Shadow nodded her head slightly. “She's still sick,” she admitted. “We were together in the state mental facility in Austin.” She had said it and she was glad. If he wanted to leave now, that was perfectly fine with her.
He drew his gaze away from the pool and stared at her. She couldn't look him in the eye. No matter how many people tried to argue that having mental problems carried no stigma, it was a damn lie. It was still shameful. It still hurt to confess to weakness.
“When did you get out?” he asked quietly.
Charlene took that moment to magically appear and disappear again. Shadow shut her eyes and tried to relax in the darkness behind her lids. “It's been a year. Charlene's been having more and more trouble lately. I hardly know what to do anymore. She hears voices, she tunes out the world, she's hard to reach.”
“How about you?”
Yes, how about her? How was she doing, that's what he wanted to know. Was she insane now? Slipping toward insanity again? Had the disease spread from Charlene to infect her too? If only he knew. . .
“I'm fine,” she lied, remembering the fugue states where her mind clicked off like a parking meter throwing up the red violation sign.
She opened her eyes. Turned to face him. “I told you my husband killed himself.” And my children, she thought, but did not say. “I couldn't handle that. They say I didn't talk for months. If it hadn't been for Charlene I might never have talked again. She was always there, Mitchell, watching out for me, protecting me from other women there, talking to me as if I could hear her.”
“She's a good friend then.”
“The best. Now, though, she's been slipping, and it's hard to know how to help her.”
“Should she return to the hospital?”
“Maybe. But I couldn't do that to her. She never abandoned me.”
Mitchell looked down at the pool again. “I have someone like that in my life too.”
“Oh?”
“Remember the bag lady I told you about? I've been watching out for her for years. I recently asked her to come and live in my house and I'd support her, but she's too independent. Or too crazy. She won't leave the street.”
“It was good that you offered, though. Not many people would.”
He kept silent. She reached out along the rail and covered one of his hands with her own. He turned to her then and drew her to him. She let herself be folded into his arms. How long had it been since she trusted a man this way? It seemed like a lifetime. She lay her head against his chest, heard his heartbeat, felt the pulse in his throat, smelled the sunshine smell emanating from the cloth of his shirt.
If only she could stay like this forever, held close and secure. If only she didn't fear betrayal and disaster waiting just around the next corner, ready to pounce.
“Let's go find your friend.” He let her go, but took her hand. “I think she's curious about me.”
Curious to know why you're still alive. Shadow reluctantly stepped away and led him into the house calling, “Charlene? C'mere a minute, I want you to meet someone.”
They found her sitting on the sofa in the big formal living room. She sat with her ankles crossed and her hands lying quietly in her lap, a schoolgirl on her best behavior. She contemplated the cold marble fireplace until Shadow said, “Charlene, this is Mitchell Samson. Mitch, meet Charlene Brewster, the woman who saved my life.”
“Hi, how are you?” Mitch stepped forward and held out his hand.
Charlene looked at him a moment and then she gave him her hand to shake. “. . . Uh . . . hi. . .”
Shadow watched, amused and relieved, while Mitchell put Charlene at her ease, even enticing her to talk a little. Soon Charlene was rattling along, calling Mitchell “honey” and inviting him into the kitchen for a dish of pecan pie with vanilla ice cream on top. The three of them ate the dessert at the kitchen table. Charlene and Mitchell hit it off and were like two old friends before a half-hour had passed.
When Shadow walked Mitchell to the door as he was leaving, she said, “She really likes you.”
“It's mutual. Anyone who saved you for me is going to be my best friend too.” He leaned forward and kissed her. “Meet me when you finish work at the Blue Boa tonight?”
“Ummm . . .”
“Go with me to my house, spend the night?”
“We'll talk about it.”
He smiled. “God, I love a tease.”
“I never would have guessed,” she said.
He laughed and she wanted to kiss him again, kiss him passionately. Instead she reached up and gave him a peck on the cheek. She watched as he skipped down the steps to his car in the circle drive. His car stirred dust into the air as he drove down the lane to the road. Then she heard someone breathing behind her, the hair on the nape of her neck rose, and she turned straight into Charlene's face. “Oh! You scared me.”
Charlene moved back to arm's length. “You're not going to kill him, are you?”
“No!”
Charlene released air from her lungs. “I'm so glad to hear that. I like him a lot. He tells funny stories.”
“He's a cop, Charlene. In Homicide with the Houston police.”
“Isn't that . . . dangerous? Having him around, I mean?”
Shadow shrugged. “It might be. But I'm not worried. No one will ever find out anything.”
Charlene looked unconvinced, but she didn't protest. She must have known it wouldn't do any good.
~*~
Charlene was cleaning the closet in her bedroom, bent over from the waist straightening shoes, when she heard on the radio news of another floater found near the channel. She stiffened, listening. A man, naked, washed up near the bulkhead on the Seabrook side of the channel. Authorities suspected another murder.
