Dark Paradise (6 page)

“When is Dad coming home?”

“I don't know.”

“Did Sheriff Keyes call him?”

She lays strips of bacon into the skillet. Her eyes meet mine. “Mind your own business, Landry. What were you and Clarice doing in the hot tub?”

Old eagle eyes. So scary. I hide my shiver by sitting on a stool. The counter hides my hands as I rub the goose bumps rising on my arms. “I bruised my ribs while weight training. Clarice saw what happened and came over to see if I was okay.”

Mom nods. “She's a nice Christian girl.”

Nice, right.
I almost choke. Lainey would've busted up if she heard Mom say that. She hates…hated Clarice with a passion. She called Clarice a hypocrite. “Sweet on the outside, Satan's handmaiden on the inside.” They had a lot in common.

No. I can't think of Lainey like that anymore. She's dead.

Mom's focus returns to cooking breakfast. I'm not sure what to say to her. Should I try to get her to talk about what happened? I need Dad. He'll know what to say…to do next. Do I need to call the funeral home? Schedule a service? How long do we have to get everything ready? I have to tell him what happened so he can come home. He's only an hour away, but it feels like he's clear across the country. I creep out of the kitchen. My cell phone sits on the table by the door, and I punch in Dad's number. It only rings once before he picks up.

“What's going on, Landry?”

He's psychic like that. He can always sense when something's wrong.

“Dad—” My voice cracks, and the line goes silent. How do I put what happened into words? I try again. “Dad, you've got to come home. It's Lainey—”

Mom's fingernail scratches my cheek when she snatches my cell out of my hand. I press my palm against my stinging face. She throws the phone at the wall, then spins.

“Don't tell him a bunch of lies over the phone!” she shrieks, shoving me into the wall when I try to pick up the cell phone.

“Stop!” I yell, pushing her off. I barely touch her, but even laying hands on her that much sends a wave of guilt rushing through me. I pick the phone up. It's dead.
Crap! Did Dad hear?

Mom grabs my shirt in her balled-up fists. This time I don't fight her. She's so tiny; she's like a sparrow pecking at a raven. “Sheriff Keyes, he's an idiot. You know that. Right, son? He's never been the sharpest tool in the shed. Not even in high school.” She laughs, wrapping her arms around my waist and pressing her face into my shirt.

I hug her back. Her body trembles. She looks up at me with tears darkening her blue eyes. They look so much like Lainey's that my stomach twists.

Mom gives me a watery smile. “Don't worry.” She pats my cheek. “Sheriff Keyes made a mistake. I know you
feel
it too. It's not our Lainey's body. There's no way. It's someone else.”

I want to believe Mom. Maybe they did misidentify her. Who knows Lainey well enough to be one hundred percent positive except family?

“George said it's Lainey,” I say reluctantly. “He seemed pretty sure, and even if he made a mistake like that, the sheriff wouldn't back him on it. They said they took her to the coroner's office. Uncle Jay plans to do an autopsy.”

Mom sucks in a breath. Her wild eyes send me stumbling back. “I don't believe it. They have the wrong body. I'll prove it. We'll go see for ourselves. I'll prove they're wrong. It's not Lainey.”

M
y eyes feel sticky and dry and my vision hazy when I force open my eyelids. A slick, burnished brown cockroach the size of a half dollar crawls out of a crack in the wall and skitters across the underside of rusted pipes leading into the sink. I hate roaches. I can handle near 'bout every other critter found in the swamp, but roaches in my house turn me homicidal.

I stare at the hole it exited, planning to get the insecticide as soon as I figure out why I'm lying on the floor in the first place. More antennae wave at me from the mouth of the crack. A slender roach crawls out. Another follows behind, and another. The bodies scramble free in a flood of wiggling legs, scurrying down the walls directly toward my open mouth.

With a squeak of panic, I roll backward and bump into the legs of an African American soldier in tight green Vietnam-era camouflage BDUs. The man crouches beside me, fiddling with the bathroom door. I rise up onto an elbow, trying to see. He keeps shifting his heavy body into my line of sight to block his actions from me. I swing a fist at his thigh. It passes right through and out the other side.

I exhale the prayer in one breath. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for this sinner, now and at the hour of my death, amen.”

The helmeted head turns at my words. Hooded eyes, pitiless orbs of darkness, connect with mine. The intensity reflected within the ebony gaze mesmerizes me like a snake charmer entrances a cobra. And I learn how helpless the snake must feel, dancing to someone else's tune. Helpless.

Then he blinks and sets me free. “Ready?” he asks.

I shake my head. “For what?”

He points to the door, and the C4 molded into the lock. “Fire in the hole,” he yells, with a grin that stretches his face like rubber. He raises the detonator and presses the button.

