Safe from Harm (9781101619629) (34 page)

Not me. I wasn't amused. I had never in my life seen a woman behave that way, and keep in mind that as a University of Texas football player, I had, in my days, dated a good number of Zeta sorority girls. But, my word—nobody like Sue Ellen Smith.

“You're gonna arrest
me
, but not
him
.” She tipped her head toward the room where the two helpful orderlies were moving Mark to a gurney. His doctor was very cross about having to reset that collarbone.

Wanderley hesitated. “What would you have me arrest him on?” The orderlies wheeled Mark to the door. “Hey, Craig, let's move on down the hall so Sue Ellen here isn't tempted to add to her list of violations.”

“You're not going to arrest him for murdering my sister?” She yanked herself away from Officer Khan. He'd been unprepared, let her go, and because her feet were bound together, she fell into Officer Craig. They would have both fallen to the ground if one of the passing orderlies hadn't grabbed Sue Ellen's elbow and steadied her. Once she was on her feet, the orderly slipped a card into her jeans pocket.

“When this mess is over, you give me a call. I like feisty women.” He winked and went on down the hall. Sue Ellen and I both watched him go with open mouths.

“Do you have proof that Mark Pickersley murdered your sister?” Wanderley sounded hopeful, but I could have been reading that into his tone of voice.

“I have the good sense God gave a goose!” Sue Ellen hadn't thought through her last sentence.

“I don't doubt that, Ms. Smythe—”

“Smith.”

“But if you have evidence that your brother-in-law murdered your sister, the thing to do would have been to call the police. Nine-one-one? You can still do that. You have a ride ahead of you with Officer Craig and Khan. They'll be glad to hear anything you have to tell them and they will report to me.”

“Let's see what the autopsy finds out,” Sue Ellen countered. I'd say she spat the words out, but I'd seen real spitting in action from the woman.

Wanderley gave a regretful sigh. “Unless Mark Pickersley requests an autopsy, there's not going to be one. There isn't any question about the cause of death. You sister had a history of allergic reaction to fish, Mark says there was tuna fish at the picnic, and your sister apparently displayed all the signs of anaphylaxis. There was no indication of a struggle or altercation.”

“And you believe that? You must have a baboon's bottom instead of a brain.”

Big grin from Wanderley. “That's a colorful turn of phrase, Sue Ellen. I hope you won't mind if I borrow it. There are so many occasions when I'd find it useful.”

“Where was her EpiPen? Huh? She always carried an EpiPen in her purse. She's done it for years.”

“I don't know. Maybe it fell out. Maybe she changed purses and forgot to switch the EpiPen over to the new purse.”

“How do you know Mark didn't take her EpiPen away from her? Fling it off over in the woods? How do you know he didn't trick her into eating that tuna fish sandwich?”

“I don't know. It's possible he did just that. But, Ms. Smith, how do
you
know he did? Because in America, we don't arrest people on suspicion. We arrest them when we have evidence. I don't have any evidence here.” Wanderley put his hands in his pockets. “I'm going to let these officers escort you downstairs, now. I'm sorry for your loss. I am. But if bereaved people were allowed to attack any and all, funeral homes would have to install wrestling rings.” He leaned in close to her. “Normally I would have cut you some slack—I'm not happy with Mark Pickersley, either. But spitting? That's nasty. That's a no-no.”

•   •   •

Wanderley and I walked out to the parking lot together. It was evening and a cold front had come in while we were in the hospital. I can remember when the night sky in Sugar Land was blanketed with glittering stars. Now, between the mall and theater and hospital, and the hundreds of new homes that had been built since I was a kid, the sky was bright with neon light and the stars had receded. It's handy having the mall and hospital so close. But I do miss the stars.

Wanderley beeped his car and pulled out a coat. He shut the door to the car and shrugged on a long, camel-hair coat that looked like it was from the fifties. It smelled of pipe smoke. This would be another of his grandfather's hand-me-downs.

“James,” I said, “do you think Mark Pickersley killed his wife?”

He laughed mirthlessly. “Oh, yeah. Definitely. We're not going to be able to touch him for it, though. We couldn't touch Liz for what she did, and unless Pickersley did something really stupid—like if, when I look into it, I find out his cell phone isn't broken and he hasn't ordered a new one—if he hasn't made a mistake like that, then your God is going to have to handle this one. Probably even if he did make a mistake. That happens sometimes.”

“You don't think it could have all happened the way he said it did?”

Wanderley rested a booted foot on his bumper.

“It could have. But I don't see a loving husband bringing a tuna salad sandwich on a picnic with a wife who is allergic to seafood. I mean, tuna salad and chicken salad do look the same. But we don't convict men for not being loving husbands.

