Be the Death of Me (14 page)

At least for the moment.

Tucker

“No way.”

Ford, Billie, and I stand side by side by side along an empty sidewalk, wasting a Saturday afternoon staking out what I’m sure is the wrong address.

“He lives
here
?” Ford asks, mouth agape.

Billie opens the file she carries in her hands and reads aloud. “1480 Liberty Lane,” she recites, closing it again. “This is it.”

Ford gestures wildly to the structure separated from us only by a wide expanse of lush, green grass and a wrought iron gate. “But . . . it . . . he . . . where . . .” he stammers.

Even with the oppressive, gray sky overhead, the house before us is truly spectacular, a white Antebellum masterpiece with no less than ten lace–shrouded front windows. Four imposing columns stretch the length of its three stories, while a luxurious front porch wraps the house in grand extravagance. I can almost hear the theme from
Gone with the Wind
playing in the distance.

“Logan lives here?” Ford persists. “
Logan?
Logan, who never had a coherent thought in his life? Logan? Who didn’t learn to read until he was fifteen? Logan? Bane–of–my–existence–Cartwright? Lives
here
?”

“Guess so,” Billie says, slapping the folder against Ford’s bony chest.

I shrug and say, “I don’t know, Billie. Ford has a point. From what I’ve seen, the guy’s more likely to burn a house like this to the ground than actually live in it.”

She jerks her head in the direction of the mansion. “Well, hold that thought, cause we’re about to find out.”

Ford tucks and rolls his way behind a nearby credenza just as a mammoth SUV barrels down the driveway. The gate swings open to release the caged beast before the automobile makes a sharp left, and zooms off down the road.

“Follow that car!” Billie shouts with a certain measure of undeniable glee.

“You’ve been dying to say that, haven’t you?”

The three of us make a mad dash for Ford’s pathetic excuse for an automobile, which he’s parked safely out of sight around the block. Ford’s smart enough to stay a few car lengths behind, trying his best to remain inconspicuous while trailing our suspect. Though if I’m being completely honest, the ‘86 Chevette sticks out in the upscale neighborhood like a sore, ugly thumb.

“Can’t this thing go any faster?” Billie complains, reaching forward from the backseat to fidget with the radio dials.

Ford grips the wheel, his knuckles white with either excitement or dread. “I can’t,” he answers her, watching Logan’s car zoom through a yellow light we’re forced to sit at. “The engine’s really old. It could overheat.”

Thus is our great, high–speed chase, a sad hunk of shuddering engine and squeaking brakes. It reminds me of the story of the tortoise and the hare. Only this time the hare was engineered by some European auto genius and fueled by 600 horsepower, while the sad little tortoise may in fact have been run over before it left the starting gate.

“Hey,” I say, turning in my seat, a thought suddenly occurring to me. “Didn’t you say it was an SUV that tried to run Ford over?”

“Yeah, but it was black,” Billie answers. “This one’s navy.”

“It was dark though. Maybe you only thought it was black.”

“That’s right,” Ford says. “Everything happened so fast. It could have been navy now that I think about it. I mean don’t you find it suspicious he just so happens to have the same car that tried to run me over? Not to mention he was in the hallway the day my locker . . .” A look of insight flashes across Ford’s face the instant the words leave his mouth. “Oh my god.”

“What?” Billie and I both turn to him.

“I just remembered.”

“Yeah?”

“The day my locker was vandalized. Remember, Tucker? His hands . . .”

“What about his hands?”

“They were covered in paint.”

I search my brain for the memory, pulling the scene from the back of my mind. Ford’s right. I’d seen it, right before I’d thrown him into that wall. Logan’s hands
were
coated with paint, crimson, caked and splattered like a layer of torn skin. I meet Billie’s eyes in the rearview mirror. I’m sure her worried expression is the same as the one I’m wearing.

A few minutes later we see the SUV’s brake lights flash red, bringing us to an inevitable halt. It pulls alongside yet another upscale building, one with just as many columns and windows as Logan’s own house, but with a structured, more official feel to it.

“Where are we?” Billie pipes as we watch a man in a maroon vest dash around to the driver’s side door.

“The country club,” Ford answers with a noticeable sneer. “Or should I say, The Grand Kingston Country Club.”

“Yeah, but
why
are we here?”

The bleary–eyed, overly–muscled form of Logan Cartwright lumbers out of his SUV, tossing his keys into the face of the young valet attendant who greets him. While his attitude doesn’t appear to have changed, his dress doesn’t resemble anything I’ve seen him wear before. Gone are the jeans and ratty T–shirt. Gone are the boots and inexplicable biker gloves. Replacing them is a well–fitting, black tuxedo and matching tie, white collared shirt, and polished, black loafers.

