Carolina Moon (35 page)

She poured the lime-green liquid into two plastic cups, offered one. “I did say we’d have a drink.”

“So you did.”

“To Hope, then.” Faith touched her glass to Tory’s. “It seems appropriate.”

“It has more bite than the lemonade we’d usually drink here. She liked her lemonade.”

“Lilah would make it for her fresh. Plenty of pulp and sugar.”

“She had a bottle of Coke that night, gone warm in her adventure kit, and she …” Tory trailed off, shivered again.

“Do you see it, that clear, still?”

“Yes. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t ask me. I didn’t come here, in all the weeks I’ve been back, I haven’t come. I haven’t had the courage for it. As much as I dislike being a coward, I have to survive, too.”

“People put too much emphasis, too many demands, on
courage, and they all put their own standards on it anyway. I wouldn’t call you a coward, but I do keep my personal standards low.”

Tory let out a half laugh, drank again. “Why?”

“Well, then I can meet them, can’t I, without undo effort. Take my marriages, though God knows I wish I hadn’t.” She gestured grandly with her cup. “Some would say I’d failed in them, but I say I triumphed by getting out of them as unscathed as I did.”

“Were you in love?”

“Which time?”

“Either. Both.”

“Neither. I was in heavy lust the first time around. God almighty, that boy could fuck like a rabbit. As sex has been, for some time, a priority pleasure for me, he certainly fulfilled that part of the bargain. He was dangerously handsome, full of charm and fast talk. And a complete asshole.” She toasted him absently, almost affectionately. “However, he fit the bill of being exactly what my mother despised. How could I not marry him?”

“You could’ve just had sex.”

“I did, but then marriage was a real slap in her face. Take this, Mama.” Faith tipped her head back and laughed. “Christ, what an idiot. Now, the second time, it was more impulse. Well, and there was that sex angle again. It was still perfectly inappropriate, as he was much too old for me, and married when we began our affair. I suppose that one was a little shot at my father. You enjoyed adultery, well, so can I. Now, an illicit affair is one thing, but marriage to a philanderer is another. I believe he was faithful enough for the first little while, but my God, I was bored. And then, I suppose, he was just as bored and thought he’d follow his song lyrics by cheating on me, drinking himself blind. He had made a bit of a mark in the music scene. The first time he decided to take a swing at me, I swung harder, then I walked. I got a nice chunk of money out of the divorce, and earned every penny.”

She and Hope had sat here, Tory thought, and talked
about things they’d done, wanted to do. Simpler things, childhood things. But no less vital, no less intimate than what Faith spoke of now.

“Why Wade?”

“I don’t know.” Faith let out a breath, sipped from her plastic glass. “That’s the puzzle, and the worry. It’s not for gain or spite. He’s pretty to look at and we do have amazing sex. But the town vet? That was never in my plans. Now he has to complicate everything by being in love with me. I’ll ruin his life.” She chugged the margarita, poured a second. “I’m bound to.”

“That would be his problem.”

Struck, Faith turned her head and stared. “Now, that is the last thing I expected you to say.”

“He’s a grown man who knows his own mind and his own heart. It appears to me he’s always done what he wanted, and gotten what he wanted. Could be he knows you better than you think. Then again, I don’t understand men.”

“Oh, that’s easy.” She topped off Tory’s glass. “Half the time they think with their dicks, and the other half they’re thinking of their toys.”

“That’s not very kind from a woman with a brother, and a lover.”

“Nothing unkind about it. I love men. Some would say I’ve loved entirely too many.” There was a wicked gleam of humor in her eyes, and no apology whatsoever. Tory found herself enjoying it, envying it.

“I’ve always preferred men for company,” Faith added. “Women are so much more sly than men, and tend to view other women as rivals. Men look at other men as competitors, which is entirely different. You, however, are not sly. It’s taken too much effort, I realize, to dislike and resent you.”

“And that’s the basis for this moratorium?”

“You have a better one?” Faith lifted a shoulder, then picked up the notepad. “I had an urge to write some things down, and I rarely ignore my urges. Why don’t you read this?”

