Текст книги "Never smile at strangers"

Автор книги: Jennifer Jaynes

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Chapter 27

HE MOVED THROUGH the dank woods listening carefully to any sounds that weren’t his own. Restless, he pushed a branch out of his way. He released it a second too soon and it recoiled. Cool rainwater splattered in his face. He stopped and dried his eyes with an elbow.

He needed to clear his mind, to wade through the gloom inside his head. Allie was gone for now. She’d left in another one of her huffs. But not before hurling the usual insults.

He reached up and snapped the branch, sending it flying until it hit more brush and fell against wet leaves. He thought about Allie pressing her body against his the night before. Lying where the girl had lain. If she’d only known.

Her visit had been obscene and, for a vile millisecond, disturbingly inviting. Her warm softness, her skin like satin. It had been pitch black and he couldn’t see a thing, but he could tell she was wearing the black nightie. . . the trashy one. He was sure of it.

His body had been rigid as he lay on his side, his eyes open, staring, unseeing, ahead. Her steamy breath, laced with cinnamon, tickled his neck before he pushed her away, sending her crashing to the floor.

A moment later loud curses, spiked with tears, rang from the darkness. Her fists stung his shoulders as she struck him. Then she left the room, the door banging shut behind her. Afterward, all became silent except for the crickets outside his window and Ian’s faint whimpers.

Now, he stepped out from the woods and peered at the Anderson’s home. As always, he had a clear view of the family’s living room at the back of the house. Two people were in the room. The father sitting on the recliner, and the young son on the floor, his body stretched in front of the blue haze of the television set, his face upturned and pale in the jumping lights of whatever television show they were watching.

He crab walked past the swing set whose two swings he had spent hundreds of hours in. Tonight he needed to be closer to the home.

Ten feet away from the big windows, he lowered himself onto his stomach and watched. The father was laughing. So was the boy. Then their faces went blank and they continued to watch.

Rachel was nowhere in sight. Rachel, the one who comforted him with her warm smile and silent laughter. He could tell that she loved her family. She, the mother bird of the nest. The nurturer.

But she seemed stressed lately. So distant from the others. Such a beautiful woman to be so stressed. It tore at his insides. Once he’d seen her daughter yelling at her. She’d been leaning forward on her tiptoes, shouting into the woman’s face. When his angel turned away, her face was so tight. So upset. It took everything he had not to force his fist through the window, to grab the girl by the throat and tell her that what she had was a rare gift. That her mother was an angel.

If only, his angel.

He daydreamed of being inside the house. Not while she was home. . . not yet. . . but when it was empty. What would he see? How did they live up close? He longed to touch the things she touched. She was a special, special woman. One of very few.

A light shone from the bedroom he knew to be the daughter’s. He rose and approached it. Though the blinds were down, he knew she was in there. He could hear her haughty voice and snippets of a one-sided conversation. She was on the phone. And she sounded angry.

He slowly circled the home. At the west end of the house, light shone through a small rectangular window. The master bath. He could see the shadow of a potted plant on the windowsill. Sunflowers. Once, he’d seen her in the small greenhouse, tending to the plants, her hands moving slowly, deliberately, with more care than he’d seen in his life. Her hands were nothing like his mother's calloused hands. Demanding, greedy hands. He shook her from his head.

Slinking forward, he peered into the window. Through the blinds, he could see someone was moving inside. Water was running. A bath being drawn.

Smiling, he turned away. He pressed his back against the house and stood still. He listened as she walked back and forth. Through sheer process of elimination, he knew it was her. He stood there, close to the woman. Mere feet away.

At that moment, he made his decision. He would go inside. And soon.

For now, though, he closed his eyes and relaxed.

Chapter 28

THE AFTERNOON SKY was gloomy with the threat of a storm. Erica sat in a red, plastic booth, scribbling in her notebook, which was now half filled with notes. Everything was finally coming together. Her epiphany had made a world of difference with the writing and left her so elated, she almost felt like smiling. But she didn’t.

