Every Wickedness (22 page)

Some of the boys had started a game of British bulldog on the grounds below the
campanario
. It was pouring rain now, but Daniel left them to it, issuing a light-hearted warning about tracking mud into the residence. Several gave him a friendly wave, and he
was just about to move on when one of the boys hollered, “Look! Up there! The tower!”

Daniel turned to face the
campanario
. Standing in the rounded archway of the bell tower was Father Anthony, his vestments rippling in the wind. With the
campanario
illuminated, the priest appeared messianic, his arms outstretched in some mock crucifixion. Daniel called up to Father Anthony, but if the priest heard, he gave no indication. He stared straight ahead, at some mysterious focal point in the pitch black, a vortex of nothingness, then he hurled himself toward it.

It could only have been seconds, but for Daniel, time froze. Even now when he remembered the scene, he pictured Anthony’s body not plummeting, but drifting downward, like a stray tissue waiting to be caught.

Much of what came afterward was less clear, obscured by the flurry of commotion, the boys’ piercing screams, and the passing of too many years. Daniel had tried to quell the panic. He urged the boys to turn away from the sight of Father Anthony, who lay spread-eagled on the brick sidewalk, a relentless pool of blood forming beneath his head.

But one detail stood out Venus-bright in Daniel’s mind, in spite of countless hours questioning his own vivid imagination and the effects of Father Francis’s chilling words. The boy appeared inured to the grisliness of the scene as well as his peers’ shock. In spite of Daniel’s repeated requests to step back,
the boy remained at the front of the crowd, his head tilting from side to side, as he examined Father Anthony like some lab specimen. He glanced up at the
campanario
too, then again at the priest’s remains, seemingly transfixed by the aerodynamics of what had just taken place.

A massive dose of LSD was discovered in the dregs of the Communion wine, the police said. Since it was cold and flu season, many parishioners, out of consideration for one another’s health, declined drinking from the chalice. Father Anthony had to drain the contents. Fifteen minutes later, he was convinced he could fly.

In the days and weeks following the tragedy the police narrowed their list of suspects, but the boy didn’t make the cut, and in the end, even those who had endured countless rounds of questions were exonerated. Eventually, the death of Father Anthony became one of the spooky stories the students told on camping trips.

The iron rings on the church doors seemed to wink at Daniel, jarring him back to reality. Quickly he glanced around, wondering if any witness had been privy to his nocturnal wanderings, the lunacy of a priest standing in the pouring rain, staring at the ghosts that continued to haunt him.

As Daniel hurried across the front lawn, he gazed up at the lighted windows of the residence. Mercifully, no one was looking out, and he reached
his room unobserved. A warm shower did little to remove the chill that permeated his marrow, and for a solid hour, he sat in his easy chair, willing his muddled thoughts to align themselves in some logical order.

He still had Jim Kearns’s number tucked into a corner of his desk blotter at school. In a few days, once he had gathered his information and rehearsed how to present it without sounding like a blood-and-guts-fascinated loony, he’d call the lieutenant. He would need to gather his courage, too.

There was a chance the call would amount to nothing, and Daniel would join the ranks of other armchair profilers with overactive imaginations.

So why bother?

Because the past was beginning to gnaw at him like some flesh-eating virus and it was time to exorcise his demons.

Time to stop making jolly, strumming his way into people’s hearts, and glossing over their pain. He used his enthusiasm as a tool to convince others that life on this Earth was akin to heaven, if only one had a positive outlook.

Bullshit.

Evil did exist, and he’d known it all along.

T
hough her visit to Father Daniel yielded little information to relieve her suspicions about Jordan, Beth found herself overcome by guilt at having chosen subterfuge over confrontation. During the days since her trip to Ventura, she reminisced about evenings spent with Jordan, discussions where the past never intruded, where only the present and the future mattered. She struggled with her fears, but it wasn’t long before her heart triumphed over her head, and she knew she had to see him. She left messages on Jordan’s answering machine, imploring him to return her calls. He didn’t.

Finally, on a desperate Thursday evening, Beth jumped into her car and drove to Noe Valley. There was a cool mist falling, and the autumn air was chilly enough to warrant her turning on the heater. As she turned onto Jordan’s street, Beth saw his Mazda pulling into the driveway. The sight of Jordan emerging from his car, athletic bag in one hand, car keys and squash racquet in the other, reminded Beth of how she’d missed him. He looked great, hair still damp from the shower.

