Authors: Tim Waggoner
Joanne remembered her conversation with Althea in the gazebo last night. She’d said the same thing about why Marshall had married Lenora’s mother.
“At first I saw it as my duty, and one that I found distasteful, for I wished to marry out of love, not genetic necessity. But as I got to know Debbie, I became attracted to her. She was beautiful, but in a real-world way. Nothing like Cross women. They all seem of a kind, like dolls made of delicate china. Pretty to look at, but cold and hollow inside. But Debbie was different. She’d lived a life that had nothing to do with bettering your position within the family hierarchy and fulfilling your ancestral duties. It was a life she’d made herself, built from her own choices. But she was like a Cross in one important way. She possessed a core of inner strength, as strong as any woman I’d ever met, inside the family or out.
“She was married, but I didn’t care. I was Marshall Cross. I could have any woman I wanted. Except, as it turned out, Debbie. Though she was attracted to me, she loved her husband and refused to do anything that would hurt him. I admired that, and I tired to respect it, I really did. But I was young and lacked discipline, and I wanted her so badly …”
“You did something to make her sleep with you,” Joanne guessed.
“I … persisted until she gave in,” Marshall hedged. “Even so, she was determined to remain with her husband, and by this point I didn’t care. As long as I could be with her, I was willing to share her if that’s what it took.”
“And eventually she got pregnant by you.”
Marshall nodded. “Her husband was a good man, but he had a low sex drive and they didn’t make love often. Debbie assumed I was the father, but we weren’t certain until after the child was born and we could have a blood test done in secrecy. But I knew the first time I saw Carl’s eyes. All babies start out life with blue eyes, I know, but not Cross blue. Besides, we can always recognize our own kind.
“Debbie still didn’t want to marry me, but I was determined to do what I could to provide for my child. I gave her money when she needed it, and as she said, I spent time with them whenever I could. But as the years went by it became harder to conceal the truth from the rest of the world, and Debbie’s husband was beginning to become suspicious. Debbie told me that I had to stop seeing Carl and her, and though it broke my heart, I told her I understood and would do as she asked. And I did. Aside from an occasional stop at the Café, I had no significant contact with Debbie for years … until Carl’s murders.”
Marshall fell silent, and Joanne looked at the rearview to see how Debbie was taking all this, but the woman seemed to be off in her own world and not paying attention to their conversation.
“What caused Carl to start killing?” she prompted.
“I suspect it was a combination of things. He wasn’t raised as a Cross and therefore received little training in how to handle his more aggressive tendencies.” Marshall took in a deep breath and let it out. “But I’m afraid the main reason was that he was hoping to impress me, be recognized as a Cross, and invited to live with us at Sanctity. I’d feared as much when he was arrested, and he confirmed it for me during the one visit I paid to him in prison. He told me each of his four victims had committed
offenses
against the family. He wouldn’t give me any specifics, so I have no way of knowing whether those offenses were major or minor, real or imagined. I do know that I received no reports to indicate any of Carl’s victims had done anything to deserve their fate.”
Joanne noted that Marshall wasn’t condemning murderous retribution, only disapproving of baseless revenge.
“What about the symbol he carved into his victims?” she asked.
“Meaningless. It was just something Carl made up. A way of signing his work, I suppose.”
Marshall said this a little too smoothly for Joanne to buy it. But she decided to let the matter pass for now. Besides, the meaning of the triangle-lightning symbol paled in comparison to the rest of what Marshall had told her so far.
He said nothing more after that, and several minutes went by where the only sounds were the cruiser’s engine, the tires rolling across asphalt, and a soft humming from Debbie in the backseat. Finally, Joanne spoke.
“I talked with your mother last night. She called my cell phone as I was getting ready to leave Sanctity and asked me to meet her behind the house.”
Marshall looked surprised, but he made no comment, and Joanne continued.
“She told me how you felt about Charlotte and what really happened to her. She also told me why you’ve allowed Lenora to believe that you drove her mother away — or worse.”
“I was married to Charlotte by the time Debbie’s husband passed away, or else — ” He broke off and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter now. I loved Charlotte and had no wish to break Lenora’s heart by telling her the truth. Better she hate me. After all, since Charlotte came to detest being a Cross, in a way I
was
responsible for her decision to take her own life.”
