Isabella Moon (46 page)

With her hair hanging down over her face she couldn’t see the thing on the floor, but she knew that it was still there. Maybe Miles had made a mistake and killed someone else, someone dressed like Caleb. Maybe Miles had Caleb tied up outside. But another part of her, the part that knew what evil Miles was capable of, told her to
stop it
. Caleb wasn’t tied up outside and he hadn’t gone for help. Caleb was dead.

Without looking at Miles, she started for the front door and the shotgun. But before she could get out of the kitchen, she slipped on some blood that had pooled on the floor. Miles, the runner, caught her before she fell.

“Whoa,” he said, laughing.

She thrashed in his arms, desperate to be free of him. Or, better, to kill him once and for all. This was nothing like the slow, agonized despair that had driven her to shoot him the first time. She’d been deep in pain then, a pain that had festered over time. These feelings were as fresh as Caleb’s blood, which was now on her shoes, her hands.

“Let’s get you settled down,” Miles said, breathless with the effort of restraining her.

As he dragged her across the room, he seemed to be even stronger than when she had left him. Only now, Caleb had died for her. It didn’t matter what Miles did. She had nothing to lose.

Kate threw all of her weight against him and they hit the stone fireplace. She heard a muffled
crack
but didn’t know if it was Miles or she who had been hurt. Trying again for the gun by the door, she realized that the sound had been nothing more than the pot of artificial flowers falling from the mantel to the floor.

Miles was too fast for her and tackled her before she could get her hand on the gun.

“Oh, my Mary-Katie,” he said, still breathing hard, “you’re so pretty. Even when you’re mad.”

Then Miles rolled her over on the braided rug she’d helped Caleb buy that winter after the dogs had chewed up the old one after bringing them inside on a single frigid night. She saw regret in his eyes.

“Don’t look,” Miles said.

But she wouldn’t look away, and when his soiled fist came close to her face, she could see the black hairs on his knuckles before they smashed against her cheek and she was thrust into oblivion.

49

IT WORRIED PAXTON SOME
that he didn’t know what he’d find when he got out to the farm. His mother had sounded bad. Wrecked, in fact. The old woman was going to die and that was going to leave him all alone.

No longer could he imagine Francie moving into the house, making love with him on every available surface—the many beds, the marble tables, the diminutive Victorian couch in his mother’s morning room, in the vast Jacuzzi tub his mother installed in her suite when she began having trouble walking. She was fighting their being together and he didn’t understand why. It was so obvious that they were each other’s fate.
Why couldn’t she see it?
With her mother out of the way, and soon his mother as well, there was no one left to stand between them.

Part of him, that ugly, self-destructive part of him, urged him just to turn the Mercedes around and drive and drive east until he ran into the mountains, to drive up the nearest one and take a curve just that much too fast and end it. But maybe, he thought, it would be better to take Francie with him.

It occurred to him that if he were going to attempt something that ambitious, he would have to be in a state of absolutely no pain—Francie, too—and that meant plenty of coke. Janet had sucked up the last he had with him (he’d helped, but Janet was really greedy about it). He would need to get more from Charlie Matter.

But Charlie Matter was on his shit list. He’d come to suspect that he’d been lied to, that there was no one in the Sheriff’s Department who was protecting them, and that Charlie Matter was keeping all the cash for himself.

Damn,
the cool evening air felt good on his face. He was hungry, too. Janet had had crap for food. She was covered up in M&Ms and anchovies and expensive crackers and, of all things, cans and cans of that white-trash deviled ham junk. But who could live on that?

Several hundred yards short of the farm’s main gate, he slowed the Mercedes and turned onto an unmarked gravel road. The car idled as he fished the east gate key from the glove box and got out to unlock it. There was no telling what kind of bullshit was going on with the cops because of Delmar Johnston. They’d already scared his mother, and she didn’t scare easily. He didn’t know if that lame-ass sheriff had the balls to stake out the house—he wasn’t even sure that anyone was looking for him. It seemed sensible to him to come in the back way just in case. As he drove slowly down the gravel lane, he kept the headlights off even though dusk was falling quickly. There was a smell of wood smoke in the air, probably from the manager’s house. The aroma made his mouth water. But, hungry as he was, it was the half-gram emergency stash in his bedside table that he was craving, much more than the food his mother would have waiting.

“Hey, something smells good in here,” Paxton said. He paused in the library where his mother sat reading a book. “Give me a minute, Mother.”

She didn’t reply, but nodded. He dashed up the front stairs, anxious to get to the stash. A light snort or two would make cocktails that much more pleasant.

Upstairs, he emptied his pockets, putting his phone and keys and wallet on the dresser, and went into the bathroom to splash some water on his face. In the mirror, he saw that he was looking more tired than usual. It had been a hell of a couple three days: Francie freaking out, that bitch Kate Russell on his back, Delmar Johnston. The list seemed endless. Maybe he should try getting a massage or something. Take some more time off. It couldn’t hurt.

When he opened the drawer in the bedside table and didn’t see the stash right away, he slid his hand to the back, feeling around for it. Had he misplaced it? Maybe taken it out without thinking? He felt a momentary pang of worry, thinking that his mother had perhaps found it, or Flora. But what would
they
do anyway? They probably wouldn’t have even known what it was. And neither of them was in the habit of going through his things. That had stopped about the time he left for prep school.

Paxton went back downstairs, deep in thought about what he might have done with the stash. If he
had
lost it, he would have to start thinking seriously about where to get more right away. There were a couple of people who hung out at The Right Note who he’d heard could get coke, but more likely he would have to go out of town or deal with Charlie. And that was just damned
un
-likely.