“All right.”

Faith pushed to her feet, wandered with her drink and her smoke. She imagined she’d done more serious thinking that day than she had in a very long time. Honest and serious thinking. She hadn’t solved anything, but she felt stronger for it.

Wouldn’t it be odd if Tory’s coming back to Progress had started her on the road to finding contentment in her own life? She paused by the statue of her sister, looked at the face they had once shared. Wouldn’t it be, she mused, the ultimate irony if she found herself now, just when she realized she’d been looking all along?

She glanced back at Tory—so cool, she thought. So calm on the surface with all those violent ripples and jolts underneath. It was admirable, really, the way Tory maintained that shield and didn’t turn brittle behind it.

Spooky, Faith thought with a little smile, but not brittle.

Brittle, she thought, was what her own mother had become. And brittle was what she herself had been on the edge of becoming. How strange, and somehow apt, that it was Tory who’d given her just enough of a jolt to break her stride before she’d rushed headlong into being what she’d fought against all her life.

A warped mirror image of her own mother.

She crushed her cigarette out, toed it under pine needles.

“Maybe I should take up writing,” Faith said lightly, as she strolled back. “You appear to be riveted.”

She’d been caught up, sliding into the rhythm of Faith’s words and the images they had running through her mind. She’d been both amused and sad. Then the pressure had come, the weight on her chest that caused her heart to beat too fast and hard.

The place, she’d thought, the memories that pounded fists on the white wall of her defense. She wouldn’t answer them. Wouldn’t heed them. She would stay in the here and the now.

But the cold skinned over her, and the dark crept toward the edges of her vision.

The notebook slipped from her fingers, fell on the ground at her feet, where a tiny breeze toyed with the pages. She was going under, being dragged under.

“Someone’s watching.”

“Hmm? Honey, you’ve only had two glasses of this stuff, haven’t you? That’s a mighty cheap drunk.”

“Someone’s watching.” She took Faith’s hand, and her grip was like iron. “Run. You have to run.”

“Oh shit.” Out of her depth, Faith bent over, tapped her hand on Tory’s cheek. “Come on back now. Get ahold of yourself.”

“He’s watching. In the trees. He’s waiting for you. You have to run.”

“There’s nobody here but us.” But a chill worked through her. “I’m Faith. I’m not Hope.”

“Faith.” Tory struggled to keep the pictures clear, to hold yesterday and today separate. “He’s back in the trees. I can feel him. He’s watching. Run.”

Alarm rushed into her eyes, turning them big and bright. She could hear it now, just the faintest rustle from the brush beyond the clearing. Panic wanted to seize her, the cold fingertips of it scraped her skin.

“There are two of us, goddamn it.” She hissed it out as she snatched up her purse. “And we’re not eight years old and helpless. Run my ass.”

She pulled her pretty pearl-handled .22 out of her bag, and hauled Tory to her feet.

“Oh my God.”

“You snap out of it,” Faith ordered. “We’re going after him.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Now, that’s the pot calling the kettle. Come on out, you limp-dicked son of a bitch.”

She heard the snap of a twig, the swish of leaves, and charged forward. “He’s running. Bastard.”

“Faith! Don’t.” But she was already racing into the trees. Left with no choice, Tory rushed after her.

The path narrowed, all but died out in a tangle of underbrush. Birds shot toward the sky like bullets, screaming in
protest. Moss dripped down, caught in Tory’s hair. She batted at it as she sprinted to catch up to Faith.

“I think he went toward the river. We might not catch him, but we’ll scare his sorry ass.” She pointed the gun toward the sky and pulled the trigger.

Gunshots blasted, echoed, and seemed to vibrate through Tory down to the toes. Birds exploded out of trees and rushed the clouds. At the sound of splashing, Faith grinned like a lunatic.

“Maybe he’ll end up gator bait. Come on.”

Tory could smell the river, the warm ripeness of it. The ground went soggy under her feet, had Faith sliding like a skater. “For God’s sake, be careful. You’ll shoot yourself.”

