The Red Scream (34 page)

But no one really knew what the hell was going on.

Finally, at three o’clock Molly got a chance to talk with the one person she really wanted to talk with—Nelda Fay Ferguson, the sole owner of Sam’s Body Shop since her husband Sam Ferguson had “passed over” three years earlier.

At an age Molly estimated near sixty, Nelda Fay had a hairdo larger than her skirt; she wore her dead black hair teased into a mound and her tight denim miniskirt showed off legs so thin that the shin bone resembled a razor. Once Nelda Fay started talking Molly couldn’t remember why she’d been so eager to talk to her. The woman talked without ever taking a breath.

“This sucker don’t look anywhere near’s bad as some of them we get coming in,” Nelda Fay was saying as she looked down at the photograph of Louie Bronk. “Don’t get me wrong now—I wouldn’t screw around with this one neither, but I seen much worse. No. I don’t remember him. It’s a real damn shame those records got burned, ’cause we keep the best damn records you ever did see. Got audited two years ago and that IRS auditor, she said she’d never seen such pretty documentation. Our bookkeeper, Willie Pettigrew, he does everything just perfect. A real fuss budget. Just like my late husband. Just the kind you want to do your bookkeeping. If you’re on the up and up, of course. And we got nothing to hide. Not a thing at all. So we run a real honest, clean business just like when Sammy was alive and—”

Molly leapt in. “Mrs. Ferguson, were the records for 1982 in those metal file cabinets in the back room?”

“Sure were.” She pursed her scarlet lips. The color had bled into the wrinkles surrounding her upper lip. “From 1969 when Sammy bought the business. All neatly filed alphabetically. All of them, every one. I did the filing myself.” She waved the photo in the air. “If this sucker had a car painted, I coulda found his receipt right fast. Real shame, since it seems so important to you. Too bad you didn’t come by yesterday. Can’t believe it was worth burning the office down for.”

Molly stopped listening; her head was throbbing and her fire ant bites were flaring up. She’d had enough for one day.

Finally the woman stopped talking and said, “Oh, dear, you don’t look well.”

“No. I’m sure I don’t,” said Molly, who had been reluctant to look in a mirror. She jotted Nelda Fay’s phone and address down in her notebook and handed her a card.

When the police were finally done with Molly, one of them drove her back to the burned-out building to pick up her car and gave her an escort to the airport with his lights flashing. It was the best thing that had happened all day, Molly thought. It sure was the way to get through Metroplex traffic.

A
s she entered the terminal she caught sight of Grady Traynor slouching against a pillar with his tie unknotted and his jacket hanging open. In spite of her aching, swollen face and itching insect bites, in spite of her exhaustion, in spite of the fact she knew she looked, and smelled, like a bag woman, in spite of not having eaten all day, in spite of everything in the world that should work against lust, the sight of him sent ripples of heat radiating through her body. If she let herself, she would love him just as desperately as she had before. The best thing for her to do was turn around and get back on the plane, run for her life.

He caught sight of her, stood up straight, and waved to get her attention. It was too late for escape.

When she reached him, he put one arm around her waist and drew her out of the stream of passengers walking through the gate. He faced her without smiling and put the other arm around her, too, drawing her gently against him. He leaned down and very lightly touched the swelling on her cheek with his lips. Then he moved to
her mouth and kissed her quickly, letting his mustache linger for a moment against her upper lip. He tightened his embrace, pressing his hips into hers, and kissed her again. This time the kiss was in earnest, long and active, involving movement of his entire body—his hips, tongue, and hands—definitely not the kind of kiss appropriate for a public place, but Grady had never been a man to worry about convention.

It was a kiss that took her back twenty-six years to the cab of a pickup parked at City Park. And just like then, it was a kiss that could elicit response from a snowman. She raised her hands to the back of his head and buried her fingers in his hair, feeling the change in texture that had come with the change in color.

