Music of Ghosts (12 page)

Sixteen

Mary jerked awake, lifting
her head from the desk, for an instant unable to remember why she'd fallen asleep there instead of in bed. She hazily recalled arguing with Jonathan, then talking with her old friend Alex. For a moment she wondered if it hadn't been some bizarre nightmare, then she saw the documents spread out before her. Her focus sharpened in an instant. The Moons were suing Jonathan for full custody of Lily.

“I've got to get them out there,” she said, remembering Alex's last words. “To Oklahoma. As soon as possible.” Willing herself awake, she hurried upstairs. Jonathan and Lily were still asleep, unaware of the journey ahead of them. Silently, she gathered Lily's dirty clothes, then tiptoed into the room she shared with Jonathan. He lay on his stomach with a pillow pulled over his head, as if trying to hide the woes that plagued him. For a moment she was tempted to snatch his covers off and again ask him to explain all his lies. An affair she could understand—pretty eyes and perky breasts could have sparked a reckless moment of passion. But to lie to her about a custody suit? And some stupid duplex? That required thought; they were acts of deception that required attention, like a garden of poisonous plants. And then to turn the whole thing back on her, saying she wouldn't understand …

“Sleep on, Walkingstick,” she muttered, her anger again starting to simmer. “Enjoy your dreams.”

She gathered up the rest of their clothes and went down to the utility room. She started a load of laundry, then headed back to the study to make hard copies of all the papers Alex needed in Ok-
lahoma.

“I almost wish he'd had an affair,” she whispered as she started the copier. “Then it would be just between him and me. Now it's between him and me and the Moons and some lawyer in Oklahoma.”

By eight fifteen, she'd finished her copying and the laundry. Laden with fresh, still-warm clothes, she went back upstairs. Angrily, she stomped into their room and dropped the laundry basket on the bed. Jonathan sat up immediately.

“What's wrong?” he said, blinking in the morning light.

“Nothing.” She started piling his clothes on the bed. “You need to pack. You're going to Oklahoma, so be sure and take your good suit.”

“Huh?”

She separated his jeans from his underwear. “After I went through all those papers last night, I called Alex. She's meeting you at the Holiday Inn in Tulsa the day after tomorrow. She's graciously agreed to take your case.”

He looked at her, uncomprehending. “Take my case?”

“The custody case the Moons brought against you?” A fresh wave of anger roiled inside her. “Alex wants you and Lily in Oklahoma, ASAP.”

“Oklahoma?” He started to laugh. “You tell Alex I'll go to hell before I'll go to Oklahoma.”

Mary looked at him, appalled. Never had it occurred to her that he might just refuse to go. “Are you out of your mind?”

“The Moons can shove that lawsuit up their ass. I'm not going back to Oklahoma.”

“So you're just going to stay here and ignore their complaint?”

“I haven't committed any crime. They can't come and arrest me.”

She folded her arms, furious. “Let me explain how this works, Jonathan,” she spoke slowly, as if explaining some point of law to one of her backwoods clients. “If you don't answer this complaint, the court will render a judgment against you. The states honor each other's judgments. The Moons will present their Oklahoma order to Jerry Cochran, and he'll have to enforce it. There won't be a thing you can do.”

“The fuck I can't!” he told her. “I'll take her into the woods, or Canada. I'll … ”

“We explored Canada last night, Jonathan. Take her out of the country and you'll be a fugitive. Her photo will be on websites all over the Internet.”

“I'm not going to give her to those goddamn Moons!” he cried. “She belongs with me.”

“Then you need to go back to Oklahoma and work with Alex. Right now, it's your only shot.”

He gave her an odd look. “You sound like you want us to go.”

“I want you to obey the law,” she replied.

“I'm sure you do. My obeying the law works pretty good for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“It gets Lily out of your hair. She's a real pain in the butt. You said so not three days ago.”

“Gosh, that must have been after I took her swimming. Or took that owl to the vet for her. Or picked her up at Brownie camp yesterday afternoon.”

“See? You resent all those things. If we didn't have Lily, you'd be free to do what you want, take the clients you want and—”

“Work on murder trials?” she finished his sentence.

“Yeah. Work on murder trials. I know how you get off on them.”

Her anger flared so quickly that she had to turn away to keep from slapping him. “You do what you want, Jonathan. Lily's your child. But I strongly advise you to pack your bags and get yourself and your daughter out to Oklahoma.”

Furious, she stormed downstairs, back to the kitchen. Spooning coffee into the coffee pot, she told herself that Jonathan and Lily could do what they pleased; she was going to sit down and eat breakfast. She'd just retrieved eggs from the refrigerator when Lily came into the kitchen.

