Something About Sophie (22 page)

“Stop screwing with me.” He shook the gun at her like an index finger. “I don't have to do this. I could be done with this and halfway home by now. I don't have to tell you anything.”

She laughed without amusement. “Yes, you do. You've been dying to tell someone for years. All this time it's been your ugly, foul little secret that's chewed holes in everything in your life. You think telling me that you raped Lonora that night will make it all better and—”

“I didn't. I didn't rape her, I swear.”

“Somebody did!” She held her arms out as proof.

She wheezed, sucking in air. In a queer, sort of fractured moment she realized she wasn't standing on the outside looking in or hearing a story of horror from long ago. It was not two different, separate and completely unrelated events that linked her with Lonora, though her mind had clearly buffered it for her that way. Until that moment, until she said it out loud.

It was a blow that shattered her heart to possess at last the fact that she wasn't the product of an innocent puppy love gone askew or a passionate but illicit love affair—love of any kind as she'd always imagined. She was the byproduct of Lonora's torture and anguish, of senseless cruelty and violence.

The putrefaction of her childlike hopes and dreams oozed around inside her like noxious venom.

She was going to kill him.

“I . . . Cliff motioned Maury to go get her. He went slow, talking soft and telling her it was okay. She was okay. He'd get close and she'd shy away from him but he was patient, took his time. We, Jeremy and me, we got out of the car. I figured the game was over, that we were trying to get her back in the car to take her home. I remember thinking they'd want to give her the whole backseat to keep her quiet, which meant me or Jeremy—probably me, because girls liked Jeremy so he was a bigger deal than me . . . and I'd end up having to stay behind because there was only room for three with the bucket seats up front, and, of course, they'd think it was hilarious not to come back for me so I'd have to hike home or hitch a ride once I got down to the highway, so . . . so I was already pissed off but—but Maury jumped her; got around back and grabbed her from behind and . . . God Almighty,” he said as the hand holding the gun lowered to his side and he tipped his face to the moon. It wasn't a curse and it wasn't a prayer. It was an admission of his own weakness.

Sophie gathered several large pebbles into a pile beside her.

“They laughed. Maury was having trouble holding her while she cried and screamed and fought, but he was happy to be making Cliff laugh, so he held on but even he looked surprised when Cliff walked over and backhanded her so hard they both staggered. I heard Jeremy make a noise—I might have, too, because we looked at each other. She stopped screaming but now she was sort of whimpering and cowering . . . and there was blood on her lip.”

Sophie ignored an intense urge to cover her ears—something stronger knew that she owed it to Lonora to listen, to be
her
witness.

“She was so pale that her face was bright red where he'd hit her. We didn't know what was happening but we knew it'd gone far enough. We were walking over to say so, to stop them, when she broke loose and started running. Cliff yelled to get her but I couldn't move. It was like I wasn't there, it wasn't really happening. I could have been watching TV.

“But I knew I wasn't when Maury tackled her. And Cliff rushed up, straddled her, hit her again to shut her up . . . and again.” He produced a loud sigh. “She kept fighting him, hitting him with her fists and screaming, telling him he was hurting her—like he didn't know it. She was so loud. I kept looking around. I kept thinking someone from town would hear and come to help her. Cliff yelled at Maury to come hold her hands but once he let go of her feet, she started kicking and rolling, still hitting and screaming. He hollered out for me and Jeremy to come help—to hold her arms and shut her up.”

Sophie hissed air between her teeth as pain pierced palm. She relaxed her hand on the rock she'd been holding so tightly it gouged her hand. The stinging felt good, oddly comforting. She wrapped her fingers around the rock again.

“I swear I was still thinking we were trying to calm her down so we could get her in the car and take her back to town. And maybe if she hadn't . . . well, she bit him and—”

“God, you're pathetic,” Sophie said, her voice calm and cold as she bent forward, shifted her weight, and sat back on her legs in the dark. “Now you're going to blame her? It was
her
fault? How about you just kill me now? I'm sick of your whiny excuses for not helping her.”

“It's not excuses. It's how it was. I wanted—”

“Yeah, I know how it was. Same as now I suspect. People don't change.” Staying low she brought her right knee up, placed her foot on the ground directly beneath it, and pressed her chest against her thigh using a fist filled with dirt on one side and a hand full of rock on the other for balance. “You were a spineless coward then and you're a spineless coward now.”

“Shut up!”

