Shadow Notes

by Laurel S. Peterson

  We had to have this conversation now? My tension rippled out into my fingers, and my grip tightened on her arm. She winced.

  This reconciliation business was hard. She was vulnerable, something she’d so rarely been with me, and I could respond from my anger or from the intent behind her words to reconnect, to make what was wrong between us right again. If she got shot or froze to death, that would be a bad start.

  “I think Pete is getting closer. We’ve got to go through the woods. Maybe we can circle around to the drive.” If hypothermia didn’t get us first.

  A small gate led out the back of the gazebo. It probably hadn’t been opened since father installed the folly thirty years ago. I pushed on it slowly, hoping it wouldn’t squeal, and then squeezed through behind Mother. Snow started to fall, tiny flakes like little prickles of ice on the skin.

  “Use the trees for cover,” I whispered, scanning the woods. I didn’t see anything, but my training was in plants, not tracking killers.

  Thud. Something lodged itself in the tree next to my head. I ducked and ran, dragging Mother by the hand. “This way,” I hissed. If we could get to the road, maybe we could flag down a passing motorist. Surely, Pete—it had to be Pete—wouldn’t kill us in front of witnesses?

  That’s when I heard sirens. Bullets started flying randomly, Pete’s last ditch effort to get us. I tugged Mother to the ground and started crawling. We were still a hundred yards from the road. I scrabbled in my pocket for my phone and dialed Bailey.

  “Where are you? What’s going on?”

  “Tell the cops we’re in the woods behind the gazebo and Pete’s shooting at us.”

  Mother screamed. I looked up. Pete stood over her, his gun pointed straight at her head.

  “No!” I yelled, moving to block his shot.

  He racked the slide, and smiled at me, triumphant, his teeth gleaming in the dim light. “You want to go first?”

  “The chief knows you’re working with Mary Ellen.”

  “The chief knows squat. The chief is a stupid, Southern hick from Louisiana who thinks he knows this town. I know who’s who and what’s what. And I’ve always known how to work the pretty ladies, haven’t I, Mrs. Montague? I had you fooled, didn’t I? Nice little Petey, that sweet boy. Too bad that’s the only way you saw me.” His snide energy rippled out. “I should have been Chief of Police. I’d worked for it, knew all the right people, even gave a good interview, but no, you had to go all affirmative action. Stupid. Mary Ellen will make me chief. Mary Ellen is smart.”

  Even the birds were silenced.

  “Put the gun down, Pete,” Kyle DuPont said. “There’s nowhere to go.”

  Pete’s face went blank. Then a welter of conflicting options played across his face.

  “It’s not worth it,” the chief said.

  Slowly, slowly, Pete put the gun on the ground.

  Inside, Bailey had blankets, wine, a hot pot of tea. Kyle held a chair for Mother, wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and pushed a teacup at her. “Mrs. Montague, are you okay?”

  She nodded. “I’m fine.”

  He crouched by her chair with his hand on her arm. “Are you sure?”

  “Mother,” I said, suddenly angry now that we were all safe, “Why did you go outside? We were nearly killed.”

  “Chief DuPont suggested that my telling him about the rape and Gary Hankin earlier might have saved Hetty’s and Hugh’s lives.”

  “You said what? She could have died out there!”

  The chief looked at me, with real pain in his eyes. “I didn’t say—”

  “It’s what you meant.” Mother shot me a look like the old days—tough as steel girders. “It’s okay, Clara. He was doing his job.”

  Bailey filled a mug and pressed it into my hands. Its heat made me realize how cold I was.

  “It’s not okay,” I said, but subsided into a chair.

  The chief nodded. “Officer Munson will stay with you tonight.”

  “You’ve got both Mary Ellen and Pete Samuels. Why are you still worried?”

  He leaned back in the chair and tugged on his suit jacket. “Mrs. Montague, for thirty-five years, you’ve kept your mouth shut. Whether or not you want to see it that way, you’ve done your rapist’s bidding. Now, you’re challenging that.” He glanced briefly at me. “You should be prepared for another attack, most likely on Clara, because he perceives her as what you love most.”

