Dead on the Delta

  “No, we’re not going on vacation, honey. We’re going away.”

  “Away,” I repeat dumbly, still fighting to make sense of what’s happening.

  Marcy’s gaze drops to the floor. “I don’t plan on being here when that agent comes around with her questions. She called this morning to say she had to postpone until tomorrow. I decided to take that as a sign.”

  “A sign of what?”

  “A sign that I should leave town before I go back to prison.”

  “Wha …” My lips go numb and my tongue forgets how to form the “t” sound. What is she talking about? What’s happening here? Have I entered the twilight zone somewhere between Swallows and 32 East Maple Street?

  “Sit down, Annabelle.” Marcy crosses the room, a hitch in her step I’ve never seen before, as if the process of packing up her beloved home has literally crippled her. She gestures toward the single clothes-free section of the couch. “I’ve only got a few minutes, but I wanted to—”

  “I don’t want to sit down.” I back away. “I want to know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t curse.”

  “Then don’t be crazy,” I say, a burst of hysterical laughter escaping my buzzing lips. “This is crazy. You’ve never been in jail.

  “I killed two people. A long time ago, when I was barely fifteen.” The earnestness in her voice makes my head spin. “One of them was planned, one wasn’t, but I was convicted on both counts. I spent ten years in a maximum-security prison.”

  “But Marcy … I … I—I don’t understand.” I sound about three years old, but I can’t help it. It’s like someone told me my mom is a killer. But worse. Finding out Mama Lee had offed someone wouldn’t be nearly this shocking. I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach and shot into outer space. There’s nothing left to stand on, nothing solid or sane in the world, no air left to breathe.

  “I had my reasons for what I did. I thought they were good ones … at the time.” The shuttered look on her face makes it clear she doesn’t plan on sharing those reasons.

  Not here, not now, not with me, the stupid girl who idolized her and been so certain she knew everything there was to know about Marcy. Wonderful, amazing, loving, lives-to-feed-and-take-care-of-people Marcy. Who’s devoted her life to social work and children, who grocery shops for every shut-in in town, who takes in stray cats and loves her husband more with every passing decade.

  Who also killed two people. And spent ten years in prison.

  The paisley wallpaper pulses, crawling off the walls, making my stomach clench. Tomato juice and stomach acid rise in my throat, burning toward my mouth. I gulp air and close my eyes, swaying slightly on my feet.

  “Annabelle? Annabelle?” Marcy’s suddenly at my side, thick arm around my waist, holding me up. “Honey, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine. You look sick. You—”

  “I’m fine.” I pull away.

  “Annabelle Lee, you should never have left the hospital last night.” She crosses her arms and clucks her tongue, actually having the guts to look disappointed. In me. “You need to take care of yourself. You’re supposed to be an adult.”

  “And you’re supposed to be Marcy,” I shout, and immediately feel awful for it. The hurt in her eyes crushes things inside me, makes me want to pull her in for an “everything’s going to be all right” hug the way she’s done for me so many times. But I can’t. I’m afraid if I put my arms around her, I’ll never let go. “I’m sorry. I just … You can’t run away. Especially for no reason. No one’s going to send you to prison,” I say, willing her to realize that what she’s doing is crazy. “You have bad things in your past, but you had nothing to do with Grace’s death or what happened to any of those other girls.”

  Marcy doesn’t say a word, just swallows and studies her nails. All of them are broken down past the quick. Marcy can’t grow her nails past the tips of her fingers, they get too weak after all the hand-washing and dishwashing and endless, compulsive cleaning. She can never get things clean enough. She’s the straightest, tidiest, non-rule-breakingest person I’ve ever known.

  So why isn’t she saying anything? Why?

  “Marcy …” My voice cracks. I sound like I’m about to cry. “You can stand there and say nothing as long as you want, but I can’t believe you would ever hurt a child. Ever.”

  Her eyes snap to mine. “Of course I wouldn’t. Never.”

  Despite my big words, a part of me breathes a sigh of relief. “I know! Everyone in town knows! You’ll have a hundred character witnesses, or more. The FBI might ask questions about your past, but they’re not going to—”

  “Annabelle, please, honey. Just leave it alone. I have to go.”