Leaning heavily on her fist, she put aside her weapon briefly to pluck up a stone from her small arsenal and pitched it into the brush on her left. It rustled wonderfully. He, along with the barrel of his gun, jumped and swung to his right to frantically search the darkness. She took up another and tossed it as hard as she could beyond his shadowy bulk, and when he turned his back on her, she grabbed her rock and made her move.

A
bitter wrath and desperation mingled in a sizzling explosion of strength and single-minded intent. Her maniacal shrieking burst into the treetops and resounded down into the valley.
Flint
met bone with such a pleasing and sustaining
thunk!
that encouraged her to strike again. His yelp of pain was delightful. Her senses were so honed on the moment, she actually heard his fist plowing through the air toward her—she ducked and it passed overhead. Next she remembered thinking
Crap!
as she flew through the air with her fist still full of dirt . . . and a subdued
Uh-oh
when she heard the renting of the seams of her cami as he grabbed the front and yanked, fist in the air—

Chapter Fourteen

T
he fire in her face wasn't nearly as distressing as the enormous truck parked on her chest. Her breaths were shallow and rapid; she was dizzy, and again there was the fire burning through the bones on the left side of her face.

She groaned and pushed at the vehicle—it groaned and rolled over onto her legs, bent at an awkward position. She cried out and began pummeling the side of it. It turned over again and she was free.

In the seconds it took to scramble to her feet, she recalled every second of the night—except for bringing Lanyard down atop her. The blistering pain in her cheek was distracting but not so much that she missed the sound of his body shifting slowly on the ground or the jolt of her instinct to flee kicking in.

She'd kill him later.

She turned into a sudden beam of light that smarted in her eyes and blinded her at once. She teetered, sidestepping it, using her arm to shield her vision.

“Sophie, you're all right now, dear. Come over here next to me.” The voice was female and familiar. “You're safe. He won't touch you again.”

“Mrs. McCarren?”

“Yes, dear. Step away from him now, please.”

Not a problem, except she still couldn't see where she was going. She did know where Frank Lanyard was, however, so she sidled in the opposite direction. She tipped a bit when the light abruptly lowered to quickly inspect the condition of her body before it veered away toward Frank.

“Look what you've done to this sweet girl, Frank Lanyard.” There was no mistaking the elegance of her walk as she advanced on the downed man.

“Mrs. McCarren? Elizabeth?” Clearly, he'd knocked Sophie senseless. “Is that you?” A swift perusal of the woods held no answers. “Where's Drew? Are you alone? Where is everyone?”

The lady seemed not to be hearing as the beam of her shoebox-sized flashlight swept the floor of the gully until it settled on Frank's gun, which she bent down to pick up. She kicked Lanyard's butt and said, “Sit up, you oaf. I barely touched you.”

Elizabeth McCarren knocked out Frank Lanyard? Sophie wondered if she was still unconscious, dreaming. Or maybe she simply found a bigger, better rock and did Sophie's job brilliantly. She could live with that—literally.

When she stuffed the gun in her belt like a desperado, Sophie was utterly dazzled.

“I am so glad to see you. I wasn't sure you'd understand what was happening when we drove by the café.” Together they watched Lanyard push himself up to a sitting position. “My S.O.S. left a lot to be desired, I know, but I didn't have a lot of options. I hoped you'd see that something was wrong and call the sheriff . . . or maybe Drew. I sure didn't expect you to come alone. I—”

“Take your shirt off.” Elizabeth ordered Frank, swinging a stick at him. “If you've done more harm to this child than what I can see from here, you're going to be sorry. Don't people like you ever learn?”

Sophie was liking Drew's mother more and more.
She
was a good parent. She—

“He raped Lonora!” The volatile mix of emotions scorched her once again. “Him and his friends . . . Cliff Palmeroy and Maury Weims and the other one. They raped her. They found her walking along the road. They brought her up here—”

“Yes, dear. Calm yourself.” She flashed the light in Lanyard's eyes. “Give Sophie your shirt. She's freezing.”

She was cold, Sophie realized, looking down at her not-so-pretty-anymore camisole. She was also entirely exposed. She covered her breasts with her arm and waited for Frank's shirt.

Bowing her head as she buttoned up the front of the shirt, she marveled at the sensations she'd missed and the pain that had slipped away unnoticed while she fought for her life—that now returned full force. The raw fingertips under broken nails; dirty bloody scratches everywhere; deep aching muscles that were already swelling and pushing tender bruises up under her skin. She used a featherlight touch on the puffed-up laceration above her right brow and worked her jaw—which she assumed would be even more painful and considerably more difficult to move if it was broken.