  “But Clara is his daughter.”

  “I believe he feels his children with Jennifer are his only true family.”

  I almost launched myself out of my chair to dial Air France. The Seine. The wine. The Louvre. Escape, blessed escape. But another stronger piece of me, a newer piece to me, couldn’t abandon Mother. She needed me. I’d abandoned my father, but I wouldn’t abandon her. If the chief couldn’t find a reason to arrest Winters in the next twenty-four hours, I would act. I couldn’t live like this, waiting until something broke in the case.

  “Fine,” Mother said. “I’m not risking Clara’s life and I’m not risking my own. Not for that man.”

  I kept my mouth shut.

  Chapter 28

  Mary Ellen refused to talk. So did Pete. I made a phone call, made a promise. Then I made preparations, including persuading Paul to hand over Mother’s file.

  New Year’s Eve opened with clear black skies salted with a thousand stars. Curled in my favorite chair, I could see them through the bedroom window.

  I didn’t understand what created people like Andrew or Mary Ellen. It wasn’t parental neglect, since people built dynasties and media corporations even when their parents ignored them. It wasn’t excess privilege, since privileged people also endowed museums and fed third world children. Some people were just born wicked, and if life handed them a butterfly, they pulled off its wings.

  I stood. Ten o’clock. Too early, but I slid into my long black wool coat, picked up my keys, and drove to Mother’s meditation cottage, reviewing each scenario I’d considered as I drove. None of my ideas was surefire, and none of them safe. Finally, I breathed deeply, letting the clarity and depth of the beautiful winter sky fill me. Intuition would have to bridge whatever holes logic and planning had missed.

  When I pulled in, Ernie and Loretta’s lights were out. I parked the car out of sight behind one of the barns and made my way to the cottage with a flashlight. The protective circle of hedges felt menacing tonight, but the snow that had fallen over the past couple of days revealed no other footsteps.

  Inside, I flipped on the lights and walked the rooms to ensure everything remained in its place, then sat on the floor with plenty of pillows behind my back. Paul had taught me some new relaxation exercises. They helped, but I still jumped out of my skin when someone knocked.I crossed the room, intuition on high alert, feeling every fiber in the carpet through the soles of my shoes.

  I opened the door. “Andrew.” I could see an aura around him, the violet aura of visionary thinkers. I was obviously seeing things.

  He was dressed in a tuxedo, but he’d pulled the tie loose and worn hiking boots rather than the fancy dress shoes he must have sported at his New Years’ Eve party. He had arrived nearly an hour and a half before the time Mary Ellen and I agreed on, but the boots showed he wasn’t all impulse. I needed to remember how smart he was. His face wore a self-satisfied smirk. “I figured you’d come around eventually. Smarter than your mother.” He stamped the snow off his boots and looked around the room with greedy interest. “Mary Ellen regaled me over the years with tales about this spot.” He took in the limited furniture, the turquoise and white color scheme, the pillows on the floor. “Charming.”

  The word dripped with disdain. I breathed in and out slowly, trying to hear past the white noise enveloping me. I had to quell it to do the reading, or I wouldn’t get accurate images. “Come into the kitchen,” I said. “We can discuss
the terms before we get down to business at midnight.”

  “That midnight crap sounded like bullshit. Did you make that up?” Niceties over, he slithered from his civilized skin.

  “Midnight ‘crap’?”

  He yanked out a spindly kitchen chair, hitting the leg on the wall and leaving a mark. “That New Year’s midnight was the ideal time for intuitive practice because you could see more clearly.”

  Beneath the impatience, I heard the first crack—a crack I intended to wedge open like the entrance to a secret cave. He had waited for this moment for thirty-five years. Hetty served her purpose, but the Montagues doing his bidding was sweetened whipped cream on his dessert. If I gave him that ­triumph, I wouldn’t have any more dreams. I wouldn’t have to deal with him again. He might win his Senate race, if he kept his momentum going, but his opponent had raised support and several surprisingly large infusions of cash. She’d spent a lot of time in working class neighborhoods, earning her media buzz. He needed to know if his blackmail would be exposed, and what magic he could work to keep that from happening. My visions could tell him. I was his daughter—I would be genetically tuned to him. A wave of white noise washed over me.

