Edge Of Evil

by J. A. Jance

  The phone rang. “Ali,” Paul said. I’m glad you’re there. I need to talk to you.”

  It would have been nice if he’d asked how she was feeling or if she was okay, but he didn’t.

  “If this is about the station sending over that film crew tomorrow,” Ali began, “I’ve already decided I’m not—”

  “No, no,” Paul interrupted impatiently. “It’s nothing like that. It’s April. I just found out she’s pregnant.”

  So? Ali wondered. What does this joyous news have to do with me?

  “The baby’s yours I assume,” she said.

  “Of course it’s mine,” Paul snapped back at her. “Whose do you think it is?”

  No point in going into that, Ali thought. “Why are you calling me, then?”

  “She wants us to be married,” Paul said. “Right away. Before the baby gets here. That’s what I want, too. This child is my future, Ali. This is the baby who will carry my genetic material forward. So what can I do to get this process started?”

  Ali’s first instinct was to simply burst out laughing. Wasn’t this the same man, who, in the course of their last conversation, had declared that he wouldn’t be manipulated? The ever-dependable pregnancy gambit had to be the oldest ploy in the book.

  She also understood exactly why he was calling her directly. By going around Helga, he was sure he could negotiate himself a better deal. And he had reason to think so. After all, Ali Reynolds had gone along with his wishes for years. But with the death of Ben Witherspoon, the playing field had changed. Paul Grayson still hadn’t figured that out.

  “Well…?” he pressed, pushing her to give him an answer in the same bullying voice he always used to get his way.

  “When it comes to divorces,” she said finally, “you have three choices—quick, cheap, and good. Pick any two. When you figure out which two you want, give Helga a call and we’ll talk.”

  She hung up. The phone rang again almost immediately, but when caller ID showed it was Paul calling back, Ali didn’t pick up. She’d already said her piece and had nothing more to add. Instead, she jotted off an e-mail to Helga.

  * * *

  Dear Helga,

  Paul’s girlfriend is pregnant and wants to get married—fast. I think he’s ready to wheel and deal. Call him up tomorrow morning and see what you can do. I trust your judgment on this. The more we can stick it to him, the better.

  Ali

  She returned to cutloose.

  * * *

  Dear Babe,

  As you suggested, I’ve been in touch with Mr. Tompkins. Based on what happened with his mother, I’ve made a determination not to pursue treatment with the Rodriguez Medical Center folks in Mazatlan.

  According to Tompkins, the treatments consist mostly of stuffing the people full of overpriced but essentially over-the-counter supplements and then filling them full of a pain med cocktail that keeps them in enough of a pink haze that they don’t know what’s hit them. They keep them feeling better-right up until their money is gone. Then the patient is shipped back home to die, unless they conk out while they’re still in Mexico. Bad idea.

  The money we’re not spending on them is almost enough to pay off our mortgage. I think I’ll do that—stay home, take my lumps, and spend whatever time I have with my family.

  Thank you again for your help.

  Don Trilby

  PS You’re welcome to go ahead and post this. RMC has already filed suit against Mr. Tompkins for breaching his mother’s confidentiality agreement, but I didn’t sign any such thing, and I think other ALS patients and their families need to know how these creeps work. I’m glad I figured it out in time.

  Ali was in the process of posting it when her phone rang. She was surprised when the caller ID readout said Howard Bernard. Why’s Howie calling me? she wondered.

  “Ali?” Matt asked. He spoke in almost a whisper.

  “Matt!” Ali exclaimed. “Is something wrong?”

  “Mom’s stuff is gone,” he said with a sob. “Her clothes and her jewelry and her coats and shoes and everything. It’s all gone. They took it away. To Goodwill. While we were in Cottonwood.”

  Ali remembered what Andrea had said about the moving boxes stacked on the front porch. “They did what?” she exclaimed.

