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  Frank had no idea what was going on in this house, what Ruby had gotten herself caught up in, but there was no way in hell he’d just roll over and die without taking that Myrna bitch, and anyone else she might have helping her, with him. He pulled a knife from his pocket and started to cut strips from the heavy golden drapes that had so fascinated him earlier. When Frank had a good pile lying on the floor, he crossed the room and pulled the door on a liquor cabinet that stood in the corner. Finding it locked, he slid his pistol from its holster and used its handle to smash the glass. He grabbed a decanter and took a good swig before emptying half its contents on the sofa. He knelt on the floor next to the shredded fabric and stuffed the strips into the decanter until the remaining booze had been absorbed and the bottle itself was full.

  He stood and fished his cigarette lighter out of his pocket, flicking the wheel until it lit. He held the flame beneath the portion of the drapes that still hung in the window, and they caught fire as if turning to ash had been their lifelong dream. As they fell away, he noticed something that he hadn’t from the outside: the windows were barred by decorative but functional wrought iron. If that were true of all of them, there was one less option for escape. He probably should’ve formed a more coherent plan before acting, but it was too late to worry about that now. He had no choice other than to carry on with the course to which he’d committed, and he couldn’t deny that a part of him liked it when there was no turning back.

  He made his way to the door, stopping only to light the couch’s alcohol-drenched fabric. He watched a race of blue flames spring into life, but then the smoke began to burn his eyes. He stepped out of the burning room and closed the door behind him.

  The hall was empty, but by the way the hairs on the back of his neck raised up against his collar, Frank knew he wasn’t alone. After the brightness in the other room—both from the flames and the light streaming in through the window—it took some moments for his vision to adjust to the relative darkness of the hall. He moved to the side of the hall, pressing his back against the wall.

  Although smoke had not yet seeped into the hall, its aroma was unmistakable. Instinct drove him in the opposite direction from which he’d come. If Bayard was still alive, he wouldn’t have just turned tail and run. Bayard was nothing if not single-minded. He would have gone looking for Ruby. Then, at the end of the corridor, Frank perceived three figures blocking the exit he would have needed to use if he’d intended on making a simple escape. Maybe it was just a trick of the shadow, but Frank could’ve sworn their eyes glowed with a faint silver-blue light. The three moved in unison toward him, then stopped as if they’d hit an invisible wall.

  They turned toward the door Frank had closed on the burning room. The one closest to it reached for the knob, but hissed as the hot metal burned his hand. The second, evidently braver than the first, twisted the knob and flung the door wide, shrieking as the heat of the flames flooded out around him. Smoke billowed into the hall, blocking the three from Frank’s sight, but he could still hear them. In addition to cursing like any angry man would, they hissed . . . a sound you’d never expect to hear from a person. They shouted for the King woman, and Frank glanced around him to see if she were near, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  Through the smoke, three pairs of faint lights were approaching. One set moved low to the ground, as if they were slithering across the floor. The second approached along the side of the hall, and the third shone down from the ceiling. The smoke parted, revealing the three men with glowing eyes—one of whom was indeed crawling along the floor, while the second clawed its way along the wall, and the third hung upside down from the ceiling.

  Frank began sliding down the hall, trying to maintain the space separating him from these otherworldly apparitions, one hand clamped onto the rag-stuffed bottle, the other cradling his lighter. He began to spin the wheel of the lighter, sending a shower of sparks into the haze, but the lighter refused to produce a flame. “Shit,” Frank said under his breath, realizing it was out of fuel. He let the cool metal slip from his sweaty hand. He flung the decanter, managing to bean one of the trio, but it didn’t have the explosive effect he’d been counting on. He reached for his pistol and fired three quick shots, one right between each pair of glowing silver-blue eyes. Each shot met its mark, and the lights faded in quick succession.