  “Of course I didn’t make it up,” I snapped. “It’s too serious for you to take this lightly. Here are my terms. I’ll give you intuitive guidance for your Senate campaign, but once you’re elected, we’re done.”

  He waved his hand in agreement, an agreement I could see in his eyes he had no intention of keeping.

  “I have a few questions first.” I opened one of the files on the table.

  “You going to make me write it all down and sign it, like your Mama did with Hankin?” He held a spoon by the neck and spun it on the table top.

  “Those are the terms,” I repeated.

  He leaned over the table, his eyes locked on mine. “Go on, girl.”

  “How did you persuade Dr. Hankin to ignore his medical ethics?”

  He snorted with laughter, a thousand stones pounding the rocky shore. “Why the hell do you care about Hankin’s ethics?”

  “I didn’t say I would explain.”

  He waved at the walls. “And you happen to have little recording devices scattered all over the place.”

  The installer had assured me no one could find them. “You’re welcome to check.” I shrugged, thinking I only knew what kind fathers were like—and my kind father was dead. The desire to have him standing next to me overwhelmed me. Father would know how to handle this man.

  Winters studied me, hate and mirth mixed in his eyes, and I remembered the snaky arm at that first fundraiser. He’d known then who I was, and he’d made a pass at me, to see how I’d respond.

  I wasn’t this man’s daughter. I wouldn’t ever be, despite our shared genes. He would always let his darker passions dominate.

  “Gary Hankin was an idiot, like most people around here. Too stupid to do right by themselves and always coming to my family to rescue them. Early on, Gary tangled himself up in some legal snafus. He was taking drugs home to his lovely wife, and selling samples off the books to his friends. Had himself a nice little side business going, which financed his wife’s drug habit. He was dumb enough to sell to an undercover officer. I negotiated a settlement, and Gary moved his practice out-of-state.” The spoon still spun round and round, Winters’s fingers tight against its neck.

  “He’s given you a lot of campaign contributions.”

  “Payment for services rendered. His contributions to my campaign have indicated his gratitude.” He sneered, a snake curving around its prey.

  “How did Wendy’s drug habit start?” All I had to do was be a good listener. A captive listener.

  “A little issue during my father’s time. Gary ‘lost’ some records as a favor to us”—his eyes flicked from the spoon to me—“and Wendy was so afraid someone would find out, she needed pills to stay calm. Stupid. No one found out in thirty-five years.”

  I shrugged. “I have.” I opened Hugh’s file on my mother.

  He looked unsurprised. “Your mama finally break down?”

  “Yes. But it’s corroborated by Hugh’s notes. Did you know that therapists make a second set of notes following therapy appointments? They’re called ‘shadow notes,’ and they record the parts of the session the doctor or patient doesn’t want in the public record.” The chief was combing those files in search of evidence that Hugh had figured out Winters’ blackmail scheme.

  He waited.

  “Hugh’s notes document my mother’s claim of rape.”

  “Hearsay,” he tossed off.

  I shut that file, slid another out from under it. “DNA doesn’t lie. Wendy needed those pills because her husband hid evidence that could convict you of raping my mother and fathering me.”

  He was proud of himself. “My father cut the deal to lose those records; I cut the deal to save Hankin’s business, rescue Wendy, and fund my campaigns. Whatever Hankin says he still has, he’s lying.”

  Perhaps only Mary Ellen knew about Mother’s recent DNA tests. “What about Hugh?”

  He went back to spinning the spoon by its neck. “That was Mary Ellen’s thing. Hugh threatened to use some party boss out west to screw my campaign. I didn’t believe Hugh had the balls to go to this guy, but Mary Ellen freaked—something about the women on Hugh’s client roster. She thought they’d all whined to him during therapy and he’d concocted some conspiracy idea. Hugh didn’t have the brains for that, but she decided he had to be dealt with anyway.”

