"But?"
"I fell in love with your mother."
"What?" Kate almost staggered from the shock of his words. He had loved her mother? He dared to claim he loved her?
"How could I help it?" Kneeling beside her gravestone, he reverently touched it with his fingertips.
He wasn't posturing this time. He meant it. Grief creased his face. "She wasn't the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. She was pretty like you. But not like you. She was older than me and a little broad in the hips. After all, she'd had three children." He looked up in appeal, as if expecting Kate to understand.
"I wouldn't know." Kate breathed hard. "I've never even seen a picture of her."
"I can show you pictures. I've got your photo albums. You can see what she looked like!" He made the offer without comprehending the atrocity of stealing a family's memories. "But you'll see. It wasn't her looks that drew me. It was her . . . soul. It shone out of her like pure light. Everybody loved Lana. She was so kind. She shone with kindness, with motherliness. She was a Madonna."
"Did my father love her?" Which seemed more to the point than Oberlin's obscene adoration.
"Yes, and she loved him." Oberlin stood slowly, as if his knees hurt. "What followed was my fault. I admit it. I should never have declared my ardor. But imagine, if you will, a handsome young man who has been the object of many women's interest, but who has never loved before. I was overcome by passion, and I confessed . . . she was holding you, feeding you, and you both looked so beautiful. I told her everything. What I wanted, what I imagined, how I would make her rich, how I would worship her. And she . . . she was . . . she said she was married!"
Kate bit hard on her tongue to keep back the sarcastic retort.
"She was very kind. Kind to me like I'd seen her be kind to other people. Poor people. People who needed charity. Like I was one of them." He sneered at the memory. He stared down at the headstones, and Kate realized that, for the first time, he'd forgotten her. He was caught up in a world long gone, trapped in emotions he had never left behind. "But I was strong. I pretended that it was a mistake, that I hadn't really meant it. I knew she didn't believe me, but at least I thought she would honor my trust."
Slipping her cell phone out of her pocket, Kate glanced at it. Still no signal.
And Oberlin was getting to the end of his story.
Her heartbeat tripped and trembled. She slid a few steps toward the parking lot.
Oberlin was too caught up in his memories to notice. "About a week later, the pastor called me over. I went into his woodworking shop. He was there making some stupid thing. A table for the bedroom. For Lana, he told me. And the way he told me, the tone he used, that compassionate expression on his face . . . I knew she'd betrayed me. She'd told him that I loved her." His voice rose. "She'd laughed at me behind my back."
"If she was as kind as you say, she didn't laugh at you!" Kate grew hot and indignant on behalf of a mother she couldn't remember.
"Then why did she tell him?" Oberlin swung toward her.
"Because he was her husband. If they were anything like my parents, my adopted parents, they didn't keep things from each other! That's the way it is when people love."
"It was a secret." He stalked toward her. "It was our secret!"
"Apparently not," Kate snapped, then wished she could call back the words.
But Oberlin's craziness sounded too much like stupidity for her to have patience. She wanted to slap him and to tell him to get some sense.
But she reminded herself that a killer like Oberlin was beyond reason, so she backed up. She fingered the keys in her pocket. House key. Mailbox key. Car key. She pressed the button to open the Beemer.
The headlights flashed. It was unlocked.
Oberlin kept pacing toward her, his gait stiff-legged and resentful. "Pastor Prescott told me he'd found my changes to the accounting books. He told me I had to return the money right away. I tried to explain my plan, that when I was a senator, the church would be rich, but he wouldn't listen to reason. He was going to steal my livelihood."
"Your livelihood?" She couldn't comprehend Oberlin's audacity. "It sounds like you didn't have a livelihood."
"You sound like him. You sound like your father!" Oberlin held his hands out as if he was desperately grasping for reason, only to find it slipping away. "I couldn't be a senator without that money. I hated being invisible, hated my father-in-law sneering at me. I needed to be a senator, and Bennett Prescott would not let me!"
Kate stopped slinking away. "So you killed him."
"I picked up his stupid piece of wood and knocked him across the head." For one second, Kate shut her eyes. Oberlin had killed a man—had killed the father of four children, a minister and a good man, her father—because he wouldn't allow Oberlin to steal money from the church treasury.
When Oberlin spoke again, he stood two feet away. "You understand. It was necessary."
Opening her eyes, she stared at him.
He appeared noble and important and sorrowful, like some politician forced to agree to a prisoner's execution.
"And my mother?" Kate's lips felt stiff.
"I still feel grief about that. She came in. I wasn't expecting her."
"No. I don't imagine you were." Somehow, the cool breeze had turned corrosive. It lashed at Kate's skin. It hurt her lungs.
"But she knew I was out there, so it turned out for the best." A murderer's logic. "Did you hit her with the same piece of wood? The present my father was making for her birthday?"
"She didn't know . . . she thought he fell. . . . She was kneeling beside him . . . but she turned at the last moment and saw me and I—"
"For pity's sake!" Kate put out her hand to stop him. She couldn't stomach anymore.
Oberlin grabbed her fingers. "Kate, you understand. It was necessary."
Desperately she tried to extract her hand.
