Die Job (29 page)

“Wait!” It sounded like Mark.

A gust of wind ripped the door from someone’s hand—Lindsay’s?—and it slammed into the wall. Running footsteps pounded down the stairs, grated in the wet gravel, and then faded.

“Damn it!” That was Dillon. His radio crackled and he said, “Suspect fled through front door.”

A metallic voice said, “. . . in pursuit.”

I struggled to my feet and pulled Rachel up. “It was Lindsay?” she asked in a bewildered voice. “Why?”

I couldn’t answer her. If she’d killed Braden, it had been to protect Mark. I could reason through it that far. But from what? If Braden had threatened to tell the authorities or a teacher that Mark’s father was beating him, wouldn’t that have made Lindsay glad? Wouldn’t she be relieved to know he wasn’t going to be his father’s punching bag
anymore?

A strong beam of light cut across my thoughts. Dillon swung the flashlight from side to side, illuminating startled, scared, and worried faces. I caught a quick glimpse of Mom and Althea before the beam moved past them. The light landed on Mark, following him as he leaped over people still tangled on the floor and headed for the open doorway. His mother’s hand caught at his arm.

“Mark! Where do you think you’re going? There’s a hurricane out there.” Joy’s face looked haggard in the harsh halogen glare.

“I’ve got to find Lindsay.” He wrenched away from his mother’s hold. His face was set in lines of grim resolve, and with his bald head, he looked older than he had earlier in the week. His mother winced away from the look in his eyes.

He took another step toward the door, but then stopped and flung his forearm across his eyes as the lights came blazing
on. Someone must have flicked the wall switch after the lights went out, because the chandelier and every light fixture in the room lit up. I blinked rapidly, trying to adjust my eyes to the glare.

“Got her,” a satisfied voice said loudly.

Hank appeared in the opening, holding a wet and bedraggled Lindsay Tandy by one arm. She held her head defiantly, oblivious to the wet, brown strands clinging to her cheeks and the sodden jeans dripping water onto the foyer floor. She’d lost a shoe during her flight and stood squarely on one bare foot and one muddy sneaker. Her gaze met Mark’s for one pleading second and then she flung her head back, wet hair smacking Hank in the face, and said, “You can’t prove anything.”

“Lindsay!” The word exploded out of Mark as if torn from his lungs and vocal cords by a superhuman force. “You didn’t—”

“I only talked to him,” Lindsay said. “About . . . you know. That’s all. Just talked.” Her eyes searched his and she strained against Hank’s hold.

“I Mirandized her,” Hank said, restraining her easily, despite her height and athleticism.

“In here.” Dillon took charge and shepherded Hank and Lindsay and Mark and his parents into the small parlor. I slipped in just as he closed the door in the face of the astonished crowd who were being herded into another part of the mansion by two uniformed police officers, Hank’s partner and another woman.

“We’re going home right now,” Joy Crenshaw announced, drawing her lips into a tight circle.

“After we’ve sorted through a few things,” Dillon said amiably. He directed the Crenshaws to the horsehair sofa against the wall and nodded Lindsay toward a ladder-back chair
with a needlepoint cushion. Hank released her at a nod from Dillon and she settled on the chair, ostentatiously rubbing her arm. I hovered near the door, hoping Dillon wouldn’t order me to leave.

“You can’t keep us here,” Joy said angrily. “We haven’t done anything.”

“You and Captain Crenshaw are free to go, if you wish,” Dillon said, still in a calm voice. “But I’m afraid Mark has to stay so we can question him about lying to a police officer and obstructing a murder investigation.” Very deliberately, he spoke his name and the date and time into a small recorder, then pulled a card from his wallet and Mirandized Mark.

“You don’t—You’re not going to file charges?” Joy gasped. “He’ll lose his appointment to the Naval Academy if you arrest him!”

“Good!” The surprising word came from Mark.

“You don’t mean that,” his mother said, slewing on the sofa to face him. “You wanted to follow in your father’s footsteps. It’s been your dream for—”

“It’s been
your
dream,” he said. “I don’t want to go. I’ve been dreading it.”

“You’re just upset,” Joy said, reaching out to pat his hand. “That’s understandable, what with finding out that Lindsay—”

He yanked his hand away. “Leave Lindsay out of it. The thought of going up there—of all the pressure—was making me sick. Braden knew it.” Mark stood and faced Dillon. “Arrest me.” He held his wrists out as if expecting Dillon to slap handcuffs on him. “Arrest me, God damn it, and make sure to notify the Academy.”

