Finally, they reached the Farrell house. Marissa wanted to rush in and ask for a strong drink. That would be useless, because Jean had never liked to keep liquor in the house and now that Mitch was so sick Marissa doubted if anything stronger than coffee had made it into this house for months. She was so nervous she didn’t know how to behave. What was she supposed to say when they entered the house? “Hi, Jean. Sorry your husband’s dying. We’re here to watch.”
“What?”
Stunned, Marissa looked over at Eric. “My God, did I say that out loud?”
“About telling Jean we’re here to watch her husband die? You certainly did!”
Marissa groaned. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m
so
flustered and upset. I don’t know what to do or say. I hope you’re more in control of yourself than I am.”
“Apparently I am,” Eric said dryly.
“Then I’ll follow your lead.”
Eric pulled the car past the front door and stopped beside the house. Marissa knew he was leaving room for the ambulance that would be coming soon. He told her to sit still, walked around the car, and helped her out into the snow that was already about three inches thick. He held on to her tightly as they climbed the porch steps. He knocked on the door, and almost immediately Jean pulled it open.
“Oh, thank the Lord you’re finally here,” she said. Her face looked ashen and ghastly, the sharp bone structure appearing as if it might slice right through the skin, her eyes wide and glassy. “Come in; come in.”
Marissa went first, shaking the snow from her hair, batting it off her lashes so it didn’t blur her vision as it melted. “Take your coat off, honey,” Jean said.
“I think I’ll leave it on a few minutes. I’m still cold.”
Apparently Jean was cold, too. She wore a bulky dark wool sweater, badly knit and at least two sizes too big for her. She had buttoned it to the neck and buried her hands in the oversized pockets.
Marissa felt Eric walking close behind her and heard the front door close. “Hurry in to Mitch, Marissa,” Jean said. “He’s conscious right now.”
Marissa still felt cold to her bones and shrugged deeper into her coat. Although Jean wanted her to hurry, her steps were slow. When she neared the dining room, she saw Mitch lying on his hospital bed, his skin white as the pillowcase, his eyes huge, and she felt as if she were looking at a death’s-head. Jean stayed between Eric and Marissa. Then she said, “Oh, Eric, just a minute. I wanted to show you this.”
Marissa was trying to work up a smile for Mitch, but he was looking past her, his huge eyes seeming to grow even wider. “Hi, Mitch,” Marissa said when suddenly he croaked, “Eric, watch out!”
Marissa turned around and screamed as muzzle fire flashed and the deafening sound of a gunshot exploded in the small living room. The smell of gunpowder burning the inside of her nose, Marissa saw Jean holding a handgun as Eric crashed to the floor, blood pouring from his thigh.
Chapter 22
1
Marissa lost moments in sheer disbelief. She seemed to be floating, watching the scene from a high, cool distance. Then Eric made a sound—part surprise, part agony—and Marissa jerked back to life, hearing Eric moaning, seeing Jean drop to her knees and jerk Eric’s gun from its holster and grab his walkie-talkie and cell phone. Mitch lapsed into weak, gurgling sobs.
“Did you see that, Mitch?” Jean shouted. “Did you see the golden boy brought down so smoothly by the woman you’ve always thought was stupid, good for nothing except cooking and cleaning?”
Marissa dived at Jean, trying to push her away from Eric, but the woman held firm, raising her gun and pointing it at Marissa. “Don’t make me use this—yet. I’m not ready.”
“He’s going to bleed to death!” Marissa shouted.
Jean’s eyes narrowed. “When I first got married, I used to buy books for nurses and read them cover to cover so I’d know what to do if the children I thought I’d have got hurt. I know more than you think about the body. I don’t believe I hit any major vessels, but you can wrap his belt around his thigh and make a tourniquet. You do know how to make a tourniquet, don’t you?”
Jean kept the gun pointed at Marissa as she pulled loose Eric’s belt and wrapped it tightly above the gunshot wound. To her surprise, Marissa didn’t cry. She looked into Eric’s pain-filled eyes and felt strangely numb and almost businesslike. Shock, Marissa thought. Shock she hoped would not wear off in a matter of minutes. She needed every ounce of composure she possessed to handle this unbelievable situation.
“J—Jean, no,” Mitch gasped from the other room. “Don’t…”
“I’ll do as I please. After all, you did all these years.” Jean put Eric’s gun in the pocket of her heavy sweater and looked at Marissa. “Help me pull him nearer to Mitch. I want Mitch to see Eric bleeding.”
