Tell No Lies (6 page)

Augusta lifted up Savannah’s glass from the counter and brought it to her. “I have,” she confessed with a slight turn of her lips. In fact, there weren’t many people Augusta hadn’t pissed off at one point or another, including Sadie.

Savannah laughed, and then sighed as she took a small sip of her wine. “Here’s to pissing people off,” she said, and raised her glass high.

Augusta choked on her laughter. “Now you’re talking,” she said. “So tell me, what did you do to earn Sadie’s wrath?”

 

The pain in Cody’s ankle helped to keep him awake.

His head hurt and he felt a little like he had the time he’d snuck into his pop’s liquor cabinet, woozy and sick to his belly. Trying to focus, he fixed his gaze on the railroad trestle outside the window. He could see part of it from where he lay, handcuffed to a bunch of old pipes, enough to recognize that it was an old rail bridge like the one his dad had taken him to near Bushy Park. His pop told him that when he and his friends were little they used to jump off the trestle into the river until one of his friends dove into a moccasin bed and died from hundreds of snakebites. It seemed to Cody that his dad had been trying to scare him, but Cody always thought he heard a note of wistfulness in his voice whenever he told that story. It didn’t matter; it worked. Cody wasn’t just afraid of heights; he was terrified of snakes and he used to think that was the most awful way to die—surrounded by fangs in muddy black water.

But he had another nightmare now.

One he couldn’t wake up from.

Dying right here, right now, would be the most awful thing—wet, cold and alone.

His missed his dad so bad, the ache was a massive lump in his throat. And his mom and grandma were probably sick with worry over him. His jeans were wet, maybe from the river, but he’d peed his pants and maybe other stuff, too. He was too groggy to figure it out. He couldn’t even wipe the snot that was drying beneath his nose because he couldn’t reach it with his shoulder.

He’d woken up here in the pitch-black, with no memory of getting here. The man in the mask had pressed something sweet over his face and now he was handcuffed to these pipes, his feet tied way too tight with ropes. There was something soft and bunchy shoved deep inside his mouth, beneath the tape—the way they did in those old cartoons when they tied some lady across a railroad track in front of an oncoming train.

Outside, there was only silence, except for the chirping of crickets and croaking of frogs.

Cody stared at the trestle. The tracks were rusted, maybe broken, but he couldn’t sit up to get a better look. All the windows were boarded up, except one. On that one the slats were only nailed partway up and jutting above the boards were shards of glass that looked like gnarly icicles wrong side up.

Never in his life had he wanted his mama more—he didn’t care if that made him a baby. That idiot TC had left him there to die in the woods. The muscles in his throat hurt from trying to swallow around the cloth in his mouth, and he was thirsty. He laid his head back against the brick wall, taking it all in before the last of the daylight was gone.

He’d never seen this place before—had no idea where he might be—but he smelled water. And stinky mud. There was no mistaking the smell of plough mud. It was strong here—like he was surrounded by it. The inside of the building was empty and appeared as though it had been abandoned a long time ago. It seemed maybe there had been a fire here, because the brick looked like the inside of their fireplace at home, burnt and ashy. A great big rusty metal door sat at the opposite end of the room. It was open and he could see what looked like lockers in the other room—not a single row like at school, but smaller ones stacked high—like maybe at a gym.

Peering up at the pipes above his head, he thought maybe they were from a bathroom . . . or something . . . but he couldn’t tell that either. The only thing he knew for sure was that they were firmly attached to the wall with cloth wrapped around them, and they wouldn’t budge far enough for him to bang them. Both his hands were restrained in a single handcuff hole, racked above his head and tied again with the same rough rope that was secured around his ankles. Trying to squirm out of them only made his skin raw and almost ready to bleed.

Outside, the sun was setting fast. The trilling of crickets and croaking of bullfrogs climbed higher and higher. A black crow landed on the inside of the windowsill, perching on the water-stained board. It cocked its head curiously, peering at him. Across the cement floor, something scurried across a dark corner—a mouse, maybe a rat.

Fear slithered up Cody’s spine.

And then he heard it and his heart danced against his ribs.

He waited patiently for it to come near and then when he thought it was close enough, he opened his mouth to scream. All that came out was a choked sound that scared the bird away . . . and then the engine slowly faded . . . leaving Cody alone in the deepening shadows.

He began to cry.

Replete from dinner, Augusta lay sprawled on one couch, Savannah on the other. Nearly empty, the bottle of wine sat on the table between them. Both of them had tried calling Caroline, but without much luck.

Rose Simmons had died, the news announced. The woman who had been the closest thing to a grandparent Augusta had ever had had slipped away without ever having awakened—a small mercy that she didn’t know her grandson was still missing.

On the muted television, the image of reporter Sandra Rivers paraded through the abandoned cemetery where the body of Pamela Baker had been discovered late last evening. Instead of the news, it looked more like an episode of
Cold Case Files
. Rivers seemed to know exactly where to direct her cameraman for the greatest impact, and somehow the lens always ended up right back on the reporter’s perfect lipstick and lovely green eyes. The woman had sensationalism down to a science. Augusta’s name suddenly scrolled across the screen and her heart leapt a little. She sat up, peering anxiously at Savannah to see if she had seen it as well, but her sister had begun to yawn, no longer paying attention to the news.

The banner shifted.
Ian Patterson Free on Bail,
the screen said, and next to it the disclosed sum of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Augusta’s name was gone.

Soon everyone would know—especially now that Rivers had gotten wind of the fact. But the only person Augusta dreaded having to tell was Caroline. She glanced at the clock on the wall again, her heart pounding like a fist against her lungs. It was 10
P.M
.

