Night Fever (24 page)

He shook his head. He didn't know what he was going to do, about Clay or Becky. Maybe a good night's sleep would give him a better perspective on things.

It didn't. He opened the morning paper and there, spread across the front page, was a vicious attack by J. Lincoln Davis, accusing the Curry County district attorney of trying to cover up the drug dealing at the elementary school to protect the brother of his girlfriend!

He crumpled it in his hand, blazing with rage. Well, if Davis wanted dirty fighting, he could have it. He went back inside and phoned the
Atlanta Times.

 

T
HE AFTERNOON DAILY CARRIED
its own banner headline, as Rourke accused Davis of exploiting an arrest that had put a helpless old man in the hospital. Before the day was out, Kilpatrick's phone was ringing off the hook with sympathy calls blasting Davis for his lack of compassion.

Becky couldn't decide whether to go to the hospital or the jail first. She went to see Granddad, putting off the trip to see Clay because she didn't know what to say or do. She felt sick all over, remembering the night before.

Granddad was asleep. They'd given him painkillers, and he looked pale and helpless. Becky sat down beside him in the semiprivate room and bawled, grateful that the other bed in the room was empty. So much anguish, in so short a time, had broken her spirit. She'd never flinched from her duty and obligations, but she'd never had such a burden on her thin shoulders before. She sat with the old man for several minutes and finally decided that Clay needed her more.

She drove to the county jail with cold apprehension. It was going to be terrible, she knew, having to confront her brother. He'd blame her and Rourke for his predicament. She didn't feel up to another fight.

She was surprised to find the young man totally subdued. He hugged her gently, looking wan and wounded and unlike the Clay she'd come to know in the past months.

“How are you?” she asked, staring around at the stark bare cell with its white commode, steel bunk, and steel bars. She shivered as the voices of other prisoners came floating down the corridor, harsh and crude.

“I'm all right,” Clay said. He sat down on the bunk, inviting Becky to join him. He was wearing blue prison clothing, and he looked washed out and fatigued. “It's almost a relief to get it over with. I'll go to prison and the Harris boys will leave me alone. At least I'll be shed of them.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“They got me drunk and doped up and stuffed my pockets with coke. You know about that,” he said. “Well, afterward they set me up on a buy with one of their father's cohorts and started me dealing as a middleman. I never actually pushed the stuff myself, but they said they'd swear I did if I didn't help them find contacts at the elementary school.”

“Oh, my God,” Becky whispered. She buried her face in her hands. “The Dennis boy.”

“I didn't give them his name, Becky, I swear,” he said quickly. “It wasn't me.” He lowered his eyes. “You might as well know it all. They tried to make me get Mack involved, and I leaned on him. He didn't give an inch. It's why he won't talk to me. He thinks I'm scum. He blames me for his friend's death. And who knows, maybe I am. But I never wired Kilpatrick's car, Becky. I'm a stupid idiot, but I'm not killer. You've got to make him understand.”

“I can't make him understand anything,” she said tightly. “He was only seeing me to get to you.”

Clay cursed. “That son of a…!”

“I let myself be taken in. It's not all his fault,” she interrupted. “We dig our own graves, don't we?” She drew in a slow breath. “Granddad's in the hospital. They think it was a mild heart attack.”

Clay groaned, his face in his hands. “I'm sorry! Becky, I'm so sorry!”

She patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. “I know.”

“Hospital bills, planting time with nobody to help you, and now me.” He looked up, his eyes dark and hurting. “God, I'm so sorry! How the hell are you going to manage the bills?”

“The same way I've always managed,” she said proudly. “By working.”

He flushed. “Honestly, you mean.” He looked away. “I convinced myself that I was doing it to help you, that I was earning money to put into the kitty, but I was just lying to myself. When I finally laid off the drugs and the booze and saw what I'd done, I was horrified. But they wouldn't let me out, Becky. They wouldn't let go. They'll all testify that I masterminded the whole setup—that I gave the dope to the Dennis boy, that I wired Kilpatrick's car. I haven't got a prayer.”

