Thing With Feathers (9781616634704) (35 page)

Blair had promised Sean she would not go to the preacher’s cottage alone. But, she had also been single-heart determined on seeing Victor without delay. “Never mind, Charles. I think she has returned.” Sean hung up the phone and approached the door in time to see Victor turning to leave. He called out to him.

“Victor?”

Victor whipped his head around at the sound of Sean’s voice. “What?” He looked from Sean to Lorette in confusion. She folded her arms and gave him an angry
Hmpff,
before walking away.

“What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at home? Is the preacher at home?” Sean was rapid-firing the questions with some intensity. Victor was rattled, thrown off balance.

“I thought you…she said…I thought you were dead. And the wreath.”

“Victor, listen to me,” he said quickly. “Is the preacher at home?”

“Yeah, I think so,” he was baffled.

“Did you see your mother?”

“What?”

Sean grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Your mother has returned, Victor. We’re gonna have a lot to talk about, but not now. I can tell you she’d been in an accident, and was a very long time healing, but she’s home again with us. She wanted to borrow the car and see my attorney, but she should have returned some time ago. She was itching to see you, Victor. If she went to the cabin and the preacher was there alone, she could be in trouble.”

“Jesus! You think he’d hurt her?” Victor’s head was about to explode. He wondered briefly if he was dreaming all of it. He’d thought Sean was dead, but he wasn’t. He’d been certain his mother was dead, but
she
wasn’t.

“Victor, he already has, it’s why she left. And he’s done worse. You don’t have to believe me, Victor, but the preacher’s done murder—more than once. And he tried to have your mother killed, too. We gotta get over there. Come on! Run!”

Chapter 77

V
ictor did believe it. He believed all of it. That was the reason he was running. He was running so fast, the tears in his eyes were being blown across his cheeks and into his hair. His teeth were clenched so tightly he thought they might fracture.
His mother was home! God, he missed her. He’d better not hurt her. He’d better not!

“Victor!” Sean was sucking air and stumbling. He was slowing Victor down. “Go, Victor!” He waved him on. “Hurry!”

Victor looked back over his shoulder to see Sean waving him on. Victor never slowed his stride. He was pouring it on now, up the long dank ingress, past Sean’s convertible and the preacher’s Lizzie, to the door. He flew at the flimsy door, breaking off a hinge as it gave. Before him stood an astonished preacher with his hands around the throat of a beautiful woman. It was the woman in the portrait at the Marshall house. It was his mother. Victor’s world switched gears from super-speed to slow-motion. The preacher took a brief wide-eyed look at Victor and then resumed his strangle on the woman’s throat. Victor saw the tiny pistol laying on the floorboards. He reached for it, then aimed at the preacher. “Let her go,” he ordered through his teeth. The preacher glanced back at him and increased his pressure on Blair’s throat. She was not moving. Victor fired and hit the preacher in the kidney area. The report from the tiny pistol was deafening. Bowman released his hold on the woman to grab at his back, and she freely slid to the floor. He turned and stared at Victor.

“Is she dead? Did you kill my mother, you son of a bitch?” Victor yelled at him, the gun still aimed at his middle.

“Victor, son, I tell you honest, that woman is a demon.”

“You will never call me your son again.” He fired the second shot and dropped the weapon. It slid in the direction of his mother’s body and when it came to a spinning stop, Victor noticed the ivory handle was carved with his mother’s likeness on it. The pistol fired powerful rounds; it was small, beautiful, and deceptively mighty.
Why hadn’t she used it?
He wondered, too stricken to move.

The woman on the floor stirred slightly and Victor ran to her. “Mother?” He knelt next to her, cradled her head. “Please don’t die, Ma. Stay with me. I need you. Mommy, please, don’t go.”

Her hand reached to touch his and he held it. Her eyes opened. She smiled the sweetest smile at her son. His tears dripped onto her cheek. “Victory,” she whispered hoarsely. “Is he dead?”

Victor glanced over at the preacher. He had crawled to the far side of the room and was sitting on the floor, propped against the wall, his gut bleeding heavily. “He will be.”

“You are so beautiful. My beautiful boy. I love you so much, Victory. And, you must know this, son. I love your father, Sean Marshall. I love him dearly. He is a good man. He tried to save us. You need to know that. And he loves you, son. He loves you so much.”

