He grew still.
“It was a woman, wasn’t it? And her face was mutilated. I’d bet her fingerprints were missing as well. I’m sure if you did a little background checking, you’d find out you’d had the real Blanche all along.”
Clay didn’t say a word. He jerked his head at Junior, and both men left through the kitchen door.
My shoulders slumped. Please don’t leave me with the killers. I’d have to convince Arless.
“Hear me out, Arless.” I looked at the man and spoke even faster. “After Blanche murdered her father, she re-created herself, saying her parents died in a car crash.”
“How dare you bring up that horrible event,” Arless said. “I saw the newspapers.”
“With no photos, and I’d bet Blanche was the one who showed you.”
“No!” Arless shook his head violently, as if he could stop my words.
“Instead, she killed a young woman, destroyed her face, and threw her body in the river. She now wasn’t some poor, hillbilly daughter of a snake handler. She was the cultural beauty looking for the right vehicle to propel her to her ambitious goals. That was you, Arless.”
“Please go back inside to the guests, darling.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “They all should be properly lubricated with alcohol by now. Sometimes they forget they’ve already donated to your campaign and they’ll write a second check.”
Arless blinked at her. “It isn’t true. It can’t be. I won’t accept it.” He fumbled for the doorknob to the kitchen.
Wellington stepped closer to me. I pushed off the car and moved away, trying to put the car between us. “Arless, wait!”
Arless turned his head and looked at me.
“About eight to ten months ago, did Blanche start acting strange? Phone calls coming in with no one on the line when you answered? Trips without good reason?”
Arless dropped his hand and turned slightly.
“Didn’t you wonder why she invited her old buddy, Professor Wellington, to visit out of the blue? An instructor she’d never mentioned before?” The smell of my sweat, along with horse, dirt, and blood, made me ill, but I pressed on. “He arrived six months ago and took over. Suddenly there are bodies, rapes, ‘accidents.’ I’d bet Blanche just as suddenly had need of more money for pressing cultural issues—”
“The orphanage in Haiti.” Arless now leaned against the wall.
“And didn’t anyone wonder how poor women could just up and move on? That takes money. Money she claimed was going to that orphanage. Did you ever actually go there and see it?”
“Photos,” Arless said faintly.
“Probably downloaded off the Internet. Wellington saw the glamorous Blanche on, what, television? Newspapers? In spite of the changes in her appearance, the professor, growing up here in Pikeville, recognized her—” A thought popped into my brain. “Of course.” I glanced at Blanche. “Your father, Grady, wrote that he ‘sent the boy.’ Tom Wellington was your boyfriend, wasn’t he, Blanche?”
A vein throbbed in Blanche’s temple.
“Grady sent Wellington away, told you never to see him again. He was an agnostic or atheist, right? Hardly the right choice of marriage material for a devout girl like you. So you killed your father in anger and revenge. Or shame.”
Arless glared at Wellington. “If you’ve touched my wife—”
“Enough of this fantasy.” Wellington moved toward me again. I dodged around the car.
“No!” Arless shouted. Wellington stopped. Arless stepped forward and spoke with authority. “Go on, Gwen.”
“So Devin and Wellington struck a deal. Wellington wouldn’t give Devin’s past away. And in return, he could prey upon the young women in Pikeville, girls he met when Devin had her open houses or visited the shelters for the less fortunate in the community. I’d bet that event started six months ago.”
Arless’s steely gaze answered me.
“In return, Blanche would fund the exit route for the family to leave town, just so not too many bodies of dead women started showing up. And a large percent of rape victims don’t even report the crime. But she extracted one extra benefit from Wellington. He’d help her get rid of the embarrassing, and potentially revealing, members of the snake-handling church. The perfect relationship. You enlisted the help of Jason Morrow, until he realized what he was doing and refused.”
Arless looked at his wife. Blanche put her hand to her chest and stepped backward. “It’s true?” he asked. “All of it?”