“And I could see the EpiPen somehow getting left behind. The car accident? Even a cold-blooded man could be shaken at the sight of a person having an allergic reaction like that. They're bad, I've seen it—we had a prisoner once try to commit suicide via peanut butter sandwich. We got epinephrine in him before he could die, but it was close. It happens fast and it's not pretty. So if you're driving a country road and dealing with an anaphylactic attack on the seat next to you, yeah, I could see the accident being legit.

“Now, both phones going out? That was pushing it. That was a step too far.”

Wanderley rubbed his jaw and I heard the scritch of his whiskers. “You know what really creeps me out? That picnic. Him going through all the details about the food and the wine and the strawberries. What did that make you think of?”

I knew what he was thinking. I wasn't going to say it.

“A last meal, that's what he said. I think he had gathered up all her favorites, because this was going to be her last meal.”

“But it
could
have happened the way he said.”

Wanderley put his foot down and leaned against the hood of his car. “Bear, yes. It could have. That whole awful sequence of events could have been coincidence. If Pickersley hadn't added one more coincidence on top of it, then, maybe.”

“You lost me.”

“The date, Bear. Today is January twelfth. Lizabeth Pickersley-Smythe died on January twelfth.”

“I don't get it.”

“Today is Phoebe's birthday. She would have been nineteen. Her stepmother, the one who got caught on tape doing everything she could to get her stepdaughter to kill herself, because let's not pretend that's not what we heard—the woman your daughter exposed to the world, died on Phoebe's birthday. And that last ‘coincidence'? Well, I'll accept Dan Brown's albino, self-flagellating, assassin monk before I'll accept that one.”

Twenty-three

I
was sick about what had happened. I was sick about what part I, or my daughter, or my family, or my church, had played. I should have reached out to Mark and Liz as soon as they joined the church. Rebecca warned me something was off—I should have listened. Liz had told me there were issues with Phoebe and I'd handed her a phone number. I passed the problem on and I hadn't followed up. Jo had cut Phoebe out of our family, and I hadn't been sorry—that's the truth. It had been wearing having Phoebe there all the time, and I was relieved when it stopped. And my daughter had made a very, very public scene between Liz and Phoebe that probably precipitated Phoebe's suicide. And that may have precipitated Liz's death.

When I returned home, Jo was out with Baby Bear and Rebecca's pugs, whom we were sitting for yet again. Annie greeted me at the door and put her soft arms around me and hugged.

“Sit down, Bear. I'll get you a beer.” Annie said she had kept my dinner warm for me, and I could have it on a tray. I took my tray into the family room and sat in my good chair.

Annie let me eat in peace. She waited to ask me what had happened until I'd come back into the kitchen and rinsed my plate and put it in the dishwasher. Before I could tell her, Jo and the dogs made their entrance. Jo confirmed for Annie that all the dogs had done their business, got their leashes untangled and refilled water bowls, and then came over to give me a kiss.

Her lips an inch from my cheek, she stopped and drew back, looking at me.

“What's wrong?”

I shook my head. Baby Bear put his front feet on the chair arm and gave me a big slobber and I wiped my face off with my sleeve.

“What's wrong, Dad?” Jo insisted.

Annie patted the sofa next to her. “Sit down if you want to hear about it. Daddy was just going to tell me.”

Tommy jumped onto the arm of my chair and scrambled onto the chair back. He liked that perch. From there he could see out both the front door and the kitchen door. Baby Bear commandeered one of the pug beanbags until Mr. Wiggles rumbled a complaint. Baby Bear looked at Mr. Wiggles and Wiggles looked back—unrelenting. Baby Bear groaned and got up, circled and plopped down on the rug. Mr. Wiggles continued grumbling until he had kneaded the bag into the right shape, then sank into it.

“Dad?”

So I told them. How Liz had taken out a life insurance policy on Phoebe, how she wanted the trailer and money Phoebe had left to her grandfather, how Mark had planned what turned out to be a deadly picnic. I didn't elaborate. I didn't have to.

“Do you think Mrs. Pickersley is dead because of me?” Jo said. Her face was white and still.

“Jo, no. I don't. I don't know why Liz is dead. I don't know exactly what took place today and you don't, either. Don't take this on yourself. I mean . . .” How could I know if what Jo had done had played a part in all this? I wasn't going to put that on her. “There are some things you have to leave in God's hands. We do the best we can, and maybe we make mistakes—”

“You think I made a mistake posting that recording.”

I was silent. I thought Jo had appointed herself judge, jury, and possibly executioner. But I wasn't going to say that.

Jo said, “Tell me again how Phoebe died.”

