Dark Debts (11 page)

The boardinghouse was a run-down Victorian, sitting by itself out on one of the two-lane highways that ran into town. The place had obviously been a nice house at one time. Now it was badly in need of a paint job and a new roof. Randa parked her car on the side of the road. The wind had begun to pick up and the thunder was sounding closer.

She took a moment to breathe deeply, bracing herself. She hadn't expected to have to face him so soon. She wondered what he would look like. She'd only seen photos of him as a child. She'd been intrigued by him since the first time she and Cam had gone through the family albums. Jack stood out because he was cutting up in every photo—sticking his tongue out, rolling his eyes, making devil horns behind someone's back. Looking at the photos, anyone would have picked Jack as the one who would wind up where Tallen had. Randa had made that observation aloud once, but Cam had disagreed. “That's just it. Jack got it all out of his system.”

Randa took another look at the dilapidated boardinghouse and told herself that Jack must have gotten a lot of things out of his system. She picked up the shopping bag containing the scrapbooks and headed for the front porch.

There was an elderly woman sitting on the porch swing. She eyed Randa suspiciously as Randa made her way to the front door and knocked.

“He ain't in.”

“Excuse me?”

“Mr. Overby. He works during the day, at some bank over in Griffin. His wife is usually here, but she had to go to the store. I don't think there's any rooms available anyway, except that attic room, and nobody in their right mind wants that thing.”

“Well, I wasn't looking for a room, actually, I was looking for a boarder.”

“A what?”

“Someone who lives here.”

“I live here.”

“No, I mean . . . I was looking for Jack Landry. Do you know him?”

“Know him? Don't nobody know him.” She cocked her head a little, seeing Randa in a new light. “You kin to them?”

“No. I'm a friend of his brother's.”

“Which one?”

“Cam.”

“Is that the one in California?”

Randa nodded. Her clothes must have given her away.

“That's the only other one still alive, ain't it?”

“Yes.” Randa was in no mood to get into it. “Could you tell me which room is Jack's?”

“Basement. It's got a separate entrance back around the other side of the house.”

“Thank you.” Randa turned to go.

“He ain't there, though.” Randa stopped, discouraged. “I seen him go out about an hour ago and he ain't come back.”

“Oh. Well . . . I guess I could leave a note.”

“Why don't you go on in and wait?”

“Go in?”

“He never locks it. Mr. Overby told me he wouldn't even take a key.”

“Well, I can't just go into someone's place.”

“Suit yourself. It's comin' up a bad storm.”

“Still . . .”

Raindrops were beginning to strike the tin roof. There was a flash of lightning and a crack of thunder that was sharp, though it was still in the distance.

“Lord!” the old woman exclaimed. “That was bad somewhere.”

Randa looked at the car. She was debating going back to it when it suddenly started to pour. The old woman was watching her.

“Car's the safest place to be, unless you're sitting under a power line. Or a tree.” Randa's car was sitting under both. She was starting to rethink the ethics of going into Jack's apartment. How could he be annoyed with her for wanting to come in out of the rain?

“I'm gonna get myself inside,” the old woman said, standing up. “They're worse if it takes them a long time to get here, and this one's been coming all day.” She gathered her needlepoint and headed for the door. “I wouldn't stay out here under this tin roof if I were you.”

As soon as the screen door slammed behind her, Randa headed for Jack's apartment.

The door was indeed unlocked. Randa made sure no one was watching, then went inside. She closed the door behind her and stood facing it for a moment, savoring the last few seconds of not knowing what the place would look like. She shivered with a chill that was not from the rain, flipped the light switch, and turned around slowly.

She had told herself to be ready for anything, but nothing had prepared her for how utterly bare the place was. The room she had entered served as the bedroom and living room. It was furnished in Early Yard Sale. There was a chair and a coffee table that threatened to match. Behind the sofa was a double bed with an old iron headboard, graced by a nondescript grayish-blue blanket and a couple of pillows in plain white pillowcases. The dresser beside it was bare. There was no television, no radio, not even a window, with the exception of the one in the top half of the door, which was covered by a faded blue curtain. On the nightstand sat a telephone, an answering machine, and a clock. She couldn't imagine why he would need any of them.

