Last Kiss Goodbye (9 page)

God, he understood about nightmares. He might be out of prison, but the sins he’d committed inside would dog him forever. The very reason he slept with the window open. With a knife. With his face toward the door.

Never turn your back or you might be attacked. Or worse…

Ivy reached up and traced a finger along the edge of his scar, and his breath hissed between clenched teeth. Emotions crowded his chest—anger begging for release, but a tenderness tugged at him, too, one he hadn’t felt in so long he thought that side of him had died.

“Does it hurt?” she whispered.

Every damn minute of every day, he wanted to say. But pain had become his friend, reminding him he was alive. Still, her concern touched him, made the pain recede momentarily. The back of his throat burned. Jesus Christ, he felt as if he might actually get choked up. Big ugly tough men like him did not get emotional. They learned to channel their feelings into productive ones like anger. Revenge.

So he lied.

“No.”

She stroked his cheek again, and moistened her lips with her tongue, drawing his eyes to the erotic movement. Heat engulfed his body. Need and hunger speared through him, a craving to be closer to her that nearly made his knees buckle.

He had to walk away before he made a fool of himself. There was no changing the man he’d become, a bitter fighter, not a lover.

And while he’d do his damnedest to keep her safe, loving her in any way was not an option.

TOMMY WERTH’S TEMPLES throbbed as if a hammer were beating against his skull. His stomach cramped in response, and he thought for a minute he was going to puke. Throwing off the covers, he tried to sit up, but the room swayed. He was so dizzy he flopped back down, but that movement sent his stomach into another spin cycle. The pounding grew louder, and through the blurry haze of his mind, he realized someone was really banging at the door.

Yanking his boxers up and tugging his Metallica T-shirt down over his growling belly, he scrubbed a hand over his face, peered through bleary eyes at the clock. It was the middle of the night. Who the fuck was bothering him? One of his buddies…

No, Trash and Ace would just crawl through the window.

The hammering sound continued. He cursed again. The only way to stop the noise was to answer the damn door. Head threatening to explode, he stood, grabbed the door edge for support, then wobbled through his dark bedroom. He fumbled for the switch, then flipped on a lamp and winced as bright light pierced his eyes. He blinked furiously, then lurched forward and leaned against the door. “Who is it?”

“Sheriff Boles, Tommy. I need to talk to you.”

Panic zinged through him. Shit. Shit. Shit. What the hell was the sheriff doing here?

The night before rolled through his mind like a movie trailer. He’d come home and gotten drunk. All that beer. Man, it had been good. But what had happened before?

Geez…his mother.

No. No. No. They couldn’t have found her yet. He’d buried her too deep. He had to calm down. Act cool.

“Tommy, open up,” the loud voice boomed. “Now.”

The sheriff’s commanding voice intensified the pain in Tommy’s head. He had to run. Get away. But where could he hide? The cellar? The attic?

No, hiding would make him look guilty. Maybe they hadn’t found the old hag, after all. Maybe they were only looking for her. But who would have reported her missing? She didn’t have many friends.

“Tommy, open the door or I’m going to open it.”

No time to run. To think. To escape. Had to face him. Lie if he had to.

He fidgeted with the doorknob, then yanked at the wood. It was swollen from the rain, but finally screeched open. “Sorry, Sheriff, I was asleep.”

His bleary eyes latched onto the sheriff’s badge, and he took a step back, staggering slightly.

“You okay, Tommy? You don’t look so well.”

“I…got the flu or something.”

“Or something.” The sheriff stepped inside, sniffed, then glared down at him. “What you have is a hangover.”

Tommy shrugged and clutched at his stomach. “Yeah, well, I’m nearly eighteen.”

“You’re sixteen and underage,” Sheriff Boles stated.

“Look, Sheriff, it’s not like I’m out driving or anything. I wasn’t bothering anyone here in my own house.”

“Have you been here all night?”

Was he trying to trip him up? “Yeah.” Tommy gestured toward his mother’s fancy white couch, littered with bags of chips, a half-eaten frozen pizza he’d fixed, and a dozen empty beer cans that smelled sour. “My mom was out, so I had a little party.”

“By yourself?”

Once again panic clawed at his stomach, but he refused to puke in front of this man, who would probably laugh his ass off. Tommy had heard the sheriff could drink almost anyone in the town under the table at the Ole Peculiar.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Why hadn’t he called someone over last night? Then he would at least have an alibi.

