Deadly Charm (6 page)

In that lonely parking lot, I told myself to buck up. I righted my blouse as best I could and buttoned my coat again. I had to be strong. When Jazz and I met, we'd made rules to keep us safe. Sometimes we broke them, but other times we abided in a wild, green, springtime place that made it possible for us to grow a friendship.

I had a lot to talk to God about when we had our private time, but for now I had to go home and rest a moment, then hurry back to Rocky's house. I had hurt him, but he'd put that aside and come back to me. And when he thought my husband and I needed him, Rocky showed up at my intervention. I may have felt powerless when it came to Jazz, but I could walk Rocky through whatever sorrow had come to visit him.

That I could do.

I
ARRIVED AT THE
R
OCK
H
OUSE HOUSE
, and reporters—both local and national—had gathered, including CNN. I stepped out of my Love Bug and immediately the press surged at me, shoving at least a half-dozen microphones in my face. I remembered what Jazz had taught me, looked straight ahead, and said absolutely nothing.

I made it to the door, but I had to wait a long time before Rocky cracked it open and let me ease inside.

He slammed and locked the door behind me. I'd never seen Rocky so stressed. In the two years he'd been a pastor, he'd lost members when people went to other churches or moved away. He'd even had an unfortunate church split. Rocky had married church members but never buried anyone. Poor Zeekie would be Rocky's first funeral.
Lord, have mercy
.

I couldn't bear the sadness shadowing Rocky's handsome face. I've teased him about his eyes, bright and affecting as a toddler's. Now his silent tears flowed freely. I took him in my arms and held on to him. My own sadness, which I had tried to hold in check, spilled out of me anyway.

“What happened, Rock?”

“He drowned in the bathtub.”

“But how?”

“Sister Lou said the kids were giving him a bath.”

“Where are they?”

Rocky walked me into the dining room, wiping his eyes. The Rock House had the support of some of Ann Arbor's wealthier citizens. Some had donated lovely, classic furniture. The dining table could seat ten, but was empty of people except for Sister Lou, her arms on the shoulders of an inconsolable teenage girl. Sister Lou paid me no mind, but the girl looked up at me, regarded me briefly with a tearful gaze, and put her head back down.

She, too, looked like her father, but far too old to be his young wife's child. A boy, maybe twelve years old, clung to her. Another Thunder kid.

I left the children to their grief, effectively delaying having to deal with Chantilly Lou. I took Rocky's hand and guided him back to the foyer.

“How old are they?”

“Fifteen and twelve.”

“Did they leave Zeekie alone?”

“They said just for a few minutes.”

“Why'd they leave him?”

“Zeke—not his dad, the little guy, not the baby Zeekie, either—had to use the bathroom, and so Zekia stepped out. He closed the shower curtain, used the bathroom, and left. He thought Zekia would go right back in behind him, so he went back into the living room to play his PSP. That's when little Zeekie was alone.”

“So, Zeke is the twelve year old—his name is Zeke, too, right?”

“Right.”

“And the girl's name is Zekia?”

“Yeah.”

“Are there any more Zekes?”

“All of his kids are named Zeke, babe.”

“Excuse me?”

“All of them are Zekes. All the guys are named Ezekiel, and the girls are some variation on Zeke: Zekia, Zekiah.”

“Don't tell me anymore. That's way too George Foreman.” I sighed. “So, twelve-year-old Zeke closed the shower curtain, used the bathroom, and left him?”

“Right.”

I shook my head. “That can't be right.”

“That's what the kids told me. Maybe you can talk to them when they aren't so upset.”

“Or when that gargoyle isn't hovering over them.”

“Babe, that's not very kind.”

“You're right. I apologize to gargoyles everywhere.”

“If you're just going to give attitude…”

I waited to see what he'd say.

He paused. Looked away from me, then back. “I'm sorry, Bell.”

“Me, too, Rock. I'm here for you.” I swallowed hard before I let what I needed to say next come out of my mouth. “And for your godfather.”

Rocky managed something reminiscent of a smile. He pulled
me into a bear hug. “Thanks so much, babe. Will you talk to the kids when they're ready?”

“Sure, Rocky.”

“I trust you. You know?”

I put my hand on his cheek. “I know. I won't let you down.”

He nodded. We heard a tiny feminine voice squeak out, “Um. Rocky?” Both of our attentions turned toward the dining room.

Very pregnant Elisa St. James stood in the doorway. I hadn't seen her since the day I'd gone to the Rock House and caught Rocky serenading her baby with the arrangement of “All the Pretty Little Horses” he'd composed for
my
baby. The baby I'd never have. She looked at me like she thought I owed her a beatdown.