The diner was fairly empty. One customer lingering at a table, then her, Chris, Kim, and Austin. The three hovered at the counter, talking. Off and on, she picked up fragments of their conversation, but only when it was something interesting. For the most part, it wasn’t.

Lightning shot across the sky, followed by ripples of deafening thunder. She peered out the window, watching the sugarcane next to the diner bend against the screaming wind. Fliers of Tiffany trembled against the windows where they’d been posted, struggling to win the battle against the hostile and equally tenacious wind.

Erica flipped to the back of her notebook to a clipping from the New York Times Bestsellers list. She ran her finger over a name of a female mystery novelist. One who could possibly be her mother—using an alias. She’d scoured the Internet for a photo of the woman but couldn’t find one. The woman’s name had just popped up one day out of the blue and Erica had rushed out to get a copy of her book.

There was something about the way the author wrote. The words she chose. They just seemed too familiar to her. They screamed of her mother. Erica had found articles written about the woman and had found out she was single and from the South, but none of the articles said exactly where. Having the clipping so close, quieted a fear that she refused to acknowledge.

She closed her notebook and sighed. Her thoughts went to Haley, the only person her age she’d ever liked. Many times over the years she’d imagined Haley with a halo suspended above her head. She was just so pure. So kind hearted. And not just to a few people. To everyone. It was as though her mission in life was to make others feel good.

She remembered the girl’s touch and how easily she had invited her into her house. It was almost as though the girl considered her a friend.

But why her? They were so different. Where Haley was always polite and sweet and, at least before her father’s accident, seemed to glow with enthusiasm, Erica imagined herself as being surrounded by a black cloud of desperation.

Besides, friendship was something Erica had never shared with anyone besides her mother. She wasn’t sure she knew how to be a friend to anyone besides her.

In the months since Haley’s father had died, Erica watched Haley change. The once bright halo seemed to have dimmed, lost some of its shape. The girl’s eyes had slowly deadened and lost all of its enthusiasm. She’d become almost mute. At least in public.

Erica would study her as she sat in the cemetery, mumbling to her father. Sometimes Haley would stand in ant piles on the perimeter of the cemetery until little black specks covered her legs. Sometimes she’d cry. It’s what had drawn Erica to the girl. She identified with her loss. Her need to mask the pain. Her secret quirks.

But the two were still so, so different.

Business was slow, too slow. Erica was itching to leave early with the measly ten dollars in tips she’d earned in the four hours she’d been there.

“This investigation of theirs is goin’ pretty shitty if you ask me,” Chris was saying, dipping a biscuit into a bowl of etouffe. “The detective’s still pokin’ around, but I say if they haven’t found anything by now, they’re not goin’ to find nothin’. Seems he was a better jock than a detective.”

“I still say the girl just ran off,” Kim piped in, crossing her beefy arms. “But havin’ said that, I spoke with Myrna Adams from the college the other day and she has some interestin’ suspicions about Tom Anderson. Said that some of the staff up at the college have been more than happy to give that detective an ear load.”

Erica turned her attention back to the window. Finally successful in its endeavor, the wind ripped one of the fliers from the window and sent it soaring across Main Street.

Kim waddled to the window, although she really wasn’t fat enough to waddle. Erica figured she was just practicing because it would only be a matter of time. Kim was a bulky girl with a square torso and sausage-like appendages. Astoundingly unrefined, even by Grand Trespass standards, both her clothes and her person were always stained with something. Usually it was ketchup or some type of dark sauce.

Gazing out at the bad weather outside, Kim clicked her tongue, then ran her chunky fingers through her feathered bangs and the rest of her shabby mullet.

“Just because a man cheats on his wife don’t mean he’s a killer,” Austin said from the counter, pouring a cup of coffee.

Kim grunted and walked back to the group. “Maybe not, but it does talk to his character. And that’s really all you have to judge a man on. Right Chris?”

Chris nodded, looking out into the middle distance.

