Dead Right (37 page)

“Who told you?” Ray’s heart thumped in his chest.

“Mike Metzger was at the bar last night, claiming he knew Barker was twisted al along. Said this Hunter fel a agrees, that he believes Barker was worse than an adulterer.”

“What’s worse than an adulterer?”

“A rapist? A pedophile? He must think that suitcase in the Cadil ac belonged to
him.
”

“He isn’t suggesting Barker molested Rose?” The fear was back, the same cloying panic that had driven him to kil Bubba. If the police found out about Barker and Rose, they’d start asking questions about
him.
Then he might say the wrong thing, fail a lie detector test, unwittingly give away some damning detail. Or, if they real y started searching for evidence, the police might be able to prove he was as guilty as Barker, that he’d essential y sold his daughter for rent and groceries—and then participated.

God, there’d been pictures of him abusing Katie in the worst possible ways, even a signed confession. Barker had demanded it, or he wouldn’t let Ray continue with their sessions. He’d said Ray had to write everything down. That way, if Ray ever told a soul about their private indulgences, Barker would take the confession to the police and blame the whole thing on him.

Ray had been too addicted to deny him. And now he had no idea where that confession was. It wasn’t among the crap he’d stolen from Madeline’s basement. That was for darn sure. He’d scanned every piece of paper, torn the binding out of every book.

“That’s my guess,” Eastman was saying. “He’s been asking how much time they spent together. Whether or not you were around. What happened to your relationship with Barker there at the end.”

“He wouldn’t pay me enough for my work, that’s what,”

Ray said indignantly. And it was partial y true. Barker wanted to use Rose Lee, but he didn’t want to pay for her anymore. He’d been doing it too long, had begun to feel entitled. Then Eliza had found some of the magazines Ray had gotten for Barker, and the reverend knew she was watching him closely, so he went back to being the perfect pastor. For a while. But soon after that she shot herself, or Barker shot her—Ray didn’t know which—then he married Irene, and the opportunity presented itself again.

“He expected it to be free,” Ray complained. “Just because he was my pastor. But a man’s got to eat.”

“You’l have to explain that to Madeline’s P.I.,” Walt said.

“But it doesn’t seem fair that you should have to talk about it at al . This is supposed to be about Barker’s disappearance, and we know who was behind
that.
”

It was true. The Montgomerys must’ve murdered him.

Clay was the kind of guy who’d kil any man who hurt his sisters, right? And Barker had raped Grace. Ray knew it.

He’d tried to get in on the action, but Barker was different with Clay’s sister. He wouldn’t share. He’d been absolutely obsessed with her,
in love
with her, if Ray had his guess.

And because she was so reserved, so remote, Barker had probably been especial y cruel. Although Barker hadn’t al owed Ray to watch, to be a part of it at al , he’d once made a strange comment. He’d said that Grace wasn’t common like Rose Lee and Katie, that she’d let him kil her before she’d pretend to like what he did.

Ray supposed it was her stubborn resistance that fascinated Barker. But it was her budding beauty that had fascinated Ray. Particularly the budding part.

“I’m not going to say anything to anyone,” he said.

“Barker was a fine man. And Rose Lee was wel taken care of. That’s al there is to it.”

“Walt!” Clancy Jones, a partner in Walt’s tire store, stood in the doorway. He’d been working a toothpick through his teeth while waiting for Walt. But now he was growing impatient.

“Coming.” Walt got up. “See ya later.”

Ray lifted a hand in a halfhearted farewel . He had to stop that P.I., which meant he had to stop Madeline.

And he had to do it fast.

Clay was busy digging a posthole for a new stretch of fence along the back of his property when he saw Hunter cutting through his fields, coming toward him. He knew something was up. But he didn’t pause in his work.

“No one answered at the house,” Hunter said as he drew closer.

“Al ie and Whitney left for Jackson half an hour ago.” He shoved the posthole digger into the earth, squeezing and lifting in a rhythmic fashion. “Her mother flew up from Florida so Al ie and Whitney could help celebrate her birthday.”

Hunter found a clump of grass to wipe the mud on the bottom of his shoes, which looked like heavy-duty sandals no one from Mississippi would ever wear. “Why didn’t you go with them?”