What were the chances Caroline had heard by now?

Pretty good, she decided.

Caroline had stepped neatly into her mother’s shoes as publisher of the
Tribune
. There wasn’t much that escaped her these days. The thing was . . . if Caroline knew, she probably would have come storming home by now with Augusta in her crosshairs.

Briefly, she considered telling Savannah on the off chance that she might gain an ally, but Savannah probably wasn’t going to approve either, so she’d rather save it and tell them both at once.

Most people thought Augusta was full of pluck, but God’s truth, she was trembling on the inside. Why, she didn’t know. Caroline wasn’t her mother. Nor had she committed any sin here. She had simply made an honest decision based on a strong gut feeling.

On the other couch, Savannah was blissfully unaware of the message on the screen, sipping her wine, eyes closed. Augusta settled back onto the sofa.

The den hadn’t changed much in the years since Augusta had left home. The same cherrywood raised paneled walls, the same portraits on the walls. Only the carpet and couches were new, probably because her mother had been a Type-A germaphobe. Anything organic had been recycled religiously and a single spot on the carpet started the end clock ticking. Kids with chocolate fingers were generally not welcome anywhere within Flo’s house. And yet, despite that fact, the den was the one room in the house that had always felt welcoming.

For one thing, it was the only room with a television, which gave it a certain normalcy, though Augusta couldn’t imagine her mother watching TV.

Then again . . . she wouldn’t really know, would she?

Only Savannah had spent much time with her at the end. For all Augusta knew, Flo had sat here alone night after night, with their grandmother’s quilt strewn over her legs, alone and forgotten, watching reruns of
Jeopardy
.

But that wasn’t the image that thrived in Augusta’s head. Her mother had never been one to sit still long enough to watch a single show and certainly not long enough to feel sorry for herself. No, Florence W. Aldridge had led a full life . . . it just so happened that it didn’t include her daughters. And if she ever slowed down for five minutes, and feelings crept in, she’d medicate them with alcohol or drugs.

Unfortunately, that was the Florence Aldridge that Augusta recalled.

“Have you started writing your new book?” Augusta asked Savannah.

Savannah opened her eyes and shook her head. Taking the last swallow of her wine, she leaned forward to set her goblet down on the table, then snuggled deeper into the sofa, pulling their grandmother’s quilt down off the back of the couch.

She was facing away from the TV now, which gave Augusta a bit of relief. The banner at the bottom seemed to permanently read:
Ian Patterson Free on Bail.

“Maybe once I get this cast off,” Savannah said, lifting her arm and inspecting the frayed edges around her fingers.

Augusta was trying hard not to be distracted by the newscast. “When will that be?”

“Next week—thank God!”

“I’m really sorry about the hand, Sav.”

“Augie, you need to stop apologizing. You elbowed me. I dropped the bacon. Tango went after it. He tipped my stool. Accidents happen. I’m over it.”

Augusta sighed. “So why do you think Mom left you with that particular task anyway?”

“Writing a new book?” Savannah shrugged. “Who knows.” She met Augusta’s gaze squarely, looking much as though she wanted to say something, but then she hesitated and said, “It’s not as easy as it seems, you know.”

Augusta knew she was referring to the comment she had flung at Savannah in anger—that her task was a no-brainer and that it wasn’t fair—but she couldn’t apologize for believing Flo was playing favorites. Augusta still believed it was true. Savannah’s task had absolutely nothing to do with the house or the newspaper. In fact, their mother was asking Savannah to do exactly what she had chosen to do with her life. There seemed to be nothing punishing about that. In contrast, neither Caroline nor Augusta had wanted anything to do with the
Tribune
or the house. The fact that Caroline suddenly seemed to embrace her role at the paper was beside the point. Augusta couldn’t get past the feeling that, in fact, Flo had meant to teach both of them a lesson . . . or reel them in at the very least.

Helpless to ignore it, she returned her gaze to the television, watching as Sandra Rivers paused in front of the darkened entry of the little broken-down church, her white-tipped nails perfectly manicured. Looking more like Marilyn Monroe than a news reporter, she gripped the microphone with slender fingers. Augusta could almost hear her break out in a breathy strain of “Happy birthday, Mr. President.” Bright yellow tape stretched across the church door, barring humanity from its shadowy interior. The broken window behind her was a dramatic backdrop, and her blond hair was perfectly in place. If she had sweat glands, they clearly weren’t working.

“That woman makes me ill,” Caroline said, walking into the room.

Tango, their mother’s black lab, who seemed to have taken to Caroline more than anyone else, had probably been waiting for her by the front door. He sauntered in behind her, his collar jingling as he walked.

Savannah sat up. “You’re home!” she said. “I didn’t hear you come in. Are you hungry?”

Caroline shook her head, dropping her purse on the French marble-topped console their mother would have cut off their fingers for touching. She chose a seat on the end of Savannah’s couch and Savannah pulled back her legs to give her room. Tango sat on the floor at Caroline’s feet. “Rose Simmons died tonight,” she said solemnly, and then reached down to stroke the top of Tango’s head.

“We heard,” Augusta said, glancing anxiously at the television screen. She reached forward to pick up the remote, switching the TV off.

Savannah’s feet returned to their previous spot, her toes touching Caroline’s thigh and Caroline glanced down. “We tried calling,” Savannah offered.

Caroline nodded, and tugged a corner of Savannah’s quilt onto her lap, covering Savannah’s toes. She dabbed at her eye. “I’ve been with the family.”