The Angel of Death (16 page)
Read The Angel of Death Online
Authors: Alane Ferguson
Her father, who was sitting in the easy chair, looked up reluctantly from his book. “Ma,” he said, “give it a rest. I think you’ve made your point.”
“A point’s not made until someone listens,” Mammaw retorted.
“Why are you jumping all over Cammie? It’s not her theory. She’s just telling us what Kyle thinks.”
“And I’m reminding you that the rambling of a young boy can do a man a lot of harm. The story should go no further than this room!”
Patrick closed the book and slowly set it down on the table beside him, beneath an imitation Tiffany lamp that had a shade made from plastic instead of glass. He’d been reading an old Louis L’Amour book, one in a series of Westerns her father called his “guilty pleasures.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, and his glasses rose up on the tips of his fingers.
Cameryn sat perched on the end of the couch, elbows on knees. “Mammaw,” she protested, “I’m not saying Dwayne Reynolds did anything—I’m saying it’s
possible
Kyle’s right about him. Maybe Dad should call the sheriff so he could check it out.”
possible
Kyle’s right about him. Maybe Dad should call the sheriff so he could check it out.”
“On what basis? Because your new boyfriend has an itch?” Mammaw demanded.
Patrick sighed. “All right, all right. Let me hear the facts one more time. Cammie, tell me again, please.” He took off his reading glasses and dropped them into his shirt pocket. “Slowly this time. Why does Kyle think Dwayne Reynolds is a killer?”
“Because Dwayne is the only one who had the key to Mr. Oakes’s house. Remember, Dwayne gave the key to Kyle when he sent him over there. He took it off his key ring and gave it to him. You’ve got to admit that’s a little strange.”
Her father shrugged. “That’s thin at best. I have a key to our neighbor’s home, too, and they have ours. A key, in and of itself, does not make a person a killer.”
“Of course not. But Dad, Kyle knew both men and, well, I don’t want to say any more. Not now, anyway.” She looked at her grandmother’s face, still square and angry. There was more to the story, but Cameryn dared not tell it with her grandmother in the room.
Mammaw wore beige pants made of stretch material and a cotton top bedecked with bright tulips, far brighter than her dark expression. She seemed to realize that Cameryn was holding back. With her usual
tsk
, she picked up a doll’s cloth body and its plastic head, hands, and feet, and stuffed them into a sewing bag.
tsk
, she picked up a doll’s cloth body and its plastic head, hands, and feet, and stuffed them into a sewing bag.
Because Mammaw repaired dolls for fun and a little profit, as a child, Cameryn had often seen old dolls in various degrees of wholeness flung across her home. Arms, legs, heads, torsos—it was a joke between them that these dissected doll parts might have fueled Cameryn’s desire for the real thing, building her passion for forensics. “Freud would have a heyday with you,” her grandmother often quipped.
Now Mammaw was poised beneath a doorway, the doll’s plastic head angled crazily from the bag drooping in her hand. “It’s clear to me you want to be alone with your father,” she said. “It’s late and I’m going to my room to do a bit of stitching. I’ve got to piece this wee one together. But Cammie”—she gave Cameryn a hard look—“I can’t help but notice you’ve placed a lot of stock in that new boyfriend of yours. Be careful where you put your heart.” With that, she was gone.
“All right, now,” her father said, his voice curt. “Tell me the rest of it.”
She hesitated.
“I know you, Cammie. For your whole life I’ve watched that clever mind of yours spinning ideas. Out with it.”
Cameryn straightened. The game had turned deadly serious and she wanted to be careful how she framed the strange accusation, because she wasn’t sure, even now, if there was truth in it. She remembered the words Kyle had whispered and how she’d wondered at their audacity. The bell had rung in the lunchroom, the kids had scattered, but Kyle, not caring if they were late, had pulled Cameryn into an alcove. As he spoke to her he did a curious thing: He wound her long hair around his finger until his fingertip blanched white. It didn’t hurt her at all, just a gentle tugging, like a small dog feeling a leash.
“Cammie,” Kyle had said at last, “I think, maybe, Brad and Dwayne were . . . more than just friends. Do you know what I’m saying?”
