Interesting. Figuring that my current outfit wouldn’t impress anyone, I changed to business attire, the same pink suit I’d worn that morning. A little wrinkled, but it would do. Then I picked up the phone again.
Toby answered after the third ring. We chatted for a minute until Royanne came on the line.
“Hey, what are you doing?” I asked.
“The kids are making Play-Doh spaghetti, I’m making the real thing. What are you up to?”
“I’ve just been summoned to Chez Madison.”
“No kidding?”
“No kidding. I saw Karen at a luncheon today. She knew about Michael.”
“Whoa.”
“Yeah.”
I summarized the earlier events for her, and the phone call. “What do you suppose he wants?”
“I don’t know. I wanted you to know where I was, just in case. Because you know what’s going on.”
“You’re making me nervous.”
“I think I’ll be fine.”
“You’ll call me the second you’re done?”
“Yep.”
“What time are you supposed to meet him?”
I checked my watch. Six thirty-eight. “Seven fifteen.”
“If you don’t call me by nine o’clock I’m gonna ring your cell phone off the hook.”
“Sounds good.”
She warned me to be careful and I left for the Madison’s. I took Shades Crest Road through Vestavia Hills, passing my father’s house on the way. His car was gone. I crossed Highway 280 and entered the city of Mountain Brook.
Mountain Brook was an old town with old money. A city of Ivy League educations, country club memberships, and last names with numbers. Women who lived here spent their days playing bridge and tennis and were commonly known as Brookies. The course of my career had brought me into these homes, too. Child abusers weren’t limited to one social class.
Ifound the Madison’s street without difficulty and turned onto a long, uphill drive. Woods enclosed the property, and at this time of year all of the neighbors were hidden by the trees. At the summit of the drive were a large mock-Tudor house and a detached three-car garage. A crisply edged lawn was being watered by an automatic sprinkler system. I parked in the circular drive and walked to the walnut-stained front door, next to which sat a picture-perfect planter of geraniums. I rang the bell.
I wouldn’t have been surprised if a butler opened the door. Some stooped old servant with an appropriate butler name like Jeeves or James. Instead Karen opened the door, in the same white suit she’d worn earlier, but her eyes were a little more swollen and red.
“Come in,” she said. No other greeting. I followed her into the house. Lamps were on here and there since the sun was almost down. Karen led me to a living room at the rear of the house. Had I seen it in a decorating magazine, I would have poured over the picture, coveting the antique sideboard and marbletopped end tables. The sofa, armchairs, and drapes were done in a blend of prints of apricot and gold, the fabrics lush. I thought about Zander, flopping around and guffawing on Ashley’s sofa. I doubted anyone had ever done that on this furniture.
A pocket door sealed the room off from the rest of the house. Karen closed it behind us. Alexander Madison was standing at a sideboard when we entered, mixing himself a martini. The crystal decanters held various liquors that gleamed in the lamplight. He turned when we entered and held out his free hand.
“Miss Conover. Thank you for coming.”
We shook hands. “You’re welcome.”
“Would you care for a drink?”
“No, thanks.”
“Nothing? A Coke, perhaps?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
The contrived hospitality was driving me nuts. “What did you
want to talk with me about, Mr. Madison?”
“Please, have a seat.”
I sank into one of the armchairs. He and his wife sat next to each
other on the sofa across from me. A united front. Alexander continued. “I understand you are aware of our son’s problem.”
“The child he fathered, you mean?”
“That, and his addiction to drugs.”
I nodded.
“As you might imagine, the situation is quite awkward. I run a substantial corporation, and should the news of his problem get out, it could do damage. To me, to my employees, and to my family. Do you understand?”
Cut the supercilious bullshit and get to the point, I wanted to say. Instead I said, “I understand. What is it you want, Mr. Madison?”
“I was going to ask you the same question.”
“I want to find out who killed Michael.”
“His mother.”
“She was clean.”
“She had drugs in her home.”