She backed from the closet like a crab, on her heels, moving so fast she fell backwards to land on her bottom. She hurriedly came to her feet and ran to the door, swinging herself around the doorframe and into the hallway.
“Shadow! Shadow!”
Shadow came from her own room. She was nearly ready to leave for the club when she heard Charlene calling her. “What is it?”
“Who did you kill? When did you do it? Why didn't you tell me?”
“Hey, slow down.”
Charlene let Shadow take her by the arms and hold her still, even though she felt like running around the mansion, pitching a fit. How could Shadow do this? How could she keep it a secret from her?
“They found another man”—she was breathless—“in the bay down near the bulkhead. You did it and didn't tell me!”
“Now, listen, Charlene, I didn't do it. Do you hear me? That was reported on the news yesterday and it upset me too. I didn't do it. Do you understand? It wasn't me.”
Charlene furrowed her brows. “But how could . . . ? What does that . . . ?”
“I don't know what it means. They say he was found nude and they suspected he'd been poisoned, like the others. But I swear to you, it wasn't me.”
“Not you,” Charlene repeated.
“No. I didn't do it. Someone else did. It's like—what do you call it?—a copycat thing, I think. I know it's crazy, but that's the only explanation I can think of.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I was going to, really, I would have told you. I heard the girls at the club talking about it, then I listened to the news on the way home last night. I've been trying to puzzle it out ever since.”
“It's on the radio! What does it mean? There's a copycat killer now? Oh, Shadow, we have to stop. This has to end. You need to tell someone. You need to tell Mitchell!”
Shadow shushed her and put an arm around her shoulder and said soothing things to her. But Charlene was suddenly beset with a barrage of voices, all of them male, all of them dead, all of them begging her to save them from drowning in the sea.
Twenty-Nine
Son stood in the doctor's office, his face devoid of emotion. Inside he seethed with hatred for the doctor. It tore at him,
like claws scrabbling through his innards, swiping pieces and gobbling them up.
“How long?” he asked.
“Six months. A year if she's lucky. Or she could go tomorrow. I'm sorry.”
It was his mother's heart. It was too old and ragged to keep her alive much longer. And doctors couldn't do anything about it. Oh, they could try to find her a heart, but by then she might be dead and, anyway, there were much younger patients waiting for a donor. Or they could try to put in an artificial heart, but she was so old and frail it really wasn't worth the expense since her chances of recovery were ten percent, tops. Nope. Nothing to do but let nature carry her away.
Son turned and left the doctor's private office. He met his mother in the waiting room and escorted her to the car.
“It's not so terrible, Son,” she said, once he had the car started and was heading for home. “I have to die sometime.”
“Please. Let's not discuss it.”
“But that's exactly what we should do. I'm afraid this news is more upsetting to you than it is to me. I expected I didn't have long left. It's not a big surprise.”
“You want to die?” He glared at her and then was sorry. “I didn't mean to raise my voice, Mother. I'm just . . . it's terrible they can't bother to help you.”
“I've had a long life. A pretty good life, on balance. I believe we live on after death. I don't know how or in what manner, but I don't think the light goes out forever.”
“Can we not discuss it?” He had the wheel in a death grip. His hands were sweaty. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead. He reached out and banged the heel of his hand on the dash. “This goddamn air conditioning!”
“Son!”
He bit his lip. He hardly ever spoke a swear word in her presence. “I'm sorry.”
“I'm serious about talking, Son. You'll be alone soon and I'd think you'd be happier without me to drag you down. It's never been fair and I know that. I've always been sorry that you haven't made a life for yourself, with a wife, children of your own—“
“Please.” He said the word so sharply she stopped talking in mid-sentence. Couldn't she see he hated to think about her dying? That he would miss her? That his life would be empty without her?
As much as he dreamed about her demise, leaving him to enjoy a measure of freedom without having to care for her, the pain at the thought of it really happening astounded him. She would never know about the things he had done, the depravity and sickness that pervaded his every cell. She would never be able to understand and forgive him unless she knew. But he hadn't been able to tell her and, once she was gone, he would have no more chance to confess. That's what it was. She wouldn't be there when he might confess, when he might need to confess.
He knew he couldn't do it now, or in six months from now, but one day he thought he could. One day he could go to her, sink to his knees, and say, “Mama, I've done terrible things. I'm not sorry I did them, but you need to know you gave birth to something demented and twisted.”
He could only tell this to his mother. He would never admit it to anyone else, ever. But if she died before he could find the nerve, the courage, then what would he do? How could he live with the thought he'd never share it with anyone?
He banged the dash again, agitated beyond description, hot and hurt and worried. Scared.
“Son . . . do you blame me? You know people die. Wanting me to live forever isn't reasonable. I've come to accept dying. Or as much as a person can.”
“Mother . . .”
“What is it, Son? Tell me. What is it you want to say?”
