With some luck, her sister Caroline would keep her nose—and her fish-wrap paper—out of his business, although he was pretty sure that wasn’t her style. Well, he would tear down that bridge when he got to it. First things first. He resolved to get home and see if there was anything at all the cops had missed when they had searched his house. Someone had planted evidence to incriminate him and Ian intended to find out who. He had never seen that bag before, nor its contents, but whoever had put the hit bag together had known precisely what to put inside, including the same roll of tape used to tape the victims’ mouth shut and a vial of blue dye, along with various other items.
Pulling onto the expressway, he headed over the Ashley River, toward James Island, shoving thoughts of Augusta Aldridge out of his head.
For her own good.
For his own good.
For better or worse, the deed was done, and now Augusta braced herself for the worst. She drove her mother’s old lemon-yellow vintage Lincoln Town Car onto the gravel drive and stopped in front of their house, cutting off the engine, considering the house.
Right in front, inside a circular garden, a massive oak stood surrounded by shivering azaleas. Through the windshield, Augusta peered up at the ancient tree, which now stood humpbacked and burdened on one side with limbs that stretched toward the ground like a mother swooping up her children. On the other side, where the branches had threatened the roof, they had been lopped off, amputated like the legs and arms of Confederate soldiers.
That was the trouble here, Augusta mused. What most people saw on the outside—the storybook gables peeking through majestic oaks liberally painted with Spanish moss, the gracious wraparound piazza—none of it spoke to the dark secrets tucked inside those old walls.
While some kids might have visions of sugarplums dancing through their skulls, Augusta had entertained images of malaria-stricken women and slave babies laboring in rice fields. That was what growing up around rows of slave quarters did for a child’s imagination. She had never been able to comprehend how Sadie could make her home in that damned overseer’s house. But that was Sadie’s problem, not Augusta’s. She had long ago resigned herself to the fact that it was Sadie’s right to sleep wherever she wished to sleep—and if she happened to want to lay her head where men once slept who had tortured her ancestors . . . then so be it. It wasn’t as though the “big house” didn’t have its own share of troubles—not the least of which had been introduced by the present generation of Aldridges—herself included.
She sighed—an expulsion of breath that was part wistful, part relief and part trepidation.
When she was a kid, magazines like Southern Living and House Beautiful had come to photograph the aging memorial of days gone by, snapping shots of the colorful drifts of azaleas that surrounded the whitewashed wooden façade . . . the high dormer windows that, to Augusta, had always looked like sinister eyes peering out at the world. Her eyes were drawn upward to the widow’s walk. Its highest point rose nearly forty feet into the trees, its copper weather vane nearly invisible in the blanket of limbs and moss that surrounded it. No one ever went up there anymore, but it was a true widow’s walk, not for show. Access was only available through the attic now, but she and her sisters had used the walk to maintain their suntans. She wondered—not for the first time—how many widows had waited up there for husbands and sons to come hobbling home from the war, with sawed-off limbs and the shadow of death in their eyes.
Tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, she let her thoughts return to Ian.
Had they released him yet?
She inhaled a shaky breath, wondering whether he would call.
What the hell would she say?
For that matter, what would her sisters say when they discovered she’d paid his bail?
Really, she was no different from this house. She offered a façade to the world, and behind that façade were secrets that, if ever shown the light of day, would color everyone’s perception of her. And despite all of Augusta’s best intentions, she seemed to be adding to those secrets day by day. For her sake, she had to believe all those sins could be washed away.
Shoving Ian resolutely out of her thoughts, she studied the house she had come to despise, wondering what part of the renovation to tackle first. Somehow, even with all the drama surrounding them, she was going to have to make time to do it—sometime between funerals and aiding and abetting accused murderers. Jesus, what a mess she was! And pretty soon, if she didn’t get to work on the house, she was going to be a broke-ass mess, as well.
Maybe she would call in a contractor tomorrow? She had a few recommendations, but that was as far as she had gotten.
When she’d first considered the task of restoring the old house, she’d approached it resentfully and without any real purpose. In fact, the only thing that had even remotely excited her was the prospect of gutting the sucker—literally—and getting rid of every stick of furniture. Absolutely nothing would have given her greater pleasure than to toss those old Civil War muskets hanging in her mother’s office and the family portraits of people she didn’t really want to be related to into a raging bonfire. But here she was, and after three months of whining over the task her mother had set before her, it was beginning to become important to her to believe this old place could somehow be redeemed . . .
Maybe her mother had known something after all?
Nah, she decided, refusing to give her mother any credit. Florence W. Aldridge had remained completely absent from their lives; she didn’t get to start parenting from the grave.
Plucking her keys out of the ignition, Augusta got out of the car. She slammed the door, locking it. It used to be that you didn’t even think about having to lock your car outside your own front door, but after all that had transpired you couldn’t be too careful.
She paused at the top of the porch steps, looking out over the marsh. There was always a slight breeze this close to the water, and the marsh grasses bowed submissively under the oppressive afternoon sun.
Where will Ian go first? Will he come here? Back to the ruins? He was searching for something, but what?
