by Sharon Sala
The look on her face was not unlike that of a deer caught in the headlights of a car—frightened, but rather fatalistic. She reached for her washcloth again and let the water run until it was warm. Methodically she washed her face, brushed her teeth, then her hair and then turned out the light. Carefully she made her way to the bed and crawled between the covers. The pillow was soft, the mattress and fresh bed linens smelling of springtime—nothing like the antiseptic smell of the hospital. A strong gust of wind rattled the windows on the other side of the room. She pulled the covers up to her chin and closed her eyes. Down the hall, she could just hear the murmur of voices as mother and son continued to talk. Somewhere outside these walls, a killer was waiting for another chance to finish what she had started.
In the back of China’s mind, she could almost hear her mother calling out to her.
Sleep tight, China doll. Sleep tight and don’t let the bedbugs bite.
She started to cry, and once the tears began to fall, they just wouldn’t stop. She had survived thus far, and even if she somehow managed to survive the rest of this horrible mess, there was nothing in her future but loneliness. And right now, it was the loneliness that was hardest to bear.
***
Betty, Ariel Simmons’s maid, was just coming into her bedroom with some tea when Ariel sneezed several times in succession and then moaned softly as she reached for some fresh tissues and tossed the others into the trash.
Betty quickly set the tea tray aside and rushed to Ariel’s bed.
“Miss Simmons, do you want me to call your doctor? You sound just awful.”
Ariel managed a pitiful smile and shook her head. “No, dear, I will be fine. A good night’s sleep will help, I’m sure.”
“But you look feverish.”
Ariel put a hand against her own forehead and sank back against the bank of pillows behind her.
“I suppose I am, a little, but this past week has been draining on my spirit. Satan always comes at you when you’re at your weakest, you know. Just put the tea here by my bed where I can reach it and hand me my Bible. I’ll read a bit before I go to sleep. It will be better medicine than any pills the doctor could bring.”
Betty’s eyes teared. “Yes, ma’am. You’re right. Will there be anything else?”
“No, dear. You go on to bed now, you hear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She exited the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
The moment she was gone, Ariel sat straight up in bed and checked the time. It was five minutes to ten. Betty’s routine was set in stone. She would sneak her three shots of whiskey that she thought no one knew about, and by ten-thirty she would be out like a light. And that was what Ariel was counting on.
She flung her handful of tissues into the trash and jumped out of bed, her “illness” disappearing as miraculously as it had appeared. Dressing quickly in dark clothing and tennis shoes, she pulled a black stocking cap over her hair and made her way downstairs. The grandfather clock in the hallway began to strike as she reached the last step.
Perfect. Betty would be sound asleep. But just to make sure, Ariel made a quick sweep through the kitchen and down the hall to the servants’ quarters. She could hear Betty’s snores before she reached the door. Pivoting sharply, she retraced her steps, disarmed the security system and slipped out the front door. Her car was too recognizable to take, so she slipped through the hedge to the garage in back and quietly rolled a small black motorbike out onto the street before she started it up. The power of the engine between her legs made her shudder with want, but this was no time to give in to her lust. She sped off into the night.
Hours later, on the other side of the city, a small fire suddenly sprang to life inside an abandoned warehouse. Within minutes a wall of flames was devouring the guts of it, destroying everything in its path. The first fire trucks arrived on the scene with a noisy blast of sirens, drowning out the sounds of the motorbike’s exit.
It was 3:00 a.m. when Ariel Simmons slipped back into her house. She reset the security alarm, double-checked Betty’s room to make sure she was still asleep and then sauntered up her stairs. She stripped off her clothes and tossed them in a bag of clothing that was going to Goodwill, took a shower to wash the scent of smoke from her body and crawled into bed.
Without saying her prayers, she closed her eyes and fell fast asleep, secure in the knowledge that she could never be linked to that picture again. The leather, the chains, even the black silk and whips, had just gone up in smoke.