  He sped down the hall, stepping into each room on the way, gun first. Each was empty. No Crane. No Ruby and no Bayard either. Chances were indeed good that all three were dead by now. He was about to give up and settle on finding his own way to safety when he saw it. One room, near the end of the hall, looked different from the rest. Its door stood out, looking more like something from a factory than a house. He gripped his pistol in his right hand and carefully slid the door open. He found himself standing face-to-face with Bayard in some kind of white-tiled kitchen or something. Myrna was standing with her back to Frank, like she’d been gift wrapped. She turned. Frank pulled the trigger, thinking he was saving Bayard, but the look that came over Bayard’s face was one of total loss, loss that hardened into hatred and a desire to do harm. A desire to draw blood. In that moment, Frank had thought he might have to use his last bullet on Bayard himself, but then his longtime partner had stood down.

  That day, Bayard had seemed unsure of himself. Now, it struck Frank, Bayard had come to some kind of decision. Yes, there was no denying it. The look Bayard was giving Frank now was the same one he’d given him after he’d plugged the King bitch. Though Frank was unsure of the reasons behind Bayard’s renewed deliberation, Frank felt certain of the outcome. Who knows? Frank wondered silently. Maybe it was always going to come down to this, even if we’d never gone to California.

  “Gentlemen.” A voice from the porch snapped Frank out of his thoughts. He craned his neck to see around Bayard. It was that nurse. Frank crawled out of the car and circled his partner. He hadn’t really gotten a good gander at her before. In spite of everything, Frank found himself appraising her. She was a sturdy-looking thing. Frank figured she could take a good hard ride. His eyes drifted up from her hips to consider her ample bosom. Her hair, brown, was pulled back, leaving her ears to stick out a little too much for his liking. Her face was plain, but not unattractive. She tilted her head forward a tad, so those serious gray eyes met his. Something in them warned him the news would be bad. Frank’s attention turned to Bayard as Bayard took a few halting steps toward the porch. “If you wouldn’t mind coming in?” she said.

  Hell yes, he would mind going back in there. Frank remembered the shrieks Ruby had made as he dragged her out of the King house and into the sunlight. She hadn’t shut up until long after they’d closed her up in the cool of the van, the same van they’d ended up driving clear across the country back to Conroy. He could face whatever was about to go down between himself and Bayard, but there was no way in hell he’d face anything like that ever again. If the Judge had taken a turn in that direction, well . . .

  “Everything all right?” he asked, trying to maintain his cool.

  “He’s dead,” Bayard called out, “ain’t he?”

  Corinne’s head nodded once in response.

  “Then there ain’t much more that we can do around here,” Frank said and looked at Bayard. “How about it?”

  Bayard nodded. “Could we go down to the river? The bend where we used to swim when we were kids?”

  A slight smile curled on Frank’s lips. So the old swimming hole was where Bayard intended to end it. “Sure thing, buddy. Anywhere you like.” He held out his hand. “But give me the keys. I want to drive.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  “I’ve called the funeral home, to have them come for the body,” Corinne said, placing her hand gingerly on Lucille’s shoulder. “If Dr. McAvoy wants to examine the body before signing the certificate of death, he can do so at the mortician’s.” It was hot, and the body soon would begin to give off an unpleasant odor. There was no need for anyone to suffer through an unnecessary indignity. “They�
�re sending a car over.” She had sensed no attachment to the Judge on Lucille’s part, but the maid had insisted on sitting with the body. Corrine reminded herself that not everyone had grown as inured to death as she had. For some, it still held a kind of mystical or sacred import. For her, after witnessing the death of so many, it was just another passing. She’d watched younger and—judging by the company he kept—better men die.

  “I’ll stay with him till they get here.” Lucille looked over her shoulder and placed her hand on Corinne’s.

  Corinne nodded. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Lucille turned in her chair until the two women were facing each other. “Oh, it is no loss to me. That man. He thought he owned me. He swore he’d never let me leave him.” She turned back to face the sheet-covered corpse. “No, this here is my emancipation. This here is my Independence Day. And I ain’t taking my eyes off of him until they cart him out of here feet first.” Lucille paused, her complexion going gray. “I’m sorry, Miss. It was wicked of me to say such a thing.” Her dark eyes moistened. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

  “Of course not. I understand.” Corinne didn’t understand, but having never been in a position similar to Lucille’s, she couldn’t. “I’ll be downstairs. I’ll let the funeral people in when they arrive.”