“Yes, you have. I'll talk to Mr. Malcolm and ask him to represent you, and I'll get a bail bondsman…”

“And try to pay for that, too? No, you won't, Becky,” he said. “Listen, Sis, I've got a lawyer—a public defender. He's young, but he's good. He'll do for me. No defense on the face of the earth is going to stop me from serving time, Becky. You have to face that. As for bail, I don't want it.”

“It's not fair!” She groaned.

“That's beside the point. I broke the law. Now I have to pay for it. You go home and get some rest. You've got enough to worry about with Granddad. I'm perfectly safe here.”

“Oh, Clay,” she whispered tearfully.

“I'll be fine. Francine's coming to see me. She's on my side, even though it's going to get her in big trouble with her uncle.” He smiled. “She's not bad, once you get to know her. I don't think you've ever seen her the way she really is.”

“I've never seen her at all,” she reminded him dryly.

He cleared his throat. “Well, you will. One day.”

She nodded. “One day.” She kissed him good-bye and called to the guard to let her out of the cell. It was a long, cold walk back to freedom. The sound of that cell door closing echoed in her mind all the way home.

S
unday morning, Becky got up to go to church. Just after she dressed, however, Mack brought in the Sunday paper. When Becky read the headline, she sat down and cried.

“Don't, Sis,” Mack said. He seated himself beside her, and tried awkwardly to comfort her. “Don't.”

She couldn't stop. It was so horribly embarrassing to see J. Lincoln Davis's accusations that Rourke had covered up the elementary school drug dealing to protect his girlfriend's brother. The paper did everything but call Becky Rourke's mistress, and said that protecting Clay was Rourke's motive for dragging his heels in the investigation over the Dennis boy's death. There, in glorious print, was her name and Clay's, for her neighbors, friends, and, worst of all, her employers, to see.

“I'll lose my job,” she said miserably, wiping away the tears with her fingers. “My bosses won't want this kind of notoriety. They'll have to let me go. Oh, Mack, what will we do?” she burst out, eaten up by panic for the first time in memory.

“Becky, you're just upset,” Mack said, trying to sound calm. The sight of Becky crying frightened him. She was always the strongest one of them. “It's been a bad two days. It will get better. You always say that.”

“Our names on the front page of the paper,” she groaned. “Granddad will never get over it, if he even lives.”

“He'll live,” Mack said. “And Clay will be all right. Becky, I'll get my clothes on. We're going to church.”

She gaped at him. Ten years old and full of authority. He looked like a human bulldog.

“Come on,” he said. “Nobody will point at us or talk about us. Church is good medicine. You always say that, too,” he added with a grin.

She laughed in spite of her misery. “Yes, sir, Mr. Cullen, I do. And I'll be very proud to go to church with you.”

“That's more like my sister,” he told her. He winked and went off to put his Sunday clothes on.

So Becky went to church. And, as Mack had said, nobody gossiped. There were offers of help, however, and when they went home, she was glad Mack had talked her into it. She found the strength she needed to face whatever came.

Monday morning, Becky drove to work. When she entered the lobby, she pressed the elevator button. For the first time, she was glad that Rourke had moved back into his renovated office in the courthouse. It spared her the embarrassment of having to talk to him. He hadn't called. Or perhaps he just hadn't called when they were home. She'd taken Mack with her to the hospital the previous evening.

Well, why should he call, she asked herself miserably. He'd only taken her out to get next to Clay. He'd caught him and now he was going to prosecute him, so what did he need with Becky? If he'd harbored any dark desire for her, now it was satisfied and he wouldn't come around anymore. She groaned inwardly at what had happened. She'd given in without a struggle. In fact, she'd started it herself. Her principles had been sand writing on a low-tide beach—only good until the first wave came along. She felt ashamed. With the shame came another idea. What in the world was she going to do if she became pregnant because of it?

She pushed that thought away as she walked into her office. It wouldn't do any good to worry about it now. If her employers wanted to fire her, let them. She could type and take dictation, so she'd be able to get another job, even if it didn't pay as much. With that thought firmly in mind, she uncovered her typewriter and went into Mr. Malcolm's office to face the music.

“There you are,” he said with a kind smile. “I'd expected to hear from you Saturday morning. I'll be more than glad to take Clay on as a client, and you can pay me a dollar a month if it comes down to that.”