Twelve
“Good morning, Senator. How would you like your eggs?”
“Morning, Delia,” Bobby Lee said. “I’m thinking I’ll have my hen fruit poached today, and bring me some bacon and toast, too.”
“Yes, sir,” Delia said, as she poured him a cup of freshly brewed coffee. “You just sit yourself down and enjoy your paper. I’ll be back shortly.”
“Thank you, Delia,” Bobby Lee said, as he reached for his cup.
“Oh, Senator… is your mama awake?”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “Just go on and tell cook to fix my food. If Mother comes down before I’m through, I’ll ring.”
“Yes, sir,” Delia said, then set the coffeepot down and left.
Bobby Lee took a careful sip of the brew, then leaned back in his chair and opened the paper. A woman’s face was centered right below the headline which read “Serial Killer at Large.” The coffee hung at the back of his throat as he forgot to swallow. When he gasped in shock, the coffee rerouted itself through his nose. The paper fell to the floor as he grabbed for his napkin, saving his clean shirt and suit from stains as the scalding liquid seared the hairs inside his nose.
“Jesus Christ!” he yelped, and dabbed at himself until he was certain all the coffee had been blotted.
He picked up the paper again, his horrified gaze fixed upon the woman’s face. How could this be? In the midst of panic, his mother walked in.
“I heard you cussin’ all the way down the hall. What’s got you riled up so early in the morning?”
“Burned my mouth on hot coffee,” he muttered.
“Poor baby,” she said, and sauntered toward the sideboard to pour herself a cup.
The fact that she was actually dressed this morning should have been a relief. But her clothes or lack thereof were the least of Bobby Lee’s worries. He stared at her then as if he’d never seen her before—at the long blond hair falling over one shoulder, at the mouth a shade too thin to be truly sexy, at her large, puppy dog eyes and the thrust of her chin. Feature by feature, her face would have been unremarkable, but together, somehow they were a thing of beauty—and a damn sight too close to the woman in the paper for his peace of mind.
He knew that it was only a stroke of luck that his mother had never been implicated in the Finelli investigation. By her own words, she had not been recognizable in the picture that Finelli had used in his blackmail. And it had been another stroke of luck that John Woodley had come up with a fail-safe alibi for the night of the murders. The fact that Woodley had known enough to keep his mouth shut about the woman he’d been with had been entirely due to a phone call from Bobby Lee himself. This, however, was another kettle of fish.
Mona flashed him a smile as she sat down. In that moment, Bobby Lee knew what to do. He laid the paper aside and then reached for her hand.
“Mother, I want to tell you something.”
Mona was surprised but pleased by the tenderness of his gesture. More times than not they were fighting, and she did love her son more than life.
“What is it, Bobby Lee?”
“Lately, with the stress of the announcement and all the stuff that goes with it, I confess I haven’t been myself. I feel I’ve been short-tempered with you, and I regret it and want to make it up to you.”
Mona beamed. “Now, honey, you don’t have to do any such thing. Mothers understand about things like that. You know you’re my pride and joy. I would do anything for you. Anything.”
“I know, and I for you,” he said. “I have a surprise.”
Mona clapped her hands. “Oh, Bobby Lee, you know how I like surprises.”
He grinned. “Yes, ma’am, that I do.”
“What is it, Bobby Lee?”
“I know Christmas is still a few days away, but I want to give you your Christmas present early. How would you like a two-week vacation at the spa of your choice? Have daily massages, go shopping at all the best places, play tennis or even lie around a pool all day if that’s what you want?”
Mona was ecstatic. Next to shopping, pleasuring herself was her favorite thing.
“Oooh, Bobby Lee, it sounds perfect. To get away from this awful old cold weather—I can’t think of anything I’d like better.”
“Wonderful,” he said. “Then it’s decided. When I get to the office, I’ll have Duffy get your reservation. How about L.A.? You can do Hollywood. Shop on Rodeo Drive, do the town up right.”