  “Dad,” Matt blubbered. “And I’m sure Jasmine helped. They packed up everything. It’s like she was never even here. How could they do that? Didn’t they know Julie and me would want some of her stuff? That we’d like to keep it?”

  Sparks of anger lit up Ali’s line of vision, but she didn’t explode with the series of four-letter words that were on the tip of her tongue. She didn’t want to add fuel to Matt’s flame or any more hurt, either.

  “Maybe they thought it would be less painful for you if you didn’t have to deal with those things,” she suggested.

  “No,” Matt said. “Dad wants to forget Mom, and he wants us to forget her, too. So he can marry Jasmine. Can I come live with you, Ali? Please? I wouldn’t be any trouble, I promise. And Julie, too. We’d be good, the same way we are with Grandpa and Grandma down in Cottonwood. They always say we’re not any trouble at all.”

  “I know you’re not,” Ali said quickly. “But it’s not that simple. Parents can’t just hand their kids off for someone else to look after.”

  “You mean like we did Samantha,” Matt said.

  “Well, yes,” Ali agreed. “Kids are a little more complicated than cats. And parents get to have the final say.”

  “Shouldn’t kids get to have some say, too? I mean, Jasmine pretends like she likes us. She’s always saying nice things, but I know she doesn’t mean them. She’s just saying them to get in good with Dad. And with us. I don’t like her, Ali. I don’t want him to marry her.”

  Three days after his mother’s funeral, Matt shouldn’t have had to be worrying about his father remarrying. But then, Howie Bernard was a clod. A highly educated clod. He had always been one in the past and would continue to be one in the future.

  Ali thought then about the note from Lucille telling her appalling story. The courts had terminated the poor woman’s parental rights over a shooting that, with decent legal representation and any kind of justice, would most likely have been declared self-defense.

  What if the remaining parent were charged and convicted of actual homicide? Ali wondered. What if Jasmine Wright and Howie Bernard had plotted together and succeeded in murdering Reenie? What then?

  “They’re not going to get married,” Ali declared. “It’s much too soon.”

  “Oh yeah?” Matt countered, and Ali had nothing to say in return.

  “How’s Sam?” he asked, abruptly changing the subject. “I keep asking Dad when we can come down and get her, but he says he doesn’t know. That he’s too busy.”

  “She’s fine here,” Ali said. “But I could bring her home if you’d like me to—tomorrow or maybe the day after that.” She was stalling on going out of the house as much as possible. Her face and neck were still black and blue from the blow Witherspoon had nailed her with when she first walked in the door. And there were other cuts and bruises that she didn’t remember individually but which made her look like she’d been in a serious fight—which she had.

  “That would be awesome,” Matt said, sounding suddenly much more cheerful. “I know Sam’s ugly, but I really, really miss her.”

  “She’s not ugly,” Ali said. “She’s interesting.”

  “Gotta go,” Matt said suddenly. “Dad’s home now.” And he hung up.

  As Ali hung up, she heard the New Mail click. At the top of the list was one from Helga@Weldondavisreed.com.

  * * *

  Dear Ali,

  I’m on it. If it comes down to serious negotiations, we’ll do a conference call. Hang on to your cell phone. If his sweet young thing has him by the balls, you can rest assured he won’t be using his brains. We should be able to work a deal.

  Talk to you tomorrow.

  Helga

  Afte
r reading that, Ali sat in front of the keyboard and tried to get a handle on everything she was feeling. She had every confidence that Helga would look out for her interests, but who was looking out for Matt and Julie Bernard’s? Not their father. Not Howie, the unfeeling creep who was willing to send his wife’s personal possessions off to Goodwill before his wife was even in her grave.

  Ali remembered how she’d felt when Dean died. It had taken her months before she’d been willing to part with the last of his clothing. She’d kept some of it, just so she’d be able to press her face into it and still smell his scent and sense his presence. And Ali could imagine Matt and Julie finding the same kind of sensory comfort in some of their mother’s things. But those were evidently lost to them now.

