Tell No Lies

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “I thought you had a commitment to Jennifer’s family—to her mother. And now a child is missing, too—he’s just a kid, Ian. Between us, I know we can help—”

  “Help what?” he interrupted. “I’ve been searching for Jennifer for nearly six months. She’s gone, Augusta! I have to accept that fact and so does her mother. I’m sick of being hounded by the papers—by your sister—I’m fucking done!”

  Augusta’s shoulders tensed.

  He was lying.

  He must be.

  His words didn’t match the emotion she spied in the depth of his eyes. Nor did it sound anything like the man she had gotten to know . . . but, really, how well did she know him?

  What did she truly know about Ian Patterson?

  Everyone else seemed so certain he was guilty.

  What if she was wrong about him?

  He must have realized she was wavering, because his expression suddenly darkened and his lips curved cruelly. “I want you to leave,” he suggested. “I’m not interested in taking on another charity case, and I have no interest in helping you find some kid. Right now, I’m more concerned about keeping my ass out of prison.”

  Augusta’s feet planted firmly. “I don’t believe you!”

  His eyes narrowed as he took a step toward her. “Why? Because you know me so well?”

  And then he was suddenly right in front of her, so close that if she leaned forward, her lips would have touched his chin. Though even in her heels, she would have had to lift herself on tiptoes to feel the stubble against her lips.

  “You don’t know me at all,” he assured her.

  Augusta straightened to her full height, though she couldn’t find her voice to speak.

  He didn’t touch her, didn’t move his hands from his sides, but the tension in his body was palpable and the look in his eyes was threatening. Suddenly, he looked frighteningly unfamiliar standing in the empty kitchen.

  She glanced around. There was nothing anywhere to give her a sense of who this man truly was—no pictures. No dirty dishes. No glasses on the counter, save one—hers. No intimate little kitchen table. No lists on the fridge. Her gaze was drawn there, to the solitary item under a Piggly Wiggly magnet—a much-folded computer rendering of a photo of Jennifer Williams standing out at the ruins. Her smile was genuine as she posed for someone unknown. The look in her eyes was full of adoration. Her strawberry-blond hair was something like Augusta’s, and something about her was so shockingly familiar that Augusta stood there staring.

  She recognized the photo. Caroline had a copy of it, as well, given to her by Jennifer’s mother, who had told Caroline that her daughter had e-mailed the photo to Ian. But Ian could have taken that picture. She peered up at Ian and blinked.

  “Time to go,” he announced, clapping his hands together, and moving toward her, forcing her to take a step backward. Getting the hint immediately, she turned and headed toward the living room. He followed closely at her heels and despite the fact that she was leading the way toward the door, she felt like a stray sheep being herded. On the way out, she reached down and seized her purse, feeling as though if she paused for two seconds too long he would run her down.

  She reached the door, and he was right there behind her, reaching around her, his arm skimming her waist. She jumped at his touch, but he merely pulled open the door. Clearly, she wasn’t welcome. That night on the beach meant nothing to him. She was stupid—stupid to have come here.

  “Take care,” he said, and then nodded in the direction of the car still parked discreetly on the curb. “Don’t forget to smile for the camera.”

  Augusta shot him a beleaguered glance, but all he said was, “And tell your sister I said hello.” Then he slammed the door.

  Stunned by the haste and animosity with which he had disposed of her, Augusta stood outside on his front porch, clutching her purse. She glanced only briefly at the black unmarked car, and knew for certain it was not the press. It looked to her like a police-issue Dodge Charger similar to the one Jack drove. The only thing she knew for certain was that it wasn’t Jack or he’d likely have lots to say about her being here. She made a beeline for her car and hoped no one recognized her.

  She ran across the yard to the Lincoln and slid inside, closing the door. If she wanted to help Cody, she was going to have to do it herself, but where the hell was she supposed to start?

  Maybe Ian was right? Maybe she should stay out of the way? Wanting, or even needing, to help didn’t make it the right thing to do. Whatever the truth of that matter, the one thing she knew for sure was that she couldn’t face her sisters yet, so she didn’t go home.

