The Seventh Stone: A Novel in the Alastair Stone Chronicles

by R. L. King

  “This is bullshit,” he muttered, crumpling the note and tossing it into his trash can. He didn’t have time for nonsense like this. Probably some kid playing a joke on him. Maybe even that good-for-nothing Andy Bucklin, out playing pranks instead of working like he was supposed to.

  But he knew Andy Bucklin’s writing, and that wasn’t it.

  Almost without thinking about it, he bent and fished the note back from the trash. He smoothed it out on his desk and stared down at it, brow furrowing.

  You might see something interesting.

  He glanced at his watch. It was just after two now. He had a meeting, but it would only take him ten minutes to drive out to the bar. If anybody saw him there, he could just say he was meeting an out-of-town contractor about an order. It was probably nothing anyway—some kid playing a joke.

  He stuffed the note in his pocket and headed out of the office, but he had a hard time keeping his mind on the meeting.

  At three p.m., the Buccaneer’s Cove’s parking lot was half full: a few cars, fewer dusty trucks. Bobby didn’t recognize any of them. He parked his own F250 down the street—everybody in town knew it was his—and trudged toward the place on foot. He hoped nobody noticed him, so he didn’t have to make any excuses.

  He pulled his cap low over his brow and pushed open the door. The sound of some Eighties hit and a drifting wall of smoke hit him simultaneously. You weren’t supposed to smoke indoors anywhere anymore, but apparently the Cove’s management hadn’t gotten the memo. That didn’t bother Bobby, though, as it would make him harder to recognize if anybody he knew was here.

  The place was divided into two spaces, separated by a doorway with a swinging beaded curtain. The front room featured a long bar along one wall, several booths lining the opposite wall, a bunch of small tables scattered around the open area in the middle, and two pool tables and a jukebox in the back. The décor was pirate-themed, with cargo nets, floats, and dusty plastic sea life tacked up to the walls in between neon beer signs. Behind the bar, a brightly lit tank displayed a series of colorful tropical fish cruising listlessly back and forth. Above it was a sign that read GROG; next to it, another had a crudely drawn cartoon figure of a curvy woman in a pirate hat and a tiny bikini along with Show Us Yer Booty.

  Bobby glanced at all of this with some curiosity—he’d never been in a sin pit like this before, and had often wondered what it might look like inside—but he didn’t pause more than a couple seconds. Whatever “interesting” thing the note’s writer might be directing him toward, he was sure it had to be in the back. Even though he’d never set foot in the Cove, he’d heard plenty of rumors about what went on in their back room.

  He ordered a beer on his way back so he wouldn’t look suspicious, paid for it with cash, and sauntered toward the curtain like he knew exactly where he was going. He’d have to be careful, since he had no idea what he was supposed to be looking for and didn’t want to be recognized.

  Pausing for just a moment to consider what he’d do if this did turn out to be some kind of prank, he slipped through the curtain and quickly moved sideways.

  He needn’t have worried. The room had no windows, with the only dim light coming from faint overhead lamps and tiny fake candles on each of the booths. There were no tables here, just a series of dark booths lining both walls. In the middle was a partition with two more fish tanks on it, but these weren’t lit. They had water, but no fish, and seemed to be there for no other reason than to provide a visual obstruction.

  Bobby thought he’d have trouble spotting what he was looking for. He feared he’d have to take a quick circuit around the room and peer into each of the booths while trying to remain nonchalant, which wouldn’t be an easy feat at his size.

  He needn’t have worried, though: the back room was deserted with two exceptions: a single, bored-looking woman at a back table, and a couple near the front on the other side. The two figures sat across from each other, leaning in as if having an earnest conversation. Both had drinks in front of them, and they appeared to be so engrossed in each other’s company that the Winthrop Tigers marching band could have paraded past and not disturbed them.

  Bobby ducked below the partition and studied them between the two fish tanks. It was hard to see in the dimness, but the female half of the couple looked tantalizingly familiar. He edged further down and peered around the end, where he could get a better view, and his fists clenched.

