Exposure

by Susan Andersen

  Gracie's face fell when she saw who opened the door. Emma hadn't told her what their destination was, knowing perfectly well what her daughter's reaction would have been and not willing to argue the merits of her decision every step of the way. The sight of the woman who had gotten Gracie into so much trouble clearly came as an unpleasant shock. Tugging insistently on her mother's hand, the little girl looked up at her pleadingly. "Wanna go home."

  "In a while, angel pie," Emma murmured and met Elvis' mother's eyes levelly. "Hello, Nadine. May we come in?"

  The sight of them standing on her porch flustered Nadine every bit as much as being there disconcerted Gracie. Emma was the only one on either side of the screen door to retain her composure. "Oh!" Nadine stammered. "Yes ... oh, y-yes, of course." She held the door open for them, Emma took a step forward, but Gracie dug her heels in belligerently. "Wanna go home now!" she demanded.

  "I said in a while, Grace," Emma stated quietly but firmly before transferring her gaze to Nadine. "Perhaps there's something you'd like to say to her," she suggested with scrupulous neutrality.

  "Yes, I suppose there is, at that," Nadine agreed. "Um . . ." She cleared her throat uncomfortably and then squatted down to put herself on Gracie's level. The little girl, her arms crossed repressively over her chest, leaned away from her. "I'm, uh, really sorry about all the trouble I caused you on the Fourth of July, Gracie," Nadine said diffidently. "It was particularly wrong of me to convince you to tell your momma a lie."

  "I gotted a spankin'," Gracie informed her sulkily. Clearly she still held Nadine accountable for it. "And evewybody was angwy at me."

  "I'm really sorry about that, too. Truly, I am," Nadine insisted. She studied the child's unforgiving expression for a moment. "Maybe you'd like to come in and see the Elvis doll I promised you," she suggested and rose, extending a hand to the child.

  Gracie was torn. The urge to keep her grudge was tempting as candy before breakfast. But still ... a doll. One didn't simply turn one's nose up at the opportunity to obtain a new doll.

  "Well, I s'pose that'd be aw-wight," she finally conceded. She accepted the proffered hand.

  As Emma followed Nadine and her daughter through the living room and down the hallway, she tried not to gawk at the sheer preponderance of Elvis Presley paraphernalia that decorated the Donnelly house. It seemed every wall or surface contained at least one piece of memorabilia. She tried to picture Elvis growing up here among all this stuff, but it was a stretch for her imagination.

  The spare-bedroom-turned-den they entered was clearly the piece de resistance. It was one large wall-to-wall shrine to the King. Gracie, her eyes huge, turned in slow circles trying to take in everything at once. "This that other Elbis man?" she asked in a little voice. "The one that's a king?"

  Emma let Nadine play tour guide for a while, but once the older woman had located the Elvis doll and handed it to Gracie, thereby preoccupying her daughter, she took her future mother-in-law aside. "I'm tryin' real hard to be as easily placated as Grace Melina," she said in a low voice as she stared into the neon blue eyes so similar to, and yet so different from Elvis'. "But it's not easy, Nadine. You put my bebe at risk. Nevertheless," she added firmly. "Your son and I are gettin' married a week from next Thursday, and we'd like you to be there. It's especially important to Elvis that you have some part in his life. Please. Don't disappoint him."

  * * * * *

  Later Gracie showed off her new doll to her soon-to-be daddy. "See what yo' maman gibbed me? It's an Elbis doll," she informed him, climbing up onto his lap the better to display all the doll's features.

  "It's got yo' name, but I think you's mo' hamsom."

  Elvis gazed over her head at Emma. "You went to see my mom?" he asked.

  "Oui," she agreed. "To invite her to the wedding."

  "And is she, um, gonna come?"

  "She said she'd be there."

  He didn't comment. But as he rubbed his scarred cheek against the top of Gracie's head, his eyes remained locked on Emma's. And one corner of his full mouth tilted up.

