Mortal Fear (54 page)

 “That’s it!” Miles yells. “We’ve got him going and coming, and he has no idea.”

 “Maybe,” I allow, strangely sobered by Brahma’s reappearance in my life. “What about the master client list? Did Jan remember dating anybody who seemed suspicious?”

 “She’s been out with a couple of doctors, but they’re not likely candidates. She’s hired private investigators to check them out, though. How are you going to answer Brahma’s message?”

 “I’m not.”

 He sighs unhappily. “Any typos in the message?”

 “No. It’s pretty short, though. Why do you keep asking me that?”

 “If he’s using voice-rec, he’s back at his home base. And I think that’s New York.”

 “Why?”

 “The false airplane registration, for one thing. The way that was set up.”

 “How do you know about that?”

 He ignores the question. “Brahma had to know about this anesthesiologist to pick his plane for a front. Other things point to New York, though. I also happen to like the idea. Know what I mean?”

 I make an affirmative noise, not wanting to state the obvious. If Miles is glad Brahma’s home base is New York, it’s not because innocent women are unlikely to die in the next couple of days but because Miles has managed to get back there himself. And if his Trojan Horse works as planned tomorrow night, he can be there for the endgame. I am about to ring off when he speaks again, unable to resist letting me know how deeply this hunt has worked itself into his blood.

 “You know what English fox hunters used to say, don’t you?”

 “Enlighten me.”

 “In at the death.”

 I grunt neutrally. “Just remember something. Brahma’s no fox.”

 He laughs. “And I’m no Englishman. Ciao.”

 After putting down the phone, I save Brahma’s message, then sit down on the bed. It’s a mistake. In seconds I am lying on my back, half conscious and fading fast. As sleep washes over me, I see red-coated men riding horses through misty fields of dying cotton, their horses’ legs thrashing and crackling through the dried brown stalks. Far out in front dogs howl madly as the horses close the gap and then gather in a ring around a tiny hole in a grass-covered hill. Someone lights a bundle of straw, then sets it by the hole while the dogs guard the back entrance to the den. The men on horses swig Scotch and congratulate each other, saying,
In at the death, old man
.
In at the death
. Then someone says they’ve made a mistake, the den is empty, and the dogs tear off across the fields again and I sit there on my horse like the others, drinking Scotch with the sun on my back, watching a shadow grow longer and broader on the ground in front of us. I want to turn around to see what is making that shadow, but I can’t seem to move. I can hear though. And what I hear is a wild black animal voice making human sounds for the first time, mangling the simple syllables, trying again and again until they become distinct and form the sound their maker intended.

 Laughter.

 CHAPTER 36

 Cotton picking began this morning. Not the full harvest, but scattered bands of men and machines controlled by farmers who got fed up with staring at stunted cotton that would grow no more before the drought finally broke and soaking rain flooded the scorched fields and a money-eating rot set in. Men who felt like fools for gambling against God by putting out growth regulators at the wrong times and who finally just said fuck it and called their hands and fired up the four-row pickers to try to salvage what they could.

 From my front porch I watch gunmetal clouds gathering over my neighbors’ fields. They hover with mocking heaviness, unmoved by wind or by the drone of the mechanical pickers. Drewe left early this morning for her clinic in Yazoo City. I’ve passed most of the day walking from room to room, avoiding my office. No one has called, few cars have passed on the road, and despite the slow dusty progress of the pickers, the whole world seems to be waiting.

 The ring of my office phone is almost a welcome sound. I trot through the front door and veer left, expecting Daniel Baxter’s voice from the machine, or Miles’s, but I hear neither. It’s Drewe, and she sounds shaken.

 “I’m here!” I say, picking up.

 “Harper, I need you to drive to Jackson right now.”

 “What? What’s wrong?”

 “I’m afraid Erin might hurt herself.”

 “
What?
She threatened to kill herself?”

 “No, she told me everything was fine.”

 “Then what—?”

 “Everything is
not
fine. We know that. But she told me she’d found a way to solve all her problems. She said it might be painful for everyone for a while, but in the end it would be for the best.”

 I feel like my body temperature is plummeting.

 “I want you to go right now.”

 “Wouldn’t she rather see you?” I ask.