Character? What did Kim know about character? Erica wondered, doubting she knew much at all, if anything. What she did know about was spreading hurtful gossip and beating up girls younger than her. Erica had intimate knowledge as proof. Hell, Kim would probably have an affair, too. . . if anyone would have her.

“That reminds me,” Kim continued, plopping back down in her seat. “I was talking to my sister, Agnes, in Alabama last night. She asked if Tiffany was the smiling kind. Said there was someone hanging ‘round a supermarket years back.”

“I believe it was an Albertson’s or Winn Dixie. You know, there’s an Albertson’s in Truro. Anyhoo, Agnes told me he killed a bunch of girls in the ‘80s and they’ve never found the rat bastard.

“It was disturbing what he’d do. He’d wait right outside the doors in front and watch for women to walk out. When they did, he’d smile at them. And he’d wait for the first woman to smile back. That’s how he chose his victims. He did it for nearly a year, and Agnes said that he would even write letters to the local paper out there and tell them what he was doing. Even so, they never caught the monster. He just quit killin’. Still runnin’ loose somewhere. Wouldn’t it be somethin’ if he’s out here now?”

Erica re-opened her notebook and pretended to write, not wanting to seem interested in the conversation. Smiling at strangers, she mused, shifting in her plastic seat. She could see that happening.

She, herself, barely smiled. And she didn’t want to be noticed. Not yet. Not until she had something brilliant to be noticed for.

 “Julia Perron, poor soul, I heard she’s been to see a juju woman,” Kim said, sighing. “She’s become desperate to find her daughter. If anything did happen to the girl, there ain’t nothin’ a witch doctor can do at this late hour, except maybe tell her where the body’s decomposing.” She glanced over at Erica. “Yore mama was a juju woman, ain’t that right, Erica?”

Erica’s face burned as she looked down at the blank page in front of her. The topic of her mother was off limits.

“Not like there’s anything wrong with that,” Kim said. “I just heard that yore mama used to practice witchcraft from time to time. Tell me, she ever heal anyone?”

Thunder rumbled in the distance. It was only two o’clock, but the sky was growing as hazy as late evening.

“Probably not,” Kim announced tersely, when Erica didn’t answer her. She refocused her attention on Chris and Austin. “Anyway, this morning I told both my little ones to never ever smile at strangers. You should only be friendly with folks you know because there are all sorts of kooks out there. New Orleans has more than its share, and it ain’t that far from here if you stop and think about it.”

Erica stuffed the notebook into her backpack and rose. “It’s awfully slow today, Chris. Mind if I leave early?”

“Sure, honey. I think we’re all set,” he said, one eye on her, the lazy one on the approaching storm. “Another one of them slow afternoons, I’m ‘fraid. Not that the weather’s helping none.”

The cowbells clanked and Detective Guitreaux walked in wearing a pair of chinos, a blue t-shirt, and a ballcap. He nodded at the crowd.

“Storm’s a’brewin’” he announced, pulling off his cap and running his fingers through his thick hair.

Chris set a fresh cup of coffee in front of him and pointed to the darkish sky and the rain that was now bursting from it. “Reckon the storm’s already here.”

Chris pressed his own coffee cup to his lips and took a sip. Setting the cup down, he regarded Guitreaux who was silently re-positioning the cap on his head. “What can we do you for today, Detective?”

“Would like to have a few words if you don’t mind. Let’s step out back.”

Chris blinked. “Absolutely. Anything you need.”

Erica, closely watching the entire exchange, could swear his face went pale.

Chapter 29

OPENING THE DOOR to her mother’s bedroom, Haley was stunned to see that her mother was awake and photos were scattered all over the bed and floor. Crisp, dog-eared black and whites, and hundreds of newer, color photographs. An empty scrapbook lay on her mother’s bureau, next to a box of tissues.

