Aftermath Page 25

  “Let me help you up.” He edged inside and crouched, knees appearing on either side of me. I slumped against his inner thighs and let my head fall back until it struck his flat stomach. If I didn’t feel totally wrung out, I would’ve paid more attention to all that body contact.

  He slid his hands beneath my armpits and stood, hauling me upright with him. Getting to second base would’ve been as easy as shifting his fingers, but he remained a perfect gentleman. Cade turned me to face him, took a pair of sunglasses from his coat pocket and shook them open with one hand while the other supported my back, as if I were his dance partner. “Sun’s awful bright,” he said, “and you’ve been hiding in here with the mushrooms.” He eased the ear stems into place and leveled the lenses against my cheekbones. “Need help walking?”

  I nodded, mostly because I wanted to feel his arm around me. It was a good call on my part, because we didn’t get very far after we shuffled out of the garage and into the glare. Without Cade’s support, I would’ve pitched forward in lock-kneed terror.

  David Stark blocked our path. He leveled a pump shotgun at us.

  CHAPTER 24

  “Steady,” Cade murmured. He held me up along his right side, which was also where he kept his holstered gun. Because of me, he couldn’t get at it. Also, we were standing between David and the door set into the garage, so Tara wouldn’t have a clear shot.

  David’s deep voice seemed to boom in the frosty air as he said, “Thought you’d be in there forever.” He shrugged inside his heavy plaid jacket and wriggled his leather-gloved fingers beneath the pump shotgun. “I was starting to get cold. Bebe, fetch his holster and utility belt and anything else he’s carrying.”

  Bebe emerged from the shadows alongside the house and tottered toward us on the ice-slick pavement, her royal blue dress covered by a full-length sable coat I’d rejected while inspecting the hall closet. Her high heels were an even worse choice of winter footwear than my city boots. She refused to make eye contact as she approached. Face pinched, lips tight, she looked as if she were willing herself not to cry.

  I was doing the same, and my shaking had returned, forcing Cade to grip me even tighter. David looked at ease, aiming from about twenty feet away, as if he threatened people every day. In his books, some of his characters did—it made me wonder if he’d always wanted to try this for real. Because I wouldn’t let things lie, he was getting his chance.

  Scuffing behind us, Bebe whispered, “I’m so sorry. I never wanted it to end this way.” Her hands shook worse than mine as they edged between my ribs and Cade’s hip. She fumbled with the front of his equipment belt before finally managing to pull the leather free of the buckle and slipping it through the loops in his trousers. The holstered pistol, Taser, handcuffs, and the rest clattered behind us on the snow-glazed driveway.

  Next, she came around front, hands still jittery as she unzipped his leather jacket and felt its inside and outside pockets, only tossing a pair of gloves aside. She removed his hat, checked the inside, and, still not meeting his eyes, flipped that onto the pavement as well. I tensed, ready to grab her as a hostage and a shield, but Cade’s arm held me in place. Maybe he figured David wouldn’t hesitate to mow down all three of us, seeing as how Bebe had given Cade the key so he could rescue me. She’d probably told David a story about how Cade had grabbed it from her, but he’d be pissed off and suspicious for sure. Bebe backed away, head down, but David called, “Pants pockets and ankles. Come on, hon, don’t get shy on me now.”

  She added Cade’s phone, wallet, and keys to the pile behind us and gave me a pat-down for good measure. After easing onto her knees, using the fur as an expensive cushion, she pulled up his trouser cuffs to reveal calf-high boots and ran her fingers along the tops of them. She pivoted to face David and raised her voice: “There’s nothing more.”

  “Okay, let’s get them inside.”

  Bebe stood, brushed futilely at the icy ovals her knees had crushed into the fur, and then stepped gingerly behind us again. She gathered up the armload of Cade’s gear, making a keening sound that reminded me of a trapped animal.

  The chief called to David, “This doesn’t have to get ugly. Janet thinks she knows something, but she can’t prove it. Just like I couldn’t back in July. That’s why my report is so cut-and-dried. Drifter breaks in, kills Brady, I kill him—simple. We know it’s not, but I’m willing to live with the ambiguity. Always have been.”