“But, Mark,” Lindsay cried, “if you lose your appointment, how
will we be together? I’m going to Maryland to be near you. If you’re not there—”

“He’ll be there,” Joy said, standing. Her wiry body vibrated with emotion. “Although you’ve been a bad influence from the start, distracting him from his studies and from football.” She eyed Lindsay with loathing.

“I’m not going, Mom,” Mark said, turning to face the sputtering woman. “Even if this”—he gestured to the room at large—“turns out okay, I’m not going. I’m declining the appointment. I’ll fax them the letter today.”

“You
are
going.” Joy’s hand swung back, and before anyone could guess what she was doing, she slapped Mark across the face. The smack of flesh on flesh was shocking in the small room and no one moved as a dull red handprint surfaced on Mark’s face, right on top of the bruise I’d noticed the other day. Joy drew her hand back again, but Mark caught her wrist as she swung at him again. Now I knew where her bruise had come from.

Ye gods. I’d had it all wrong. Mark’s father wasn’t abusing him. It was his mother.

Joy flailed at Mark with her other hand, landing ineffectual punches on his torso before Dillon stepped forward to haul her away. She batted at him, shrieking hysterically and almost incomprehensibly about “Your father . . . Do what I say . . . Ungrateful . . . You must!” Dillon nodded at Hank, who pulled her arms behind her back and cuffed them. Throughout, Captain Crenshaw stood as if turned to stone, his eyes never leaving his wife’s frantic figure. Tears slid down Mark’s face and I looked away, not wanting to intrude on his anguish.

“Have an officer take her to the station,” Dillon said, and Hank nudged the woman forward. I leaped to open the door for
him, and Hank gave me a wink as he propelled Joy Crenshaw through the opening.

She swiveled her head to look over her shoulder into the room. “Eric! Help me, Eric. Don’t let them do this.”

Eric Crenshaw swallowed, his Adam’s apple working. “I’m staying with Mark,” he said. “He needs me.”

I closed the door on Joy’s outraged face and shriek of anger.

Silence lingered in the room for thirty seconds, broken only by the creaks and moans of the house as the wind buffeted it, before Dillon cleared his throat. Pulling up a delicate, gilt-legged chair, he sat on it, facing Mark. He placed the recorder on the marble plant stand at Mark’s elbow. “Now, Mark, why don’t you tell me what really happened Saturday night.”

“I don’t know!” Mark looked at Lindsay, but she was staring into her lap.

“Okay. Tell me what you do know. You arrived here with the science class, accompanied Dr. Mortimer on a tour to hear about Cyril Rothmere, and then what?”

“We went to our station—in the master bedroom on the second floor,” Mark said. “We took readings on the Mel 8704 and recorded them, just like we were supposed to.”

“And then?” Dillon prompted when Mark showed no sign of continuing.

“Then . . . then we started, you know, kissing and stuff.” A slight stain of red suffused his cheeks. I looked at Lindsay, but she didn’t react beyond raising her head to watch Mark.

“How long did you fool around?” Dillon asked.

Mark scrunched his brows together. “I don’t know . . . maybe half an hour? Until just before the fireworks started. Lindsay had to go to the bathroom.” He leaned toward his girlfriend, apology
in his eyes. Betrayal stiffened her face before she bit her lip and turned her head away.

“Why didn’t you tell us this before?” Dillon asked sharply. “Why did you lie about being together the entire time?”

“It was a . . . a woman thing,” Mark said in a strangled voice. “She had her, you know . . . and she didn’t want me to say anything.”

I looked at Lindsay with new respect and wondered how much of this she had preplanned. She’d found a surefire way of making sure Mark wouldn’t say anything to the cops; no teenage boy can talk about menstrual periods.

“So . . . you waited for her in the bedroom?”

Mark shook his head. “No, I went out to watch the fireworks. Lindsay caught up with me.”

Dillon searched his face. “You knew there were going to be fireworks?”

“Oh, yeah. Lonnie planned it. He said ghosts didn’t know how to party, but he did.” Mark half smiled before his face turned somber again. “Ten o’clock was party time, he said.”

Two or three flashes of lightning lit up the yard outside the window like daylight. Thunder rumbled. The room was quiet for a moment, then Dillon asked, “Did you bring a sheet with you that night? A ghost costume?”

Mark was nodding before Dillon finished. “Yeah. We were going to have a competition to see who could be the scariest ghost, but—” He broke off. “Is that it? Did Lindsay—?”