“Your wife
killed
herself?” Joanne said, unable to keep the shock she felt out of her voice.
Marshall looked at her. “I suppose you believed the rumors that I made Charlotte ‘disappear.’ ”
Joanne felt embarrassed. “Not really, but … I had no idea what really happened. I’m sorry.”
Marshall accepted Joanne’s sympathy with a curt nod.
Joanne thought for a moment. “Does Lenora know that Carl is her half-brother?”
“No.” But there was a hint of doubt in Marshall’s voice, as if he were less than confident in his reply.
“I wish you two would stop talking,” Debbie said. “I can’t hear myself hum.”
“Sorry,” Joanne murmured, and they drove the rest of the way to Sanctity in silence, each lost in his or her own thoughts or — in Debbie’s case — a lack thereof.
• • •
Ronnie’s skin felt coated with a thick layer of grease, and he itched all over, as if the muck oozing out of his own pores was slowly dissolving his outer flesh. For the first time in close to forty-five years, he hadn’t bathed in over twenty-four hours. But instead of feeling dirty, he felt good, felt
free
. Free not only from the constraints placed upon him by his own inflexible patterns of behavior, but free from the constraints of society as well. He was free to do as he damned well pleased, free to do
anything
.
To do what must be done.
But before he could get started on his real work, he had one last task to perform for Sheriff Jo-Jo.
As he pulled his cruiser up to the outskirts of the Deveraux property, he saw a vehicle parked at the edge of a field, not far from the barn. It was a Lexus — Dr. Birch’s, as a matter of fact. He frowned as he pulled up next to the car and parked. What was the coroner doing out here? Had a body been discovered? If so, why hadn’t dispatch radioed to tell him? Why weren’t there other deputies here? It made no sense for Dr. Birch to be on the scene first. Ronnie turned off the cruiser’s engine and got out. And that’s when he saw that all four of the Lexus’s tires had been slashed.
He’d been here yesterday and had given the area a thorough going-over, but now he noticed something strange in addition to the state of Dr. Birch’s tires. On the other sides of the Lexus he saw new tires tracks in the muddy ground — he thought of last night’s storm and shuddered — and he knew another vehicle had been here recently. And he’d bet a month’s salary that whoever had been driving the second vehicle had also slashed the coroner’s tires.
He looked at the barn and saw that the door in the back was open, the crime-scene tape he’d stretched across it yesterday cut in two. Dr. Birch wouldn’t have done that. He would’ve opened the door without disturbing the tape and ducked underneath it to enter the barn.
During his career as a law-enforcement officer, Ronnie rarely had cause to draw his weapon in the line of duty, let alone discharge it. But he was free now, and he could do whatever was necessary. He drew his 9 mm, flicked off the safety, and held it at the ready as he started walking across the field toward the barn. If someone was inside, they had surely heard him drive up, but Ronnie still didn’t call out. He wanted to hold on to whatever surprise might be left to him.
He took up a position against the wall next the door, just like cops did in the movies. Cops did it in real life, too, in order to avoid catching a bullet in the chest by being an over-eager asshole. He held his breath and listened, but he heard no sounds of movement. He drew in a deep breath and entered the barn, ready to blast the shit out of anything that even looked like it was thinking of moving.
Damned good thing for Terry Birch that he was unconscious.
Ronnie hurried to the coroner’s side. He laid his weapon on the ground and then placed the fingers of his uninjured hand against the man’s neck. Even with the protective rubber barrier of his glove between them, the feeling of his flesh coming in contact with someone else’s turned Ronnie’s stomach. But he felt a pulse, a strong one.
Terry groaned and slowly opened his eyes. He looked up at Ronnie, but he must’ve had trouble focusing, for he squinted and said, “Lenora?”
Lenora
, as in Cross? What the hell did she have to do with anything? Though Ronnie had nothing against Lenora up to that moment, she was Marshall’s daughter, so he decided to begin despising her too.
“It’s Ronnie Doyle, Dr. Birch. Are you okay? What happened?”
