Before She Dies

by Mary Burton

  This was a good place. And to think a killer had invaded the neighborhood just days ago. She shuddered. There was always someone to spread poison and evil.

  She strolled up to the counter, glanced at the glass jar filled with biscotti, the bin of mints, and the We Accept Tips cup. A young teen boy with shoulder-length blond hair, wearing a Georgetown T-shirt and jeans, moved up to the register.

  “How’s it going, Joey?” She dug her change purse from her pocket.

  “All’s well, Maya. You want the regular? Latte and sugar cookie seeing as it is Friday?”

  She laughed. “Yes.”

  The kid stared at her with a clear direct gaze, and she had liked him from the start. “So how go your classes?”

  He shrugged as he held a pitcher of milk up to the steamer. “Can’t complain. Calculus blows, but I’m managing.”

  “I know tutors if you need help.”

  “So far I don’t need the cavalry, but I’ll let you know if I do.”

  Joey finished her latte, set a cookie on a plate, and rang her up. Seconds later she was sitting at a small round table by the large picture window that overlooked The Wharf. Drooping yellow crime scene tape still cordoned off the area. She’d read about the murder in the paper. There’d been suggestions it was related to the occult but details had been sketchy. Likely it was some ignorant kid who didn’t even know how to spell devil.

  She sipped her coffee. A couple passed by her table. They were laughing. Some days she wondered what it would be like to experience pure happiness. Or what it would be like to accept a man’s smile at face value without searching for the kernels of evil. Or what it would be like to kiss a man and not fear he’d steal her heart.

  This time when she raised the cup to her lips, the tension in her fingers threatened to crack the cup. Carefully, she set it down next to the uneaten cookie.

  “Hey, welcome again.”

  She glanced up into Katrina’s face. “Good afternoon.”

  Her smile brightened as she wiped down a table. “So how does that cookie taste?”

  “Good and fattening.”

  “Please. You run so much, you’ll never gain weight.”

  “You should have seen me forty pounds ago.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “You look stunning.”

  “Thanks. Lots of blood, sweat, and tears.” Her on-again /off-again had told her she’d looked a little puffy the other day.

  Katrina moved on to the next table, leaving Maya to her cookie, her latte, and her book, which she dug out of her worn backpack. Today, she was giving the kids a test so there were no lessons to plan.

  When a man sat at the table beside her, she was only vaguely aware of him. When he scooted his chair, the sound dragged her gaze upward. She’d seen him here before. He was quiet. Kept to himself. A reader. All traits she shared. As she lowered her gaze, she noted the book he was reading, Salem’s Lost.

  She had been reading it the other day. It was a historical biography of a woman accused of witchcraft in the seventeenth century. “So how do you like Salem’s’s Lost ?” she said.

  He carefully marked his place before he glanced up. “I’m not buying the writer’s hypothesis. I mean really, bacteria caused mass hysteria that led to the witch trials.”

  “It’s a theory that has been debated a few times.” She relaxed back in her seat. “Not many folks get into the history of Salem.”

  “There’s a lot to be learned from history.” He broke a piece off his muffin as if he were going to eat it. “But in this case, I think the writer has it wrong.”

  “Really?”

  He didn’t let his gaze linger on her too long. “Bacteria in the bread did not make the town lynch those women. It was fear and greed.”

  “Honestly, I agree with you. But it never hurts to explore new theories.” On reflex she pushed up her sleeves to her elbows.

  “However, the author provides some great historical detail.”

  She tucked a strand behind her ear and studied him closely for the first time. She liked what she saw. “Mind if I join you?”

  He scooted his chair back and held out an open-faced palm in invitation. “The company would be nice.”

  She picked up her cup and took the seat across from him. “I’ve seen you here before.”

  “I like this place. Very homey.” He glanced out the window toward The Wharf. “You hear about what happened there?”

  “I did. Terrible.”

  “I hope the cops catch the nut soon.”

  She extended her hand, and the silver bracelets jingled on her slim wrist. “I’m Maya Jones.”

  He took her hand. “I’m Hunter. Hunter Thompson.”

  His hand was warm and soft. “Very pleased to meet you, Hunter.”

  They spent the next half hour talking and laughing, and for the first time in too long she felt as if the universe had tossed her a lucky break. Her watch beeped and she glanced down at the time. “I’ve got to go, Hunter. This has been great, but I’ve got to teach my class.”

  He checked his own watch. “I need to get going, too. Maybe we can grab a cup of coffee again?”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Can I walk you to your car?”

  “Sure.”

  They rose and he held the front door for her. So charming, so old-fashioned, so very nice. They strolled down the street.

  “I have a book I think you’ll like to read,” Hunter said.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a history of this area. Fascinating stuff. If you’ve got a quick sec, I’ll pull it out of my trunk.”

  She checked her watch. The side trip would make her late for class. She hesitated. And so what if it did? How many times had she waited on on-again/off-again or the kids in her class? “Sure.”

  She followed him down a side alley toward a Lincoln. He pulled keys from his pocket and clicked the lock open. As he leaned over and rummaged through piles of books, she caught his scent. Soap and soft aftershave. Nice. Normal.