  * * * * *

  On Wednesday Emma once again reminded Elvis he had to be fitted for his tux, and she pointed out in exasperation that due to his size he probably wasn't going to be the easiest man in the world to accommodate, while time was running out. She called Clare to have her remind Sam that he, too, needed to be fitted. Then she spent the better part of the day trying to track down a photographer willing to take the wedding pictures on such short notice.

  Once she found one, she was free to concentrate on finding slipcovers for the couch and chair, pleated shades for the living-room windows, and a miniblind and valance for the window in the kitchen. The reception she had planned following the ceremony was a small one. It was only going to include the three of them, plus Nadine, Sam and Clare, and Ruby and her kids, but Emma nevertheless wanted the place spruced up for it. It would still look like a rental, she imagined, regardless of her efforts, but at least she d feel she'd done her best to give it a more festive look.

  Which reminded her: she needed flowers, both for the wedding party and for the house. And maybe a few throw pillows. She reached for the phone once again.

  Thursday she went shopping for gifts for her attendants. When she got home she was surprised to find Elvis in the kitchen.

  There was nothing in his attitude that she could put a finger on as he watched her make lunch for Gracie, but she thought she caught glimpses of an underlying tension. As soon as Gracie finished eating, Emma sent her out to play. She watched her daughter skip across the lawn to throw herself facedown on the swing in the corner of the yard, then turned back to face Elvis. "Something's botherin' you, cher. What is it?"

  He blew out a deep breath. "Bill Gertz died last night."

  Emma's jaw sagged. That was the last thing she'd expected him to say. "You're kidding!"

  "I wish I were, baby. Jesus, his lawyer just got him released OR yesterday and now today—"

  "Wait, wait, wait," Emma interrupted. She came around the table and climbed onto Elvis' lap, curling her arms around his neck. "What does that mean, OR?"

  "Own recognizance—no bail. It was his first offense and not what the judge considered a capital one, regardless of how you or I might view it." He swept that consideration aside with a wave of his hook.

  "In any event, the lawyer got him out yesterday morning, and when he went to talk to him this morning the guy was dead." His arms wrapped around her. "Jesus, Em."

  "How did he die? Mon Dieu, Elvis, he wasn't all that old, was he, maybe forty, forty-five?"

  "He was forty-three. And it looks like maybe it was a heart attack or an embolism or something. They won't know for sure until after the autopsy. His body's being shipped to Seattle on the four-twenty ferry. Sweet God Almighty, Em." He rubbed the side of his face against her breast and stared up at her. "You know I came close to wringing his neck for him, but I gotta tell you, sweetheart, this thing has really knocked me for a loop. Thinking you'd like someone to drop dead is an entirely different kettle of fish from having the guy actually do it."

  "I guess so! What an incredible shock, cher."

  "Yeah." He exhaled audibly. "You can say that again."

  * * * * *

  On Friday Emma took Gracie to the clinic to have her stitches removed. Everyone and their brother seemed to be in Port Flannery on that day, and each and every one of them, it appeared, was dying to talk to Emma about Bill Gertz's sudden death and how it had affected her and her little girl.

  With a shake of her head and a significant look at her daughter, Emma managed to discourage first the receptionist, then the nurse, and finally the doctor as each tried to introduce the subject. That tactic didn't work nearly as well with several of the locals who stopped them out on the street on the way back to the car. Emma supposed it was human nature to want to discuss a death that sudden and unexpected, but she had never sat Gracie down to explain about the man responsible for her daughter's injuries and didn't h
ave any burning desire to do so now. Exactly how did one tell something like that to a three-year-old anyhow? As an adult she had a difficult enough time understanding the motivations of that man.

  She allowed Gracie to get a little farther away from her than she normally permitted while trying to shake off a particularly persistent gossip. Subtlety having failed her, Emma waited until Gracie was beyond earshot before ultimately lowering her voice to flat-out tell the person this was not something she wished to discuss in front of her child. Then, excusing herself, she walked away, looking around for her daughter.

  And stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk when she spotted her.

  "Mommy, Mommy, lookit who's come fo' our weddin'!" Gracie called excitedly the moment she saw she had her mother's attention.

