“Oh, Rachel.” Patsy touched her arm. “This is—”
“I wish those other pictures had never turned up.” Rachel shot to her feet and started pacing. “Wish they’d—God, why did his mother have to keep pushing and pushing? And why didn’t I—I should have…”
Should have stopped him sooner. Should have realized what had happened.
Her father captured her, enfolded her in his arms. “This should come out, Rusty, people ought to know that son of a bitch wasn’t any victim. He—he raped—God, Rusty. Why couldn’t you have let me kill him? I would have done it for you. I would’ve done anything—”
She turned away from him, unable to listen to him buckling under the strain of one grief too many. Or unable to bear his talk of rape, a word she hadn’t allowed herself even to think.
That she remembered none of it should have been a blessing. But nightmares and imagination had steeped both dark and daylight hours in misery. Lock it back away where it belongs.
Patsy stared, her blue eyes gleaming. Unable to tolerate her scrutiny, Rachel moved to stand beside the kitchen window, her gaze carefully fixed on the Christmas tree–like Arizona cypress growing in the backyard. When she was a little girl, she used to crawl among the low boughs and lose herself inside its fragrant, blue-green embrace. She thought of hiding there now, where only birds could find her. But grief and her desire to escape were soon churned under by a rush of anger.
“So you spied on me and then took off so you wouldn’t have to face me,” she accused her father.
“You—after you got off the phone, I saw you curl up on Grandma’s bed and—I thought maybe, if you slept a while—”
“That’s an excuse,” she said.
He nodded, looking as miserable as she had ever seen him. “You’re right, and I’m sorry. I think—I needed some time, too. I’d just buried my mother, and after hearing that my daughter, my little girl—Can you forgive me?”
She nodded, though she felt light years removed from the child he saw in her. So far from innocence that she would never find her way back.
Again, her father hugged her. “I’ve been worrying about you. I don’t want you to be upset, don’t want you blaming yourself for any of it.”
“My grandmother, your mother, died because I left her and because someone wanted to torment me,” Rachel said. “How can I not blame myself for that?”
“Your grandmother,” Patsy told her, “was sitting by the TV gorging on expensive chocolates, probably happy as a clam to be left in peace a while so she could do exactly as she pleased.”
Rachel blinked back tears, remembering a woman who had lived by no one’s rules except her own. The room’s normally cheery yellow walls closed in on Rachel as she was overwhelmed by emotion.
Her father said, “You have to admit it, Rusty. If your grandma could’ve picked a way to go, this probably would have been it. She got to die in her own home, doing something she enjoyed. Sometimes I almost wonder…”
“Wonder what?”
“If that’s the way she planned it.”
Rachel shook her head. “Grandma would never do that to us. You know that.”
“You’re right,” he said. “There’s no one else to blame except whoever sent that candy—and the real Kyle Underwood.”
They had all said he was guilty, that a murdered child had made choices that set the events leading to his death in motion.
As if someone like him could be held accountable for any decision he had made. Everyone had understood that he was different. Special. That he had to be protected from his actions, his decisions and his deficiencies. Others, who had had the good fortune to be born whole, bore the responsibility of looking out for God’s chosen angels, of sparing them the fallout from actions they were incapable of comprehending.
Those who failed in this were guilty, as guilty as the one who struck the fatal blow.
And they would all be punished, to a person, even if it took her every last day, every minute, of the time she had left on this earth. Eventually, she would find her moment. Find the last one alone and unguarded.
Find the opening she needed to set the matter finally right.
Friday, March 21
Dread tightened Rachel’s stomach when she ran into Terri shopping in the town’s one-and-only local grocery around dinner time. Today, Terri wore her ice-blonde hair in a sleek twist and disguised her overflowing curves with a tastefully tailored duster jacket. Today, she didn’t have her boss around to keep her disdain for Rachel in check.
