Deserves to Die (22 page)

She’d known the rules growing up.

She’d not only broken them, she’d done so in a very public way.

She remembered the day she’d first confronted her mother.

Outside on a lounge chair, her mother was reading a paperback. Wearing a sundress and dark glasses, she’d positioned herself on the porch in the shade of the overhanging oak tree, leaving only her legs exposed to the sunlight.

Though it was barely nine in the morning, the summer heat was sweltering, the day sultry, almost sticky, a haze in the blue Louisiana sky. An Olympic-sized pool, her father’s prized possession, abutted the veranda of her parents’ home outside New Orleans. It shimmered as it stretched far into the tended backyard.

“Mom?” Anne-Marie called, gathering her nerves.

Jeanette looked up and set her paperback onto her lap. A glass of sweet tea was sweating on the small table beside the lounge chair. A smaller glass of ice and a clear liquid, most likely gin, sat near a pack of long cigarettes by the ashtray and a lighter. Paddle fans, as always, were softly whirling overhead. Butterflies with orange and black wings flitted through the heavily blossomed bougainvillea flanking the yard.

“This is a surprise.” Jeanette smiled, but Anne-Marie knew it was false. Jeanette Favier had never been a warm person.

“I have something to tell you.”

“Oh.” Nothing more. Just the hint of disappointment from dealing with a daughter who had continually disappointed and bothered her.

“It’s about . . . him.”

“Again?” Her mother sighed, her smile falling away. “Why you have such a problem with your husband, I’ll never understand. Marriage isn’t easy, and given your . . . condition, you’re lucky he wanted you.”

“My condition. You mean because I was a little wild?” Anne-Marie challenged.

Her mother sighed through her nose. “Your brothers were ‘a little wild,’ but you pushed the boundaries, got yourself in that accident and—” She stopped. “Oh, well.”

“Go ahead. Say it. I’ve never been the same since. Isn’t that what you were going to tell me? You blame me for falling off a damn horse and hitting my head and think that’s the cause of every bad thing that’s happened to me since.”

“You were in a coma for days, but of course, you don’t remember that. When you finally woke up”—Jeanette shook slightly—“you were . . . different.”

“With a condition.”

“You went from bad to worse. I’d thought . . . no, I’d hoped . . . when you finally decided to get married that you would settle down, make a decent life for yourself. But that’s not the way it ever is with you.”

“He’s not the man I thought he was.”

“No one is. We all have girlhood dreams of white knights and thunderous steeds and chivalrous men who pledge their lives to us, but in the end, they are all just men.” Jeanette let out a long breath and shook her head. “Have you forgotten the ‘for better or worse’ part of your vows?”

“He hit me, Mom.”

Jeanette looked up sharply. “Oh, Anne-Marie,” she said as if she didn’t believe her, as if Anne-Marie were spinning another lie.

“I’m serious, Mom,” she insisted and witnessed the cords in her mother’s neck tightening, the way they always did when Jeanette was forced to deal with her wayward, rule-breaking daughter’s problems.

“Okay. So he shoved you,” she finally said, finding a way to make the statement more palatable. “Why don’t you just, you know, keep quiet about it?” Jeanette Favier’s type of motherly advice. “That’s what we do, you know.” She reached for her cigarettes, then her fingers scrabbled over the glass top of the table, nearly knocking over her iced tea before she clenched the soft pack.

Anne-Marie stood her ground. “He beat me!” she repeated, her fists clenching at her sides. “That’s assault, Mom.”

“Hush!” Her mother sat up quickly, then glanced furtively over her shoulder toward the inside of the huge plantation-style home. “For the love of God, Anne-Marie, keep your voice down. The cleaning people are here and your father’s in his study.” She pointed overhead to the area in the general direction of Talbert Favier’s private office.

“You don’t care that he hit me?”

“Of course I care.” Jeanette tried to shake a cigarette out of the crumpled pack.

“You should, because he hit me over and over again. I thought . . . I thought he would crack my ribs.”

“But he didn’t, did he?” Jeanette managed to shake out a cigarette and light up despite the fact that it was slightly bent. Her hands were trembling.

Anne-Marie stared down at her mother. “Not yet. But he will.”

“No, no. You don’t know that.”

“He’s going to really hurt me.”