  Impeccably groomed in an expensive, gray, summer-weight suit and pristine white shirt, Grant Woodard stood next to the open door of a shiny black Lincoln Continental, holding Gracie in his arms. Her little arms were around his neck in a fierce hug and her face radiated delight.

  "It's Gwandpapa, Maman! Lookit, lookit, it's Gwandpapa!"

  Grant's lips smiled at Emma, but his eyes were colder than an Arctic wind as they surveyed her from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes and back up again. "Get in the car, Emma," he said. The tone of voice he used was cloaked to sound like a suggestion.

  Emma, however, knew an order when she was issued one.

  Chapter 19

  Emma wasn't getting in that car with him. She crossed her arms over her breasts and regarded him through narrowed eyes. Here on the street she had some chance of keeping Gracie and herself safe.

  She didn't like to even contemplate what would happen to them if she blindly followed his order.

  "I don't think so, Grant," she said pleasantly. "Let's go get a cup of coffee at Ruby's instead. We'll talk." We'll send someone for Elvis.

  "Old, Gwandpapa, let's go to Wuby's," Gracie seconded, bobbing in his arms at the prospect of showing him oft to her friends. Her little arms squeezed him tighter. "You'll yike hoo," she promised.

  Grant, however, acted as though neither female had even spoken. Leaving the driver's door agape, he walked around the car and climbed into the passenger seat, reaching for the shoulder harness to strap Gracie in his lap. Slamming the door and pressing the lock, he leaned down to look at Emma from beneath the car's roof line and ordered, "You drive."

  "But, Gwandpapa—" Gracie began to protest.

  "Enough Grace," he said, and such was the authority in his voice that she subsided. But most of the shine went out of her little face.

  Emma got into the driver's seat.

  Oh Dieu, how had it come to this? She berated herself silently as she pulled her shoulder harness across her body and snapped it into place. How on earth had she allowed herself to grow so complacent that it had come down to this? Dammit all, Elvis had told her to warn Gracie about her grandfather. And she had meant to; oh, God, she had meant to. But between one thing and another, it had simply slipped her mind. And now, now . . .

  And now it was a day late and a dollar short.

  She started the ignition, but then turned her head to look Grant in the eye. "Where to?" she demanded with crisp neutrality.

  Grant hesitated. He should say the ferry dock and get them the hell off this rock pile as quickly as possible. He didn't have the contacts here he had at his disposal in New Orleans.

  But having learned of Sheriff Elvis Fucking Donnelly and the upcoming nuptials, he was feeling grim and edgy and didn't care to wait until they hit the shoreline on the other side of the Sound to demonstrate his displeasure to her.

  Besides. He might be far from his own stomping grounds, but he had power; he always had power. It had been a millennium since his days as a whorehouse tootsie who catered to a select brand of deviants. That was a lifetime ago, barely remembered except when he deliberately chose to look back on it. And he only did that when he wanted to remind himself of the extent to which his omnipotence had grown since the day he had slid an icepick through the base of the madam's brain and taken over the operation of her place. And it continued to grow. His sense of invincibility was now so ingrained that he'd long since forgotten what it was like to wait for anyone's permission to do anything. What Grant Woodard wanted, Grant Woodard got. Immediately.

  And no two-bit, one-handed cripple with a wrecked face and a tin badge was going to come along and change that.

  He directed her out of town.

  * * * * *

  Clare walked out of the gynecologist's office in a daze. Pregnant. She was pregnant.

  She shouldn't be surprised. God knows she and Sam had been going at it hammer and tongs, as if to make up for lost time, ever since the day he'd quit smoking. And it wasn't as if either one of them had given so much as a second's consideration to birth control. So what right did she have to be caught so flatfooted by the news?

  Maybe none. But she was stunned by the news nevertheless.

  What on earth is Sam gonna say? she wondered. Oh boy, there was food for thought. Clare climbed into her oven-hot car and simply sat in it, the door hanging open as she stared blindly out the front windshield. She didn't even know what she thought about the news. She knew she still mourned Evan. Indeed, the knowledge of this new child made his loss seem much sharper somehow, and she missed him desperately. She also acknowledged a feeling of terror. What if something should happen to this baby? Dear Lord, she didn't think she'd survive it—not even with Sam's strength to lean on.