  The women locked eyes for a moment. Corinne sensed there were a great many things Lucille wanted to share with her, but the other woman’s lips pulled tight and she looked away. In spite of the heat, Corinne felt a sudden chill. She pulled her arms tight around herself. That was when she noticed the scent. Not the normal smell of decomposition, but some sort of spice. No. An incense. Myrrh. The odor of sanctity. Catechisms, long thought excised from her soul, rose up before conscious thoughts.

  She forced herself to shake off the sense of dread that had begun to descend on her. “I’ll be downstairs.” She was repeating herself, but Lucille didn’t seem to notice. She stepped out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her, and made her way down the hall, the sound of insistent knocking causing her to hurry down the stairs. It was still full light outside, but the sun had passed over to the far side of the house, leaving its entryway gloomy. She switched on a lamp to bring light to the shadowy hall.

  She had expected to see a proper mortician in a black suit. The two young men looking back at her through the door’s upper window certainly didn’t match her expectations. Of course, who knew what passed for proper in these parts? They both wore wide-brimmed hats and dirty, long-sleeved shirts that looked more like you’d expect to see on factory workers. The oddest thing was that both had wool scarves tied around their necks.

  “We’re here for the Judge,” the one closest to the window said.

  She opened the door.

  “Where is he?”

  Corinne was even more surprised to see that both men were wearing gardening gloves. “Come in. The body,” she said, feeling uneasy, “is upstairs. Shall I show you?”

  “Not necessary,” the second man said. “We’ll find him.” As they trudged up the stairs and vanished into the Judge’s room, Corrine turned to shut the door, gasping out loud when she saw that, rather than a hearse, the mortician had sent the men in a red pickup truck that was a dead ringer for the one that horrible Charlie Aarons man drove.

  She barely had time to shake off her surprise when the two reappeared at the top of the stairs. They’d rolled the Judge’s body up in a sheet from his own bed, and the studier of the two had hefted the corpse over his shoulders. Corinne struggled to hide her distaste, but a part of her felt she should voice an objection. Lucille followed behind them, a confused look on her face.

  One of the men brushed past Corinne and opened the door; then the one bearing the Judge strode out without a single word. “Ladies,” the first said and doffed his hat before closing the door behind them.

  Lucille turned to Corinne, her mouth agape, a crease running down the center of her forehead. “Miss, I thought you called the funeral parlor.”

  “Well, I did . . .” Corinne said, flustered.

  “Then why did they send those Sleiger boys?”

  FORTY-FIVE

  McAvoy came to, cold and hurting. He didn’t know where he was, but he felt earth beneath him. He struggled up to his side, then onto his knees. Something held him by the leg.

  He was surrounded by absolute darkness. No, there to his left, a pair of tiny blue flames burned, but they illuminated nothing. He tried to make out their source, but gave up as a wave of nausea hit him. He then registered the fact that his head felt as if it had been crushed in a vise. When he reached around to the back of his head to search for the source of the throbbing, he felt the stickiness of congealed blood. He listened to the sound of his own breathing, trying to piece together what had happened. The last thing he could remember was being pummeled by the Sleiger boys. What in the hell possessed them?

  A loud whistle sounded, and white sparks floated up before his eyes. He winced in pain. He knew that sound. It was a train wailing out its approach. The length of the whistle’s shriek told him it was probably drawing near the unprotected crossing just south of Conroy, as conductors familiar with the line liked to give a good long warning before reaching that point.

  He managed to stand, pushing himself up from what his hands told him was a dirt floor, but felt a cold bite on his ankle when he tried to take a step. He bent over and felt around. A chain. He’d been chained by the leg to an iron loop set in a large concrete block. He tugged on the chain, but it was a hopeless endeavor. He licked his lips, preparing to call out and see if anyone might come to his rescue, but before he could make a sound, a familiar voice reached his ears.

  “You wouldn’t believe how they tortured him. I listened to his screaming again and again. It must have gone on for hours. It may have gone on for days. I don’t know. It all blurred together after a while.”