She broke it first, tilting her head back and taking in a long breath. He moved his lips to her ear and whispered, “How bad was it, Molly?”

“Grady, I was so terrified I stopped being human.”

“Oh,” he whispered back, “I know that feeling too well. I’m so relieved you’re safe.”

He lifted his head but kept his arms wrapped firmly around her. “Guess what?”

She looked up at him.

“You’re going to owe me a steak dinner,” he said in a slightly hoarse voice, “and your apologies. It’s just a matter of time before we nail Charlie McFarland for the murder of David Serrano.”

“What happened?” she asked.

“We’ve traced back to McFarland some payments that went into David Serrano’s account at the Bank of Brownsville. Eleven years’ worth.”

“Paying him off?” she said. “Blackmail?”

“I imagine. That’s how Serrano was able to get his business started, with an initial thirty thousand from Charlie right after Bronk’s trial.” He brushed his lips and mustache against the sensitive skin just below her jawline. Into her neck he said, “After that, he paid three thousand a month.”

“Wow,” she said.

“You writers really have a gift for words.” He lifted his head. “If you want to renege on the bet now, Molly, you can.”

Molly ran an index finger lightly down the three raised scars across his nose. He closed his eyes and held his breath.

“What does Charlie say?” she asked.

“Mmm,” he said, his eyes still closed. “Charlie says he always treats old employees generously, but he was unable to demonstrate any other case where he’s paid a total of three hundred ninety thousand dollars to someone who’s not working for him.”

“That’s not enough to charge him with murder.”

“No, but we’re working on some other angles, too. I can’t talk about them right now.” He pressed his cheek gently against her good one and said, “So how about Steak and Ale? You look like you could use a good meal.” His breath tickled her ear. “What a day you’ve had, my poor girl.”

“Steak and Ale is fine. I’ll treat—for old times’ sake. But the bet’s still on and you haven’t won yet.”

He took a step back from her and quickly buttoned his jacket. Then he said with the flash of a smile, “Why don’t we take you home first, Molly? You could change your clothes and we both could freshen up.”

She felt an inexplicable rush of blood to her face. Lord, why not? It was futile to fight nature and—she looked up suddenly and listened because she thought she heard her name being called. Yes, there it was: “Paging Southwest passenger Molly Cates. Molly Cates, please come to the Southwest Airlines courtesy phone for a message.”

Grady put his hands over her ears. “Don’t take it, Molly. Whatever it is, let it wait until tomorrow.”

“No. I need to see what it is.” She broke away from him and walked toward the bank of telephones.

It was Charlie McFarland. His voice sounded dead tired. “Molly, I just talked to Richard Dutton. He said you were flying in from Dallas, so I’ve been paging you every few minutes.”

“I just got in.”

“Listen, I’m willing to talk to you for that article now. Not just willing. Anxious to have my say. Right now.”

“Now?” she asked. She glanced up at Grady and saw him shaking his head vigorously.

“Yes. Can you come over here to the house on your way home?”

“I suppose so. But there are no strings attached, Charlie.”

“No strings.”

“All right. I’ll come right now.” She made a face at Grady.

As soon as she put the phone down, Grady stepped in and pulled her close again. “Okay. I won’t fight the inevitable. But I’ll go with you. Caleb dropped me off here, so I don’t have a car anyway.”

“What if I said no?”

“I’d have to call a cab, but it’s much safer this way. You are clearly a woman in need of police protection.” His face shifted to a sober look. “He’s a dangerous man, Molly.”

She paused and looked into the pale eyes that weren’t laughing now.

“And then we’ll go home together,” he said. “Say yes.”

She raised her hand and laid it on his cheek. “Yes.”

“Hot dog,” he said.

chapter
18

On death row

Set to go.

You start to sweat.

Oh, man, you bet.

The time is right,

Clocks at midnight.

You feel it being born

Your gut is torn.

It’s red and shrill

Like a fresh kill,

Like your worst dream,

Comes the red scream.