“Now, look, Anne-Marie,” Jeanette said, sighing in a cloud of smoke. “This is not good. But you knew he had a temper before you married him.”

“Not like this. I didn’t know he was violent.”

Lifting up her sunglasses, Jeanette squinted at her daughter through a thin tendril of smoke. “So what do you want to do?”

“Go to the police.”

“What? Oh, Lord!” She shook her head at the thought, then set her cigarette in the ashtray. “No way. You have to leave the police out of it.”

“He beat me, Mother. What part of that don’t you get?” To prove her point, Anne-Marie took off her own shades to display the red in her eye, the bruise surrounding her eye socket.

“Oh . . . oh, dear.” Jeanette winced.

Not stopping with the damage to her face, Anne-Marie lifted her T-shirt to show the black, blue, and sickly green discoloration across her abdomen.

Her mother sucked in a swift breath. “I’m so, so sorry.” In an act so foreign to her mother that Anne-Marie was stunned, Jeanette grabbed a towel draped over a nearby chair and dipped one corner into the pool. “Sit,” she said, indicating the end of the chaise and then, smelling of smoke and her signature perfume, she gently dabbed at her daughter’s injuries.

Anne-Marie sucked in her breath as her mother touched her face, pressing the cold towel against her cheek.

“I think you’ll live,” Jeanette pronounced.

“This time.”

“It’s not that bad.” She took her time folding the towel.

“He attacked me, Mother. Beat me. Then raped me.” Anne-Marie was trembling inside, the memory of the vicious attack fresh and brutal. She needed her mother to understand, to be her champion.

“Oh, darling,” her mother said softly.

For an instant, Anne-Marie believed Jeanette’s hard exterior had cracked with empathy and love for her only daughter, but that hopeful impression was short-lived as the older woman asked gently, “Whatever did you do to provoke him so?”

“What? Didn’t you hear me? He assaulted me, gave me these.” Once more, Anne-Marie lifted her T-shirt to display her bruises. She hurt inside, was as emotionally beat-up as she was physically. But it was at the hands of her own damn mother, the woman whom she’d hoped would believe her and protect her.

“Oh, I heard you, sweetheart,” Jeanette said as she leaned over the table and took a final puff of her cigarette before putting it out in a series of nervous taps until the filter tip was mashed in the ashtray. Then she turned to grab her daughter by the shoulders. “I know you’re sore. It’s obvious, but . . . but your husband’s a good man, maybe a little rough around the edges in private, but you just have to try to please him.”

“How can you say that?” Anne-Marie nearly screamed. “These aren’t the Dark Ages, for God’s sake! Mother, listen to yourself. Do you really think I should stay with a man who does this to me?” She held her T-shirt higher, where bite marks were visible on her breasts over the top of her bra.

“Honey.” Her mother picked up the towel again, and, looking as if she really had no idea what to do, tried to dab at the contusion on Anne-Marie’s cheek again.

Anne-Marie dropped the hem of her T-shirt and grabbed her mother’s wrist, stopping her. “He’s an animal,” she hissed. So angry she was nearly spitting, she shoved her face close to her mother’s so that their noses nearly touched. She saw the tiny imperfections in the older woman’s face, the pores that were a little larger on her nostrils and the telltale web of red lines running across her nose to her cheeks. Minuscule threads lurking beneath the surface, they were evidence of far too many gin and tonics by the pool that were stubbornly resisting an ever-thickening layer of makeup.

Anne-Marie said, “I will not be used as a human punching bag.”

Jeanette backed up. “You married the man.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Listen to me, Anne-Marie. There is no divorce in our family. You might see that as archaic, but that’s the way it is. Your father is an elder in the church, a respected businessman. And your grandfather’s a preacher. Do you hear me? My father preached from the Good Book. Your brothers have problems with their wives and kids and they’re working it out. You haven’t been easy, my dear. Not at all. Not with the craziness you spew. But,” she said and then repeated, “but . . . we are proud, genteel people, expected to set an example for the community.”

“You would sacrifice me? For the sake of... what? Some ridiculous and antiquated notion of what a marriage is? Your precious reputation?”

Slap!

