Gone to Ground (6 page)

"Stevie. How did you fix her?"

He stood abruptly. "I got to go home."

I rose and caught his arm. "No, wait—"

"Leave me alone!" He threw my hand off him.

"But—"

"No!" He backed away, wrapped his arms around his chest and self-hugged—like he used to do when he was little. "I don't know nothin, Deena. Don't you say nothin to nobody. Don't you dare."

My head nodded. "I won't."

His face darkened. "You tell anybody, I'll hurt you."

I stared at him.

"Real bad."

He'd never threatened me before.

"You hear me, Deena?"

"Yeah. Yeah, Stevie, I hear you."

He headed for the door. I gathered my wits. "Stevie, let me wash your uniform. I can get it a lot cleaner than you will."

"I know how to wash my own clothes."

"Come on, Stevie."

"No!" He whirled around, hand raised. "Leave me alone!"

I cringed back. He glared at me, then turned again for the door.

Without another word he left. I stood on my porch and watched him run down the street to his little trailer, two doors away. Back inside my house I relocked and bolted the door.

Sleep would not come that night.

I sat up in bed, gun next to me on the covers. Somethin terrible had happened out there. In my heart I knew what it was. But I pushed the knowledge deep down, hopin against hope.

The next day brought news of Erika's death.

By the time the wildfire news leapt across town yesterday mornin, I was in the shop, cuttin Ruthann Becker's frizzy hair. When I heard the sirens peel out from the police station, down one block on Main, my veins iced. I dropped the shears and near stabbed my own ankle. Not five minutes later Theodore Stets ran over from the drugstore next door, sayin he heard the squad cars were parked at Erika Hollinger's house.

Erika, so young. Dead, just like the rest of them.

"She was mean to me."
Stevie's words vibrated in my head. Erika had always been mean to him. Made fun of him unmercifully. I'd caught her at it once a couple years ago and near slapped her. She hadn't set foot in my salon since.

Now it was Thursday. In the back room of my shop, I felt like my insides had been hollowed out. Stevie hadn't talked to me since Tuesday night. I went down to his trailer this mornin to ask about the uniform. Had it come clean? He wouldn't answer.

Had anybody heard him bangin on my door? Or seen him runnin down the street in bloody clothes? Surely not, or the police would be all over him by now.

I glanced at my watch. Twenty-five minutes had passed since I left Mary Harell's color to process. Time to check on her.

Somehow I dragged myself to my feet and put on my perky face. Took a deep breath. The day wasn't even half over, and already it seemed like a lifetime. A choice weighed on me that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. I couldn't bear to give up my brother to the police. But if I didn't tell them what I'd seen—

How many more women would die?

After Mayor B's house I had two smaller ones to
clean before I was done for the day. I dusted and swept and scrubbed on automatic, my mind goin all directions.

What was I gon do bout what I seen?

I slumped into my own house a little after 4:00, wishin more than ever my Ben was still with me. He'd passed from a heart attack two years ago, just one year shy a retiring from his job at the bank. But I still talked to him and felt his presence in the house. And I still read the fine literature he'd introduced me to early in our marriage. Benjamin Bane Devine may only have been a high school graduate—like me—but I'm tellin you, that man was a reader. Chekov and Tennyson, Milton and Dante filled his head and stretched his dreams. Them dreams played out in his children. Both our son and daughter graduated college, Lester in business and Donelle in communications. Now they both had good jobs and families.

If only they hadn't moved out a state to find em.

I kicked off my shoes and headed to the refrigerator for a glass a sweet tea. Then to my favorite chair in the livin room, worn brown with a pop-up footrest. On the nearby table sat my Kindle e-reader, the fancy present my children gave me last Christmas. I couldn't understand why I'd want such a thing until Donelle tol me I could get lots a classic books for free. Wouldn't need to run to the Bay Springs library so much. Right now in my Kindle I was re-readin Alfred Lord Tennyson's
Idylls of the King
.
I kept a little black notebook and a pen next to the Kindle so I could write down quotes I wanted to remember.

I set down my glass and collapsed in my chair. At sixty-two, I didn't know how many more years I could clean houses. Trouble was, I needed the money, and that wasn't likely to change anytime soon. But my ankles swelled ever day. At the end a work I always put em up fast as I could.

Gazin out my front window I could see my neighbor's house across Third Street. Esther Goins, in her seventies, used to live there by herself, another widow. Now a granddaughter and her husband had moved in. Esther was too scared to live by herself. Couldn't blame her. Our pretty little Amaryllis had turned into a war zone between regular folk and some crazy person.

"'Behold where Ares, breathin forth the breath of strife and carnage, paces—paces on.'" I said the words aloud—words Sophocles coulda wrote bout our town today. Chill bumps popped down my arms. We didn't exactly have the Greek god a war in Amaryllis. We had a round-faced, half-baldin mayor. Wore what was left a his gray hair in what white folk call a comb-over. Not the likeliest a killers. But I seen what I seen.

Why on earth would Mayor B kill those women?

Did Mrs. B sleep so sound she wouldn't know if her husband slipped out at night? Or was she just not talkin?

The phone rang, and I jumped. I lifted the receiver off the table beside me, thinkin night would fall in a few hours and fear would leak into my bones like acid. Never failed when the sun went down. Now the fear would have a face attached—Mayor B's.