I glance around at the line of cars Ford has inadvertently joined. As more and more people step from their automobiles, it becomes apparent that Logan isn’t the only one dressed for an occasion. Women in sparkling cocktail dresses and heels hang on the arms of men dressed very much like Logan, tuxes and suits designed by some foreign fashion expert whose name I probably can’t even pronounce. 

Ford reaches for the gear shift. “I’m getting out of here,” he says, hastening to shift it into reverse. The car behind him in line honks its horn in annoyance.

“Wait a minute,” I shove his hand away. “Let’s see what’s going on.”

Ford turns to glare at me, his foot pressed stubbornly against the brake pedal. The car in front of him moves forward in line. “Are you nuts? I’m not going in there!”

“We
are
already here,” Billie adds over the sound of multiple car horns blaring in the background. “We may as well take a look inside.”

“That’s easy for you to say!” Ford pumps the brake in desperation. His car has begun rolling toward the valet station, pulled by some invisible force in spite of his insistence to stay put.

“Tucker, stop it!” he cries, panicked by his car’s mutiny. “Have you lost your mind? They’re never going to let me just waltz in there!”

“You can waltz?”

“Just get out of the car,” I say. Ford’s door flings open at my suggestion.

After another moment of protest, Ford begrudgingly climbs from the driver’s seat and leaves his keys in the hands of the high school dropout who skids away in the beat up Chevette half a second later.

“Relax.” Billie skips up behind Ford as we make our way Mod Squad style to the front entrance. “This’ll be fun.”

“Maybe for you. It’s not going to be so much fun when I get thrown out for crashing a party I wasn’t invited to,” he mumbles under his breath.

“Always the optimist, aren’t you Ford?” I say.

Billie squeezes between the two of us and links a willowy arm through mine. “Mr. Reid,” she drawls in a
faux
southern accent, curtsying the tiniest bit. “Would you do me the honor of escorting me to tonight’s festivities?”

For a moment, I catch a gleam in her eyes such as I have never seen before, such as I have never even hoped to witness. It frightens me. It confuses me. It electrifies and strengthens and destroys me all at the same time. She smiles up at me and I’m lost.

Logan’s lost, too, among the crowd of couples stopping to either sign the guest book at the front door or check their coats with a woman waiting patiently in a small room full of hangers and tiny, plastic numbers. Ford’s right. He doesn’t fit in. More than a few heads turn his way as he enters the main lobby, a round room with high, stylish walls and a domed ceiling covered by gold lamé and milky white glass. A spotless marble floor lies beneath an army of high heels, loafers, and, I note, glancing down at our collective feet, three pairs of well–worn tennis shoes.

“Ignore them,” Billie whispers in his ear. “Just keep moving.”

We walk in a mock train formation. Ford up front, Billie next, me playing caboose. I don’t mind. If I extend my hand even the slightest, I’m able to graze my fingers over the hem of her shirt without her noticing.

“Excuse me, sir?”

We’re just outside the main ballroom when we hear the baritone voice beckon across the lobby.

“Sir?” it demands again.

There’s no doubt in my mind that the “sir” is anyone other than Ford. He turns slowly from the sound of clinking glass and low murmuring of droll conversation coming from inside to stare up at the figure glaring at him from the reception desk.

An older, rather official–looking gentleman with salt–and–pepper hair and bristle–brush mustache stands out of his chair, snapping his fingers for Ford to approach. The small, square nametag hanging from his jacket reads
Stephen.

“Y–yes?” Ford stumbles to the desk.

The man sits back down in a huff, folding his hands in front of him. “Staff or volunteer?” he asks with a slight lisp.

Ford responds with a gulp. “What?”

“Are you staff, or a volunteer?” he repeats, each word dripping with disdain.

“Staff?” Ford shrugs.

The man behind the desk tilts his steel colored head. “Staff entrance is around to the left. Please check in with your supervisor there.”

“But I don’t–”

“Its okay, Stephen,” a small, feminine voice peals. “He’s with me.”

Shannon Walters appears from beneath the curved archway, sweeping to Ford’s side in a blur of chiffon and silk. Her heels sound a pleasant click–clack against the floor as she walks. She’s wearing a blue, knee–length dress that flares at the waist and falls just below her thin shoulders, a far cry from the jeans and frumpy sweater we normally see her in. Her closely cropped hair is curled and styled to show off a delicate, pixyish face.

“What are you doing here, Benedict?” Shannon, for reasons I don’t quite understand, lights up at the sight of him. She either doesn’t care about or doesn’t notice Ford’s apparent lack of coat and tie. “Are you here for the fundraiser?”

Ford would have to be blind not to notice how pretty she looks in her gown. The royal blue works with her dark hair to bring out a natural, pink–and–cream complexion.

“Fundraiser?” Ford stammers.

“For the library, silly.” She slaps playfully at his arm. “I didn’t know your family were patrons.”

“Ask her if you can be her date!” Billie whispers in one ear.

“Ask her if she’s seen Logan!” I hiss in the other.

