The Red Scream (14 page)

In the courtyard, the officer on duty was asking them some questions. Then he talked into his radio, probably informing Grady Traynor in the kitchen of the arrivals.

Brother and sister came into the house side by side. Stuart shook hands with Frank Purcell and raised a lackadaisical hand in greeting to Mark Redinger who was leaning against the door frame, looking like a male model in a J. Crew catalogue.

Alison pointed toward Molly and said, “Stu, this is Molly Cates. You know, the lady who wrote the book I gave you.”

He took her hand and looked at her with interest. “Yes. Mrs. Cates, we’ve talked on the phone,” he said. Up-close you could see the shadows under his eyes and the gray tone of his skin. Molly had heard how difficult medical residencies were and it certainly showed on this young man. Both McFarland children looked as if they led stressful lives and didn’t get enough sleep.

“What the hell happened here, Frank?” Stuart demanded.

“I don’t know, Stu. I went with your dad to Dallas this morning. Picked him up at ten to seven and Georgia was just getting up.”

“Did you see her?”

“Uh, no, but—”

He broke off when the uniformed policeman entered. He was holding his radio to his ear and said into it, “Yessir. Ten-four.” He said to Alison, “Miss McFarland, the detectives would like to talk to you in a few minutes. Could you please wait for them in the office?”

Alison looked at Mark before replying. “Just me? Alone? Sure. Right now?”

“Yes, please,” the cop said. “And Mr. McFarland—”

“Doctor,” Stuart said, under his breath, so low Molly was certain she was the only one who’d heard it.

“They’ll see you right after your sister, sir. Lieutenant Traynor asked if you would wait for them in the master bedroom.”

Stuart shrugged and walked off.

Frank was still standing in the door and Mark had sat down on one of the suede sofas and draped a long leg over the arm. His shoe wasn’t quite on the upholstery, but close. He was surveying the room.

Molly walked over and sat next to him. “Dramatic room, isn’t it?” she said.

“Yeah.” He looked up at the cathedral ceiling. “I bet it costs more to air-condition this barn than I pay in rent. All that glass, in this climate.” He crossed his arms across his chest and looked directly at Molly. His scrutiny started at her waist, studied her breasts, and moved up to her face. Then he smiled as if they shared some secret. It took her breath away, it was so insinuating and suggestive, so totally offensive.

“You’re the one that wrote the book about that guy Bronk, right?”

Molly nodded.

“I didn’t read it. Alison’s obsessed with that sort of stuff—cops and robbers stuff. Not me. Too creepy.”

“Mr. Redinger,” Molly said, “am I remembering right that you’re kin to Alison and Stuart?”

He leaned back and let his hands fall into his crotch. “My mother was Charlie’s sister.”

“Was?”

“Yeah. She died when I was eighteen. She was his poor relation and now I am.” Again he gave her the smile and narrowed his eyes in an Elvis Presley way, to suggest all sorts of possibilities. Molly wondered if it actually worked with anyone.

“Well,” she said, “compared to Charlie, most people would be poor relations.”

“And does he ever love to rub it in,” Mark said sourly.

“He does?”

“Boy, howdy. You should have seen the way he treated my mom.”

“How was that?” Molly asked.

“Like trash. Just because Charlie got lucky and made big bucks he’s always pretended the rest of his family just doesn’t exist.”

“That surprises me. I wouldn’t have pegged Charlie McFarland as the sort of man to repudiate his family.”

“Well, he is,” Mark said. “Until the day of her death, he never had anything to do with my mother, his own sister. He didn’t approve of her and he’s never approved of me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t have any money, of course. I teach tennis and wait tables and he doesn’t think that’s sufficiently classy.”

“Am I remembering right that Stuart was at your house the day his mother was killed?”

“Yup. He stayed with us lots, liked to get away from home. My mom was a lot more … motherly than his.” He raised both eyebrows to insinuate something.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Oh, I don’t want to tell tales out of school, but my Aunt Tiny was something else.” He lifted his right hand in the air and shook it as though he’d just burned himself.

Molly was choosing the right words to pursue this when Grady Traynor stuck his head through the swinging door in the dining room and called out to her to come in for a minute. Molly made a mental note of wanting to get back to Mr. Redinger. She was trying to remember if sexual congress between first cousins was considered incest in Texas.

I
t was nine-thirty, a dark and muggy evening, before the police had finished with the crime scene. With Charlie’s help, they had looked through Georgia’s things and found nothing amiss or missing. They had talked with everyone, several times.

The last of the officers to leave was Grady Traynor. He looked reluctant to go as he stood in the cavernous living room with Charlie McFarland, Alison McFarland, Mark Redinger, Frank Purcell, and Molly Cates. Stuart McFarland had left an hour earlier, after talking with the detectives. The hospital was shorthanded and they’d had an emergency.

“Mr. McFarland,” Grady said to Charlie, “if you’d come to police headquarters tomorrow around ten to sign your official statement, we’d sure appreciate it. And you, too, Mr. Purcell, and Miz Cates. We’ve cordoned off the immediate area down the hill, just in case we need to come back tomorrow, so please stay away from there, just until tomorrow afternoon.”

He handed a card to each of them. “Here’s my number. Call if anything comes up or you think of anything more you’d like to tell me.” He handed Molly her card last and as he did it, he angled his back to the others and flashed her a quick smile, raising his eyebrows as if he were asking something. To her amazement, it made her pulse quicken.

As soon as Grady Traynor was out the door, Alison turned to her father, whose shoulders were bent and whose face looked as if the flesh were dripping off. She put her arms around him and rested her head on his chest. “Daddy, you must be exhausted,” she said, not seeing Charlie’s face screw up in pain. “Go on to bed. I’m going to stay here tonight and take care of you.”