I wanted to pump my arms and cheer, but I was afraid to call attention to myself. All eyes were on Blanche. The only sound was the distant pounding of music from the party still going on in the house.
“Not so fast, my darling.” Blanche stepped closer to him. “You’re in this thing deeper than I am. Who do you think signed the checks to send those families out of town? Who put up the reward for Gwen to do the drawings that would have identified the snake handlers? Who do you think ordered that lovely, and terribly expensive, watch your buddy Clay wears? And”—she moved closer still—“whose blue-and-white sailing rope do you think was used to strangle that woman? Only your fingerprints will be found on the box the rope came in.”
Arless’s face drained of color. “You wouldn’t—”
“Try me. You told me once”—Blanche pulled stiff lips back over her teeth in a parody of a smile—“that you’d sell your soul to reach your goal. Well, darling, you’re almost there. You’re on your way up. The next stop is the White House.”
Arless seemed frozen, staring at his wife.
“You think you’re the only politician with a closetful of skeletons?” Blanche asked. “Only in your case, they’re real bodies.”
Wellington snorted.
Blanche reached around Arless and took hold of the doorknob. “Now, be a dear and return to the party. Tom and I have work to do.” She pushed open the kitchen door. “Oh, and turn up the music.” “Superstition” boomed from the speakers inside, and a hubbub of voices and laughter echoed off the walls.
Arless’s shoulders slumped. Woodenly he left the garage. Blanche shut the door behind him. A moment later, the pounding music grew louder.
I was alone. With Blanche and Wellington.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
I STARED AT THE PISTOL BLANCHE HELD. IF I died, well, with cancer I was going to die anyway. But I wasn’t giving up on my daughter’s life. Every moment without medical help pushed her closer to death, and the seconds were ticking away.
My call for help had failed. So now it was up to me.
Blanche raised the pistol she’d collected from Clay. I didn’t wait to see where she aimed it. I dove to the floor, attempting to protect my broken hand by curling around it. The gunshot resounded in the enclosed space. The bullet grazed my hip, burning a line across my skin.
My pulse raced. I flattened out and rolled under the car.
“Shall I just shoot her?” Wellington asked. I could see his dirty shoes from my hiding position. The underside of the car was inches from my head. Frantically I raced through escape possibilities. If I used the element of surprise—
“Run over her,” Blanche said. “Then dump both their bodies.”
“Open the garage door.”
The car could easily snag my generous clothing if he backed up, dragging me to death.
Wellington’s feet approached, then disappeared as he got in. The undercarriage dipped with his weight. He started the car and revved the engine. I wanted to cover my ears from the assault of noise.
Time crawled. Sweat beaded on my face. The stench of gasoline and fumes burned my nose. Tensing my muscles, I strained to hear the sound of the garage door. The steadily revving engine overwhelmed all other sounds. Please, Lord, don’t let me get run over or dragged. Only the cool air striking my exposed ankles let me know the garage door was opening. At a slight change of vibration, I shot out from under the car.
It sped backward.
Ignoring the ache of my ankle and throbb
ing hand, I leaped to my feet.
Spittle gathered at the corners of Blanche’s lips. Her eyes were glittering slits and her nostrils flared. She raised the pistol and took aim at me, her hands shaking in fury.
Please, Lord. I wanted to close my eyes. I couldn’t.
She glared past me. Her eyes widened and face paled. She lowered the gun.
I risked a glance out the open garage door. Wellington had stepped from the car and was facing the crowd. Most of the worshipers from the revival gathered in a semicircle around him. They were taking pictures and movies with their phones. As Wellington moved backward, they followed, forcing him into the garage. Blake, front and center, looked as if he’d personally strangle the other man. Lindsay, on Blake’s left, spotted me and waved her phone.
The only local number I could remember: an area code and name. I’d hoped she’d get the message to Blake and he’d understand I needed, as the Scripture said, a cloud of witnesses.
