Unspeakable (23 page)

Anna tried to look insulted, but David knew she was pretending and they all laughed.

"Can I join the party?"

Startled, Jack wheeled about. Standing in the utility room doorway was a man in his midforties. Medium height. Nice looking. Hesitant, apologetic smile. "No one answered the front doorbell, so I came on around and let myself in through the back door."

Jack knew he was lying. Even if they hadn't heard the bell, they would have seen Anna's light flashing. Ungraciously, he asked, "Can I help you?"

"Is Delray Corbett here? Does he still live here? His name's on the gate."

"He lives here. He's not at home."

"He's in the hospital." That from David, who had left his chair to stare curiously at the visitor, who in turn was looking curiously at him.

Jack wished he Could think of a way to shush David without its being obvious.

"Hospital?" The man made a pained expression. "Jeez. I hope it's not serious."

"He might die—"

"Not too serious."

Jack and David spoke at the same time, contradicting one another.

The man looked at Jack with a mix of reproach and inquisitiveness. Jack looked back. Jack won. The man relented first and said, "My name's Cecil Herbold. I'm Mr. Corbett's stepson."

Anna had moved into place behind David, settling her hands on his shoulders with instinctual maternal protectiveness. Jack felt similarly protective toward her and the boy. He stepped partially in front of her, separating her and David from the elder Herbold.

"What do you want?"

"To see my stepdaddy."

"He's not allowed visitors. In any case, I'm not sure he would want to see you." Jack could practically see the chip rising on Herbold's shoulder. "If you don't mind me asking, who are you to say?"

"It's not for me to say. Why don't you ask Anna?"

"Anna?" Herbold looked her over.

"Dean Corbett's widow."

Jack thought Herbold's shock was genuine. "Widow? You're telling me Dean is dead?"

"For six years."

"You don't say? What happened to him?"

Jack gave him a brief explanation.

"Bet that nearly killed Delray. He set such store by that boy. More than he did Carl and me, that's for sure. 'Course we gave him hell." Looking at Anna, he said, "Sure am sorry to hear about Dean, ma'am. That's a damn shame."

Anna acknowledged the condolence with a curt nod.

"So who's this?" Herbold asked, smiling down at David. "This Dean's kid?" He squatted down in front of the boy. "How are you, son? I'm your... Hell, what am I?" he chuckled. "Step-uncle I guess."

No longer garrulous, David must have sensed that Cecil Herbold was nobody he wanted to know. Saying nothing, he shrank back against Anna's legs. Herbold rose and addressed Anna with a wide smile. "He's a cute kid. I can see Dean in him."

She hesitated, then signed a thank-you.

Cecil went slack-jawed. He looked at Jack. "She's..."

"Deaf."

Herbold's eyes moved back to her. "Huh. Imagine that. But she knew what I was saying."

"She read your lips."

"Well, I'll swan. Isn't that something? She reads lips. I admire a person like you, Anna. Truly I do."

Jack wasn't buying one word of this polite bullshit Cecil was trying to sell them. He wanted the ex-con out of the house and away from Anna and David. "We'll tell Delray you stopped by." Smiling at Jack easily, he said, "I thought you said I should ask Anna if Delray wanted to see me."

Jack angled his head back toward her. "Be my guest."

Cecil raised his eyebrows in query. "What do you think, ma'am?" She shook her head no.

Easy smile still in place, he said, "Well, I haven't got anything else to do, so I think I'll take my chances and go to the hospital, try and see him."

"He won't welcome you," Jack told him.

Herbold looked him up and down. "Thanks for the word of warning, uh... What was your name?"

"Jack Sawyer."

"Do I know you?"

"No."

"Huh. You married to her, to, uh, Anna now?"

"I'm the hired hand."

"Oh, the hired hand," he repeated, dragging the words out and letting his inflection imply that Jack didn't have a vote regarding who went where when. He took a stroll around the kitchen, taking in every aspect of it, from the bordered wallpaper to the dishes neatly stacked in the glasspaneled cabinets. "Looks different than when I lived here. Did you know I used to live here, David?"

The boy shook his head.

"Didn't your grandpa ever tell you about me and my brother Carl?" Again David shook his head no.

"No? Oh, yeah, Carl and me ran wild as Indians all over this place." Coming back around to the huddled trio, he said, "It just breaks my heart the way that old man turned his back on us and shut us out of his life."

He gave a sad sigh, then clapped his hands together. "But that's what I hope to fix while I'm here. I came to mend fences. So, I'll be getting on my way and let y'all go back to your breakfast." He backed up toward the open door connecting to the laundry room. "Pleased to meet you, Anna." He spoke louder than normal, as though volume would penetrate her deafness. "Catch you later, David," he said, winking at the boy. Jack he ignored.

As soon as he passed through the back door, Jack followed. Through the window in the door, he saw Herbold climbing into a ten-year-old Mustang. He was alone. Jack watched him make a careful turn and head for the front of the property. He locked and bolted the door, then jogged through the kitchen, down the center hall, and watched through the front window until Herbold had cleared the gate and was no longer in sight. He bolted the front door, too. When he turned, Anna was standing there looking as anxious as he felt. It seemed Herbold's visit had robbed them all of appetite. Breakfast had been forgotten. He forced himself to smile for David's benefit. "Hey, Rocket Ranger, have you made your bed this morning?"

"I didn't sleep in my bed last night, Jack."

"Oh, yeah, right."

He looked helplessly toward Anna, who signed something to her son. "It's not time for my programs, Mom," he whined. She signed more. "But Sesame Street is for babies." She made a shooing motion with her hands. David, rolling his eyes, went into the living room and turned on the television set.

Jack pulled Anna down beside him on the bottom step of the staircase. He looked earnestly into her eyes. "You should take David and leave."