Her mother’s palm struck fast and hard, leaving a red mark over Anne-Marie’s already bruised cheek. “Sacrifice is a part of life, a path to heaven. And marriage is sacred. Don’t you ever forget it. And as for divorce? In this family, it’s out of the question.” She yanked her arm back.

Anne-Marie let it go. “You can’t tell me what to do. I’m a grown woman.”

“Then act like one.” Disgusted, Jeanette added tautly, “Do your duty, Anne-Marie.”

“Are you kidding?”

“You’re a wife. His wife. Your choice. And, let’s face it, you haven’t been a very good one, have you?”

Anne-Marie didn’t answer.

“I didn’t think so.” With a frown, Jeanette said, “Look into a mirror. Think about what you’ve done. You’re not the victim here.”

“He hit me.”

“Then deal with it. But, please, don’t come running to me!” She started for the inside of the house.

“I’m divorcing the son of a bitch.”

Her mother hesitated at the French doors leading to the kitchen. With one hand on the doorknob, she glanced over her shoulder. “Then you’re divorcing all of us, Anne-Marie. You won’t be welcome here again.”

Anne-Marie’s stomach tightened and she’d fought the urge to run to her mother and beg her forgiveness, but she stood firm.

“I trust you can show yourself out,” were the last words her mother said to her.

J
essica shoved thoughts of her family aside as she drove through the night. They would not be any help. Never had been. Even her grandmother on her mother’s side, Marcella, who had adored her only granddaughter, wouldn’t come to her aid.

Not any longer.

That, of course, was her own fault. The effect of stealing from someone who loved and trusted her.

Would the police be able to protect her?

She doubted it. She had too many strikes against her—a mental patient as well as a thief and a known liar. No, she didn’t really believe the cops would help her, at least not the cops in New Orleans. She’d pinned her hopes on Dan Grayson. But even if he’d still been alive, chances were he wouldn’t have come to her rescue, either.

“Face it,” she said to the disguised woman in the mirror, “you’re on your own.”

Then again, hadn’t she always been?

The snow began to fall a little more heavily, collecting on the windshield, and she remembered the storm that had been predicted, a blizzard moving south from Canada, the biggest of the winter.
Great,
she thought sarcastically. Just what she needed. She flipped on the wipers and from the corner of her eye, caught a flash of headlights shining through the night, a vehicle somewhere behind her.

You’re not the only one who lives out here,
she reminded herself.

“But almost,” she said, her gloved hands tightening over the steering wheel. Again, she looked back. Again she saw lights.

She swallowed hard and wondered where the hell all of her bravado had gone. It was as if her courage had dissolved in the time, over a year, since that conversation with her mother.

It’s nothing. Don’t be paranoid. Get a damn grip.

Her heart was pounding like crazy. Despite the cold, her fingers began to sweat in her gloves as she clenched the wheel.

Another look in the mirror.

The lights had disappeared.

Probably turned off at that last junction.
She let out her breath.

It was nothing.
See?
For God’s sake pull yourself together. You have to keep a level head.

She saw the lane leading to her cabin and started to turn in when two eyes caught in the headlights. “Oh, God!” She slammed on the brakes and the SUV skidded, back end fishtailing as the deer leaped nimbly into the surrounding trees.

She sat for a second, waiting for her rollicking heart to return to normal as snow drifted down, falling steadily, piling on the ground.

It was a damn deer. Nothing more.

She pressed on the gas pedal. Wheels spinning, she whispered, “Come on, come on,” as the back end slid some more. Finally, the front wheels caught, the Tahoe lurched forward, and she drove along the ruts to the cabin, a tiny dark abode in the middle of nowhere.

She’d been foolish to come to Grizzly Falls, she realized, propelled by fear and confusion and, yes, paranoia. But, come the daylight, she would make things right.

The rest of the drive down the winding length of the lane was uneventful. She parked, hurried into the cabin, then went through her usual routine of replacing firewood, then stoking the flames, and double-checking all the locks on the doors and latches on the windows before making certain that every curtain or shade was pulled tight.

After twisting on the shower to get the warm water running, she took off the pieces of her disguise. She hung her wig and padding on a hook behind the bathroom door then secured her dental appliance in a ziplock plastic bag that she left on the counter. Cold to the bone, she showered quickly, then dried off, tossing her towel over a hook near the window. She cracked the window just enough to clear the room of what little steam had collected. Shivering, she pulled on her sweats, grabbed her uniform and underclothes, then hurried back to the living room where the fire was burning more brightly, some heat emanating from the grate.