“Hi, Mary.” The little girl yawned, still in her pajamas. Mary wondered if her angry words with Jonathan had awakened her, but she looked more sleepy than distressed.

“Morning, Lily.” Mary tried to smile.

Lily rubbed her eyes. “Did Dr. Lovebird ever call back?”

“No,” Mary replied, grateful that at least the child was concerned about the owl and not their argument. “You want some eggs?”

“I guess so.”

Mary cracked two more eggs to the chipped blue bowl her mother had always used. Just as she reached to turn on the stove, she heard Jonathan coming downstairs. She was beating the eggs into a pale yellow froth when he sat down at the table, across from his child.

“Lily, there's something we need to talk about,” he said, his voice raspy.

The little girl looked up, still sleepy. “What?”

“You and I are going to have to go back to Oklahoma.”

“This summer?”

“No. Today.”

“Today? But I have to finish my mask at camp. And tomorrow night is Debra Fisher's sleepover.”

“I'm sorry, honey. We've got to go back today.”

She looked as if she might cry. “But we just came back from there.”

Mary handed Lily a glass of orange juice, waiting for Jonathan's response. “We have to go. Grandpa and Grandma Moon are suing me.”

“What for?”

“They want a judge to say that you come and live with them.”

“Live with them?” She put her juice down. “All the time?”

Jonathan nodded.

“But I don't want to,” said Lily, her chin beginning to quiver for real. “All my friends are here.”

“That's why we have to go to Oklahoma,” said Jonathan. “To tell the judge that you like it here, and that you don't want to leave. Mary's friend Alex is going to help us.”

Mary walked over to put an arm around Lily, but the child twisted out of her chair, pinioning her with a dark, hate-filled look. “This is all your fault.”

“My fault?” Mary frowned. “Why is it my fault?”

“Because you killed my mother!”

“What?”

“You killed my mother! Grandpa Moon told me!”

Mary stood there stunned, unable to come up with a reply. Jonathan finally spoke.

“Nobody killed your mother, Lily. She was sick, then she died,” he repeated the official explanation they'd used ever since Lily had been old enough to wonder about her biological mother.

“That's not what Grandpa Moon said,” Lily cried, tears spilling down her cheeks. “He says Mary killed her! He says you two covered it up. That's why you've never told me what really happened!”

Jonathan's eyes flashed, angry. “Grandpa Moon doesn't know what he's talking about!”

“Yes, he does! He showed me the newspaper! Mary did kill my mother. Mary's a big liar, and I hate her!” Sobbing loudly, Lily ran back upstairs, again slamming her bedroom door so hard the windows shook.

A tomb-like quiet settled over the house. The skillet on the stove began to smoke; Mary turned off the burner. She'd lost her appetite.

Jonathan got up from the table and poured a cup of coffee. “If I could get my hands on that son of a bitch, I'd kill him.”

Good idea
, Mary thought.
Just like you buying the duplex and ignoring the custody suit.
But she said nothing. Reopening their argument would be like raking sharp fingernails over scalded flesh. She took the uncooked eggs and dumped them down the drain. “If you're going, you should get ready. Lily's clothes are washed—all you need to do is put them in her suitcase.”

“You aren't going to help her pack?”

Mary thought of the dark fury in the little girl's eyes and shook her head. “I think I've done enough for Lily.”

He left the kitchen in a huff. Mary slapped ham on rye bread as she listened to their footsteps overhead—Jonathan's heavy tread interspersed with Lily's lighter footsteps. She heard Lily crying, another door slam. Finally luggage began thunking down the stairs, hitting every riser with a loud thud. The front door opened and closed half a dozen times, then Jonathan stood in the doorway, his face as wooden as the tribal masks they sold in Cherokee.

“We're going,” he announced.

She wiped her hands on a dish towel. “Then I'll come say good-
bye.”

She followed him to the truck, carrying a tote bag filled with sandwiches and a copy of the Moons' complaint. Lily sat buckled in the passenger seat, reading on her Kindle. Mary walked over and rapped briskly on the car door. “I want to talk to you, Lily.”

Slowly, the child rolled down her window. “What?” she said, her eyes red and swollen.

“I want you to know this. Your mother was an extraordinary woman who loved you very much. Every day I see more of her face in yours, and you are both beautiful.”

Lily gave her an odd look.

Mary continued. “Ruth Moon was a wonderful, talented woman who meant well. I'm sorry she got sick. I'm sorry you blame me for her death. But I'm very happy that so much of her lives on in you.”