I looked at her. This pretty young woman, a wheat-colored, green-eyed sistah, had saved my life. In an act of extraordinary bravery, she trusted me and fled the cult that would destroy us both. And she believed I saved hers since I gave her courage to leave. She'd probably give my buddy happiness he'd never have with me. I thought of all I knew about both of them. I should have matched them myself, only I was too busy holding on to the sad remains of what Rocky and I once had, and missing out on everything God had graciously put right in front of me.

I beckoned her over, and she flew into my arms and sobbed. I rubbed her hair. “Are you okay, sweetie?”

“I thought you were mad at me.”

“Why would I be mad at you? Because this great guy sings you songs?”

I pulled away enough to look into her shiny green eyes. She didn't say anything.

“Elisa, you are one lucky—no, blessed—woman. I know things have been a little confusing for all of us, but look at what you've come through. Look at what you've survived already just getting away from Gabriel. He totally controlled your mind. Do you realize how few people in your circumstance would have left him like you did? I'm not mad. I'm your biggest fan, Okay?”

She nodded and charged at me again. That woman hugged me so hard I thought she'd hurt her baby. She cried into my coat collar. “It's so sad about Zeekie.”

“I know.” And we cried some more. In fact, Elisa and I cried an inordinate amount of time. I'd totally abandoned any professional presentation. But God knows we needed to have that little chat, and I felt like I needed to cry for Little Zeekie, for my own dead child, and now for my dead womb.

Elisa and I finally tore ourselves away from each other. I asked Rocky where Ezekiel Senior was.

“He and Nikki went to the morgue.”

What irony. I lived in Ann Arbor, but had no access to the morgue there. Didn't live in Detroit and virtually had a free pass because of Carly.

There had to be a way for me to find out what that autopsy would reveal, because, try as I might, I was having a hard time seeing a precocious, total firecracker like Zeekie, almost three years old, drowning in a bathtub. I had to talk to Zeke and Zekia.

Gonna need a little help here, Jesus
.

“We'll figure it all out,” I said in the professional, reassuring tone I used at work, both at my job at the Washtenaw County Jail and at my private practice. I'd switched to psychologist mode
as much for me as for Rocky and Elisa. I could handle just about anything except someone hurting a child.

I hobbled back to the dining room one more time and peeked in. Sister Lou stared at me with her stony gargoyle gaze, like I was about to violate the church she stood watch over.

Something strange about that woman. More than cast-out-devil strange
.

Whatever. I'd have to come back. My ankle begged for relief. Maybe I'd have more success when the parents got back, anyway.

I thought about that. The infamous Ezekiel Thunder, claiming before his son's rigor mortis had set in that God would raise that baby from the dead. No, I doubted if I'd have any more success with them.

Be wise as a serpent. Harmless as a dove
.

“Aren't I always?” I replied to that still, small voice of warning.

God went silent on me in answer.

Oh, yeah. This was going to be interesting.

F
ATIGUE OVERTOOK ME
as I stepped into my apartment and closed the door behind me. I removed my coat, shoes, and hosiery, right there in the foyer. I worked my way to the bathroom, which I seemed to have to do every half hour, and finally to my bedroom. I laid my blouse across the chair beside the chest of drawers, right next to my great-grandmother's Star of Bethlehem quilt. Not much in this world offered the comfort that protective covering did. At times it had been my shield and armor. Sometimes it served as arms to hold me, other times as something to keep me warm.

Maybe it could be all of those now. I cradled it against my chest. I crawled into bed without bothering to put on my pajamas and wrapped the quilt around me. I scooted under the comforter and felt so safe and warm that I promptly fell asleep.

I wake up screaming.

I felt arms around me—real arms, instead of my great-grandmother's quilt. My eyes hadn't adjusted in the dark room, and I screamed like a madwoman, especially since I distinctly remembered going to bed alone. Adrenaline rushed through me, even though I hadn't fully awakened, and I pummeled my intruder with desperate punches until his arms clamped around me.

“Bell, it's Jazz. Stop hitting me.”

“Jazz?”
My body realized the truth of his statement before my mind. His scent, mingled with cigar smoke and faint traces of Jack Daniels invaded my senses. He loosened his grip a bit.

“I've got you,” he murmured in my ear.

Still, my heart nearly burst out of my chest.

“What are you doing here?” I yelled, not intending to.

“I was asleep, until you had a nightmare.”

“I don't mean what you're
doing
! I want to know how you got in here.”

“You didn't lock the door.”

“Not at
all
?” Oh, man. I must have been
really
tired.

“No, you didn't. What if I was some kind of psychopath?”

