Power to the Max (40 page)

She unlocked her door and sat on the first stair to open it. The sodden paper came away easily in her fingers. Yes, it was a jewel case, two of them, in fact. And a note, his style bold and without flourish.

He’d signed his name, then added a P.S. beneath.
These are the only copies.

She could believe him or not, her choice. Just as it was her choice to reveal the video to Julia, to apologize for believing her a killer.

The climb to the top of the stairs was almost more than she could manage. Her clothes ended up scattered across the floor. She could do no more than tumble into her bed, nightshirt forgotten, skin naked against the sheets. Closing her eyes, she listened for the sound of Buzzard climbing through the open window. She lay silent, waiting for him as he licked first one paw, then the other, turned in circles, and finally settled down against her belly. Rituals, every one needed them, even cats.

Though the rain had stopped, water still dripped through the trees and onto the roof. She smelled Cameron first, peppermints fresh as the rain-washed air. Closing her eyes, she felt him wrap his arms around her as if they were real, felt his breath against her neck as if he had a body to breathe with.

“I condemned her, and I made Witt her executioner.”

“She died the day she killed Lance. It was only a matter of time before her body finally gave up the ghost.”

“Horace said Witt would kill for me. And I made him do it. I was so stupid.”

“You trusted her, Max. You believed in her. Perhaps that’s why you didn’t have to utilize your psychic gifts as much this time. You understood why she did what she did, but you were terrified of finding out she could also kill him.” He sighed, a breath in her ear. “That wasn’t stupid. It was the most important thing you’ve done in two years. You trusted, Max. Understand that and forgive yourself.”

Her nose tingled. She sniffed to stop it.

“Trust Witt to forgive you.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them to stare at the little toy truck Witt had given her for her birthday. The one they’d played with using their bodies as racetracks. “I think I loved her,” she whispered, knowing Cameron would understand she was talking about something far more than sex or romantic love. “But sometimes people do things you can’t forgive. Or forget.”

“You don’t want to forget, Max. Not about anything. Remembering gives you the chance to understand that even beautiful people, people you love, even they have a dark side you could never imagine. And they do horrible things.” Silence, long enough to let it sink in. “But you love them anyway.”

She didn’t open her lips to say it, knowing the words couldn’t be said aloud. Not yet. Not this first time. They had to be transmitted telepathically, from her mind to his.

“Throwing my cigarettes down the garbage disposal wasn’t the only thing you’ve blamed yourself for, was it, my love?”

Cameron had gone to the 7-11 for another pack. He’d died. But no, that hadn’t been her worst sin.

“Angela and I were sisters at thirteen,” she said as if it could somehow replace what she couldn’t say aloud.

“You were a child at thirteen, so was she.”

Thirteen. The turning point in a girl’s life. Where she either becomes a woman, or a monster. Thirteen. The point of no return. The point at which you could become a person who chewed cigarettes up with maniacal force, who sent her husband to his death. A person capable of killing innocence.

“Good people do bad things. Sometimes they’re forced to.”

A breath jerked in, out, then she settled. “Then they aren’t really good people after all.”

“Witt killed Angela.” He said it, left the sentence hanging inside her head.

“Angela killed Lance,” he added when she couldn’t seem to allow a thought to form in her head. “And you killed...” He didn’t finish, as if he knew she couldn’t survive the spoken word.

She stared at the truck until it blurred. “I can’t say it, Cameron.”

“And I can’t say it for you.”

She chewed her bottom lip until she tasted blood.

“Are you all going to hell for the killings you’ve done?” Cameron asked, using his district attorney voice.

“Not Witt.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s good, and he had to do it to save me. He couldn’t let me die. It’s not in his nature.”

“And Angela?”

“No.” She didn’t wait for him to ask why. “Because her father, the one who should have protected her, committed terrible crimes against her and made her do unforgivable things. Because Lance would have done the same to her.” Because Angela hadn’t needed a flashback. The memory of those closed fists and the torments that might lay inside them had lived inside her until the moment she died. Just as the memory of what she’d done when she was thirteen never died, never ceased, never eased. Like Max’s memories that lay buried inside her, buried but clawing their way up through the dirt.

“Good people do bad things.” Cameron paused for a heartbeat. “But they are still good people.”

She sucked in air. “Yes, they are.”

“Even you?”

One small drop of moisture leaked from the corner of her eye.

“Yes. Even me.”

“Then trust him to forgive you, too.”

* * * * *

Every thought has a time and place. The next morning was not the time to think about Witt or about asking forgiveness. It was about completing the circle Bud Traynor had started.

Max pulled in behind Baxter Newton’s Z4 parked in Julia La Russa’s overwhelming driveway. She hesitated. Giving back the video in front of Julia’s father hadn’t been her intention. It was Julia’s right to discuss it with him, or not as she chose. Sometimes, things were better left unsaid, even if both parties knew the real score.

Max’s choice was taken from her as the door opened before she’d even walked two steps from her car. Julia stood on the porch.

“We’ve been expecting you.” Julia waved her up the stairs.