  As for Howie? Was he so arrogant, so convinced of his own infallibility, that he didn’t think anyone would notice the lack of respect he was showing for Reenie? Maybe he thought that, since she was ill, no one would bother looking beyond the official determination of suicide, that it would simply be accepted at face value.

  But it won’t! Ali vowed. If he’s responsible for what happened, I’ll hound him until hell freezes over.

  With her fingers flying over the keyboard, she fired an e-mail off to Andrea.

  * * *

  Dear Andrea,

  I just heard from Matt. It seems all those moving boxes you saw on Reenie’s front porch were packed up to take her stuff to Goodwill. It’s probably too late, but can you see if any of it can be tracked down?

  Thanks,

  Ali

  Once that was on its way, she exited cutloose and logged on to Reenie’s mailbox. By then, it was almost midnight—another day had passed. When the witching hour occurred, another day’s worth of Reenie’s correspondence would be lost forever. To keep that from happening, Ali went to the mail file and began making printed copies of everything that was there, starting from the oldest and working her way up to the most recent. When she finished with that, she opened and printed all the new messages as well, before resaving them as new. And then, just for completion’s sake, she went through the spam folder—all 78 of them—one at a time, opening and checking them first before deleting.

  When she saw one called Account Numbers, she expected it to be one of the usual spam gambits offering low mortgage interest rates or maybe a solicitation to help some poor unfortunate African heiress reclaim her fortune. Except this one wasn’t spam. It was dated Thursday, March 17, 2005:

  * * *

  Dear Ms. Bernard,

  Your inquiry from last week has been forwarded to me by Andrew Cargill, manager of our First United Financial branch in Phoenix. As you are no doubt aware, in the past few years there’s been a good deal of consolidation in the banking industry. Each time a bank changes ownership, it results in changes in account numbers. Usually the account names remain the same although in some instances, secondary or tertiary names on the account may be dropped from the record.

  I understand your concern that, in the case of your children’s trust accounts, a substantial sum of money may be missing. However, I’m sure that by checking with the trustee and/or with the grantor should s/he be available, this matter can be sorted out with very little difficulty. Once we have been informed of the correct account name, it will be easy to come up with the account numbers.

  Please let me know if I can be of any further service in this regard.

  Lana Franklin

  Vice President

  Customer Relations

  First United Financial

  Fargo, ND.

  A bank in Phoenix, Ali thought in triumph. Yes!

  It wasn’t what she had thought originally because now she was convinced Reenie hadn’t gone there in search of money for treatment in Mexico. Instead it had something to do with her children’s lost trust accounts. It could be as insubstantial as those old-fashioned Christmas Club things that you put money into each month so you’d have enough saved up to spend when next year’s Christmas came around. The e-mail made it sound like the missing accounts amounted to more than that, but that could be a simple corporate hyperbole.

  Regardless of why Reenie had gone to the bank, however, Ali had picked up her trail after everyone else had lost it. No one seemed to have any idea about her movements or actions between the time she left Dr. Mason’s office and the time she went off the cliff.

  Reenie Googled the bank information and copied it into her Reenie file. The bank office was on Northern, near I-17.

  I’ll give Andrew Cargill a call in the morning. She thought about that for a minute. No, she decided, I think I’ll go see him in person.

  She went to bed then and, for a change, slept soundly. Now that she no longer had to be up bright and early for her shift at the Sugarloaf, she was, of course, wide awake well before sunrise and aching all over. The stitches in her back and leg precluded soaking in the tub, so she settled for a quick shower and went back to the computer.

  cutlooseblog.com

  Tuesday, March 22, 2005

  My life is in limbo at the moment. Legal proceedings are moving forward in two separate states. Until those cases are concluded, it’s difficult to see into the future and decide where I’m going.

