Speak No Evil (23 page)

He gave her a lopsided grin. “You think I lied about not being able to wait for your phone call? Apparently, I’m about as disciplined as a junkie in a meth lab where you’re concerned.”

Caroline laughed. “Now you’re comparing me to meth?”

He reached out, grasping her chin. “No way . . . you have something
way
more addictive!”

Caroline’s grin turned suddenly mischievous. “Yeah, what?”

Her breath caught as he reached over and brushed the vee between her thighs, burrowing softly, teasing her. “This,” he whispered.

“Jack,” she protested, even as she let him drag her down to the dock and lifted her hips into his hand. “It’s still light out.”

“Not for long,” he whispered.

T
he rain began Monday afternoon, swept in by bloated, gray clouds that drained the color from the landscape.

In a way, it felt like it was storming indoors, as well. Caroline longed to barricade her office door against the deluge—not the least of which included Augusta’s announcement: her sister wanted to offer a reward for information leading to the safe return of Amanda Hutto.

She sat in the facing chair, her chin lifted in challenge.

“That’s not a good idea, Augusta!”

Augusta straightened in her chair. “Why not? You think you’ve got some exclusive right to go after the truth?”

Caroline didn’t know what to say.

“Mom may have put you in charge of the
Tribune,
” Augusta persisted, “but technically, we all own a share—whatever, if you don’t break this story, you’ll just have to publish it second- or third- or fourthhand! Because, like it or not, I will take it to the
Post
and every news channel in this city!”

Caroline was only beginning to understand that every decision she made in regard to Amanda’s disappearance would have an impact on how the Huttos ultimately dealt with their grief. After so long without a word, maybe it was best that Karen Hutto begin accepting the fact that her daughter might not come home. “You’re giving her false hope.”

“And that’s somehow worse than implying her daughter was strangled and murdered by some ex-priest?”

“We have never published those words!”

“No, but you’ve suggested it at least a dozen times in a dozen different articles, Caroline. This entire city—including Karen Hutto—believes Patterson is guilty of murdering her child. You’re ruining the man’s entire life!”

“We’re trying to get at the truth!” Caroline argued, throwing Augusta’s own words back at her. “We didn’t fabricate the charges he has on record.”

Augusta glared at her. “Well, I’m doing this whether you like it or not. You are not talking me out of it. I came to you first so you can publish it first. You can either do that, or be the last to report it—it’s that simple. In fact,” she added, “if you’re smart, you’ll use it as a public service opportunity and donate money in the name of the paper. At least then, it shows you’re trying to be objective and that you haven’t already decided Amanda’s fate and Patterson’s guilt.”

Whatever she was going to say to counter Augusta’s declaration, that simple truth stopped her. Caroline had to admit that Augusta had a point. She had, in fact, started out with an agenda, and offering the reward would at least interject some measure of objectivity and do some damage control.

Augusta sensed she was caving, because she quickly added, “Never mind the money—I’m offering the reward—I don’t need any credit.”

She had that determined look in her eyes Caroline knew only too well. “Will you at least hold off long enough to let me check in with Daniel to make sure there aren’t legal implications?”

Augusta sat back, considering it a moment before nodding. “Fair enough.”

Feeling a little as though she’d negotiated a cease-fire with an unfriendly nation, Caroline said, “Jesus, Augie! When did we end up on opposite sides?”

Augusta stood, her eyes glittering fiercely. “Clearly, you don’t know me very well, sister dear, because I’ve only ever been on one side,” she said. “The right side!” And with that, she made her exit.

Caroline watched her go, thinking the line between right and wrong had never seemed so thin.

The elaborate Fourth of July celebration planned for Brittlebank Park was canceled. Provided they could find high enough ground to set up a fireworks stage, a small-scale fireworks exhibit was still in the works so people could celebrate from the safety of their homes. But the city was inundated. Flood-producing tides had been predicted, but two days of summer storms put half the downtown streets under water.