 “She doesn’t want me there. I’d go anyway, but I’ve got a difficult delivery on my hands. It could be a while.”

 “Drewe, I’m the last person Erin wants butting into her problems. She doesn’t even like me.”

 “Harper, please. Erin respects you more than any man she knows.”

 “You’ve got to be kidding.”

 “Then why did she tell me that? Now get your butt over to Jackson and talk her out of doing anything stupid. Get her out of there if you have to.”

 “And take her where?”

 “Bring her to our house. Do whatever you have to do.”

 “And if she won’t come?”

 “Figure something out.
Please
get going.”

 “I’m on my way.”

 “Call me if it gets crazy, and I’ll find someone to handle this delivery.”

 If it gets crazy?
I set down the phone and glance around the office for my keys. This situation is long past crazy, and I have a feeling it’s going to get worse.

 Erin and Patrick live in the Belhaven district of Jackson. Most people at their income level long ago moved out to the enclaves of Ridgeland and Madison, but Patrick took advantage of white flight to trade up to palatial quarters for a bourgeois price. I managed to make the whole hour-and-twenty-minute drive from Rain without thinking. I popped in Joni Mitchell’s
Hejira
and turned it up to the pain threshold, following Jaco Pastorius’s fretless bass as it wound through the spaces between Larry Carlton’s guitar and the soaring vocal. But now I’m here.

 The front door of the house has one of those burled finishes you’d expect to find at a Victorian men’s club. I hammer the big brass knocker and wait, listening to the blows reverberate over the slate and hardwood floors inside. At least a minute passes before I hear heels clacking. There’s a rustle at the curtained windows to one side of the door, then stillness again.

 I try the handle, then push open the door.

 Erin stands just inside, looking at me with preternatural calm. Her facial bruises are yellow at the edges, setting them off from the tanned skin that might otherwise have masked the damage. The orbit of her left eye is a continuous contusion, like an indigo map of an island. Flecks of blood dot the corner of the eye itself. A closed fist delivered that blow.

 She’s wearing a linen sundress, the color of lilac. It lies as smoothly against her upper body as a silk camisole, billows slightly at her waist. Another bruise marks her left breast where it disappears into the dress. Her hair is tied up, with a dark spray falling around the back of her neck. She wears no shoes, earrings, or wristwatch. No wedding ring.

 “Come in,” she says, turning away and walking through the entrance hall. “We’re in the TV room.”

 “Is Patrick here?”

 The back of her head turns once from side to side.

 As she moves deeper into the house, I fear that Drewe may be right about the danger here. The air conditioner is not running, which on this day is evidence enough of mental instability. Ahead of me, Erin walks with the grace she always possessed, yet her fluidity seems oddly exaggerated. The dimness and heat increase with each step I take. I have a disturbing vision of myself following an Egyptian girl into a tomb.

 What do I sense here?

 Resolve. Some decision has been taken. A choice has been made in cold deliberation, and the weight of it is tangible. As Erin steps out of the dark hallway and into a blue glow, fear suffuses me. Not for myself, but for what I might find at the end of this brief journey.
Where is Holly?
screams my brain. I quicken my steps, hurrying after Erin, hoping to prevent any madness that might remain unconsummated.

 Then I see Holly. She’s propped on thick pillows in front of Patrick’s treasured fifty-two-inch television. Her back is to me, and she doesn’t seem to be moving. I don’t see Erin at first; then my eyes pick her out of the shadows, seated in a cushioned chair against the wall to my left, her long bare legs stretched across an ottoman. I move quickly to Holly and lean over her. Her eyes are barely open. I stare with frantic intensity at the little belly beneath the “Precious Cargo” T-shirt, watching for the rise and fall of respiration.

 She is breathing. With relief cascading through me, I swoop her up from the floor as though she were weightless.

 “You’re going to wake her up,” Erin says.

 I lay Holly’s head on my left shoulder and begin rocking her gently as I walk around the room.

 “Put her down,” Erin insists. “It’s nap time. She’ll be comatose by the time Ursula the Sea Witch shows up.”

 I turn toward the TV and see the comforting yellow splash that is Flounder, then the orange hair of Ariel, the Little Mermaid. “What’s going on, Erin?”

 “What do you mean?”

 “Turn on the lights.”

 “They’ll wake up Holly.”