For the first time, Lindsay broke in. “I went to the bathroom. I changed my tampon.” She put a sneer into the word. “I met Mark by the fireworks. No one can prove differently.” Her face was impassive, her voice steady. Only her
hands betrayed her as her fingers twisted in the wet hem of her shirt.

Mark’s gaze stayed on her face for a long moment. Then, he looked at Dillon, me, his father. “Braden was my best friend,” he cried. “I wouldn’t ever have hurt him. He knew how I felt about going to the Academy. He knew I was having trouble with depression again. He was afraid I’d . . . I’d hurt myself if I had to go to Annapolis. He said he was going to send the superintendent a letter, tell him about my time at Sandy Point, my suicide attempt. That would’ve been enough to deep-six the appointment. He was only trying to help me! I wish he’d done it weeks ago,” Mark said savagely, “that he’d told them without even telling me! Then I would never have discussed it with—”

A loud crack from overhead drew our eyes to the ceiling. The hurricane had hurled a large tree branch against the roof, I figured. We all froze as if someone had hit the “pause” button until it became clear water wasn’t going to start pouring through the ceiling.

“I think that’s enough, Mark.” Eric Crenshaw broke the silence, speaking for the first time. His voice was rough, like he’d gargled with glass. He leaned forward to put a hand on his stepson’s shoulder. “Maybe you shouldn’t say any more until we get a lawyer.”

He was a little late with that advice, I thought. Mark let his chin droop to his chest and covered his eyes with one forearm as he sobbed. I felt sorry for him, caught between the expectations of an abusive mother and a crippling depression.

It seemed pretty clear that Braden, having met Mark at Sandy Point where he was apparently recovering from a suicide attempt, was better at reading Mark than his parents or girlfriend were. He saw Mark’s increasing anxiety and depression—his mother
saw it, too, I realized, but wrote it off as her son being a “worry wart”—and was going to take the only action he thought would save his friend. Talking to Mark’s folks certainly wasn’t going to do the trick, not with Joy Crenshaw so fixated on seeing her son follow in his father’s footsteps. So, Braden was going to get Mark’s appointment cancelled or rescinded or whatever they called it by telling the Academy about his mental health issues. No wonder he’d wrestled with whether or not to intervene! What a horrible choice for a teenager to have to make: destroy your best buddy’s college plans or watch him fret himself into another suicide attempt.

Dillon looked at me where I stood by the door. I saw weariness and a certain level of satisfaction on his face. “Grace, would you ask one of the officers to come in here please?”

I nodded and slipped through the door into the foyer. The storm’s noise was louder here, the rain drumming on the roof amplified by the open space, maybe. It felt like hours had passed, but in reality it had probably been only twenty minutes since we entered the parlor. Crewmembers from
The Spirit Whisperer
did things with cameras and lights. I glanced up at the landing but didn’t see Avaline.

“Do you know where the police officers went?” I asked a man fiddling with a camera.

“They were taking statements in the ballroom,” he said. “A lot of folks have left, though, so maybe they’re done? You might try in that woman’s office, the one who thinks she’s the reincarnation of Scarlet O’Hara or something.”

“Amelia Rothmere,” I corrected him, heading down the hall to Lucy’s office. The door was open and I heard voices as I approached. They were almost drowned out by the howling wind that rattled the old house like a terrier shaking a
rat. I touched a hand to the wall, maybe to steady myself and maybe to assure myself it was sturdy. Pushing open the office door, I found Lucy, Mom, Althea, and Hank gathered around a small radio, listening to weather updates. Mom and Althea sat in chairs at the small dinette set that served as a conference table. Hank stood with his shoulders propped against the far wall, cleaning his fingernails with a pocketknife while Lucy stared at him with revulsion from the chair behind her desk.

“Join the party,” Althea said when she spotted me. “Not that it’s much of a party.”

“Are you okay, honey?” Mom asked, looking at me with concern. “We waited for you.”

“Thanks,” I said, leaning down to give her a kiss. I straightened and looked across at my ex as he snapped the little knife closed. “Hank,” I said, “Agent Dillon needs you to take the Crenshaws down to the station while they wait for a lawyer, or something.”

“No can do, darlin’,” he said, shaking his head. “Horatio has heated up out there. Radio says it’s not safe to travel. It looks like we’re stuck here for the duration. I put dibs on the master bedroom for you and me.” He swaggered closer, thumbs tucked into his utility belt.