Because it would have been considered an act of war not to address her, Rachel pasted on a bland smile and glanced down at Terri’s cart, which contained wine, along with green grapes, crackers, and a tray of cubed cheeses.
“So,” Rachel said, “does Antoinette have you helping her get ready for a Blank Canvas meeting?”
Terri sneered in response. “This is for my husband’s birthday. Come on, Rachel. You’re supposed to be one of the artsy fartsies these days. You really don’t imagine those snobs would drink local wine and nibble cheddar cheese cubes? They’d have to have some unpronounceable brands flown in from God only knows where, if only to outdo each other.”
This was one seriously unhappy woman. “If you can’t stand the art people, why work for Gallinardi?”
Terri rolled her eyes, as she had so often back in high school. “How many jobs do you think there are for business administration majors here in Marfa? Cris won’t live anywhere else—and not everyone conveniently inherits a house and a pile of family money.”
Where the hell had Terri heard about that? Or was she merely guessing?
Rachel glowered down at her own cart, laden with such glamorous purchases as store-brand peanut butter, cereal, and toilet cleanser, and tried to get a grip on her temper.
“Hope you have fun at your party. And tell Cristo happy birthday for me,” Rachel opened her mouth to say. Unfortunately, what came out was a blast of pent-up fury and frustration.
“Get bent, Terri,” she snapped. “That’s my grandmother you’re talking about. The appropriate response would have been, ‘I’m sorry for your family’s loss,’ or ‘Sad to hear about your grandma.’ Not some bullshit insinuation that’s all about some stupid high school grudge. Or for all I know, maybe you’re just jealous.”
Terri’s blue eyes bulged, and her face reddened, proving that Rachel hadn’t lost her knack for saying the perfect thing to set her off.
“Jealous?” The blonde thrust her double Ds forward. “You think I’d be jealous of some scrawny failure who had to come running home with her tail between her legs? I have a solid marriage and two smart, adorable daughters—neither one of which I’d let within a country mile of a skank like you. So what do you have, Rachel Copeland, except a murder charge, online pictures of some amateur hour blow job—”
Rachel shrugged. “Not all of us can be pros, Terri—”
“—And a big, fat lawsuit pending,” Terri said over her. “You might imagine you’re some high-and-mighty artist, but everybody knows all this attention you and your stupid little snapshots have been getting is nothing but a way for the foundation to get some press. Just like everybody knows you’re desperate for money. Which is why it didn’t surprise me one iota that you cooked up a little Death by Choco—”
“You’d better stop right there, right now, or so help me, I will…” Rachel paused, fighting for the control needed not to lay the blonde out with a jumbo can of creamed corn. “Just shut up, that’s all.”
Terri pushed her tongue around the inside of her cheek, then cut a sly look toward a pair of elderly women with baskets and the teenaged produce clerk, all of whom were watching avidly. “Why, Rachel?” she asked, clearly enjoying playing to her audience. “What are you going to do if I don’t? Shoot me?”
A second high-school-aged boy, a tall Hispanic kid with Groucho Marx brows, made meowing and hissing noises from the aisle, then raked the air with catfight claws—much to the amusement of the P
ueblo Grocery’s young clerk.
“If she does smack you”—one of the old women pointed a gnarled finger at Terri’s jutting breasts—“I intend to testify that you, dear, had it comin’. Benita Copeland would’ve snatched you baldheaded if she heard you saying such things to her granddaughter. You just ask Tally Sue Ryan if she wouldn’t have.”
“The woman’s barely in the ground, and here you are, disrespecting the family,” sniffed the other woman, a tiny, blue-haired specimen who kept her box-shaped bag tucked close against her side. “It’s hardly Christian—and don’t I see your mama every Sunday at the church?”
“But she—” Clearly bewildered by the unexpected criticism, Terri looked from one to another of the gathering shoppers for support. “Her own grandmother…”
Rachel swooped in to steal the high ground. “I’m sorry we had to have this conversation.” She threw in a sweet smile she knew Terri would consider grating. “I hope the rest of your day—and Cris’s birthday—are a lot more pleasant.”
