The King of Lies

  “Ms. Stolen doesn’t want to see you,” he said without preamble, one hand out, fingers spread. “She wants you to leave.”

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “That’s none of your business.” He stepped closer, his hand mere inches from my chest. “Why don’t you just get back in your truck and go home?”

  I looked past him and saw Vanessa’s face, formless in the kitchen window. I seen you watchin’. . . .

  “No,” I said, angry. “This is none of your business.” I gestured sharply, meaning the farm, myself, Vanessa. . . . I had things to say, and I meant them to be said. “I want to talk to Vanessa.” I took a step forward and his hand settled like a weight onto my chest.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Suddenly, I was filled with rage, bursting with it. All the frustrations of my life seemed to boil up within a matter of seconds, and this nameless man represented all of it.

  “Get out of my way.” Low, cold, and dangerous, even to my ears.

  “Not gonna happen,” he said.

  Anger. Rage. I was alive with it, like I might explode. His face was hard and heavy, and the pressure was building inside of me. The murder. The investigation. The searing need to talk to Vanessa. In a flash that smelled of prophecy, I saw Detective Mills cuffing Jean, and the way my baby sister sat in a darkened cell and sawed at her wrists with a piece of dull jagged metal. Everything was coming apart, and all I had was this moment and the fury that defined it with such perfect clarity. So that when he pushed me, I decked him, unloaded on him. And the shock of impact that traveled up my arm was a goddamn gift. He dropped to the ground, and I stood over him, hoping that he would get up and give me an excuse. But when he rolled off his back, sitting on the dirt, he looked surprised and hurt. “Jeez, mister. Why did you do that?” Suddenly, he looked much younger. More like twenty.

  My anger bled away and left me old.

  Then Vanessa was leaping off the porch, standing before me, hands on her hips. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Jackson? What is your fucking problem?”

  I felt confused, drunk.

  “How dare you come here and behave like that? I want you to leave. Right now. Go home. Get out of here.”

  She was helping him to his feet, her hand tiny in his. I saw them sleeping together, and felt new pain.

  “I wanted to talk to you,” I said, and it sounded lame even to me. I was lost, hands out.

  “I told you not to follow me.”

  “This time is different.”

  But she walked away from me, until she was on the porch, holding the door for the man to move inside. Then she turned and looked down on me as if from a great height, and the porch light held her in its insubstantial grasp.

  “Get off my property, Jackson. I mean it!”

  I stood dumbly, awed by the pain that welled up to consume me; but it was not until she was gone, the door between us like a rip in the universe, that I realized she’d been wearing a purple dress.

  Through the window I saw her at the kitchen table. She was crying, convulsing beneath the hand he’d placed on her shoulder.

  I left, heavy with the words she refused to let me say. And it was only as I turned off the farm and onto the black pavement that I realized I had no bed to go to. So I went to the office, to Ezra’s space, and with one lamp burning, tossing its warm light on the ceiling, I stretched out on the leather couch and pulled Bone onto my chest. He closed his eyes and was soon asleep. I stared at the ceiling until well after midnight, but my eyes kept wandering to the long, antique rug. I reached out my hand to touch it.

  I thought of the safe and of the secrets my father had kept.

  Eventually, sleep found me, but not before I realized that it was Monday and I had to be in court. That did not seem real.

  CHAPTER 16

  I woke in the dark; I didn’t know where I was and I didn’t care. I held on to the dream: two hands entwined, passing over green fields, the sounds of a dog and of laughter; a flash of blue skies that refused to end, and blond hair, like silk, against my face.

  The dream had been of Vanessa, and of things that would never be.

  There had been a child, too, with golden skin and her mother’s cornflower eyes. She was four or five. She was radiant.

  Tell me the story, Daddy. . . . Skipping through tall grass.

  What story?

  She laughed. You know what story, Daddy. My favorite . . .

  But I didn’t know. There was no story, no favorite; nor would there be. The dream was gone. I’d thought Vanessa would always be there. I’d thought that I had time. For some reason, I’d believed that things would simply work out.

  What a fucking idiot.

  Tell me the story, Daddy

  I sat up and swung my legs off the couch, rubbed my hands across my face. It’s never too late, I told myself; but in the dark the words felt lame, and I thought of the boy I’d once been. Then I said it again, out loud, stronger. “It’s never too late.”

  I looked at my watch. Five-fifteen. Monday. Three days ago, I’d stood above my father’s corpse. Now Ezra was gone, and so, too, the comfort of illusion; Vanessa had been so right about that. He’d been the structure and the definition, and I wondered where such power had come from. Was it a gift I’d made to him or something that he’d stolen? In the end, it didn’t matter. My life was a house of cards, and the wind of Ezra’s passing had knocked it flat.

  I pulled on my shoes, thinking that the day already felt very much like Monday.

  I found Bone on the overstuffed chair and guessed I’d been snoring. He was warm and loose as I carried him to the truck. At home, I put on a pot of coffee to perk while I showered and dressed. When I got out, Barbara was waiting. She sat on the counter, wrapped in the same fleece robe she’d worn the day before. She looked like hell.

  “Good morning,” I said noncommittally. She watched me as I toweled off, and I wondered what she saw.