How would I ever step foot in that man's house again?

The ID said Thomas Howzer. I hit the
talk
button. "Hi, Lucelia."

"Cherrie Mae, just checkin on you. Tom and I still say you should sleep in our extra bedroom tonight. We'd feel better if you did."

"Thanks, but I'll be all right. You know I keep that billy stick right beside me."

"You can bring your billy stick with you."

"Lucelia, I cain't be sleepin at your house ever night. Besides, I'm safer now than I'll be in six months or so. That's his pattern."

"Patterns can be broken."

She was right, so I just grunted.

"Why're you so stubborn, Cherrie Mae?"

"I been stubborn since we was in first grade together. You just now figurin that out?"

"Now it really matters."

I arched my feet. They were beginnin to feel a little better.

Lucelia heaved a sigh. "You see the article in
The
Jackson Bugle
today?"

A jolt went through me. "Didn't have time to read it this mornin." The paper still sat on my kitchen table. "Trent got an article in there?"

"Yup."

I was already pushin down my footrest.

"He got down here yesterday afternoon," Lucelia said. "I seen him carry his suitcase in next door, then he was right back out. Gatherin information, no doubt."

One thing bout Lucelia, she did know what her neighbors were doin. Ever time Trent came into town to cover the latest murder, he'd stay next door to her, with his sister and brother-in-law. "I'm gon read the article now. Call you later. Thanks again for checkin on me."

In the kitchen I sat down hard at the table and pulled the newspaper close. Shuffled to Section C—Local News. There sat the article.

Killer Strikes Again in Amaryllis

On Tuesday night, Erika Hollinger, 20, became the sixth murder victim in three years in Amaryllis, one and a half hours southeast of Jackson. Police are attributing the crime to the so-called "Closet Killer," who has stabbed all six victims in their own homes and left their bodies in a closet . . .

I read the rest a the article, lookin for some piece a news I didn't already know. Trent had talked to Erika's neighbors, none of em hearin a thing. The
po
lice didn't give him any more information than was rumored round town. No mention a the missin ring. Apparently Trent didn't even know I'd been at Erika's house that night. Thank goodness. I didn't want my name in the paper.

I heaved back in the chair, fear tumblin in my head. I should tell the
po
lice what I seen.

"No way, Ben, cain't do it." I looked toward the chair where my husband used to sit. "The chief won't believe me. He's too close to Mayor B. He'll tell the mayor lickety-split—and there goes my biggest housecleanin customer. And everbody else, too, when word gets round town I done snooped in the Mayor's desk. Meanwhile Mayor B will get rid a the evidence. Then guess who'll be his next victim."

But could I really just do nothin?

Maybe I should get Pastor Ray's advice. But once I tol him, that would put him in the same position as me.

If only I'd never looked in that drawer. This responsibility was too big.

"Shame on you, Cherrie Mae Devine,"
said a voice in my head.
"You been prayin for this killer to be caught. Now the Lord done sent you help—and you don't want nothin to do with it."

I crossed my arms. My conscience could just hush.

Trouble was, it spoke the truth. Like Lord Byron said, "Man's conscience is the oracle a God." Sittin on this information would be like tellin the Lord
no thank You
for answerin my prayers.

Out a nowhere a stunnin realization hit. I done left my fingerprints all over Erika's ring.

Air whooshed out my mouth.

What if I tol the
po
lice I seen that ring—and Mayor B claimed I planted it in his file? And me bein the last known person to see Erika Hollinger alive. They could say
I
killed her.

"Oh, Ben. What am I gon do?"

Long minutes passed. My stomach growled but I paid it no mind. I pictured ever one a those murdered women. Martha. Sara. Sonya. Alma. Carla. And now Erika. I could see each a their smiles, hear their voices. None a them deserved what happened. Their blood cried out from the Amaryllis cemetery. And the remainin women in this town deserved to sleep in peace.

Did I
really
think I could turn my back on this? Imagine if another woman lost her life in such a terrible way cause I said nothin.

But which
po
lice officer could I tell? Any one of em would just go straight to the chief, who was too close to the mayor.

I shook my head. Nope. I couldn't talk to anyone a them.

Which left only one person to look into this mess—at least for now, till I got some proof.

Me.

The sun was settin by the time I pulled to my feet. As I searched my refrigerator for somethin quick to eat, I knew what I had to do.

If I got caught . . .

Well. I didn't want to think bout that.

As I lay on the couch Mike came into the house to change for
work. I tensed when he walked by, the air thick between us.

I hadn't been outside all day. My neck was bruised.

Without a word Mike headed for the bedroom.

I closed my eyes. Not even married a year and look at me. How was I going to live like this? And after my baby was born, what then? Would Michael one day threaten his life too?

I didn't even want to name my baby after his father anymore.

Mike's footsteps approached. I pretended to sleep.

"Tully." His voice cut down from the end of the sofa.

I lay still.

Mike slapped my foot. I jerked.

"I know you ain't sleepin."

I raised my head. "What?"

Emotions rippled across his face. Anger . . . remorse . . . defiance. He stared at me, his mouth hard. "I want you to make sure all the doors are locked till I get home."