“She drank Dilaudid. I told you. She wasn't forced. She made that choice.”

“She drank it? You never said she drank it. How could you drink it? Isn't it a pill? How do they know she drank it?”

“Well, Jo, they think she drank it because that's what she had to hand, left over from her mom's throat cancer and because her stomach was full of diluted sugar syrup, and her mouth and lips were stained with it.”

Jo sat there, her eyes wide and thoughtful. Annie put her hand over Jo's.

“Dad and I are going to pray together and then your dad is going to bed. He hasn't been sleeping well. Do you want to pray with us?”

She unfolded. “No. I'm going upstairs.” She curled her fingers and Baby Bear ambled to his feet and followed her up to her room. The pugs stayed tight. We heard her door click shut.

After prayer, I read my chapter in the Bible, showered and got in bed. Annie brought me a sleep-aid tablet. Over the counter. Not the serious stuff. I took it gratefully and fell deeply asleep.

•   •   •

Two
A.M
., I woke up next to Annie, who was wearing my Bose noise-canceling headphones to mute the pugs' snores. It was like sleeping with an air traffic controller. I'm not sure what woke me, but once awake I got up to empty my bladder and having done that, made my way into the kitchen for a bowl of cereal. That's when I realized what was missing.

No one had joined me for cereal. I set the milk down on the counter and went back to the bedroom to make sure the pugs hadn't died in their sleep. I couldn't think what else would keep them from a midnight nosh. It was too dark in the room to see whether two fawn-colored pugs were sleeping in their fawn-colored beanbags. I unplugged my phone and clicked it on, used the light.

No pugs.

I climbed the stairs and quietly opened Jo's door.

No pugs. No Baby Bear.

And no Jo.

I checked the rest of the house. Slipped on jeans and a shirt and sneakers. Debated waking Annie but decided against it. Jo had clearly taken the dogs with her, wherever that was. My bet was she had gone to meet Alex, crept out to the levee and walked down to the Avalon Community Center. That's where the two of them used to meet before we found out about the nighttime forays. As she had taken the dogs with her, she clearly didn't sneak out the window this time. She must've disarmed the alarm system, or else we would have heard her leave. At least I would have. Those Bose noise-canceling headphones work.

A cruise around the neighborhood and I'd locate her. How far could she get with three dogs?

I took my jacket from where I'd left it on the back of a kitchen chair, got my car keys and opened the kitchen door to the garage.

Annie's car was gone.

The tom-toms in my chest pounded. I called Jo's cell number and got routed directly to voice mail.

“Jo, this is Dad. I don't care what it is. I don't care what you think. I don't care how important this might be. Wherever you are, stop right now and call me. I mean it. Right now, Jo.”

No point in waiting for a response.

I got in my car and plugged my phone in. Lesson of the day—bad things happen when you can't call out. Technology is good. Stupid is bad.

I put the car in reverse and let the car roll silently down the driveway.

Where was Jo?

There were a hundred places she could have gone in her mother's car. There was only one place I could think of that she absolutely, positively, could not, should not, be.

I put the car in Drive and headed for Telephone Road.

•   •   •

Two o'clock in the morning and traffic is not a problem. That's not to say the streets are empty. On the outskirts of Houston, there is always a steady stream of traffic. The colored lights from the car dealerships, the strip centers, the Vietnamese, Indian and Cajun restaurants slipped past.

Who could she have gotten to drive her? Not Alex. He had more sense. Truth be told, he had more sense than my daughter. And if she had talked him into it, he would have taken his truck, not Annie's car.

Cara, then? Cara could drive.

Yes, she can. Better than—
That's what Alex had said. Right before extolling the virtues of teaching someone how to drive when they were underage. Better than
whom
?

I had a baboon's bottom instead of a brain.

Better than Jo, of course. Alex had been teaching Jo how to drive. It was Jo driving Annie's car.

So why had she taken the dogs? Baby Bear, that I could see. Baby Bear was some protection, and he would have protested at being left behind and that might have woken us, plugged ears or not—but the pugs? Why the pugs?

I laughed. It wasn't funny, but I had to laugh. Jo took the pugs because they, too, would have protested long and loud at being left behind. I wanted to call Alex and see if he knew where she was. Surely she would have tried him first, tried to bend him to her will. But if Jo hadn't tried Alex first, and he found out where Jo was headed, where Jo
might
be headed, Alex could well do what I was doing. Because there was every indication that Alex was in love with my daughter. Whatever that means at his age. And I could not put someone else's child in this situation.