“Were you alone, Tommy?”

“Yeah.” He swallowed down the bile in his throat. Better not say too much. Keep quiet or he’d give something away.

“What were you celebrating?” the sheriff asked.

Tommy shifted on his feet, rubbed a hand over the emblem on his T-shirt. “Listen, Sheriff, give me a break. I’m sure you knocked back a few when you were my age, too, didn’t you?”

Boles’s thick mouth flattened at that comment. Score one for Tommy.

“What’d you stop by for?” he asked. “Did you need to see my mother?”

Sheriff Boles’s eyes turned somber, his mouth thinning into a flat line. “Actually, that’s the reason I’m here. I have some bad news for you, Tommy.”

Tommy braced himself to act dutifully shocked and upset.

“We found your mother’s body.” Boles hesitated, looking grim. “I’m afraid she’s dead.”

The memory of the blood squirting from her body flashed back, like ketchup spewing from a broken bottle. Other moments of the night before bombarded him. Her shrill scream that had pierced the black night. The smell of her urinating on herself.

His mouth fought a smile, but his stomach protested. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea if he got sick in front of the sheriff. It might be a nice touch. Make him appear to be the grieving, shocked son. Somebody who gave a damn.

He made a choking sound, half crying, half sick, then ran to the bathroom, dropped down and emptied his stomach. The sheriff’s boots clattered on the cold linoleum floor. Seconds later, he appeared, doused a washcloth in cold water and handed it to Tommy.

Sweat poured off his face and neck, and his hands were shaking. He even managed to choke out a few tears. Then he accepted the cloth, leaned over the toilet again, pressed it over his face and moaned.

Behind the washcloth, he finally allowed himself to smile. He was a pretty good actor, if he did say so himself.

IVY TRIED TO SHUT OUT the images of blood and violence, but they taunted her, anyway, following her into the shadows of night as she prepared for bed. She still didn’t have a good read on Sheriff Boles. One minute he’d acted friendly to her, the next he’d practically told her to heed that bloody warning.

She slipped on a long-sleeved nightshirt, still shivering from the chill in the room. The old-fashioned, brown paneled walls added another layer of darkness to the cabin, and the wind howled through the wooden cracks like an injured wild animal. If it wasn’t so late, she’d turn on the gas logs in the fireplace to warm the room, but going to bed with them burning didn’t seem like a wise idea. These cabins had been built years ago; the aging wood and faded carpet testified to the fact that things might be in disrepair.

Not willing to take a chance, she grabbed an extra blanket from the closet, tugged on wool socks and set the teakettle on the stove. Better keep to the rituals.

Tea. Read a few minutes. Listen to some soft jazz music. Then maybe she would fall asleep sometime before morning.

The tea made, she brought her laptop to bed, then decided to do a little more research on the town and its history to wind down.

Curious, she accessed the local paper’s archives, starting with her parents’ deaths. A photo of her had appeared in one of the papers, clinging to that muddy Santa, her clothes hanging on her skinny young body, as a social worker carted her away.

Eight-year-old Ivy Stanton, thought to have possibly witnessed the brutal murder of her parents, is temporarily placed in foster care. Sources report that she has undergone a psychiatric evaluation. Doctors report that if she did witness the murders, she’s repressed the memories. Whether or not she will ever recall the events of that night remains a mystery.

Ivy pulled the photos of the crime scene she’d managed to obtain from an investigator from her briefcase. She had seen the photos but never really studied them before. The stark, black-and-white pictures showed her mother’s dead, bloody body sprawled on the cheap linoleum floor of their trailer. Her hand had been outstretched as if reaching for something. Maybe for Ivy. Maybe for a weapon to defend herself. Or for help.

Blood had pooled around her head and chest, a river of brown that had spread under the table. Her head lay at an odd angle, her dress was tattered and shoved up around her knees, and one high heel was missing. Her mother had always liked shoes, especially heels. Ivy had loved playing dress-up in them, wobbling and trying to walk like a model.

She forced herself to read the article, nearly choking as the reporter hinted that her mother might have been killed by a jealous lover. He’d also alluded to the fact that she had once been a waitress at the local honky-tonk and that the men liked her.

The gossip in town echoed in Ivy’s head—
that Stanton woman was a slut.

Ivy chewed her lip. Had her mother had a lover?

She certainly was beautiful. Her golden hair matched Ivy’s, although her mother had been taller and full-figured. And her eyes were brown, like hot cocoa, Ivy remembered, not green. She’d been warm and laughing—that is, when her husband hadn’t been around.