Terry struggled to sit up and Ronnie helped him. It meant touching the man again, which in turn meant a new wave of nausea. But Ronnie was a deputy sheriff. He would endure.
“Bitch hit me in the head with a goddamned knife handle, that’s what happened. Goddamned cunt.” He reached up gingerly to touch his head. He expertly probed the wound for several moments before lowering his hand. “I’ll live, which is too bad for her. When I catch up to the backstabbing little cooz, I’m going to slice her throat from ear to ear and piss in the opening.”
Only a couple days ago, Terry’s foul invective would’ve shocked Ronnie, but now he took it in stride. He was a man who had quite literally been
pushed
too far.
Ronnie helped the doctor to stand. “Wherever Lenora is, do you think Marshall is there, too?” he asked.
Terry frowned. “She’s gone to Sanctity. And yes, Marshall’s headed there as well.”
Ronnie smiled. “Would you like a ride?”
“You must lie down here and rest.” Marshall drew back the covers and stepped away from the huge, canopied king-size bed. He looked at Debbie, but she didn’t seem to be paying any attention to him. She kept looking around the bedroom, taking everything in. Joanne didn’t blame her. Marshall’s quarters were something to see.
Globes of various sizes and types filled his chambers, and his bedroom was no exception. There was a large globe on a support base in the corner, and two smaller ones on the nightstands flanking the bed. On the walls were framed mariners’ maps, paper crinkled, colors faded. Joanne had no doubt they were original and not reproductions, and she wondered how old they were. In another corner was a glass display case containing nautical navigation tools — sextants, compasses, spyglasses, and the like.
Marshall noticed Joanne’s interest. “I’ve rarely had the opportunity to travel outside the county.” For a moment, it looked as if he might add more, but instead he turned to Debbie again. “Please lie down. You need to rest. You’ll be safe here. I swear upon my life.”
Marshall raised his hand and took a step toward Debbie, as if he intended to guide her to the bed, but the woman shied away. She’d followed them docilely enough from the car into Sanctity, and she’d trailed after them down the corridors of the mansion, head turning back and forth as she gazed at everything with the wide-eyed wonder of a child. But she’d become more hesitant as they approached Marshall’s quarters, and she’d withdrawn almost completely after they entered his bedroom. Joanne couldn’t blame her. There was an incredible amount of history between the two, and it was only to be expected that Debbie would be uncomfortable being in Marshall’s bedroom, even with Joanne present.
“I wouldn’t swear an oath like that, Father. Someone might hold you to it.”
They all turned as Lenora entered through the bedroom’s open doorway. She looked very different from the last time Joanne had seen her. Her hair was tangled and unwashed, and she wore no makeup or jewelry of any sort. She had on a black T-shirt, jeans, and running shoes. She also held a large hunting knife in her right hand.
Joanne reached for her 9 mm, but before she could draw her weapon, she felt pressure behind her forehead, and her hand froze, no longer hers to control.
Marshall’s gaze hardened. “Where have you been?” he demanded. He made no move toward his daughter, however.
The left corner of Lenora’s mouth pulled upward in a half-smile. “You have no idea how difficult that question is to answer, Father. Let’s just say that I’ve been away for a while, but I’m back now. Back to take care of Mother.” She turned to look at Debbie, and her expression softened.
Debbie hadn’t reacted when Lenora entered the room, but now she fixed her full attention on the girl. She frowned at first, but then her eyes widened and she broke into a smile.
“Carl? Is that you?”
“It’s so good to see you again, Mother.” Lenora started to walk toward Debbie.
Joanne didn’t know what was going on here — was Lenora also Marshall and Debbie’s child? — but Lenora’s parentage didn’t matter right now. What mattered was the knife clutched in Lenora’s hand. Joanne tried to take a step forward, intending to prevent Lenora from reaching Debbie, but she couldn’t move. Whatever Lenora had done to stop her from drawing her 9 mm, it seemed to have also affected the rest of her body. She couldn’t move at all. But did that she couldn’t speak?
“Marshall — the knife!”
He looked as if he might protest, but then he nodded and furrowed his brow in concentration, light sparking deep within his ice-blue eyes.
Lenora paused and confusion moved across her face. But then she grew confident once more and resumed walking toward Debbie.