  “Hardly,” she replied. “I didn’t really sleep.” I wrapped the towel around my waist, and she stated the obvious. “You didn’t come home.”

  “No.” I felt the need to say more but decided not to.

  “Were you . . .” She hesitated. “Were you at her place?”

  She did not need to elaborate. “No,” I said.

  “Then . . .”

  “At the office.”

  She nodded and then watched silently as I rummaged in the closet. I’d forgotten that I had no clean suit, so I pulled on khakis and a rumpled cotton button-down that I usually wore around the house. I could feel her eyes on me but didn’t know what to say, so I dressed in a silence made more awkward by our ten years of marriage.

  “Work,” she finally said. “I don’t want to go on like this.” I heard the forced calm in her voice, so I matched it with my own. I looked at her as I spoke; it was required.

  “Do you want a divorce?” I asked.

  She came off the counter, startled. Her voice rose. “Good God. No! Why on earth would you think a thing like that?”

  I tried to hide my disappointment, realizing only then how desperately I wanted to be rid of this marriage.

  “Then what . . . ?”

  Barbara came to me and put her hands on my chest. She tried to smile, but it was pitiful to watch. Her breath explored my face, and I wanted to turn away. I’d been so sure. She took my hands and placed them around her waist, leaned into me.

  “I want it to be like it was, Work. I want to fix things.” She squeezed me, trying to appear playful, and failing. “I want to make you happy. I want us to be happy.”

  “Do you think that’s possible?” I asked.

  “Of course it is.”

  “We’re not the same people we were, Barbara. We’ve changed.” I removed my arms from around her waist and stepped back. Her voice, when she spoke, had an all too familiar edge. It was sharp and quick.

  “People don’t change, Work, only circumstances.”

  “Now, you see, that’s where we’re
different.” I pulled on my coat. “I have to go,” I said. “I’ve got court this morning.”

  She followed me through the house. “Don’t walk away from me, Work,” she shouted, and I saw my father’s face. I snatched my keys from the kitchen counter, ignoring the coffee, which suddenly smelled of bile. At the door, her hands found my arm and she pulled me to a stop. “Please. Wait just a minute.” I relented and leaned against the wall. “There’s still hope for this marriage, Work.”

  “Why do you say that, Barbara?”

  “Because there has to be.”

  “That’s no answer.”

  “Marriages have been made of less.” She put her hand to my face. “We can make this work.”

  “Do you still love me, Barbara?”

  “Yes,” she said immediately. “I still love you.” But I saw the lie in her eyes, and she knew it.

  “We’ll talk later,” I said.

  “I’ll make dinner tonight,” she said, suddenly smiling. “You’ll see. Everything will be fine.” Then she kissed my cheek and sent me off to work, like she had in the early days of our marriage. The smile was the same, as was the feel of her lips on my face, just like a thousand other times. I didn’t know what that meant, but it couldn’t be good.

  I went out for breakfast and coffee. I had a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich, which would have tasted great had I not found a copy of Sunday’s paper. The story of Ezra’s death and the ongoing investigation was still on page one, but there was not much else to say. For some reason, they showed a picture of his house. My house now. I scanned the article and was relieved to find my name absent. Another first.

  I paid for the meal and walked outside. The day was crisp, with pewter skies and gusting winds. I shoved my hands into my pockets and watched the traffic pass. Somehow I was not surprised to see Detective Mills’s car turn into the parking lot. It was one of those things that just felt right, like it had been preordained. I leaned into her window when she rolled it down.

  “Are you following me?” I asked her. She didn’t smile.

  “Coincidence,” she said.

  “Is it?”

  She gestured at the restaurant behind me. “I eat here twice a week,” she said. “Wednesdays and Fridays.”

  I studied her: She had on a tight brown sweater and jeans. Her weapon was on the seat next to her. I couldn’t smell her perfume. “Today is Monday,” I told her.

  “It’s like I said. Coincidence.”

  “Really?”

  “No,” she said. “I stopped by your house. Your wife said she thought you might have come here.”

  I felt a foreboding chill, and I didn’t know if it was because Detective Mills had been looking for me or because she and my wife had been breathing the same air.

  “What do you want?”

  “Douglas and I still want to get together with you about your father’s files. Have you had a chance to go through them?”

  “I’m working on it.” A lie.

  “Will you be in the office today?” Mills asked.

  “I have court this morning. Then I’m going to the jail for an hour to see some clients. I’ll be in the office by noon.”

  Mills nodded. “We’ll be in touch.” Then she drove away, and I stood watching after her. Eventually, I got into the truck and drove to the office. It was early still, and my secretary had not yet arrived, for which I was thankful. I could not bear her mournful eyes and the disappointment that seemed to shine from them whenever she looked at me. I ignored the stairs to the big office and settled into the chair in my own small office at the back corner of the building. The voice-mail light blinked at me until, with a small sigh, I pushed the button. It took ten minutes to get through all the messages, most of which were from various reporters. They all assured the utmost discretion . . . if I could just spare a moment to make a few comments about my deceased father. One, however, stood out. The call had come in that morning, about an hour before.