"It was all necessary." He held tight, uncaring that he ground her knuckles together, that the joints strained and bruised. "When I saw you, when I recognized you, I realized I'd been given a second chance. That you had been sent for me."
"No, I haven't." She twisted her fingers free. Thrusting her hand into her pocket, she pulled out her phone and opened it as if to make a call.
"No!" Grabbing the phone out of her hand, he smashed it against a standing headstone.
She recoiled. Her mouth grew dry and her mind froze.
She was here with him. She was alone. And she had denied him. She had said no. "You can't do that." Blood vessels burst and crimson crept into the whites of his eyes. "You can't call him."
From far away, she heard a siren. Finally. Thank God. Finally someone was coming.
Her brain started working again. She had keys in her pocket. Keys could be a weapon.
Before she could reach for them, Oberlin grabbed her wrist. "Did you betray me with him? Did you?"
"I didn't betray you." She stood still and stared into his eyes. "I am not yours." "That cheap womanizer. Ramos is nothing but the son of a whore."
She jerked as his words hit home.
Oberlin saw her reaction, pressed his advantage. "You didn't know that, did you? He didn't tell you that. God knows who his father was. One of a thousand. One of a million."
The sirens were louder.
"You're hurting me," she said.
Oberlin looked at her wrist gripped tightly in his hand. With an expression of surprise and horror, he released her. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have . . . but you have to listen to me. You're meant for me, not him. You'll be the jewel on my arm."
"I have my own jewels and my own arms." She fell back, rubbing her wrist. Slowly she dipped her hand into her pocket. She slipped one key between each finger, then clenched her fist around the key ring. In a polite tone, she added, "But thank you."
"You think you're in love with Ramos, but you can't be. He's a liar." Oberlin's chest heaved as he followed her, palm outstretched. "He tells girls he's a magnificent lover, but he's no
t."
She didn't mean to. It was a stupid thing to do. But she was nervous. She knew the truth. So she laughed.
Oberlin's control exploded into shards of insanity. "Bitch." He slapped her, a fast, backhanded blow that whipped her head around and brought tears to her eyes.
He lifted his palm to slap her again.
She blocked his hand with one upraised arm. Brought the other out of her pocket and stabbed at his face. The keys ripped into his cheek in two long scratches. He jolted backward. His fingers flew to his face. Came back bloody.
A police car came screaming into the parking lot, lights flashing, siren roaring. Oberlin started for her again.
She ran toward the parking lot.
Before she had gone three steps, he caught her by the shoulder. Turning on him, she slashed at him again, but he held her off with the length of his arm. "Don't touch me," she shouted. "Don't you ever touch me! I won't let you kill me like you killed my mother."
The police car's horn blasted. The driver whipped around like a maniac, took aim—and jumped the curb.
He drove right at them, over the well-tended grass, over the flat gravestones.
Oberlin glanced over, but instead of panic she saw deadly satisfaction. "It's him," Oberlin said.
Teague. She saw him, too. Teague was driving— straight at them.
Reaching into his breast pocket, Oberlin pulled out a gun. Feet braced, he aimed at the windshield.
With a banshee shriek, she leaped at him.
He fell sideways.
The shot shattered the glass. The car careened wildly. Skidded in a circle, grass flying. Smashed into a standing headstone and came to a halt.
Kate ran to the driver's side and jerked open the door. Teague slumped sideways onto the seat, blood pouring from his scalp.
"Teague!" She leaned into the car.
The sirens still screamed. The lights still flashed. From the parking lot she heard more brakes squeal. Heard people shout.
She didn't care. "Teague. Teague, please."
In an awkward motion, he flung his arm up, knocking her away.
She staggered backward.
He launched himself out of the car with sudden, gawky motions.
He was alive.
She was glad.
He was wounded.
She was terrified.
George Oberlin stood laughing, his pistol pointed at Teague.
Men and women raced across the grass, yelling, but they wouldn't get there in time.
Teague moved into the open, away from the car. Turning his head, he looked at her. Blood smeared his pallid face. His eyes looked swollen. Sliding his jacket back, he pulled out a pistol. He lifted the pistol, squinted at Oberlin.
He couldn't aim.
She knew it. Oberlin knew it.
He offered himself as a decoy to draw Oberlin's fire.
She glanced at the senator. He set his feet again. Prepared to shoot.
Teague was going to die.
In the police car. A shotgun. Leaning in, she pulled it off the rack. She pumped it. Oberlin followed Teague with the barrel of his pistol. She saw his eyes narrow.
She lifted the rifle to her shoulder.
Out of the corner of his eye, Oberlin glimpsed the motion.
His head turned. His mouth opened. He screamed, "No, Lana!"
Kate fired.
TWENTY-FOUR
George didn't see how Kate's shot could have missed— but it did. He was still standing, staring at Kate.
The whole terrible group of Prescotts and their mates ran up, helter-skelter, their pistols out.
Silly Kate. She didn't know how to fire a shotgun. How stupid of her to think she did. To think she could kill him. He smiled. He was going to kill them all. Wipe every Prescott off the face of the earth.