She wanted to sit down, but it seemed wildly inappropriate. Not that her being here at all wasn't wildly inappropriate. But the bareness of the apartment made her presence feel like that much more of an intrusion. At least it was dry in here. And clean. That was the other thing that surprised her. Everything was so clean.

A brilliant flash of lightning lit up the room, followed immediately by a sharp crack of thunder. The lights flickered but stayed on. If he'd been working an outdoor job, they would have packed it in and he'd have had time to get home by now. He must have stopped somewhere to get something to eat. Deciding that she had a little time, Randa gave in to the irresistible urge to snoop. She slid one of the closet doors back and looked inside. A few pairs of jeans in various stages of disrepair. Work shirts, work boots, a gray sweatshirt, a pair of khaki pants permanently stained with white paint. Something in a garment bag. The only thing even remotely personal was a tan corduroy shirt that looked as if it had been hung hastily, the sleeves still rolled up. The shelves were empty.

Sliding the closet door back into place, she tried to put it all together. She thought about the cute blond kid in the photographs, always eager to draw attention to himself, always looking so full of life . . . How had that kid ended up in this apartment? It was as if he had sentenced himself to his own prison. But what was his crime?

She had only glanced into the darkened kitchen. Now she turned on the light and looked inside. A small white wooden table, bare. Two chairs. Inside the cabinets were plain white dishes; a couple of pots and a frying pan that had seen some years but were otherwise nondescript. A bottle of Ivory liquid soap on the counter was the only sign any of it was ever used.

She was about to check out the refrigerator when something caught her eye. There was a small hallway that led to the back door. It was obviously a service porch—just enough room for a small washer and dryer. Instead—she moved closer to make sure she wasn't imagining things—there was a desk and chair. It was a nice desk, obviously an antique and made of some rich wood like mahogany or cherry. In front of it was a matching Windsor chair with a worn maroon cushion, and on the desk stood a beautiful Tiffany lamp. It all looked so incongruous, shoved back into this dim corner like a secret hideaway; which, she guessed, was exactly what it was. She felt vindicated. She had been sure there was no way a person could live without giving a single sign of who they were, or where they had come from. The desk definitely spoke to the latter. She was sure it had belonged to Lucy. She gave the drawer a slight tug, somehow convinced it would be locked. It wasn't. She fairly collapsed into the chair and pulled the drawer to her. It was full of all sorts of odds and ends. She reached for the first thing she could find—an old, yellow photo, torn around the edges. She recognized it immediately: it was almost identical to one she'd seen in Cam's photo albums. A picture of Jack, Tallen, and Ethan as kids, dressed in cowboy costumes and posing proudly beside a large, crudely carved pumpkin. In spite of all the holiday trappings, there was something tentative in their faces, as though they were afraid they'd get into trouble for smiling.

She put the picture back. She was dying to go through the entire drawer, but she thought she'd better check the window first and make sure it was safe. She stood up and turned, then froze in place.

He was standing in the kitchen doorway, glaring at her with a mixture of anger and confusion. His hair had darkened with age to a sandy blond and all the mischief was gone from his face. He was wearing dirty jeans and an equally dirty blue work shirt. He was wet from the rain. He folded his arms across his impressive chest and continued to stare at her, waiting silently for an explanation. Randa forced herself to meet his eyes. They were the same shape as Cam's, except they were a strange pale olive color. And they were keenly alert—not the zombie eyes that often accompanied such a physique.

“I'm sorry. I didn't hear you come in.” It was the best thing she could come up with under the circumstances.

“I don't generally knock on my own door.” His voice was a deeper version of Cam's and flat with restraint. The fact that he wasn't yelling at her was giving Randa the creeps.