“I can handle a damn pissant gun like this.” But her breath was heaving, as much from the flood of emotion as the run. “You know the swamp better than I do. You take the lead.”

“Put the safety on that thing. I don’t care to get shot in the back.” Tory caught her own breath, pushed the tangled hair out of her face. “We can cut this way toward the river, save time. Watch for snakes.”

“God, I knew there was a reason I hated this place.” The first rush of adrenaline was gone, and in its place was an innate disgust for anything that crawled or skittered. But Tory was pushing ahead, and pride left her no choice but to follow through.

“What was it about this place that appealed to you and Hope?”

“It’s beautiful. And wild.” She heard footsteps, heavy, deliberate, and threw up a hand. “Someone’s coming. From the river.”

“Doubled back, did he?” Faith planted her feet, lifted the gun. “I’m ready for him. Show yourself, you son of a bitch. I’ve got a gun and I’ll use it.”

There was a thump as if something had fallen or been dropped. “Christ Jesus, don’t shoot!”

“You step out, and you show yourself. Right now.”

“Don’t go taking potshots. Holy God, Miss Faith, is that you? Miss Faith, it’s just Piney. Piney Cobb.”

He eased out from the trees with his back to the curve of the river where cypress knees speared the surface. His hands shook as he held them high.

“What the hell were you doing, sneaking around in here, watching us?”

“I wasn’t. Swear to God. Didn’t know you were hereabouts till I heard the shots. Scared me down to the skin. Didn’t know whether to run or hide. I’ve just been frogging, that’s all. Been frogging the last hour or so. The boss, he don’t mind if I do some frogging in here.”

“Then where are the frogs?”

“Got the bag right over there. Dropped it when you called out. You scared ten years off me, Miss Faith.”

Tory saw nothing in his face but fear, felt nothing from him but panic. He smelled of sweat and whiskey. “Let’s see the bag.”

“Okay. All right. It’s right back here.” Licking his lips, he pointed with one finger.

“You be real careful how you step, Piney. I’m awful nervous right now and my finger’s liable to shake.”

She kept the gun aimed while Tory moved forward.

“See here? See? Been frogging with this old burlap sack.”

Tory crouched down, looked inside. Perhaps half a dozen unhappy frogs looked back at her. “This is a pretty pitiful haul for an hour’s work.”

“Lost most of ‘em when I dropped the bag. Dropped it twice,” he added, as a flush worked up his neck. “Tell you true, I damn near shit a brick when that gun went off. Thought I heard somebody running off thataway, barely had time to wonder on it when the gunfire started. I figured I’d best get myself out of harm’s way, nice and quiet. Maybe somebody’s target shooting like Mr. Cade and his friends used to, and I could catch a stray bullet if I wasn’t careful. I do some frogging every couple weeks. You can ask Mr. Cade if that ain’t so.”

“What do you think?” Faith asked Tory.

“I don’t know. He has frogs, such as they are.”

He wasn’t a young man, she thought, but he knew the
swamp and his muscles were tough from fieldwork. Still, nothing could be proved. “I’m sorry we frightened you, but someone was sneaking around near the clearing.”

“Wasn’t me.” His eyes jumped from Tory to the gun, then back. “I heard somebody running, like I said. Lotsa ways in and out of here.”

She nodded, stepped back. Piney cleared his throat, reached down for the bag. “I guess I’ll go on then.”

“Yeah, you go on,” Faith told him. “If I were you, I’d make sure Cade knows when you plan to do some frogging.”

“I’ll see to that for sure. You bet your life. I’m just gonna go on now.” He backed up, watching Faith’s face until he could slide into the shadows of the trees.

F
or close on to thirty-five years J.R. and Carl D. fished on Sunday afternoons. It hadn’t started as a tradition, and even now both men would have been annoyed and embarrassed to have called it one. It was simply a way to relax and pass the time.

After J.R.’s father died and his mother went to work, it had been Carl D.’s mother Iris had paid to watch Sarabeth after school and on Saturdays. And it had been an unspoken agreement between the women that she would run herd on J.R as well.