  If only I had been as well, neither of us would be about to die, probably only minutes from now. Cade hadn’t shared his suspicions because he’d wanted me to avoid this very scenario. I whispered an apology to him, but he kept his focus locked on David.

  The author replied, “I don’t think that’s true anymore. She won’t turn loose of it. Gonna back you into a corner, force you to reopen the investigation.” He gestured with the shotgun barrel at an open door in the back of the house. “Now walk.”

  “I’m not interested in what happened anymore,” I said, hating the mewling terror in my voice. “I’ll even leave Graylee.”

  “No, darling, I think it’s a family trait, from your daddy to your brother and you. Some people just can’t let shit go.”

  The inclusion of my brother was a sucker punch. “What’s this have to do with Brady Jr.?”

  He took more careful aim at us. “Walk or die. Your choice.”

  The door David motioned us toward was on a line that kept us between him and Tara. I had to give her a chance. Hopefully she was only waiting for us to get out of the way so she could start shooting. Just one viable option occurred to me. With Bebe bringing up the rear, though, I couldn’t risk telling Cade.

  The police chief’s grip on my shoulder loosened as we took careful steps on the slick pavement. Looking down to my right, where my kerchief-wrapped hand remained clenched, I watched a steady drip of blood mark our reluctant progress toward the door.

  From behind us came the sound of a gun clearing its leather holster. Bebe had drawn Cade’s service pistol. Now two weapons were pointed at us. Did she know what I had in mind?

  I still had to risk it. Letting my right boot slide in front of my left, I yelled with feigned surprise and pitched onto my side, knocking the sunglasses off my face. Stupidly, I trapped my injured hand under me, and an intense, fiery pain in my forearm finally brought the tears I’d been holding back. My momentum pulled Cade onto his knees, out of Tara’s line of fire. I heard Bebe slip and then hit the deck, too, cursing.

  Near the door, David shouted, “What the—” before gunfire drowned out the rest. Beside his head, stone chips exploded from the wall. He whirled toward the garage and fired, then pumped and fired again.

  Tara shrieked. Her scream died down to a whimper. Then silence. At least, that’s how it sounded to me, with ears ringing from the gunfire. I had just gotten her killed. Now I had two reasons to cry.

  Cade touched my back and asked, “You know who the girl is?” After I nodded, he studied my tear-streaked face for a moment before asking whether I’d hurt myself. I tried to push upright, but as soon as I put weight on my forearm, a fresh wave of pain made me howl.

  David pumped the shotgun once more and aimed at us again. “Who was that?”

  Ignoring him, the police chief helped me sit up and cradle my right arm with my left. The thick coat sleeve spared me from seeing the fracture. He checked the pulse on my right wrist with two gentle fingers, nodded, and said, “You’re getting good blood flow to your hand. Run your thumbnail over your fingertips and tell me if you can feel that.” I did and could, and he told me it was another good sign: the lack of nerve damage meant I probably had nothing worse than a clean break.

  Cade hollered to David, “I think she broke her forearm.”

  “I don’t give a fuck. Who was shooting at me?”

  I wailed, “Her name’s Tara. She was Wallace Landry’s fiancée.”

  “Shit,” h
e barked, “that damn night just won’t go away. Bebe, make sure I finished her.”

  Bebe picked herself up and took her time walking to the garage in her heels. Dime-sized holes from David’s two sprays of buckshot pocked the building. As I watched her unsteady steps, I glanced at Cade’s gear on the ground behind us. I hadn’t seen her take his pistol, but I knew I’d heard her draw it. Then I noticed the bulge in the back of his leather jacket, at his belt line. She’d tucked the gun in his pants.

  Her heroics made me tremble again. There was no need to do what I had done—she’d already given us a fighting chance. Tara’s death had gone from tragic to pointless. Cade must’ve felt my shuddering, and maybe he knew why, because he stroked my back in comforting circles.

  Bebe disappeared through the doorway and came back out a minute later. Her complexion had gone from pale to chalky. “She’s dead, shot in the chest.” Her voice cracked. “She was just a girl.”