Something changed. It took me a moment to figure out what. The throbbing music from the house had stopped. The door to the kitchen burst open and partygoers flooded the raised concrete platform. Costumed cowboys, superheroes, witches, and historic figures flowed out of the house, down the stairs, and into the garage. A drunken woman in a poodle skirt, being held upright by an equally drunken sailor, burst into laughter when she spotted the gun in Blanche’s hand. Her laugh slowed, then stopped. She looked at me, then out the door at the gathered members of the church.
One by one, the party guests’ loud talking and laughter ceased as they caught sight of the long dresses and simple garb of the holiness people, then the pistol-wielding Blanche.
The last three to enter the garage were Arless, Clay, and Junior.
I faced Devin. “You’re finished, Blanche.” I waved at all the people. “This time there are just too many witnesses. You can no longer kill everyone who might know who you were.”
Blanche opened her eyes wide. “That’s not why at all. We tried to make the snake handlers go away. But they wouldn’t leave.”
All the attention was focused on Blanche.
“They were an embarrassment.”
Slight movement from my periphery caught my attention. Wellington had slipped sideways, toward the edge of the crowd.
“We had to make a point,” Blanche continued in a chillingly normal voice. “Arless was on his way to the White House. We couldn’t have such a backward group of people in our state. What would people think?”
My mouth dropped.
Wellington moved again. This time Blanche saw him. “Oh no, darling, this time you’re not leaving me.” She raised the pistol and pulled the trigger. Wellington, a surprised look on his face, dropped to the concrete floor.
All the partygoers in the garage froze. Most of the holiness women ducked away from the garage opening, while several of the men grabbed Wellington and pulled him out of sight.
Blanche aimed the pistol at me.
Sweat slid down my back. “You’re lying to yourself, Devin.”
“Don’t call me that!”
“Why not? That’s your name. Your pedigree. Your background. Nothing you did changed that. No one you killed affected your DNA.”
Blanche’s attention was focused totally on me. Her finger tightened on the trigger.
Junior moved closer to her.
I gauged the distance between them. Too far. Too far. “You need to get rid of Devin once and for all.” I held my breath.
Blanche blinked.
Junior lunged for her weapon. They spun, twisted, then fell off the concrete platform, with Junior on the bottom. He let out a loud umph.
The gun went off.
Someone screamed. Clay leaped off the platform at the prone pair. Kneeling beside them, he gently rolled Blanche off his son. The front of her gown was bloodstained. Her sightless eyes stared at the ceiling.
Junior sat up, trying to regain the air that had been knocked out of him.
Arless, his face the color of parchment, glanced at his wife, then he panned the faces in the room. Without a word, he left, closing the door quietly behind him.
The only sound was the click and whirl of digital cameras and phones recording the scene.
My legs started to buckle. Leaning against the nearest car, I yelled, “My daughter’s been given GHB and alcohol. She’s in a guest room. Please find her. She needs to get to a hospital.”
Several of the holiness men and two of the partygoers raced into the house.
Before the blackness completely filled my brain and my legs gave way, a strong arm slipped around my waist and I was lifted up. “Now can I drive you to the hospital?” Blake whispered before he kissed my cheek.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
I OPENED MY EYES. THE ROOM LOOKED, SOUNDED, and smelled familiar. An infusion pump above my head click-click-clicked away and cool, antiseptic-smelling air wheezed from a wall vent. In a moment, the memory nudged my consciousness. I was in Shelby Lee’s room, or one like it, at . . . Pikeville Community Hospital.
In a rush, the rest of my memories returned. Aynslee.
A series of chirps and pings came from my right.
Turning my head, I peered through the bed railing. Aynslee lay hooked to an array of devices in the bed next to me. She was partially upright, cell phone in hand, thumbs flying. Beyond her, late-afternoon amber sunlight spilled between the blinds on the window.
From the open door to the room came a creak of turning wheels, squeak of shoes, and murmuring of voices. Someone gently snored.
I pushed up enough to see a sleeping Blake sprawled in a chair at the foot of the bed.