Jordan was already climbing the steps to the front porch when Beth parked her car behind his, and when he turned, she noted the puzzled expression
on his face. She shut off her ignition and bounded up the driveway after him like a crazed fan chasing a rock star. It was all she could do to keep from wrapping him in a wrestling hold. Two things stopped her — her own nervousness and the look on his face. He wasn’t thrilled to see her.

“You wouldn’t send away a woman who’s driven clear across town, would you?”

Clear across town? She sounded like Minnie Pearl.

“Beth.” He didn’t smile. His voice was toneless. “This is an unexpected — quite a surprise.”

She guessed the phrases “unexpected pleasure” and “nice surprise” were too much to hope for. Still, he wasn’t beating a hasty retreat.

Her words tumbled out. “If you’ll let me explain, Jordan, and you still don’t like the reasons why I’ve been a complete fool, you can call me every vile name in the book, throw me out on my behind, and I’ll promise never to bother you again. Deal?”

“This is awkward, Beth —”

“Oh,” she cut him off, saving them both the embarrassment, “you’re expecting someone, aren’t you? There’s another woman.”

Great. Now she was into soap-opera dialogue.

“No,” he replied quickly. He turned his key in the lock. “It’s not that. I’d invite you in only —”

“Only what?”

“Only, I’m not in the mood for the third degree tonight.” His gaze bore through her.

“I guess I deserved that,” she said, moving past him through the door.

Inside, Jordan’s manner was stiffly formal. He didn’t offer her coffee, didn’t help her with her trench coat nor motion her toward a chair. Clearly he did not expect her to be staying long. This was all business, her idea, and he had the home-court advantage. He waited until Beth settled at one end of the sofa before he sat in a tapestry wing chair opposite, a huge square coffee table between them.

“Been working out?” she asked, gesturing at his grey sweats.
Idiot
.

“Squash game with Brad,” he answered politely. “He cleaned my clock.”

In one swift breath Beth said, “Jordan, I’ve got some explaining to do. If you’ll let me.”

“This should be good,” Jordan said. “It’s not every day someone tells me why I’m being interrogated like I’m some kind of criminal.”

Beth inhaled deeply and wished for a glass of wine, whisky, turpentine. On the bright side, she told herself, their relationship couldn’t get much worse.

“I loved growing up in Eureka Springs,” she began, feeling ridiculous. “I had an idyllic childhood, the whole routine. But you know what happens to teenagers, full of questions. You begin to imagine what life has in store for you beyond the boundaries of your home town.”

Jordan sat, immobile, straight-backed, hands
resting on his thighs. Even in his sweats and well-worn sneakers, he looked uncomfortable.

“I feel as though I’m on ‘This is Your Life,’ she said.

“Beth, you’ve come here for a reason. Let’s have it.”

She took another deep breath and tried to ignore the sting of his indifference. “Because my parents owned an inn, they knew everyone in town. I dated local boys, sons of my parents’ friends, and it was assumed I’d go to college in Little Rock and eventually settle down nearby.”

“Doesn’t sound that bad,” Jordan said.

“No, it doesn’t. But the inn was a real tie. We could never travel, never had a real family vacation, and the only time we closed down was when we were renovating. As beautiful as the town is, I wanted to see more. I was always good in art. I helped my mother select furniture, wallpaper, drapes for the inn, so naturally interior design beckoned, and so did the bright lights of New York. It seemed so exotic, so unlike what I’d known. I became determined to live my dream.”

“Which you did.”

She nodded. “But not before I shared my grand idea with Robert Clay.”

“One of the locals?”

“No. Robert was a guest at our inn. He was gorgeous. Long sandy hair, the bluest eyes, flashing bright smile. He was twenty-four, drove a Mustang — all pretty cool to a seventeen-year-old.”

“Let me guess. He got you pregnant.”

Beth shook her head. “He didn’t stick around long enough. But I harboured the usual adolescent fantasies. I imagined Robert whisking me off with him — he was travelling across the country before beginning a new job with a brokerage firm in, of all places, New York City. He’d propose to me, relieve me of my virginity, and I’d go to school while he worked. Great plan.”