  The job I thought I’d do for my whole life is no longer my job. I’ve left the home I’ve lived in for the past several years. I thought my parents needed my help with their restaurant, but it turns out they seem to be able to get along fine without me. For twenty-two years I’ve been a mother, but my son is grown now and ready to be on his own, so I’ve worked myself out of that job as well.

  It would be easy to sit around and worry about all those things, but I’m not going to. The best way to banish worry is to do something, specifically the job that comes most readily to hand.

  My friend Reenie was buried last Friday. As far as I know, her death has been termed a suicide. Maybe it is—and maybe it isn’t. But that’s the job I’m assigning myself to do right now—to find out for sure—to ascertain, to my own satisfaction, whether Reenie Bernard did or did not kill herself and, if she did, why. We’re not talking about legalities here. I’m not an attorney or a police officer. I don’t have any vested interest in probable causes or chains of evidence. I want answers that carry weight in my heart rather than in a court of law.

  In the past, I’m sure I would have accepted the “official” answer as the “real” answer, but circumstances change, and so have I.

  And since all of you have been walking along the Reenie road with me, I’ll keep you posted as well.

  Posted 5:23 A.M. by Babe

  Lucille had responded:

  * * *

  Dear Babe,

  You can post my letter. I haven’t looked for my son. I don’t have the money, and I’m afraid of what I’d find. Maybe he’s dead. Or like his father.

  Lucille

  Ali posted Lucille’s first note, then she started to read the new stuff. The first one was from Andrea Rogers.

  * * *

  Dear Ali

  Glad to know you’re feeling better. Thank God! That maniac could have killed you.

  I’ll go to Goodwill first thing this morning, before I even go to the office. I know some of the people down there. When I tell them what’s happened, I’m sure they’ll do whatever they can to help. Some of Reenie’s stuff is probably gone—some but not all. I’ll do what I can.

  Andrea

  The next e-mail was a stunner.

  * * *

  Dear Mrs. Reynolds,

  A friend of mine told me I could write to you here.

  My husband was abusive. He use to beat me in front of the kids, but I stayed with him. Because of the kids. He finally got sick and died, praise the Lord!

  But now my son is dead, too, and I keep wondering how much of it is my fault. I forgive you if you forgive me.

  Sincerely,

  Myra Witherspoon

  Closing her computer, Ali went to get dressed.

  Chapter 19

  Myra
Witherspoon’s note stayed with Ali as she dressed and tried to make herself presentable. For both Lucille and for Myra, domestic violence had been a communicable disease, spreading its poison through their families from one generation to the next. And maybe even to the generation after that. Both of them had lost their sons. But obviously, both women had somehow plumbed the depths of their own heartbreak and found a measure of forgiveness for others. Otherwise they wouldn’t have written.

  It was humbling to realize that Myra was willing to forgive the person who had pulled the trigger and ended her son’s violent existence.

  If our situations were reversed, Ali wondered, could I do the same?

  She rummaged through her closet until she found a long-sleeved turtle neck she had left in Sedona over Christmas. That covered the bruises on her arms if not the ones on the backs of her hands, and a pair of jeans did the same for the stitches from the cut on her leg and the scrapes on her knees from where she had scrambled away from her attacker in the gravel driveway. Her face was another matter entirely.

  Working in front of the bathroom mirror, Ali soon discovered what many other women had learned before her—makeup can’t do everything. No amount of Estee Lauder concealer camouflaged the ugly greenish yellow tinge of the bruise that spread from her cheekbone to the base of her neck. Eye-shadow only emphasized the cut near the corner of her puffy eye. Lipstick did the same for her cut and badly swollen upper lip.

  Chris called as she was examining the final results in the mirror. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Medium,” she told him.

  “Maybe I should come back over this weekend,” he offered. “My last final is over at noon on Friday.

  “That’s not necessary, Chris. Really. I’m fine. I’ve got more food here than I’ll ever manage to eat. All I’m doing is hanging around with Sam and taking it easy.”