I thought about calling my brother Tucker. Tucker owns handguns. He and his wife Lee bought a huge old house in a part of town that is being slowly gentrified. They've been reclaiming that house for six or seven years now. The second time the house was broken into, Tucker and Lee were home. The intruders made Tuck and Lee lie facedown while they ransacked the house; the whole time Tuck and Lee were praying none of their kids woke up and startled the thieves. Before the burglars left, they stole Lee's wedding and engagement rings right off her hand. After that, Tuck and Lee bought handguns and took lessons. They go to the range regularly. Their kids can shoot, too.

I'm not a gun guy. I'm no hunter—not because I think there's anything wrong with it, I just don't like being cold and wet and getting up early in the morning and I don't like to sit still and be quiet for long periods of time. I get bored—and I've never felt the need for handguns. We live in a safe neighborhood. Besides, when Merrie was a toddler, her investigative talents were phenomenal. There wasn't a child lock made that she couldn't figure out. Where exactly would I have hidden one? It would have had to be secured in such a way as to make it useless for home protection.

But right now, I wanted a gun and the know-how that went with it. I gave my head a shake.

Wanderley answered on the second ring.

“Are you kidding me?” he said into the phone.

“Are you awake?”

“You better be calling me to make sure I don't miss the Rapture, Preacher. Anything else isn't going to be good enough.”

“Jo is gone.”

There was a rustle of bedclothes and a woman's sleepy voice complaining.

“Just a minute,” Wanderley said. Seconds later, “Okay. What's up?”

“I'm probably overreacting.”

“If it's not the Rapture, you definitely are.”

I told him what I knew. I asked him if I should call the Houston police.

“How sure are you that that's where she's gone?”

I wasn't sure at all. I was headed that way because it was the only dangerous place she could have gone to that I could think of. So it was all good. Jo had an amiable Newfoundland and two spoiled pugs to watch over her and keep her safe as she drove to a trailer that housed a gun-toting drunk with a chip on his shoulder.

“Bear, we're going to have to put an ankle monitor on that girl. Hope you're okay with that.”

I told him I thought we should put one on both ankles.

He breathed into the phone. “You know, Bear, I
was
spending the evening with the mother of my child, trying to convince her she could have a normal life married to a cop.”

I didn't say anything. I could apologize tomorrow. Right now, I wanted my Jo.

He gave a long, exasperated sigh. “Where are you?”

I told him.

“Pull off the next exit and park in the nearest parking lot. Wait for me. I'll come get you.”

“James. I'm not waiting for you. I'm ten, fifteen minutes away. You're thirty, easy. I'm not waiting.”

“Don't be a cretin. Wait for me. I'm almost dressed.”

“I'm almost there,” I said. I hung up, turned my phone off, and began to pray.

The Lord will rescue me from every evil attack and will bring me safely to his heavenly kingdom. To Him be glory forever and ever. Amen.

I prayed for my child. I prayed that the God of Heaven and Earth would cover her with His hand. I prayed that He would remember the faithfulness of her parents, and grandparents and great . . .

I know that my God allows terrible things to happen.

I drove faster.

•   •   •

Telephone Road swept past me, overbright with fluorescence. There was a really good chance that this wasn't where Jo had gone. In fact, hardly any chance at all that I would find her here, I told myself. What could she hope to accomplish? She knew, now, that the trailer was occupied, and occupied by a crazy guy with a gun. And Jo wasn't stupid. She wasn't academic, but that's not the same thing as being stupid. There wasn't a stupid bone in her body.

One sweep through the Green Vista mobile home park. That's all I needed to do. Once I saw that Annie's car wasn't there, I could call Wanderley back, apologize up one side and down the other and go back and cruise the likely haunts of Sugar Land. My tires crunched over the loose gravel as I turned into the Green Vista entrance. I rolled my windows down to let the cool air fill the car and my lungs.

Green Vista was set back from the strip centers and three-story apartment complexes. It had resisted the new trend to pave entire mobile home parks—surely a merciless upkeep decision once the summer sun arrived. Green Vista had kept its trees—mature, overhanging oaks, still heavy with leaves in early January. That made the park darker than the street. But I knew my way. I crept along and passed the trailer I remembered as belonging to Lacey Corinda.

And there was Annie's car, a white Accord, parked behind Phoebe's green-and-white mobile home. Three furry faces were pressed against the passenger-side window. They barked when I rolled past, but the windows were rolled up and the sound was muffled. I put my finger to my lips and all three dogs ignored the signal. Jo was nowhere in sight.

I kept the car steady and drove slowly past Phoebe's trailer. Circled through the park and pulled in next to a vintage Airstream near the front entrance. I turned my phone on, noticed I had missed a number of calls from Wanderley, and texted him the exact location of Annie's car and DeWitt's trailer. I put my phone on vibrate and it buzzed right away.