Lily frowned, not knowing how to respond. Mary took the opportunity to lean in the window. “My mother died when I was young, too, Lily. I know how badly that hurts.” She kissed her on the cheek. “
Guh geh yu hee
, Lily-bird,” she whispered. “Whatever happens, that's forever.”

Mary stepped back from the truck. Lily rolled up the window, her head bowed, her face hidden by the dark curtain of her hair. Mary turned and walked over to Jonathan.

“I made you some sandwiches.” She held out the tote bag. “Ham for you, turkey for Lily. And a hard copy of the complaint for Alex.”

“Thanks,” he said.

“Alex will be waiting for you. I wrote her cell phone number on the first page of the complaint. Try to keep in touch with her.”

He put the tote bag in the backseat of the truck. Turning to her, he gave a sigh that seemed to come from deep inside him. “I don't know what to say.”

She stood there. For a moment she wondered if he was going to kiss her, then it occurred to her that somewhere during the past night they'd gone beyond kissing—all the caresses in the world could not mend what had broken between them. “Don't do anything stupid, okay?”

“No.” He gave a small, disgusted shake of his head and got in the truck. She backed away as he started the engine, then pulled down the driveway. He waved once, but Lily's gaze never left the Kindle on her lap. As they passed she etched them in her memory, two people in a red Chevy pickup, disappearing through tall green pines.
This is how it looked, this last day
, she thought.
From here on out, everything will be different.

Seventeen

“I tried to stop
him!” Kristal Bridgewater fluttered her hands seemingly in an effort to cool off her ears. “But he came in here waving that cane like a crazy man. I put him in your office just to shut him up!”

“Who?” cried George Turpin. “What are you talking about?” Ten minutes ago he'd stepped out of a serene office to visit the sixth-floor men's room. Now he'd returned to find his secretary hysterical, looking as if she might jump out the window.

“Carlisle Wilson.” Kristal sobbed. “And his wife.”

Turpin's gut clenched. He knew that this day might come. He'd kept a close eye on Wilson from the cupola of the courthouse, hoping that Cochran might make a quick arrest and the old man would go bury his daughter somewhere at the other end of the state. But that had not happened. Cochran hadn't arrested anybody on as much as a jaywalking charge and the old man was now taking aim at the next person on the food chain: him.

“How long has he been in there?” Turpin whispered, eyeing his office door as if smoke and brimstone might come seeping out.

“Five minutes, maybe.” Kristal shuddered. “I'm telling you, he's insane!”

Turpin considered his options. Having Kristal remain outside might be a good idea—she could call security if Wilson went totally off the rails. But by the same token, having Kristal within earshot might prove embarrassing, considering the potshots Wilson might fire at him. He didn't want to be the laughingstock of the ladies' room. “Why don't you go to lunch,” Turpin finally suggested, the armpits of his shirt growing damp. “I'll take care of this.”

Kristal's face brightened with relief. “Are you sure?” she asked, making a feeble show of loyalty. “I'll stay if you really want me to.”

“It'll be fine.” Turpin gave a high, girlish laugh. “You go eat lunch. No need to hurry back, either.”

“Thanks.” Kristal smiled. “And be careful!”

Turpin watched as she grabbed her purse and hurried to the door, her ample breasts bouncing in her blue knit dress. He waited until she was safely out of the office, then he straightened his tie, checked his zipper, mopped his forehead with a handkerchief.
Whatever happens
, he thought,
at least it won't go past this office.
He paused for a moment with his hand on the doorknob, then he took a final deep breath and opened the door. He found Carlisle Wilson pacing in front of his desk, one hand wielding his cane, the other clutching a newspaper. His wife sat in a chair, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

“Governor and Mrs. Wilson,” said Turpin sonorously, walking over to shake hands with them. “I'm so sorry for your loss. Sybil and I both extend our deepest sympathies.”

Wilson glowered at him with smoldering eyes. Mrs. Wilson mewed something he couldn't understand.

Turpin blathered on. “I can't express how upset everyone is about this. It's unthinkable that such a tragedy would happen in Pisgah County.” Though Turpin had mastered the art of the sound bite, where he promised to prosecute criminals to the fullest extent of the law, he met with grieving relatives less comfortably. He found it hard to seem sincere when the greatest sorrow people would ever know was, to him, just another case on the docket. “What can I do for you today?”

“Do for me?” Wilson's face darkened as he held up a newspaper. “Have you seen this?”

“I-I'm not sure I have.” Desperately, Turpin tried to remember what the
Hartsville Herald
had run this morning, but his brain seized up. All he could do was stare at the red filigree of blood vessels on the end of Wilson's nose.