  “Here it is,” he said.

  She leaned forward a fraction and in that second felt the prick of a needle in the side of her neck. Her vision blurred almost immediately and her legs buckled.

  Hunter grabbed her and quickly laid her in the trunk of his car on the books. “That was almost too easy. You are so predictable, Maya.”

  As her vision grew hazier and darker, her last image was of Hunter gazing at her with searing hate.

  Chapter 14

  Monday, October 25, 6:55 p.m.

  Charlotte had scored a clear victory today in court. Innocent! Her client had been released from jail and now was free to get on with her life. The press for Wellington and James had been outstanding. Life was looking up.

  So why did life feel so out of control? Why in the light of so many successes did she see only failure?

  Because you are too tired and you need a break. Because you were on this case too long and you just can’t let go.

  She set aside the reports on her new client prospects and rose from her living room couch. Barefooted, she’d changed from her suit into short gym shorts and an old T-shirt. This was her go-to comfort outfit that made her feel like herself and one that she’d never wear in public.

  In the kitchen, she set a copper teakettle on the stove and turned on the gas burner. She wondered what Sooner was doing now. Where was she going to sleep when she left the carnival?

  The teakettle blew. She shut off the gas flame, poured hot water into a black and gray mug, and set the kettle on a cool burner. Moving into the living room, she stared at the mountain range of brown boxes. The movers would be here on Friday. She’d signed the closing papers, taken the buyer’s check, and finalized the lease agreement on the modest two-bedroom apartment. In two days, the consignment store representative would arrive and she’d chosen what she wanted to sell and what she wanted to keep.

  It was all necessary. All had to happen. Yet it was deep
ly unsettling. She’d moved around so much as a kid. And she’d hated it. There’d been no real school to attend. No long-term friendships. Everything had been temporary.

  Had Sooner hated the endless moving? Had the girl longed for a permanent place, or was she part gypsy like her grandmother?

  The movers had packed most of her belongings but she’d asked them to leave the back closet to her. She’d yet to tackle the task because all that stuff belonged to Grace Wells, stuff she should have pitched a long time ago.

  Steam rose from the mug. You go out of your way to forget, and yet you save all the evidence. Hell, you couldn’t even bring yourself to leave Alexandria.

  She opened the closet, turned the light on, and set the mug on a shelf before kneeling beside a box marked High School. Carefully, she removed the lid. On top was the white cap and gown she’d worn at graduation. She pulled out the hat and flicked the gold tassel. She’d been seventh in her class. Though her GPA had been the highest senior year, the valedictorian was selected on the four-year average. It didn’t matter that she’d come to the party late. Or that she was smarter than Nan Graham. All that mattered was that she didn’t have a four-year record to average.

  Below the gown was a collection of school newspapers. She’d wanted to write for the Jefferson Journal, but working thirty hours a week at the pizza place and school had eaten all her time.

  Charlotte closed the box and set it in the living room inside a sturdier moving box. She sealed the box and marked it with the word Storage. She stared at the bold black lettering, her pen hovering. Why couldn’t she just let go? Wasn’t everybody better off if she let sleeping dogs lie?

  “Shit.” She scratched it out and then wrote Trash. Afraid she’d overthink it, she recapped the pen and returned to the closet.

  The next few boxes were much the same. Bits and pieces of a past she’d never been able to release. Like the first box, she marked each as Trash.

  The last and most battered box was shoved in the back corner. This was the carnival box that held the memories of her mother, Mariah, and Sooner.

  Her hands trembled when she opened this box. Her first image was of an old carnival program. It featured Madame Divine on the front. The image was not her mother’s, hers, or Mariah’s. The photo was of a woman who’d sat in the tent long before them. Her mother had wanted Grady to change the picture but he’d refused. One night they’d gotten drunk and begun to fight. Her mother had brought the picture up and he’d told her the woman in the picture had been a lover whom he’d adored more than his own life. But she’d left him for a rich man.

  Under the program, there was a photo of Grace in costume. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen but there she sat trying to look into the camera as if she had a lifetime of sophistication and experience behind her.

  She traced the outline of the girl’s rounded face. “I look like I’m twelve.”

  What the hell kind of man would put a kid like that to work?

  She knew exactly what kind of man. A manipulator. A charmer. A man who used girls.

  She dug deeper and found the pictures she’d tried to forget. They were of two young girls. One who looked awkward and scared. The other who looked like she owned the world. Sisters. And until that last fall they’d been closer to each other than anyone else in the world. That last fall had changed everything. Sooner had been born. And Mariah had died. A barely tolerable world had become unbearable.

  She traced Mariah’s face, which was so much like Sooner’s. “Mariah, the girl doesn’t know any different kind of life. She doesn’t know it can be better. And Grady will see to it that she never does know different.”

  So what are you gonna do, Grace? Bitch and complain, cut and run, or stand and fight?

  She checked her watch. The carnival would be open for another hour. Time enough to visit.

  He stared at the woman Maya lying on the floor. Her eyes were shut and her mouth slack jawed. With a cattle prod he poked her in the chest. She didn’t move. He pinched her arm. Hard. She didn’t respond. Her breathing was so shallow and quiet he thought for a moment she’d stopped breathing. He leaned close and pressed his ear to her chest. Under the fabric, he felt the faint, but steady beat of her heart.

