Seeing Red (41 page)

The idea of simply turning around and heading back to town felt wrong, cowardly. At the very least, she wanted Carr to know that there was one person in this town who knew him for what he was. Sanctimonious jerk.

In that instant, Ellis realized the power she held in her hands. A plan gelled. She was going to bring him low, and if she was lucky, protect a tiny fraction of her family’s peace.

As she approached the place where the drive circled in front of the house, she slowed. There were no other cars in sight.

She coasted to a stop in front of the house, put down the window, shut off the car, and listened.

Silence.

Her uncle wasn’t here.

Leaning back in the seat, she gave her heart a moment to slow down.

The house looked like something out of a magazine spread—beautifully haunting in its antiquity, lushly landscaped, and artfully detailed. The garage, far off to the left of the main house, was so completely covered in close-cropped vines that it appeared to be made out of greenery. A hunting dog lazed on the porch, unfazed by her arrival. Apparently, rich dogs don’t perform watchdog duties.

The house was opened to a wide screened door. She imagined Carr in there with his lovely wife, sipping coffee and reading the Sunday paper. Her heartbeat accelerated again. What if he was still porking underage girls?

She’d put a stop to it, that’s what. He wasn’t going to get away with it anymore.

She opened the baggie and took out the envelope. Then she slid the pictures onto the seat. With a pen from her purse, she nudged the two with Carr away from the rest. Then she put all but those two back inside the envelope.

Carr’s pictures went into her purse.

Before she got out of the car, she shut off her cell phone. The last thing she wanted was a call from Nate in the middle of this and be forced to explain why she wasn’t where she was supposed to be.

When she got out, the dog raised its head and gave a half wag with its tail.

She adjusted her purse on her shoulder and took a tentative step forward.

The dog laid its head back down.

“Good doggie.” She climbed the steps to the white-columned porch.

She’d give Carr a break and ask to speak to him alone; threatening exposure to his wife could be great motivation.

She knocked on the door frame, then leaned close to look through the screen. The wide entry hall was empty. The only sound was the loud ticking of the grandfather clock, tucked beneath the turn in the staircase.

The silence made her realize just how isolated this place was.

Suddenly, it didn’t seem peaceful. It felt desolate, remote.

Maybe she’d better just get on with her original plan, get these photos to the police.

Definitely the smart move. She’d come here in a panic for her uncle. And he wasn’t here.

She turned away from the door—and nearly jumped out of her shoes.

Wayne Carr stood three feet behind her.

“Mr. Carr,” she stammered, trying to slow the hummingbird flight of her heart. That’s when she saw the swollen lip and the cut on his cheek. “Are you all right?” She gestured to his face.

He touched the cut on his cheek. “Oh, this . . . fine, I’m fine. I was just putting some things in the garage attic this morning, got my feet tangled up and hit the concrete floor face-first.” He blotted his forehead on his long-sleeved shirt.

“Um, I’m looking for my uncle. We understood he was headed out to talk to you this morning.” She emphasized the “we” to make him think people knew where she was.

She attributed her sudden skittishness to his unexpected appearance.

Carr shook his head. “No, I haven’t seen him.” With a furrowed brow, he added, “Why was he coming to see me?”

“Something about those articles concerning Hollis Alexander, I think,” she said innocently. Then she started to step around him. “Funny, I was sure this is where he said he was coming. Sorry to have bothered you.”

Carr stepped aside for her to pass.

She was halfway down the steps when she stopped. She wouldn’t get this opportunity again.

“May I have a few minutes of your time?” she asked.

He held up his dirty palms. “If you’ll give me a moment to wash my hands. Abi made a coffee cake; can I offer you some?”

“Oh, no thank you,” she said. The very thought of eating in this man’s presence made her stomach turn.

He opened the screen door for her. The interior of the house was cool, thanks to the shade of old trees and twenty-four-inch-thick brick walls.

Gesturing toward the sitting room on the right, he said, “If you’ll have a seat, I’ll be right in.”

Ellis went into the room and sat in one of the wing chairs that flanked the fireplace. She arranged herself so her bag was on the seat next to her, the photos within easy reach. She wasn’t afraid of Wayne Carr, slinking weasel that he was. He was slight of build and at least fifty. Even if he reacted badly, she could take him down easily.

Her heart skipped along quickly. Maybe that’d be a good thing. She could call the cops, and Carr would have to explain to his wife why he’d attacked a woman in his own living room.

She heard him returning, his shoes tapping on the polished wood floor.

When he stepped into the room, he stopped at the small liquor cart. “May I offer you something to drink? Bloody Mary, perhaps?” He spoke casually, relaxed, but there was a skittishness in his eyes that gave away his unease.

He didn’t want to talk about those articles.

“No, thank you.”

“Do you mind?” he asked, raising a glass.

“Of course not. Is Mrs. Carr at home?”

He looked surprised. “Why, no. She’s away for the day.”

He sat down in a chair between her and the door.

For an instant, Ellis felt trapped with him between her and the way out. It passed when he leaned back, crossed his legs, and took a sip of his drink.

“Is there something specific you wanted to discuss?”

“As a matter of a fact, there is. Something very specific.” She looked sharply at him. “About you and my cousin, Laura.”

With a tilt of his head, he raised a curious brow; his body remained relaxed, his face composed.

“I know you were seeing her.”

He gave an elegant bark of laughter. “Oh, my dear, I have no idea where you got such a misguided notion.”

“You took special interest in her case.”

“I’m a journalist. This is a small, close-knit community. Of course I did.”

