Mother (39 page)

The words dried up on Father Andy’s tongue as his gaze settled on Priscilla Martin - and he realized what he was looking at. He wished he hadn’t left the podium to stand in front of the caskets because he now found himself dumbstruck. In the shadowed depths between Priscilla Martin’s thighs, he plainly saw the cleft of her sex. She wore no panties, no hose … no
nothing.
And her knees were spread just enough to give Andy - and only Andy - a perfect view. He heard the congregation stir in the sudden silence.

Priscilla smiled at him.

Father Andy cleared his throat and headed back to the safety of the podium. He continued the sermon and avoided looking at her, pushing away the terrible memory of the recent
vagina dentata
nightmare.

Quinton Everett sat with his nephew, Greg, and half the little league team, as he listened to Father Andy’s words. Greg had been close to young Chris Collins and had begged Quinton to bring him to the mass. When his sister, the boy’s mother, said she thought it would help Greg find closure, he agreed; and after that, parents of the other Little Leaguers called and asked if he might take their sons to pay their respects as well. As a result, Quinton had walked in like Father Goose with a trail of goslings. He’d intended to sit closer to the front, but spotted Priscilla Martin and quickly ushered the boys into a pew halfway back. He knew what kind of rumors she liked to spread and, while he didn’t fear her, he saw no reason to provide her with any ammunition.

He’d closed the loans - the mortgage, and the second for the remodel - on the Collins home himself and had gotten to know the family. He didn’t care for Burke, who seemed a little arrogant, but Geneva-Marie was a sweetheart, always ready to send treats along for the team or help chaperone a night at the pizza parlor.
 

Barry Collins had been in Little League a few years ago and had been a good athlete and quite a scholar. He would have been accepted at any Ivy League college if he’d lived. But little Chris was why Quinton had to keep wiping his eyes. A sweet-natured big-eyed boy, he wasn’t a great athlete like his brother, but his heart was big enough to hold an entire baseball stadium. How his own father could have shot him down - the very thought made Quinton’s old war injury throb.

Officer Roddy Crocker wasn’t listening to the sermon. His mind had been hovering around one thing since Burke Collins’ suicide: the note one of his men had found on the dresser in the hotel room.

It was addressed to Burke, typed, and unsigned. It stated that not only was Geneva-Marie having an affair with her neighbor, Duane Pruitt, but that Barry and Chris were not, in fact, Burke’s children. The note promised proof, should Burke doubt these claims, adding that only since Jerry Park’s arrival had Duane and Geneva-Marie called off the affair.
 

It hadn’t been released to the public, of course, but the detectives - and the rest of SPD - believed this letter was the cause of Burke’s rampage. And Roddy knew it. Not just because it was the only practical explanation, but because - on an instinctive level - it felt true. And after twenty years on the force, Roddy had learned never to disregard his instincts.

Had the note been handwritten, it would have been easier to identify the sender, but people were rarely that careless. There’d been no envelope, and it had been printed on generic paper. But the list of suspects wasn’t long. It had to be someone close, someone who knew Geneva-Marie - or Duane - on an intimate level. Usually, that meant family; but in this case, Roddy didn’t think so. He suspected the perp was someone closer - maybe even someone who lived on the sac. Again, his instincts leaned heavily this direction. However, it might also have been someone out to ruin Burke Collins himself. A jilted lover - so far there was no sign Collins had strayed - or a business associate or a customer who got screwed over.
 

Roddy saw Bettyanne wipe her eyes with an embroidered lace handkerchief he didn’t recognize. Whoever “C.J.” was, his wife had evidently lifted her best kerchief.
Probably someone from the baby shower.
Thanks to his ultra-powerful sense of smell, he scented the sweet perfume that wafted from the new handkerchief.
Lilac, with a hint of jasmine.
He was thankful for the little piece of cloth - it helped mask the smells of hairspray, sweat, cigarettes, aftershave, and Prissy Martin’s dominating perfume.

Ignoring the clusterfuck of smells, his mind returned to the note. He had a few ideas who the sender might be, but unfortunately, those finely honed instincts of his couldn’t single any one person out, and there were no fingerprints.
 

