun—it suited her dark, angry eyes and her dark, angry soul. What about the others, Coltrane and Peltner and even Lureen? Did they want to hurt her? Something strange was going on in this town, which shouldn’t surprise her. Any town that spawned the likes of Luke Bardell had to be twisted.
She stopped in the middle of the graveyard and gave herself a brisk shake. She could probably blame her flaming paranoia on Luke Bardell as well, except that she’d always had a faintly paranoid streak. It came from having no one to trust.
But there was no reason why the citizens of Coffin’s Grove would wish her any harm. And if she thought about it, allowed herself the dangerous luxury of examining these imaginary feelings, she could sense no danger from those watching eyes. No physical danger.
The place was creeping her out. She turned, ready to give up, when she found what had been eluding her. Jackson Bardell’s gaudy monolith.
It was absurd of her to have missed it before. It was taller than the other gravestones, with a dog carved in granite at the foot. Surrounding it were bunches of plastic flowers in various unlikely shades of purple and yellow, mud-splashed and sun-faded. And a telltale pile of cigarette butts of varying vintages. Two different brands. Two people stood over his grave. Did they both mourn?
She looked at the deeply etched words. JACKSON BARDELL, DEVOTED SON, EXPERT HUNTER, DUTIFUL HUSBAND. CUT DOWN IN HIS PRIME. 1930–1976.
No mention of his own son. Cut down in his prime was Esther’s doing, to announce to the world that she knew he’d been murdered. She said she was going to kill Luke when she got the chance. It was only surprising she’d waited so long.
She headed toward the gate, almost tripping over the small, marble plaque set in the ground, far away from Bardell’s ornate tombstone. MARIJO MACDONALD. 1940–1968.
No Bardell added to her name. But a fresh handful of wildflowers lay beside the marble stone, not yet wilting from the heat.
Someone had been here before her. Recently. Someone who’d cared about Marijo MacDonald, when her own husband hadn’t seen fit to put her name on her tombstone. Rachel looked up, suddenly alert, staring around her. There was no sign of anyone. Whoever had been here, whoever had visited Marijo’s grave and then stayed to watch her, was gone.
She wanted to run to her car, slam the door, and drive the hell out of town. But she’d come t
oo far to run away. Again.
There were little patches of small white wild-flowers growing along the edge of the fence where the mower’s blade had missed them. Rachel didn’t even think about what she was doing, she moved purely by instinct. She picked a small handful of the delicate white blooms and lay them carefully beside the others on Marijo’s grave.
She looked back at Jackson Bardell’s ostentatious display and a sour grin twisted her face. Let him keep the plastic tributes, she thought. He deserved them.
There’d been other MacDonalds in the graveyard, presumably Marijo’s family, but she rested nowhere near them. She was off alone, probably because she was a suicide.
But so, ostensibly, was Jackson Bardell.
Luke Bardell had taken her mother. But there was no denying that he’d lost his own as well. It made no difference in the long run.
But it lingered in her mind as she started up the rental car once more.
Luke stepped out of the darkness of the thick growth of trees, taking his time, listening as the sound of her tinny little car disappeared into the afternoon air. The car suited the kind of person she thought she was. White and anonymous, automatic transmission and lots of air-conditioning.
He didn’t see her that way. He could see her naked, on leather. And he would, sooner or later.
He didn’t bother going anywhere near Jackson Bardell’s grave. He’d put the old man behind him, out of his life, his conscience. Instead he went to Marijo’s grave, staring down at the pale pink flowers he’d left earlier, the white ones lying beside them.
He squatted, touching one, turning it over. Marijo had been the opposite of Rachel Connery. Sweet-natured, helpless, almost simple in her needs and her loves. But something told him she would have liked Rachel. She would have folded Rachel in her warm arms and stroked her hair; she would have murmured all the safe, loving things that a child like Rachel needed to hear.
As she had with him.
He glanced back at Jackson’s massive headstone, testing himself, waiting for the flood of rage that could sweep over him at unexpected moments. Right now it was gone, squashed down in a tight dark place that never saw the light. At least not if he could help it.