He gnawed at his lower lip, causing it to bleed into his mouth. He couldn't tell her, not now. If he had a few months maybe he could. Maybe before her heart gave out, maybe before death swallowed her into the void, maybe . . .
“I'm just sad,” he said. “I love you so much.”
He felt her reach across the seat and touch his arm with her old gnarled fingers. He wanted to cry. His eyes stung and he blinked hard.
He realized the tears were not for her, but for himself and how fucked up he was and how fucked up the whole goddamn world was and how fucked up he would be without her, without the possibility of forgiveness. It wasn't Christ he wanted to redeem him. Nothing supernatural could save him. Only Mother. Only the person he loved most.
Once at home and with his mother comfortable in her bed, Son went into his office to turn on the computer. He had an old novel from which he was copying lying on his desk. It was a tattered and yellowed antique paperback titled The Call of the Corpse. The cover showed a leggy woman in a red dress sprawled dead on a carpet. The pages were flaking at the edges—little coconut scales flying off at the slightest disturbance of air—and the glue had vanished from the binding. It had been published in 1934 by someone who never became a big name in the mystery genre. Although Son had to update the language and he changed some of the locales and names of the characters, he was essentially typing the book into his word processor directly from the page.
He sat looking at the paperback and thinking about doing the copy work today, to take his mind off his mother's deteriorating condition. Next to the paperback, however, lay a stack of correspondence he should attend to first. There was a renewal contract from his literary agent that he had to sign and return. There was an invitation from an anthologist for him to submit a mystery short story. He needed to write a short thanks-but-I'm-not-interested kind of note. He had never cared for short stories and felt copying them for submission was a waste of time, since the form paid so little. Indeed, what was he doing all this for if not for money and the freedom not to have to work in the everyday world?
There was a letter from a mystery writers' conference organizer who wanted to know if he would head a panel. He would not. He never attended conferences and he had never been to New York to meet his agent and editors or to rub shoulders with the authors of the Mystery Writers of America who held the Edgar Allen Poe Award banquet every year. Five years ago his novel had won the Best Novel prize, so he had them ship him the statue. He just did not socialize on any level with other writers or publishing people. Part of it had to do with being too busy churning out books to have the time for frivolous activities, but the chief reason was because he didn't want to answer questions. Would a real writer discover his subterfuge?
One of those writers at a conference might actually be well-read enough to someday notice one of his books was plagiarized from an old, out-of-print novel. And then where would he be? Without work of any sort. Without an income. He'd have to pay back all the money he'd taken from publishers. They might prosecute . . .
How could he go to work like other people? He couldn't. His rage against the human race boiled too close to the surface to permit him to interact with other people on a daily basis. He'd lose his mind. He'd take up an assault rifle and mow down everyone in an office building. And that's where he would have to work if he could not sell his books. In an office, typing reports or entering data on a computer like all the other numb, brainless hordes of white collar workers.
No, he had to refuse the panel invitation, send the note to the anthologist, sign the agency renewal contract, and perhaps then he could return to work on this new book he had under contract. All of these petty duties would help keep his mind occupied.
As long as Mother did not call out for him. Or die while he was looking the other way . . .
~*~
The night was as muggy as only the semi-tropical summer climate in Houston could be. Late-night drivers wove slowly through the streets, semi-trucks hauling produce into market from the “Valley” in South Texas lumbered restlessly down the avenues. Overhead, a pale gray, three-quarter moon ducked in and out through scudding cloud cover.
“Lookit the scandalous, man. We ought to bust her. Hey, Ray-Man, get the breakdown.”
Big Mac heard the Spanish-accented voice intrude on her dream—she was lying beneath a big blooming apple tree, watching bees pollinate the blossoms. She could s
mell the sweet scent of spring flowers, the crushed fragrant grass beneath her head.
“Wake you, bitch!”
Big Mac struggled up from the dream into the dark, humid alleyway. She opened her eyes, blinked, saw figures surrounding her, spears of darkness blacker than the night. She rolled over and stumbled to her feet. She found herself cornered by a Hispanic gang. Sleep still owned her vision and made it blurry, but her mind came suddenly alert. She felt the siren of danger wailing through her veins.
“You boys get on outta here. Leave me ‘lone.” She stood shakily behind her shopping cart, holding tightly to the handle. All thought of the pleasant dream was gone. Fear of the present situation displaced apple blossoms, grass, sunny days, and comfort.
“She sho is a lizard-butt. Might be fun taking her down.”
The one called Ray-Man came from the Chevy lowrider with a shotgun. “I got the breakdown,” he said.
Mac realized he meant the weapon; it looked like a sawed-off shotgun. Idiot-ass kids and their instruments of death. “I don't have no money, y'all know that. Now get on away from here.”
“Man, she is one eastly mother, she so eastly she need her face mashed down.”
There were five of them grouped in a semicircle around her. She had her back to the brick wall of a building and her cart in front of her. Could she shove through them? Could she talk them out of whatever they had in mind?
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