“You’re insane.”
“I saw them. I was driving on Blair Street, late. They were in the alley together.”
“When?”
“About two months ago,” he’d whispered. His voice had been low, quiet. “Brad was leaning his head against Dwayne, and Dwayne had his arm around him, tight. They were walking like that, and then I couldn’t see them anymore.”
“But . . . Dwayne’s married.”
Kyle’s dark eyes had fluttered briefly. “As if that matters, ” he’d said. “A week ago something else happened. I was with Dwayne, working on a photo project at his studio and Brad just kept calling and calling Dwayne’s cell. Dwayne was getting really upset. He left the room at least three times to talk to Brad. I heard him raise his voice.”
“Why didn’t you tell Justin this when he interviewed you at the house?” she’d demanded.
“I guess I didn’t put it together, not until I saw Dwayne at the memorial just now. It’s like it clicked. Maybe it’s nothing,” he said, and she could tell he was already doubting himself. He’d unwound her hair from his finger, and it stayed in a perfect curl. “Now that I’ve said it out loud, I think Lyric’s theory’s better. Just forget it.”
“I’m not sure I can. Are you going to tell the sheriff?” Kyle shook his head. “And get sucked into the vortex? No, I just wanted to bounce it off of you and see if you thought I was on to something. Your face is telling me everything I need to know. Look, we’d better go. We’re both already late, and I don’t want to lose my perfect GPA. Boy Scout, remember?”
"Kyle! ”
He’d looked at her with his warm eyes.
“Don’t tell what you just said to me to anyone else,” she’d requested. “Not until I think about it.”
The hand rose up again, only this time the fingertips grazed his forehead. “Scout’s honor,” he said.
All this Cameryn summed up for her father, who looked at her, disbelieving. “So Kyle’s intuition is based on some pretty weak observations,” she concluded. “Should I say anything to Sheriff Jacobs, or let it pass?”
“Let me think about what I should do with this,” Patrick answered, unknowingly echoing his daughter.
“Okay,” she agreed, relieved to leave the responsibility behind her. But her father wasn’t done with her just yet. He turned on the gas fireplace, and Cameryn heard the familiar clicking, then the gentle burst of flames as Patrick settled back and took his glasses out of his pocket. But instead of putting them on, he placed the stem of them between his teeth.
“Tell me about this boy,” he said.
“Kyle? He’s great. An overachiever, heading for college on the East Coast.”
“He’s a fast mover,” her father said. “You’ve never been one to lose your head over a boy, Cammie. You’ve always been the cautious type.”
“And your cautious daughter’s not had a date in months. You know, I don’t get it. Why is everyone so freaked out about me kissing Kyle?”
There was a beat. “You kissed?”
Cameryn’s heart jumped at this slip. “That’s not the point,” she said. “I guess I’m surprised people aren’t happier for me. Even Lyric’s acting funky. I think she’s jealous.”
“That doesn’t sound like Lyric.”
Cameryn flopped back onto the couch and sighed. “You’re right. She’s probably just ticked because I didn’t go for her wacko theory. She said Mr. Oakes burned up from partial spontaneous human combustion. When I told her it couldn’t happen, she got mad and stormed off.”
“Ah, that part
does
sound like Lyric. But we weren’t talking about her. I was trying to talk about you and Kyle and this sudden relationship of yours. What’s the rush?”
does
sound like Lyric. But we weren’t talking about her. I was trying to talk about you and Kyle and this sudden relationship of yours. What’s the rush?”
“I’m not rushing. I’m doing what every other kid in my school does. For once I’m feeling instead of thinking.”
“But you’ve never been like all the other kids,” he protested.
“Maybe I want to be.”
He looked at her with genuine concern. “Why?”
Cameryn pictured her mother, pressing forward ever closer in her car, but she abruptly forced her mind away from that image. How could she explain to her father that part of Kyle’s attraction was that he diverted Cameryn from her own inner life? Or that thoughts of Kyle blotted out a dreadful anticipation of the encounter that was drawing so near, whether a plague or salvation she couldn’t tell. Traces of Hannah were white noise in Cameryn’s soul. She knew that when she saw her mother, face-to-face, her life would change forever.
