Redemption (35 page)

“Matt? Matt Grayson?” At the sound of his name, Matt turned and saw the glint of sun on a camera. Another reporter. He had hoped the visit to Angola would pass unnoticed by the local press.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions.” As he spoke, the man lowered the camera from the strap around his neck, and Matt noticed a small tape recorder in his hand, along with a large envelope.

“Call my press agent,” Matt said impatiently. Most of these guys knew that interviews were scheduled by press agents, who also handled routine questions.

“Yeah, but this story—it’s scheduled for tomorrow’s paper. I’d like to get your reaction.” The guy was young—mid-twenties, Matt guessed—with a nervous edge that usually went along with a weasel personality.

“What story?”

“It’s about Claire Porter.”

Matt bristled. Another bottom feeder. “Don’t you guys have anything better to rag on?” He turned and stepped toward his car.

“I’m talking about the fact that she was raped ten years ago.”

Matt halted dead still, jerking back to skewer the reporter. “What did you say?”

“There’s a police report, from Stillwater, Oklahoma, where she was living at the time. Claire Porter was assaulted, not long after Hayley James killed herself. No charges were ever filed.”

“Oh my God.” Matt wiped a hand over his face. Just the thought knotted his gut.

“I take it you weren’t aware.”

“Hell no. I had no idea.” He couldn’t contain his shock, despite the fact the reporter was latching on to the scoop. No, he hadn’t known. Claire wasn’t one to disclose information—he should know that better than anyone. “How do you know about this? And what do you mean, it’s going to be in tomorrow’s paper? What happened ten years ago is old news, buddy.”

The guy shrugged. “I was digging into her background, now that she’s been appointed president of Kaslow’s. I wondered how a former bimbo rose to the top so quickly. Turned up a case of possible rape.”

“What do you mean, possible?” Matt stifled the urge to hit the guy.

“She was found in the bathtub, nude. Any evidence had been washed away, and according to the report, the victim had no memory of the assault.”

“Jesus.” Matt clenched his fist, too stunned to protest the invasion of Claire’s privacy just now. Rage warred with concern, but uppermost was the need for more details.

The reporter seemed to know he had his full attention. He waved a large envelope in his hand, which Matt supposed contained the results of his digging. “We’re also running a related story about her childhood. She grew up right across the state line, in a little spot on the map called Paradise, Texas. Apparently her father, the Reverend Roy Porter, is some sort of religious nut who founded his own church—‘the Blood of the Lamb Church of the Redeemer.’”

“Did you say ‘is’? Her father’s alive?”

“He was yesterday. I talked to them both for the story. I tell you, the guy’s a nut case. Called his daughter the ‘spawn of the devil,’ crazy shit like that.” He shook his head, and Matt had a sickening feeling every word would be printed in the smut rag he worked for.

Matt’s gaze hardened. “Call your paper. You’re not running this story.”

“Hey, buddy, it’s our First Amendment right—”

“My lawyers will crawl all over your First Amendment rights.”

“But the records are open to the public—”

“Rape reports aren’t public records.” Before the man could protest, Matt reached out and ripped the envelope from his hands.

“Hey, chill. We have copies anyway,” the guy said with a smirk.

“Yeah? You got an extra face, too?”

His eyes widened. “Now, listen—”

“’Cause you’ll need one when I’m finished with yours.” The last two days among hardened lifers lent an extra menace to the glare he gave the reporter.

The guy put his hands up and backed away. “Hey, man, talk to my editor. I just write the story.”

Matt took a step forward. “Get this straight: Tomorrow’s paper had better not even mention the name Claire Porter. Because if it does, the next day’s will feature your name, right next to the other victims.”

The reporter swallowed, then tried one last time. “Look, man, it’s a legitimate story. She’s a public figure.”

“You want a legitimate story? I’ll give you a scoop.” Like lightning, his fist came out and landed squarely on the reporter’s face. “How’s that? ‘Celebrity Hits Sleazebag,’” he finished as the man reeled, blood dripping down his chin and onto his white shirt.

Matt turned and, without another glance at the reporter, slid into the waiting car. He didn’t give a damn if the guy pressed charges. As far as he was concerned, he had done what any red-blooded male would do to protect the woman he loved. He just hoped he had hit the guy hard enough to make him think twice about printing the story.

He glanced down at the envelope still in his hands. With an unsteady hand, he opened it. A set of black-and-white photos fell out. At first he didn’t recognize the face—bruised, eyes almost swollen shut, a clot of blood on her forehead, right where there was a scar now. His stomach churned as he accepted the fact that the battered woman in the photo was Claire.

Looking at the bruises on her face, on her body, Matt felt rage sluice through him. Even though the hurt was ten years old and the bruises healed, he still wanted to go a few rounds with the person who did this to her.

But according to the police report that he found in the envelope, they had never identified the attacker. No other similar crimes had been reported in the area, leading the police to suspect it may have been an acquaintance. There was no mention of the brief notoriety Claire, as “Clarissa,” had endured, but Matt figured it was possible that the police had no idea who the victim was. Her appearance, distorted by the bruises covering her face, would certainly not have held a clue.

More disturbing than the bruises were the details of the police report. The victim had been in the bathtub when they found her, semiconscious and near drowning, which had apparently destroyed any evidence of rape. When questioned by police and hospital personnel, however, she had denied that a sexual assault had occurred. Without evidence, the police had been forced to believe her.

But Matt knew Claire’s powers of denial. She could have blocked it from her mind.

Then the realization hit him like a blow to the gut: If a rape had occurred, so close to the time she had conceived, the identity of her child’s father would have been in doubt.

Matt leaned his head back on the seat cushion, swallowing the bile that burned his throat.

Suddenly Claire’s reasons for not informing him about Tripper’s existence were much clearer.