By Tuesday morning, the City Market area was deluged, along with Calhoun Street, Ashley and Lockwood Avenues. The headlines shifted to topics of a more aqueous nature. The morning edition of the
Tribune
read: R
AIN
, T
IDE
F
LOOD
C
ITY
accompanied by a shot of resourceful citizens navigating floodwaters in their kayaks. One woman was spotted out searching for her dog, who’d lost his way home but took refuge on one of the historic porches, under a joggling board. She was pictured holding the little schnauzer to her bosom. Yet another article showed people in their waders—one holding up a copy of the
Tribune
—not that anyone was actually going out for newspapers. However, not even Mother Nature could stop the presses.

A skeleton crew manned the
Tribune
office, while most of the reporters worked from home. Caroline hijacked her mother’s home office, but neither Savannah nor Augusta complained. Savannah, who still could do little more than peck with her right hand, embraced any excuse not to work, even with the antique typewriter. Augusta took her laptop into the kitchen where she could easily persuade Sadie to give her a taste of the goodies she was busy baking.

During their childhood, rainy days in the Aldridge house were typically filled with incredible scents—everything from cobbler to brownies and pineapple upside-down cake. The great thing about Sadie was that she had a philosophy that too much was never enough and Caroline noticed no one was all that focused on her weight any longer.

She and Augusta forged a temporary truce—wholly necessary when three grown women were stuck for any length of time under the same roof. For the most part, they kept out of each other’s way, but Augusta poked her head into the office late in the afternoon. “How’s it going?”

Caroline peered up from her laptop. “Okay . . . but this is the sort of day I wish we had a better Web presence. It would be great to be able to give people better updates—street openings, closings—that sort of thing. Plus I’m sure they are cancelling fireworks shows all over town.”

“In due time,” Augusta said, venturing into the office. “I have no doubt you’ll manage everything phenomenally—that’s why Mom put you in charge, you know.”

Caroline blinked at the unexpected compliment.

“Sorry about everything,” Augusta said. “I guess I’m just a little unnerved about being here, and I probably took some of my frustration out on you.”

Caroline shrugged. “Actually, you made me think a lot about the things you said. You were right.”

Augusta came in and sat down in one of the two brown paisley-upholstered armchairs facing Caroline’s desk. Leaning across the polished mahogany wood, she tested the surface for dust. There was none. For a moment, they were both silent.

Outside, the rain continued to pelt the leaded glass windows. More than nine inches had fallen during the last twenty hours, and they were nearing the all-time record high since 1988.

“What if I fail at my task, Caroline . . . what if I can’t fix this house . . . or even stay under this roof? On days like this, I feel like I’m going clean out of my skull!” Augusta confessed.

Caroline pushed her laptop away and looked soberly at her sister. “There’s a lot at stake here, Augusta. But you can only do what you can do. If you can’t stay . . . no one is going to make you. We’re not going to starve and we’re not going to hate you. Some charity will just get an awful lot of money.”

In that moment, Augusta’s face lost all of its hard lines, softening to that gentle, compassionate gaze she’d had as a child—the little girl who had started a cricket hospital to save all the “one-legged” insects. The one who was heartbroken when Josh took them out to use as fishing bait. She didn’t forgive him for weeks.

“Mom isn’t around to make you do anything, Augie. Whatever you decide to do, you do of your own accord.”

She blinked and Caroline spied the telltale gleam of unshed tears. “But I don’t even know where or how to start!”

Caroline shook her head. “Of course you do! You already have. That auction is the first step, Augie. You’re doing a great thing there. You’re uncluttering this house before diving into the real work and you’re getting rid of stuff none of us will ever put on our mantles. Mom’s gone, and none of us are all that attached to anything in this house.”

Augusta laid her head back down. “Some of us would like to see it all burn,” she said without any real passion.

Caroline couldn’t help but laugh, despite the low-grade threat. She knew Augusta wasn’t serious. “They already did that once, right? Didn’t work. They rebuilt the house and bought more shit. Besides, while this crap would make an awesome bonfire, it’s too damned hot out there to burn anything—and ashes won’t put food in a homeless child’s belly.”