Yeah, this place is miserable,
she thought. Hardly a haven.

By habit, she folded her work clothes then placed them on the table at one end of her makeshift bed. Finally, she settled in by the fire and turned on her computer to catch up on the day’s news and watch some mind-numbing television. Currently, she found no more information about the two women who had been killed in Grizzly Falls and she prayed that they hadn’t been targeted because of her.

No way.

That was impossible, right?

Creeeaaak.

Her heart stilled as she listened.

Had she been mistaken, or had a floorboard squeaked somewhere in her house?

Waiting, not moving a muscle, she listened hard.

Nothing.

There’s no one here. No one. You know it.

But there had been a noise. She was sure of it. And it sounded as if it had emanated from
inside
the house.

Swallowing back her fear, she stayed motionless, her ears straining as she listened, but she heard nothing other than the sound of dry tinder popping and moss hissing as they caught fire, the sound of the wind outside the cabin, and the damn drip of the bathroom faucet.

Get over yourself.

Still, she held her breath, then slowly retrieved her tiny pistol and, moving slowly, carefully went through the house to investigate. Cautiously she moved through the small rooms. Over the internal clamoring of her heart, she listened for any sound that was out of the ordinary while searching the nooks and crannies, every shadow, for someone or something that was trapped inside.

An animal. That’s it. A squirrel or rat or rabbit. Or God forbid, a skunk might have found its way inside. Right? Or do they hibernate?
She didn’t really know. Just hoped that whatever it was, it wasn’t human.

Her throat was dry as sand.

Fear pulsed through her.

The living area was clear, no one inside. The kitchen alcove was empty, too, and cold, a bit of air seeping from the area around the window over the sink. On bare feet, she made her way to the back door and lifted the shade where she could peek outside to the small porch.

The snow was falling faster. The predicted blizzard had arrived. She worried her lower lip and wondered if she’d be trapped, her plans of telling her wild tale to the police thwarted.

You’re not backing out of this. Too many times you’ve turned tail and run. Tomorrow, come hell or high water . . .

She forcibly steeled herself. For months, she’d been a coward, but no longer. She had a four-wheel-drive vehicle and would make it to the police station . . . if she got through this last, lonely night.

Trying to see through the thickening veil of snow, she saw no one. Nothing sinister seemed to be peering from the shadows. Narrowing her eyes, she studied each of the trees closest to the house and the back of the old garage and the small pump house. She waited, anticipating movement, but nothing moved other than the flurries of snow that swirled past frantically, the wind increasing.

Give it up, Anne-Marie or Jessica or whoever it is you’re calling yourself now.

Her fingers clutched fiercely over the pistol’s grip, because something didn’t seem right outside. Everything looked peaceful, even serene and yet . . . what was it?

Then she knew. It wasn’t that she saw anyone, but the snow behind the house seemed uneven rather than smooth. Were those footprints on the landscape, large impressions in the icy powder that she hadn’t created?

She looked harder, but, of course, she couldn’t be certain as it was so dark, and really, who would be skulking around the cabin? Who knew she was there?

No one.

Well, besides Cade. And maybe Big Zed as he had to have seen her SUV parked in the driveway, but they wouldn’t be a problem. No one would come. And it was her last night in the cabin.

She hoped.

Staring into the night, she saw no movement other than the sway of branches and swirl of snow. The impressions she thought were footprints could have been caused by the irregular terrain behind the house—dirt clods or boulders or brush. Surely there was no clear trail, no path that someone had broken in the snow, no clear print on the thin snow of the back step. No, no, she was just letting her wild imagination get the better of her.

Still convincing herself that she was safe, that no one was lurking in the frigid shadows outside, she backed away from the door, letting the shade drop. She moved silently to the bathroom, slowly pushing open the door a bit with the muzzle of the gun so that the weak light of the living area could permeate the darkness. She started to step inside and—

No!

Her heart jolted at the sight of a dark figure in the reflection of the cracked mirror.

She bit back a scream, stepped back, and pointed her pistol at the doorway. “Drop your weapon!” she ordered, taking another step back, gun aimed, ready to fire.