When she tipped her head back to look up at her father’s face, she exclaimed, “Oh, your back. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to stay, honey. Frank will stay with me.” Charlie glanced at Frank. Purcell gave him a thumbs-up sign.

“No,” Alison insisted, “I want to stay. I’ll drive you to the police station in the morning.”

“Well, thanks, honey.” Charlie kissed his daughter’s cheek, then without once looking at Mark Redinger, or saying a word to him, he turned away and put a hand on Molly’s arm. “Could you stay for a minute, Molly? I need to have a word with you.”

Charlie led the way down the hall, limping and bent forward at the waist. Molly looked back and saw Frank Purcell let Mark out the door and then start doing up the multiple locks.

Once they were in his office, he closed the door and leaned against it. “Molly, it must’ve been awful for you, finding her like that. I’m just sorry me asking you to come here let you in for that experience.”

Molly nodded and waited. One thing you had to say for Charlie, the man had grace even under the most intense pressure.

“They’re treating me like a suspect in this thing even though I was gone all day, out of the city. It feels real bad to have people think I might do something like that. I suppose I’ll have to get a lawyer now, pay the bastard an arm and a leg to see me through this. On top of everything else.”

“I think that’s a good idea, Charlie,” Molly said. “It sure can’t hurt to have a good attorney in your corner when you’re dealing with the cops.”

He made his way over to his recliner. Slumping down into it with a low groan, he said, “You called the warden over in Huntsville?”

“Yeah. Louie Bronk’s in his cell.”

Charlie nodded as if he’d known it all along. “There’s someone else out there, then.” His voice was dispirited. “A copycat. Traynor
showed me that stuff you got in the mail—poem and the pages about the murder. He asked if I knew anything about it. As if I’d know anything about that craziness.” His whole body seemed to slump even farther down in the chair. “So sick.”

Molly said, “Alison’s right; you need some sleep.”

“I reckon so. Molly, you haven’t asked me what it was I wanted to talk to you about.”

“I knew you’d get around to it when you felt up to it. You don’t have to tell me right now.”

He didn’t seem to hear her. “Well, I got to thinking about our talk yesterday and I felt bad about it. Sometimes I get a little crazy on trying to control things. I wanted to tell you if you still wanted that interview, I was willing to talk about it—on the record. I think I have some things to say I’d like printed, might do some good. As for my children, they’ll do what they want no matter what I do so I might as well give up. Of course now isn’t a good time, but I’ll carry through on this if you want—when I feel better.”

Molly knew that the humane thing was to say it wouldn’t be necessary; it might be too much of a strain for him. But that cold part of her mind that was always hunting for the good story just couldn’t allow that. Now more than ever she wanted to hear what he had to say. “Thank you, Charlie,” she said. “When you’ve gotten some sleep.”

About to leave, she thought of something that had been bothering her. “Charlie, about Frank Purcell—was he directly involved in the Bronk investigation when he was a Ranger in Hays County?”

He looked up as if he were slow in registering the question. “Frank? Directly involved? Oh, I think there was so much to do early on with all Bronk’s confessions that all of them down there got involved some. Why?”

“Just wondered. I recognized him from when I was going down there as a reporter. He’s been working for you eight years?”

“For my company, yes. A damn good man, best we’ve had. The Rangers train ’em good.” He struggled to his feet. “Well, I guess I will try some sleep. This has been one hell of a day and tomorrow’s not gonna be much better. The condolences again. God. I’ve had enough condolences for a lifetime.”

Molly wanted to take his elbow and help him, but she restrained
herself. “It’ll get worse before it gets better. But you already know that.”

His left eye twitched involuntarily. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Unfortunately, I do know. And this is going to be worse than last time, if that’s possible.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “If that’s possible,” he repeated.

chapter
8

Oh man, sweating feels so sweet,

I do my best work in the heat.

A hundred degrees,

Not a breath of breeze.

I find someone,

Have my fun,

Do what I do

And when I’m through

I feel that gush, a red-hot flood

And I am fucking sweating blood.

LOUIE BRONK
Death Row, Ellis I Unit,
Huntsville, Texas

I
t was nearly ten when Molly Cates drove out of the McFarland driveway. She recognized the white Ford Tempo parked in the bushes across the street as an unmarked police car, but she drove right by.

In her rearview mirror she watched the car pull behind her, tail-gating her in the aggressive way cops do when they want you to sweat it out. She turned onto Greystone, staying right at the speed limit, and smiled when she saw the concealed lights under the grille begin to flash, throwing red and blue beams into her truck.

Molly rolled down the window and kept driving. She felt transported, as if she were seventeen again, riding in an open convertible with her hair streaming in the wind and a beer can in her hand. She threw her head back and laughed. When she’d gotten almost to Mesa, she pulled over to the side and waited, staring straight ahead through the windshield.

The white car pulled up behind her, its light still whirling.

His shoes crunched the gravel shoulder as he approached. His flashlight flickered into the back seat, then around the front. He let
out a low whistle. “Some fancy custom interior you got here.” Finally he looked at her. “Howdy, ma’am. See your driving license please.”

“Didn’t bring it with me, Officer,” Molly said, still staring forward.

“How about some other identification then. A library card or your voter registration.”

“I forgot my purse, Officer. I don’t have any identification. What was I doing wrong?”

“Doing wrong? Why, not a thing that I know of. This here is just a routine traffic check. Could you get out of the vehicle, please, ma’am?”

Slowly Molly turned her head and looked at Grady Traynor. His head and shoulders filled the window. In the flashing light, the deep seams that ran the length of both cheeks looked like saber scars and his eyes, which were just a shade paler than Oriental Avenue on the Monopoly board, seemed transparent.

“I believe this sounds like the beginning of an illegal search, Sergeant.”