But as rewarding as it was to leave Terri Parton-Zavala all but spitting in suppressed rage, Rachel was shaking as she loaded her groceries in the back of her van. Shaking with the thought that she would be the main topic of discussion at Terri’s damned whine-and-cheese party.
Death by Chocolate. Rachel cursed under her breath.
“You okay, Rusty?” asked a voice behind her.
She turned to look, saw Bobby Bauer carrying a shopping bag. He wore a cap that bore the Soar Marfa logo, but the shadow of its brim didn’t hide his flush.
His shrug was tight, his deep voice carefully controlled but unmistakably furious. “Small store—can’t help overhearing things. Woman’s got no right—no call to talk to you like that. If it gets back to Walt, that manure she’s spreading—”
She shook her head and pleaded, “Don’t go upsetting Dad with this—please, Bobby. It’s just some old high school crap with Terri. Ancient history. Nothing I can’t handle.”
“How about I go and have a private word with her dad? I’ve known the man forever, back from the days both of us were on the Border Patrol.”
“I’d appreciate that, thanks,” she said, aware of how little Bobby liked to talk about the bad old days before he had found both AA and her dad’s religion, flying. She was touched that he’d go to a Border Patrol friend on her behalf. “If it were just about me, I’d say no, but my family—”
“You’ve all been through enough,” he said fervently, “and I’d do anything for your old man. He—he’s helped me through some pretty rough times, taken a chance on me when not too many would have.”
“You’ve long since repaid him, Bobby. He’s told me a hundred times,” she said, “he wished all the gambles he’s made had paid off half as well.”
Bobby’s eyes crinkled with his smile, and in that moment, he was handsome. “I’ll see what I can do to shut Terri up. I promise.”
With a nod, he climbed into his old Ford pickup and left her wondering, would Bobby’s decades-old connection to Terri’s father be enough to silence her? And would it matter at this point, or had the spark of her malicious gossip already flamed into a wildfire far too big to stamp out?
Monday, March 24
By daylight on a fine day, a person could get away with murder in a place as tiny and unused to crime as the town of Marfa. Come nightfall, though, people got suspicious, tended to pick up a telephone or—since this was West Texas—firearms when they saw anything unusual.
But with their spirits buoyed by the bright, crisp sunshine of a spring afternoon, folks naturally gravitated toward positive assumptions. A strange vehicle parked in the driveway of an absent homeowner? Must be a contractor, or maybe someone making a delivery. Or probably just a family friend tending the dog as a favor. Visitor spotted trying various windows before going around into the fenced backyard behind the house? Couldn’t be anything to worry over, considering the open smile and friendly wave—anyone that sociable clearly had nothing to hide, despite the presence of the huge and shrouded something that was unloaded and pushed through the back gate.
On a sunny day, a person could take all the time in the world to hunt around beneath the various potted plants on the back porch until the spare key finally turned up. Damned careless of Rachel Copeland, leaving something so dangerous lying around. Criminally careless. Asking for the kind of trouble she no longer had the will or weapon to stop dead in its tracks.
The little dog left inside did not prove much of a deterrent, either, especially when offered a meaty bone to keep him busy. So much for the new owner’s security, thought the intruder. So much for her assumption that here in Marfa, she was safe.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
But ne’er to a seductive lay
Let faith be given;
Nor deem that “light which leads astray,
Is light from Heaven.”
—William Wordsworth,
from “To the Sons of Burns
After Visiting the Grave of Their Father”
Something was for damned sure wrong with Rachel, and as Zeke walked to the airport late that afternoon, he told himself he was going to do more than simply try to cheer her up; he was going to get to the bottom of it. For the past few days he’d held off pressing her for answers, for he was all too aware that a man who couldn’t give any had a hell of a nerve pushing.