Matt canceled his trip to New Orleans. Instead, he instructed his pilot to file a flight plan for an airport near Houston, then arranged for a rental car. The police may not have figured out the identity of the attacker, but Matt had a sickening hunch. He intended to find out the truth, and after he finished with the man who had done that to Claire, his next incarceration might be for much longer than two days.

Three hours later, Matt pulled into the one-stoplight town that was optimistically called Paradise. The sun was high in the sky, filtered through the dark-green kaleidoscope of pines that lined the road.

Drive friendly
, the sign on the state highway warned, but Matt didn’t feel a damn bit friendly. The image of Claire’s face, as it looked in the photos on the seat beside him, filled him with cold fury.

The attack had undoubtedly been provoked by the notoriety over their affair. She had been helpless to stop her attacker. The words of Dr. Greenfield came back to him. “Abused children feel they deserve what happens to them.” Surely not even Claire, a master at harboring guilt, could feel she deserved such a punishment.

Maybe he was making a mistake, coming here, exacting revenge for a crime he wasn’t even sure had been committed.

After all, Claire said her parents were dead—and hadn’t she mentioned she was adopted?

But he had to know the truth. If he and Claire were ever to have a chance, he had to understand what kind of demons haunted her, made her terrified of stepping into the deep end of a relationship.

And if his darkest suspicions proved true, then no force on earth would stop him from tearing Roy Porter into tiny pieces. He smiled grimly. The dragon that raged in Claire’s nightmares was about to meet its match.

Gravel popped under his tires as he pulled into the parking lot of the Blood of the Lamb Church of the Redeemer. The name was bigger than the whole building—the church didn’t seem to believe in erecting architectural monuments. Just four square walls of putty-colored brick, with double doors set square in the middle. The place looked more like a cardboard box than a church building.

Behind the main structure was a house, made of the same washed-out brick as the church. Matt saw no cars around, and he hoped the Reverend Roy Porter wasn’t out tending his flock. He didn’t want to delay the confrontation he was itching for.

He decided to try the house first. Shaded by a line of pines in the rear, the house had a deserted look.

At his knock, Matt saw a curtain flicker in the front window, then a shadow behind the tiny window in the front door.

For the first time, he remembered his appearance—it was less than reassuring. A two-day beard, plus the unmistakable “eau de prison toilet” that clung to his clothes, would probably lead whomever was behind the door to assume he was some bad-news bandito.

The door opened. The woman who appeared could have been mistaken for a time traveler—a settler’s wife from the old west, when moisturizer and haircuts were equally scarce. A thick braid of gray hair fell to her waist, and her dress was made from something that looked homespun.

“Can I help you?” Her voice was soft, the accent reminding Matt of Claire’s when he had first known her.

“I’m looking for Roy Porter.”

“He’s not here right now.”

“When do you expect him back?”

“He’s out doing the Lord’s work—and that’s never done.” A smile creased her weathered face.

“You’re his wife?” Maybe it was a good thing the reverend wasn’t around. He could get more information from this woman.

She nodded. “I’m Deborah. Is there something I can help you with?” Her voice was eerily benign. “You’re not lost, are you?”

“No…”

“I mean in the spiritual sense. The Lord sends lost souls here all the time, the ones the others just give up on. There’s never been a soul too far gone for Roy to save,” she said, and then her face clouded. “Except once—but that was a long time ago.”

She stepped aside before Matt could comment. “Why don’t you come in? I can get you some tea. You like iced tea, don’t you?”

Matt didn’t hesitate. “Yes, I’d like that. Actually…” He smiled as benignly as he could. “I was hoping to ask you some questions…about your husband’s work.”

“Oh, are you a servant too?” she asked.

Matt gave a noncommittal sound, fighting the feeling he was way out of his depth. She obviously didn’t recognize him, nor seem to care about his unkempt appearance. He followed her into a spotless kitchen, not exactly the stuff of nightmares. A faint odor of bleach hung in the air, a marked difference to the prison stench he had been breathing the last two days.

She pulled a tall glass from a shelf and filled it with tea from a brimming pitcher. “I make a new pitcher every morning for Roy. If that man has a vice, it’s his iced tea. Never drank a drop of liquor, but when it comes to my sweet tea…” She shook her head, chuckling. “Here you go, Mister—what did you say your name was?”

“Call me Matthew,” he said, taking the glass from her. Matt was beginning to feel a little uneasy with his deception. Maybe he was completely off base here. “And you could probably answer my questions,” he said, thinking carefully how to phrase them. “I have a friend—she’s from this area. She might be a relative of yours. Her name is Claire Porter.”

“Oh my stars!” Deborah’s hand flew to her mouth. “You’re talking about Mary Claire!”

“Then she
is
your daughter.”

A dark look passed over her face. “Our adopted daughter. We weren’t her parents—her real parents,” she told him. “We tried, but raising that child took all our strength. After what Delores—her mother—did…” She looked away, shaking her head. “It was such a tragedy. But easy to see how it happened.”

Then she leaned in, as if letting him in on a secret. “It was the Devil, you know, who tempted her beyond all power to resist. She showed up here one night—Halloween, it was—her belly about to pop. Roy knew all about her—he just knows things like that. And the baby…well, we thought we could save it. But it wasn’t to be.”

Matt was confused. “The baby died?”

“Oh, no, not that night. Mary Claire—that’s what her mother named her, on the birth certificate—she was a fighter, all right. The baby came early—no one even knew Delores was with child! Except Roy, of course. He had talked to her, offered to show her the way if she would only…” A faraway look came in her eyes. “But the Devil was too strong. He had such a hold of her, Roy finally had to give up altogether. And later, we heard she put a gun to her head. Just couldn’t face the life she had chosen.” She shook her head, a look of regret in her faded eyes.