No, her mother hadn’t been a slut. She couldn’t have been. She stayed home with Ivy, met her at the school bus every day, baked homemade chocolate chip cookies for her in the afternoon and helped her with her homework.

An animal growled outside, and Ivy rose and peered through the window into the woods. Tall trees swayed, sending rain splattering on the muddy ground, leaves and twigs. A small pinpoint of light moved behind a tree—maybe from a cigarette or lighter? The growl of the animal grew louder. Closer. A mountain lion? Or a bear, maybe? Did they inhabit this part of Appalachia? Did they come this close to the cabins?

The light moved again, and panic slammed into her. Was the person who’d left that bloody message out there, watching her from the woods?

CHAPTER SIX

MATT TOSSED AND TURNED, unable to sleep for thinking about Ivy. Wondering if she was okay. If she’d been too shaken to rest.

Dammit. He wasn’t supposed to worry about her. He had only one purpose here in town and that was to find the person who’d framed him for murder. Once that individual was punished, Matt would leave this godforsaken town forever.

Throwing the covers aside, he walked to the table and spread out the transcript files of his trial. He slumped down and read through the pages again, searching for any clue as to how he could have saved himself. His lawyer hadn’t committed any serious infractions; he simply hadn’t built a defense. He definitely should have put Matt on the stand, but he’d reasoned that Matt’s angry attitude would hurt his case. Maybe he’d been right.

Or maybe someone on that jury would have seen through to the frightened boy underneath the tough facade.

Hell, it didn’t matter. What was done was done. All that mattered now was righting that wrong. And exacting revenge. Matt had to harness the drive that had helped him survive prison.

Turning back to the task, he studied the list of witnesses for the prosecution. Randy Putnam, the owner of the local hardware store back then, had testified that he’d caught Matt trying to lift a tool set once. The principal at the high school had added that he’d been truant, had caused fights in school, had an explosive temper and was rebellious toward adults. Old man Dayton had testified that he’d seen Matt stealing car parts from the junkyard, which the D.A. had gladly used to crucify him. The entire case hinged on suppositions that Matt had gotten caught stealing and had killed Stanton. Of course, he’d waffled slightly on Matt’s motive for killing Mrs. Stanton.

But his own mother had erased any lingering doubt about his guilt when she’d admitted on the stand that he’d fought with his father all the time. That he’d beaten him with a bat once. And another time, he’d challenged him with a pocketknife.

He
had
hit the old man, but only to stop him from beating on his mother. But had she mentioned that detail? No. The woman had covered for his old man’s ass so many times Matt had lost count. Then his father had run off and left her high and dry, with nothing.

During the trial, Matt had heard gossip that some people thought he might have even killed his old man. But Matt had been eleven when his father had left town. Although if Jerry Mahoney had stayed around and continued his abusive ways, Matt probably would have murdered him. Then he would have ended up in jail, anyway. But at least he would have had the satisfaction of killing the bastard first.

You have killed since.

But only in self-defense.

Did it really matter? He had taken another man’s life….

Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his face. He swiped at the moisture, desperate to wipe away the ugly memories, as well. The sheriff then, Larry Lumbar, had described the bloody scene at Ivy’s trailer and displayed samples of fingerprints matching Matt’s. His boot prints were shown, as well. Matt had no alibi. A.J. had claimed he’d been home with his daddy. Matt’s mother had admitted that he hadn’t come home all night.

No other suspects were even considered. No one had thought to investigate the Stantons’ personal lives. The couple had had no money to steal, so robbery couldn’t have been a motive.

Only meanness could, Lumbar had stated. Meanness that came from the likes of out-of-control teenagers like Matt. The sheriff had even commented that he’d never had kids for fear they’d turn out like Matt.

Matt frowned. If he had a son, would the child turn out to be a hellion like he had been? Matt shook off the ridiculous thought, wondering where it had come from. He’d long ago given up illusions of marriage or a family. Maybe aggression did run in the family. Maybe the Mahoney genes were completely skewed with violent tendencies.

No, the best he could hope for was a good job, to become a lawyer.

Weary and frustrated, he stood and paced across the cold room. Tomorrow he’d start probing around town. Find out who might have had a motive for killing the Stantons.

He’d talk to Ivy. See if she remembered anything else.

