BlackWind (12 page)

Bronwyn's squeal of passion silenced the crickets chirping outside the car. It stilled the rasp of the cicadas and the thrump of the bullfrogs on the far shore.

Sean's bellow of release frightened away the hoot owl in the tall cypress twenty feet away, and sent a family of raccoons and a lone ‘possum scurrying for cover.

Deirdre didn't look up from mending a pair of her daughter's gym shorts when her husband came back to the den. “Who was that, dear?’

“Put that down,” Dermot said.

“I'm almost fin...”

“I said to put it down!”

His shout frightened Deirdre so badly she jammed the needle under her thumbnail. She gasped, dropped her sewing, and pulled the needle free of her flesh. “What the hell's the matter with you?” she hissed, bringing her thumb to her mouth. As she did, she looked at her husband, and her blood ran cold.

Dermot McGregor's face was rock hard, his eyes blazing hellfires of fury. His fists opened and clenched so powerfully, the muscles in his forearms bunched.

“Dermot?” she whispered. “What's the matter?”

His glare latched on to her like an arrow driven through a target. “I want you,” he said, his jaw tight, his words clipped, “to get up and come with me.”

“W...where?” she asked, terrified of the unholy gleam in his enraged eyes.

She thought he wasn't going to answer, but when he did, Deirdre knew a moment of absolute shock.

“To the police station,” he spat, the words sounding vile as they shot from his lips.

“Why?” Then Deirdre McGregor felt her face drain of color. “Bronwyn? Has something happened to our daughter?”

Dermot stared at his wife for a long moment, striving to get his rage under control. He barely heard the panic in Deirdre's tone, hardly noticed her flesh turn as white as chalk. All he saw before him was a semi-circle of zigzagging light in his right eye that always signaled the onset of a migraine. The aura darkened and sizzled in his line of vision, flowing over that portion of his sight as though he were sitting under water. He could feel the nausea lurking at the back of his throat and knew this was going to be one hell of a headache—a condition shared by his wife and daughter.

Deirdre leapt to her feet and grabbed his arm. “Tell me!” she demanded, dragging on him. “Has something happened to Bronnie?”

“I'm going to kill that little bastard.” Dermot squeezed his right eye shut, but the aura was still there, disrupting his equilibrium.

“Oh, God! What has he done to our child?”

“Lying, degenerate, shanty Irish bastard!” Dermot bellowed, jerking his arm from his wife's grip.

“Dermot, what did he do?”

“He took her to Mosby's.”

Deirdre's hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God!”

“To
Mosby's
!” Dermot repeated, the word a curse.

“Did he...did they...?” Deirdre could not voice the question.

“Mosby called in her tag number,” Dermot said, running a rigid hand through his hair. “Said that boy rented the room.”

“Sean Cullen?”

“Who the hell else would it have been?”

“Where are they now? Was he arrested?”

Dermot grabbed his wife's arm and shook her so hard her head bobbled. “Why do you think we're going to the police station, stupid?”

“Is she all right?”

“The policewoman said she was bawling her eyes out, begging them not to arrest him. They've got her in a room waiting for us to pick her up!”

Detective Gail VanLandingham recognized Dr. Dermot McGregor the moment he came through the door. The man bearing down on her desk had murder in his dark eyes, and the woman walking a few feet behind looked as though she'd been trying to keep the man's murderous intent in check.

“Dr. McGregor?”

“Where is our daughter?” he demanded.

“We need to talk first.” Gail held out her hand. “I'm Detective VanLandingham—”

“I demand to see my daughter!” he snarled, ignoring the gesture. “We can talk later!”

Gail shook her head. “We'll talk now and you'll get that temper firmly under control.” She met his furious look with a calm one and pointed to a room. “We can talk in there.”

Dermot stalked to the door and flung it open. He strode inside as though he owned the room. His wife threw Gail an apologetic look.

“I'm used to dealing with irate fathers,” she told the wife.

“Is my daughter all right?”

“She's just fine.” Gail motioned the women into the room.

“I want the book thrown at that son-of-a-bitch,” Dermot snapped as VanLandingham closed the door.

“Dr. McGregor, you need to calm down so we can discuss this.”