For a moment, Haley wondered if she’d had too much to drink and was imagining things. But then she reminded herself that she only had one gin and coke. So far. Since sharing the wine with Erica and experiencing the exquisite numbness it had induced, she had taken to a drink or two each day. To cope. Her father had a sizable stash in the bottom of the pantry: gin, vodka, bourbon, scotch. She sampled them all and found that the gin was the easiest to get down.

Haley set a terra cotta bowl on the nightstand. “It’s chicken and dumplings. Your favorite.”

Her mother smiled. Not the relaxed, genuinely happy kind of expression Haley had grown up with, but the detached, obligatory, slightly drunk-looking one she’d grown used to over the last several months. “Thanks love.”

“Scrapbooking?” Haley asked, hopeful, moving toward the window. The windowsill was covered in dead love bugs and strands of Wrigley’s fur. The storm had stripped the air of the heat and humidity, and the room was in dire need of freshness.

Her mother shook her head. The tip of her nose was red and balled up tissues littered her lap. “No, just looking at some old photographs, honey.” She reached across the bed. “Haven’t seen these for a while.”

This time, for only an instant, her smile was one of the old, warm ones.

She picked up a photograph and handed it to Haley. It was taken at one of Haley’s swim meets when she was ten years old. The one against Chester Elementary, Theresa Elementary’s biggest rival. In her red one-piece, Haley was crouched in position, tense and focused, waiting to begin her 600-meter freestyle. Haley could still smell the chlorine and feel the cool pool water. She thought about the University of Louisiana, and how she might be swimming right now had she started classes on time.

Her mother set the photograph down and picked up another. In this one, her father was standing at the barbeque grill, a silly grin on his face. He held a slab of meat and wore a white apron that read Vegetarian, a perfect example of his cheesy humor. “That one was taken at Becky’s tenth birthday party,” her mother said. She pointed at the top left corner. “See the balloons?”

Haley nodded.

The woman glanced up at Haley. “I don’t know why this one didn’t make it into a scrapbook. Seems like a lot of them didn’t make it. I don’t understand why they didn’t.”

“I don’t know, Mama.”

Her mother’s eyes, now bleary, went to her neck. “That’s a pretty necklace. Is it new? Did Mac get it for you?”

Her mother knew good and well that the necklace wasn’t new. She was the one who had bought one for both her and Tiffany for high school graduation.

Haley fingered it and thought of Tiffany. “No, it’s not new. You bought this for me. And one for Tiffany, too. Don’t you remember?”

The woman gazed at Haley’s face for a moment, then reached for a pill vial on her nightstand. She opened it, popped two in her mouth.

Haley’s shoulders sagged. Every time she thought her mother was getting a little better, she was wrong. She wanted nothing more than for her to get better, and for Tiffany to come home. Two situations she had no control over.

Which reminded her of Mac. An entire day had come and gone since her discovery of the pornographic magazine in his truck. And he hadn’t called or come over. She wondered if she had been too hard on him. If she had overreacted. She wasn’t angry with him any longer, just confused that he felt he needed to lie to her. Maybe she should be the one to make the first call.

She remembered how loudly Becky and Seacrest had screamed when Charles tapped at Becky’s window early on Thursday morning. “Mama, why didn’t you come check on us the other night? Didn’t you hear the screaming?”

“Screaming? Who screamed? Is everything okay?”

Haley thought of the sleeping pills. But that wasn’t an excuse. She couldn’t just leave her and Becky alone to fend for themselves, no matter how much she was hurting. They were hurting, too. She needed to stop mourning and become their mother again.

“Did you know that Becky is hitchhiking now?” she asked, desperate to get the woman to express some sort of appropriate emotion.

“Hitchhiking?”

“Yes, Mama. You should say something to her.”

“Oh my! I will. It’s so unsafe,” she said. Then her eyes dulled and she seemed to be looking not at Haley, but past her, as though she were focusing on something only she could see. She took several shallow, raspy breaths.

“Have you called Mrs. Perron yet?”

Her mother shook her head, her focus still on whatever it was she was staring at.