She’d kept her cell phone near, even though she wasn’t even sure whether she planned to answer. Poor Cody had disappeared from the old abandoned church where she and her sisters had played as kids. Even then the place had seemed sinister. Why were kids drawn to danger?
The same reason adults are, a little voice in her head pointed out. What the hell is Ian if not dangerous?
Damn, but she didn’t relish having to explain her actions to her sisters.
She was so lost in her own thoughts, wondering what to say to them, that she didn’t hear the raised voices until Sadie was near the front door.
“Of all people, Savannah! I wouldn’t have expected this from you!”
The door opened abruptly, and Sadie, purse in hand, gave Augusta an angry glare, then, muttering something unintelligible, tried to close the door before Savannah could follow her out.
Savannah stepped out before Sadie could shut it, and Sadie turned and marched down the stairs without waiting for the door to close. Taken by surprise, Augusta moved out of her way and Savannah came out of the house to plead a little desperately, “Sadie, I didn’t go behind your back—please! Listen to me!”
Sadie kept walking, shoulders straight, making her way down the drive toward her house. “If you girls get hungry,” she said without turning, “you know exactly where the fridge is!”
Augusta was pretty sure that was meant for her, since clearly, Sadie wasn’t pleased with Savannah and didn’t give a damn whether she ate or not.
Savannah’s hand went to her hip. The left hand, which was still in a cast after a nasty fall from a kitchen stool, hung helplessly at her side. “Sadie!” she shouted.
Sadie kept walking, ignoring her.
“What the hell was that about?”
Savannah gave Augusta a disgruntled look and turned to open the door, stepping aside so Augusta could
precede her into the house. “Obviously, I pissed her off.”
“You?”
“Don’t sound so damned smug!” Savannah chafed.
Her youngest sister was probably the least likely of them to piss anyone off, and Sadie was not the easiest woman to rile. “How the hell did you manage that?”
As the door slammed behind them, Savannah marched by Augusta, straight toward the kitchen. The scent of food made Augusta’s belly grumble. It was only then she realized she hadn’t eaten all day because she had been so stressed out about Ian.
“Hungry?” Savannah asked, ignoring Augusta’s question.
“A little.”
“Sadie was in the middle of cooking. I guess we can finish what she started. Do you feel like opening a bottle of Mom’s good wine?”
Augusta laughed. “Hell, yes!” she declared. “It must have been a doozy of an argument for you to dive into Mom’s stash.”
Savannah peered back at her. “I like wine. I just don’t like drinking,” she said, and gave her a little smile.
In principle, Augusta shared that opinion. She was a long way from being the lush her mother was, but wine did relax her and she wasn’t quite principled enough to say no to a great bottle of vino. In that way, she was a lot like her mother, and if it weren’t for Augusta’s intense dedication to being nothing like Flo, she might have ended up a pill-popping alky like their mother. But it would be a cold day in hell before she took on any of her mother’s traits. Plus, her taste in wine was far too expensive to really indulge it often. Her practical nature wouldn’t allow it.
“I’ll get the wine,” she offered, and set her purse and keys down on the counter, then made her way to the wine fridge her mother had had installed sometime before she died. Although it was new, Augusta knew exactly what was in it and didn’t waste much time making her choice. She grabbed a 2007 Gaja Barbaresco, an Italian red that probably cost her mother about two hundred and some change, but Augusta wasn’t paying for it, so what the hell. This one would be perfect for commiserating. She brought the bottle to the counter and then ferreted out two wineglasses. “Is Caroline home yet?”
Savannah stood at the stove, assessing their abandoned, half-cooked dinner. “Not yet. Do you know anything about making a roux?”
Augusta took out a third wine goblet, but set it on the counter out of the way, eyeing Savannah. “Nope. Caroline does.”
“Well, we can’t wait for her. I’ll have to give it a try.”
Augusta poured wine into one glass and then lifted it, tasting. “It’s just fat and flour, right? Fry the flour in the butter until it looks brown and goopy. We’ll live if it’s not exactly right. We’ve got worse shit to worry about.”
Savannah sighed. “Yeah.” She turned to watch Augusta top off her glass, then pour a second. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Sadie that angry,” she worried.
Augusta lifted up Savannah’s glass from the counter and brought it to her. “I have,” she confessed with a slight turn of her lips. In fact, there weren’t many people Augusta hadn’t pissed off at one point or another, including Sadie.
Savannah laughed, and then sighed as she took a small sip of her wine. “Here’s to pissing people off,” she said, and raised her glass high.
Augusta choked on her laughter. “Now you’re talking,” she said. “So tell me, what did you do to earn Sadie’s wrath?”
The pain in Cody’s ankle helped to keep him awake.
His head hurt and he felt a little like he had the time he’d snuck into his pop’s liquor cabinet, woozy and sick to his belly. Trying to focus, he fixed his gaze on the railroad trestle outside the window. He could see part of it from where he lay, handcuffed to a bunch of old pipes, enough to recognize that it was an old rail bridge like the one his dad had taken him to near Bushy Park. His pop told him that when he and his friends were little they used to jump off the trestle into the river until one of his friends dove into a moccasin bed and died from hundreds of snakebites. It seemed to Cody that his dad had been trying to scare him, but Cody always thought he heard a note of wistfulness in his voice whenever he told that story. It didn’t matter; it worked. Cody wasn’t just afraid of heights; he was terrified of snakes and he used to think that was the most awful way to die—surrounded by fangs in muddy black water.