Mona squealed.
He grinned and then gave her a casual glance, as if assessing her features.
“You know what else you should do while you’re down there?”
“What?”
“Have yourself one of those makeovers. If I’m going to be the next president, I want you shining by my side.”
Mona began to frown, uncomfortable with the idea that she didn’t look perfect. But Bobby Lee had been ready for that. He wasn’t through piling on the bull.
“You’re such a beautiful woman, Mother. I want your best qualities accentuated, and where better to do it than in Hollywood, where perfection is a business? What do you think?”
When she looked at it from that angle, it made perfect sense.
“I think you’re the best son a woman could have,” she said.
Bobby Lee leaned back in his chair, his scalded nose forgotten. When his mother came back, she would look nothing like that woman in the paper, and that would be that.
***
China had been awake for some time when she heard the sounds of people stirring outside her door. Although she could not distinguish what they were saying, she could tell that there was great love between mother and son. The tone of Mattie’s voice was teasing yet gentle, and Ben’s laughter proved the camaraderie between the two was comfortable. It made her homesick for her mother. They’d laughed like that—before Mae had died.
Footsteps faded. She supposed they had moved to the kitchen. Ben would soon be leaving for Dallas. The thought of not seeing him again until nightfall had her rolling out of bed. As she stood, it dawned on her that she wasn’t as sore as she’d been the day before. So Dr. Pope had been right. Her body was healing. She sighed. If only it were that easy to heal a spirit.
She made her way to the bathroom, taking time to pick out some clothes to wear for the day. There was a shower to take and hair to brush—things she’d once taken for granted and dashed through without thought. Now she had to plan her moves so as not to cause herself pain.
The warm water felt good on her body. The light, peppering spray was like a body massage, loosening tight muscles as well as her nerves. By the time she emerged, she was feeling much better. When she reached for a towel, she realized that the full-length mirror had fogged over. So much the better, she thought. At least she wouldn’t have to face the hideousness of her physical self.
A few minutes later she emerged from the bathroom wearing an old shirt and jeans. The last time she’d worn the jeans was back in the spring, before her belly had started to grow. They were loose on her frame, evidence of the weight that she’d lost during her hospital stay. The shirt had seen better days, but the snaps were what sold her. They were easier to fasten than pulling another sweatshirt over her head. Carrying her socks and a band for her ponytail, she left the anonymity of her room.
Although her entrance was silent, Ben seemed to sense her arrival before she spoke. He looked up. China braced herself.
“Good morning,” he said. “How did you sleep?”
Mattie turned around, a pancake turner in her hand.
“Welcome. I hope you brought your appetite,” she said. “Breakfast is almost ready.”
“The bed was very comfortable, thank you. Something smells good.”
“Good,” Ben said, although he noted she hadn’t really answered his question. A comfortable bed did not necessarily make for a good night’s sleep. Then he noticed she was carrying her socks and shoes. “Need some help?” he asked, and was up before she could answer.
She hesitated, then handed them over. “Yes, I’m sorry to have to ask, but—”
Ben’s voice was almost angry. “Don’t apologize for something that’s not your fault.”
She took a seat at the table as he knelt before her. Once she glanced up at Mattie, a little nervous as to how the woman would construe her son on his knees before her. But Mattie seemed focused on taking eggs out of a skillet. China looked down at Ben, watching the gentle way in which he pulled up her socks, then reached for her shoes. As he turned, she noticed a backward swirl in his hair right at the crown. Without thinking, she touched it.
“I’ll bet you had a time keeping that combed when you were a little boy.”
The touch of her hand in his hair gave Ben the shivers. To his relief, his mother spoke, saving him from making a fool of himself.
“That cowlick, you mean? I’ll show you some pictures later. You should have seen it. Are you familiar with the little boy who played Alfalfa on The Little Rascals?”