Out of the blue, Frank yowled and fell over again. Several seconds later he cried out, “She didn't know! Maury said she did. But she didn't know.”

“So you had to brag about it before you killed her?” Elizabeth's voice was civil and unruffled as she watched Lanyard, bit by bit, return to a sitting position in a white T-shirt that had seen many better days. “You are unbelievable.”

“She deserved to know,” he said, belligerent. He rolled his shoulder to remove a kink that made him wince. “It's why she came.”

“She came to hear Arthur's confession, not yours, you idiot.”

He shook his head, confused. “Why not tell the cops? How did he know it was us in the first place?”

“Who said he did?”

“How else would she know who to kill?”

“I told you. I didn't—” Sophie started to tell him,
again,
that she hadn't killed anyone but Elizabeth cut her off.

“Now never you mind, Frank Lanyard. You're in enough trouble.” She pointed her stick at him as a threat. “And now I have to figure out what to do with you.”

Sophie knew.

“Look,” she said grinning, patting her bottom and beyond pleased with herself as she jerked the cell phone from her back pocket. “We can call for more help.” With Drew's mother at her side, the two of them could handle anything. “Oh, Elizabeth, you have no idea . . . I know so much more than what Mr. Cubeck wanted to tell me. He knew Lonora Campbell was my birth mother. That's what he wanted to tell me. Billy found it; he figured it out. Oh! Billy! I forgot!”

“Yes, I know about William. I was quite beside myself when I realized he was embroiled in this. I should have anticipated it—so like him to be meddlesome. And you mustn't feel responsible. What's done is done. Hopefully, no real harm has been done and we can turn it to our advantage. Go on, dear. Tell me what else you've uncovered.”

Sophie was heartened. If Elizabeth knew about Billy, he must have been conscious when she arrived—and well enough for her to leave him, to come rescue her. Maybe she called for help first or left him calling for help. Maybe it was already on the way. Maybe it would work out after all.

“Well, Billy showed me a picture of her, from the newspaper. I guess she could have been any relative with a strong family resemblance but . . . well, not
that
strong. I knew immediately who she was.” Instantly riled up again, she glanced at Frank and pointed her cell phone at him. “He must have guessed that Lonny would recognize me, too, and that's why he attacked him. But now I know, too. I know everything. I know what you did. We're calling Sheriff Murphy. He'll arrest your ass and you'll die in jail after we testify to what you've done. To Lonora. To me. I hope you're getting used to the dark because if it's up to me—”

“No, dear.” With a long, resigned sigh and weariness in her voice, Elizabeth said, “Give it to me for now. We need to get our story straight first.”

“Our story? It's not straight?”

“Gracious, no. Not anymore. Now it's a big old mess, thanks to Arthur.” She groaned. “And William. He'll be like a shark in bloody water now.”

Elizabeth McCarren walked toward her, the flashlight and her stick held loose in one hand. Not a particularly big stick if it's what she hit Frank with, but Sophie was living proof of what a woman replete with adrenaline could manage.

Actually . . . not a stick-stick, Sophie noticed, as Elizabeth came closer through the darkness with her hand out to receive the phone. More like a rod, a thin metal stick with a handle . . . like the wide end of a broken fishing pole . . . or maybe a cattle prod.

Cold sweat popped from every pore in Sophie's body. She heard the sheriff's voice in her head. . . .
The only thing missing from the truck was a hotshot that Cliff kept in the bed of his truck.

That didn't mean it was Cliff's prod. Lots of country people used them on their cattle—not the nicest or kindest way to get cows to move but certainly common enough.

Still, it was a strain to imagine someone like Elizabeth McCarren having one conveniently locked away in the trunk of her luxury Lexis on the off chance that she would need one some day to subdue a killer . . . or herd cattle for that matter.

Hope was becoming harder and harder to hold as Sophie realized that Elizabeth didn't know Billy was in the parking lot. She hadn't called for help. It wasn't coming.

Sophie's hand shook as she relinquished the cell. Her gaze passed from her savior to her captor and back again. Was it too late to ask for a do-over? As repulsive as he was, Frank was beginning to look like a lesser threat.

“Nice hotshot.”

“I know. Isn't it wonderful?” Elizabeth smiled happily—insanely so—and gave it a whirl. “If I'd known how handy they were, I'd have gotten one long ago. And let me tell you this: the social hour at the Clearfield Service Committee meetings would no longer exceed the length of the business discussions.” Her eyes widened. “And Maxine Pollock would think twice about spreading lies about Botox injections around town.” She gave it a neat little snap like a whip master and sobered abruptly. “It's not a toy, though. That's important to remember.”