“I know, Mother. I know that now. I’ve been a fool.”

“Vic—” the base of her throat had a funny swelling in it that was growing larger and she was starting to have difficulty with words. She motioned to her handbag on the table. “Money,” she whispered. “Card.”

Victor unsnapped the clutch and withdrew a clip with hundreds of dollars in it, along with a stockbroker’s business card. He looked at her quizzically.

“Take it. Go to Wendell,” her eyes went to the card and back. “Sweet man. Cared for me. He will hide you. My executor…my best friend in this world.” She squeezed her son’s hand.
She was touching her son!
Her other hand reached for her Lady Racine timepiece and she enveloped it in her palm. She felt her son’s hot tears on her cheek and she silently thanked God that she could see and touch her son, and hold her husband once more before she left this world. “Your inheritance—you are wealthy, Victory. Now go. Go to Wendell. Don’t let them catch you. Son, I love you more than life itself.”

“I’m not leaving you!” he cried. Blair closed her eyes in reply. “No! Mother, please. Stay with me,” he bawled uncontrollably. “Stay with me,” Victor drew his mother to him and hugged her fiercely. Her hand went limp and fell away from his. He laid her head back down, patted her cheeks and finally bent his ear to her heart and listened. It was still.

Chapter 78

“M
r. Marshall! Oh, dear, Mister—Sean. Let me help you, sir,” Lorette threw one of Sean’s arms about her shoulders and she propped him up. “The boy can run fast, sir. You shouldn’t ought’a be running at all.”

“Lorette, we have to get to the preacher’s cabin right away. He’ll kill her,” Sean wheezed.

“I heard what you told the boy, sir. I called Rebecca. She’ll be here momentarily. Please sit down. You need to catch your breath. Whew. As do I,” she huffed and puffed.

Sean looked about frantically then back at Lorette. “You told Beck it was life or death?”

Lorette blotted Sean’s forehead and neck with a handkerchief. “I told her you was worried that vile preacher man was gonna harm your wife. Rebecca said, ‘I’m coming’ and hung up the phone. I believe she is dispatched with urgency, Mr.—Sean.” She patted his hand. “Sir, I could hear your good lung squeezing at the close of each breath you took. I think you should let the boy deal with this. No one is going to hurt anyone in front of the boy. I should call the doctor, M—Sean. That lung might collapse.”

“No. I’m alright. You say Becky definitely knew this was an urgent—”

“There she is, Sean. If you insist on going, let me help you up.”

Rebecca’s car slid to a stone-rattling stop and she popped open the passenger door for them. As soon as Lorette had Sean shoved into the backseat, and had jumped into the shotgun spot herself, Sean waved at Rebecca saying, “Go!”

Rebecca asked no questions. She had hundreds and there was simply no time for that. She raced around the bend, up the long, malignant approach to the cabin, and braked to a hard stop behind Sean’s car. Lorette was out and jockeying Sean out of the backseat as fast as possible. The three made for the door. It was open and hanging strangely. Sean’s stomach swirled and it fluttered into his chest.

Victor wasn’t there. The first thing he saw was the preacher, sitting against a far wall and slumped sideways. There was a lot of blood pooled around him. He turned toward the kitchen and saw Blair on the floor, a small handgun was at her side. He ran to her. Her hand was limp. He lifted her head and called her name. She did not respond. Lorette put her ear to Blair’s heart and listened. She listened for a long time. She did not want to lift her head and meet Sean’s searching look, but she finally did.

“Oh my God,” Rebecca cried, putting her hand to her mouth.

Sean was on his knees, at Blair’s side. His head was bowed and his shoulders shook, but he was hushed. Rebecca went to his side and she held him and rubbed his back and told him how sorry she was. And then, suddenly, the lid to the banana box lifted and a wisp of a young girl stood up, chewing on her thumb.

“Lord? And who are you and what’r you doin’ here, child?” Lorette asked the skinny, unwashed teenager who was clearly in a family-way.

Sean didn’t give her a chance to answer, he was on his feet and dragging the girl to the sofa. “Were you here the whole time, I mean did you see—or hear what happened?”

The girl nodded, her eyes wide. “Is he dead?” She asked in a tiny voice.

Sean figured he’d best find out the answer. He rose and went to the preacher, who was still pitched over on the floor. Sean felt for a pulse but found none. “He’s gone,” Sean told the room. He looked back at the girl. “Please, can you tell us what happened here?” he asked sadly.