Clay slammed the posthole digger deep into the ground and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Why do you think?”

The fabric of Hunter’s parka rustled as he folded his arms. Maybe it wasn’t brand-new but, except for skiing, this was probably the only time Golden Boy had ever worn it, Clay thought wryly.

“Why don’t you explain it to me,” Hunter suggested.

“I can’t leave town when someone just broke into my sister’s house.”

“You were going to trust me to take care of her, remember?”

“I don’t trust anyone that much.”

“I might be able to do more if you’d level with me, Clay.”

Clay started digging again. The memory of Madeline cringing when he touched her yesterday was al too present in his mind. The only way to ease his pain and guilt was through the kind of hard physical work that left him too exhausted to feel anything else.

“Wil you talk to me?” Hunter persisted.

Here they come, the same questions I’ve been asked
for the past twenty years.
Only now, for Madeline’s sake, he felt obliged to answer them truthful y.

“That depends on what you ask,” he said, but Hunter’s next words weren’t a question at al .

“Something happened last night,” he said.

Those words sounded even more ominous than the searching queries Clay had expected. “She’d better be okay,” he said, straightening.

“She’s fine. For now. But there’s trouble lurking, and I need your help to figure out where and why.”

“Trouble?”

“Someone sent Madeline a package.”

“To her house?”

“According to Joe, it was outside her office. He saw it and picked it up on his way home from the bar.”

“What was in it?”

Hunter raked his fingers through his hair. “A gigantic dildo.”

Clay tossed his shovel to the ground. “A
what?
”

“You heard me. Just like the one in the trunk of the Cadil ac.”

Clay had been hoping that whoever was harassing Madeline would quit after stealing that box from her basement. He couldn’t believe there was anything valuable or potential y damaging in it. Unless someone knew about the pictures Barker had taken and was hoping to find them before Madeline’s P.I. could.

“Who put that suitcase in the trunk, Clay?” Hunter asked.

“Barker?”

Clay didn’t answer. “The package,” he said a moment later. “Was there any message with it?”

“I think that was message enough, don’t you?”

“But from whom?” Clay whispered to himself. Who would do this? Barker’s sister, Elaine, was aware of the existence of the pictures; Al ie had shown her copies last summer.

That was what had final y brought the Vincel i family and his to a truce of sorts. But Elaine wouldn’t want to upset the delicate equilibrium that protected her from the humiliation those pictures would bring if they were ever made public.

Besides, Elaine knew Madeline didn’t have them. Madeline had no idea they even existed. So why would Elaine send someone over to break into Madeline’s house?

“Who stands to gain the most from what’s going on?”

Hunter pressed.

“No one,” Clay said. That was the confusing part. As far as Clay knew, he and his family were the only ones who had something to hide.

“If you want to help Madeline, you need to be honest with me.” Hunter was growing more insistent. “What happened the night Barker died?”

Clay knew he should fend off the questions, play the usual games:
Died? How do you know he’s dead?
But he couldn’t. He cared too much about Madeline.

Taking a deep breath, he said what he’d never dreamed he’d say. “There were other girls.”

If Hunter was surprised, he masked it wel . “Girls who what?”

“Who were molested by Barker.”

“When?”

“Before we ever moved here.”

“Who were they?”

“Rose Lee Harper and Katie Swanson.”

Hunter’s frown became more pronounced. “How do you know?”

Clay wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “We found pictures. I destroyed al the ones I found, but Al ie came across some more last summer.”

“Wil you get them for me?”

Again Clay searched for a way out and couldn’t see one.

This was the beginning of the end. And he was the one pul ing the plug. But he didn’t have any other choice. He wouldn’t al ow another member of his family to be hurt.

“Yes. Just be prepared.”

“For what?” Hunter asked.

“The worst.”

Madeline heard the heavy knock and knew immediately what it meant. Jumping out of bed, she flew down the stairs.

It was her father. She could hear him cal ing her.

“Maddy? Where’s my girl?”

She could see his shape through the cloudy glass inset and couldn’t wait to throw her arms around him. Putting her hand on the knob, she started to turn it, then paused, feeling oddly reluctant. Something was wrong.