“My name is Randa Phillips.” She figured the best defense was to pretend there was nothing wrong with what she was doing. Any other option was too embarrassing to even consider. “I'm a friend of Cam's.”

“If you're here to deliver the sad news, the coroner beat you to it, so I guess you wasted a trip.” There wasn't a trace of emotion in his voice.

“Well, I can at least offer you my condolences; I can see you're devastated.”

He nodded toward the drawer. “Were you looking for anything specific?”

“No.” She didn't bother to defend herself. “Look, I happened to be in Atlanta visiting my family”—
not that I wouldn't have flown two thousand miles for the pleasure of your charming company
—“and I drove down here to bring you some things I thought you might want.”

“I don't want anything of his.”

“Fine. But I'm sure
I'm
not the person who should end up with your family albums. I left them on your sofa. Have a nice life.” She made a beeline for the door. Faced with the prospect of spending another minute with him, she suddenly felt that the storm seemed a lot less threatening.

For some strange reason, her main thought as she brushed past him was that she hoped he caught a whiff of her perfume.

I
f she'd caused a disturbance when she'd stopped at Tillie's to ask questions, Randa was about to shut the place down by having dinner there alone. It was packed now, and there was hardly a person in the room who hadn't stared blatantly at her at least twice. Some kept staring, as if thinking if they looked long enough, she'd get up and tell them who she was.

She was still shaken from her encounter with Jack. She didn't know what she had expected. Certainly not open arms, but at least some sort of connection, however brief. She didn't know why she'd expected that, but she had. At least he could have acknowledged the fact that this trip had required some degree of effort, not to mention money. But then, she'd told that lie about being in Atlanta. She wondered how he would have reacted if she'd told him she'd come all this way just to meet him.

She looked up to signal the waitress for her check.

Uh-oh.

There he was. Dressed in clean but paint-spattered jeans and a denim jacket she didn't remember seeing in his closet. He was looking at her. He turned away the minute she met his eyes, and stepped over to the end of the counter, where a sign said
TAKE OUT
.

Now what? She couldn't bolt. Well, she could, but she'd have to walk within three feet of him to get out the door, which would be extremely uncomfortable. She ordered a cup of coffee and decided to wait. She fished a pen out of her purse and started on a napkin, as if she was making a shopping list. Instead, she made a list of ten albums she'd take to a desert island, and ten singles she'd die before admitting she liked. All the while, she prayed he hadn't ordered anything hot.

You have a right to be here.

Right. She knew damned well she shouldn't be here. It was his territory, and he'd made it clear that she wasn't welcome.

From the corner of her eye, she saw him leave with nothing but a cup of coffee. She doubted he'd walked all this way for that. Well, she'd soon be gone and out of his hair for good. She would pack the Landrys in the back of her mind with all the other embarrassing memories—all those things that present themselves like flash cards during spasms of low self-esteem. This entire episode would be just another card in the deck. Outside, the storm had left the air chilly, reminding her that in places other than LA, it was the middle of winter. She tried to remember what clothes she had packed. She had decided to stay for a few days. She might even call her mother and admit to being in town.

Yeah.
Just
what you need, Mom on your heels with: “Cam? Cam . . . isn't he the one whose brother killed all those people?”

She wasn't sure whether she was truly nostalgic and homesick, or just trying to justify the airfare. Not that it mattered. She'd paid for it out of the Hostility Fund—the money her father had left her. Her rule of thumb was that she spent it only on things she knew he'd disapprove of. This trip would certainly qualify. Irrational, impetuous, and definitely on the wrong side of the political fence.

She turned the corner on the side street where she'd left her car. Jack was leaning against the wall of the Western Auto, sipping his coffee, waiting for her. She walked closer, then stopped. They stared at each other for a moment before he spoke.

“How did he die?” His tone was different. Quiet. Not as icy as before.