He raised his own gun . . . but he wasn't holding it. He looked at his hand. It was empty. In his fright, had he dropped the weapon?
Moreover, the Prescotts weren't staring at him, they were staring at the ground near his feet. Hope—he recognized Hope—had her hand over her mouth. Pepper—he recognized Pepper, too—looked sick.
Only Kate stood with her chin up. "I'm a reporter. I've seen such sights before," she murmured, "but I've never been glad before."
"Kate." Ramos stood still, swaying, his arms extended.
She went to him.
He hugged her, his head on top of hers.
What sights? What did she mean?
George looked down on the ground to see what they were talking about.
A man's body lay there. A bloody wound split his chest. A gun, George's gun, lay inches from his splayed fingers. Crimson spattered his outflung arms, his belly, his chin . . .
"What . . . ?" George pointed a shaking finger. "What . . . ?" His own face was on that body. His body rested on the green grass. Rested there as if he were . . . dead.
Dead! No, that was impossible.
He pointed at the body. "Who's that?" He looked up at the Prescotts.
They didn't answer him. They acted as if they didn't hear him. They gathered around Teague and Kate. They acted as if they had been reunited after years of toil and grief.
As if George wasn't still there and dangerous.
"Who's that?" He spoke louder, and he used his senator-addressing-the-press voice.
Then he realized that two people had joined the Prescott children.
He stared so intently he could almost see through them. He shuddered, a bone-splitting shudder, when he recognized them. He hadn't seen them for twenty-three years, but there was no mistaking them.
Bennett and Lana Prescott, and they looked . . . they looked alive.
They were dressed casually, as they had always dressed, and both observed him, their eyes as intelligent and perceptive as those days when he'd been younger and not quite so . . . he cut off the thought. He wasn't evil. That was an old-fashioned concept, like heaven and hell and sin and redemption. If he believed in that stuff, he'd have to believe that, when he died, he was going to burn in hell. That was nonsense. Ridiculous nonsense used to pull money out of a man's wallet and put it in a church's coffer.
Why were they here?
"Who is that?" George still pointed at the body.
But the Prescott children paid no attention.
"Who do you think it is, George?" Lana's voice sounded the same as it always had: clear, calm, warmed by a hint of Texas accent.
"It looks like me," he said. "But it can't be. I'm here."
"You are here," Bennett said, "in the one place you never wanted to be."
"You talk like a preacher," George sneered.
"Where do you think you are, George?" Bennett's voice wasn't as kind as Lana's. Bennett sounded harsh, as if he hadn't forgiven George's transgressions.
Damned parsons were all the same. They couldn't practice what they preached.
"Look around you, George," Lana invited. "Our children can't see you. They're turning away. They're hugging each other." She smiled to see them so intertwined. "They're hugging their husbands, their loved ones. Listen, George. Listen to what they're saying."
He didn't want to, but he had to. It was as if he could hear nothing else.
"I can't believe . . . it's finally over. I can't believe . . ." Hope put her head on Zack's chest and cried.
The others gathered around her.
"All those years." Pepper's voice shook. Dan held her, her back to his front, his arm crooked around her chest while she stroked Hope's hair. "All those years I thought Daddy and Mama had abandoned us. All those years I hated them, and they . . ."
"If Daddy and Mama"—Kate cleared her throat, as if the names unsettled her—"if they were the good people you say, they would forgive you for anything you thought. They would understand."
George looked at Bennett and Lana, and they were nodding. Their eyes shone as they watched their children, and their hands stroked the aura of love around them, strengthening it, making it pulse with gold.
&
nbsp; And Kate . . . Kate stood there in the center of the family. Those damned Prescotts. Every one of them smiled at her, hugged her, exclaimed over her. Kate looked awkward and uncomfortable, as if she didn't know how to deal with these strangers.
She would be happier with him. With George. Kate was his.
Bennett seemed to read his mind. "Not yours, George."
Almost his. Like Lana. Almost his. Kate would have been his, except for that bastard Ramos. She had her arm wrapped around him. She murmured loving words as she tried to look at his wound. She didn't seem to suffer any guilt at all about committing murder.
George's own murder.
"I can't be dead," George said loudly, as if saying it would make it true. "It's not possible."
"Look around, George." Evelyn's voice spoke from behind him.
Spinning around, he faced his wife.
She didn't look nearly as peaceful as Bennett and Lana Prescott. Her eyes were fierce and cold, and she wrung her hands over and over, as if nothing could ease her distress. She had bruises on her legs and her arms from falling down the stairs. A bloody cut opened her cheek, and her head sat oddly on her body.
Broken neck.
"I've been waiting for you, George." She waved at her grave with the double tombstone he had so lovingly had inscribed:
Dutiful daughter
Beloved wife
Dear companion
The other half of the stone was blank, awaiting another name.
"You bought the grave beside me. You had a politically correct tombstone placed between the graves. But you didn't plan on using it. You thought you'd be laid to rest beside your new wife. But your body will be here with me."
The grave was open. His grave was open. It looked as if someone had laid a coffin-sized rectangle over the green grass, a rectangle of black that blotted out all color, all light.
"Go and look, George," Evelyn commanded.
Close to You Page 26