“What's there to talk about? It's statutory rape, isn't it? And don't think Felix Mosby is going to get away scot-free just because he reported it! I'll have his goddamned license!”

A sob broke from Deirdre. She had not allowed herself to think of what might have gone on inside one of the vile rooms at Mosby's Dew Drop Inn.

“Your daughter never entered the room Mr. Cullen obtained, Dr. McGregor,” VanLandingham said. She folded her hands on the table. “Would you please sit down?”

Deirdre tugged on her husband's arm. He batted her hand away, but stormed to the table and grabbed one of the chairs. Sitting down heavily, he folded his arms over his chest and glared at the detective. “Did he rape her or not?”

“They both deny there was any sex.”

“Thank God,” Deirdre sobbed, burying her face in her hand.

The detective pushed a lock of ginger-colored hair behind her left ear. “We are concerned about your daughter.”

Deirdre wiped at her tears and looked at the thin woman across from her. “Why? You said she was all right.”

“She is, but your husband is very angry right now and...”

“Damned right I am angry! I'm furious! If I could get my hands on that little peckerwood I'd...”

“Be quiet, Dermot!” Deirdre yelled at him, though she kept searching the detective's eyes. “She's afraid you might hurt our daughter.”

“What?” Dermot shot to his feet. “I've never laid a hand on my daughter!”

“There's always a first time,” VanLandingham suggested, her blue eyes steady on him.

“No, there isn't!”

“She's never disappointed you in this way, though, has she? Made you this angry before?”

Dermot opened his mouth, then obviously thought better of what he had been about to say. He clamped his lips shut, sat down, and seemed to be making a conscious effort to control his emotions. When he rubbed at his right temple, Deirdre assuemd he was fighting a horrible headache.

“We've never spanked our daughter,” Deirdre said, “if that's what concerns you. We don't believe in corporal punishment. We won't start now.”

“This sort of thing is hard on a parent,” VanLandingham said. “Especially when the child involved is an only child.”

“We love our daughter,” Deirdre said.

“I'm sure you do, but in a situation like this, it is difficult for a parent not to overreact.”

Dermot sat forward, squinting. “I'm not angry at my daughter,” he said forcefully. “I'm mad at the man who damned well could have defiled her.”

“That is understandable, Doctor. It's my job to make sure that anger doesn't spill over to Bronwyn.”

“As I said, it won't,” he said, locking gazes with her.

The detective studied him for a long moment, then nodded, apparently convinced of his sincerity. She sat back in her chair. “We have another problem you need to be aware of.”

“You think they're lying?” Dermot demanded.

“We've no reason to believe so. When we found them, they were sitting in the front seat of her car, kissing. Both were fully clothed.”

Deirdre let out a long, shuddery breath. “I'd like to think Bronwyn's upbringing prevented her from doing something she'd regret.”

“So what's the problem?” Dermot snapped.

“I haven't told the young man this yet, but the Sumter County police have his mother in custody up in Americus.”

Dermot frowned. “His mother? What does that have to...”

“She was observed throwing a trash bag into the dumpster behind the high school.”

“So?”

“The track coach who saw her became suspicious. Considering she seemed to be having a tough time lifting the bag into the dumpster, combined with a license tag from two counties away, the situation sent up a red flag for him. He copied down her tag number, then went to see what she had thrown into the dumpster.”

“What was it?” Deirdre asked.

“A body. Or, at least, a portion of one.”

Dermot snorted. “Of an animal from their butcher shop, no doubt.”

Of her husband.”

Deirdre gasped and covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide.

Dermot slumped in his chair, obviously stunned. “She murdered her—?”

“Right after breakfast this morning. She admits she sliced him into several pieces with a chain saw in the bathtub.”

“Holy Mary, mother of God!” Dermot whispered. “Did they...were they able to...”

“When she was pulled over by the State Trooper, he found seven more bags of body parts in her trunk. We've found everything except the head. She won't tell us where she put it.”

Deirdre squeezed her eyes tightly closed, as though, by doing so, she could shut out the ugly picture her mind had formed.

Dermot drew in a long breath, then slowly released it. His shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “Well, the man used to beat her. Everybody knew it.”

“His son, too,” Deirdre added.

“I'm sure her attorney will plead temporary insanity,” Dermot suggested.