Fanny Russ cooked like an angel and had a will of steel. Both were a matter of pride. J.R. learned to call her ma’am in a quick hurry. And during his growing-up years in the fifties when the Klan still burned their hate throughout the South in shapes of crosses, and no coloreds were allowed to sit at the counter in the diner on Market Street, the young white boy and young black boy quietly became friends.

Neither made an issue out of it, and Sunday after Sunday, with a rare miss for holidays or illness, both men sat side by side with rod and reel on the bank of the river, just as they had as boys. They each had less hair and more girth than they’d had when they’d started, but the rhythm of the afternoon stayed essentially true.

For a time during J.R.’s courtship and through the early
months of his marriage to Boots, she’d prepared fancy little lunches in a wicker basket for them. It had taken J.R. some little doing to discourage this without hurting her feelings. Picnic baskets filled with chicken salad sandwiches and neatly sliced vegetables made it all too female. All the men needed was a cooler of beer and a fistful of night crawlers.

And if they were lucky, a couple of wedges of Ma Russ’s sweet potato or pecan pie.

All that had remained constant for years. There were little changes by the river. The old peach tree had died three winters before, but it had sent out a half dozen volunteers that had grown like weeds until the town council had elected to nurture the best pair of them, and cut down the rest.

Now the fruit, still underripe, hung on the branches and waited for children to come along to devour those hard green orbs and give themselves bellyaches.

The water flowed slow and quiet, as always, with the grand old willow bent over it to dip its lacy green fronds.

And now and again, if you were patient enough, fish stirred themselves to bite.

If they didn’t, a man was no worse off than he’d been when he dropped his line.

Years had forged the men into solid citizens, pillars of responsibility. Family men with mortgages and paperwork. The few hours a week they spent drowning worms was a statement that each of them was still as much his own man as he’d always been.

Sometimes they argued politics, and as J.R. was a staunch Republican and Carl D. an equally hidebound Democrat, these debates tended toward the explosive and effusive. Both of them enjoyed the conflict enormously. On other Sundays, and depending on the season, it was sports. A high school football game could keep them both entertained and passionate for two hours.

But more often than not as their lives intersected, it was family, friends, and the town itself that dominated their meandering discussions as the water lapped the bank and the sun filtered through the trees.

What each knew was that he could depend on the other for a sounding board, and that what was said between them by the river stayed by the river. Still there were times when loyalties had to blur. Knowing this, Carl D. chose his words and approach carefully.

“Ida-Mae’s birthday’s coming up here shortly.” Carl D. spoke of his wife while he popped the top on his second beer and studied the calm surface of the water. “That electric fry pan I bought her last year’s still somewhat of a sore point between us.”

“Told ya.” J.R. took a fistful of the barbecue potato chips from the bag ripped open between them.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“You buy a woman something that plugs in, you’re asking for grief.”

“She wanted a new one. Complained every time I turned around about how the old one had hot spots.”

“Don’t matter. A woman doesn’t want a kitchen appliance all wrapped up in a bow. What she wants is something useless.”

“I’m having a hell of a time thinking what’s useless enough to suit her. Thought I might go by your niece’s place, have her figure it for me.”

“Can’t go wrong there. Tory’s got a good sense of things.”

“Done her shop up nice. Lot of work there.”

“She’s always been a good worker. Serious girl with a good head on her shoulders. Hard to believe she came out of what she did.”

It was the opening Carl D. had wanted, and still he maneuvered carefully. He got out a fresh stick of gum, went through his little ritual of unwrapping and folding. “She had it hard growing up. I remember her hardly having a word to say for herself. Just looking, just watching things with those big eyes. Your brother-in-law had a heavy hand.”

“I know it.” J.R.’s mouth tightened. “I wish I’d known more back then. Don’t know as it would’ve made much difference, but I wish I’d known how it was.”

“You know now. We’re looking for him, J.R., on that business back in Hartsville.”