As Father Andy wrapped up the first reading, Roddy couldn’t help stealing a few glances around the room; though there were plenty of gawkers, he saw no signs of guilt. That came as no surprise. Whoever was responsible had ice in his veins.
The note was not an angry one. It was deliberate, well-worded, perfectly calm. Only a sociopath could be so cold - and feel no guilt.

Father Andy began another long bible passage. Roddy sighed.

Boy Stains

I hate my mother. Hate her! Tonight at dinner, right in front of Carlene, she told me she found “boy stains” on my sheets. I wanted to die.
 

Claire’s eyebrow rose. “Boy stains?” Yes, it sounded just like something Mother would say. She continued reading Tim’s ninth grade journal.

But then, she started lecturing me about abstinence, and I got so mad I talked back and told her that in Sex Ed they said wet dreams are normal. All guys have them. She got in my face and screamed at me for telling lies in front of my sister. Then she sent me to my room without dessert. Like I give a fuck about dessert! I’ve got everything I need in my room. I’m glad she sent me here.
 

Disturbed, Claire set the journal aside.
I’ll never embarrass my son like that! What a horrible thing to do to a child!
 

After Jason and Mother had left for the funeral, Claire spent time reading at the desk. Mother nagged her to stay on the bed, which was ridiculous. She was taking it easy and that’s what mattered. This journal hadn’t been too interesting until this entry: Tim had filled the previous pages with drawings of racecars and little poems about Steffie. It intrigued her, but before she read any more, she wanted to go visit with her father.
 

She didn’t need to change; she was dressed in a sweatshirt and shorts, and that felt good. Mother seemed to think she should stay in the flannel nightgown she’d bought for her.
 

Using her crutches, she hurried down the hall to her father’s room and knocked. She wasn’t sure if she heard a reply or not, so she called out that she was coming in to visit as soon as she found a key.

She first looked through the items on the little table beside the door, not really expecting to find it - but there it was, stuck between two medicine bottles. “I’m coming in,” she called as she turned the lock.

“How are you, Dad? I’m sorry I haven’t come to see you - I broke my leg and-”

He raised his head and her heart iced over. It was as if he were wearing a mask - his face was too smooth, like skin stretched over bone. She drew closer, trying to comprehend. This was not her father. Taking an involuntary step back, her thoughts raced and her heart hammered. The man’s lips were too red, his cheeks too pink. His eyes were rimmed with thick, black, uneven lines, and a crescent of false eyelashes had slipped and stuck to his cheek. Scarlet lipstick was smudged, making it look more like a wound than a mouth.
 

“Dad?” It was a croaking whisper.

Something lit in the man’s eyes - something familiar.

“What has she done to you?” Her voice splintered.

There was no reply from her father. He seemed unable to move his lips - or any part of his face, except his eyes.
 

“Are you okay, Dad?”

His eyes closed and his head drooped toward his chest. With great effort, he raised his arm to his face. The half-circle of false lashes slipped from his cheek and stuck on his sleeve.

Uncontrolled rage blazed through her.
Mother did this
. But why? Hot tears stalled in Claire’s eyes, blurring the room.
 

She stepped closer, her heart pounding with revulsion, terror, and confusion. A thick sickness roiled in her belly. She plucked the false lashes from his sleeve - as if this would somehow restore his dignity. “Who did this to you, Dad?”
 

He said nothing. His mouth hung open and a line of drool spilled. He was clearly drugged.
 

Claire was unable to tear her gaze off the broken, humiliated man in the bed. As she turned on her crutches, something on the desktop caught her eye, and she gasped. Her teddy bear, Mr. Anton, was spread-eagled on his back, staring at her with eyes rimmed with even more red lipstick than when she’d first seen him in her room. His mouth had been defaced, too. A lipstick-red smile had been painted, clown-like, over the stitching, making the bear appear as if he were in the throes of a lunatic passion. The hideous thing was surrounded by an army of green plastic soldiers, each aiming his weapon at him, and Claire suppressed a scream as her gaze lit between his legs. A slit had been cut into his crotch and edged in the same red lipstick. But worse than that, another green soldier had its gun shoved halfway into the hole. “Oh, my God.” Claire’s hand moved to her roiling stomach and tears felt cold as they streamed down her cheeks.