Nedra nodded. “She came to the door and he made me get in the box. But I heard her say someone was coming to take him to jail. She said she was taking her son because she had a ‘cussty’, and then she told him to stay back because she had a gun. I heard them fighting, sort of. Scuffling,” she said brightly, having thought of just the right word. “Then there was a loud bang and I didn’t want to come out of the box to see what it was. But I heard Victor and he told the preacher to leave his mother alone and then I heard a gunshot.” She stopped to chew on her thumb.

Rebecca sat down next to the girl and squeezed the girl’s upper arm, giving her a sad smile. “You’re Otis Welby’s daughter, Nedra, aren’t you? I know it’s ugly, sweetness, but we need to know everything you heard and saw. What happened to Victor?” Rebecca asked.

Nedra liked her. She was nice, and very pretty. “Victor told him again to get off’a her and I guess he didn’t because Victor shot him again. And then Victor was talking to his mother, and he was crying.”

“Did ya hear Victor’s mother talking back to him, dear?” Lorette asked her. The girl nodded.

Rebecca asked her, “Can you tell us what she said?”

“She told him to take money and a card. I heard him with her purse latch. Then I just heard him crying and asking her not to leave him. It was so sad,” Nedra starting sobbing.

“Nedra, sweetness, is there anything else you can tell us. Do you know where Victor went?”

“She told him to go to the man on the card. She said he would take care of him. But I don’t know where he went.” She sniffed and looked over to the woman on the floor. “I think she said the name ‘Wendell.’ And she told Victor he was rich. She was sort of whispering so I don’t know…that’s all I heard.”

Nedra wasn’t going to tell those people the whole truth—that Victor’s mother was dead because of her. When she’d heard the woman tell Bowman she had a gun, Nedra dared to lift the lid of the box to see if the coast was clear for her to come out. When she did, it surprised the woman and the preacher knocked the gun from her hand. Then he was choking her, and Nedra had jumped back into the box and closed the lid.

“I know where Victor went,” Sean said. He was back at Blair’s side, smoothing her hair and straightening her clothing. “This isn’t fair, Blair. You deserved so much better than this. We had you for too short a time.” He went to hold her hand and found it wrapped around her timepiece. Sean looked at the watch, felt the inscription on the back and read it.

“You never lost hope, darling. You did it. You saved your son, Blair.” He kissed her forehead. “I will always love you.”

Chapter 79

December, 1941

Chicago, Illinois

“I
will get you a horse, but not an auto,” Wendell said from behind his newspaper.

“C’mon, Wendell.”

He folded his newspaper and set it next to his plate of bacon and cinnamon bun, Victor’s favorite breakfast foods, so far untouched. “I am serious, Victor. You are much too young for an auto. But there is a wonderful horse farm not thirty minutes ride from the city. They have cottages for weekend stays and they will board and exercise your horse for you the rest of the time. They are a top-drawer operation. Their horses are very healthy. So, you c’mon, Victor. Let me get you a horse for your birthday, and we’ll spend Christmas on the horse farm.”

Victor wanted to sulk. But one look at Wendell, with the hope worn so clearly obvious on his kindly face, and he couldn’t. Here was a man who took in a fugitive kid—a killer of men who likely suffered mental impairments—with no more of a beefsteak than his mother’s name and the man’s calling card in his pocket. Wendell opened his home to Victor. And over the past few months, he had opened his heart to Victor, too. Wendell, who wanted to teach him a trade, who had made his mother immensely wealthy, wanted Victor’s permission to buy him a horse and take him on weekend holidays to celebrate his birthday.

He could not help but think of his mother at times like these. He pictured her watching him at that moment and wondered, would she be proud of him? He had made a promise to himself: he would do his best to live in a way that would make his parents proud, whether or not they would ever be made aware. Victor was pretty sure his mother would want him to defer to Wendell, maybe even treat him as his adoptive father. Wendell said they’d loved each other, and she had accepted his engagement ring. He looked up at Wendell through those incredibly long and dark eyelashes and nodded. Then he sat up straight in his chair and took a big bite of bacon. “Thank you, Wendell. No one has ever offered to buy me a horse before. It sounds like a swell present—and a swell Christmas.” He smiled and took a bite of cinnamon roll.