“You should really call her. Tiffany’s still missing.”

“My goodness,” her mother muttered. But Haley wasn’t convinced she’d even heard her.

“Mama?”

“Yes, Darling.”

“You okay?”

“Yes. Your mama just needs some sleep, baby. Why don’t you let me get a little shut eye?”

Chapter 30

LATER THAT NIGHT, he lay in his bed, trying not to listen to the sounds coming from his sister’s bedroom. Laughter, both Allie’s and some boy’s. He scowled, staring across his room, out the small window.

He wanted to stop them. What were they doing in there? He hated when Allie brought boys home. She did it to humiliate him.

He could smell her from her bedroom. He’d always had a keen sense of smell. Whether he was detecting Allie’s sweet odor, his mother’s mustiness, or the coppery odor of blood, he could do it from a distance that most couldn’t.

Allie was so fragrant, just like a flower. Like an oleander, its beautiful pink blossoms disguising its fatal venom. Like the flower, she was poison. Most women were. Most, except for his angel, of course. . . and very few others.

He thought of Tiffany, his mother, and the man who lay rotting at the bottom of the pond out back.

In life, Tiffany had been attracted to him. She’d wanted him, wanted to be close to him. For weeks, she had come on to him, but he had ignored her—something that seemed to make her want him even more. Then she’d succumbed to his plans and willfully entered his house.

Allie squealed louder. He clamped his palms against his ears. His heart pumped angrily and his breaths came fast. His skin became warmer, wetter.

She squealed again.

Not able to stand it any longer, he sprang from his bed and yanked his door open. He barreled into the hallway and found her bedroom door wide open, candlelight flickering inside.

He moved into the doorway.

They were in her bed. Allie was naked and sitting on the boy’s lap. She moved back and forth rhythmically, her arms clasped above her head.

After a moment, she turned and shot him a dirty look. But she didn’t bother to stop what she was doing. She continued to rock and just gazed at him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he shouted from the doorway, not sure which one he was talking to. He took a step forward and saw that the boy wasn’t a boy at all. He was a man. A husky man much older than he was.

He had a flashback of all of the disheveled-looking men who would stay with their mother for a few hours at night and during some late afternoons when he had been younger. Of the young, pretty, dark-haired woman who came around all the time that one year, only to retreat in his mother’s bedroom for an hour or two.

He began having trouble breathing. His breaths came shallow and uneven and he began to feel weak. The onset of a panic attack.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing!” he repeated. “She’s just a kid, asshole!”

Alarmed, the man shoved Allie to the floor and bent to pick up his pants.

Trying to contain his rage, he flipped on the overhead light and went up to the man. He shoved him, and the man floundered, tumbling back into bed, his pants around his hairy calves.

“I didn’t know,” he screamed. “She told me she was eighteen!”

“Eighteen? Christ, does she look eighteen?”

“Leave him alone!” Allie shrieked, scrambling from her place on the floor. “He’s a client!”

It felt as though bugs were squirming beneath his flesh. He scratched at his arms until he tore the skin, then stepped forward and struck the man in the side. The man shouted something he couldn’t make out because Allie was screaming again.

He noticed three wrinkled twenty-dollar bills on Allie’s nightstand. Now even more beside himself, he kicked the man repeatedly. Each time harder than the last.

Allie’s hands were around his waist now. “Stop! Please stop!”

“What’s the money for, Allie?” he shouted, tears stinging his eyes.

She was a whore. An evil, vicious whore.

She held onto him tighter, her naked flesh burning his. Their eyes met for a quick moment and he could tell that she was enjoying this.

Her slow kill.

“What’s the money for?” he screamed again, out of breath. “What’s it for, huh?”

He had to get away from this place. This house, from her, or they would kill him.

Trembling, his eyes out of focus and filled with tears, he watched the man rise and fumble with his pants again. He snatched up a cowboy hat and a set of car keys from the floor, then staggered out of the room.

A few seconds later, the front door slammed.