She’s mad. She’s gone completely mad!
There was no way her father could have - or
would
have - done this. Any of it.

A wave of dizziness overtook her and Claire steadied herself against the wall, afraid she might pass out. She touched her abdomen.
I have to get out of here. I have to get help.
She hurried from the room and shut the door, her hands quaking, her mind reeling.
 

What kind of monster is she? Why? Why would she do this?

Back in her room, she searched frantically for her cell phone, but it wasn’t where it was supposed to be.
I could swear I left it on the nightstand!
She threw open drawers, searched beneath pillows, checked the bathroom, and even managed to look under the bed.

I just had it!
She tried to recall the last time she’d used it, but wasn’t sure. She double-checked the bed, under the sheets.
 

It’s gone. I left it right on the nightstand, and it’s gone!
 

Communion

Father Dave Flannigan finished helping Andy with the Eucharist. It had been a long ceremony, with perhaps two hundred people taking Communion. When Andy had asked him to assist he couldn’t find it in his heart to turn him down. Dave was done with the church -
 
he’d been done many years before he’d left - but he loved Andy like a son and could never bring himself to disillusion the young man. Andy was a believer, and Dave hoped he would never lose his faith. Life was so much easier that way.

Dave stood back now, just in front of the caskets, and surveyed the congregation; his eyes landed on Priscilla Martin, sitting there so regally in her dated finery that didn’t suit a funeral. That deviation from convention was how she had put him off his guard a dozen years ago. He had received her into the rectory for a visit, not realizing what she wanted. Everything had gone downhill after that. It wasn’t even the sex, though that certainly was something he regretted. It was a sin far worse.

Priscilla Martin was staring holes through him. He stared back, daring her to continue. Her eyes never leaving him, she adjusted the sweater draped over her lap and sank a little further into the pew so he could see she’d rucked up her skirt. Gaze unfaltering, she lifted the sweater slightly and smiled at him.

He was staring at her naked pudenda.

He gasped and Andy glanced back. Meanwhile, Priscilla covered herself up.
 

It made him glad he had retired, glad he had groomed Andy to take over, and glad the church had agreed with his selection. Andy would not make the mistakes he had. Sins of the flesh were not so tempting to him. More importantly, he lived by an inner morality that would resist the blandishments of evil better than the fear of God alone. Dave Flannigan had not resisted evil and he would never stop paying for it.

The Numbest Ass in the West

“That was a lovely service,” said Prissy as she pulled her silver BMW onto Morning Glory Circle.

Jason didn’t know how a funeral could be considered lovely. Personally, he found the whole thing morbid, but as far as public mourning went, yes, he supposed it had been nice. He made a noncommittal sound and stared up at the second story of Priscilla’s big white house as they pulled in. The curtains were open in the bedroom and he imagined Claire was probably still reading. “Well,” said Prissy. “That’s what I thought.”

“Huh?”

“It seems my alignment is off. I thought it was pulling to the left, and just now I let go of the wheel to test it. Just as I suspected, it’s pulling.”

“Maybe you need some air in your tires.” Jason tugged at his collar and wriggled in his seat. He was eager to get out. His ass had fallen asleep during the funeral and had yet to come to.

Prissy sighed. “I suppose you’re right.” She stared, pinning him with the black pinpoints of her pupils in those eerily pale amber eyes. “You wouldn’t mind running down to the gas station and filling the tires would you?”
 

Jason resisted an urge to groan. “Of course not.” His tone flat as toast.

Prissy smiled and leaned over, reaching into the glove box. She pulled out the owner’s manual. “Let’s see,” she said, flipping pages. “Oh, here we are.” She thrust the manual at Jason. He took it and she pointed. “This is the section about the tires. It will tell you what the pressure should be at.”

“It’s pretty standard, I’m sure.”

Prissy’s smile fell. She took the manual back and began reading aloud, her finger moving along the page. She spoke slowly, too clearly, as if he wouldn’t understand her otherwise.