Mortal Fear (48 page)

Mercifully Mayeux speaks no more. I watch the dark sky and wonder if Drewe is on the road home yet. Shes probably done with the delivery by now, but you can never tell with babies.

I jump in my seat the first time thunder shakes the car. This is no empty threat, booming hollow over the fields and dying into nothing. It rattles my eardrums, buffets the reservoir of dead air at the bottom of my lungs, hammers the car like a bass drum in a gymnasium. Mayeux feels it too. Hes from New Orleans, where rain is a constant companion, but even he hunches in his seat when a big blast rocks the car. Otherwise, he remains silent, eating up the miles with a determined stare. Perhaps some of my apprehension has seeped into him.

Suddenly there is wind against the car where there was none before. It whines at the seam of the windshield, hisses at the windows. Then the rain is upon us. Big round drops splatter on the glass like pellets from a sawed-off shotgun; then a hail of water engulfs us like enfiladed musket fire.

Shit! Mayeux curses, slowing the Cadillac to forty-five.

Try to keep your speed up, I urge him.

Hey, Im trying.

I tap my fingers nervously against the dashboard.

This Deltas some fuckin flat, he grumbles, leaning forward and squinting into the rain. A minute ago I was gonna say it was like the Atchafalaya Swamp without the water, but I guess we got the water now. One of Gods little jokes, yeah.

The Caddy crawls through the downpour, Mayeux struggling to keep his eyes on the faded white line that marks the right margin of the highway. What kind of shoulder we got? he asks.

Flat dirt. About fifteen feet. But if you go into a cotton
field, we wont be getting out until somebody comes with a winch.

Great. How much farther we got?

Were about four miles out.

Hey, you see that?

Something in Mayeuxs voice brings me erect in my seat. What?

Blue lights. Way off there, to the left.

Where?

Look! he says, pointing. Thats a blue bar making that. Mississippi Highway Patrol. Guy must be pretty gung-ho to stop speeders in this rain.

I narrow my eyes to slits and probe the gray wall for blue light. There. A sapphire halo pulsing far to the left. As I stare, a terrible premonition tightens my gut.

Fire? I ask, praying for a yes.

Wrong color. Thats police lights. Lots of em. Looks like Mississippi Highway Patrol, or some local sheriffs department. Where you think that is?

I think its my house, Mike. Punch it.

Hey, Im pushing now.

Floor this motherfucker!

The sudden acceleration presses me back into my seat. Mayeux flicks on his blue flasher, and we hurtle through the wall of rain like teenage lovers with a death wish. Even with Mayeux tempting fate, I grip the Caddys padded armrest and will the car to go faster. The sapphire glow quickly blossoms into a flashing ball, like a miniature mushroom cloud. What the hell could have happened? Part of me knows the answer, but I fight that knowledge with all my soul, unwilling to believe that Brahma has somehow penetrated Miless digital shield, that I have exposed Drewe to the white-hot flame of his insanity. We blast through Rain proper like a blue monorail, leaving a howling vacuum for a wake.

Slow down! Half a mile to the turn!

Mayeux touches the brake gently, then begins pumping it as the riot of flashing blue and red differentiates into distinct images. Squad cars, sheriffs cruisers, rescue and highway patrol vehicles. They surround our farmhouse like a motorized posse. Mayeux turns into the drive and
pulls as far forward as he can. Im out of the car and sprinting through the rain before he even shifts into park.

Wait up, Cole!

I run for the porch, dodging between cars, stunned by the amount of light pouring from our house. Two blue-white flashes suddenly blank out my office windows.

Stop! someone shouts.

A knot of uniformed men blocks the front door. I charge them without pausing, triggering a metallic flurry of gun slides and hammers.

FREEZE!

This is my house! I shout, throwing up my arms in the face of a half dozen pistol barrels. Wheres my wife?

FREEZE ASSHOLE!

I finally stop in an ankle-deep puddle at the foot of the porch steps, barely able to contain my panic.

Anybody know this guy? asks a Mississippi state trooper with rain sluicing off his hat brim.

Hes okay! shouts Mayeux from behind. The detective skids to a stop beside me with his wallet open. Mike Mayeux, New Orleans homicide. This guy owns the house. Whats going on?

One-eighty-seven, says the trooper. A double.

Who got it?

Is that a murder? I shout. Get out of my fucking way!

The cops start to restrain me, but Mayeux manages to get in front and by some combination of civility and intimidation clear a path through them.

Drewe! I scream wildly.
Drewe, where are you?

Nothing.

Another group of cops blocks the door of my office.

Harper?
A female voice.

I careen up the hall, leaving Mayeux behind.

Harper? Is that you?

Drewe whirls from the kitchen sink, dwarfed by uniformed men at both shoulders. Her white blouse is covered with blood, her eyes blanker than Ive ever seen them. I run to her and grab her by the arms, hearing the uniforms say my name but ignoring them, searching her
body for wounds, feeling the reassuring tightness of her biceps.

Are you hurt?

She shakes her head violently. No. But I couldnt... couldnt do anything.

What happened? I ask, touching her bloody blouse.

It wont come out, she says, her chest heaving.

Drewe! What happened?

Suddenly her face crumples, as if the supporting structures beneath have simply melted away. Erins dead, she whispers.

I blink. No. I just left her at.... The words die in my throat as one of the men beside her nods.

S-somebody, she stutters. Horrible... I was too late ... couldnt do anything.

An image of Patrick Graham flashes in my brain.

Mr. Cole, says one of the uniforms, whom I finally recognize as Sheriff Buckner from Yazoo City. We need to get your wife calmed down. She gave a statement already, but she cant seem to stop shaking and she wont let the paramedics near her.

Where have you been? Drewe asks suddenly. Harper, did you go see her like I asked you?

