Shades of Twilight

by Lind Howard

  He pulled the trigger again.

  Corliss skidded, her torso jerked backward even as her feet tried to keep moving. Lanette screamed hoarsely, and the pistol swung unevenly toward her.

  The alarm went off, the shrill, deafening sound painful in its intensity. Neeley’s finger tightened on the trigger even as Webb was moving, and the bullet plowed into the wall right over Lanette’s head. Neeley shoved Lucinda to the side, his free hand coming up to cover one ear as he tried to bring the pistol around. Webb hit him, driving one shoulder hard into the man’s stomach, slamming him back against the wall.

  With his left hand he grabbed Neeley’s right wrist, holding it up so he couldn’t shoot anyone else even if he pulled the trigger.

  Neeley shoved back, gathering himself. He was enraged, and as strong as an ox. Brock threw himself into the fray, adding his strength to Webb’s as they both forced Neeley’s arm back, pinning it to the wall, but still the man pushed back against them. Webb drove his knee upward, slamming it into Neeley’s groin. A choked, guttural sound exploded from him, then he gasped soundlessly, his mouth working.

  He began sliding down the wall, taking them with him, and the movement wrenched his arm free of their grasp.

  Webb grabbed for the gun as the three of them sprawled on the floor in a tangle. Neeley got his breath back with a high-pitched shriek of laughter, and only then did Webb realize that the shriek of the alarm had stopped, that Roanna had silenced it as quickly as she had set it off.

  Neeley was scrabbling around, turning his body, still laughing in that shrill, maniacal tone that made the hair stand up on Webb’s neck. He was staring at something, and laughing as he struggled, squirming on the floor, trying to bring the pistol around one more time—

  Roanna.

  She was kneeling beside Lucinda, tears running down her face as she looked from her grandmother to where Webb was struggling with Neeley, obviously torn between the two of them.

  Roanna.

  She was a perfect target, a little isolated from everyone else because Lanette, Gloria, and Harlan had rushed to Greg and Corliss. Her nightgown was a pristine white, perfect, impossible to miss at this range.

  The gray metal of the barrel inched around, despite his and Brock’s best efforts to hold Neeley’s arm still, to wrestle the gun away from him.

  Webb roared with fury, a great rush of it that surged through his muscles, his brain, obscuring everything in a red tide. He lunged forward that extra inch, his hand clamping down on Neeley’s, slowly forcing the gun back, back, until he literally broke it free as the bones in Neeley’s thick fingers popped under the pressure.

  He screamed, writhing on the floor, his eyes going blank with pain.

  Webb staggered to his feet, still holding the gun. “Brock,” he said in a low, harsh voice. “Move.”

  Brock scrambled away from Neeley.

  Webb’s face was cold, and Neeley must have read his death there. He tried to surge upward, reaching for the gun, and Webb pulled the trigger.

  At almost point blank range, one shot was all he needed.

  The reverberation faded away, and in the distance he could hear the faint wail of sirens.

  Lucinda was trying feebly to sit up. Roanna helped her, bracing the old woman with her own body. Lucinda was gasping for breath, her color absolutely gray as she pressed her hand to her chest. “He—he was her father,” she gasped desperately, reaching out to Webb, trying to make him understand. “I couldn’t—I couldn’t let her h-have that baby.” She choked and grimaced, pressing harder on her chest with her other hand. She collapsed back against Roanna, her body going limp and sagging to the floor.

  Webb looked around at his family, at the blood and destruction and grief. Over the groans of pain, the sobs, he said in a steely voice, “This stays in the family, do you understand? I’ll do the talking. Neeley was Jessie’s father.

  He thought I killed her, and he was out for revenge. That’s it, do you understand? All of you, do you understand? No one knows who really killed Jessie.”

  They looked back at him, the survivors, and they understood. Lucinda’s terrible secret remained just that, a secret.

  Three days later, Roanna sat by Lucinda’s bed in the cardiac intensive care unit, holding the old lady’s hand and gently stroking it as she talked to her. Her grandmother had suffered a massive heart attack, and her body was already so frail that the doctors hadn’t expected her to live through the night.

