Dead Shot (32 page)

Family photos gleamed at him. Little snapshots of life come and gone—Nancy and Jimmy as kids, as teenagers, at high school graduation.

He spotted something on a set of shelves behind the sofa. Stopped, and parted the figurines in front. Hidden in the corner, but there, if anyone cared to look, was a wedding picture. His wedding picture.

He smiled fondly. Gloria always did have a soft spot for him. She’d been furious with Nancy at first, sympathetic to him. But, of course, Nancy was her daughter, and eventually they reconciled. But he noted she hadn’t kept a photo from the second wedding.

The last time he’d been here had been the funeral. The house had looked different—strange—with people crowding the small rooms, holding paper plates and plastic cups of sweet tea. Perfume had hovered in the air like church music. And the smell, that lived-in smell of onions and laundry and old carpet had been overpowered by it.

But now the familiar smell was there again, sending the memories reeling. Sunday dinners, football games. Ghosts of Jimmy and Pam, his ex-wife, and their baby, Scott, crawling in front of the TV. Of Nancy sitting under his arm watching him open birthday presents.

Why had he come? What did he think he’d find in the dregs of what used to be his life? Carlson had called last night. For the past two days the news had been full of the gala and what had—or hadn’t—happened there.

“You want to work so badly, I’ve got something for you,” he’d said. “General counsel at Tenneco.” He named one of the huge manufacturing plants in the wilds of Lewis-burg outside of Nashville. “They’re having labor trouble, and he’s received some death threats.”

Job was supposed to start tomorrow. If he was here tomorrow. Then again, he hadn’t gotten far in packing. The boxes still sat in a flat pile in a corner by the armchair.

He found the sarge in the den, staring at the morning TV news with the sound off. He wore pants and a sleeveless undershirt. Slippers. But he looked clean. Shaved.

“Hey, Sarge, it’s Ray.”

The old man looked up, blankly, and Ray held his breath. Then recognition crossed his face.

“Well, I’ll be.” A smile broke out, and he thumped the couch beside him. “Ray Pearce, you are a sight for sore eyes. Sit yourself down, boy.”

“Brought you some lemon icebox. Joseph’s cutting it up.”

His ex-father-in-law made a face. “Joseph,” he scoffed. “Jailer more like it. Keeps me locked up here, don’t let me go nowhere. No way to treat a man.”

“Mr. Mac, now, don’t you be getting grumpy,” Joseph said as he bustled in, a shirt in hand. “If we knew we was getting company,” he said to Ray, “we would have dressed more.” He helped his charge with the shirt but refused to button it. “Go on, now, you do it yourself. Therapist said you should try. Getting all lazy with me doing everything for you.”

Ray watched the sarge’s thick, arthritic fingers struggle with the buttons and finally conquer them.

“See?” Joseph said with pride.

The sarge glowered at him, but the younger man didn’t seem to mind. “Coffee be ready in a minute,” he said, and left.

“So”—Ray turned to the older man—“how are you? You’re looking pretty good for an old man.”

The sarge gazed at him with big, hopeful eyes. “Do you know my boy, Jimmy?”

Ray laughed. “Sure I do. It’s Ray, Sarge, Ray. Remember?”

The older man looked confused suddenly. “Ray,” he repeated. But the understanding was gone from his face. Once again, Ray was a stranger, the past not even a memory.

Joseph came in with a tray. Slices of pie on plates, mugs of coffee. They ate together in the den, but recognition didn’t return, and twenty minutes later Ray left.

“You take care of him,” he said to Joseph, who waved the concern away.

“Oh, don’t you worry about Mr. Mac. He’s going to be fine. Just fine.”

Ray nodded, hoping it was true. But whether it was or not, the sarge was no longer his problem.

The door closed behind him. Ray heard the latch click in place, like the last word in the final chapter of a long book.

Ray loped down to his truck, got in, and keyed the ignition. But he didn’t go anywhere. He sat and listened to the engine whir. It was like the distant buzz of the past, a constant background noise he could never shake loose.

He should take the job Carlson offered. Go to the office, catch up on the threat assessment. Figure out where in the hell and beyond of Lewisburg the plant was. Drive out there, scout around.

But he didn’t want to go to Lewisburg. He knew no one and nothing there.

So where did that leave him? Shuck the job? Go home? Start packing? And go . . . where?

He thought about the sarge and his broken memory. What would it be like to be free of your own history? Of those sticky ties that hemmed you in?

Why was it so hard to cut through them? He was a stranger to his father-in-law. Just as he was a stranger to Nancy and Jimmy. His reasons for staying were long gone. All he was missing was a reason to go.

He looked out at the street, at the small, neat houses. Not, he thought, like the lives inside. Lives that might have been small but were rarely neat. His own no exception.

But if he needed a reason, he had one, didn’t he?

Maybe. Could be. Possible.

He smiled to himself. Nothing like a little certainty to get a man in gear.

He jerked the wheel, backed up with a screech, and turned the car around.

Fuck Lewisburg.

He headed west. Toward Belle Meade.

49

Gillian woke with the sting of pain. A man was bending over her. He was slicing a line into her arm.

“What the—”

She grabbed for him but came up short because her feet and hands were bound. Taped down with silver electrical tape. The attempt jerked her body, though, and surprised him. He lost his grip. The blade, a thin X-Acto knife, slipped, creating a jagged cut in her arm.

She hissed, and the man looked up. Smiled. She saw those gray, dead teeth again.

“Miss Gillian,” he said. “So glad you’re awake.”

She eyed him warily. The face of the beast was like nothing she’d expected. Not huge and dark and animallike, but thin, guileless. Empty.

And young. Too young to have been the cause of her mother’s death.

He giggled. “You don’t remember me,” he said.