“Maybe they were Zander’s.”
“He says not. And if you repeat that accusation in public, I’ll sue you for slander.”
The threat rolled off his tongue too easily. This was the message I was supposed to hear.
“Mr. Madison, I told your wife this afternoon that I have no intention of telling anyone about Zander’s involvement in this case. I’m not going to put it in the DHS record, nor am I going to leak it to the public.”
“And in return?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you want?”
What the hell? Did he think I was trying to extort money from him? That he’d have to pay for my silence? Through my incredulity, I sputtered, “Nothing.”
“Nothing at all?”
“No, of course not. Your private lives are no one’s business. Believe me, I know what it’s like to have your name dragged through the media. I’m going through it now. I may lose my job. I wouldn’t wish all this on my worst enemy.”
For the first time since walking in, I saw Alexander relax. The brow underneath his neatly combed gray hair smoothed, a tightness around his jaw slacked. Karen had been sitting with her legs crossed, her fingers laced around her knee. Slowly, the whiteness faded from her knuckles.
Over their shoulders, I saw the door to the room move. Just a fraction, enough to catch my eye. I thought I saw a thin, tan shoulder through the crack. Kaylin, listening in.
“Thank you.” Alexander said. “We’re trying to get Zander some help. He’s gone to rehab in Arizona. A highly reputable place. Perhaps they’ll be able to help him.”
I studied Alexander Senior’s tie for a moment. If I ratted out Zander and he found out about it, he’d never speak to me again. I weighed the options, wondering who would be the better ally. I moved my gaze from his perfect half-English knot to his face and said, “Mr. Madison, Zander’s not in Arizona.”
His brow wrinkled again. “He’s not?”
“Not as of Tuesday. He was at Ashley’s apartment.”
“He was?”
I’d thrown him a curve ball and he was reeling. “I’m sorry, he was. That’s how I found out he was Michael’s father. I went to Ashley’s apartment to see if I could find some clue as to what happened to Michael. Zander was there. He was high.”
“And he told you he was the child’s father?”
“No, he didn’t. I guessed. They looked alike, he and Michael. As a matter of fact, they both resemble — resembled — Karen.”
Karen’s shoulders began shaking as she put her hands over her face. Alexander made no move toward her, made no attempt to comfort her. God, what had having a son like Zander done to these poor people, to their marriage? Or maybe it was the other way around.
I opened my purse and found a small notepad and a pen. On a sheet of paper I wrote a name and phone number, then folded it in half and offered it to Alexander. “This is the name of a local psychologist. He’s very good. He’s treated a lot of families that are dealing with addiction. I think he’d be able to help you understand what Zander’s going through, to help you understand your role in it. Help you set the right boundaries. He might even have some fresh ideas about how to get Zander to try to save his own life.”
Alexander took the paper, opened it, and read it. For the first time since my arrival, I caught the hint of smile.“Dr. Christopher Conover. No relation, I presume?”
“He’s my father. And he really is very good.”
“I’ll bet.”
Both of them walked me to the door and shook my hand before I left, trust instead of suspicion shining in their eyes. Once on the road, I called Royanne on my cell.
“Was it ugly?”
“At first.”
“What did he want?”
“To warn me not to tell anyone about Zander.”
“Well, duh.”
“And to see if I was going to hold it over their heads.”
“Really?”
“Really. But I think it ended well.”
“All right, then.” I heard her yawn. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
“I’ll call you later.”
My stomach let out a loud grumble. I dropped into Baker’s and picked up a pepperoni pizza on the way home. My diet, especially lately, consisted mostly of fat and cholesterol. I admonished myself and promised to do better. Tomorrow.
Four slices later, I dialed Dad. We exchanged some news before I said, “A guy named Alexander Madison may call you soon. I referred him and his wife to you today.”
“Okay.”
He didn’t say any more about it. No surprise about the wellknown name, or questions. I knew even if Alexander and Karen called him, he’d never tell me. He was sworn, just as I was, to keep our clients’ information confidential. And we Conovers kept our word.