  Jessamy—his wife—sat there, chatting amiably. Her eyes sparkled with merriment as she laughed at something her male companion said, and she reached across the table to grasp his hand. No wedding ring flashed on her finger in the overhead light.

  Bobby’s rage rose and his heart pounded; he took a few breaths to quell both and forced himself to continue observing the couple.

  For just a moment, he thought the man might be her son, Ian. He had the same tall, slim build, the same dark hair, the same sharp, handsome features. But no, on closer examination, this man was older—at least in his early thirties. He wore a black T-shirt with some pub logo on the front, his hair spiky and unruly in the front. Like Jessamy he was smiling, and his gaze was fixed on her face. He covered her hand with his other one and said something Bobby couldn’t hear.

  For a moment, the compulsion to leap up and confront them nearly overwhelmed Bobby. How dare his wife think she could step out on him! How dare she think she could get away with it—and right here in town, too!

  He looked at the man again, and suddenly a memory locked into place. He’d seen this guy before—or at least a younger version of him. He’d seen him in those pictures he’d forced Jessamy to destroy—the ones from her sinful time in England. He couldn’t remember the man’s name, but he was certain it was the same one.

  The man he’d always suspected of being Ian’s father, even though he could never get her to admit it.

  He leaned in a little closer, risking being seen, clenching his fists as his whole body thrummed with the desire to break first the thin man’s neck, then Jessamy’s. They had to pay for their sins, both of them.

  But not here. Not now. He’d end up in jail—and what if he failed to kill them? Then he’d be in jail and they’d be free to carry on their immoral goings-on without him around to stop them. No, that wouldn’t do at all.

  The man said something a little louder this time. Bobby still couldn’t make out the words, but this time he caught the British accent. This man was definitely the one Jessamy had been screwing in England—and now he was back to pick up where he left off. Maybe they’d even run off together so they could track down their worthless faggot of a son.

  Heat rose, creeping up Bobby’s neck and over his face. No…they wouldn’t get away with it. They’d have to be punished. But this wasn’t the time.

  Moving carefully so they wouldn’t see him, he crept back out through the beaded curtain, left his untouched beer on the nearest table, and hurried out through the door, glancing back over his shoulder as if expecting them to follow, or at least spot him.

  They did neither.

  In the back room of the Buccaneer’s Cove, the bored-looking woman at the rear booth smiled to herself, drumming her black-painted fingernails softly on the scarred table as she watched the tall, beefy man make his furtive exit.

  That had been so easy it was almost embarrassing.

  There we go, she thought. She finished the last of her drink and left the same way the man had, passing the empty table he’d been watching so carefully. Let’s see what that leads to. Too bad I won’t be there to watch the climax.

  In her mind, she felt Razakal’s amused approval.

  Bobby had a hard time waiting until quitting time to head home from the store. Visions of Jessamy and that British bastard together in bed—maybe even back at their house, in the bed the two of them shared—kept haunting his thoughts, and the compulsion to catch them in the act made it nearly impossible for him to keep his mind on his work. Finally he gave up on trying to get anything done and left
at seven, the earliest he could get away without arousing anyone’s suspicion.

  As he drove home, he thought about what he’d do—what he’d say to her. Should he confront her right away? Act like nothing was wrong and see how she reacted? Give her the chance to own up to her sins before he said anything? What if she admitted what she’d done and begged his forgiveness? Would he forgive her? After all, they had only been talking, as far as Bobby knew. He had no proof of anything else.

  But then he replayed what he’d seen at the Cove: the way they’d laughed together, held each other’s hands—

  His grip tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened and he thought he might break it.

  How dare she? After everything he’d done for her? He thought she’d renounced her sinful ways years ago.

  He parked in the driveway of their neat, two-story house and paused there a moment to get himself under control. Whatever would happen after, he’d give her the chance to admit her mistake first.