  Chapter 6

  Thursday, August 19, 12:22 P.M.

  While hardly the same obscene spectacle her mother’s funeral had been, Magnolia Cemetery was a crush of people. At eighty-seven, Rose Simmons came from an old-school Charleston family. Among those present today were politicians, Daughters of the Confederacy and socialites. But though Rose and Augusta’s mother had run in the same circles, most of these folks had red-rimmed eyes and lips that quivered—not like the blank faces and emotionally vacant eyes of the mourners attending Flo’s funeral. Rose Simmons was beloved by her neighbors. Flo had been lionized. There was a difference.

  Listening only halfheartedly to the pastor, Augusta scanned the faces in the crowd. Grief-stricken expressions, thin lips beneath dark glasses.

  Across the grave, Sadie stood quietly next to Josh. Neither of them peered in Augusta’s direction and she guessed Josh must still be angry with her, too, although she was pretty certain his reasons weren’t the same as his mother’s or her sisters’. Behind Sadie stood Daniel Greene, and if Augusta needed proof those two were involved, she had it now. He stood at Sadie’s back, with a hand resting solicitously upon her shoulder, reminding her of his presence. On Sadie’s right stood Rose’s housekeeper, Queenie Pritchett, who had been making the trek in from St. Helena Island once a week for as long as Augusta could recall. Queenie and Sadie were distant cousins, and Queenie made some of the best damned red beans and rice Augusta had ever eaten, although she would never admit as much to Sadie. Queenie at least acknowledged her with a quiet nod of her head and dark, melancholy eyes.

  It was pretty certain Rose would have left Queenie very well off, though her life would no doubt change now. None of Rose’s three children was the sort to keep servants, and so it was the end of an era for the Pritchetts and the Simmonses. Augusta wondered if Sadie would follow in her cousin’s footsteps. She hoped so. One would think she would have severed the ties that bound their families long ago, but until now, she had remained steadfast, ready to give up her life to care for the Aldridge home. That Josh had never resented it was a wonder in itself. But after all these years, Sadie deserved to retire.

  The sound of clay and damp earth striking hollow wood breached her reverie. “Help us to find peace in the knowledge of your loving mercy,” the pastor intoned. “Give us light to guide us out of our darkness into the assurance of your love, in Jesus Christ our Lord.”

  “Amen,” the crowd responded.

  Augusta took that as her cue and didn’t wait for her sisters. In her escape to the car, she meandered through the plots to avoid conversation.

  “Augusta!” called a familiar voice.

  Augusta turned to find Nick Simmons following her.

  “Hi,” she said, stopping beside a moss-stained stone cross.

  “You’re not with your sisters?”

  “I came late,” Augusta confessed, and nodded in Caroline and Savannah’s direction. The two of them were heading toward their mother’s grave—something Augusta desperately wanted to avoid. She supposed neither of them could justify coming here without at least setting eyeballs on Flo’s gravestone, though Augusta had no interest in lingering for five minutes over her mother’s memory.

  Nick watched them for a moment and then turned to say, “You three never could be together in one room for long.” He didn’t mean to be offensive, but Augus
ta frowned. It wasn’t precisely true, and the perception disturbed her, but she didn’t correct him. It was his mother’s funeral after all. She shrugged. “We’re good these days,” she offered, though he didn’t ask and it wasn’t entirely true. “Mom’s death, you know.”

  “Guess that’s what it takes sometimes.” His gaze sought out his own sisters, and found them huddled together, walking toward the limo. It looked a little as though Claire was supporting Janet.

  “What about you?” Augusta asked. “How are you holding up?”

  “Fine,” he said, watching his sisters. “Mom really worshipped Cody, you know? I guess it’s better she isn’t around for this.”

  Augusta nodded, but he wasn’t looking at her. “No news yet?”

  He shook his head, and his gaze returned to her. “Not a thing.”