“The nurses told me he’s been here all day,” Aynslee whispered.
“How do you feel?” I asked her.
“Like I’ve been run over by a cement truck.”
I winced at the expression as more memories of the previous night flooded back. Blanche, lying dead on the floor of her garage. Aynslee’s almost-lifeless body next to me racing to the hospital in Blake’s truck. The emergency room where a detective took down my babbling account of the events.
A nurse marched in. “Good. You’re awake. We have you scheduled for X-rays on that hand.” She fiddled with the IV line threaded into my wrist.
Blake opened his eyes and smiled at me.
The stupid heart monitor beside me gave away my thoughts.
He stood and moved closer.
“You, go.” The nurse shooed him away.
I contemplated throwing something at her head. Before I could figure out a weapon, an orderly arrived with a wheelchair. “Ready?” he asked the nurse. For the next several hours I spent quality time in that wheelchair, gliding from hallways to X-rays, then on to various tests devised in the Middle Ages by medieval monks.
When I was finally wheeled back to my room, night had fallen and Blake was gone. The room had sprouted flowers ranging from exquisite bouquets to plastic-wrapped grocery store bundles. Lindsay and the woman who’d first spoken to me at the revival were talking to Aynslee.
“Lindsay, thank you.” I gave her hand a squeeze as I was wheeled past. “You saved my daughter’s life. And mine.”
The orderly helped me into bed and plugged me back into the infusion pump.
“What did you say when you called her?” Aynslee held up her phone. “Mattie wants to know.”
“I told her to buzz Blake, that is, use the phone tree.” I straightened the covers and tugged at the ugly hospital gown. “I mentioned the verse from Hebrews that tells us ‘since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses.’ I finished by mentioning not being protected, which told him I was with people he said were ‘not the protectors I thought.’ ”
Aynslee texted away, grinning.
“You know the weird thing?” Lindsay said to me. “I didn’t get it. I just called Blake and said you were in trouble. He told me to call everybody and meet him at the Campbells’ house. He’d figured out that only someone with a lot of money or clout could be behi
nd all this. But he thought it was Arless.”
“He was on my short list of suspects.”
“Actually,” Lindsay said, “I came by to give you the latest news. The sheriff’s department—”
“What!” I said.
“Minus Clay, who’s under investigation for obstruction of justice,” she amended, “followed your directions and found Grady’s body. It’s been recovered and the church will be having a memorial for him along with Elijah and Ruby tomorrow at four o’clock.”
“How did you find out about Grady’s body?” I asked.
“My cousin, the one I was visiting, is with search and rescue. She told me about the cave.” She cleared her throat. “She also said they saw a bra sitting on a ledge below the cave. She said it was too risky to try to recover . . .”
“So Thelma and Louise are gone for good.” I bit my lip. “They didn’t, by any chance, um, recover some underwear . . .?”
“No.” Lindsay raised her eyebrows at me.
“Good.”
Blake entered the room pushing a wheelchair with one hand and an IV pole with the other. Sarah sat bundled in a white blanket. She grinned and waved when she saw my daughter.
A short, tawny-skinned, black-haired doctor strolled in. The name badge said Dr. Kumar. He paused when he saw all the visitors. “If you could all please step outside for a moment?”
The room emptied. He moved between my bed and Aynslee’s. “Good news for both of you. I want to keep you one more night, but if all goes well, I’ll release you tomorrow. Gwen”—he nodded at my bandaged left hand—“you have three fractures and I’ve stabilized the bones with that splint. You’ll need to have it looked at when you return to Montana. I’ve been in touch with your doctor and there are a few more tests I want to review.”
“Which doctor?” I asked.
“Dr. West.”
My oncologist. My stomach twisted.
“Young lady.” He turned to Aynslee. “You were very, very lucky. Another few minutes and . . . well, like I said, you were lucky.” He patted her foot and left.
Blake returned, this time without Sarah. “She was getting tired, but she wanted to say hi to Aynslee.”
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