  As if Winters himself was off the hook.

  “Dealt with how?”

  “Hugh always checked his messages last thing at night in case of emergencies. She got Pete Samuels to leave a message saying the cops wanted to consult him ASAP on a night she knew he’d be out late at your mama’s Christmas party. When Hugh called back, Pete knew he was home. He went and took care of things. It’s so easy to fool people.”

  “Yes, it is,” I agreed. “And Hetty?” A third file was filled with her photographs. “Were these taken at your suggestion?”

  “Hard evidence is so useful when you’re persuading people to contribute money, isn’t it? Hetty got a little carried away with the assignment, then got uncomfortable.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Too late, sweetheart.”

  He glanced at the clock. “That’s all you get. Do the reading now. I can’t miss my entire New Year’s party, and I don’t give a crap about the midnight thing.”

  I pulled open the kitchen drawer nearest me and removed a pack of Tarot cards. I shuffled and laid them out between us. I tried to calm myself, but the white noise kept amplifying.

  Images flickered in amongst the snow: the burning, the blood, the voodoo dolls, my mother on her knees in the gazebo, Pete standing over her with a gun. They swirled into colors: the green and sickly yellow of Hetty’s aura, the purple around Andrew, the swarming red and buzzing white I kept seeing. I turned over the cards: Death, the Devil, the Tower, Strength—reversed—the Hanged Man—reversed—the ten of swords. He stared at the layout. “What does that mean?”

  I almost laughed at the righteousness of it and felt myself lift free for the first time in weeks. The white noise faded, and with it the longings, images, conflict. The dreams would stop now.

  I said, “It means you can leave.”

  For the first time, surprise crossed his face. “What?”

  I raised an eyebrow, sure of myself, centered. I knew the right path, no matter the outcome. “Really, Andrew. Did you honestly believe after all the damage you’ve done to my family that I would give you what you wanted? Even the cards refused to do that. This reading tells me you’ll fail. That’s what Hetty’s readings told you, too, and all those years ago, that’s what Mother’s readings told you. You didn’t want to hear it, but you’ve destroyed yourself.” I stood. “You can leave now.”

  For a m
oment, he sat stunned. Then he launched himself across the table at me.

  I had a momentary flash of burning as if hell’s floor had opened and the fires were rushing up to consume us. Then it was gone, and I’d lost my advantage. I’d been prepared for violence, but before I could raise my arms to defend myself, Winters toppled me off the chair and onto the floor. “You little slut! I’ll teach you—”

  He gripped my wrists with one hand and tore at the neck of my tee shirt with the other. It ripped at the shoulder and side seams, exposing my bra and skin. “Where’s the wire?” he yelled. “Where is it?”

  “There is no wire. Get off me!” He started pulling at the bra.

  No, no no! Not that!

  He levered himself onto me, his knees pinning my wrists to the floor. I squirmed, but he slapped my face and pulled the pants down my hips.

  “I should have eliminated you when Mary Ellen heard you were talking to Hugh!” His fingernails ripped at my skin. He scrabbled around my back, pulling the pants low over my butt while I struggled to loosen my arms from his grip. “You aren’t containable, like your mother. You’ll tell the world.” As he fumbled at his belt, getting the fitting loose and whipping it from the belt loops, the pressure on one of my hands lessened and I wrenched it free, slamming it into his nose—a move I remembered from some self-defense class. He howled. I pushed him off, yanked up my pants and jumped to my feet.

  “You bitch! I won’t be able to speak in front of a camera for weeks.” He grabbed my leg, and I fell to my knees, just missing the counter with my head.

  The gun. He’d listen to that.

  I reached for the drawer, kicking at him. I wasn’t paying attention to where I kicked, but when I heard him scream, knew I’d hit something tender. I yanked the drawer open, felt for the gun, then snatched at it. He seized the waistband of my pants and tugged . The fabric ripped. I swung my arm hard and slammed him on the side of the head with the gun. His grip relaxed and he slumped to the floor.