He crossed the small, dusty room and glanced through the fog-coated window toward her cabin. The image of her frightened green eyes haunted him. The way she’d cowered from him one minute, then touched his cheek so gently the next. Was she sleeping peacefully in the cabin next door? Or was she haunted by nightmares just as he was?

Ivy thought remembering them would make them go away.

But would it, or would it only put her in more danger?

SHE WAS RUNNING through the graveyard, weaving in and out of the maze of tall tombstones. Blood streaked one stone monument, words scrawled in brown letters that said death was coming. The monster was right behind her. Clawing at her feet. Trying to drag her down into the ground. The earth opened up in front of her, an empty black hole. Two hands reached for her, pulling at her ankles….

She screamed and pumped her legs harder. Her muscles cramped. A shrill sound pierced the air. Mutilated chickens dropped from the sky in front of her. A skeleton rolled across the ground, brittle bones turned to ashes. Empty eye sockets stared.

Her mother’s…

No…

Then her father ran toward her, his hands stretched out, fists waving. But this time she held a knife. He panted, coming closer, the scent of his foul breath on her face. She lifted the knife and plunged it into his chest….

IVY JERKED AWAKE, TREMBLING and hugging the covers to her as she searched the shadow-filled room. Had she heard a scream, or had it been her own? And in her dream…had she killed her father?

Could that be possible? She’d only been eight, but still…

The piercing sound filled the room again, and she realized it was her cell phone. George Riddon had called right when she’d gotten in bed, but she’d let her voice mail pick it up. But she couldn’t keep avoiding him. They had to discuss work. “Hello?”

“Ivy?”

“George?”

“Yeah, it’s me. I…wanted to see if you were okay. You didn’t answer your phone last night.”

“I’m sorry, George. I was so tired I collapsed into bed.”

“Ivy, what’s going on?” He sounded agitated now. “You’re not sleeping well again, are you? Did you have another nightmare?”

“Yes,” she admitted as she ran fingers through her tangled hair, trying to unwind the knots. “But I’m fine now.”

“You want to talk about it?” His tone softened from businesslike to personal.

“No. I…I’m okay.” She had to change the subject, steer them back to a safer topic—work. “I’ve gathered some notes on a few of the legends. I’ll e-mail them to you when we hang up. And I’ve already snapped some photographs for the spread.”

“Great. Are you about ready to wrap it up and come home?”

“No. I want to get photos of the hollow itself, and there’s a small church called the Chapel of Forever I intend to include. An interesting lady named Lady Bella Rue lives on the outskirts of town. Everyone says she practices hoodoo. Let me talk to her, and I can add a special segment on black magic.”

“Sounds like the piece is coming along. When do you think you’ll be back in Chattanooga?”

Ivy stood and walked to the window, then pushed the curtain aside and peered through the glass. Darkness still bathed the woods, a storm filling the sky with mottled gray clouds. The bloody warning registered in her mind again, then Matt Mahoney’s troubled eyes. The scar on his face. The invisible ones that he couldn’t hide.

“I don’t know, George. Maybe another week.”

“That long? Gosh, Ivy, I miss you. I could come and help so you can finish sooner.”

In the distance, sunlight fought to break through the clouds. But more rain rolled above the mountaintops. “George, I thought I explained that I need to be alone here so I can deal with my past. And there are stories about evil happening when it rains. I might be able to do something with that.”

A long tense silence followed, but Ivy was too busy watching Matt walk outside his cabin to fill it with chatter. He was shirtless, his broad chest peppered with dark hair, the muscles in his arms enormous. He scratched at his chin where thick beard stubble grew, and glanced at her cabin. For a moment, she felt as if he was looking at her, as if he saw her in her nightgown through the window. Her skin tingled and burned, a warm feeling pooling in her stomach as if he’d touched her.

“Listen,” George said, sounding concerned as he broke the quiet, “I wouldn’t be in the way. I only want to help you, be with you, Ivy.”

Guilt at the way she’d put him off surfaced, but she glanced at Matt again and tamped it down. She’d never misled George. “No, George, I really need to do this by myself. Please try to understand.”

“Let me support you, be a friend. That’s all I’m asking for now.”

But he did want more, and they both knew it. Undertones of the truth reverberated in the hurt tone in his voice.

“I wish you could let the past go,” he finally murmured. “I don’t want to see you suffer anymore, Ivy. It hurts me to watch you in pain.”

More guilt assailed her. But George needed to accept that a romantic relationship between them was never going to happen. And if he continued to push her, she might have to sever their business relationship, as well.