“According to the people I met with this morning, the jury is still out on that.”

If his expression was any indicator—eyes narrowed, brows furrowed—I'd confused him. “What people? What are you talking about?”

“Never mind.” I shuddered to think I had slept like Goldilocks while Jazz, or anyone, could enter my apartment without me noticing. “I can't believe you came inside my apartment and got in bed with me.”

“You didn't notice when I touched you, either.”

I realized I wasn't fully dressed and pulled the quilt around me more. “What did you do, Jazz Brown?”

“I
am
still married to you.”

“Where did you touch me?”

“You know, the scriptures say the marriage bed is undefiled. And this, if I remember correctly, and I most certainly do, is our marriage bed.”

“Jazz, quit playing. Where did you touch me?”

He rolled over away from me. Laughed. “Maybe I didn't touch you at all. Maybe I just wanted to see what your reaction would be so I can gauge whether or not I can get away with it if the opportunity comes up again.”

“Didn't you get enough at the station house today?”

“Apparently not.”

“You totally humiliated me.”

He blew a burst of air from his cheeks. Brushed his curls with his hand. “I know. I came to say I'm sorry.”

“Whatever! Just leave me alone.”

He sighed. Looked away and back at me again. Then mischief appeared in those delicious brown eyes.

“Or maybe I did touch you.”

I let out an exaggerated sigh. “Did you touch me or not?”

“Did your boy Rocky do that when he
kissed
you?”

“Absolutely not!”

“Maybe I'm not the gentleman he is. Or is kissing another man's wife gentlemanly? You tell
me
, baby.”

I had no energy for Jazz's Rocky barbs. “If you want to have a
real
conversation about Rocky, I'd be happy to talk. But if you'd rather keep stewing, I'll leave you to do that alone.” I looked around the room. From the bedroom window, I could see it had turned dark outside. “What time is it?”

“It's about eight.”

“I can't believe I slept that long. What time did you get here?”

“Maybe six.”

I pulled the comforter back over me. “Why are you here, anyway?”

He reached over to the floor on his side of the bed and pulled up the shoe I'd left behind. He dangled it in front of me. “Cinder
bell
a?”

I sighed. “Thanks.” I took the shoe from him and put it on the floor on my side of the bed. He gave me a mischievous look.

“Guess who I am?”

“I'd say the prince, but he was
charming
.”

“Aren't you
sweet
, my dear wife.”

For a moment neither of us spoke. I waited for him to say something about Rocky, but he didn't, so the words “dear wife” hung in the air between us.

Again I sighed.

Jazz kicked me under the covers. “Hey.”

“Hey what?”

“I really did come to tell you I was sorry. Will you accept my apology?”

“No.”

“But you want me to forgive you your trespasses?”

“I most certainly do!”

He put his chin on my shoulder. “I'm sorry, Bell. I disrespected you, and that was wrong. Will you please forgive me?”

“As long as you don't do it again.”

He slipped his arms around my waist. “I wouldn't have done that today, but I had a little help from my friend Jack Daniels.”

“I don't think Jack is your friend, Jazz. Listen, I wanted to talk to you about—”

“You wanna tell me what you dreamed?”

I thought about whether I should override his veto. Decided how futile it would be to force him to talk about the drinking when he clearly didn't want to, and proceeded back to what my subconscious mind had dredged up.

I told him about the dream, chills running through me as I
relived it. He listened, nodded. Touched my arm during the hard parts.

His eyes searched mine. “Have you been listening to the news?”

“No. Not really.”

“Ezekiel Thunder's kid really drowned today. At your boyfriend's house.”

“I know all about it. I just left…”

Uh-oh. Suddenly I had myself a situation.

“Bell, if you tell me you were with…”

I stayed quiet.

“Bell…”

More quiet.

“Bell!”

“
What?
You never said a name.”

“I didn't have to.”

He jumped out of bed, and I saw he had on a white undershirt and his skivvies. Whew! That man's body made our vows, “with my body I thee worship” sound like a
plan
. I couldn't stop gaping at him.

“You were in my bed half naked?” I hoped he didn't hear the longing in my voice.

“You're my
wife
! I'm supposed to be in your bed.
However
, you're not supposed to be going out with…”

I didn't fill in the blank.

He waited. And waited. “Were you with him, Bell?”

“Who?”

“You know
exactly
who I'm talking about.
Say it
.”

“It?”

He stared at me. Yanked his pants on. He grabbed his shirt which he'd placed on top of mine on the chair. “I can't believe you. Have you been seeing him this whole time we've been separated?”

“Seeing who?”

“You're really irritating me, Bell.”

“No, I haven't been seeing him.”