  The reporter’s name was Tara Reynolds; I knew her well. She worked for the Charlotte Observer, had the criminal beat for North Mecklenburg and the counties that bordered Charlotte to the north . . . Cabarrus, Iredell, and Rowan. Our paths crossed from time to time. She never misquoted me or abused the initial trust I’d given her. Murder cases were often tried in the press, and I was not above using her when circumstances called for it. She operated the same way; and yet there was an invisible line that neither of us ever crossed. Call it mutual respect. Maybe even liking.

  Tara was in her midfifties, heavyset, with brilliant green eyes and a smoker’s voice. She was beyond jaded, expected the worst of everyone, and believed that her job was the most important one in the world. She may have been right. She answered on the second ring.

  “I want you to know that I never do this.”

  That was the first thing she said to me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Just listen. I’m going to tell you some things and then we’ll never mention this again.”

  She had my attention, yet she seemed suddenly hesitant. “What is it, Tara?”

  “Just a sec. . . .” I could tell that her hand covered the mouthpiece. Muffled voices filtered through and then there was silence. “Sorry about that,” she said. “I’m going to make this quick. You know that I’ve got sources?”

  “I know that.” Tara usually knew more about the murder cases in this county than everybody but the cops and the DA’s office. I never learned how she did it, but she did.

  “The word from inside Salisbury PD is that your name’s coming up . . . a lot.”

  “What?”

  “There’s a lot of talk, Work. They’re looking at you pretty hard for the murder.” Her voice was low and urgent, as if she thought I’d not believe her.

  “Somehow I’m not surprised.”

  “Just listen. There are a few things you might not know. First, they’ve identified the ammunition that killed your father. The bullets were Black Talons—fairly rare, illegal for awhile now. In and of itself, no big deal, but they checked the local gun-store records. Your father bought three boxes of Black Talons just before they were taken off the market.”

  “So . . .”

  “So, it ups the odds that his gun was used. They think you had access to that gun.” A pause. “Has it turned up yet?”

  She was testing me, probing for information. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, it hasn’t, and until it does, that looks suspicious.”

  “What else?” I asked, knowing there had to be more. I could hear her breathing on the other end, the click of a lighter and the sharp inhale as she lit up.

  “They’re saying your alibi won’t hold up.” Another drag. “They’re saying that you lied about your whereabouts.”

  There it was.

  “Why do they believe that?” I asked, amazed that my voice sounded as calm as it did.

  “I don’t know, but it’s firm. Add the money factor into it and it looks solid.”

  “You’re talking about . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah. The fifteen million.”

  “Word spreads fast,” I said.

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “Are there other suspects?” I asked.

  “You know, I’d have been worried if you’d not asked that question.”

  “Are there?” I pressed.

  “Yeah. There are. There were several business deals where the other guy got the short end. Forgive me for saying this, but your father was a real ass. He was sharp but not exactly scrupulous. He screwed over a lot of people.”

  “Anybody in particular?”

  “A few. But nobody else with such an obvious incentive. Some criminal defendants who got out around the time he was killed. They’re being checked out. The DA was pulling out all the stops until some question came up about your alibi. Now Mills has forced his hand. He’s not backing you anymore.”

  I was not surprised. Mills must have been all over Douglas about my going to the crim
e scene. She’d let me be there because he’d asked her to. Nobody would care about that if the case was shot because of it. In the end, it was her call. She’d swing if the wind blew the wrong way on this one. Normally, I’d have felt badly for Douglas, because our friendship had caused this problem, but not now. Now I couldn’t have cared less.

  Douglas would prosecute the case, whoever they arrested. Jean or me. That meant that Douglas was coming after the family, and the past was irrelevant. I remembered him from the parking lot, the way his face had hung so slackly around his ripe-plum nose. I was meat to him now; he’d swallow me or spit me out, just like anybody else.

  “Who says my alibi is no good?” I asked, knowing she couldn’t help me.

  “Don’t know. But it’s somebody with a reason to know different. The cops believe it. Mills says she liked you from the get-go. She’s all but accused you of hampering her investigation. But the pressure’s on her. Everybody knows she let you onto the crime scene. Now she sees cracks in your story, and word is, she’s like a kid in a candy store.”

  “Mills is a bitch.”

  “I try not to go there, but I can’t disagree. I know she hates lawyers, but I can’t blame her for that, either.” She said it jokingly, but it fell flat. “Sorry,” she said. “Just trying to cheer you up.”

  “My wife can swear that I was with her all night.” I just wanted to try the alibi on, see what she would make of it.

  “Biased testimony, Work. Any prosecutor worth a lick could shoot holes in it before breakfast.”

  She was right. Barbara’s testimony was better than nothing, but not by much, especially in light of Ezra’s will. A jury could well imagine a wife would lie for her husband. Throw in fifteen million dollars and it was a given.

  “There’s a bright side to all this,” Tara told me. “Want to hear it?” She went on before I could answer. “Do you know this lawyer, Clarence Hambly?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s saying that you knew nothing about the will. That your father gave explicit instructions that you not know of it under any circumstances. That’s taken some of the wind out of Mills’s sails. Hambly is very credible.”