She had to fight back the tears. She'd done enough crying. “Oh, Mr. Malcolm, you're so kind,” she said gently. “I thought you might want to fire me.”

His eyebrows lifted. “You can type a hundred and five words a minute and you're afraid I might fire you? My God!”

“The newspapers painted me as a scarlet woman yesterday morning, and Clay was branded a child killer…”

“Damn the newspapers,” he said calmly. “It's just Lincoln Davis out trying to scalp Kilpatrick before they get to the polls. And you obviously haven't read Kilpatrick's rebuttal. Look at that,” he added, pushing the afternoon daily across the desk toward her.

She read the story with stark fascination. Rourke didn't mind hitting below the belt himself, she thought. He put his adversary's accusations in perspective, accusing him of political exploitation and sensationalism. He did it coolly and very concisely, every quote short and terse and guaranteed to turn Mr. J. Davis any way but loose. He mentioned Granddad's heart attack and added that he was a bachelor and free to date whom he pleased. Furthermore, he told the reporter who interviewed him, Miss Cullen was a lady, and if Davis didn't retract his insinuation about her character, Rourke would be pleased to quote him the statutes on defamation of character across a courtroom. At the end of the long article was a quote by the aforesaid Mr. Davis, accusing the morning newspaper of misquoting him and publicly apologizing to Miss Cullen.

“For heaven's sake!” she said huskily.

“Formidable, is our Mr. Kilpatrick,” Mr. Malcolm said with a smile. “Even if I hate his guts in court, I have to give him credit for occasional eloquence. He put the estimable Mr. Davis's posterior in a sling.”

“It was kind of him to defend me,” she said, thinking that she hardly fit Rourke's description of her anymore. Davis's insinuation was much more accurate after the way she'd behaved on Saturday night.

“He likes you,” Malcolm remarked, puzzled by the look on her face. “We've all begun to think of the two of you as an item. You've been inseparable for weeks.”

She looked down at the newspaper without seeing it. “Well, that isn't likely to continue,” she replied dully. “I won't be seeing him again.”

“You don't have to make that kind of sacrifice,” her boss said quietly. “Not just to placate Davis. He'll find something besides your brother to hit Kilpatrick with—you wait and see. Staying away from Kilpatrick because of your brother's arrest isn't going to affect his chances at reelection, even if it is a noble thought,” he added, smiling.

He'd totally misread her motives, but before she could even try to set the record straight, the phone began to ring and half the staff walked in. It was back to work, and she was grateful for the diversion. She hadn't thought that Rourke might suffer politically because of his association with her and her family. He'd said he wouldn't run again, but she knew there were people trying to make him change his mind. Surely, if his only thought had been to keep tabs on Clay, he wouldn't have sacrificed his reelection hopes by connecting himself with her, would he? Not if he was sure Clay was going to be arrested?

The more she thought about it, the more muddled she became. She only wished Rourke would call her. She remembered telling him she hated him when he'd taken her home. She grimaced. He'd looked after all of them that night—he'd even gone to the hospital to see about Granddad—and she hadn't even thanked him. Despite what had happened between the two of them, it was wrenching to have lunch alone. It was like being half a person suddenly, more so now that she knew him so intimately. She could close her eyes and feel him, taste him, experience him as she had that night. Her mind rebelled at the memories, but her body wanted them. It wanted him. But he'd betrayed her and she'd never be able to trust him again. Clay could go to the electric chair or to prison for life. She had to remember that Rourke had put him in jail and would be fighting to keep him there.

Besides,
she thought bitterly,
if he really cares about me, he'd have said something by now. He'd have contacted me.
She finished her solitary lunch and went back to the office. At least she still had a job. She was grateful for that.

Maggie had been supportive and quietly sympathetic all day. “Kilpatrick's the worst of it, isn't he, Becky?” she asked at quitting time, her dark eyes sympathetic. “I suppose you've convinced yourself that he only saw you to get to your brother.”

“It's true,” Becky replied wearily. “He hasn't even phoned me since that night.”