China smiled. “The one with the freckles across his nose and the piece of hair that stood up like a flagpole?”
Mattie chuckled. “That’s the one. Well, Bennie’s hair was a little like that, only it didn’t stand up stiff and straight, it was a great big curl.”
Ben finally found his voice. “Yeah, and I gave Pete Farmer a black eye for calling me a sissy.”
Mattie laughed aloud. “I remember. That summer your daddy took you and got your hair cut so short we didn’t even have to comb it.”
China grinned. By that time, the awkwardness had passed.
“Did I tie them too tight?” Ben asked.
China wiggled her feet inside her tennis shoes, then shook her head, and as she did, the heavy fall of her hair slid across her forehead.
“Mattie, when you’ve finished there and before we eat, would you mind doing my ponytail? My arm is still a bit too stiff to do it right.”
“I can do that,” Ben said, and took the ponytail band from her hand before either one of them could argue.
China was a bit startled. She hadn’t expected him to volunteer for such a girlie thing.
“I… um, you don’t have to.”
“Don’t get all sexist on me, woman. Just because I’m a man, doesn’t mean I can’t do this right.”
“I didn’t mean… I just thought that…”
Mattie grinned. “Don’t you apologize to that man, dear. He’s just teasing.” Then she waved her finger at Ben. “Be nice. You’ll scare her off before we’ve had a chance to make friends.”
Ben snorted lightly. “Just what I need. Two women instead of one to make me dance through hoops.”
“But, Bennie, you dance so well,” Mattie said, and began serving the food that she’d cooked.
“Are you tender-headed?” Ben asked.
“No,” China said.
“Good,” he said, and thrust his hands into the thickness of her hair and began combing it back with his fingers.
Instead of feeling awkward, the rhythm of his hands against her scalp was oddly soothing. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to the pleasure.
“At the back of your neck or up higher?” he asked.
“The back is fine,” China said.
A few quick twists and he was through.
“Breakfast is ready,” Mattie said, as she carried the plates to the table. “I hope you like your eggs fried hard. Can’t stand to look at a runny yolk.�
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China hid a smile. Mattie was outspoken, but somehow, it suited her.
“They look good,” China said.
“You get choices around here,” Ben drawled. “But food isn’t one of them.”
Mattie arched an eyebrow at her son. “You’ve managed to survive on my cooking all these years.”
“And it’s good cooking, too,” he countered. “Now, may I have my food so I can eat and get to work?”
Mattie plunked his plate in front of him and then kissed his cheek. Ben grinned and then glanced up at China, who was looking as if she didn’t know whether to laugh or pretend she wasn’t there. He winked. Almost immediately, he saw her relax. As soon as he was satisfied that their teasing hadn’t upset her, he dug into his food.
China picked up her fork, then realized Mattie had yet to sit down. She laid down her fork and folded her hands in her lap just as Mattie turned toward the table with a platter of toast.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Mattie asked.
“I’m waiting for you,” China said.
Touched by the girl’s thoughtfulness, Mattie hurried to the table and set the platter down.
“Help yourself,” she said. “Bennie, pass the jelly.”
Ben rolled his eyes as he reached for the jar. “Only if you quit calling me Bennie.”
Mattie looked a little startled, then grinned. “Sorry. Was I cramping your style?”
China grabbed the pepper shaker and began peppering her food so she wouldn’t have to look at Ben’s face. But she could tell by the ensuing silence that he was probably giving his mother a disgusted look.
Soon the mood lightened and the meal commenced.
***
Ben was at his desk, digging through the mounds of paperwork that seemed to grow on a daily basis. But it was difficult to concentrate, knowing that when he went home, China would be there. Maybe not officially waiting for him, but there just the same.
“Hey, Ben, is Bo Milam’s wife officially off the suspect list?” Red asked.
Ben looked up. “Yes, according to China, even with a wig and a lot of makeup, she’s about a foot too short to be the shooter, remember?”