“He wasn’t interested?”

“He never knew, thank God. I was so captivated by his glamour, the stories he told about New York — restaurants in Greenwich Village, off-Broadway theatres, carriage rides in Central Park. It was enough to listen to him talk. Plus there was the perk of being seen about town with him, riding in
his
Mustang. Me, Bethany Wells from Eureka Springs cruising around with a handsome older man. In two days, I was head over heels.”

“So, to quote someone’s maiden aunt, Robert Clay was quite a catch.”

“Robert Clay wasn’t Robert Clay.”

Jordan raised an eyebrow, the first indication of more than polite interest in her story. “What do you mean?”

She repeated. “Robert Clay was a work of fiction. The name I’d stupidly scribbled on pads of paper along with my own — Mrs. Bethany Clay — didn’t exist. Robert Clay was really Adam Scott. He was from Pacifica, not too far from here, and his
Mustang wasn’t
his
Mustang. It belonged to some poor guy in Berkeley. Then there was a Corvette in Sacramento, an
MG
in Reno, a Thunderbird in Denver. I may have the cars and cities mixed up, but you get the idea.”

“Ah, Beth,” Jordan said, his facial features softening as he thought he gained understanding. “You fell for a thief. But you were seventeen. Being starry-eyed isn’t a crime. Still, what does this have to do w —”

“Starry-eyed is an understatement,” Beth’s voice escalated. “I was stupid, plain and simple. I followed my heart while my head took a holiday. Yes, Adam Scott was a thief. And Adam Scott was a very nearly a murderer. And everything that happened was my fault.”

I
n that moment, Beth glimpsed the return of the Jordan she’d come to care so deeply about. His face registered shock, sympathy, and concern that went beyond courtesy. He felt something — she knew it. Whether it was love or not remained to be seen, and for the briefest time, it appeared that he might rise up, rush to her side, and put his arms around her.

Then it was Jordan’s turn to inhale deeply. He remained where he was, took another moment to digest what she’d said, then spoke. “What do you mean it was your fault?”

She closed her eyes, trying to will away the hideous memory, but she knew Jordan was waiting for, and deserved, an explanation. After several deep breaths she still couldn’t meet his gaze.

“It was one of those perfect nights,” she began, staring at the ceiling. “Gentle breeze, plenty of stars — we were drinking lemonade on the front porch. How hokey it all must have seemed to him. But he played it for all it was worth …”

Beth paused again, sighed, then braced herself to continue. “The next afternoon, I came home from school, later than usual, to find my mother unconscious.”

“Jesus. This Scott guy?”

She nodded. “He’d hit her with the metal box full of money he was stealing.” She looked at Jordan then, his expression still not understanding the whole truth. “And who do you suppose let slip where we kept our money?”

Jordan seemed about to react then thought better of it.

“I was such an ass,” she said and hung her head. “I also told him that mom was going to meet with her garden club and would be gone for the better part of the day. The only way it would have been easier is if I’d just handed him the money outright. And the blood, Jordan — so much of it. I thought my mother was dead.”

Her voice caught, and she found it difficult to swallow. Jordan remained silent, giving her time to wrestle with the murky shadows of her past, memories of a fantasy gone horribly wrong. Eventually he asked, “What was this creep doing in your bed-and-breakfast? The whole image is ridiculous.”

“Would you go looking for a killer at a quaint Victorian establishment? Adam Scott was practised at the art of the unpredictable. He didn’t appear to be on the run. He planned to stay in Eureka Springs for a few days, take in some of the sights. In reality, he was scouting around for license plates to steal, or another car. Those few times I was with him, I never suspected that anyone might be in danger. All I could see was a dazzling smile, a hot car, the smooth charm —”

“Don’t torture yourself, Beth. You were all of seventeen. You were attracted to the things most young people go for. But why, so many years later, are you suspicious of me? Do I remind you of this guy? You seemed willing enough to trust me earlier.”

She nodded, feeling herself warm slightly at the thought of how quickly she’d jumped into bed with Jordan, how badly she wanted to be there right now. “I told myself never to follow my heart again, that during times of vulnerability, one’s heart as a guide is hopelessly inaccurate. So I became a champion workaholic. Queen of the Two-Date Quickstep. No involvement, no hurt feelings.”