When Secrets Die (33 page)

“Do you have caller ID?”

She nodded. “Yes, and I looked, but the call came from a gas station in Athens.”

I took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

Syd looked at me, but waited to speak until Janet left the room. “What is it? Amaryllis was friends with the Marsdens.”

“Maybe,” I said. “If you think someone like Amaryllis Burton is friends with anyone. But Blaine Marsden went missing day before yesterday, in the morning, after she had a fight with her mother. It's pretty clear Amaryllis Burton picked her up. And she hasn't called Emma to let her know that Blaine is okay or that she has her.”

“What would Amaryllis want with Emma Marsden's daughter?”

Mr. French sat down and put his head in his hands.
“Oh, blessed Jesus.”

Syd looked at him. “Does this have something to do with Ted leaving a clinic full of patients today?”

Mr. French's voice had gone thin. “An e-mail came into the clinic, late last night. On the private address, the one we use for … for the pharmaceutical companies. It offered to sell us blood samples, samples that contained the specific genetic materials that had been present in Ned Marsden's blood. The message said a sample would be left at a certain place, and that Dr. Tundridge should take it and see if it was what he wanted. And if it was, then he should get his checkbook ready, and they would be in touch.”

Syd stared at him. “Are you kidding me? That's where Ted is right now?”

French nodded.

I picked up the phone and slammed it down in front of Syd Tundridge. “Call your husband. Now. Call him on his mobile and stop him. Then we call the police.”

“But—”

“Look. Amaryllis Burton has kidnapped Emma Marsden's daughter. There's two reasons you don't want your husband anywhere near Amaryllis right now. One, she's dangerous. And very unpredictable. Two, she's our lead to Blaine Marsden.”

“Amaryllis?”

“She's had three children, Mrs. Tundridge. Every single one of them are dead.”

She looked from me to Mr. French, then picked up the phone.

BLAINE

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-SEVEN

It was funny the way she had fallen instantly asleep right there in the mess on the floor. The second the pain had stopped, she had gone to sleep. Blaine was afraid to move, afraid she would feel that pain again. Last time it had gone away completely. This time it was still there, more in the background but definitely there. She did not know how long she had been asleep, but she thought maybe a long time. It was light outside now. It felt like morning. The house was quiet.

She crawled out of the bathroom, moving slowly, pleased to find that the pain had receded to the point that crawling was comfortable enough, pleased that just moving that little bit did not bring back the nausea.

The bedroom was cold, the window was open. Blaine heard something rustling outside. Probably a cow. The house backed right up to a farm; she had noticed the rolls of hay in the field, the sagging barbed-wire fence, the white-and-brown cows who were sometimes there and sometimes not. Wally would have wiggled right under that fence. Wally was extraordinarily gentle with other animals, and often lay on her belly to play with smaller dogs so they would not be intimidated, but even Wally would bark at cows.

Blaine really really really missed her dog. Wally liked to sleep right in the doorway of her bedroom—that way she could protect Blaine and keep an eye on the rest of the house, and make herself available for snacking on any food that might be prepared in the kitchen after Blaine went to bed. Wally would eat anything. Wally would even like the peanut butter that Blaine could still taste in the back of her throat.

It occurred to Blaine that she had eaten nothing but peanut butter since she'd been here, and she'd gotten sicker and sicker. She knew that her mother ate that peanut butter sometimes. At home, Blaine turned her nose up at peanut butter, even the homemade kind. It was her least favorite thing, and her mother usually had better things to eat around the kitchen. She'd eaten it here because that's what she had been served, and she had been raised too well to complain, question, or ask for anything else. Maybe there was something wrong with the peanut butter. Maybe that was what was making her sick, and her mom sick. And Ned? The Nedster had eaten that peanut butter too.

The night Marcus had talked to her and her mom about what had killed Ned, he had said there were some kind of toxins in his system that eventually caused him to die. Blaine had a lot of questions that night, and Marcus had answered them adult to adult. It was obvious, too, that he was really smart. And he didn't flinch, no matter what she asked. Her mom had finally had to go out of the room. But Marcus had said that the toxin that Ned had was found in animal feeds, like corn, and grains, and also in nuts. He had said almonds, but he'd also said peanuts, which weren't really nuts but legumes.