 “I don’t care.”

 “You’re not her mother.”

 “I—”

 “You’re not that either,” she snaps. “Except in the genetic sense. You’re the sperm donor. What are you doing here anyway?”

 “Drewe called me. She’s worried about you.”

 Erin gets to her feet and moves toward me. “Give her to me. She’s already asleep.”

 “First tell me nothing crazy is going on here. That Holly’s okay.”

 “What?” Her voice drops to a threatening whisper. “
You—give—me—my—child.
This
instant
!”

 Reluctantly, I release the little body that is flesh of my flesh yet resides under another man’s roof, under another man’s protection. Erin leaves the room with her.

 When she returns, she is alone. She clicks on the overhead light, stretches out on the chair and ottoman, and studies me as if I am some nonhuman creature of trifling interest.

 “Now,” she says. “What are you doing here?”

 I grope for words that will not sound pompous, but find none. Talk about a fool’s errand. Content to let me suffer in silence, Erin says nothing. Who are we? I wonder. Two people who three years ago thrashed around a bed in Chicago for three days and somehow produced the beautiful child who now stands unknowing in the eye of a gathering emotional hurricane?

 One thing is certain: whatever we shared is finally gone. A few nights ago, when Erin sat down on my bed and began crying, I felt a response, a pulling toward her. Even through her despair, I sensed desire, a possibility of consummation, however mad it would have been. But today there is nothing. If a landscape of her emotions could somehow be superimposed upon this room, we would be sitting in a blasted gray ruin, devoid of vegetation and fast running out of water.

 “It’s probably good that you’re here,” she says finally. “It’ll make things simpler.”

 “How?”

 “Patrick and I have been having some discussions.”

 “Violent ones.”

 “That’s completely irrelevant and all my fault.”

 “I doubt that.”

 “Don’t.”

 “Has my name come up during these . . . discussions?”

 A faint smile touches her lips. “God, you’re so predictable. All you’re worried about is yourself. Or maybe Drewe’s precious illusions being shattered. Right? That’s all anybody ever worries about.”

 “I’m worried about you too. And Holly.”

 “Spare me, okay? You’re here because Drewe told you to come, and you couldn’t get out of it without telling her the truth about us. Right?”

 She doesn’t wait for verification. “Let me put your mind at rest. Your worst fear is right on target. The problems between Patrick and me are about Holly’s father, nothing else.”

 I’m not sure what is happening to my face, but it must be funny in an awful sort of way, because Erin is laughing at me. “You’d better sit down,” she advises.

 I back gingerly to a sofa and drop onto it.

 “It’s all going to come out,” she says in a matter-of-fact voice.

 I peer across the shadowed room at her face, a study in self-possession. “Why is that?”

 “Because it has to. We were stupid to ever think it wouldn’t.” She makes a steeple of her long fingers and studies me over it. “You’re terrified that Drewe can’t take the truth, aren’t you?”

 “You think she can?”

 Erin suddenly begins speaking in Drewe’s voice, quoting lines I’m sure Drewe has never spoken. “ ‘Erin screwed every good-looking guy in school, but dear sweet Harper was above it.’ That’s what she thinks, isn’t it?”

 “She knows I’m not above that.”

 “Oh, you diddled some cheerleaders. But that’s not the same, is it? After all, Princess Drewe wasn’t putting out, was she? But to come to me, that’s another thing.”

 “I didn’t come to you, Erin. You came to me. And it was ten years after high school.”

 “In her eyes that’s
worse,
stupid. You weren’t a horny little seventeen-year-old then. You were supposed to be committed to her. You were supposed to have judgment.”

 “I think Drewe may know us better than we think. I doubt the attraction between us was as secret as we always thought. I think maybe she’s knows we’re not above it, but she hopes we wouldn’t do it.”

 “But we did, didn’t we?”

 I say nothing.

 She shakes her head. “You still think about it, don’t you?”

 “What? Chicago?”

 “I know you, Harper. You tell yourself you’d sell your soul never to have done it. You lie awake at night, sweating, promising the dark that if only something would make it all unhappen, you’d never do anything like that again. And five minutes after that you’re standing in the bathroom making yourself come, thinking about how it felt to be inside me. How it felt to have supermodel Erin sucking your precious weenie.”