Eric said nothing. Marissa could tell he was gritting his teeth as he nodded to her. He doesn’t want to make things worse, Marissa thought. She might shoot him again, this time fatally. Do what Jean says.
The two women pulled Eric about ten feet closer to Mitch, leaving a trail of blood behind them. A beautiful Tiffany-style lamp burned on the table beside Mitch’s bed—a different lamp than the one Marissa had seen Thursday night. Incredibly, when they reached Mitch’s room Jean jerked a bed pillow from under Mitch’s head and placed it under Eric’s. “Comfortable?” she asked.
“Yes,” Eric answered mildly. “Thank you.”
Jean looked at Marissa. “Stop gawking. You look half-witted. Pull yourself together. I’m going to tell you a very interesting story. A story about Dillon
Archer.
”
“Jean, no,” Mitch begged in a grating voice. “Please, no.”
“Oh yes. I want everyone to know the truth about wonderful Sheriff Mitchell Farrell.” Jean looked at Marissa. “You’d better have a seat.” She pointed to a wooden rocker on the left of Mitch’s bed. “You might want to faint somewhere along the line. You’re weak, just like your mother.”
Marissa opened her mouth, ready to retort to the insult, but she caught Eric’s warning glance. She left his side and sat down in the chair she knew Jean had once used to rock her baby girl.
Jean, still holding her own gun, looked at all three of them; then she smiled slightly. “You all know my background. You know my father worked me half to death on the farm, furious that he didn’t have a son, determined to make
me
work like a strapping boy at least three years older than I was. I was miserable, but the work made me strong—physically and emotionally. I’d resigned myself to the notion that I’d work that farm until Papa died when Mitch Farrell came along. He wasn’t the sheriff yet, but he knew what he wanted and everyone knew he’d get it. Not to mention that he was handsome and he was
manly,
what today you’d call
macho.
Papa thought he was wonderful. He was flattered that Mitch had started to come and see
him
so often.”
Jean stopped and laughed. “Papa nearly lost his dentures when Mitch asked him for my hand in marriage. Mitch Farrell wanted
me
? Papa couldn’t believe it. Then Papa decided Mitch only wanted me because I’d be left all that fine land when he died. He hadn’t planned to—he was going to leave it to a nephew. Nobody knew that except me, though. Anyway, Papa said getting Mitch Farrell for a son-in-law must be some kind of sign from God—it certainly couldn’t be
my
charms—so he pretended to think it over and in a couple of weeks told Mitch he could have me. Then Papa changed the will, leaving all hundred acres of that land to me.”
Marissa kept her gaze fixed on Jean, afraid if she was caught looking away, Jean might get furious. She was telling what she considered an epic story that deserved everyone’s complete attention.
“Mitch was a good husband. Kind, affectionate, not insisting I work myself to death around here. In fact, he even helped move furniture when I was cleaning floors and carried heavy rocks for my flower gardens. I loved him
so
much anyway, and that gentleness and protection of me—well, I just felt like a queen. And I wanted to give him what he wanted more than anything in the world—a son. But the years went by and I never got pregnant. The doctor said there was nothing wrong with me. Mitch got elected sheriff and afterward he had to work late a lot. I missed him, but I knew he was determined to be the best sheriff this town ever had. I didn’t resent all those nights he didn’t get in until I was almost asleep—and he was too tired for…well, marital relations.”
Here it comes, Marissa thought with a sinking heart. A kind but plain wife, no children, late nights at work. She wanted to jump up from the rocking chair and say, We don’t need to hear any more! We’re really sorry for you, Jean, but we have to get Eric to the hospital. Of course, Marissa simply sat still, afraid to move. Jean kept a firm grip on her gun.
“After a while, Mitch started mentioning the Archer family. He’d always taken his car to Archer Auto Repair, but he said more about what a ‘cold fish’ Isaac Archer was even to his wife, Belle, and their little baby, Andrew, she’d just had. Mitch said he wasn’t the cutest baby in the world, but all babies were sweet. Of course that just made me feel worse about our situation, but I never let on to Mitch.
“I think I was at a church picnic a year or so later when someone told me Belle Archer was pregnant again. She didn’t go to our church. I don’t think she went to church at all, but they said Isaac must be in a hurry to have helpers at his business and that’s why she was having babies so fast.”