“Like to see you find him, too, give him some of what he’s got coming. My sister, well, her life’s gone to hell either way. But putting him behind bars might give Tory a better night’s sleep.”

“I’m some relieved to hear you say so, J.R. And the fact is, I got worse than that going on here. The kind of worse that might spill over on you some.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What happened to Sherry Bellows.”

“Christ, that was bad business. Bad business,” J.R. repeated with a solemn shake of his head. “City business, not what we get here in town. Pretty young woman like that …” He trailed off, his shoulders straightening, stiffening as he turned his head to stare into Carl D.’s face. “God almighty, you don’t think Hannibal had part in that?”

“I shouldn’t be talking to you about it. Fact is I spent most of the night worrying it over in my head. Officially I should keep this to myself, but I’m not going to. Can’t. Right now, J.R., your brother-in-law isn’t just top of the list of suspects on this. He’s the only suspect.”

J.R. pushed to his feet. He paced along the edge of the river, looked across its narrow curve. It was quiet, with just the absent chattering of a few busy birds. He had to listen hard to catch even the murmur of traffic from town. He had to want to hear it to make the connection between this solitary spot with its tall, wet grass and lazy water and the lives and business of Progress.

“I can’t get my mind around that, Carl D. Hannibal, he’s a bully and a bastard. I can’t think of one good thing to say about him, but killing that girl … For God’s sake, killing her … No, I can’t get my mind around that.”

“He’s got a history of roughing up women.”

“I know that. I know it. I’m not making excuses here. But there’s a wide road between rough handling and murder.”

“The road narrows after a while, especially if there’s cause.”

“What cause would he have had?” J.R. strode back, crouched down until their eyes were level. “He didn’t even know that girl.”

“Met her in your niece’s shop the day she was killed. Met her, spoke with her, and as far as he knew, she and Tory were the only ones knew he was around. There’s more,” he said, when J.R. shook his head. “You’re not going to like it. I’m sorrier than I can say your family’s brought into this, but I got a duty and I can’t let being sorry stop me.”

“I wouldn’t ask you. But I think you’re looking in the wrong direction, that’s all.” He sat again. “I have to think that.”

“I can’t say I wasn’t glancing that way to start, but it was Tory who turned me straight onto him.”

“Tory?”

“I took her back to the scene with me.”

“The scene?” J.R.’s eyes went blank, then filled with shock. “The murder scene. Jesus, Carl D. Jesus Christ, why’d you do that? Why would you put her through something like that?”

“I got a girl about the same age as my own Ella who went through something a hell of a lot worse. I got a duty to her, J.R., and I’ll use whatever I can to see that through.”

“Tory’s not part of this.”

“You’re wrong. She’s hitched into it tight. Now, you just listen a damn minute before you go kicking at me. I took her back there, and I’m sorry for how it was hard on her, but I’d do it again. She knew things she couldn’t have known. Saw how it had been, like she’d been right there while it was going on. I’ve heard about things like that, wondered on them, but never seen it before. Not something I’ll ever forget.”

“She ought to be left alone. You had no business using her that way.”

“You didn’t see that girl, J.R. I hope to God you never see anything like what was done to her. But if you did, you wouldn’t tell me I had no business using anything that put that right again. It’s the second time I’ve seen that kind of
thing done. If we’d paid attention to Tory the first time, it might not have happened again.”

“What the hell are you talking about? We’ve never had a woman raped and murdered in Progress.”

“No, the first time it was a child.” He saw J.R.’s eyes widen, and the blood drain from his face. “The first time it wasn’t in town. But Tory was there. Just like she was here now. And when she tells me the same person killed Sherry Bellows who killed little Hope Lavelle, I’m going to believe her.”

The spit dried up in J.R.’s mouth. “Some vagrant killed Hope Lavelle.”

“That’s what the report said. That’s what everyone wanted to believe. That’s what Chief Tate believed and I can’t say he was wrong to. But I’m not going to say the same, and I can’t believe the same anymore. I’m not going to try to hang this one on some passerby. There’ve been others, too. Tory knows about them. The FBI knows about them, and they’re coming here. They’ll go after him, J.R., and they’re going to talk to Tory, to her mama, to your sister. And to you.”