The wave of flame engulfs his body, ripping him to pieces.

“No!” I scream. My arms wrap around my head to protect it from the chunks of meat and blood raining down on me. Cold rather than heat sucks the air from my lungs.

A deafening crash fills the room. My eyes pop open. The door vibrates and then swings wide with so much force the knob breaks a chunk of plaster out of the wall. I draw my knees up and fumble to pull the bath towel higher, but it's too late.

George strides into the bathroom with a look on his face that I've never seen before. Worry wars with fear. Then, when his eyes fall on me, they widen. “Oh, baby girl,” he whispers so softly that I barely hear the endearment.

He bends down and scoops me up like I weigh no more than a child. The top of my head fits perfectly beneath his chin. I press my ear against his chest. His heart races. The arms wrapped around my body squeeze me so tight I can barely breathe.

I shiver, gripping the towel against my breasts.

Mama hovers at his side. Her face has drained of color. Black lines from her mascara run down her cheeks. “Is she okay?”

“Ms. Jasmine, I need you to move back a bit.”

“What? Oh, sorry.” Mama stumbles back into the bedroom, twisting her hands together. “Is that blood on her head?”

“Yes, ma'am.” George lays me on the bed, pulls the blanket up to my chin, and tucks the edges under me so tight I can't move my arms. “Where's your medical supplies?”

Mama shakes her head.

George's mouth turns down at the corners. “She's freezing, probably in shock. Keep her covered while I get my first aid kit.” He pats my leg. “Will you be okay while I'm gone?”

I lick my lips then whisper, “I'll be fine.”

George hesitates. Indecision flickers across his face. I think he debates picking me up again and carrying me out to his car rather than leaving me alone in Mama's not-so-tender loving care. Finally, he mutters something about remembering to restock his medical supplies and leaves the room. My heart crawls after him.

“I need some water,” I say.

“I'll be right back. Don't move.” Mama runs from the room, and I gape after her in shock. She's never moved so fast to attend to me. Not even when I got pneumonia as a child and had been admitted to the hospital. She made me buzz a nurse whenever I needed a drink or help to the bathroom.

She returns in less than a minute holding out a glass of water. “Here, drink it fast.”

I take a large gulp, swallow half, and spit the rest across the bed, choking. “It's vodka!”

“Shh, of course,” Mama cries, glancing nervously toward the door. “That's why I said drink it fast. I don't want to get arrested for contributin' to the delinquency of a minor. Lord knows, I'm sick of goin' to jail for stupid shit.”

Tears sting my eyes, and my throat burns from the alcohol. “That's nasty. How can you drink it?”

“Tastes better with cranberry juice, but we don't have none. Feel better now? Warmer?”

“Yeah,” I drawl. “How'd you know it'd work?”

“Works for me in these situations.” She sits on the edge of the bed. “Drink up. I hear Georgie's big ol' feet crunching in the gravel. He'll be back in a couple of minutes.”

Frowning, I rub my eyes. My vision looks filmy, and my thoughts are sluggish. “Mama, what's he doing here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why's he in the house?”

She takes the glass from my hand then sticks her face close to mine, staring into my eyes. “Are you serious?”

I lift the blanket up and glance under the covers. Yep, it's worse than I thought. The towel lies at the foot of the bed. “Oh, hell, he saw me stark naked,” I choke. “How can I ever look him straight in the eyes again?”

“Did that knock to your head scramble your brain? Embarrassment is the least of your worries. Rather than bein' angry, you should be thankin' me for gettin' Georgie to break open that door.”

“But why, Mama? Last thing I remember, I'm taking a shower, and the next, Georgie's bursting into the bathroom.” I wrap the blanket around my nakedness and roll from the bed. “I don't want him seeing me like this again. Don't let him come in until I'm dressed.” I stagger toward the bathroom.

“Mala, don't you dare go back—”

I slam the door and lean against it to catch my breath from the dizziness that makes the room swim.

Mama's voice moves into the hall, and I hear the rumbled bass of Georgie's answer. They argue, too low for me to make out distinct words. Finally, another knock sounds on the door, and I open it wide enough to take the first aid kit from Mama, ignoring her protests, and close the door again. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, horrified. A trickle of blood has dried on the side of my face, and I wash it off. The shallow cut on my temple's all bark and no bite. It'll swell up into a formidable knot, but I can hide it beneath my hair.

“Pathetic. I look like I got dragged through the mud behind a pickup.”
And George saw me looking like this, ugh.

Since I don't have time to blow dry my hair, I towel dry it and put in some anti-frizz goop to deal with the muggy air. I even put on makeup and have to admit that while I usually don't pay a whole lot of attention to my appearance, I clean up well. I look polished and mature—maybe even beautiful in a Jessica Szohr kind of way once I slip into the low-cut, vibrant purple dress I'd hung over the shower bar to steam out the wrinkles, and sling-back heels.