She’d tried hanging on to the beautiful lie of life with her father in their small green-shingled home. Now Kyle blotted everything out, which was exactly what Cameryn needed. But she couldn’t say that out loud to her father. Instead, she shrugged and answered, “I don’t know, Dad. The heart wants what it wants, when it wants it. I guess that’s all there is.”
When her father cleared his throat, she realized he had something more he wanted to say. His skin glowed in the fake Tiffany light, which made her wonder if he’d applied lotion to his face. That would be news. He’d always been a minimalist when it came to male primping.
“Well, you can’t argue with love,” he said. “I guess when it comes down to it I couldn’t agree with you more.”
“I never said love. I’m in ‘like.’”
“Call it what you will. You know it’s strange—fortuitous, really, that you should be embarking on a relationship of your own. ‘The heart wants what it wants,’” he repeated her words slowly. “The thing is, something’s happened in my own life that I want to talk to you about, Cammie. It seems we’re on parallel tracks. Although my train is going much more slowly than yours.”
Cameryn felt a rabbit kick to her ribs. “What are you talking about?”
He had on dark blue slacks with a pleat in them, and he spread his fingers over his knees. “I’m old, Cammie,” he began.
“No you’re not.”
“Thank you for the requisite lie, but the truth is, life has a way of whipping by. When your mother reentered your life, it was like a wake-up call. It’s been fourteen years since I’ve seen her. Fourteen years of my life, just . . . gone. I realize now how alone I’ve been.”
“I’ve been here with you. And Mammaw.”
“What I’m talking about is something different. I love you and Mammaw more than anything, but I want— need—a life of my own.”
Of course she understood what he was saying, and her insides coiled when he said it. “Except . . . you’re married,” she said softly.
“In the eyes of the Church, yes. But I’m not even sure about that anymore. I’ve talked to Father John about filing for an annulment, and he’s behind my decision. Lord knows I’ve got grounds.” He cleared his throat, but his words still sounded strange, as though his throat had tightened. “I hope you understand.”
“Are you telling me you’ve met someone?” she asked. It seemed best to be blunt, to lay it out there, a cold hard fact that could just be answered, yes or no. Steeling herself, she tried to prepare. She stared at her father, but he didn’t meet her gaze.
“Yes. There is another woman in my life. She came when I wasn’t even looking, and no one was more surprised than I was—”
With a one-word question, a bullet to pierce him as she’d been pierced, she asked, “Who?”
He waited a beat before answering. “As you may have noticed,” he began, somewhat formally, “I have been spending a lot of time in Ouray.” His voice softened, became his own again. “There’s a judge up there that I’ve gotten friendly with. Friendly’s not the right word. Close. Amy Green. Judge Amy Green. You’d like her, honey.”
“How long?”
“A few months now.”
Cameryn almost laughed at this, at the fact that they’d both been living secret lives, secret lies.
“Does Mammaw know?”
“Yes.”
“Another secret between the two of you, with me left out again.”
Now he did look at her, his eyes pleading for her to understand. “It wasn’t like that. We thought it best to wait to see if the relationship with Amy went anywhere before I told you. Well, it has.”
With a Herculean effort, she shrugged as if it didn’t matter to her at all, even though she felt another plank crumbling inside. It was hard to admit, even to herself, that one of the story lines she’d imagined was that Hannah would appear at their doorstep, crying, castigating herself, and begging the two of them for mercy, and then her father would break down, too. In her mind’s eye she would see him understanding Hannah’s story of woe and loving her all over again. And then somehow they would become a family: father, mother, and daughter, a new trinity to replace the old. But that was the problem with fantasies. They rarely came true. And they left the one who did the imagining feeling emptier than ever, because even the dream was gone.
A word Mr. Oakes used to use played in her head like the beat of a drum: irony. Here was Hannah, poised to reenter their atmosphere, and her father had gone and found someone else. After fourteen years in limbo. The timing was nothing if not ironic.
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