  “No, I won’t leave it alone and you don’t have to go anywhere. This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” I say, voice rising. “The police already have a suspect in custody. He’s the wrong suspect, but they have evidence they think proves he had something to do with the murder. You’re not even on their radar, anymore, I’m positive, and I think I have some idea who—”

  “I helped Kennedy’s father abduct her. I knew Naomi would let her go. I told him exactly when to come get Kennedy off the playground,” Marcy says, shocking me into silence once more. “I know she’s not dead. I know she’s fine and safe and happy, but if I tell the FBI how I know … ” She presses shaking fingers to her temples. “It’s just impossible. I have to go.”

  “But, Marcy … why?”

  “Kelly didn’t take care of that girl.” Marcy lifts her chin. “She didn’t deserve her.”

  “I didn’t know things were that bad.”

  “They were.” Marcy shuffles to the couch and half collapses into the only clear space. “Kelly’s always on something. Pain pills, I think. I don’t know for sure, but I know she was word-slurring high almost every afternoon when came to pick Kennedy up. Even when she was pregnant with the little brother.” Marcy shakes her head. “That precious girl deserved better, and I knew her daddy would take care of her.”

  “So you decided to help him take her?” I can’t keep the shock from my tone.

  “She’s a monster, Annabelle. She left marks on that girl that won’t ever heal.” The disgust in her tone leaves no doubt she witnessed the evidence of Kennedy’s abuse firsthand. “I did what I had to do.”

  My breath rushes out. “Marcy, there are legal ways to help victims of abuse. You could have testified and helped Kennedy’s dad get custody, maybe even helped the younger brother, too. If Kelly’s as bad as you say, then that baby shouldn’t—”

  “Legally, it would have taken months, maybe years, and Kennedy didn’t deserve to suffer anymore.”

  “And there was no reason she had to,” I say, exasperated by Marcy’s inability to see how extreme her actions had been. “You could have called Child Protective Services, they would have—”

  “And they would have done nothing.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I do know. Believe me, I know,” she says, her voice close enough to a shout to make me flinch. She sighs, her shoulders sagging. “Just … let it go, Annabelle. There’s no point talkin’ on things you don’t understand.”

  “I understand, Marcy. I do, but—”

  “No, baby. You don’t. And I hope you never do.” She smiles at me, the love so clear on her face it makes my chest ache. “You’ve still got a lot of innocence left in you, Mess.”

  I shake my head. Innocence? Me? Has she had her head in the sand for the past twelve years?

  “I know you don’t think so,” she says. “But I know you. You want to think the best of people. You want to believe in this town and the future and good things for the folks you care about. It’s one of the things I’ve always loved about you.”

  Loved. Past tense. Because she won’t be around to do it anymore. My throat gets tight, tighter, tightest. “Please don’t leave, Marcy. Please.”

 
“I have to, baby. But promise me you’ll be careful. You need to take better care of yourself,” she says. “Or marry Cane and let him take care of you. He loves you, and you two would be so happy. I know you would.”

  “Fine. Maybe I will,” I say, shocked that a part of me is actually considering it. Maybe I will marry Cane. Maybe I’ll say “I do,” and let him teach me how to love like a grown-up. “But there’s no way I’m getting married to anybody without you. Are you going to at least let me know where you are … once you get settled?”

  Marcy shakes her head. “No, honey.”

  No. No, with that sad, sad look in her eyes. “So this is … good-bye? Forever?” She doesn’t say a word. “You’re really doing this, no matter what I say. You’re really leaving.”

  “That’s why I wanted to see your face,” she says, silent tears slipping down her cheeks. “I wanted to—”

  “No. Just … no.” It becomes impossible to swallow past the ostrich egg in my throat. I want to sink through the floor, crawl into the deepest, darkest cave and hide from the finality in Marcy’s expression. But the floor isn’t quicksand and there are no caves handy. Even if there were, there’s no hole dark or deep enough to smother the misery of knowing I’m losing my best friend.