How? Had Traynor called to say he’d given his disks up to Max? She tucked the two jewel cases beneath her arm and went to meet Julia.

The woman touched her elbow, as if to help her in, to show her she was welcome. Or perhaps to touch the last person who had seen Angela alive.

“I’m assuming you’ve heard,” Max began.

“Yes.” Julia didn’t need her to finish. She was no longer puffy-eyed or disoriented. She was the Julia Max had met that first day, her emotions tucked neatly beneath perfectly coifed hair, a benign smile, black slacks, and a peach blouse.

A peach blouse, not a mourning color. Julia caught her glance and read her thoughts. “Too much has happened to keep up appearances.”

Max wondered if that had a double meaning.

Julia showed her into the same huge sunroom in which Max met Baxter the day Bud brought her here. They crossed the long expanse of wood and carpet to where Baxter poured tea. His eyes widened slightly at the disks Max held beneath her arm. It was not a look of questioning; it was one of knowledge and consideration.

As she’d thought, the tape was what Bud Traynor had held over Baxter’s head, and Julia’s father now wondered what Max planned to do with it.

“Please sit.” Julia spoke. Baxter indicated the chair Max should take.

She saw their resemblance to each other now. It was in the eyes, mirroring each other, not only in color, but also in the same tense looks flashing between them. Beneath the gracious tones, the furtive glances kept Max on her toes.

She wasn’t here to accuse or castigate. Turning to Julia, she admitted one of her lies. “I didn’t tell the police Angela said you were there that night.”

night. They all knew what night. Julia stirred sugar into her tea. Baxter handed her the creamer. A tabby cat lay in the sun at Baxter’s feet, its paws twitching as if it dreamed.

“Thank you for that,” Julia murmured. “But your gesture didn’t matter in the end.”

Baxter continued where Julia left off. “Apparently there was a witness who saw Julia come and go.” He paused. “And saw Angela leave after my daughter.”

A witness. It could only be Hammerhead, coming forward after Angela died. Or perhaps Witt had told the police about the goings-on at the Embassy, and they’d put two and two together.

“I believe this witness confirmed that Angela had blood on her clothes and person.” Julia had such a civilized way of putting things, but her expressive brown eyes couldn’t hide a touch of moisture, a taste of pain.

Max offered the only comfort she had. “She loved you, Julia, very much, despite everything.” There, it was out, the dreaded secret. Max was sure neither had spoken of it aloud before.

What had been a light mist in Julia’s eyes now became a single tear. With his gaze, Baxter tracked its progress down Julia’s cheek.

Max’s admissions went on. “It was me that thought you killed Lance. Angela insisted you wouldn’t.”

Julia touched the tear on her cheek. “Only because she knew the truth.”

Max leaned forward, stretched, but missed reaching Julia’s knee. “No. She didn’t say
couldn’t
. She said
wouldn’t
.” Max wasn’t sure the distinction had been made, but Angela hadn’t believed Julia was a woman capable of bad things.

“I went to see her yesterday to tell her that I’d seen you at the Embassy,” Max went on, “that I thought you might want to finish what you’d started in your office. I was afraid for her.”

Julia closed her eyes, squeezed them tightly shut for a moment. “I was afraid for her, too. I went to see her, to...” She shrugged eloquently. “When I heard Lance had been killed, I didn’t want to believe Angela could have done it, but...” But Angela had. Julia took a deep steadying breath. “I went to see her to get her to turn herself in.”

Exactly what Angela said regarding Julia.

“What happened?”

“She was otherwise ... occupied. I realized that what Lance said was true. She was paid to do what she did.”

Max said nothing. What could she say? That Angela would have done it all for free because she liked helping people. It sounded pathetic in the light of all the things Angela had done. Sometimes the truth was pathetic.

“Do you want me to tell you about the night Lance died?” Julia didn’t refer to it as the night Angela killed him.

Max nodded.

Baxter put a hand out. “Please don’t, Julia—”

Julia cut him off. “No. Let’s tell the truth.” She looked Max squarely in the eye. “I found them together. Even with that hideously beautiful mask, I knew it was her.” She dragged in a breath, tea moving infinitesimally in the cup she cradled on her lap.

“What did you say to her?” What were the words that had cut Angela so badly she couldn’t repeat them?

“I said she was like him, that they deserved each other.”

Like him; Lance, a user, a tormentor. Lance, who was like Angela’s father. Julia couldn’t have found a worse thing to say, on the heels of Lance’s mistake with his fists full of so-called gifts. Had Angela started thinking of her father once more?

Max placed the jewel cases on the glass table next to the set of fine bone china.

Julia sniffled, touched her napkin to her nose, composed herself. “What’s that?”

Julia didn’t know about this final insult.

Max turned to Baxter, his eyes invisible in the glare of the sun on his glasses. “Are you going to tell her?”

“I was in the building across the street that night, Julia, the one across the street.” Baxter’s lips tensed as Julia turned limpid eyes on him. “That bastard took me there.”

“Bud Traynor,” Julia and Max said in unison.

“He played me that video of you and...” His fingers, instead of pointing, shredded his paper napkin.