Yes! She was fine when I left her. The police arrested me afterward! They took me back to Jackson!

As Drewe shakes her head, new panic seizes my heart. Wheres Holly? Nothing happened to Holly!

Mamas, she murmurs. Erin dropped her off at Mamas.

Dropped her off? How do you know?

First thing I thought of... called. I didnt tell her about Erin, though. I couldnt do it. I couldnt!

I pull her to my chest and wrap my arms around her.

What exactly went down here? asks an authoritative voice from behind me. Detective Mike Mayeux, New Orleans homicide.

Were not sure, mister, growls Sheriff Buckner. Got two dead women in an office room up front.

Erin died
here
? I gasp, trying to mesh my memory of our confrontation in Jackson with what Buckner is saying.

Where did you think she died? he asks.

I saw her in Jackson this afternoon. I just assumed

He stares at me with unveiled suspicion. Then he turns to Mayeux and says, One deceased is Mrs. Coles sister. The others a Jane Doe. Foreigner, by the look of her.

A wave of unreasoning fear shunts through me. What kind of foreigner?

Who knows? Real dark woman. Asian, maybe. Indian. They all look the same, dont they?

The information is coming too fast for me to absorb it. One thought dominates my mind:
Get Drewe out of here
. Are you finished with my wife, Sheriff?

For the moment, he says slowly.

I want to take her into our bedroom, get her away from all this.

Fine. But I want you to take a look at that foreign woman. You might recognize her.

Right now?

Next few minutes, anyhow. Before they load her out.

Who else knows about this?

I put in a call to the Memphis hotel where Dr. Andersons staying, but he was out. I left a message for him to call here, or my office if he cant reach here.

The mention of Bob Anderson hits me like a belly punch. Who else?

As of now, nobody. Your wife said not to tell anybody. But this is a real small town, son. You know that. You or your wife better call Margaret Anderson before she hears it from somebody else. Theres a husband too, right? In Jackson?

Ill take care of that.

They been having any marital problems?

Drewe suddenly goes stiff, as if the possibility of Patrick being the killer has just occurred to her. I squeeze her reassuringly. Hes not a killer, Sheriff. Please give me a few minutes with my wife. Then Ill answer all your questions.

I push past Mayeux and a couple of strangers and shepherd Drewe into our bedroom. Turning on only the bathroom light, I sit her gently on the bed and kneel before her in the shadows. Her eyes are unfocused. I have never seen
anything affect her like this. In our family, Drewe is famous for nerves of steel. Now shes a rag doll.

Drewe? Honey?

No response.

I have a thousand questions, but none can be asked without forcing her to relive whatever horror she just endured. Can you hear me, Drewe?

Her face remains impassive. Taking advantage of her near catatonia, I quickly strip off the bloodstained blouse and toss it into a corner. She doesnt resist. I lay her back on the bed and remove her shoes and khakis, then pull a crocheted comforter off a rocker and drape it carefully over her.

Erin!
she cries suddenly.

Instantly Buckner is inside the bedroom, gun in hand. I wave him out angrily. Im right here, I tell her, laying my hand on her cold forehead. Its Harper. Everythings okay. Im going to take care of everything.

After about a minute, I rise and pad into the bathroom to scan the contents of her medicine cabinet.

Nothing.

Opening the hall door a crack, I catch Mayeuxs eye as he talks with Buckner in the hall. He moves quickly to me.

There should be a black medical bag somewhere, I tell him. My wife uses it to stitch up local kids, stuff like that. Check the hall closet.

Its evidence, he replies. She apparently tried to resuscitate her sister.

Christ,
I think, shutting out another bloody rush of images. Just get me the bag, Mike. All I need is one bottle and a syringe.

His eyes narrow. What you gonna do? You aint no doctor, are you?

My father was. Look, Ive done everything from shooting X rays to stitching people up. Just get me the bag!

Mayeux speaks quietly to Buckner, who looks at me, then nods. Satisfied, I go back into the bedroom and kneel beside Drewe. She is still shivering beneath the comforter, her eyes wide and glassy.

Its okay, I whisper. Im here. Its okay. Dont think
... dont think. Im going to make everything all right. Just get warm... warm.

A crack of light falls across the bed.

Here you go, whispers Mayeux.

I quickly scan the contents of the bag and select a vial of Vistaril and a 2.5-cc syringe. I hate to shoot her, but I doubt I could make Drewe swallow pills, and pills might not even dent the psychological trauma shes sustained.

Mayeux watches as I load 2 ccs of Vistaril into the syringe, invert it, thump the barrel, and nudge the plunger to evacuate the air bubbles. If Drewe were fully aware, she would never allow this, but she doesnt even flinch when I slip the needle into the muscle of her arm and empty the contents of the syringe. The crack of light disappears from the bed.

With Drewe held tight in my arms, I murmur incessantly. Half of what I say makes no sense. Its the same maternal mantra Ive heard Erin use when shes trying to put Holly to sleep. Constant reassurance, the tone more important than the words, an orally generated security blanket that lulls the senses almost as effectively as narcotics.

At last she is under, her breathing deep and sonorous. Tucking the comforter under her bare feet, I move to the door and step quickly outside. Buckner and Mayeux are waiting.

You ready? asks the sheriff.

This is my first good look at Buckner. Hes a big, stolid man of fifty, who wears a white shirt and brown tie to set him apart from his deputies. By reputation he is tough and honest, though not necessarily smart.

I want you to put someone by this door, I tell him. In case my wife wakes up.

He snaps his fingers and a deputy scrambles into the hall. Its Billy, who manned the stakeout at the highway curve last week. He listens to Buckner, then takes up his post before the bedroom door like a guard at Buckingham Palace.