`
CHAPTER NINETEEN
My cell phone woke me up the next morning, its shrill song summoning me from the depths of deep sleep. I rolled over and grabbed it, hit the talk button, and mumbled something that sounded nothing like hello.
“Morning. I woke you up. I’m so sorry. I’ll call back.” Grant. I struggled to sit up in the tangled sheets. “No, it’s fine. What time is it?”
“Ten after ten.”
“You’re at High Tech?”
“Yeah. I hadn’t heard from you so I thought I’d call. Do you know
what movie you want to see tonight?” I ran a hand through my mussed hair. “I haven’t had a chance to see what’s playing.”
“Well, look if you get a chance, and I’ll bring a newspaper with me just in case. Do you want to eat first?”
“I don’t care. Whatever you want.”
We discussed tonight’s date, finally deciding Grant would pick me up at my house at six thirty and we’d see a movie first. We hung up and I unwound my way out of my sheets and plodded my way into the kitchen, brewed some strong coffee, and ate a breakfast of cold pizza. The best breakfast in the world. Just not the healthiest.
Guilt prodded me. I had all day to do something to counteract the effects of this horrible diet. I’ve never been much of a gym girl, much preferring nature’s hills to artificial ones created by a treadmill or a StairMaster.
I put my hair up under a baseball cap. Dressed in heavy twill shorts, a heather gray long-sleeved shirt, thick socks, and hiking boots. I found my small backpack in the hall closet and loaded it with two liter-sized bottles of water, some granola bars, a small towel, my trail map, insect repellant, and sunscreen. I grabbed my walking stick from behind the door and locked up.
Oak Mountain State Park was five exits south on I-65, almost ten thousand acres of outdoor recreation smack dab in the middle of Birmingham’s urban sprawl. Among the park’s amenities were a golf course, camp sites, horse stables, a BMX track, and, of course, hiking trails. I thought about which one I wanted to hike today as I drove. The trails all had names, but most people referred to them by the colors of the blazes that were marked on trees along the way.
I parked the Honda at the mouth of the North Trailhead. It was a bit less crowded than the one near the park office and picnic areas. As I shouldered my backpack, two mountain bikers unlatched their gear from a rack on the back of their SUV. We exchanged hellos and pleasantries until they got helmets on and pedaled away toward the red trail, the one most commonly used by bikers.
I entered the woods, the mouth of the trailhead an inviting portal into the shade. I met four other hikers coming down the mountain. It was just after one, and the lucky morning hikers had already done their miles in the cooler hours.
I decided to do South Rim, otherwise known as the blue trail. It started out as a difficult hike from this end of the ridge, with a brief, steep climb that eased up another five or six hundred feet over the next two miles. Once at the top, I’d be rewarded with gorgeous views of the double-ridged mountain. My plan was to hike the blue trail toward Shackleford Point Trail, marked in white. No way I’d do the whole loop, since it was six miles long. An ambitious hike to say the least, especially since I was getting such a late start.
I started up the hill, planting my walking stick ahead of each step. The path was well maintained, clearly marked, and wide enough for comfort. Underfoot, a soft mixture of mulched pine bark and leaves was interspersed with tree roots that made handy footholds. The underbrush of ferns, briars, and ivy was well cut back, making it less likely that hikers would take a tumble. White oaks, sweetgums, and flowering dogwoods all graced the trail, and the tall long-leaf pines gave the air a clean scent. Mockingbirds and squirrels chattered high in the canopy.
Hiking the South Rim gave me little time to think about anything but making sure one foot was in front of the other. My thigh muscles tensed and relaxed, and after a while my whole mind was focused on nothing but the rhythm of the walk. Plant, step. Plant, step. Breathe.