  He found her in the kitchen, putting dinner together. The enticing aroma of meatloaf—his favorite—wafted through the house. She’s feeling guilty. She’s trying to get you in a good mood.

  She smiled as he appeared in the doorway. “Hi. Dinner’s almost ready. How was your day?”

  He grunted. “Just a day. Where’s Mikey?” It surprised him that the small figure hadn’t rocketed downstairs to greet him. Four-year-old Mikey was always glad to see his Daddy.

  “He’s with your parents tonight, remember?”

  “Ah, right.” He’d forgotten about that. One night every couple of weeks the boy stayed over with his grandparents so Bobby and Jessamy could have some alone time. “Did you do anything interesting today?” He watched her carefully, looking for any sign of guilt or nervousness.

  “Nothing special. Just some cleaning up around the house, a little grocery shopping, and dropped Mikey off.” She continued puttering at the counter, dishing up their meals.

  Had she stopped at the Cove after she left Mikey at his parents’ place? The whole time she’d been driving along, listening to their son’s chattering questions, had she been thinking about her rendezvous with her old British boyfriend? Where was he now? Was he waiting for her somewhere? Was she planning to sneak out after he was asleep? Maybe she’d even drug his food so he’d sleep soundly while she was gone.

  She served the food and they ate mostly in silence, which wasn’t unusual. Jessamy seemed subdued, but not nervous or guilt-ridden. She asked him a few more questions about his day and tried to make pleasant conversation, but eventually settled down and focused on her meat loaf. When the meal was over, she gathered the plates and took them to the kitchen.

  Bobby still didn’t say anything. He continued to watch her, sneaking glances as they settled into their matching recliners to watch the evening’s TV shows, then followed her upstairs after the last one was over at eleven.

  The two of them didn’t have sex as often as they used to these days. Jessamy did her wifely duty and submitted when Bobby was interested, but that was less often over the past year or so. It made him angry, especially when he began having trouble performing and didn’t want to admit it. He saw the disappointment in her eyes, which only made him angrier. She never said anything about it, but he still felt inadequate and it was her fault for not letting it go like she should. Women weren’t supposed to care so much about sex anyway—the ones who did were loose and immoral.

  Tonight, though, his anger was for a different reason, and to his surprise it brought on stirrings he hadn’t experienced for several weeks. That had been one of the original purposes of Mikey’s “sleepovers” at Grandma and Grandpa’s house, after all.

  “So,” he said, reaching out to take her hand as they entered the bedroom. “You want to stay up a little longer?”

  She looked surprised—it had been a while—but gave him a gentle frown and shook her head. “I’m tired, Bobby,” she said. “It’s been a long day. I just want to take a shower and get in bed. Can we wait until tomorrow?” Without waiting for an answer, she squeezed his hand, then headed into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

  Rage bubbled inside him. The back of his neck grew hot, and his fists clenched. Once again, the image of the handsome Brit flashed in his mind, along with the way she’d looked at him across the table at the Cove. He strode across the room and stood in the doorway. “Long day, you say?”

  She didn’t turn around, but instead finished taking off her clothes and stepped into the cubicle. “It was. I’m sorry—I really am. We can do it if you really want, but I promise it’ll be a lot better tomorrow.”

  Suddenly, his growing anger boiled over. “You’re not gonna tell me, are you? You’re not gonna admit it.”

  She poked her head out around the floral-print curtain then, looking confused. “Tell you what?” When she got a look at his face, she took a step back, her eyes widening in fear. “Bobby, what’s wrong?”

  The fear might not have come from what happened today—it wasn’t the first time he’d frightened her. It hadn’t even been the first time he’d laid a hand on her, though every time he did it he felt guilty afterward and begged both her and the Lord’s forgiveness. True, sometimes disobedient wives needed to be shown the proper way to behave—that was his right as the head of the household—but that didn’t mean he felt good about doing it.

  “I can’t believe it,” he said with contempt. “I thought if I gave you a chance, you’d admit what you did. Maybe I could even find it in my heart to forgive you for it, if you’d admitted it.”