  And yet . . .

  Underneath it all, beneath the grief and the fear, was a kernel of pleasure so sweet she could barely contain it. She was pregnant.

  Sweat trickled down her temple and jerked her from her reverie. She pulled the door closed, started the engine, and cranked up the air conditioning. Pulling up to the parking-lot exit, she looked up and down the street. What to do, what to do. Should she drive to the store and tell Sam now? Or should she go home and prepare a special evening? Her lips curled up at the corners in a secret smile.

  Daydreaming, she looked down the street and saw a silver-haired, elegantly dressed stranger holding little Gracie Sands. Her smile abruptly faded and she leaned forward. As she watched he climbed with the child into a shiny black car that was equipped with the darkly opaque windows usually found in stretch limousines. Through the open driver's door, she saw him lean sideways across the seat, his hand on Gracie's back to prevent her from tipping off his lap, and she saw Emma, stiff-legged and awkward, her usual grace totally absent, walk to the car. Emma climbed into the driver's seat. She pulled the door closed and everyone inside vanished from view behind smoky, dark-tinted windows.

  Oh, sweet Jesus. Clare's hands gripped the steering wheel with a force that turned her knuckles white, and she practically felt the blood drain from her head. She took a deep, controlled breath to drive out the woozies and slowly expelled it. Took another and expelled it, too. That had to be Grant Woodard. Oh, God, oh, God. Emma had told them about him—not everything, Clare was certain, but enough for her to know that Emma's and Gracie's being in that car created a very precarious situation. If not a downright dangerous one.

  Clare pulled out onto the street behind the Lincoln as it glided past her.

  She had trailed the black car to the crossroads at Orchard Highway and Emery Road before she fully comprehended her mistake. Dear God, what was she doing? She should have driven straight to the sheriff's department and gotten Elvis or George or Ben—someone. There were only two main roads in and out of town and the sheriff or his deputies probably could have caught up with the Lincoln without very much difficulty if she had just used her head instead of blindly following her instincts. Now it was too late to turn back because, out here away from town, there were too many little back roads on which one could disappear. So she hung back in hopes of not being spotted by Emma's captor. And she cursed herself for turning her nose up when Sam had offered to install a cellular phone in her car.

&nbs
p; * * * * *

  "Elvis." Sandy looked up and waved him over with a flip of her hand when he walked into the station. "You have a call slip here from Danny White. He says the Lincoln he told you about yesterday bought another ticket to the island today on the twelve-twenty."

  "Thanks, Sandy." Elvis took the pink slip with a delicate maneuver of his hook and studied it thoughtfully. Slapping it against his palm, he looked back at his dispatcher. "Call whoever's on duty today—"

  "George—" she inserted.

  "—and tell him to keep his eye peeled for it. Here's the license number." He handed back the slip. "If he spots it, Sandy, have him call in immediately. We'll decide what to do about it then."

  He'd put the word out with the ferry workers that he was interested in anyone boarding the island ferry in a rental car. The ticket taker on the mainland had reported three rentals in the past two days, but the black Lincoln Continental with the dark tinted windows was the only repeat thus far. Elvis glanced at the paperwork piling up on his desk, but instead of diving in and getting started on it, he picked up the telephone and dialed home.

  Beans' stitches should be history by now. He'd just check in real quick.

  He listened to the phone ring and ring and finally tossed the receiver back in the cradle. His phantom hand started to itch like crazy and he rubbed the prosthesis, where it joined his amputated lower forearm, against the seam of his Levi's in a futile bid to scratch it. Hell, there was nothing unusual about the phone going unanswered. And there was certainly nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. Em was probably racing all over the island, gathering up all that last-minute stuff for the wedding.

  The thought made his neck muscles tighten into knots of guilt, and he reached up to massage them, but almost immediately gave it up in favor of digging his nails into his forearm in an attempt to alleviate the madly itching missing hand. He should have been doing more to help; he was the one who'd insisted on a real wedding. Em had been perfectly content with the idea of a quick trip to a justice of the peace, but he wouldn't hear of it.