They sat there looking at each other, and Caroline felt compelled suddenly to bring up the topic of Ian Patterson. Something about Augie’s defense of him gave her an odd feeling . . . like maybe her interest was hovering on advocacy. The last thing Augusta needed to do was get involved with a suspect. Maybe he wasn’t a murderer, but he sure wasn’t “safe.” But Caroline knew her sister well enough to realize that bringing it up would only push her in the very direction she was afraid she’d go.

“Good point,” Augusta said, and got up. “Thanks for talking me off the ledge . . . for now.” She started to walk away. “More to the point, thanks for not pushing me off.”

Caroline’s lips curved into a half smile. “Thanks for not tempting me,” she countered. Augie laughed and walked out, leaving Caroline to gnash her teeth over murderous financials. These were not fun, and she hadn’t realized just how much they were integral to her job. She was not a journalist any longer, she was a damned strategist.

T
he girl wasn’t his type.

Lucky for her, she had been in the right place at the right time to help him prove a point. That’s what he had to remind himself, because with the impending celebration, it felt more like he was accompanying the wrong date to the prom.

The only satisfaction he would glean from this one was the simple joy of watching them scramble to find clues, watching them beat their little heads against the walls while they tried to figure out how something like this could happen right under their noses. But that was a hollow triumph.

This game was not fulfilling.

Nothing about the girl excited him.

He positioned her with as much love as could be mustered for the wrong prom date, making sure she was ready to flash her tits for the world.

He started to leave, but something beckoned him back . . . that prickling sense of intuition that always seemed to lead him to the special ones.

Right there, when he least expected it, he felt the stirrings . . . that hot pulse through his veins and the quickening beat of his heart.

From the water, he watched the man onstage continue to work on his fireworks display, oblivious to the world outside the periphery of his spotlights. His four- or five-year-old son sat a short distance away, looking longingly over his shoulder at the father, who, during the short time he was watching, had already yelled at his kid twice to stay put.

Sitting beyond the radiance of the spotlight in the shadows of the night, the boy was scared. You could read it clearly on his face. He watched the kid, desire spreading through his groin.

The kid turned, and his heart somersaulted. The boy’s eyes slanted as he squinted, peering into the night, placing a little hand to his forehead to shield his face from the manufactured lights.

There was innocence left in that face, but the resentment was growing like a cancer, bubbling up from the depths of his soul like a cauldron of putrid blackness. There was nothing so potentially dangerous as an unloved child.

The boy was seated on a bench facing the water, his lips contorted into an ambivalent twist. Despite the warm night, he crossed his little arms over his chest, an attempt to bolster himself.

His father remained committed to his work, never once looking back.

He was within reach. Like a gator with its prey, he could snatch the kid before the father realized there was danger....

Gently, silently, he treaded water, feeling powerful, primitive, invulnerable, eternal.

He recognized the instant the boy’s eyes focused on the spot in the water where he quietly waited. His little brows collided, though it took him another moment to feel the threat from the darkness. Once he did, he leapt up from the bench and ran screaming to his father, who was stubbornly committed to his fireworks stage.

“Daddy!” the child shrieked. “I see a frogman!”

“Tommy! Sit down, godammnit! You’re going to get us both electrocuted !” He picked the kid up, hauling him unceremoniously back to the bench and sat him down so hard the wooden slats reverberated in their steel frame.

The dad walked away, and the kid jumped up to follow. “No, Daddy! I see a frogman with giant yellow eyes!”

The dad spun about, grabbing the kid and backhanding him across his bare thigh, not once, but three times, the crack of his hand sounding a little like tiny firecrackers as his fingers impacted against skin.

“Daddy!” the boy squealed. “Please Daddy! Please, no!”

Only after he spanked the kid a third time did he finally turn to look out into the black river, squinting hard to see what had spooked his child.

He stilled, except for the tick at his temple he couldn’t quite control.

The dad’s sight was compromised, having stared too long into the bright work lights. Satisfied that he was in the right, and his son was in the wrong, he turned and shook a finger at his frightened boy. “Stay right here! Don’t make me tell you again! You’re going to get us both killed!”