Wilson slapped the paper down on his desk. To Turpin's surprise, it wasn't the
Herald
at all, but the latest issue of
The Snitch
. Turpin gaped at the cover photo of an NFL quarterback dressed in a bra, wondering what that had to do with anything when Wilson took his cane and flipped the rag to the centerfold. Turpin gasped. Under the headline MOUNTAIN MANIAC MUTILATES GOVERNOR'S DAUGHTER was a photo of Lisa Wilson nude, splayed out on the ground, her body covered in what looked like fuzzy, illegible tattoos.

“Jesus,” whispered Turpin. He hadn't seen any of the crime scene photos—the picture of the girl's shredded body brought his lunch-time chicken salad roiling back up his throat.

“Do you have children, Mr. Turpin?” the old governor asked.

The room spun as his children's faces flashed before his eyes. “I do … a boy and a g-girl.”

“Then can you imagine what it's like to lose your daughter, and then see her picture in trash like this?” Wilson's voice trembled with fury. “To know that strangers will gawk at her while they're waiting to buy frozen pizza?”

Turpin broke into such a clammy sweat that he wondered if he wasn't having a heart attack. “I'm s-so sorry,” he sputtered again.

“What I want to ask you, Mr. DA, is what the hell kind of criminal justice operation are you running in this county?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean why would that goddamned Cochran leak this?” thundered the old man.

“Are you sure he did?” asked Turpin. “Cochran usually plays his cards close to his vest.”

“He told me he had the only photos of her. Said he was keeping them locked in his drawer. I believed, him, too. Until I saw this.”

Turpin didn't know what to say. Though he and Cochran were not particular friends, the young sheriff had helped improve his own conviction rate in the past seven years. His evidence was always clean, scrupulously gathered. Compared to the corrupt Stump Logan, Cochran was a white hat, riding into Hartsville to clean up the town.

“I d-don't know, Governor,” Turpin finally offered. Decorously, he closed the
Snitch
. “This doesn't sound like Cochran. But if he or his office leaked it, then I sincerely apologize on behalf of all Pisgah County.”

“You're going to have to do better than that, boy.”

Turpin reached for his handkerchief again. “I'll be happy to help in any way I can, sir, though I have no control over the sheriff's department. We—”

Suddenly, Wilson whipped his cane around, hooking the handle hard around Turpin's neck. “Then just what exactly do you have control over, sonny?”

“I have control over the prosecutor's office,” said Turpin as Wilson twisted the cane so hard that his left arm went numb.

“Then stand still Mr. Prosecutor, and I'll tell you what you can do for me. First, get every copy of this garbage off the shelves. Seize it, buy it, steal it, I don't care. I don't want any more fucking Walmart shoppers ogling my little girl.”

“Okay,” gasped Turpin.

“Second, I want you to make sure that rag never prints another picture of my daughter.”

“I'll f-file an injunction this afternoon. I'll claim they're polluting the jury pool, impeding an ongoing investigation.” Turpin knew such an injunction would be laughed out of court, but he didn't care. He would do anything to remove this cane from his neck.

“Third, I want you to light a fire under Cochran's ass. I'm a mean old bastard, son. I want to see who did this to my little girl before I die.”

“I'm sure Cochran's working as hard as he—”

Wilson wrenched the cane harder, pulling Turpin so close he could see the hairs sprouting from the old man's nostrils.

“You're not hearing me, son. I told you I'm a mean old bastard. You've got an election coming up in November. Right now you're running against Prentiss Herbert, a mealy-mouthed little ambulance chaser who couldn't get elected shit scooper.”

Turpin nodded, the cane digging into his neck as Prentiss Herbert's thin, pale face appeared in his mind's eye.

With his free hand, Wilson withdrew a long white envelope from his coat pocket and tossed it on Turpin's desk. “In that envelope are some photos of you that will absolutely assure Herbert's election.”

“Photos?” Turpin sputtered. “If you're talking about me and Kristal, it was just a one-time thing. A lapse. You know how women can get.”

Wilson threw his head back and laughed. “I'm not talking about women, you moron. Women ain't shit anymore … women are notches on your gun these days.” The old man gave an evil grin. “The pictures in there are of boys.”

“Boys?” Turpin whispered, gaping into the old man's eyes—cold, dark voids that promised no mercy.

“You and boys.” Wilson lowered his voice to a whisper. “You want to stay in this office with those nice big tits answering your telephone, you'll have Cochran find that killer. Otherwise, those photos are going to pop up in places you don't want 'em to.”