“Maddy? Why won’t you answer me?”

She tried to respond with the welcome he expected, but she was no longer excited. A bone-deep dread settled in as she watched him force the door open from the other side.

Finding her voice, she spoke over the racket of her racing heart. “Wait! Don’t come in, Daddy. I’m not dressed.”

She’d used a lie, an easy excuse, but suddenly it was true. She
was
naked. She could feel her own skin, her bare breasts. But that didn’t stop her father. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, leering at her while he slowly revealed something hidden under his coat—

something flesh colored.

The dildo!

Madeline screamed as she sat up. She was in such a hurry to get away, to escape the degradation and pain of what she saw and felt that she’d scrambled out of bed before realizing she wasn’t in the entryway at al . She was real y naked, but she was in her bedroom, alone.

Gasping for breath, she looked wildly around. She could smel a hint of Hunter’s cologne, but even he was gone.

Calm down. It was just another nightmare.

Only this one was worse—far worse. And then she realized, dimly, that the telephone was ringing. Its jangling was probably what had drawn her from the clutches of that terrible dream.

Anxious to hear another human voice, she grabbed the handset. “Hel o?” she said eagerly, trying to slow her heart and regain control. But when her stepmother answered, she knew she should’ve taken the time to check cal er ID. She’d wanted to hear another human voice, but she didn’t want it to be this one.

“There you are. Madeline, I’ve been so worried about you. Are you okay?”

She didn’t think so. Her reality—her nightmares, too—

was getting worse. But she couldn’t admit it. Irene hadn’t wanted her to bring Hunter to Stil water in the first place. In a way, al of this was her own fault, wasn’t it? She was the one ripping off the scab that had for so long covered the wound of her father’s disappearance; she was the one drawing fresh blood.

“I—I’m fine,” she managed to say.

There was a short pause. “Why haven’t you been returning my cal s?”

Madeline blanched at the hurt and accusation in Irene’s voice. “I’ve been…busy,” she said. “
Really
busy.” The excuse sounded every bit as lame as it was. But what was she supposed to say? That she was beginning to believe Irene had kil ed her father? That she was terrified her father might’ve deserved it?

“That private investigator came by,” Irene said. “He…he has some odd notions. I hope you’re not listening to him, Maddy. I hope you know that—”

“What?” she countered, unable to avoid it anymore.

Her mother seemed startled by her almost vehement response. “That—that he’s wrong, of course.”

“Is he, Mom?” she asked.

Irene shrank from the chal enge. “Wel , that depends on what he’s saying, of course, but—”

Normal y, Madeline would’ve let her talk, would’ve accepted what she had to say because the thought of any truth except the one she wanted most was unbearable. But the questions in her soul had grown just as unbearable.

“He’s saying Dad molested Grace,” she blurted out. “He’s saying you kil ed him because of it and that Clay’s been covering for you al these years.”

There was shocked silence.

“Is it true?” she demanded.

“No! Madeline, listen. Your father was a—a reverend. He

—he didn’t come home that night, and—and there was a—

a transient and—”

She was babbling and crying—and
lying.
It had never been more apparent than it was at that moment.

Slowly, Madeline sank to the floor. Dropping her head onto her knees, she began to cry, too. “How do you know he molested Grace?” she interrupted. “Maybe it was someone else, someone he was counseling. Maybe you kil ed him for nothing!”

“Maddy, stay right there. I—I’m coming over. Clay’s coming, too, okay? Did you hear me, Maddy? I’m cal ing Clay.”

“To keep it al together for you, Mom? To help you convince me of your lies?”

Madeline hung up. She couldn’t stay on the phone any longer, didn’t want to hear the panic in her stepmother’s voice. She had to get out of the house before Irene arrived, before Grace and Clay showed up, too. They’d al come so they could convince her that she was wrong….

Without even bothering to comb her hair, she yanked on some clothes, ran down the stairs, ignoring Sophie who looked up from her food dish, and scooped up the keys to Clay’s old truck. She grabbed her purse, too, and left immediately. She couldn’t deal with the Montgomerys right now; she needed time to think. But her cel phone kept ringing and ringing.