Tell Me (25 page)

“Hey, look, I didn’t mean to fly off the handle,” Camp said. “I just don’t need any more headaches now, any more problems. I wasn’t kidding. I’ve got me a kid to raise.”

“And that’s important?” Morrisette asked.

“Damned straight.”

“So you changed your mind. With Blondell, you had no use for children,” she reminded.

His face darkened into a scowl. “I won’t deny it. I wasn’t interested in raising another man’s kids. Still not. But your own kid is different.”

“And Blondell was pregnant at the time you were with her.”

“I wasn’t that kid’s father. Me and Blondell, we’d broke up, and she had other boyfriends, if that’s what you’d call ’em. I wasn’t the only one. That was the trouble with that woman, she could reel in the men. And we’d go! Find ourselves doin’ stuff for her we didn’t even want to.”

“Like maybe kill her kids?” Morrisette said.

“No way! No fuckin’ way! Is that what this is all about?”

“No one’s here to accuse you of anything,” Reed said.

“I was just pointing out that you changed your mind,” Morrisette clarified, though Reed knew she was trying to get a rise out of the guy. It was just her way.

“We have a couple of questions,” Morrisette said calmly, and Camp, folding his massive arms over his chest, muscles bulging, bald head shining under the porch light, unintentionally did his best impression of Mr. Clean. His demeanor had changed, and he was suspicious once more, but as they asked about the night in question, he decided to give in and talk to them.

“I’m not changin’ my story,” he began, “and if you want to check it, go see my stepbrother, Donny Ray Wilson. I was with him and he’ll tell you the same . . .”

He went on to say that Donny Ray now lived closer to Riceboro, off Highway 25, but that they’d been together the night Blondell’s kids were shot. Roland’s take on the situation was that Blondell had tried to kill her kids because, though she was “cattin’ around,” she had kind of settled on him. He was up front with her about how he felt about another man’s offspring. He would never even be with her when Amity, Niall, and Blythe were around, and that frustrated her. He repeated what he’d said on the witness stand—that he thought she was the kind of woman who was good for one thing only and that was a hell-fire hot time in the sack. He figured because she’d been married and had kids already she wouldn’t be foolish enough to get “knocked up” again, but when it turned out she was, he swore up and down it wasn’t his. “I was suspicious, y’see. Didn’t trust her claimin’ she was on the pill, so I took care of things myself.”

“But you are able to father children,” Morrisette pointed out.

“ ’Course I can, but it’s when I want to. My terms. Back then, it wasn’t the right time and it wasn’t the right woman.” His eyes glittered for a second before he pulled in on the reins of his temper and said, “Look, man, if I knew anything more, I’d tell ya. I ain’t got nothin’ to hide.” He rubbed his arms and sighed through his nose. “To tell you the truth, I wish I’d never laid eyes on Blondell O’Henry, and I’d lay odds that I ain’t the only son of a bitch who feels that way.”

N
ikki felt as if she’d stepped back in time.

An eerie feeling crawled over her skin, causing goose pimples to rise, as she eyed the interior of the cabin where her friend had been shot. Involuntarily, though she’d not been raised a Catholic, she crossed herself, as she’d seen her friends do so often. The cabin was as she remembered it, but it appeared smaller and darker than it had when she was a child.

Using the flashlight app on her cell phone, she scanned the interior and even took a few photos, though they too were dark. She flipped a light switch, but though it clicked loudly, no illumination was forthcoming.

She studied the area where Amity had been sleeping—on the pull-out sofa, where it had been tucked under the loft.

What really had happened here that night? The prosecution and defense had laid out differing stories, but the truth was still a mystery.

Nikki’s gaze drifted upward to the floor above, where Blythe and Niall had been tucked in for the night. Blondell had either opened fire on her own daughter as she slept or found an attacker looming over her . . . no, wait. That wasn’t right. If Blythe had been correct, Amity had already awakened in a panic as she’d discovered a live snake in her bed. The puncture wounds and venom found in her bloodstream confirmed the reptilian attack.

Carefully, making no sound, her muscles taut, Nikki peered into the adjacent rooms, although out of respect for her claustrophobia, she wouldn’t step into the tiny bathroom. She did walk through the old kitchen, with its sloping, rotting countertops and leaking windows, and outside to the once-screened porch where Blondell said she’d dozed. Rain was pouring in now, and there was no furniture on the wraparound porch. The view of the lake was partially obscured by brush.

Nikki wondered about Blondell’s story yet again as she returned to the house and started hesitantly up the stairs. Her great-great-grandfather had built this place, if family history was correct, and had raised his family here before the newer, modern home was constructed on the site across the water, the farm where her family had kept their horses.