And Ned had eaten peanut butter. He was crazy for it. Mom had kept food diaries, and they had thought about the peanut butter, but he didn't get sick every time he ate it, just sometimes, so it was hard to tell. But Ned ate the peanut butter, and Ned got sick. And she knew her mom ate the peanut butter, she ate it on wheat bread for breakfast. And her mom got sick. And Blaine didn't get sick, and she didn't eat the peanut butter. Except now. She'd eaten Amaryllis Burton's peanut butter, and she was sick.

Blaine had thought she was cried out, but the thought of little Nederick being in the kind of pain she had been in last night, and him only a little bitty guy … and all because of that idiot woman's peanut butter? It was like botulism in homemade canned vegetables. Stupid, stupid bitch. Suzy Homemaker bitch. Could they get her put in jail for that? For involuntary manslaughter or something? Negligent homicide? Marcus would know. No matter if this stupid woman hadn't meant to make them all sick, after a night of agony and lying weakly in her own vomit, Blaine wanted Amaryllis put in jail for the rest of her life. Let her make peanut butter for the other inmates.

And then Blaine caught her breath. Maybe it was all on purpose. The more she thought about it, the more it made sense. The baskets the woman brought to the house. Poisoning them. Because why?

Blaine didn't have a problem figuring why. Not after what she'd seen of Amaryllis Burton. Because she was a jealous, weird, crazy woman, that was why.

She needed to get away.

The wind stirred the leaves. Blaine thought of climbing out the window. It was just as well that Wally wasn't there, because Wally could not climb out of a second-story window, and Wally would have definitely eaten the peanut butter, and Wally was way too heavy for Blaine to carry even when she felt good. Right now she wasn't even sure she could walk to the window, much less climb out and make it to the ground in one piece.

Of course, out the front door would be better.

Blaine was shaking, but she got out of bed and tried the door. Locked in. She turned on the lamp, trying to stay quiet, and looked at the door. She had thought it had no lock, but the hardware had been put on backward, and the lock was on the outside, not the inside. It would have to be the window.

The doorbell rang.

Blaine felt her heart jump. Maybe it was Mom there, come to take her home. She listened. She could hear someone moving around in the kitchen. Amaryllis, she guessed. The doorbell rang again. Could it be her mother?

She raised herself on one elbow. The pain was there, but not as bad. She slammed the bedroom door hard with her fists. It made a good noise, a thin hollow cheap door, and she pounded on it till it vibrated in the frame.

“Open … the fucking … door. Now. Open it, you bitch, open it.”

She stopped pounding for a minute. Heard the doorbell again. And then a slam, from the other side of the door, and Blaine jumped back. Someone had hit the door, hard. Blaine knew that it had to be Amaryllis; she could smell her, the perfume and old-lady smell she had.

“Be quiet in there, or I'll make you sorry.”

Amaryllis. In that hideous little voice.

Blaine felt the air stir on the back of her neck and the nerves tingle at the small of her back. And part of her was even a little bit relieved, because it was out in the open between them, mortal enemies.

“I'll fucking kill
you
before
you
kill me.” Blaine said it in the lowest, deadliest voice she could make. She wasn't her mother's daughter for nothing.

The doorbell had stopped ringing. Blaine went to the open window, hit the screen hard with her fist, and it popped out of the frame and slid to the grass below.

“
Help. Please help me now. Call the police, please, call my mother. Help help help help help
—”

Amaryllis was slamming her fist against the door. “Shut up, you brat, shut up right now. Shut up shut up shut up or I'll
make you shut up
.”

And Blaine pulled her head inside the window for one minute. “I'm not eating any more of your goddamn peanut butter, so stop trying to poison me.” Then she stuck her head back out the window to scream.

“Okay, up there, hang on, I'm a-coming.”