But he had another nightmare now.
One he couldn’t wake up from.
Dying right here, right now, would be the most awful thing—wet, cold and alone.
His missed his dad so bad, the ache was a massive lump in his throat. And his mom and grandma were probably sick with worry over him. His jeans were wet, maybe from the river, but he’d peed his pants and maybe other stuff, too. He was too groggy to figure it out. He couldn’t even wipe the snot that was drying beneath his nose because he couldn’t reach it with his shoulder.
He’d woken up here in the pitch-black, with no memory of getting here. The man in the mask had pressed something sweet over his face and now he was handcuffed to these pipes, his feet tied way too tight with ropes. There was something soft and bunchy shoved deep inside his mouth, beneath the tape—the way they did in those old cartoons when they tied some lady across a railroad track in front of an oncoming train.
But there was no train coming.
Outside, there was only silence, except for the chirping of crickets and croaking of frogs.
Cody stared at the trestle. The tracks were rusted, maybe broken, but he couldn’t sit up to get a better look. All the windows were boarded up, except one. On that one the slats were only nailed partway up and jutting above the boards were shards of glass that looked like gnarly icicles wrong side up.
Never in his life had he wanted his mama more—he didn’t care if that made him a baby. That idiot TC had left him there to die in the woods. The muscles in his throat hurt from trying to swallow around the cloth in his mouth, and he was thirsty. He laid his head back against the brick wall, taking it all in before the last of the daylight was gone.
He’d never seen this place before—had no idea where he might be—but he smelled water. And stinky mud. There was no mistaking the smell of plough mud. It was strong here—like he was surrounded by it. The inside of the building was empty and appeared as though it had been abandoned a long time ago. It seemed maybe there had been a fire here, because the brick looked like the inside of their fireplace at home, burnt and ashy. A great big rusty metal door sat at the opposite end of the room. It was open and he could see what looked like lockers in the other room—not a single row like at school, but smaller ones stacked high—like maybe at a gym.
Peering up at the pipes above his head, he thought maybe they were from a bathroom . . . or something . . . but he couldn’t tell that either. The only thing he knew for sure was that they were firmly attached to the wall with cloth wrapped around them, and they wouldn’t budge far enough for him to bang them. Both his hands were restrained in a single handcuff hole, racked above his head and tied again with the same rough rope that was secured around his ankles. Trying to squirm out of them only made his skin raw and almost ready to bleed.
Outside, the sun was setting fast. The trilling of crickets and croaking of bullfrogs climbed higher and higher. A black crow landed on the inside of the windowsill, perching on the water-stained board. It cocked its head curiously, peering at him. Across the cement floor, something scurried across a dark corner—a mouse, maybe a rat.
Maybe a snake.
Fear slithered up Cody’s spine.
And then he heard it and his heart danced against his ribs.
The sound of a boat engine.
He waited patiently for it to come near and then when he thought it was close enough, he opened his mouth to scream. All that came out was a choked sound that scared the bird away . . . and then the engine slowly faded . . . leaving Cody alone in the deepening shadows.
He began to cry.
Replete from dinner, Augusta lay sprawled on one couch, Savannah on the other. Nearly empty,
the bottle of wine sat on the table between them. Both of them had tried calling Caroline, but without much luck.
Rose Simmons had died, the news announced. The woman who had been the closest thing to a grandparent Augusta had ever had had slipped away without ever having awakened—a small mercy that she didn’t know her grandson was still missing.
On the muted television, the image of reporter Sandra Rivers paraded through the abandoned cemetery where the body of Pamela Baker had been discovered late last evening. Instead of the news, it looked more like an episode of Cold Case Files. Rivers seemed to know exactly where to direct her cameraman for the greatest impact, and somehow the lens always ended up right back on the reporter’s perfect lipstick and lovely green eyes. The woman had sensationalism down to a science. Augusta’s name suddenly scrolled across the screen and her heart leapt a little. She sat up, peering anxiously at Savannah to see if she had seen it as well, but her sister had begun to yawn, no longer paying attention to the news.
The banner shifted. Ian Patterson Free on Bail, the screen said, and next to it the disclosed sum of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Augusta’s name was gone.
Soon everyone would know—especially now that Rivers had gotten wind of the fact. But the only person Augusta dreaded having to tell was Caroline. She glanced at the clock on the wall again, her heart pounding like a fist against her lungs. It was 10 P.M.
What were the chances Caroline had heard by now?
Pretty good, she decided.
Caroline had stepped neatly into her mother’s shoes as publisher of the Tribune. There wasn’t much that escaped her these days. The thing was . . . if Caroline knew, she probably would have come storming home by now with Augusta in her crosshairs.
Briefly, she considered telling Savannah on the off chance that she might gain an ally, but Savannah probably wasn’t going to approve either, so she’d rather save it and tell them both at once.
Tell No Lies Page 5