  “Admitted what?” Her expression was equal parts fear and confusion. She switched off the shower, stepped out, and wrapped a towel around her. “Bobby, I have no idea what you’re talking about. What do you think I did?”

  “Come on!” he stepped forward, looming over her as she stood dripping on the floor. “I always knew you used to be a little slut, but I thought you were past that. You made a vow, Jessamy. A vow to me and to God.”

  “Of course I did!” She backed up a little more, until her butt pressed against the sink. “Bobby, please! Tell me what’s going on! I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “You didn’t. So you’re telling me meeting that old boyfriend of yours at the Buccaneer’s Cove today is just a fine and dandy thing to do?” His tone hung with contempt, and he took another step forward. He was only a couple of feet away from her now.

  Her eyes got huge. “What?”

  The rage bubbled higher. “I saw you, Jessamy! I saw you at the Cove with him! With that Englishman from your old photos! I was there! You didn’t even notice me, because you were too busy holding hands and staring into his eyes!”

  “What?” she demanded again. “Bobby, I don’t know what you think you saw, but it wasn’t me! I’ve never even been to the Buccaneer’s Cove! I told you, I was at the grocery store today. Are you talking about Alastair? Why would he be in town? I haven’t seen him since I was in England!”

  The sound of the man’s name amped up Bobby’s anger again, until its white heat began to obscure his vision. His heart pounded, his adrenaline spiking. His mind filled with images of Jessamy and the Englishman in their bed, laughing together—laughing at him. He was sure Alastair never had any troubles in the bedroom. “You’re nothing but a slut!” he yelled. “You thought I wouldn’t find out, but I did! I saw you! Did he fuck you right here in our bed, Jessamy? Did he?” His voice rose to a scream and he took another step forward, raising a menacing fist.

  Jessamy scrabbled back, gripping the edge of the sink, her face white with fear. “Bobby, no! I promise you, none of that happened! Oh, God, Bobby, please! Don’t—”

  Her foot slipped out from under her on the wet floor, and she fell backward with a shriek. Her arms flailed madly as she tried to regain her balance, but she missed her grip. Her head smacked the corner of the vanity with a loud thunk.

  As Bobby looked on, half in horror, half in self-righteous justification, Jessamy’s eyes r
olled up and her body went limp. She sank to the floor in a disorderly heap, a small pool of blood spreading beneath her head. It mixed with the puddle of water already there, creeping a slow, steady path along her white towel.

  Bobby stepped back, shock replacing his anger. He stared down at the splayed form of his wife, his thoughts racing as he considered what he should do. He hadn’t meant to make her hit her head! It hadn’t been his fault she’d been overcome with guilt over what she’d done. If she hadn’t met the man at the Cove today, none of this would have happened!

  Oh, dear God, what do I do?

  But then the image of Jessamy and the Brit rose again in his mind—their smiles, the easy way they’d talked with each other, the promise of things to come. Things that might even have happened after Bobby had left the bar.

  Sinners must be punished. That’s the way God wills it. If I call for help now, she’ll tell them what I did and I’ll be the one who’s punished. Not her. I’ll go to jail, and she’ll be free to take up where she left off with him.

  He couldn’t let that happen. It was unfortunate, the way things had gone, but the truth was stark in Bobby’s mind. Mikey would miss his mother—but he was young. He’d get over it. She probably would have left anyway, if she rekindled things with her old boyfriend. They’d have taken off back to England, leaving Bobby and Mikey with nothing. Or maybe even taking Mikey with them.

  This way, the boy would still have his Daddy, and his loving grandparents.

  He watched Jessamy—his wife, the mother of his child—for a several more minutes as she lay on the cold floor in the spreading pool of blood, until her hitching, shallow breaths stilled. Then he hurried back to the bedroom to make a frantic call for an ambulance.

  As he did, he wondered what that betraying Brit would think when he found out.