  “I can’t do this.” I back toward the door, blinking fast, trying to keep the tears stinging at the backs of my eyes from falling. “I can’t even believe this is happening. I can’t …” I turn and fumble for the front door handle.

  I hear Marcy sigh, but don’t turn back around. “Annabelle, wait. Don’t leave like this. Come give me a hug, and let me show you the boxes I want you to have.”

  A hug? Some boxes? As if one hug can last a lifetime, as if any number of knickknacks came make up for her running away from me and this town and everyone who loves her?

  “Goodbye. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about … anything.” I throw the words over my shoulder as I lunge through the open door, across the porch, and out the screen door onto the street.

  And then I run. And run, until my lungs are sodden from the humid air, until sweat leaks down my face and my shirt is stuck to my skin, until my heart pounds and the alcohol in my bloodstream tugs at my muscles, trying to hold me back. But I break through the wall and fly, feet barely touching the ground, mind lost in the rhythm of my rasping breath, running and running and running as if I’ll never stop.

  I can’t believe I’ve forgotten how good physically running away can feel amidst all the other metaphorical fleeing I’ve done in my life.

  In the end, I can’t blame Marcy for bolting. I would probably do the same thing. I’m a runner. And now, I’m all alone.

  Somehow I end up close to home, though I can’t remember how I got there. I cut through a couple of yards and let myself in the back door with my key, too tired to circle all the way around to the front. My legs are trembling with exhaustion, the muscles in my thighs twitching like Hitch’s gimpy eyelid.

  “Gimpy. Crap.” I’d planned to bring the cat home and crank up the air before I went back to the station, but now there won’t be time. I barely have time to grab a shower and change clothes before I have to meet Stephanie.

  Or maybe I’ll die first.

  At the moment, it doesn’t sound like a horrible alternative to being interrogated by my ex-lover’s fiancée while my other ex-lover lurks in the building, hating me for getting beat up by his sister and not jumping at the opportunity to settle down and make babies.

  “Jesus Christ,” I curse as my right knee buckles. I barely catch myself on the kitchen table. I’m in bad shape. Awful shape. I need to start a regular exercise program.

  Or end it all with a bullet to the brain.

  The raw skin on my arm, where the gun holster chafed as I ran, screams for me to go ahead and do it. End it. The gun’s right here, nice and handy. A bullet will stop all the various sources of pain—big and small, my fault and not so much my fault—with one sharp bang.

  “Coward,” I mumble. I might be a mess, but I’m not a coward.

  I strip off the holster, careful not to touch the blistered place on my arm, and empty my pockets onto the table. A few crumpled dollar bills, a receipt for cat food from the Quik Stop, and my cell phone. A red box on the touch screen reminds me that I haven’t listened to Jin-Sang’s message …

  No, Jin-Sang’s messages, plural. There are two. Looks like he called again while I was running and I didn’t notice.

  I drop the phone back to the table, pretending I didn’t notice that I didn’t notice. I have to get through my review. Then I’ll check the damn messages and deal with my damned boss.

  I limp across the kitchen and grab a glass, running tap water and chugging it. I’m too thirsty to bother with ice or the filtered water in the fridge. So thirsty. Dying of it. Maybe literally dying, whether I pick up my gun or not.

  The wall I broke through smacked down on me a half-mile back, crushing my will to run, making me black out for a few minutes. I’d apparently kept walking—I came back to myself on my feet and closer to home than when I faded out—but I still feel wretched. My head throbs like a giant thumb with a splinter pushed deep, and my tongue lies thick and heavy in my mouth. Even swallowing is a challenge. Water runs down my chin and onto my shirt. I shiver, though the air conditioning unit humming away in the otherwise silent house is in the other room.

  I freeze with the glass at my lips, hairs rising on the back of my neck.

  The other room … my bedroom … where I know I turned off the air conditioner before I left this morning. But now, it chugs and puffs and rattles.

  And I suddenly have the feeling I’m not alone.