He wanted the boy.

He could almost taste his purity.

He waded closer as the father sauntered back to his stage without looking back. The little boy peered out into the river, his face frozen in a cry that wanted desperately to escape.

“Daddy,” he whined.

“No, Tommy!” the dad said firmly without looking back. And then, feeling guilty maybe, added, “I just have to get this done, then I’ll take you to get an ice cream, okay?”

The child was frozen, those big round eyes staring directly into his . . . the little chest hiccupping with emotion, and in that moment, he sensed a kindred spirit.

That’s where he had begun . . . staring straight into the eyes of the beast.

“Da-d-dy,” the boy whimpered—too softly to be heard, but the dad peered up just as the first of his rockets exploded into the damp night sky.

The sound of the rocket’s ascent stopped him cold in the water and he paddled backward, farther back to watch from a safe distance as the rocket burst into a thousand bright pinpoints of light, illuminating a park that was half submerged.

He retreated far enough back that you could no longer hear the child’s sniffles, and he watched the scene unfold under a brilliant explosion of color. One by one the rockets launched after the first one, and the sky flashed from light to dark and back again.

On the stage, the father turned and froze at a glimpse of the night’s handiwork. He slowly turned his spotlight.

The girl’s body lay not twenty feet from the stage, on a slip of higher ground where the water had begun to recede. She lay with her hands bound together prayerfully . . . much the way she had died . . . begging for her life through bulging, terror-filled eyes because her mouth could no longer plead.

Beyond the stage, beyond the park, the police station glowed across the street.

The frogman smiled, inhaled a breath of watery air and dove soundlessly down into the black water.

 

Caroline peered out of her bedroom window, watching the raindrops slide down the outside windowpane. The property was puddled, otherwise undamaged, and she wondered how Sadie’s house had fared with water up to nine feet higher than flood level.

Finally, the rain was subsiding and she was glad, because Augusta—stubborn hellion that she was—was out there in it . . . somewhere.

Tango watched as she moved away from the window, his tail wagging halfheartedly when she made eye contact with him. Caroline grabbed her cell phone from the dresser and dialed Frank’s number, hoping to get some information before Augusta returned home. She had already tried calling Pam to no avail.

Knowing her sister, she would hold off just so long before impatience set her on a forward trajectory, and then she would become an irresistible force. It was in everyone’s best interest not to wait it out, hoping she’d just go away. That wouldn’t happen.

Caroline and Bonneau had already agreed that if Daniel gave them the go-ahead, Pam should write up the reward story. Because she’d written the majority of the articles about Patterson, Frank thought her reporting could use a little more balance.

Despite the flooded streets, Frank was still at the office and Caroline was beginning to wonder if the man had any life at all outside of the
Tribune
. “Any word?”

“No,” he said. “Daniel doesn’t seem to be returning phone calls. For that matter, neither is Pam.”

“I was hoping to be able to give Augusta a thumbs-up today.”

“I haven’t heard from Pam at all—neither yesterday nor today. In all the confusion, I assumed you told her not to come in. She hasn’t checked in with me.”

“No. I didn’t,” Caroline assured him. “When was the last you talked to her?”

“Friday.”

“Damn,” Caroline said, and she had a sudden, icy feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Do you have her number on you?”

“In my office, but if you hang on, I’ll grab it for you.”

“Thank you, Frank. I’ll talk to her first thing tomorrow morning—everyone in fact. I’ll make it clear that if they aren’t coming in for whatever reason, they are to discuss it with you. You’re their boss.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone, and then he said, “I appreciate that.”

But Caroline thought she sensed a smile.

“No problem.

“Okay, ready?”

“Shoot . . .”

Caroline snagged a pen from inside the drawer of her mother’s nightstand and he rattled off Pam’s number. “Thank you, Frank,” she said, and hung up, realizing only as she dialed the number and it began to ring that she already had Pam’s number in her contacts.

The call went straight to voice mail.