  “How’s Janet?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “On diazepam and you know how she feels about meds.” He sighed. “Anyway, we’re not having a big to-do at the house. Didn’t seem right. Hope everyone understands.”

  “Screw rules,” Augusta said with a tiny smile.

  Nick nodded. “Come by later if you feel like it,” he offered. “I’ll be in town for a little while.” And then he gave her an awkward little two-finger wave and left. He was walking in the direction of her car so she stood there awkwardly, not wanting to follow. She let people pass her by, and then she gave up after a few uncomfortable waves and made her way to where her sisters stood by Flo’s grave, bracing herself for an argument.

  Near a cluster of newish gravestones belonging to the final crew of the H.L. Hunley, between two untarnished headstones, a garden spider had spun its web—a masterful double weave with a zigzag center. The female was more than an inch long, her markings yellow, black and white. One would think she might conceal herself with those bright, warning colorings, but no. She sat there, waiting in plain sight.

  Today, a baby green anole lizard struggled in vain to remove itself from her sticky web. Every move it made only served to seal its fate. The spider remained some distance away, in the center of her silken bed, where she could control the undulation expertly, each move a manipulation to further entwine her hapless victim. Later, once she was certain the lizard was hers for the taking, she would approach gingerly and then inject him with her venom, and wrap him up neatly to feed upon.

  There were lessons to be learned from nature.

  Patience now.

  He had the boy in a safe place; no one would find him.

  But even if they did, the kid wouldn’t be able to identify him.

  Better to wait, like the spider.

  This one excited him—not like the others, who didn’t deserve to be buried in sacred ground. No more games now. No more vanity. He was smarter than they were. This one would be worth the wait. There was time; a healthy person could live maybe nine or ten days without water and food. But he wouldn’t have to wait that long.

  He watched the spider without blinking, thinking of the irony that she had chosen the graves of the Hunley’s crew to make her home. At least for him. The crew of the historic sub, only recently raised from its watery grave, had suffocated in their iron prison at the bottom of the Atlantic, less than four miles from Sullivan’s Island.

  He knew better than anyone what they would have looked like in the moment of death, eyes bulging and bloodied with broken vessels. Those who drowned would have foam in the airways due to the mixing of mucus and water as they struggled to breathe. Their hearts enlarged. Under a microscope could be found the presence of algae and other water-borne substances . . . usually in the stomach or airways, and the chemical makeup of the blood would change.

  Some of his kills were clean.

  Some were not.

  His first was not.

  The boy was little more than four. His tiny raft had begun to sink, filling with water. Sobbing quietly, he’d called for help, but no one heard . . . except him.

  At first, the child’s eyes had been full of trust, then confusion and finally fear. But there was a moment beyond the fear, when a look of comprehension had entered his eyes—a moment when he’d understood his salvation lay right before his eyes, and instead of trying to get away in those final seconds, his little fingers had clutched his flesh possessively while he’d held him below the water’s surface. Close enough to watch the process with the same sort of morbid curiosity that made a man slow down after an accident, and pass by with eyes downcast to the black tar, only half-horrified at the prospect of spying death. With those little arms held firmly within his grip, the legs flailing—like the lizard was doing right now—he’d felt a sense of power unlike anything else.

  Filled with wonder, he watched the spider approach now, fangs bared. They appeared to him like little fists rubbing together in glee.

  His gaze lifted to the name upon the headstone: Arnold Becker. Died 1864. Buried 2004.

  On that day, he had stood right here, along with other curious onlookers as they had buried eight wooden coffins—all huddled together much as they had died on that ill-fated sub.

  That was the beauty of a place like this . . . elite though it might be, anyone could come here and tourists often did.

  Not far from where he stood admiring the spider, Augusta Aldridge was approaching her sisters after talking to some guy. Her body language had caught his attention. Flirtatious. She’d touched his arm.

  Slut.

  Instead of stealing her phone, and leading her sister out to the ruins, he should have lured her out there instead. And instead of leaving her to be discovered . . . he should have killed her and buried her out in the marsh.