  Roanna had been by her bedside all that night, whispering to her, telling her of the great-grandchild that was on its way, and despite all logic and medical knowledge, Lucinda had rallied. Roanna stayed until Webb had forced her to go home and rest, but was back as soon as he would allow it.

  They all marched to Webb’s orders, the family closing ranks behind him. There was so much to get through that they were all numb. They had buried Corliss the day before. Greg was in intensive care in Birmingham. The bullet had clipped his spine and the doctors expected him to have some paralysis, but they thought he would be able to walk with the aid of a cane. Only time would tell.

  Lanette was like a zombie, moving silently between her daughter’s funeral and her husband’s hospital bed. Gloria and Harlan were in almost the same state, shocked and bewildered. Brock handled the funeral arrangements and took care of the others, his good-looking face lined with grief and fatigue, but his fiancée was at his side the entire time, and he took comfort from her.

  Roanna looked up when Webb came into the small cubicle. Lucinda’s eyes brightened when she saw him, then filmed with tears. It was the first time she had been awake when he’d been to visit. She groped for his hand, and he reached out to gently take her fingers in his.

  “So sorry,” she whispered, gasping for breath. “I should have … said something. I never meant for you … to take the blame.”

  “I know,” he murmured.

  “I was so scared,” she continued, determined to get it said now after all the years of silence. “I went to your rooms … after you left … try to talk some sense into her. She was … wild. Wouldn’t listen. Said she was … going to teach you … a lesson.” The confession came hard. She had to gasp for breath between every few words, and the effort was making perspiration shine on her face, but she focused her gaze on Webb’s face and refused to rest. “She said she would … have Harper Neeley’s baby … and pass it off … as yours. I couldn’t … let her do it. Knew who he was … her own father … abomination.”

  She drew a deep breath, shuddering with the effort. On her other side, Roanna held tightly to her hand.

  “I told her … no. Told her she had to … get rid of it. Abortion. She laughed … and I slapped her. She went wild … knocked me down … kicked me. I think … trying to kill me. I got away … picked up the andiron … She came at me again. I hit her,” she said, tears rolling down her face.

  “I … loved her,” she said weakly, closing her eyes. “But I couldn’t … let her have that baby.”

  There was a soft scraping sound at the sliding glass doors.

  Webb turned his head to see Booley standing there, his expression weary. He gave Booley a hard stare and turned back to Lucinda.

  “I know,” he murmured as he bent over her. “I understand. You just get well now. You have to be at our wedding, or I’ll be mighty disappointed, and I won’t forgive you for that.”

  He glanced at Roanna. She too was staring at Booley, a cool look in those brown eyes that dared him to do or say anything that would upset Lucinda.

  Booley jerked his head at Webb, indicating that he wanted to talk to him outside. Webb patted Luanda’s hand, carefully placed it on the bed, and joined the former sheriff.

  Silently they walked out of the CICU and down the long hall, past the waiting room where relatives kept endless vigils. Booley glanced into the crowded room and continued strolling.

  “Guess it all makes sense now,” he finally said.

  Webb remained silent.

  “No po
int in it going any further,” Booley mused. “Neeley’s dead, and there wouldn’t be any use in pressing any sort of charges against Lucinda. No evidence anyway, just the ramblings of a dying old woman. No point in stirring up a lot of talk, all for nothing.”

  “I appreciate it, Booley,” said Webb.

  The old man clapped him on the back and gave him a level, knowing look. “It’s over, son,” he said. “Get on with your life.” Then he turned and walked slowly to the elevator, and Webb retraced his steps to the CICU. He knew what Booley had been telling him. Beshears hadn’t asked too many questions about Neeley’s death, had in fact skirted around some things that were fairly obvious.

  Beshears had been around. He knew an execution when he saw one.