A man's voice, and then Blaine saw him, a big guy, her hero. He wore beige Dockers, a navy blue Polo shirt, a braided brown leather belt, slip-on loafers. Everything he wore was reassuringly normal; everything about him told Blaine that he was someone from the world she was used to. He was black and had a little bit of a belly, but he was well muscled and had big shoulders, and Blaine thought maybe at one time in his life he'd been some kind of an athlete. He had a certain grace and stiffness in his bearing, like he was proud of who he was.

“You wouldn't by any chance be the famous Blaine Marsden, now, would you?”

She liked his voice. Deep and reassuring. His confidence gave her confidence.

“Yes, oh, God, yes, I'm Blaine Marsden.”

“I'll be damned. You don't look too good. You all right?”

“
Fuck no
, I'm not all right. I'm being held prisoner here. And don't believe the crazy woman who lives here, she'll tell you I'm an alcoholic or a drug addict—she said the same thing about my mom. She is a lying bitch.”

“I don't know about that, little sailor-mouth, but I admit she's not very good at answering the door. You sure she's there?”

“She's right out here in the hallway. How'd you find me?”

“Twyla sent me.”

“Oh, my God. Twyla. Is she here?”

“No, she's in school where she should be. And where you should be too.”

“I would love to be in school.” Blaine felt a sob overwhelm her.

“How about your mom? You getting along okay with your mom? She treat you all right? You want to go home?”

“Of course I do. But I don't think she knows where I am. Have you talked to her? Did she send you?”

“I called your house once, but your mama wasn't home. I did hear that message she left you on the answering machine though. I liked the sound of it.”

Blaine licked a tear that ran down the side of her cheek.

“I thought I better get on down here. Your little friend Twyla said you were in a weird situation with your mom and you wanted to come home. I promised her I would check it out.”

Blaine laughed, a relieved sound. “Twyla, I can't believe it. Oh, God, it's a long story. See—”

“That's okay, little sailor. I'll be coming inside, and you can tell me then. Now, you go tell that lady to open the door and let me in, or I'm calling the cops. Then come on back to the window.”

“Did you hear that, you bitch?” Blaine shrieked. “Open the front door, or he's calling the cops.” She noticed that Amaryllis had stopped beating on the door. She crossed the room, her stomach hurt, hurt bad actually, but she went and listened. And just as she put her ear to the door, the fist slammed again, making the wood jump in the frame, and Blaine ran back to the window.

“She's beating on the door. She just keeps beating on the door.”

“Don't be scared. I've got my cell phone, I'm calling the police as we speak. Oh, hell, what's … no service.”

“She keeps beating the door.”

“Don't panic, honey, I'm coming in one way or another.”

He jammed the cell phone back in his pants and ran around the house.

The beating against the door stopped. Blaine heard noise from the hall bathroom, running water, the rattling of glass or something under the sink. The doorbell was ringing again, ringing, ringing, and someone was slamming a shoulder against it, and then quiet. She couldn't hear for sure, but Blaine thought that Amaryllis had opened the front door. Voices in the hallway, the man's and Amaryllis Burton, sounding breathless and little-girlish and very, very angry.

And then she was throwing up again, and running for the bathroom. She thought maybe she heard the front door slam. She flushed the toilet, stepped over the dried vomit in the bathroom, and went to the door. Listening, listening. But nothing, no sound.

“Hello? Are you out there? Help?”

But her voice was smaller now, she was feeling so bad, and she was afraid because it was so quiet. She hesitated, then slammed her fists on the door. No one came. She called and called, but no one came. And after a while, she had to lie down.

CHARLIE

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-EIGHT

Charlie didn't like leaving the little girl behind, but he needed help, and he was still trying to get a handle on what he was dealing with. His thigh ached where Amaryllis Burton had injected him; his heart was pumping hard.

He took her by the arm and dragged her to the door.

“Where are you taking me?”

“I don't know what the hell was in that injection, lady, but you and I are headed for the emergency room, where you can tell the doctor and the cops what was in the syringe.”