And yet Amity O’Henry had died here.

She felt a strange little frisson slide down her spine, a niggle that told her she was more than connected to what had happened here, that she was the catalyst, that Amity’s blood was somehow on her hands.

As she stepped through the old rooms, she imagined the terror of that night, heard the blood-curdling screams and the crack of gunfire ricocheting through the rooms, felt the frantic, confused horror as the kids tumbled out of their beds and made their way to the stairs. Niall was first, racing down, only to be hit, then little Blythe, shot and sent reeling through the rails. Nikki shivered when she saw the stains still on the wall near the stairs. Though the tragedy had happened twenty years earlier and the dead were long buried and the survivors now adults, she felt her eyes well with tears and her soul darken a bit.

Norm Metzger had accused her of being a daughter of privilege, and he wasn’t far from the truth. The fact that she’d come so close to witnessing the horror unfold, had nearly been a part of the terror, reminded her how lucky she’d been all her life.

Hadn’t Amity accused her of such on the days they’d been riding with Hollis? “You two are so lucky,” she’d said as the horses had stopped to graze. Nikki had been astride Vixen, the pinto mare she’d come to love. Hollis had been riding her sorrel mare, while Amity had chosen Rebel, a bay gelding who was Uncle Alex’s favorite. They’d been riding by the lake, just across from this cabin, Nikki recalled now, and as they’d returned to the stable, she’d spied Uncle Alex, who had stopped by to talk to the foreman. He’d smiled at the teenagers, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses, his smile wide. He’d waved and walked into a barn with the foreman, but Nikki had experienced the sensation that he’d been watching the three of them together.

As rain peppered the roof, she made her way to the loft, and from that position high over the living area, she took another picture, of the blackened fireplace below, with its rock face and thick mantel. How had Blondell and her kids ended up here? Nikki asked herself again.
Before
the attack.
Before
she’d been accused of murder.
Before
she’d needed to hire Alexander McBaine as her attorney.

Had she read the answer to that question in Blondell’s testimony? Surely someone had asked it. Just as she had when Amity had called that night. Nikki asked herself, and not for the first time, whether somehow, inadvertently, by showing her friend the cabin, she’d set the wheels in motion for Amity’s death.

She’d seen all she needed to have seen, and what little light was left, filtering through the windows, was swiftly fading. The place felt haunted, as if whatever evil had gone down that night had seeped into the walls and floorboards of the old building, as if a residue of the depravity still lingered.

She had loved this cabin as a child, but it now seemed to have a blackened soul.

From the loft, she took a step onto the stairs.

She nearly tripped at the sound, then caught herself by grabbing the rail.

She was alone.

Right?

No one else was here, and no one had followed her. She’d checked.

Something blowing over outside and hitting the house?
The thud had been muted, more like the sound of a car door closing than something falling onto the floor.

Her instincts were on alert, her nerves strung tight as she started downward again. Her ears were straining as she reached the first floor, and her heart was thudding wildly.

Letting out her breath, she started across the room when she heard a low, warning growl.

Something was
inside?

The saliva dried in her throat as she strained to see.

Where
was it?

What
was it?

Heart in her throat, she swept the beam of her phone screen across the floor, making certain she had a way out.

Again the rumbling growl, and she froze, the hairs on the back of her neck raising one by one.

Was it an animal? A deranged person?

Passing the beam of her flashlight over the floor, she saw nothing. No glittering eyes and bared fangs. She eased across the room and tried to ignore the fact that she felt as if she were being observed, her every move noted.

The growl rumbled again.

Heart thudding, she twisted her flashlight in the direction of the noise, near the archway to the kitchen.

Reflecting the light, bright eyes glared at her from the shadows. “Oh, God,” she whispered, frantic for a second. Another growl, and she realized she was looking at a gray cat crouching near the cabinets.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, as much to calm herself as anything else. “We’re fine here.”

The feral cat gave out that soul-numbing growl again, then hissed, showing its teeth.

“No worries, kitty,” she said and realized it wasn’t looking directly at her, but at something near her, something on the floor near her feet, something . . .

From the corner of her eye she caught movement, a rapid slither. She whirled, the beam of the cell phone landing on a snake as it eeled toward the fireplace, its smooth scales glistening in the light.

Her heart turned to ice as she noticed the hourglass pattern of its scales and recognized the sibilant creature as a copperhead, the same kind of snake that had struck Amity O’Henry in this very room.

The cat let out a piercing cry, and the pit viper coiled, its reptilian eyes tracking the animal.