Ford’s mouth gapes open uselessly.

“You know what?” Shannon reaches for his hand. “Why don’t you be my date for tonight? You can meet my mom! Oh, and Logan’s here, too! Logan Cartwright? From school? He’s always at these things. Library fundraisers, the mayor’s gala, last week’s charity ball. Shocking, right? You’d never guess from the horrible way he acts around his friends. Do you remember that night I saw you in Fairway’s? He and I were working together to collect cans for the city’s annual food drive. A food drive! And he did all the artwork for the banners and signs we hung around town promoting donations. Can you believe it? He’s a really talented painter, and such a good guy underneath that whole bad boy, shower every other day act he puts off at school. I know you two don’t talk much, but maybe that can change!”

And without another word, Ford is led into the crowd, arm in arm with Shannon. “Help me!” he mouths, shooting us a panicked look over his shoulder.

I take a step after him only to find my way blocked by a blonde–haired barricade.

“Let him go,” Billie says, waving to Ford as he merges with the masses.

I shoot her a glance that clearly asks if she’s crazy.

“I’m not crazy,” she glares back. “He’ll be fine. This place is packed with people. Even if the killer knew Ford was here, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to try anything. And it doesn’t matter anyway. Logan’s not our guy.”

“How do you know that?”

“Didn’t you listen? She was with Logan the night Ford was almost run over. Doing a food drive or something. She even explained the paint thing. You heard her.
‘He’s a really talented painter’
,” she forces her voice into a mimic of Shannon’s. “‘
He did all the artwork for the banners and blah blah blah.’
Kind of disappointing. I really thought we’d solved this one.” She laughs and shakes her hair through her fingers. “But at least . . .”

“At least what?”

“At least we’re having fun, right? I know I am.”

“You are?”

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be? This assignment isn’t nearly as awful as I assumed it would be.”

“Thank you?”

“You make things . . .  interesting, Tuck. I mean, I didn’t think working with a partner . . .”

“Boss.”

“. . . could be like this. And then you came along, and you’re . . ”

She drifts off.

“I’m . . . what?” She’s opened the floodgates this time, and I’ll be damned if I don’t take my chance.

“Never mind.” she mumbles, heading back across the lobby, silver–blonde hair falling over her shoulders as she shakes her head in embarrassment. “Forget it. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Dammit, stop shutting me out, Billie!” I don’t even attempt to reign in my frustration. “Just stop!” I watch her mouth open in protest, or at least to hit me with a snarky retort. “I get it, okay? I understand. Letting everything slide off your back is easier than trying and failing. I know it can’t be easy, saving people when no one saved you. You have more than enough reason to be angry, but don’t take it out on the people who care about you. Talk to me.”

“You . . .” she stammers, unable to contradict the words she knows are true. “That’s . . . neither here nor there.”

“You’re wrong and you don’t even know it.” I smile sadly.

“I’m not wrong! And even if I am, why should I trust
you
of all people? You say you care about me, but how can you? I don’t know anything about you! You and Cap keep your nasty little secrets, and won’t tell me anything. Not who you were before you died, not what you did before you got promoted. Why should I trust someone who obviously doesn’t trust me?”

“How can you say that?” This conversation has taken a sudden, unwelcome turn for the worse. “Of course I trust you! I trusted you the moment we met, all those years ago! You stuck your neck out for me and you didn’t even know me. I was a stranger and you stood up for me when I had no one. It was fate that we met all those years ago. It’s fate that we’re together now. Nothing has changed.”

“What are you talking about?” she yells, flinging her hands in the air. Our conversation has turned into somewhat of a shouting match, though, of course, not one head turns in our direction. “How can you say nothing has changed? I’m not the girl who helped you, Tuck. I don’t even remember doing it!”

“Doesn’t mean you didn’t. You didn’t have to stand up to those boys. You didn’t have to get my school bag back, but you did anyway. You were so full of fire and strength and heart. You try so hard to put up these walls, to convince everyone around you that you’re untouchable.  That you feel
nothing
. Don’t blame what happened to you for your problems. It isn’t death that’s taken away your humanity, Billie.
You
did that

She laughs sarcastically. “Yeah, what do you know?”

“More than you think!”

“Like what?”

“I know your laugh never sounds the same twice.”

The words fly from my chest, freed by a desperation and need to hold on to hope that is slipping away.

She blinks away her surprise. “What?”

“Your laugh . . .  it changes. And you
hate
when people say they’re sorry and don’t mean it. And in high school you used to wear whatever color matched your mood for the day, and you always kept an extra shirt in your locker just in case you changed your mind. I know you were the only girl in our high school who agreed with Rose for kicking Jack off that door at the end of
Titanic
, but you cried the first time you saw
Milo and Otis
. And I know that even though you’d never admit it, Brian Cassidy broke your heart freshman year the night he dumped you at the spring dance.”