LOUIE BRONK
Death Row, Ellis I Unit,
Huntsville, Texas

M
olly parked the truck just inside the entrance gate. Grady leaned across her and opened the door, nearly lying in her lap to do it. He brought his face up close to hers. “Just humor me here, Molly. Be sure he knows I’m out here waiting for you.”

She slid out, but before she could shut the door, he added, “Bear in mind: this guy may be responsible for two murders in the last four days.”

She slammed the door and turned toward the house. Every light was blazing. It looked like someone inside didn’t want to take the chance of walking into a dark room.

She rang the doorbell and waited. Frank Purcell opened the door, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up and the black automatic at his belt in full view for the first time since she had met him. “Evenin’,” he said. “Charlie’s in his study, waiting on you. His back’s bothering him real bad.”

“How’s it going, Frank?”

He shrugged and shifted his eyes away.

“Me too,” she said, giving him a pat on the shoulder as she walked past him. She continued on down the hall with the bluebonnet paintings.

Charlie McFarland sat in the same recliner he’d sat in five days before, wearing the same clothes, except that instead of boots he wore slippers now. He sat very still, his shoulders slumped forward, and he held a dark-looking drink in his hand.

Molly paused in the door. “Sorry to hear your back is acting up, Charlie.”

He glanced up at her by just flicking his eyes, as if moving the whole head might hurt too much. “Molly, thanks for coming. Forgive me for not standing. Sit down. Sit down.”

She sat in the same orange chair she had used before.

“Could Frank get you a drink?” he asked.

“No thanks. I can’t stay long. I’ve got a friend waiting for me outside.”

“Wouldn’t your friend like to come in and wait in the living room?”

“No. He’s used to waiting in cars.” She watched his face as she added, “He’s a cop.”

Charlie raised his eyebrows and said in a flat voice. “I hope things haven’t got to the point where you feel you need police protection coming here.”

“Oh, no. He’s my date. It’s Saturday night, you know.” She started to smile, but stopped halfway through because it made her cheek hurt with a fury. She put her hand to the swelling, but quickly pulled it away because it was tender to the touch.

For the first time since she’d walked in, he seemed to focus his eyes on her face and let them come to rest on her cheek. “What happened to you?”

“Pretty ugly, huh? When I was in Fort Worth, three men tried to beat me up in a burned-out building.”

Charlie took a sip of his drink and looked at her over the rim. “What on earth were you doing in a burned-out building in Fort Worth?”

“Some research,” she said, “on the Louie Bronk matter.”

He set his drink down so hard it sloshed over the edge and Molly caught a whiff, deep and mellow, of good straight bourbon. He said,
“That’s exactly what I want to talk about. I’m so fucking sick of hearing about that son of a bitch. God, it’ll be a relief two days from now when he’s history.” He blew out through his lips as if literally letting off steam.

“Then maybe you’ll all stop giving him publicity,” he said. “I have some things I want to say about that. For the record.”

“Good.”

“You won’t think it’s so good when you hear what I have to say,” he said, his lips barely opening as he spoke. “I’m goddamned mad, just fed up to here.”

She found her recorder and pulled it out of her bag. “It helps if I can record what we say. Is that all right with you, Charlie?”

He gave a nod so slight it was really more of a twitch, a movement that left her in no doubt about his pain. She switched on the recorder, watched to see that the tape inside was turning, then placed it in her lap.

He sat forward slightly and gripped his knees with his hands, as if he were closing a circuit or grounding himself. “You aren’t going to like this and you probably won’t even print what I’m fixing to say, but I need to say it anyway. I think giving all this attention to these violent criminals encourages others to commit crimes.” He spoke in a cold, firm voice, faster than usual, as if he had rehearsed it and wanted to say it as quickly as possible. “I believe Georgia was killed by someone imitating Louie Bronk and I think her killer learned how to do it from your book and from all the press Bronk’s gotten. That anonymous letter you got clinches it for me.”