Nothing.

No movement.

No response.

“Drop your weapon! Step out! Hands over your head!”

Again no response.

Just the keen of the wind and somewhere a branch banging against the side of the house.

“I mean it. I’ll shoot!”

She was breathing hard, nearly hyperventilating. The gun beginning to wobble. She considered firing a warning shot, but was afraid of the ricochet. “Come out. Now!”

Damn.
He wasn’t responding. In fact, he hadn’t so much as moved a muscle.

Cautiously, her finger on the trigger, she moved forward to the side of the door in case he should jump into the bathroom and start firing.

But that wasn’t his style, was it?

“Who the hell are you?” she cried and then, ever so cautiously looked into the bathroom, to the mirror.

He was still in the same position. Crouching. Hiding halfway behind the door. His eyes were guarded, but his hair was visible. She swung her straight arm around the edge of the door. “I said ‘Drop!’ ” she cried.

Not a whisper.

Trembling, she repeated, “I said—” But the command died in her throat and she felt all the strength seep out of her. “For the love of God.”

As she looked more closely, first in the mirror, and then around the door to the wall itself, she realized she wasn’t looking at some sinister cloaked figure ready to do her bodily harm. The “figure” wasn’t a person at all. What she’d seen in the distorted image of the broken mirror was her own disguise, the padding and wig suspended from a hook in the wall behind the door. Just where she’d left it not an hour earlier.

“Idiot,” she muttered, leaning against the vanity. Her knees were jelly and she felt herself flush in embarrassment. What was wrong with her? She was letting her paranoia get the better of her.

You keep this up and you’ll end up in the mental hospital again. Is that what you want? For God’s sake, get a damn grip, would ya?

She studied her image in the cracked mirror and thought it was ironically symbolic that her face was disfigured and warped.

So so true.

As her heart rate eventually slowed, she collected her wits and yanked the window shut tight, latching it securely.

Why would anyone, even a maniac as malicious as her husband, harm an innocent person? She’d leaped to the wrong conclusion. Again.

Still, she felt as if someone were watching her, following her, tracking her. The feeling never left her. From the moment she awoke, all through her days at the diner, on the road, and even in the cabin, it was the same. She glanced around the room and wondered about bugs—the kind with tiny microphones and itsy little cameras—and even her own computer. It had a camera in it. Could someone even now, be looking through—

Stop it! No one’s been here. No one’s planting listening devices, for God’s sake. You don’t even talk to anyone. And as for cameras—really? Why would anyone on God’s green earth go to all that trouble? Why not just come in and kill you in your sleep? Get over your crazy self!

Whether there was reason or not, she did a quick sweep with her flashlight of the obvious places, and double-checked her stashes that she’d hidden to make certain her money and fake licenses and passports that had cost her so much were in place. Using the cash she’d stolen, she’d purchased them from a sketchy friend of a sketchy friend of a sketchy friend. She and the contact had met twice, once in an alley behind a crowded bar in the wee hours and the second time when she’d actually been handed the perfect-appearing documents on the waterfront of the slow-moving Mississippi in New Orleans in the dead of night. With the noise and lights of the French Quarter not far away, they’d made the exchange. Being that close to the river alone had made her skin crawl, and dealing with the skinny sharp-nosed man who didn’t hide the fact that he was carrying a weapon, had been nerve-wracking. The pictures on her ID were far from perfect, of course, but so far, she hadn’t been asked to show her driver’s license anywhere. That would change when she told her story, of course.

Oh, God, she hoped the officer she connected with would believe her.

Don’t freak out. You’re safe. You’ll go into the sheriff’s department in the morning and demand protection, explain yourself. Everything will be fine.

That of course was a lie, but she swallowed back her fear, forced her heartbeat to slow, and found a way to become calm again. Tomorrow, come what may, she would be done running.

The fire crackled and hissed. Warmth radiated through the small room. She closed her eyes on the couch and touched the underside of her pillow, making certain the pistol was back where she’d placed it.

As nervous as she was, she felt too wound up to fall asleep and the minutes ticked by in the dark. She heard the wind screaming through the mountains and that damn limb bang against the house. The drip in the faucet, too, was audible, but it had become a part of her environment and eventually, as the fire began to die, exhaustion finally took over and she drifted off.