“Most likely,” VanLandingham agreed.

Deirdre opened her purse and took out a handkerchief. She blotted her forehead and neck, then used the cloth to fan her heated face. “Surely they won't send her to the electric chair. After all, he did abuse her. The poor woman probably couldn't take any more and just snapped.”

“We don't execute prisoners, Mrs. McGregor,” the detective said. “Not anymore.”

“I imagine I'll be seeing her at my clinic,” Dermot said.

VanLandingham nodded. “I'm sure you will.”

“Where is the poor thing now?” Deirdre asked, tears misting her eyes.

“In Americus. We'll be sending up a deputy to get her.” The detective clasped her hands on the tabletop. “My concern is how to tell her son.”

“At this point, I could care less about—”

“You are a physician, Dermot!” Deirdre snapped. “You swore an oath, or did you forget?”

“What is it you think I should do, DeeDee? Give aid and comfort to a hooligan who might well have molested our daughter?”

VanLandingham laughed softly. When Dermot's glower slid to her, she shook her head. “Sean seems like a nice, respectful young man. I would imagine the two of them let their emotions carry them away for a moment or two, but since neither of them went inside the motel room, one or both of them thought better of doing what they went there to do.”

“That doesn't excuse the fact that he took my daughter to that roach-infested, disease-ridden—”

“How do
you
know what those rooms are like, Dermot?” Deirdre interrupted. When his head snapped toward him, she narrowed her eyes.

“Everyone in a five county radius knows about that no-tell motel, DeeDee.”

“I'd appreciate you going in with me when I speak to Sean, Dr. McGregor,” VanLandingham said. “In your capacity as a psychologist and not an irate father. If you can't do that, then would you suggest someone else better suited?”

Deirdre held her husband's angry stare. She lifted her chin. “Neal Hesar is one of the finest—”

Dermot pushed up from the chair. “Where's the Cullen boy?”

VanLandingham smiled and stood. “Thank you for your help, Doctor.”

“Don't thank me,” Dermot grumbled, looking away from Deirdre's smug grin. He started around the table, but Deirdre took his arm in a light restraint.

“Remember—our daughter cares deeply for this boy. It doesn't matter how you feel about him. Treat him as you would any other patient.”

Dermot pursed his lips, but made no comment.

As Dermot and the detective walked down the hall, he spied his daughter in one of the rooms. He stopped at the doorway, meeting Bronwyn's worried look. He smiled faintly. “You okay?”

“Yes, sir.” She was seated in a chair, twisting a tissue in her hands. Her eyes were red and her lips were quivering.

Dermot looked at the detective and lifted a brow in question. When VanLandingham shook her head, he understood his daughter did not know about the senior Cullen's ghastly demise.

“I'll be back in a minute, Bronnie,” Dermot said. “Everything will be all right.”

“We didn't do anything, Daddy!” she insisted, coming to her feet. “I swear we didn't.”

He nodded. “I believe you. I'm just going to talk to your friend.”

“I love him, Daddy,” she said, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Don't—”

Dermot held up a hand. “Just calm down. We'll talk later. Right now, Detective VanLandingham needs to talk to Sean.”

“He didn't do any thing!”

VanLandingham looked to an officer standing nearby. “Would you get Mrs. McGregor? I'm sure she'd like to see her daughter.”

“Your mother will explain things to you,” Dermot said.

“Explain what?” Bronwyn demanded. When he turned away, she ran to the door. “I know what you had Bobby do!”

Dermot looked around. “What are you talking about?”

“I know you told Bobby Thompson to have some of his friends jump on Sean,” Bronwyn spat. “Did you think just ‘cause they beat him up he'd stop loving me?”

VanLandingham's brows shot up. “Is that true?” she asked Dermot.

“Certainly not!” He looked at his daughter. “I didn't tell your cousin to do anything of the sort. If he and his friends went after Cullen, it was something between them. Is he the one who put them in the hospital?”

“Five on one, Daddy. Two of them held him while the others beat him. Do you blame him for getting back at them?”

VanLandingham whistled. “Tough kid.”

“Like father, like son,” Dermot snapped. When Bronwyn started to say something, he waved her away. “We'll talk later.”