Nikki backed toward the door, but even as her mind screamed at her to run, she had the presence of mind to hit the button on her phone and take pictures of the copperhead coiled and ready to strike near the old stone grate.

The cat finally got smart and scrambled away, through the kitchen.

Nikki too couldn’t get out of the cabin fast enough. Her fingers fumbled as she relocked the door behind her, ran down the porch steps, and squished her way through the mud to her car. Rain was still falling and darkness had descended, the lake barely visible. Climbing into her car, she tossed her phone into her cup holder and her uncle’s set of keys onto the passenger seat near her purse, then jabbed her key into the ignition, threw the gear shift into reverse, and hit the gas.

The Honda’s tires spun, the engine whining.

The car didn’t budge.

“No way!” Panic was taking over. Being in the dark cabin and stumbling on first the cat and then the snake had stretched her nerves to the breaking point. She jammed the car into drive and this time slowly touched a toe to the accelerator. Again her tires spun, spraying out mud. “Come on, come on,” she said as the rain poured from the heavens. A little movement. Then more spinning. The car had all-wheel-drive, thank God.

Despite the cool air, she began to sweat.
Calm down. You’re safe, just freaked. Pull yourself together!

Reverse again.

“Not today.
Not
today!” Her nerves were already shot, a headache building behind her eyes. The car rocked a little. “Go, go, go!” Desperately, she wanted to get out on her own and fast, putting distance between herself and the dilapidated cabin. She could call Reed, but would prefer to tell him she’d visited the old crime scene on her own terms.

She threw the car back into drive and the tires began to spin again. This time it moved enough to find traction away from the ruts she was creating.

“That’s it,” she whispered as the tires gripped the sodden ground.

“You can do it,” she said to either the car, or herself, or both, as she eased on the gas and the car slowly inched forward, finding a little traction in the weeds.

Finally, the tires caught solidly, wheels no longer spinning. On solid ground, she drove in a tight circle to be facing out the way she’d come in.

She let out her breath and felt her heartbeat slow a bit. She was free, and if she stepped on it, she still had time to race home, shower, and meet Trina at Catfish Jake’s.

Headlights on, windshield wipers swishing the rain from the glass, she pulled away from the cottage and was about to reach for the radio, to find some music to calm her shattered nerves when she glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a figure in the gathering darkness.

In a blink, the image was gone. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw no one, just a huge cypress tree that she must’ve mistaken for a person. Was it her imagination? Was it? The atmosphere of the cabin had certainly gotten to her. Fighting the urge to call Reed, she set her sights on the rutted lane. There was no way out of the property but by the lane, so if she had the inclination, she could drive to the end, hide the car by the side of the main road, and follow the next car out that came along.

If there was a car.

But even so, it could be parked miles away and drive off in the other direction and—

Letting out her breath, she reached to turn on the radio again, but stopped short.

Venomous eyes glared up at her from the floor in front of the passenger seat.

“Oh . . . God . . .”

Curled into a tight circle on the floor, blending into the darkened interior, the pit viper locked its reptilian gaze with hers, its arrow-tip-shaped head raised high above its coiled body.

Her heart nearly stopped.

Fear strangled her.

She stood on the brakes.

Too late.

The snake’s head twisted, its eyes, with slitted pupils, still fixed upon her.

The Honda jerked around. She flung open the door and threw herself outside. The SUV skidded sideways, slewing and throwing up mud, and crashed against a fence post.

Bam!
Metal crumpled. Barely breathing, Nikki ran forward and slammed the door shut, then realized her phone was in the car, which was still in gear, engine grinding.

“Damn! Hell!” She stared through the window, where the reptile was still glaring at her, unblinking eyes fixed. “Bother and blood,” she said under her breath as her heart hammered and the car’s engine still ran, inching the car forward.
Now what?
She’d heard snakes would rather slither away than attack, but she felt she had to keep the viper trapped. Someone had put the damned thing in her car. Hadn’t she heard the quiet thud of the door closing? The trapped snake was evidence!

She needed to reopen the door, push the car into park, cut the engine, and snag her cell phone—all with the car moving and the snake lifting its head, poised to strike.

Gritting her teeth, she inched the door open.

Noiselessly, the pit viper watched.

Carefully she reached toward the center console and rammed the car into park.

The snake reared higher.

God help me.
Whether the wound would be fatal or not, she didn’t want to get bit. Slowly, she let her hand slide down to the cup holder, her fingers wet with sweat, as she plucked the phone from its resting place.

Muscles in the copperhead’s coiled body seemed to flex.

The keys were dangling so close to the snake . . .