  She was alive.

  He’d overdosed her. He’d thought he’d not put enough in the syringe, and fearing she’d call out in public, he’d injected her a second time. Now he could see that he’d overdone it. She’d not awaken for another day at best.

  As much as he wanted to begin the inquisition now, it would have to wait. Killing her now wouldn’t be right. He needed the confession before God granted him the right to take her life.

  He kissed her on the lips. They were soft and supple. He let his hand slide to her breast, and he massaged the soft mound and then pinched and twisted her nipple.

  She moaned, and a faint line appeared on her forehead. Despite the drug, she felt the pain. He got hard.

  He squeezed again and again. She moaned. His erection pulsed. “Even asleep, you have power over me.”

  He moved the edge of the gurney and grabbed fistfuls of her fabric skirt and dragged the hem up to her waist. He took a moment to stare at her long smooth legs. He grabbed a hold of her ankles and pushed them wider apart.

  She lay limp, waiting for him, and already he found the lack of challenge deflating. Frustrated, he grabbed the folds of her blouse and ripped it. Buttons popped. He then pulled a switchblade from his pocket and sliced the center of her bra, which snapped open and freed her full breasts. He traced her nipple with the tip. When she didn’t react, he sliced a little deeper into the areola. She whimpered and blood oozed from the cut.

  His excitement returned. Of course, he’d not kill her now, but perhaps he could find something interesting to fill the time. He moved to a table where he kept several of his toys. Rummaging through the devices, he selected a thick, hard rubber shaft. He cut her panties free and tossed them on the floor.

  “You’ll be sorry you ever tempted me, witch.”

  He drove the shaft into her with so much force a tear ran down her cheek.

  The night air had grown cool when Charlotte arrived at the carnival. The same familiar scents greeted her as it had the other night, but this time she’d been prepared for the memory triggers, and she’d not allowed herself to go back.

  Digging her hands in the pockets of her suede jacket, she moved through the dwindling crowds toward Sooner’s tent. She hesitated at the flap, wondering if this was really what she wanted.

  Ignoring the warnings, she pushed open the flap and moved into the dimly lit room. A soft light glowed in the corner, and hidden speakers played a quiet soothing tune. Incense burned.

  Sooner sat at her table, her gaze turned down onto tarot cards arranged into the Celtic Cross pattern. “So you’ve come back to offer me more advice?”

  Charlotte moved across carpeted floor and took the seat in front of Sooner. Lavender incense burned and added a tang to the air. “I didn’t see a line so thought I’d better jump at the chance.”

  “Traffic is always slow on Mondays.”

  She remembered. She smoothed her hands over her jeans. “I’ve never sat on this side of the table before.”

  Sooner slowly gathered her cards. “All those years of readings and you never had one.”

  “No. I didn’t have any interest.” She tried not to marvel at the girl’s resemblance to Mariah. “What’s the old saying? The cobbler’s wife has no shoes.”

  Sooner shuffled the cards and laid them out on the table between them. “Why don’t you let me read for you? It’s the very least.”

  “I can tell you what you’re going to see.”

  Sooner arched a brow. She’d chosen just the right shade of purple and brown eye shadow to make her green eyes pop and even mesmerize. “Oh, really? What do I see?”

  “Work. More work. A few thousand bills. More work.”

  Sooner studied her a beat and then lowered her gaze to the cards. She ta
pped a card featuring a heart with three swords driven through the middle. “Sorrow. You are not a happy woman, Charlotte Wellington.”

  “What tipped you off? The mention of nonstop work or a few thousand bills?”

  Sooner shook her head. “It goes beyond that. This sadness runs deep.”

  Charlotte sat back in her chair. She folded her arms over her chest, nearly unfolded them but didn’t, fearing she’d appear jittery or nervous. “You know I have a past with Grady. And if you’ve grown up with him, then you know it wasn’t a lot of chuckles.”

  Sooner stared at her. “He’s a prickly, possessive old man, but he has his good points.”

  “I take it you haven’t told him you are leaving?”

  “No.”

  “Tell him and then we’ll chat about his good points.”

  The girl smoothed her flat palms over the silken tablecloth. “What was it like when you left him?”

  “Not pretty.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’m not sure how this turned into a counseling session.” She did unfold her arms this time and shifted her position in her chair.

  “You came to me. There must be a reason.”

  “I came here to talk about you and your future. Not me.”

  “I am not nearly as interesting as you. I find you curious.”

  “Why?”

  “You lived this life. But you did not let it eat you alive as it has so many. You got out. I am getting out. I’ve a lot to learn from you, Aunt Charlotte.”

  “It wasn’t easy. In fact, it was the hardest thing I ever did. But I can help make it easier for you.”

  Sooner ignored the statement. “I did a little poking around the carnival. You triggered memories with the older guys the other night when you paid us a visit.”

  “I thought I might.”

  “Grady was married to your mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “She died when I was thirteen. That’s how my sister and I got the gig in this tent. She’d done it before us.”