  David muttered, “They were all just girls. That’s why we did what we did.”

  I said, “But what does it have to do with my brother?”

  “Chief, get her up and inside. C’mon, hon, grab his shit and let’s get this over with.” He looked at the garage one more time. “Have to tell the cops I shot at a deer and missed or something.” He then felt the three white craters Tara’s bullets had gouged from the gray stone near his head and groused, “And somehow explain how the deer shot back. Fuck me.” He trained his shotgun on us again.

  Cade lifted me by the armpits once more, careful to make sure he didn’t aggravate my fracture. Shock must’ve set in, because the pain had gone from hellishly intense to merely excruciating. Sounds had muted, and I felt as if I moved underwater.

  I looked back, pretending to check on Bebe’s progress toward us but really seeing how noticeable the pistol was beneath his jacket. The leather seam rode higher than his beltline—the gun definitely showed. As we approached the threshold, I let Cade get ahead of me so I could block David’s view of the chief’s back. Even in this situation, Cade hesitated over entering a room ahead of a woman, but his good sense prevailed over his idea of good manners.

  When to act? David had a clear view through the entrance and stood just ten feet away. If I moved aside so Cade could draw, David would cut both of us down with a single shot.

  I stayed close behind the chief as we walked farther into what appeared to be a business office. It featured the same kind of large standing desk as in his writing space, but paper stacks of varying heights were mounded like white anthills around the laptop and on every other horizontal surface. Marked-up calendars and bulletin boards with clippings dangling from a hundred pushpins cluttered three walls. The fourth wall sported the exterior door through which we’d entered, along with flanking windows that allowed dusty light to stream in. To our right, a short hall led to his writing room, with its clean airiness and blaze of sunshine.

  “That’s far enough,” David said to us, closing the door. “Bebe, drop the pile on the desk. Afterward, we’ll put everything back in his pockets and all.”

  We still faced away from David. Cade tapped my thigh with three fingers, then two. At the touch of his index finger alone, I turned to face David, still cradling my right arm in my left, and partially shielded Cade, who pivoted in sync. What a damn shame—we would’ve made excellent dance partners.

  Bebe dumped everything on the table in front of David, who looked at us for a moment, then at his shotgun. He aimed it one-handed while he opened a drawer in his standing desk with the other and came out with a chunky, matte-black pistol that looked like a hand cannon. He thumbed off the safety and said, “Shotgun’s too fucking noisy and messy for inside the house. Besides, I think I’ve just finished writing this scene in my head, and it’s a helluva lot better than y’all getting blown in half. It’s always satisfying to create the perfect ending to a story.”

  Holding my gaze, he added, “Sorry you’re never going to experience that bit of writing bliss.” He kept his eyes on us as he leaned the shotgun against the exterior door. The fact that he still wore his thin leather gloves—no fingerprints or gunshot residue on his hands—gave me some idea of what he had in mind. No amount of martial arts heroics on my part could save us.

  Bebe had ditched her sable over a chair in the corner and edged toward the hall. She wrung her hands, eyes flicking between David and Cade. The royal blue fabric under her arms had turned black with sweat.

  “Janet,” David rumbled, “you’re a fan of my work, so you know I like my books to wrap up plausibly. Keep that disbelief suspended all the way through. Tell me how you think this sounds: I’m picturing a love triangle—a classic story everybody understands—involving you, me, and Cade. I’ll flatter myself by imagining you’d been with Cade but have now fallen for me. Cade’s furious and comes here to—”

  “Tell me about Brady Jr.,” I said. “What does any of this have to do with him?”

  “After I finish my story—don’t be rude now, I’m the one with the gun.”

  “No, not until you tell me about my brother.” When he started up again about the love triangle, I shouted over him, “Lalalalalala.”

  “Goddammit,” he yelled and shook the pistol at me. After a breath, he said, “Okay, fine,” and then grinned. “It’s another good story, actually. I’m assuming you now know about my daughter, Lisa, and my agreement with your father that started this town’s nightmare. Not to mention costing me my first marriage and Lisa’s love.” After I nodded, he continued. “What you probably don’t know is that Lisa and Brady Jr. were childhood sweethearts and stayed in touch even after Mary Grace took the two of you and hightailed it north of Atlanta.”

