Faultlines

by Barbara Taylor Sissel

  Jenna went to the sink, leaned against it.

  Outside a car door slammed, and they both jumped at the sound.

  Footsteps approached. “Jenna?” A man shouted. “You in there?”

  She wheeled, glance colliding with Sandy’s. “It’s Huck.”

  Sandy stood up, blood pounding. She was afraid, and she saw that Jenna was, too, and it went through her mind that if she was wrong about Huck, it would be awful, and if she was right, it might be even worse.

  He came through the back door without knocking, as if he were more than a visitor, which Sandy supposed he was now, after all these years. His focus, his look, and his tender smile were all for Jenna. His one-armed hug, the kiss he dropped on her temple, were rote, part of his usual routine when he visited.

  But Jenna’s slight recoil was not, and Sandy saw how he tensed.

  Huck found her gaze now. “What’re you doing here?”

  “Telling the truth, the way you should be,” Sandy answered.

  “What truth would that be?” He leaned against the countertop, crossing his arms, affecting a casual air.

  But Sandy’s attention was riveted to the butt of his gun, jutting from his holster, and there was nothing casual about it. She made herself raise her gaze to his face. “I was telling Jenna about Ricky Burrows, the witness to the accident who says you threatened him into changing his statement.” It was a shot in the dark, really. She had no proof Huck knew about Ricky’s existence as a witness, much less that Huck had pressured him, but he must have. How else to explain Huck’s cryptic remark to Libby that Ricky had finally gotten his story straight?

  “That guy,” Huck began, and the characterization was a sneer, a curse. “I guess if you can believe a whack job like him, you can believe anything.”

  “You know him, then.” Sandy had expected that he did. Still, it shook her. There seemed to be no end to the ways Huck was prepared to get Jordy.

  “What do you mean, whack job?” Jenna’s voice was strident, accusing. “Sandy says he was on 440 that night, that he saw Travis driving the Range Rover. It ran him off the road.”

  “That’s total bullshit.” Huck addressed Jenna. “You know Fran Keller. Her folks owned the Little B.”

  “What does Fran have to do with it?”

  Jenna asked before Sandy could.

  “Burrows is Fran’s sister Jewel’s kid, and if you remember, when we were growing up, that whole Scroggins family out there at the B were just a bunch of nut jobs, with the exception of possibly Fran. Jewel got hauled off the place in a straitjacket more than once, though. Her kid Ricky is just as bad off.”

  “He’s crazy, so he can’t possibly know what he saw the night of the accident.” Sandy stepped into Huck’s field of vision. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I heard it’s not only your boy who’s been talking to Libby Hennessey, that you and her are getting pretty chummy, too.”

  “So? Is that your business?” He knew she’d met Libby? How?

  “Well, you might want to ask her about Burrows. Ask her about the dead hog she found swinging in a cedar tree out at her place not long ago, blood and entrails smeared everywhere. He got in her house, too, left her a dead hummingbird on her kitchen floor, put rats in her mailbox. You think that guy’s not psychotic?”

  “Why?” Jenna asked. “Why did he do all that?”

  “He thinks the Little B belongs to him, that Fran is selling it out from under him. His mama filled his head with all this bullshit about it when she was dying. She told him Fran forced the old folks, Fran and Jewel’s parents, to give her power of attorney.”

  “He should take it up with Fran, shouldn’t he?” Sandy asked.

  “Well, I guess he would if he had a brain that worked, but, trust me, he’s crazy as a shithouse rat. He keyed his own truck, for chrissake. Although that does indicate some of the cells up there are working. It kept the suspicion off him when the other stuff started happening. Slaughtering that hog, the other animals—he thought it would scare folks off.”

  “If he’s doing all of this and you know it, why isn’t he in jail?” Sandy looked intently at Huck. Something was off; she could see the swim of it, oily and deep, in his eyes. He didn’t want her here. He didn’t want her anywhere near Jenna. Sandy thought of leaving; she could drive to the police department . . . and say what? That Huck was obsessed with her sister, and to protect Jenna from the further trauma of facing that her son had foolishly caused his own senseless death, Huck was out to frame Jordy? Who would believe her?