Ellis sighed. “I didn’t come here to dance around this issue. I want you to know that you haven’t fooled everyone.”

His mouth tightened. He uncrossed his legs and recrossed them the other way.

She plunged ahead. “You’re a lying, cheating bastard who took advantage of a troubled teenage girl.”

“I wasn’t involved with your cousin—”

She pulled the photos out of her purse and held them up in front of her. “These photos say otherwise.”

For a moment, his mouth hung open. Then he uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, setting his drink on the table. “Where did you get those?”

“Doesn’t matter. She was
seventeen
!” She shook the photos. “Seventeen! God! You were a married adult—her journalism advisor, for Christ’s sake. She needed help. And you exploited that fact.”

He pressed his lips together and looked out the window for a moment. “It was a long time ago.”

He continued to stare out the window, his rapid, shallow breathing belying his calm posture.

“Your wife is a lovely person. I don’t want her hurt any more than you do.”

“Blackmail?” He looked to her and raised a dark brow. “From the schoolteacher? I never would have thought it.”

She gave him a hard smile. “Anyone is capable of just about anything—given the proper motivation.”

Something in his eyes lit up at that statement. It gave her the creeps.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” she said, “supporting an animal like Hollis Alexander. I want you to stop campaigning for his exoneration and stop writing those horrible pieces that allude to Nate Vance being a murderer. In exchange, I’ll be very happy for these photos to remain our little secret.” She paused. “Oh, and if I ever get wind of you and an underage girl, everyone in Belle Island will see these.” She smiled. “Nothing more complicated or dubious than that.”

He sat there for a long moment, studying her as if she were an alien species.

Then he got to his feet and stood in front of her. “Give them to me.” His nostrils flared with every rough intake of breath.

She was getting edgy, but she’d come this far. “I’ll just hang on to them; wouldn’t want your wife stumbling across them lying around the house. Of course, these are just copies.” With feigned calmness, she put the photos in her lap.

One of them slid off and onto the floor.

When she bent over to retrieve it, a glint of silver caught her eye. There, under the other wing chair flanking the fireplace.

Her heart nearly stopped when she realized it was her uncle’s monogrammed pocketknife. She’d given it to him last Christmas.

Why had Carr lied about his being here?

There was only one reason. He’d done something to her uncle.

She couldn’t breathe. Dizziness fogged her thinking.

She had to get a hold of herself. Appear calm. Get out of here.

With a wild fluttering in her chest and trembling fingers, she reached for the picture.

She had to continue as if her deal was concluding just as she’d planned. She forced herself to keep talking and slowly picked up the photo.

“Just your word. That’s all I want.” She’d go ahead and hand him the photos and get the hell out of here. “You’ll stay away from teenage girls and stop with the shitstirring—”

She slowly sat up.

Wayne Carr stood there pointing a very large handgun at her head.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY

T
here was a six-foot-high brick wall between Justine Adams’s yard and the alley. On the other side, that once-neat hedge had turned into a ten-foot-tall, who-knewhow-thick tangle of vegetation. Nate stood in the alley for a few moments, deciding his best approach to that basement door. There was no way he could wait for dark. He had to get in, get out, and get the police on their way with a search warrant.

He looked up and down the alley, and then grabbed the top of the brick wall and jumped. Hoisting himself up, he threw one leg over, then the other. He lowered himself through the hedge to the ground. He hit the dirt, his skin stinging where branches had poked and scraped on the way down.

Kneeling there, he edged forward until he had a decent view of the yard. The still humidity pressed on him as tiny insects swarmed around his face. He felt as if he’d stepped into a South American tropical forest.

The lot was narrow and deep. What had at one time probably been a neatly laid out garden surrounded by and bisected in both directions with a brick walkway was now a conglomeration of overgrown bougainvillea and boxwoods—plenty of cover for his trek toward the house. In the center of the yard, where the narrow brick walks met, were the ruins of a circular fountain. The statue in the center was missing its head. Vines crisscrossed the rest of the body, looking like an odd sort of plantlife jumpsuit.

Once he’d made it to the corner of the house, he waited to see if there was any response from inside. As he listened, he slipped on the pair of latex gloves he’d grabbed from the stables and shoved in his pocket this morning. Then he dropped down into the little well that housed the basement door.

Nothing indicated the house had an alarm.

The lock was ancient. It took him two seconds to pick it.

Once inside the basement, he dabbed the perspiration from his forehead with his sleeve, pausing to listen for any indication that Justine had heard him. He also needed a moment for his eyes to adjust to the low light. Even though this was a raised basement with windows high on the walls, vegetation crowded close, blocking out a good deal of the daylight.

The damp interior smelled of old cardboard and mildew. Cobwebs draped the floor joists over his head like Spanish moss.

The upstairs remained quiet. He pulled a small flashlight out of his pocket and shone its narrow beam around the room. Nothing but normal basement clutter—a furnace that looked like it predated the first moon walk, boxes, and shelves crammed with old tools. Nothing appeared to have been recently disturbed.

Disappointment thickened in his throat. He’d really thought he’d been onto something.

He took a deep breath that he quickly regretted. He pressed his wrist firmly beneath his nose to suppress a sneeze.

As he blinked away the tingling tears, he spotted it. An old wooden door with a hasp and a padlock. Why would anyone lock a crappy wooden door in a basement full of junk?

This lock was a bit more of a challenge, but Nate was soon inside the windowless room. He found the pull-chain light. He closed the door behind him before turning it on.