  McAvoy clutched his chest, very nearly teetering over. It was Ruby’s voice, although it sounded different than when he’d last heard it, drier and with a slight rasp. Still, it was unmistakable.

  “Tortured?” His voice croaked, but his question would go unanswered.

  “He was so smart,” Ruby said. “So beautiful. So bored. You purchased the pleasure of his body, and when your money stopped being enticement enough for him, you introduced the drugs to keep him dependent on you.”

  “I couldn’t bear the thought of losing him,” McAvoy confessed, guilt bringing hot tears to his night-blinded eyes. “He would’ve never left on his own. Not if he hadn’t had you to prop him up.”

  “He didn’t belong in a town like Conroy. Neither of us did. It was his idea to get away from here. To get away from you. He said we could be stars. God, what a cliché.” Ruby let loose a mirthless laugh. “We left here hoping to make something of ourselves, but there were others out there who were even worse than you. Hollywood chewed us up and spat us out. And what can I say? The studios didn’t come calling.” Her words slowed, her voice grew more faint. “The money went so quick. And the drugs were everywhere. We both ended up selling ourselves—sometimes for the cash, sometimes for release. Sometimes separate, sometimes together.” For several moments there was silence. “When the great Myrna King took an interest in us, I thought maybe, just maybe, things would work out after all.” A bitter laughter filled the unfathomable darkness around him. “I figured maybe my face wasn’t meant for the silver screen after all, but there would be other ways a girl like me could get ahead. I couldn’t wait to meet her fancy friends. To learn all . . .”—the word danced in the darkness—“. . . their secrets.” Her cold, glowing eyes pierced his soul. “Oh, and I learned their secrets all right. All of them.”

  McAvoy began weaving under the weight of his guilt. He rocked back and forth in the darkness, moaning until the words finally came to him. “What did they do to you out there?” He had intended to ask what they had done to Dylan, but his courage failed him.

  “They turned me into this.” Her voice boom
ed as the light of her eyes swooped in on him. He flung his arms up before his face to hide himself from those lights. “Or at least they started the process. You finished it.”

  “When you came back, you were so ill. You would be fine one moment, and then you’d start speaking absolute nonsense and the darkest of slander the next.”

  “But that isn’t why you killed me, is it, Doctor? It wasn’t because you were afraid that I might speak the truth about you. It was because I took Dylan from you.”

  “I gave you a gentle death.” His voice trembled. He felt a cold hand brush his swollen cheek.

  “I’m sure you’ll understand why I can’t find it in my heart to return the favor.” The intense beam of a flashlight burst to life, the brightness stunning his eyes. The light traced along the floor to find a bundle wrapped in a white sheet. “It may take hours or it may take days, but when he wakes up, he’ll be awfully hungry.” Something metallic skidded along the floor and bumped up against his foot. The flashlight’s beam shifted to the spot. It was a straight razor, its blade glinting in the light. “If I were you, I’d use this on myself before he comes to.” And then the light died.

  FORTY-SIX

  Bell was left to do the driving. Rigby, his damned fool of a deputy, had been nearly in a trance since they’d left the Dunne farm. Bell tried to cut Rigby some slack. He’d grown up with Elijah Dunne, even spent time out on the family’s farm. But the deputy had been misfiring on all his cylinders for days. Maybe he just wasn’t cut out for police work, and maybe it was getting near time to tell him so. Bell needed to find Elijah first, see to it that justice was served, and then he’d deal with Rigby.

  The Dunnes were both dead. And it wasn’t either of them who’d done the shooting, since they found the gun a good fifteen yards from the bodies, lying out in the yard in a pile of women’s clothing. That left Bell to think he must have been wrong about the boy. He would’ve bet his bottom dollar Elijah was as innocent as a lamb, but he should’ve known better. Should’ve seen the signs. Something had caused Elijah to snap. The sheriff had seen it happen to soldiers before, after World War II. Young men would come back changed by battle, unable to flip the switch and return to the niceties of peacetime. Yes, the more Bell pondered the recent turn of events, there could be no doubt about it: Elijah had killed his best friends, and now his parents.