His mother was still sitting and reading when he came into the room. When she saw him, she closed the book and gave him one of her rare smiles. “I’m glad you’ve come home,” she said.

“What’s the occasion?” Paxton said. Tonight, his mother wore black pants and a black silk blouse that he hadn’t seen before, with a double necklace of chunky pearls and a simple gold bracelet on one wrist. On her feet she wore black velvet slippers, a distinct change from the sturdy shoes she’d taken to wearing since the cancer surgery had slowed her. Her pale hair was pulled back with a simple black bow. He loved his mother’s steely grace. He had to hand it to her. Even half dead she looked like some kind of queen.

“You’re looking quite the lady of the manor,” he said.

He’d always thought she was the most beautiful woman in the valley—at least the most beautiful
older
woman. Francie, of course, was the most stunning woman he knew.

“I’ve made you dinner, darling,” she said as he bent to kiss her cheek. “Surprises and surprises.”

“I remember you said that the first time you made me eat beets,” he said. “Do you want your scotch?”

“I’ve made us something special,” she said. “I may be dead this spring, Paxton, long before rum season. So I’ve made us frozen daiquiris. Are you surprised?”

“What surprises me is that you’ve started without me,” he said.

A frozen daiquiri was not exactly what he’d been looking forward to. He didn’t much care for rum. How could she have forgotten? But he went to the bar and poured the rest of the daiquiris there into the waiting glass. Without the coke, it was looking like any port in a storm. He was starting to feel pissed off, but he still stepped over and clinked his mother’s glass. He took a brief sip of the sweet frozen mush, then another. The glass contained a serious amount of rum. Perhaps he would enjoy the evening after all.

Tonight, his mother certainly
was
full of surprises. By the time they made their way into the small dining room, the intimate one that they used just for family meals, Paxton had a serious buzz on. All the worries he’d had at Janet’s had flown from his mind, and he was left with a hopeful feeling about the future. Screw his mother—the dear old thing—if she didn’t think that Francie would have him in the end. By her own admission, she didn’t really know Francie.

He
knew his Francie. And what she needed was to be spoiled like she’d never been spoiled before. The first thing he would do was make her quit that stupid job at the hospital, and they would get a place together. Maybe, if his mother hung on much longer, they would build something splendid on the farm, perhaps just at the edge of the woods. It would be cozy, but he’d let her decorate it however she wanted. They’d go to London or Ireland together and pick out antiques and stay in quaint inns whose ancient rafters would shake with the sounds of their lovemaking. He grinned to himself at the wonderful notion of how happy they would be together.

“I need you to help me bring dinner in, Paxton,” his mother said. “Flora’s off with her niece tonight.”

“That niece of hers looks like she was hit with an ugly stick,” Paxton said, following her into the kitchen. The notion of an ugly stick struck him as wildly funny, and he gave his mother his best devilish grin, but she wouldn’t laugh.

“Don’t be so grim, Mother,” he said. “I didn’t say it about you.
You’re
my lovely and very wise mother.” He kissed her on the cheek, too high to notice that her body slumped just a bit as he touched his lips to her papery skin.

“We’ll start with the timbales,” she said, pulling herself together. “But bring in the beef and potatoes and the soufflé as well.”

“It’s your party,” he said.

Paxton played the butler as he brought the food in, putting the dishes on the table where she indicated. The soufflé was still hot, despite the fact that it was sagging dangerously in its mold. When he went to put the dish down, a potholder slipped, but it took him several seconds to realize that he’d burned himself. Raising his fingers to his face, he looked studiously at their bright red tips.

“Have you hurt yourself?” his mother said. “Let me see.”

Paxton held out his hand to her and for a moment he thought she would kiss them, as she might have when he was a boy. When she didn’t, but told him to put his fingers in his water glass, he felt a vague sense of disappointment.

“My water glass? Come on. Where’s my real mother?” he said.

“Just do it, Paxton,” she said. “And sit down.”

Paxton did as he was told, although, despite their violent red color, his fingers didn’t seem to hurt much at all.

“Better?” she said.

They settled down to the chicken liver custard, which was one of his childhood favorites. She had topped it with the
sauce madère,
which he preferred to the béarnaise she’d often made for his father.

“I wonder if you could teach Francie how to cook,” he said offhandedly as his spoon scraped against the bottom of the ramekin.

Freida was surprised but tried not to show it. To her, it was as though they were engaged in some elaborate game. She thought she’d set the rules, but given her son’s increasingly incoherent state, she could see that she was just going to have to play along.

“Of course,” she said. “I’m sure she’d be a very able student.”

“She’s amazing, Mother,” he said. “There’s nothing that Francie can’t do.”

Despite the slight lack of focus in his eyes, Freida saw that he was sincere. She knew that he’d long ago learned to imitate sincerity—that he had no real conscience or capability for empathy had been evident to her since he was a young child. But now, looking at him, she saw a flicker of real emotion in them. It pricked at her heart. Was she acting now just out of selfishness? The things he’d done—she wouldn’t have to live much longer with them. And there was no chance for him and Francie. Ever. Even if she could bear to see Francie put herself at risk by marrying him, he had already made their future together impossible. That he’d killed Lillian, she had no doubt. The other things? She didn’t need to think any further about them. It would do neither of them any good.

“She’s lovely, Paxton,” she said. “Your father would be very proud.”

Paxton grinned like a small, satisfied boy.

They started on the rest of the meal in silence. She ate small bites of food. She rarely had much of an appetite these days, but tonight she had none. Across the table her son’s movements slowed and became more careless.

She watched as Paxton quickly downed the water in the glass in which he’d soaked his fingers. She was about to object, but stopped herself. Did it really matter? The question shocked her. Was she thinking of him as dead already? She took a large draught of her wine.