  He glanced over at Cade. “Chief, I don’t like that calculating look in your eyes, as if you’re deciding when to try something. Don’t know what you have in mind and don’t care. You can be dead right now or dead after she finally lets me spin out the story I have in mind. If I shoot you now, I’ll just have to do a minor rewrite, but I’m used to that.” He aimed the gun at Cade’s head.

  The chief put his hands in his jacket pockets and said, “I’m not planning anything. It’s your show. You’re in control.”

  “Damn straight.” He lowered his arm and pointed the gun steadily at Cade’s chest, looking as though he could keep it trained there all day. To me, he said, “Your dad makes his offer. I know you want to ask how could I and all, but I’m not going into that ever again. You’ll reach the afterlife soon—ask my first wife. I had to pay hush money to her for more than three decades. The bitch finally died of cancer last year, hallelujah. Anyway, Lisa tells Brady Jr. what’s going on and brags to me that they’re going to elope and live in Atlanta.

  “I call the boy and tell him I’ve seen the light and support their decision to get married, but I’m worried my daughter will be starting out in a hole, so I want to give him what amounts to a dowry. I meet him up in Acworth, outside his high school after class, and talk him into following me to a dive bar I spotted on the way up, the kind of place where they won’t card a minor as long as you keep the cash coming. I treat him to some burgers and drinks, get him liquored up good, dump him in his passenger seat, and drive his car onto a busy rail line.”

  As David recited the synopsis of what I realized was going to be my brother’s murder, Cade put his left arm around my waist to comfort me. The worst part was the lack of inflection in David’s voice—just talking through another plot summary. Who cared if the victim’s sister stood before him?

  He finished with, “I move him into the driver seat, pour more whiskey down his throat for good measure, leave the bottle at his feet, and hike back to the bar to get my wheels. Came up with the ideas for my next two bestsellers, so I didn’t mind the walk. What’s more, your father only learned about the ‘accident’ long after and never connected it with me. Broke the poor guy’s heart for a while, so I guess I’ve gotten my revenge twice now.�
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  The certainty of being shot to death in the next few minutes and the shock of my broken arm overwhelmed me so much I couldn’t fit in many other feelings. Between rage and sorrow, the heartache won out. Cursing David wasn’t going to save me, but my doomed brother and grief-stricken mother both deserved more tears while I could shed them. Cade held me up as I fell apart.

  My hiccupping sobs might’ve provided a good distraction for him to draw his pistol, but I knew he was afraid David would shoot me in the melee. Maybe I should’ve collapsed again to get out of the way, but the thought of landing on my fractured arm was scarier than a bullet blasting through me.

  David’s only reaction to my breakdown was a look of pride: his story had achieved the desired effect. Another notch for the master of terror. As I bawled, he repeated, “Lalalalala,” until I’d settled into quivering silence. “Now then,” he thundered, “back to our originally scheduled program. The love triangle: you, me, and Cade. Chief finds out about your duplicity and flies over here in a fury. Bebe and I are in the other wing of the house. Cade goes through the unlocked front door and discovers you lounging in the kitchen. Temper out of control, he snaps your arm. That doesn’t satisfy his jealous rage, though, so he shoots you to death and, finally realizing what he’s done, takes his own life.”

  “No booze?” Cade asked, still keeping me upright. “I thought that was your MO—you used it twice and then let someone else, or something, do the killing for you.”

  “I’m branching out, and hoping like hell it’s the last time. I’m getting too old for this shit. Let’s go to the kitchen.” He reached for Cade’s equipment belt and paused for a moment over the empty holster. With a look of resignation, he said, “Aw, hell, Bebe.”

  She turned and started to run down the hall as Cade shoved me aside and reached around for his pistol. David didn’t flinch—he shot Cade and then pivoted and fired into Bebe’s back, pitching her into a face-first slide that ended in his writing space.