Eric moved slightly and Jean swiftly bent over him. “Think you’re going somewhere? Think you’re going to make a break for it, hero? Everyone thought you were a hero when you saved Marissa from dying in the river last week.”
“I had help,” Eric said, his voice rough with pain.
“But you got all the credit. Mitch always did, too.”
Seeming satisfied that Eric had only been shifting a bit because he lay on the hard floor, Jean turned her attention back to Marissa. “Belle had another boy. Everyone laughed and said Isaac must be pleased that in a few years he’d have another helper for the business. But he didn’t act pleased. Mitch told me he was more sour than ever. Nobody could understand it. Nobody really cared all that much.
“And finally, a miracle happened. I got in the family way. Mitch was over the moon with joy. I thanked God a thousand times for answering all my prayers. You know that baby was Betsy. I thought Mitch might be disappointed the baby wasn’t a boy, but he didn’t seem to care. Betsy was an angel—beautiful, good-natured, quick to learn. I’d never been so happy in my whole life.” She looked at Marissa. “Your daddy was Mitch’s cousin and Bernard and Annemarie had invited us over to dinner in the years before Betsy was born. I always felt shy around Annemarie and with her being so pretty and all, I felt downright ugly. After we had Betsy, though, I didn’t mind going to dinner in their fine home. They had Catherine and we had Betsy. I couldn’t have been more proud.”
Jean smiled at the vacant air in which she apparently saw Betsy. Her silence lasted so long and her mind seemed so far away, Marissa thought of doing something. She didn’t dare try to take Jean’s gun, but there had to be a heavy ashtray, plate, potted plant,
something,
she could throw at Jean. But a surreptitious glance around the room showed Marissa nothing convenient. Even Mitch lay with his eyes closed, and she wondered if he was already dead.
“I have so many pictures of Betsy’s third birthday party. Mitch had been working more at night again. The evenings didn’t seem so long as they had before Betsy was born, and he was gone a lot at night. She was such a lively, happy child. At that party, I didn’t believe anyone could be as blessed as I was.
“The Saturday after her birthday, I planned a big Sunday meal for us,” Jean went on. “I went to work on it that night. I was peeling potatoes and I cut my hand fairly deep and I ran all over the kitchen looking for a towel to wrap around it. Then I realized I hadn’t heard Betsy for a while and I went through the house and she was gone. Betsy had gotten open the front door because I’d forgotten to fasten the chain.
“I ran outside and screamed and screamed for her, but she didn’t answer. Finally Mitch turned up. He called a couple of our neighbors down the road. He kept trying to make me stay inside, but I wouldn’t. I’ll never forget that black, wild December night.” Tears streamed down Jean’s face. Marissa glanced at Mitch and saw tears glistening on his cheeks, too. “Near dawn they brought out the dogs. They kept going from the front of our house, and across Falls Way to the river. They finally found her little teddy bear beside the river.” Jean stopped and drew in a loud, wrenching breath. “Her body surfaced three days later. Her
body
! My little Betsy!”
“I’m so sorry, Jean,” Marissa couldn’t help saying. “It must have been terrible. I can’t even imagine—”
“No, you can’t, so don’t sit there giving me your sugar-sweet false sympathy!” Jean yelled. “You-don’t-know!”
Marissa subsided, feeling she’d only made things worse, wishing she could snatch back the words that had gone straight from her brain and out her mouth without a thought. She held her breath while Jean heaved with anger and grief, then turned around and began to pound her fist against Mitch—his legs, his abdomen—ignoring his moans of pain and fright.
“Jean, stop it!” Marissa burst out again. “Don’t—”
Jean pointed her gun at Eric. “Don’t what? Kill him? I can, you know. It would be so easy.”
“No, Jean,” Mitch begged weakly. “You don’t want that on your soul.”
Jean looked at him and asked, “It’s a little late for you to be worrying about my soul, don’t you think?”
“Oh God,” Mitch mumbled.
“God’s not listening,” Jean snapped.
“He’s not listening to you because you’re a killer, Jean,” Marissa said evenly. “You killed Buddy Pruitt and Tonya Archer and Will Addison. You put on that stupid costume and you tried to kill me.”
Jean looked at Marissa, tilted her head, and said perkily, “Well now, miss, don’t you just know everything!” Then she straightened her head and lowered her voice. “God didn’t stop listening to me because I killed anyone. Oh, I did kill them, but I knew it didn’t matter, because when Betsy died I knew there couldn’t be such a thing as God. He’s just make-believe, like Santa Claus.”