  Webb quietly reentered the cubicle, where Roanna was once again talking softly to Lucinda, who seemed to be dozing. She looked up, and he felt his breath catch in his chest as he stared at her. He wanted to grab her in his arms and never let her go, because he had come so close to losing her. When she had explained about her confrontation with Neeley over his treatment of his horse, Webb’s blood had run cold. It had been just after that when Neeley had broken into the house for the first time, and when Roanna walked up on him, he had to have thought she would recognize him. He would have killed her then, Webb was certain, if Roanna hadn’t awakened enough to scream when Neeley hit her. His idea of putting it about that the concussion had caused her to lose her memory about that night, just as a precaution, had undoubtedly saved her life, because otherwise Neeley would have tried to get to her sooner, before Webb managed to have the alarm installed.

  As it was, Neeley had been within a hair’s breadth of settling that pistol sight on her, and that had signed his death warrant.

  Webb went to her, gently touching her chestnut hair, stroking one finger down her cheek. She rested her head on him, sighing as she rubbed her cheek against his shirt. She knew. She had been watching. And as she had knelt beside Lucinda, when he had turned back to her after pulling the trigger, she had given him a tiny nod.

  “She’s asleep,” Roanna said now, keeping her voice to a whisper. “But she’s going to come home again. I know it.” She paused. “I told her about the baby.”

  Webb knelt on the floor and put his arms around her, and she bent her head down to him, and he knew that he held his entire world there in his arms.

  Their wedding was very quiet, very small, and took place over a month later than they had originally planned.

  It was held in the garden, just after sunset. The gentle shades of twilight lay softly over the land. Peach lights glowed in the arbor where Webb waited beside the minister.

  A few rows of white chairs had been set up on each side of the aisle, and every face was turned toward Roanna as she walked down the carpet laid out on the grass. Every face was beaming.

  Greg and Lanette sat in the first row; Greg was in a wheelchair, but his prognosis was good. With physical therapy, the doctors said, he would likely regain most of the use of his left leg, though he would always limp. Lanette had cared for her husband with a fierce devotion that refused to let him give up, even when his grief over Corliss had almost defeated him.

  Gloria and Harlan were also in the first row, both of them looking much older as they held hands, but they too were smiling.

  Brock pushed Lucinda’s wheelchair to keep pace with Roanna’s stately stride. Lucinda was dressed in her favorite peach, and she wore her pearls and makeup. She smiled at everyone as they passed. Her frail, gnarled fingers were linked with the slender ones of her granddaughter, and they went together up the aisle, just as Roanna had wanted.

  They reached the arbor and Webb reached out for Roanna’s hand, drawing her to his side. Brock positioned Lucinda’s wheelchair so that she was in the traditional place as matron of honor, then took up his own position as best man.

  Webb’s gaze briefly met Lucinda’s. There was a serene, almost translucent quality to her. The doctors had said she wouldn’t have long, but she had confounded them once again, and it was beginning to look as if she might make it through the winter after all. She was saying now that she wanted to wait until she knew if her great-grandchild was a boy or a girl. Roanna had immediately stated that she had no intention of letting the doctor or ultrasound technician tell her the baby’s sex before its birth, and Lucinda had laughed.

  Forgive me, she had said, and he had. He couldn’t hold on to anger, to hurt, when he had so much to look forward to.

  Roanna turned her radiant face up to him, and he almost kissed her right then, before the ceremony even started.

  “Woof,” he whispered, so low that only she could hear him, and he felt her stifle a giggle at what had turned into their private code for “I want you.”

  She smiled more readily these days. He’d lost count, at least in his mind. His heart still noted each and every curve of her lips.

  Their fingers twined together, and he lost himself in her whiskey-colored eyes as the words began, washing over them in the soft purple twilight: “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together …”

  POCKET STAR BOOKS PROUDLY PRESENTS

  KILL AND TELL

  LINDA HOWARD

  Available in Paperback from Pocket Star Books

  Turn the page for a preview of Kill and Tell….

  Karen felt the heat as soon as she stepped from the jet into the extended accordion of the jetway. The air was heavy with humidity, and sweat popped out on her forehead as she lugged her carry-on bag up the slight slope. She had dressed in a short-sleeved summer suit that felt too cool while she was on the plane, but now she was sweltering. Her legs were baking inside her panty hose, and sweat trickled down her back.