“Yes, ma'am.” They heard Frank move, disturbing his cushion of brittle dry leaves. The ladies looked at him. Sophie narrowed her eyes. “I bet it hurts like the dickens.”

“Yes, indeed, it seems quite painful—and it can be quite deadly under certain circumstances.” Sophie's heart shuddered before it sank deeper into her abdomen. Part of her wished Elizabeth would just stop talking. The more she said, the more insane she sounded. “It's the electricity, of course, and I feel positively foolish for not making that connection.”

“What connection?”

Elizabeth made a cheeky grimace. “I had a bit of an accident with it recently. I should have Googled it for more information
before
I used it but, of course, everything is clearer in hindsight, isn't it?” Sophie had to agree. “You see, theoretically, the high voltage/low current combination isn't supposed to be strong enough to kill a human or a large animal such as a cow or a goat with short-term exposure—no more than cause incapacitating pain. But it isn't until you get to the small print that you find it isn't recommended for people with heart conditions or pacemakers.” Her shrug was graceful. “Forgetting that Maury Weims had both is a mixed blessing, I suppose.”

“Had?”

“Oh, yes. For years. I believe my husband treated him when he had his first coronary . . . in his thirties. Quite young.”

“Oh. So . . . And why is that a mixed blessing?” She needed to hear the words out loud to accept it.

“Well, I see now that it was for the best, of course, but I didn't intend to kill Maury. I only meant to scare him. I thought that by putting Cliff down—cutting the head off the snake, so to speak—that the others would fall into line and leave you be. The secret would be safe. I needed Maury to keep his mouth shut. The man had no spine, Sophie. Cliff Palmeroy, a foul man start to finish, led him around like a trained monkey. He did everything Cliff told him to do, even back then. This one, too.” She set the flashlight on the ground, aimed the blinding beam straight into Frank's face. He scooted to one side. She didn't bother to bend over again, but simply tapped the battery box with the toe of her expensive summer flats to pin him again. Lanyard covered his eyes. “Maury Weims was pitiful and inept, but nowhere near as dangerous as Cliff. And I'll tell you this: as much as I like Phil Kerski, and admire his dedication to his family—hiring his sister's husband when no one else in town would—I was compelled to switch to the Rite Aid pharmacy for my prescriptions because simply seeing Maury Weims nauseated me. Truth. If I wasn't ill when I went in there, I was when I left. Running into either of them could trigger one of my migraines . . . I keep my Celebrex in my purse for that exact reason.”

Sophie glanced around for something to sit down on—she was feeling a bit sick herself.

For even beyond the gradual awareness of the two murdering maniacs in her presence, there was a numbing exhaustion creeping deep into her bones, anesthetizing her wounds and clearly blunting her normal reactions because she detected an irrational sense of safety with Drew's mother. For the moment anyway—for as long as Elizabeth felt safe, felt no threat coming from her. And once again, paramount, was her need for time—to recoup her strength, reassemble her mind, and to request that God arrange for an official police rescue this time.

She must have looked ready to drop, too, because Elizabeth picked up the flashlight, took her arm, and led her gingerly over to a fallen tree a few yards away, saying, “You poor thing. What you've been through . . . let me help you. There, that's better isn't it?”

Sophie nodded, huddling inside Frank's shirt. She wasn't that cold but she was shivering.

Elizabeth sat next to her and reset the beam of her flashlight on their prisoner. She set the hotshot on the log and brought the gun out. Sophie nodded again. Their mutual loathing of Frank Lanyard made the gun the more plausible weapon if he was foolish enough to attempt an escape. And there wasn't a doubt in the air, anywhere, that she'd miss her mark.

Elizabeth settled primly and sighed softly. “Filthy business this. I'm sorry Arthur dragged you into it, Sophie. I told him, more than once, that it was a bad idea to send for you. As an old and dear friend, I felt that the least I could do for him was to ease his conscience and let him die in peace. I promised him that I would protect and care for you when you arrived.” There was a soft laugh. “I never dreamed it would become this complicated. Lord, that man and his ridiculous will. Who knew what would be in it?” She rubbed her forehead with the back of her gun hand, clearly vexed. “I was sick with worry. It wouldn't have been nearly so nerve-racking had I been able to count on Arthur, just this once, not to be rash. It was one thing to break the promise we made to Lonny Campbell when you were born, but we both knew that pulling on one little thread would unravel everything so we agreed to leave none exposed. It was best for everyone. But he was so remorseful at the end . . . and
so
unpredictable.”