“Perhaps he's gnawing on some guilt of his own,” the older woman suggested. “He may think you don't want to hear from him. Who could blame him? He had your brother arrested and he's prosecuting him. He has to know that your grandfather is furious at him, and sick besides. It could be to protect you that he's staying away, Becky,” she added solemnly. “The newspapers are all over him, thanks to Mr. Davis. Reporters will be attached to him like cockleburs until the heat dies down. He's sparing you the limelight, honey.”

That was another thought that hadn't occurred to Becky. It was the most comforting of the lot.

 

A
WEEK WENT BY
. Rourke shepherded his cases through court with a stoic demeanor and black humor. Davis was his adversary in one case, and the two of them turned the atmosphere of the courtroom so static that the judge called them into his chambers during recess and read them both the riot act.

Rourke didn't dodge the press, but then, he didn't need to. Davis was capturing the limelight with the skill of a born showman, manipulating every confrontation with him to his advantage, waving crime statistics and conviction records under the noses of Atlanta's news media. Twice he made the six o'clock news. Rourke fed MacTavish a hamburger patty and squirted catsup at the screen. Personally, he thought a red beard did wonders for the esteemed counselor.

But under his relatively calm exterior, he was still stinging from Becky's angry words. Apparently her family was more important to her than he was ever going to be. He didn't know how to handle being last on her list of priorities. He'd thought they were growing so close that their world centered on the two of them, but Clay's arrest had taught him different. She immediately put Clay's welfare above his own, as if what had happened here in his house was of no importance at all.

He sipped black coffee with a cold glare out the window. She'd been a virgin and he'd betrayed her trust. He'd allowed things to progress too far, but she'd helped him, dammit—he hadn't gone the whole way alone!

He got up and poured himself some more coffee, idly watching MacTavish eat. He'd spent so much of his life alone that it was odd to feel uncomfortable. He and Becky had done so much together. He'd looked forward to her company with real delight. And after the feverish way she'd responded to him in bed, he was certain that she loved him. He knew he'd heard her whisper it to him. But afterward, all she'd felt for him was hatred. Even now, she was probably cursing him for seducing her and blaming him for Clay's arrest.

He'd wanted to call her. In fact, he'd tried once or twice last Sunday, but there had been no answer. After that, he'd convinced himself that she didn't want his interest. He knew she'd read the newspaper accounts, and if she wanted to think that he'd jettisoned her to salvage his job, let her. He'd go on by himself, as he always had, and she could…

He sighed heavily, closing his eyes. She could what? She was holding up the whole world. She'd told him that once, so long ago. She was the sole support of her family, the morale booster and cut-bandager and housekeeper who held it all together. There was nobody else to do for Clay now, except Becky. She'd have Granddad to visit every day, in addition to her job and her chores and the worry of Clay's trial. He'd seen her break once already. What would happen to her if Granddad died, if Clay was convicted?

He knew already that he was going to disqualify himself as prosecutor when Clay's case was calendared. But if he gave it to one of his colleagues, that was going to cast doubts on the whole office, because Davis could accuse him of pressuring his people to throw the case on Becky's account.

His eyes narrowed. Well, maybe there was a way out. He could have the governor appoint a special prosecutor for the case and that would satisfy everyone. But there was still the matter of Clay's guilt or innocence. Mack had said that Clay was being threatened and coerced into what he'd done. If that was true, and the boy really wasn't the ringleader, could he let him go to prison? It was certainly possible that Clay hadn't wired his car or sold crack to the Dennis boy. If that was true, the Harrises might be using Clay as a scapegoat to keep their own noses out of jail.

It did gall him to let the pushers get away with it. He might be able to dig a little deeper. But even if he did, the public defender was overloaded and underpaid. So how would Clay have a chance anyway? A good defense attorney could make all the difference in the world, but Becky couldn't afford that kind of representation. The public defender was the best the Cullens could hope for. He sat back down, pushing a restless hand through his dark hair. He lit a cigar and sat back in his chair, his eyes narrowing in thought. Clay's preliminary hearing was two weeks away. The grand jury had already handed in a true bill against him. Bail had been set at his arraignment, but he'd waived it. Apparently Clay wasn't going to let Becky pay it. And he was safe from the Harris boys now.