“Who?”

“Who are
you
talking about, Jazz?”

“Say his name, woman.”

“Whose name?”

He put his shirt on. Slowly. He looked like he wanted to say something to me, but he swallowed it and probably a massive bitter pill at the same time.

God's voice, that small, quiet presence that I
knew
was Him spoke to me.

Don't let him leave like that
.

I needed to stop playing around. His family and best friend said he missed me like crazy. I could let him know I love him.

“Jazz, you shouldn't drive when you've been drinking.”

Punked out again!

“And you shouldn't be seeing Rocky after what happened to us.”

He'd buttoned his shirt and tucked it into his trousers.

“Jazz, don't leave like this. Please?”

He glared at me. “I'm out.”

“I haven't been seeing Rocky. I saw him for the first time Wednesday when he invited me to Ezekiel Thunder's crusade.
And I saw him again today. I only went over there because of poor baby Zeekie's death.”

“I'm supposed to believe that?”

“You can ask Rocky if you don't believe me.”

“I don't have anything to say to blondilocks.”

“He didn't know I'd married you, Jazz, that's the truth.”

“And you didn't bother to tell him. Not even when I gave you an opportunity to.”

“Do you want to talk about that night?”

Jazz suddenly developed Tourette's syndrome. Tics and expletives exploded out of him. Most of them having to do with Rocky. I let him rage on until finally I tried again to broach the subject of what we really needed to do.

“Why don't we talk about it, baby?”

More tics and expletives. And his own twist on my game. “Don't call me baby.”

I crawled out of the bed and covered myself with the quilt. I may have gotten a peek at his tightie whities, but I didn't want him to see how my cup runneth over! But he saw just the same. Jazz actually blushed, pinking his ears and cheeks. He noticed my discomfort and looked away.

And speaking of discomfort. My ankle still buzzed with pain. I hobbled over to my chest of drawers. Jazz noticed I was hurt but didn't say anything.

I slipped on a long-sleeved T-shirt with a tattoo design on the front. I'd had to get that shirt in large to contain my new girth. When I was dressed, I spoke to him. “I know you aren't ready to deal with it, but when you are, I'll be here. I'm sorry I hurt you, Jazz.”

He turned away from me again and stared into the mirror on my dresser. “I hate you, Bell,” he said to his own reflection.

But he didn't leave me.

 

I got an idea. Like the Grinch I got a wonderful, awful idea. I knew exactly what to do! If only he'd go for it.

I'd holed up in the bedroom, and Jazz stayed in the living room, making it much easier for him not to talk to me. I finally eased into the living room, careful not to frighten him in case he'd bite.

He surprised me by speaking first. “You need to stop walking until your ankle gets better.”

“You noticed I was hurt.” I sat next to him.

“I
always
notice when you're hurt.” He reached down and cradled my ankle in his hands. Placed it across his lap. Nice and cozy. “Do you want some ice?”

“I had quite enough ice when I packed it earlier. I'm still freezing.”

He rubbed my shoulders. He felt so warm. I started plotting right then and there to keep him. I just had to bring up one teeny-tiny thing.

“Jazz, I want you to work for me.”

He didn't acknowledge my comment.

He picked up the book he'd been reading when I came in the room, my dog-eared copy of Brennan Manning's
The Ragamuffin Gospel
. I'd always encouraged him to read it. I thought the book built a beautiful bridge between Evangelicals and Catholics.
Manning himself had once been a priest. And I was glad to see Jazz reading instead of watching television.

Now, I loved my true crime and detective shows, but other than that, I didn't have an addiction to any particular show. The only boob tube I owned—a thirteen-inch Wal-Mart special—was in my bedroom. While the living room was cable equipped, I never wanted TV, that big icon of the world, to be the centerpiece of my home. Jazz probably would have chosen to watch television, but he wouldn't go back into my bedroom. Good! I blessed whatever made him pick up one of my favorite books. But I needed his attention. I wouldn't quit until I had it.

“I said I want you to work for me—as a consultant.”

He continued reading my beloved Brennan.

Jazz appeared to be tame, so I ventured to rub his arm. “I think the dream I had was a sign.” I'd hoped pulling the dead-child-dream card would garner me some sympathy. It didn't.

He looked over at me but didn't speak.

“What if that poor child is trying to tell me he was murdered?”

Jazz gave me a blank stare.

“Think about the way he turned into a skeleton and asked for my help. And all those other children turned into zombies or something, screaming for me to help them. What if Zeekie needs my help?”

He rolled his eyes.

I nudged him. “What do you think, Jazzy?”

“I think you need to watch what you eat before you go to sleep.”