  Huck said something about Colorado, that folks in that state were hunting Ricky. “They have a BOLO out on him.”

  “Why?” Jenna wanted to know.

  Sandy talked over them both. “You made a deal with Ricky, didn’t you, the same as you did with the trucker from Detroit, Nat Blevins. What did you promise Ricky? Did you say if he changed his story about who he saw driving the Range Rover, you wouldn’t arrest him for vandalism and trespassing? Or maybe you told him to get out of town, get clear out of Texas.” She was baiting Huck, and she knew it might be dangerous, but what other option did she have to get the truth, or what she hoped and prayed for Jordy’s sake was the truth? But she was shaking now, and scared. Scared enough that she felt her blood pounding the walls of her brain, hammering the space behind her eyes. She thought of her phone, feet away in her purse on the breakfast-room table, where she’d left it.

  Huck took a step in her direction. “What are you trying to say, Sandy?”

  She stood her ground. “I’m not trying to say anything. It’s a fair question. You’re in love with Jenna. You don’t want her to have to face it, that Trav was the driver. You don’t want to believe it yourself. You want it to be Jordy. At first you went after him because he’s the punk kid who slept with your immigrant wife, and even if you don’t give a shit about her, macho guy that you are, you weren’t about to let Jordy get by with it. But now—now you want him put away for Jenna’s sake.”

  “Sandy.” Jenna’s sharp protest was a warning.

  “Hasn’t that accident taken enough from us, Jenna?” Sandy kept her eye on Huck.

  “Is it true?” Jenna came around Huck, distracting him.

  It wasn’t a thought process that prompted her when Sandy seized the opportunity and grabbed her phone and began pressing buttons, a ridiculous attempt to hit the right ones for Roger, or Emmett, or even 911.

  “Do you think I’m that weak?” Jenna wanted to know. “That I can’t handle knowing my son wasn’t perfect? That he could be capable of being foolish, of making a horrible mistake?”

  “No, hell no, Jenna. You’re the strongest, bravest woman I know. It’s just, you’ve been through so much shit, and so much of it is on me—I mean, John died because some asshole gets my gun? Jesus.” Huck’s head rocked back. Blinking, voice torn, he said, “I keep seeing it, the look on your face when I told you. It’s like, etched into my brain, you know? I’d do anything—”

  “Stop, Huck, please.” Jenna touched his arm.

  He looked down at her, and his face was a suffusion of love and despair. Even Jenna saw it, the way he was eaten up with his adoration of her, and she stepped back as if burned by its heat.

  “Are you lying about Jordy?” she asked him. “Because I don’t need that. I didn’t ask you to do that.”

  Huck turned away, wiping his face, his upper lip.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do if you’ve lied about this, Huck.” Jenna’s voice hitched. “If you’ve threatened Jordy, pressured witnesses. Did you? Tell me the truth.”

  “For you, Jenna, to save you—”

  “Oh my God, Huck.” Jenna sounded sick. She locked her gaze with his. “You realize I have to tell your captain. You must know that.”

  He wheeled, and Sandy saw it as if in slow motion, his hand whipping his service revolver from its holster, in one slick, practiced movement. He swung the weapon first in Jenna’s direction, and then he pointed it at Sandy.


  Her heart paused.

  Jenna asked, “What are you doing?” and took a faltering sidestep, and that’s what caused Huck to look at her and take aim at her again.

  The moment would be seared into Sandy’s brain—Huck’s expression, his look of dumb devotion, underscored by the darker, welling shadow of his rage and his grief when he pulled the trigger.

  15

  Libby, you aren’t going to take Jordy to his aunt’s house. Call 911. Let them handle it, whatever the trouble is.” Ruth’s voice was anxious, almost shrill.

  “What would I say, Ruth? That I’m picking up a boy who’s worried about his mom? You know there are laws about calling 911 for no good reason.”

  “For all you know, this is some kind of a trap, and Jordy Cline is part of it. I’ve been thinking about it, you know, all of this business with Ricky Burrows being a witness to that car accident—why was he of all people out there on 440 that night of all nights? The fact is, the man is dangerous. I don’t like it, Libby, not one bit. Come to the office. Let’s talk about it.”