Her mouth was dry. Funny how that worked. All her life, she lived only for this moment, and when it came, it was like nothing she imagined. Not the monster she’d envisioned. Not the strong going down with the enemy. But weak and bound and with fear enough to suck her dry.

She licked her lips. “Have we met?”

Instead of answering, he pointed to the scars on her arms with the bloody blade. “How’d you get those?”

Second realization. He’d removed her sweater. She was lying in her bra on a dingy pallet blanket. Her jeans were still in place, thank God, but she was in some kind of large, deserted space. From her limited line of sight, she could make out oil or grease stains on the cold, concrete floor. Empty, rotted shelving in a couple of places. An old mechanic’s shop? Factory? She listened for sounds that might help place her location. Traffic noises, air horns, train wheels. Heard nothing but the labored breathing of her captor. And her own heart, huge in her ears.

“Who did those to you?” he asked again, caressing the bumps on her arms with the knife.

She tried not to flinch. “I did.”

He laughed, happy, delighted. “All by yourself?” He chuckled again. “That’s something, that is.”

She wiggled, trying to get comfortable. But she was lashed tight against something, her hands behind her. The tape cut into her shoulders and belly. “Can you”—she grunted—“can you put my hands in front?”

He looked her over, thought about it. “Soon,” he said.

The word promised much more than a change of position. It promised everything to come. Everything anticipated. Everything feared.

A wave of dizziness rolled over her. Leftover, maybe, from whatever he’d forced her to inhale. Or from dread.

He rose and wiped the knife on his pants. Stashed it in the tool belt around his waist. A squeegee and a brush both had special pockets. A handle to screw into them. A cloth. A gun.

Goose bumps rippled across her. “I’m cold.”

He touched her protruding nipple. “I see.”

He watched for her reaction, and she bit down on panic. “Who are you?”

He touched her other nipple. “Aubrey.”

In their bindings, she clenched her hands, digging her nails into her palm to keep herself perfectly still. “Aubrey, can I please have my sweater back?”

“You have pretty little titties, Miss Gillian.” He stared at them.

She swallowed.

“But, okay,” he said abruptly, and disappeared from her sight lines.

She had wild hopes of him unbinding her. He’d have to undo the tape to get her sweater over her head. It would be a chance to do something. Attack. Fight back. She braced herself for it, stoking her energy, drinking in air.

But when he returned seconds later, it wasn’t with her sweater. He held a heavy but worn cardigan, which he draped over her like a blanket.

He said, “I would have picked blue, you know.”

“B-blue?” She found her teeth chattering with failure and disappointment. She started to shake.

“For the picture. You chose brown, but my opinion? Blue would’ve popped more.”

She forced herself to concentrate, to make sense of what he was telling her. Brown cardigan. Brown cardigan.

A cry seized up inside her.

She’d draped a brown cardigan around a chair in
Kitchen in Suburbia.
Her mother used to keep one. Old and heavy with a zipper and a hood. Brown. She still remembered the smell of it. Pancakes on Sunday morning. Butter and maple syrup.

Her eyes widened. Aubrey was watching her, waiting for some pronouncement on his commentary.

“I couldn’t find one in blue,” she said at last, but she had trouble pushing out the words.

“If you could, you would have, though. Right?”

She nodded. Anything to keep him from touching her again. “Sure.”

He frowned. “No, you wouldn’t. Don’t lie to me, Miss Gillian.”

She shrugged, tired of the game. “It’s art, Aubrey, and I’m the artist. I get to pick the colors.”

“Not today, you’re not.”

“I’m not what?” Suddenly the fear and frustration overwhelmed, and she cried out. “Who are you? Where have we met? What do you want with—” Suddenly, crazily, the room began to spin. Was she dizzy? Drugged? No, she was turning. Moving.

Third realization. She was on some kind of pallet. And Aubrey was turning her around.

“I’m the artist today,” he said.

50

The Gray mansion looked sedate and quiet in the morning light. The protesters were gone, and also the reporters. Ray cruised up to the gate, glad to see the squad car still there. The cop inside changed with the day and the shift; this time it was Carter something. Or something Carter. A twenty-year man, happy to slide by.

He saw Ray, rolled down the window, and called over to him. “You’re not careful, Ray, you’re gonna make a rut in the road,” he said.

A rut in his life more like it.

“Thanks for the advice,” Ray said.

“No problem.” Carter gave him a mock salute.

Ray pulled through the gate and parked in the driveway.

A maid escorted him to the living room. The silk drapes still hung over the window that looked out on the terrace, bathing the room in a warm, golden glow that contradicted the icy glare in Genevra Gray’s eyes.

“Mr. Pearce.” She frowned. “I thought we were finished with the incident at the auction.”

“We are,” he said. “I’m here to see Gillian.”

She stiffened her back, an animal about to strike. “I don’t see what you could possibly have to say to her.”

“No, ma’am.” He weighed the hostility in her face. “I don’t suppose you do.”

He met her eyes, not challenging, but making it clear he wasn’t going away until he got what he came for.

When he entered, she’d been sitting at a small writing desk in the corner, leafing through a leather-bound appointment book. She returned to it, dismissing him. “She isn’t here.”

Uninvited, he stepped farther into the room. “Where is she?”

Genevra looked up as though surprised to still find him there. “I don’t know.”

He came closer. Wondered what he’d done to draw her claws. Step over an invisible line and eat at her table? Fall for her rich granddaughter? Ask too many questions? Which sin was the greatest?

“I think you do.” He smiled gently. “I don’t think you’d let her out of your sight without knowing. Ma’am.” He sat, a further goad to her hospitality. “I’m free for the rest of the day.” He put his feet up on a coffee table, leaned back, crossed his hands behind his head.

“That’s an eighteenth-century French antique you’re crawling all over.”