Mama knocks on the door. “Bessie says it's time to go.”

I run out of the bathroom.

“Hold on, let me look at you.” Mama grabs my face and tilts my chin up. She stares into my eyes with a frown then roughly fingers the knot. “You sure you want to go? Be better if you stuck ice on that lump and rested.”

I wince and push her hand aside. “I'm fine. What's the big deal?”

“The fact that you don't remember what happened scares me.”

“Nothing happened.”

“Mala, I had to beg Dixie to get her to send George. You were locked in the bathroom for thirty minutes with me not knowing if you were dead or alive. So don't tell me nothin' happened. That's thirty minutes you scared off my already short life.”

Mama calls me hardheaded for good reason. A little bump won't keep me from making George squirm like a night crawler on a hook for treating me like an outcast at the crime scene.

“Well, I'm fine now. And Bessie's waiting.” I hug her and give her a kiss. “Stop fussing, it'll give you wrinkles. I've gotten worse lumps from falling out of trees.”

I try to pull back, but Mama's arms tighten. “Tell me what happened, Mala. Before you passed out—did you see anythin'
strange
?”

“No, I—”

“Try to remember. It's important or I wouldn't ask.”

“All I remember is getting out of the shower. I must've slipped and hit my head.” I stare at the velvet picture of Elvis Presley hanging over the fireplace mantel, trying to replay the last moments before everything went dark. My thoughts grow fuzzy, and my vision clouds. The vibrant baby blues of Elvis's eyes darken to cobalt, the shape elongating to tilt slightly at the corners.

The hairs on my arms rise, and I shiver. “It's cold, Mama, like ice running through my veins.”

“What else? Do you smell anything?”

“The swamp…the smell of decay,” I whisper, swaying in her embrace.

“Don't let go, baby.”

“I'm dizzy. My head's pounding.”

“I know. One last thing. What did you see?”

I'm whimpering. Tentatively, I probe the dark corner in my mind. The place that feels glossy, slick to the touch, like oil coating the top layer of water. I don't want to go deeper. I don't want to relive an experience that obviously scared the hell out of me the first time.

I raise a shaking hand to cover my eyes.

Mama shakes me so hard my neck snaps back. “Damn it, Mala. Why did you scream?”

Footsteps thump on the porch stairs.

“Stop, let me go!” I jerk her hands off of my shoulders. My head's pounding again, and I almost wish she snapped my neck.

“Wait, we need to talk about what's happening.” Her expression breaks my heart, but I learned how to cut off the hurt as a child. I lock away the guilt and toss the imaginary key out the window.

“No,
we
don't. I've got to go.” I throw open the front door, not wanting to make Bessie wait any longer. George stands on the porch instead, and my smile wilts as I snap, “Oh crap, it's you again.”

George stands flatfooted in my path.

“Move,” I say, edging around him and slamming the door closed behind me.

His eyes travel leisurely down the length of my body. “Mala, I—”

“Sorry about Mama dragging you from
your
crime scene. As you can see, I'm fine.” I slide my hands down across the slick silk clinging to my hips.

George's green eyes darken as his gaze follows my hands, and he licks his lips. “Yeah, you look real pretty…” He frowns and shakes his head. “Shouldn't you be in bed? You took a nasty fall. What if you have a concussion?”

Now he's acting all nice. If I'd knocked myself unconscious last night, would he have felt sorry enough to let me work the crime scene? I jerk my head aside and force my voice to sound cold, even though I feel hot, hot, steaming up…
whew, breathe, girl. Calm down.
“Thanks, but I don't need your ‘coddling' any more than you need mine.”

He stumbles when I brush past. “What? That's not—”

“Look, you made your feelings clear last night.” I exhale the heavy breath tightening my chest. I turn and start down the stairs.

George grabs my arm. “Hold on, Mala. You can't go flinging out accusations, then storm off without letting me defend myself. Hell, I'm not even altogether clear on what you're going on about.”

“Then maybe you are
incompetent
. 'Cause it's pretty obvious.” I snatch my arm away. My heels click loudly on the stairs as I stomp down them.
Idiot!

“Mala,” George yells back. “Tell me what I did.”

I spin around. “Nothing. You didn't do anything. And I'm fine. See”—I wave a hand down my body—“no lasting injuries. Mama scared the living daylights out of you, and you rescued me. Just don't assume I fell on purpose to get your attention.”

He digs his fingers into his hair. “I never—”

“Well then, good.” My face burns hot enough to go off like a Fourth of July firecracker. Colored sparkles flash before my eyes as I hurry across the lawn to the patrol car. Each step spears a clod of earth, and I wobble rather than storm gracefully over to the car.