After some time, I passed the first connector to the Red Trail, hearing some bikers talking loudly over the whirring of their tires somewhere down the track. An hour into it, I stopped to rest on a low fallen tree. I took one of the water bottles out of my pack, drank half of it, then wet the towel and wiped my sweaty head and face. Zipped the pack up and started again.
Plant, step, plant, step. I hiked past a steep clearing dotted with pink-blooming mimosa trees that sloped down to a valley. The views of the mountain were just up ahead, and for a short time I enjoyed the relative peace of the woods.
The quiet was broken by the sound of another hiker behind me. A solo. Not uncommon, Oak Mountain was a popular place. His footfalls tromped through the dead leaves accompanied by heavy breathing. He, or she, was having a hard time.
I rounded a boulder. At the end of the turn, the smooth stump of a dead pine jutted up from the ground, a perfect place for another rest. I sat, the hazy sunshine flickering through the leaves, breathed deeply, and pulled out the water bottle.
The footsteps behind me grew closer, to within ten yards, then halted.
Weird. There really was no place to rest around that particular curve. No fallen trees or small rocks. It was a strange place to stop. Whoever it was obviously hadn’t hiked this trail before and didn’t know the good resting spots. I listened for sounds of his kit opening. Water gurgling.
Nothing. I took one last swig of my water, put the bottle back in my pack, strapped on the backpack, and hit the trail again. Sure enough, the footsteps started when mine did.
You’re being paranoid, I told myself. Just because some pissant slashed your tires. You can’t let one incident make you afraid all the time. There were probably twenty-five hikers or more on various sections of this trail today. Just because there’s one who doesn’t want to overtake you doesn’t mean you’re being followed.
The footpath leveled out as it followed the top of the ridge. This part of the trail was easier because it wasn’t as steep. I passed another connector that led to the red trail, but didn’t see any other people. I hiked on toward the connector that would take me down from the blue trail. Along the way, I’d stop at my favorite overlook. To get to it I had to climb up a steep outcrop of boulders. At the top was a large, flat rock that hovered over a broad view of the mountains to the south. Below the rock was a sharp hundred-foot drop to a woo
ded ravine. Being on the edge of the precipice gave me a delirious sensation of floating at the edge of the world.
I turned off the trail to the short path that would take me to my spot. The footsteps behind me stopped again.
I was starting to get seriously annoyed with whoever it was. Yes, other hikers had just as much right to be out here, but this stop-startstop thing was getting on my nerves. I wished whoever it was would just pass me and get on with it. Unless, of course, the person was following me on purpose. Ridiculous. Or was it? I needed to find out.
Feeling stupid even as I did it, I left the short path to the overlook and doubled back through the forest to a copse of trees that bordered the blue trail. When I’d made the turnoff to the short path, the other hiker had been some distance behind, thirty yards or so by the echo of his steps. I hid behind a thick white oak and waited.
The footfalls came closer. I could hear breathing again, more ragged. Whoever it was had no business being this far out on the trail when they were that out of shape. It sounded from the clomping of the steps like a man. A big man.
He came into view and my heart dropped, then sped up to double time as I caught sight of wild brown hair and beard.
Jimmy Shelton was following me. He was ill-equipped for the trail. I saw no evidence of drinking water, and the dark blue jeans and black T-shirt he was wearing were too hot for this time of day. His tennis shoes were wrong, too. He was heaving with the effort of every step.
I moved a bit, quietly, as he drew near, making sure I was well hidden by the trunk of the tree. I’d have preferred a bit more cover, but this part of the park was more pine forest than anything, the tight canopy not allowing smaller bushes to thrive. I squatted and pressed my face to the rough bark of the oak. Large black ants crawled around the base of the tree, toward my face. I waited.
He was within feet of my hiding place now. Eyes forward, thinking I was somewhere up ahead. As he passed, my breath caught as I saw something in his right hand. Silver and sharp with a black handle. A knife.
I held my breath. An adrenaline rush accompanied the realization that I was in serious trouble. My heartbeat thundered in my ears. I felt dizzy. Too scared to move.
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