  Just like her little brother.

  “Were you ever going to tell us, Augie?”

  “Eventually,” Augusta replied, though she hadn’t intended to answer that way. Caroline’s attitude simply annoyed her. Flo might have left her at the helm of the Tribune, but no one had appointed her head of the household.

  Savannah met her gaze, but said nothing, and Caroline apparently wasn’t content to leave it at that. “I would have appreciated a heads-up so I didn’t have to hear it from Sandra Rivers. You made me look like an idiot, Augie!”

  “I wanted to tell you, Caroline. Really.” She looked at Savannah. “I wanted to tell both of you.”

  “Why didn’t you?” Savannah asked softly.

  Augusta shook her head, meeting Caroline’s angry glare. “I don’t know . . . I just couldn’t.”

  “Damn it, Augie! How could you pay that man’s bail?”

  Augusta bristled over the question, because she realized that, precisely, was why she hadn’t been able to tell either of them—because neither of her sisters could possibly understand and she couldn’t—didn’t want to—explain Ian to them. To sum it up, she said simply, “Because I believe he’s innocent.”

  “He might have killed me that night!” Caroline argued.

  “Yeah, he might have saved you, too!” Augusta countered, wanting Caroline to see the situation through different eyes. “What if, in fact, he’s telling the truth and if he hadn’t found you in time—you’d be as charbroiled as those woods!”

  There was nothing Caroline could say to that.

  Her sister had spent literally months trying to prove that Ian was a cold-blooded killer. She seemed to need to believe that he had lured her out to those ruins with the intent of murdering her, but it didn’t add up for Augusta. Okay, so it happened that Ian was caught with Caroline in his arms. But that didn’t mean he’d actually intended her harm. He was carrying her out of the fire. And with police sirens racing down Fort Lamar Road and only one way out, where did anyone think he planned to take her? More and more Augusta believed he was telling the truth—about everything. She wasn’t precisely thrilled with him at the moment, but she didn’t believe he was guilty either.

  She and Caroline stood glaring at one another, at an impasse. Augusta realized Caroline had taken this personally—as though somehow by paying Ian’s bail, she had
taken Ian’s side. But Augusta only ever wanted to be on one side—the side of truth.

  She wasn’t going to apologize for that.

  Wisely, Savannah stayed out of it. She stood beside them, hands linked in front of her, smiling with chagrin at the people who passed them by. Augusta didn’t really care what anybody thought. Caroline had started this.

  Sensing that Caroline was wavering, she asked, “Do you really believe he’s guilty, Caroline?” Caroline set her jaw stubbornly, but didn’t answer, and Augusta persisted, “Do you think they would be setting him free on bail if they had any real proof?”

  Augusta could see the uncertainty in Caroline’s eyes, and knew it was the most she could ask for right now. Caroline had a good heart. If she thought it through, Augusta knew her sister would come to the same conclusions she had.

  “I don’t know what to think about Ian Patterson,” Caroline finally snapped, “but I deserved for my sister to be honest with me—especially when it potentially makes me look like an incompetent ass! You knew enough to come to me when you wanted to offer that reward for Amanda Hutto—this is way worse, Augusta! That man is accused of trying to kill me! Despite what you may believe, they haven’t dropped the charges against him. You’re not thinking clearly where he’s concerned!”

  “Neither are you!” Augusta countered stubbornly. “I swear to God, you have practically crucified that man!”

  “I did what I thought was right,” Caroline countered.

  “So did I,” Augusta told her, standing her ground.

  With that, Caroline stalked away, leaving Augusta and Savannah standing alone together. A few people gave them curious stares as they passed by.

  “Look at it from Caroline’s perspective,” Savannah interjected, although without any anger. “You paid bail for a guy accused of—”

  “I know what I did, Sav! I don’t need you to spell it out for me. I didn’t mean for it to happen this way, but I believe in my heart that Ian is innocent and Caroline did him an injustice! He’s not a murderer,” she insisted.