She stared at him, aghast.

"Go... somewhere. Galveston. San Antonio. Somewhere David would enjoy." She started to get up, but he pulled her back down. "Listen, Anna, listen." He clasped her hands between his before she could indicate to him that she couldn't listen. "You know what I mean," he said impatiently. "Why do you think Cecil Herbold showed up here this morning?" She shrugged and shook her head, at a loss for an answer.

"I don't know either, but I don't like it. I've been reading about these guys in the newspaper. They're trouble. Delray wouldn't want him lurking around. He wouldn't like it at all, especially with Carl on the loose. I'm going to call the hospital and tell them that under no circumstances are they to let Cecil in to see Delray. You agree?"

" Yes. "

"Go get packed and take your luggage with you. You can stop at the hospital for a brief visit with Delray and then leave from there."

She signed what he knew to be an objection to his plan.

"It isn't safe here, Anna," he argued. "Delray was afraid Carl would come here. I think that's one reason he hired me. To have some extra protection around the place. He would want you and David out of danger. I'm acting on his behalf, telling you to do what I think Delray would tell you."

She got up and moved quickly into the office beneath the stairs. Jack followed her. She was writing on a pad. "I will not leave Delray. I will not!"

"These guys are killers, Anna."

She wrote, "I wasn't born yesterday."

"No. Just deaf."

She flung the notepad aside and tried to move past him, but he caught her by the shoulders. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. That was a stupid, thoughtless thing to say." Her face remained angry and closed. He pressed his fingers tighter around her shoulders. "Delray would never forgive himself if you and David got hurt. I wouldn't forgive myself if you got hurt. Let me help you." Wriggling free, she backed away from him and picked up the notepad again. When she had finished writing, she turned the spiral booklet toward him. "Delray didn't trust you. Why should I?"

CHAPTER TWENTY–THREE

C
arl's piss factor was at an all-time high.

The vacant fishing cabin where he and Myron had taken shelter stank of stagnant creek water and mildew. He supposed they were lucky to have found it at all. but its only attributes were its isolation and a roof that provided shade from the brutal sun.

The three small windows and one door didn't allow for much ventilation, so the heat was enough to make a saint yearn for Hell. The mattress on the narrow cot felt like it was stuffed with bowling balls. Myron's farts were so noxious they could be bottled and used for chemical warfare.

Was it any wonder he was in a bad mood?

His misery was such that he was beginning to doubt his decision to include Cecil in his plan. Maybe he should have gone this one alone. After all, this was the big grand-daddy of his career, his—what did they call it?—opus? Yeah, this was his opus. His grand finale. If they hadn't had to hang around waiting to rendezvous with Cecil, he and Myron could have been across the Rio Grande by now, languishing in a tropical paradise, a bottle of tequila in one hand and a se who didn't know the meaning of no in the other. Yet here he was, holed up in the backwoods, home to bugs as long as his thumb and snakes as long as his leg, steeping in his own sweat, sweltering in a steam bath of a climate.

But Cecil and his contribution were essential to the quality of life they would have once they reached Mexico. In the long run, Carl supposed this delay and all the hardships it imposed would be worth it.

It was the idle time that was eating on him and making him fractious. With nothing to do except fight off biting insects and count the endless minutes of each day, he was thinking too much. Self-doubt nibbled at him as rapaciously as the rats that came at night to scavenge in his and Myron's trash.

One of the things he was thinking was that he probably shouldn't have killed that guy at the gas station. He hadn't wanted a witness to the burglary. But, hell, the police had lifted prints off the candy counter—Thank you, Myron—in no time flat. The gas-station owner would have identified them a few hours earlier, that's all. They still would have had a good head start. Maybe he should have just tied the guy up and left him.

If he had it to do over again, he might not take the girl, either.

But he got a boner just thinking about that adventure, and knew that whatever other circumstance might have prevailed, he would have taken the girl. And who could blame him? She had been his first woman in twenty years. Twenty years, for Christ's sake! He couldn't work up a hard-on for Mrs. Bailey or the spinster sister. Their saggy bodies had been a turn-off for him, although Myron hadn't seemed to mind the lack of youth and muscle tone.

But that tender young thing in the shorts and tall socks... Hmm, hmm, hmm, had she been sweet. Might not have been the smartest decision to kill her afterward, though. That kind of thing pissed off everybody. The cops, the courts, the public, even other criminals. Every law enforcement agency in three states, along with the feds, was frothing at the mouth over that girl. They were leaving no stone unturned looking for her violator. He was beginning to feel the pressure. Hell, he wouldn't be human if he didn't.

His worst fear was of being recaptured. Because if you go raping and sodomizing kids, and killing them afterward, not only did you get the book thrown at you at trial, if you got slammed back into the joint your ass became the property of every other con, and the guards pretended not to see how rigorously it got reamed. He would live the rest of his natural life either in solitary for his own protection or getting raped every day. What a choice.

But he wouldn't go back to the joint. He would die first. He would rather take a bullet in the head from some redneck peace officer out to bag himself an escaped convict than go back to prison. At least getting shot would be quick and painless. Not like getting raped every day till he died of injury or disease.

Of course lie would rather not be recaptured or killed. First choice would be to come out of this alive in sunny Mexico. But between him and Mexico sprawled Texas, eleven hundred miles of a fucking state that had brought him nothing except bad luck since his first arrest as a juvenile. It would help to have someone to discuss these anxieties with. He might just as well be talking to a stump as to Myron. So even though this goddamn waiting was a necessary evil, all things considered, he would be glad to reunite with his brother. Cecil would share and understand some of what he was feeling.

"Tomorrow's our big day, Myron."

"Uh-huh." He was picking at a scab at his elbow.