  “It’ll be fine, Ruth. You worry too much.” Libby turned right on Mystic Oaks Circle, where Jordan had said his dad’s garage apartment was located. Behind a blue two-story with yellow trim, he’d said, on the right about midway around the circle. She caught sight of it, and of Jordan, standing in the driveway. “I’m here,” she told Ruth, “and believe it or not, there’s no maniac running around with a knife.”

  “This isn’t a joke, Libby. For God’s sake, will you please be careful? I’m going over to Greeley now to the police department there, since we can’t really trust anyone here. Somebody has got to find Ricky and stop him. I mean, so far animals are his only murder victims. But who knows what the man is capable of?” Ruth paused. “I’ll be scared for you and the Graysons till they get him.”

  “They will,” Libby said, although how would she know? Ricky could be anywhere, carving up God knew what. He could be long gone, or hiding out somewhere at the Little B. But Jordan was right here, waiting for her, looking anxious, and she couldn’t turn her back on him. Telling Ruth she’d stay in touch, Libby clicked off and pulled to the curb.

  Jordan got into the cab of the truck, overriding her greeting with his apology. “I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have called you.” His glance at her was rueful, anxious.

  “It’s fine. I’m glad if I can help. Did you get hold of your dad, or hear back from your mom?”

  “No. It’s like her phone is totally off now. It doesn’t even go to voice mail. My dad must be somewhere on an appointment, maybe at a drilling site. He probably left his phone in the truck, or he can’t hear it for all the equipment noise.”

  “We can’t go to the police in Wyatt, I guess.” Libby wanted to make sure.

  “Oh hell no,” he said, and then he apologized again. His hands shook when he ran them over his head.

  “You’re right. Hell no is the way to put it.”

  “I can’t figure out what Mom is doing at Aunt Jenna’s.”

  “But you’re sure she’s there?”

  “I heard Aunt Jenna talking in the background when Mom’s phone called me.” He sat a moment, thinking. “She left me a message earlier to call her. She said it was important. She left my lawyer a message, too, telling him she was going to Aunt Jenna’s. He’s in Austin, but he’s coming back, he said, as quick as he can. I didn’t want to call my grandparents and scare them.” Jordy turned his face to the side window and said, softly, “They’ve been scared enough. Everyone has.”

  His voice hitched, and Libby patted his arm. “You couldn’t understand what your mom or your aunt were saying?”

  “No. Has it happened to you—someone’s phone calling you by accident? You can hear them, like if they’re driving and the radio’s on, you can hear music and stuff but nothing real specific. I know it was my mom and Aunt Jenna talking, and there was a man’s voice, too. I couldn’t place it. I don’t know. I just have a bad feeling.”

  “Well, we’ll go by and see if your mom’s truck is there. But if it looks like there’s any trouble, I’m driving away. We’ll call 911 and wait for the police. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Jordan said, but Libby knew he wasn’t listening to her, that he only wanted to go, to get there.

  She followed his directions, and in an effort to distract him, to distract them both, she told him she’d spoken to his mom. “Right before you called,” she said, and she could feel his astonishment and, on its heels, his dismay. “I was at Inman’s earlier, getting the boxwoods you and I talked about putting in the front beds at the cottage.”

  “I saw them.” He jerked his head, indicating the bed of the truck.

  “Your mom was there, too, buying plants for a client, I think.”

  “Mrs. Langston. I talked to her. She said Mom canceled on her, that she said she had a family emergency.”

  “I guess Mrs. Langston didn’t ask what it was?”

  “No. But that’s when I totally figured out something was up. Mom hardly ever cancels a job, and she always takes my calls. Always. And if she can’t, she always calls me back.”

  He was so confident, so convinced of his importance to his mother. Libby wondered if she had ever inspired so much trust. Probably not, she decided. Such faith was likely limited to the mother-child relationship.

  “I told your mom about Coleta.” Libby glanced at Jordan and encountered his unhappy stare.