  Careful not to make more noise than I have already, I sit the glass in the sink and turn back to the kitchen table. I snag the gun from its holster, but don’t arm it … yet. I don’t want to alert my visitor of my presence. Besides, there’s a chance it’s Cane in the other room. Maybe he came over to talk after filling out Amity’s paperwork, let himself in, and decided to stay for a nap.

  Except that I locked both doors this morning, and Cane doesn’t have a key. No one does, not even Marcy. Whoever is in my home broke in.

  As I creep toward the bedroom, I cast a glance at the front door, grateful for the odd design of the house. From where I stand, I can see that the front door is still locked and all the windows shut tight. My intruder must have come in through the bedroom window. It wouldn’t be hard to pull out the air conditioning unit, crawl in, and stick the unit back in place.

  Especially if you’re a man … a big man, so long your feet stretch past the end of the bed and your boots dangle in the air even when you’re propped up on a mound of pillows.

  Even as I arm the gun and aim it at my visitor’s midsection, a part of me can’t believe there’s a stranger in my house. He seems … unreal. Maybe it’s the way his threadbare blue jeans cling to his obviously well-muscled legs, or how his white T-shirt pops against his out-in-the-sun-all-day tan. Maybe it’s the big smile on his face or the long hair—dark blond locks too feminine to top such a masculine form—tumbling over his shoulders.

  More likely it’s the sky-blue eyes and overall drop-dead gorgeousness of the criminal that make me pause a second too long. No one expects the bad guy to be so … pretty. Or lounging on the bed with a tattered paperback copy of The Bourne Identity, or smiling like he’s been looking forward to being discovered. It’s too peculiar for my grief-addled brain. It slows my reflexes, makes my trigger finger sluggish, even when Gorgeous flings his book at the wall, revealing a hypodermic needle the size of my hand, and lunges for me.

  Before I can shoot or scream or take a step toward the door, he’s on me, knocking the gun from my hand. We fall to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs. The breath rushes from my lungs as he straddles my waist and brings one large hand down on my mouth. His skin is dry and rough against my lips, but smells of soap.

  Who knows what kind of blood-borne diseases this guy might have, but I would have taken
my chances—and a chunk out of his hand—if his thumb hadn’t locked beneath my chin, hooking my jaw, pinning my mouth closed.

  Biting is out, so I scream. Muffled or not, Bernadette might hear if she’s eavesdropping hard enough. I suck in air through my nose and howl for help until Gorgeous grins and sticks his pinky finger in my right nostril. I can still breathe, but … but … someone else has their finger in my nose.

  It’s such a weird feeling that I freeze up again, giving the man on top of me the chance to jab his needle into my thigh and hit the plunger. For a second, I can’t feel anything except the stab of a big-ass needle fighting its way through jeans and skin. Then, whatever he’s injected me with hits my bloodstream, and I scream again.

  This time, it’s a sound of pure, blinding agony. The toxin catches fire, spreading from my leg to my guts to my heart and blooming with a whoosh inside my brain. It’s like being burned alive from the inside, blood and bone and organs eaten away as I buck and thrash and struggle to find some way out of the pain. But I can’t run from my own body. There’s no way out, nothing except a slice of black at the edge of my vision, a place I sense there will be no return from should I choose to slip inside.

  Still, I might have gone to it, might have leapt unthinking into the abyss if the man hadn’t bent down and whispered in my ear.

  “Breathe. Breathe, Annabelle. This isn’t going to kill you, you’re going to be just fine,” he says, the certainty in his words cooling the fire, taking the pain to an almost manageable place. “I’m Tucker. I’m here to help. You need what I just gave you. It’s going to make it all better.”

  My eyes flutter open, straining to focus on the face so close to mine.

  He pulls back, staring until his look squirms inside me, stealing more fuel from the flames. “But I need you to promise me something, okay? You can’t tell anyone about this. Or me. Don’t show the injection mark on your leg. Don’t ask your doctor for a second opinion. Just forget this happened until you hear from me again. Do you understand?”

  I narrow my eyes and wait for him to pull his hand from my mouth so I can scream for help. But he doesn’t, he just stares harder, as if my intentions are written on the backs of my eyes.