  Detective Chastain had been right about the airlines; she had made one call, spoken to a sympathetic, calmly efficient reservations agent, and found herself scurrying in order to get packed and to the airport in time to catch the flight. She hadn’t had time to eat before getting on the plane, and her stomach had clenched in revolt at the thought of eating the turkey sandwich served during the flight. She disliked turkey anyway; there was no way she could eat it with her stomach tied in knots and her head throbbing with tension.

  The headache was still with her. It throbbed in time with every step she took as she followed the signs to the baggage claim area. She had never felt the way she felt now, not even when her mother died. Her grief then had been sharp, overwhelming. She didn’t know what she felt now. If it was grief, then it was a different variety.

  She felt numbed, distant, oddly fragile, as if she had crystallized inside and the least bump would shatter her.

  The weight of the bag pulled at her arm, making her shoulder ache. The air felt clammy even inside the terminal, as if the humidity seeped through the walls. She realized she hadn’t called ahead to reserve a room. She stood in front of the baggage carousel, watching it whirl around with everyone’s bags except hers, and wondered if she had the energy to move from the spot.

  Finally, the conveyor spit out her bag. Keeping a tight grip on her carry-on, she leaned over to grab the other bag as it trundled past. A portly, balding man standing beside her said, “I’ll get it for you,” and deftly swung the bag off the belt.

  “Thank you,” Karen said, her heartfelt gratitude evident in her voice as he set the bag at her feet.

  “My pleasure, ma’am.” Nodding his head, he turned back to watch for his own bags.

  She tried to remember the last time a stranger had been so courteous, but nothing came to mind. The small act of kindness almost broke through the numbness that encased her.

  Her taxi driver was a lean young black man wearing dreadlocks and an infectious smile. “Where you goin’ this fine day?” he asked in a musical voice as he got behind the wheel after stowing her bags in the trunk.

  Fine day? Ninety-eight degrees with a matching percentage of humidity was a fine day? Still, the sky was bright blue, unclouded, and even over the reek of exhaust in this island of concrete, she
could catch the scent of vegetation, fresh and sweet.

  “I don’t have a room yet,” she explained. “I need to go to the Eighth District police department on Royal Street.”

  “You don’t wanna be carryin’ your bags around in no police station,” he said, shaking his head. “There’s a bunch of hotels on Canal, just a few blocks from where you want to go. Why not check into one first, then walk on down to Royal? Or I can take you to a hotel right in the Quarter, but it might be hard to get a room there if you don’t have a reservation.”

  “I don’t,” she said. Maybe all taxi drivers gave advice to weary travelers; she didn’t know, not having traveled much. But he was right; she didn’t want to lug her bags around.

  “The bigger hotels, like the Sheraton or the Marriott, are more likely to have vacancies, but they’re gonna be more expensive.”

  Karen was so exhausted that she cared more about convenience than cost. “The Marriott,” she said. She could afford a few nights in a good hotel.

  “That’s just two blocks from Royal. When you come out of the hotel, turn right. When you get to Royal, turn right again. The police department’s a few blocks down, you can’t miss it. Big yellowish place with white columns and all the patrol cars parked out by the fence. It’s in all the TV shows about New Orleans, looks like one of them old Southern mansions. I reckon cops still work there, since the cars are still there.”

  She leaned back and closed her eyes, letting the flow of words wash over her. If she could make it through the next few hours, she would go to bed early and get a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow she would feel normal again instead of so unnervingly fragile. She didn’t like the feeling. She was a healthy, energetic, calm, and competent young woman, known on the surgical floor for her level head. She was not an emotional basket case.

  Within the hour, she was installed in a room with a huge king-size bed and a view of the Mississippi River and the French Quarter, which to her disappointment looked ramshackle, at least from the vantage point of fifteen floors up. She didn’t take the time to unpack but did splash cold water on her face and brush her hair. It must be fatigue making her so pale, she thought, staring at her reflection over the sink. Her dark brown eyes looked black in comparison with the pallor of her cheeks.