  He shifted his gaze, and in profile he reminded her so much of Beck when he was pissed but determined not to let it show. She had seen the same muscle work the corner of Beck’s clenched jaw.

  Looking back at the road, she said she was sorry for breaking her promise. “I didn’t want to, but the situation you’re in is so serious. Your parents and your attorney need all the facts if they’re going to help you.”

  He said it was okay, but Libby couldn’t be certain whether he meant it. “Your mom mentioned there’s another witness.”

  “Yeah. My attorney told me. Guy’s name is Ricky Burrows. The detective found him, but now he’s dropped out of sight. I don’t stand much of a chance without him. Unless Michelle makes it. She knows Trav was driving. She tried to stop him.” He fell silent; then after a bit, he said, “I hope so much she’ll wake up, you know? Not for me, but for her family and for her. She didn’t do anything.”

  Except ride with a driver who was drunk, Libby thought.

  They rode in silence for several miles, and it seemed to Libby that their shared anxiety rode with them, a third wheel, an unwanted companion. It started to rain; huge fat drops struck the windshield, and then, as abruptly, it stopped.

  Libby said, “You know the animals I’ve found dead at the cottage? I think Ricky is the one who killed them.”

  Jordan looked at her, startled. “Are you kidding?”

  Libby said she wasn’t, repeating what she’d heard from Ruth about Ricky’s apparently groundless and twisted conviction that the Little B belonged to him.

  “It figures, the one guy in the world who knows the truth is a total head case. Who’s going to believe him, if they can even find him?”

  Before Libby could answer, he was directing her to turn.

  “It’s the redbrick house with green shutters, there on the right.”

  “I see it,” Libby said. “Your mom’s truck is there.”

  “With a cop car behind it—from Wyatt.” Jordan sat forward; he wanted out.

  Libby sensed he’d be gone like a shot as soon as she pulled to the curb, and she slowed but didn’t stop. Something was wrong; she felt it, a kind of panic. It crawled on spider legs up her spine. “I don’t think you should go in there,” she said. “I think we should call 911.”

  “The cops are already here.” He was impatient. “Can you just stop, please, and let me out?”

  “Okay, but I’m going in with you.” Libby parked against the curb.

  Jordan was halfway across the front yard before Libby could cut the truck engine. She followed quickl
y in his wake, heart pounding. She had no idea why she was so afraid, and then she heard Jordan’s shout: “Mom? Oh my God, Mom!” and she ran up onto the porch and through the front door.

  16

  She stared uncomprehending at the body on the floor. How was it not her? She had stepped in front of Jenna. She should have been the one who took the bullet. Sandy turned to Jenna and encountered the reflection of her own uncomprehending shock. They groped their way toward each other, meeting in a clumsy embrace. Jenna was talking. Sandy felt the vibration of her voice, the urgency of her speech, but she couldn’t hear the actual words. The blast from Huck’s gun had deafened her. Her head felt hollow and as light as a helium party balloon, rising from her neck.

  She was startled when Jenna grasped her by her upper arms, shaking her, not hard, but not so gently, either. “What were you thinking?” Sandy read Jenna’s lips. “Going in front of me like that? He could have killed you.”

  I didn’t want you to die. Did she say it out loud? Sandy didn’t know.

  She felt herself being pulled back into Jenna’s embrace, and then as quickly, Jenna set her aside, going around Sandy, dropping to her knees beside Huck, heedless of the blood spreading beneath his shattered skull. She pressed her fingers to the space near the hinge of his jaw. Anyone who watched crime shows on television knew that space, where the carotid artery was located, where the pulse of life was the strongest. But it was stilled now for Huck. Sandy knew it even before Jenna turned to her and said, “He’s gone.” She sat on her heels, looking down at him, and then at Sandy, blank faced in her bewilderment. How had it happened? Huck here and alive one minute, dead and gone the next? The stench of his blood, his spent ammunition, an underscore of anguish and fear, perverted the air. Sandy didn’t want to breathe; black dots encroached on her peripheral vision. She ground her teeth, biting back the scream she could feel gathering strength from some primal and dark corner of her mind.