EILEEN MAHONEY WAS ABOUT to go out of her mind, and now her oldest boy was back to tip her over the edge the rest of the way. She put a kettle on for coffee, then hurried to the bathroom for her morning rituals. The day she’d seen that TV broadcast of her son being released, she’d known there would be hell to pay. She’d fretted for a whole week, expecting him at every turn. And sure enough, on that seventh day, he’d come knocking on the door, waving that piece of paper just like he was somebody she ought to listen to.

As if he hadn’t shamed her enough fifteen years ago.

As if she hadn’t sacrificed her heart, her soul and sanity already to try and save him.

But in the end, nothing had made a difference.

Now he had to show his sorry face and stir up trouble again. What had happened to her young’uns to make ’em all turn out so rotten? First, Matt being mean as a snake when he was little, fighting with his daddy ever whichaway and that. Then getting arrested for stealing. Then getting locked up for butchering the Stantons. It was a wonder he hadn’t knocked up some poor girl and left Eileen with a bastard grandbaby to raise.

And her other two—Benji and Robbie… Land sakes alive, they had about done her in. She’d thought that when Benji got accused of killing that kid and disappeared, the Lord would spare her any more pain. And when Robbie had joined the service, she’d actually believed one of her boys might do her proud. Then he’d gone missing… AWOL, they said.

It was a wonder she wasn’t in the crazy house, like old Miss Mazy, who pulled all her hair out when her boy turned bad and shot his sister last year.

Another month of rain.

Lord help, would it ever stop?

She swiped a washcloth across her face, nearly jumping out of her skin when she heard a knock on the front door. What if he’d come back again? She might have to call the law.

Hands shaking like Ms. Hattie once did with the palsy, she tugged her tattered housecoat around her shoulders, then peered out the window. No way would she open the door to the likes of her son, not when she was alone. But the sheriff’s patrol car sat in her drive, pretty as you please. Maybe he’d come to tell her that he’d locked Matt back up again, and she wouldn’t have to worry about him for another few years. By then, she’d probably be in her grave, anyway. God willing, she was ready anytime. But she didn’t want the rest of the town gossiping that her boy had killed her.

“I know’d that mean Matt Mahoney would murder her one day,” Ms. Hattie would say.

“How’d he do it? Butcher knife?” someone else would ask.

“Heard tell he locked her in the trunk of the car, drove it in the kudzu pit and left her there to suffocate.”

No, sirree. The Mahoneys had fed the town grapevine plenty as it was. And there were still some secrets they didn’t know. Some they never would….

The knock sounded again, and she rolled her shoulders to ease the knot of tension as she tottered to the front door and unlocked it. Mercy, her knees were killing her this morning. That rain drove her arthritis plumb crazy.

“Morning, Mrs. Mahoney.”

Sheriff Boles tipped his hat, and she smirked. He acted like he was important these days, but she remembered when he’d been nothin’ but trouble hisself.

“I hate to bother you so early, but I have to ask you a couple of questions.”

She held him at the door, refusing him entrance. It wasn’t proper, her not being dressed. She wasn’t like those whores down on Red Row. “If this is about that boy of mine, I know he’s back in town.”

“Then he did drive out here last night?”

She nodded, clutching her housecoat to her neck. “Why? Did he do something again?”

The sheriff shrugged and glanced across the front yard. “What time was he here?”

“About dark. But I didn’t let him in.”

“Do you know where he was going when he left?”

She shook her head. “What’s going on, A.J.?”

He tilted his head, his hat shading his eyes. She’d never quite trusted A.J. Back in high school, all the no-account boys had worn their hats pulled down to hide their eyes ’cause they was stoned. A.J. still wore his hat thataway.

“Dora Leigh Werth was murdered last night. We found her body in the junkyard, under the kudzu.”

Eileen swallowed, fingernails clasping the housecoat again. “I know’d when he come back they’d be trouble. But why in God’s name would he kill old Dora Leigh?”

“I TOLD YOU, I HAD no reason to kill Dora Leigh Werth,” Matt said. Although he wasn’t surprised to find A.J. on his doorstep at breakfast, already wielding accusations. “I didn’t even know the woman.”

“Then how can you explain the fact that she was murdered last night, only hours after you arrived back in town?” A.J. asked. “And she was stabbed in the back with a kitchen knife. Then strangled by the kudzu and left in the junkyard.”