“Hannibal Bodeen.” J.R. laid his head in his hands. “This’ll kill Sarabeth. It’ll kill her.” He dropped his hands. “He’ll go back there. That’s where he’ll go. Holy God, Carl D., he’ll go to Sari and—”

“I’ve talked to the sheriff up there. He’s got a man watching the place, keeping an eye on your sister.”

“I got to go up there myself. Make her come back here.”

“I expect if it was my sister I’d do the same. I’ll go along with you, help smooth it out with the cops there.”

“I can handle it.”

“I reckon you can.” Carl D. nodded as he began packing up. He heard the anger, the resentment. He’d expected both. Just as he expected what he’d done, and what he would do, was bound to do some damage to a lifelong friendship.

There was nothing to do but wait and see how much could be mended again.

“I reckon you can, J.R.,” he said again. “But I’m going
just the same. I need to talk to your sister, and I’d like to do it before the federal boys get here and snatch the whole goddamn business away from me.”

“Are you going as a cop or as a friend of mine?”

“I’m both. Been your friend a lot longer, but I’m both.” He shouldered his rod and met J.R.’s eyes. “Plan to keep being both. If it’s all the same to you we’ll take my car. Make better time.”

It was a struggle, but J.R. bit back words he knew would hang ugly between them. He managed a thin, humorless smile. “We’ll make better yet if you put on the siren and drive like a man instead of an old lady.”

Relief eased some of the weight from Carl D.’s heart. “I might could do that, part of the way.”

Cade was working hard to control his own temper, to watch his own words. Every time he thought about what a foolish, reckless risk his sister and Tory had taken the evening before, fury stormed inside him.

Lectures, threats, recriminations would have released some of his tension, and would have gotten him nowhere. He wasn’t a man who indulged himself in idle directions. He knew exactly where he wanted to go, and simply had to choose the best route for getting there.

Speed wasn’t a priority, so he bided his time.

He hadn’t indulged in a lazy Sunday morning for quite a while. The best way to begin one, in his opinion, was to keep Tory in bed as long as possible. That was a simple matter of pinning her down and nibbling however, wherever he liked until she got into the spirit of the thing. And had the added benefit of smoothing out some of his own raw edges.

He fixed breakfast because he was hungry and he’d come to the conclusion Tory considered the morning meal well met if she had a second cup of coffee. He steered conversation into casual lines. Books, movies, art. They were fortunate to share tastes. It wasn’t something Cade deemed essential, but rather a nice, comfortable bonus.

He imagined she didn’t think he noticed how often her eyes skimmed over to a window, and searched.

There was nothing he didn’t notice. The nervous hands she tried to keep busy, the way she would stop, go still, as if straining to hear some change in the rhythm of sound outside. The way she jumped when he let the screen door bang when he came out to join her as she tended her flowers.

How many times in his life had he come across his mother working in her garden? he wondered. He was just as unable to judge the direction of her thoughts as she weeded and plucked.

How tidy, he mused, how precise both women were about the chore. Kneeling, wearing hat and gloves as they worked the bed, filling a basket with ruthlessly pulled weeds and spent blossoms.

And how furious both would be if he voiced the comparison.

Throughout the morning, Tory’s voice, her face, stayed utterly calm. And that alone infuriated him. She wouldn’t share her nerves with him. Still kept part of herself closed off and separate.

His mother, he thought again, as he loitered on the porch and studied Tory’s bent head, had kept part of herself closed off and separate. He could do nothing, had never been able to do anything, to reach his mother.

He would damn well reach Tory.

“Come on, take a ride with me.”

“A ride?”

He pulled her to her feet. “I’ve got some things I need to see to. Come along with me.”

Her first reaction was quiet relief. She would be alone. She could lie down, shut her eyes, and try to sort through the turmoil swirling inside her head. A few hours of solitude to shore up the wall and chase away the shakes.