“But it isn't true,” Turpin whimpered. “I've never touched … ”

Again, Wilson roared with laughter. “It doesn't have to be true, boy. All it has to be is out there!”

Turpin closed his eyes, sweat trickling down his cheeks.

Wilson twisted the cane again. “Now, do we understand each other?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Suddenly, Wilson unhooked the cane from Turpin's neck. “I knew you'd see it my way.”

Turpin stepped back, rubbed his aching neck. He was shaking with equal parts of fear and rage. He wanted to kill Wilson, to stuff that fucking cane up his ass. But then he remembered the look in Wilson's eyes, his sour old-man breath in his face, the smear campaign that he would spread like a plague. Instead of lifting his hand to him, Turpin stood there, red-faced as a schoolboy who'd just endured a paddling.

Like a storm that had spent its fury, Wilson turned and spoke softly to his wife. “Let's go, Pauline. I think we've taken up enough of Mr. Turpin's time.”

She rose from her chair, keeping her eyes lowered, as if she didn't want to witness Turpin's humiliation. She took Wilson's arm and they started, blessedly, toward the door. Turpin thought their meeting was over, but the old man stopped and looked over his shoulder.

“I thank you and your wife for your condolences, Mr. Turpin,” he murmured, now the soul of politeness. “I pray you and your family never have to go through anything like this.”

They turned then and walked out, closing the door behind them. Turpin stood there weak-kneed, wondering if he was going to throw up. With trembling fingers, he opened the envelope Wilson had tossed on his desk. It contained three photos—all of him, with three boys he'd coached in Little League. He was hugging one, patting another's bottom, letting his arm rest across the shoulders of the third. Though each touch had been no more than a coach encouraging a player, he knew how the scenario would play out. First the whispered rumors, a snippet on YouTube. Then an unidentified victim would come forward, speak through an attorney and accuse him of the unthinkable. Though Sybil would stand beside him (he thought), the voters of Pisgah County would not. His career would be over, his life ruined.

“Maybe I'd better go have a little chat with Cochran,” he wheezed to the empty space just vacated by Carlisle Wilson, which still seemed to glow darkly with his presence.

When his pulse calmed and his spaghetti legs stiffened, Turpin locked his office and walked all the way down Main Street, to the third floor of the jail, where he glared at a small red light that glowed above an interview room. Cochran was, according to his secretary, in that room, observing Buck Whaley interrogating a suspect in the Lisa Wilson case.
Thank God
, thought Turpin.
If they make an arrest, I'm going to shove those photos back up Wilson's ass.

Brusquely, he knocked on the door and let himself into the room. Jerry Cochran looked up, surprised.

“Hey, George.” Cochran nodded. “What brings you down here?”

Turpin rubbed the back of his neck. “I just got a visit from Carlisle Wilson.”

“Quite a character, isn't he?”

Fuming with rage, Turpin tossed Cochran his copy of the
Snitch
. “You know anything about this?”

“No.” Cochran shrugged. “I heard one of their reporters was in town.”

“Check out the centerfold.”

Cochran turned to the middle of the paper. As he looked at the picture of Lisa Wilson's body, his face grew pale. “What the fuck? Where did they get this?”

“That's what I was going to ask you. Governor Wilson brought it to my attention. He was outraged, to put it mildly.”

“I keep those photos locked in a drawer, locked in my office.” Cochran scanned the article quickly. “I bet that little NSA bastard at Duke leaked this.”

“The who?”

“Nobody,” Cochran said quickly. He closed the tabloid. “I'm going to find out who did this. If it was somebody on my staff, they're going to be looking at a lawsuit. Also a new job.”

“We're both going to be looking for a new job if you don't arrest somebody for that girl's murder,” said Turpin.

Cochran frowned. “Does being guilty of the crime matter? Or will just anybody do?”

“Of course he wants whoever's guilty of the crime.” Turpin felt like a fool, lecturing Cochran like this. “I'm just telling you this guy's powerful and pissed, and he's not going away.”

“Then I guess we'll just have to hunker down,” said Cochran. “I'm not going to arrest somebody just because Carlisle Wilson's an asshole.”

Turpin gulped back another wave of nausea as those Little League pictures flashed across his mind. He knew Cochran would react like this—any decent sheriff would. Yet he also knew what Carlisle Wilson would do with those photos. Panicky, he walked over to check out the two-way mirror that revealed the interview room. A tall man with longish blonde hair sat across the table from Buck Whaley. He wore a blue work shirt, buttoned at the wrists and a look of contempt on his face. “Who've you got in there now?”