But yesterday, when he’d dropped by the brown adobe where she and her dad and Patsy had gathered for a Sunday dinner, Rachel’s shoulders had been slumped, her hair uncombed, and both her eyes and nose red. As if every last drop of resilience had been drained from her.
As he reached the airport parking lot, Zeke spotted Rachel walking toward her gold van, her head down and her gait unhurried. Which told him that whatever had been bothering her of late had not eased its grip. He jogged over, intercepting her.
“How about an escort?” he offered, dust blowing around his legs. “Your dad mentioned he and Patsy were having dinner with some pilot friend and his wife in Alpine.”
Rachel opened her van’s door, which put her back to Zeke. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the effort, but I really don’t need a babysitter anymore. I’d be glad to drop you back at your place, though.”
On the western horizon, the first, soft hints of rose and coral bade farewell to a mild, early spring day.
The old Zeke, the one who had shunned complications, would have gone back to his work and horses. Would have felt fortunate to escape the ensnarement of relationship. But Rachel had gone and changed him, shone a light on him so blinding, he was powerless to find his way back to the man that he had been.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “I thought we all agreed it made sense for someone to check the house each night before you went in.”
But it hadn’t been simply caution that had kept him at the adobe for hours every evening, sharing meals and board games, laughing at some ridiculous old movie on TV. As he grew increasingly comfortable—almost addicted to simply being with her, it became more and more difficult to keep his mind off the things they’d done together and his hands a safe distance from temptation. Even now, the thoughts stole closer, the memories of a night that had smashed down the walls of his defenses.
“You and my dad agreed,” she reminded him, “and Patsy. But for how long? It’s been over a week since…that night, and nothing else has happened. I think you must’ve been right that some teenager was behind that SUV’s wheel—or maybe a couple of dumb drunks out joyriding. If someone’s really out to get me—”
“Are you still thinking you deserve it?”
She shot him a fierce look. “Of course not. That’s ridiculous. Yes, I wish—I would do anything to go back so I could’ve been there for my grandma, but I wasn’t, and I can’t now.”
He ached to touch her, to recoup even a fraction of the intimacy the two of them had known that starry night after he had found her out in the desert. But he knew she wouldn’t accept it, couldn’t allow herself that
comfort.
“What Zavala’s saying in town,” he blurted, “it’s all bullshit. Everybody knows that.”
A frown troubled her features, and sadness filmed her eyes.
“Come on, Rachel. Let’s sit down and talk.”
He took her arm and guided her to the same picnic tables where the two of them had shared their first kiss. Her hesitation and the look she gave him told him this bit of history wasn’t lost on her—and wouldn’t be repeated. But she sat on top of the table and planted the low-topped hiking boots she wore on the bench below.
“So what did you hear?” she asked once he sat beside her.
“I stopped by the post office this morning.” For a lot of Marfa’s residents, the daily mail run made for a friendly ritual, but Zeke limited his trips to once a week and never lingered for talk or coffee, as so many of his neighbors did. “Cristo Zavala was running his mouth, something about his wife’s theory of how your grandmother got that candy. I told him to keep his damned opinions to himself.”
“Thanks,” she said. “But I doubt it’s going to make a bit of difference, since Bobby’s talk with Terri’s father hasn’t.”
“Nobody buys that bullshit,” Zeke insisted.
Sighing, she reached back to knead her neck with one hand. And in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to pull her into his lap, to run his hands along her warm neck and kiss her into forgetting, make love to her right here and now, since he saw no one else around the airfield. He knew he had no right to touch her and no right to push her on the issue when he wasn’t capable of sharing his past with her. But he wished…he wished a lot of things, each more futile than the last.
“Antoinette Gallinardi dropped by earlier to talk,” Rachel told him. “She claimed she doesn’t believe the rumors, but there’s been ‘concern’—that’s how she put it—among her fellow members of the Blank Canvas Society. Concern about the ‘seemliness’ of showing my work—and especially putting me in a position where I’ll have even the slightest connection to ‘impressionable’ students.”
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