The Red Scream (18 page)

“You mean in addition to your mother’s death?”

“Her death, her life, her memory. I don’t know which was more miserable for him.”

“Her life?” Molly said. “Her life was miserable for him?”

“I suppose most marriages are pretty miserable when you look at them up-close. Theirs certainly was. But that’s an old story and I really don’t want to get into it.”

“Okay.” Molly leaned down and pulled her little tape recorder out of her bag. “Stuart, it helps my accuracy if I record. Is that all right with you?”

He shrugged. “Sure.”

“I’d like to know a little more about you, Stuart. Where did you go to medical school?”

“Baylor. Finished last year. Before I went, I spent a year working in Dad’s business, but it didn’t work out.”

“Why not?”

“I was lousy at it. And I hated it. I thought I wanted to go into medicine, but he talked me into trying the construction business first. Big mistake.”

“Maybe it helped affirm your decision to go into medicine.”

“I guess. Yeah, it did work that way for me but not for him. Dad doesn’t much like any decision he hasn’t made himself.” He managed a small smile between bites.

He cut off another big chunk of steak. “I never did hear yesterday what you were meeting him for when you found Georgia.”

“It had to do with this article I’m writing.”

Stuart glanced up at her without lifting his head, just flicking his eyes upward. The eyes were full of color: the whites were threaded with thin red lines and the large hazel irises had flecks of gray and yellow mixed with the green. On top of it all floated a contact lens that from Molly’s angle looked like a thin layer of slime. “What about it?” he asked.

Molly hesitated.

Stuart opened his eyes wider and said, “Oh, I know. I bet he was trying to buy you off. Right?” He smiled and for the first time Molly could see in his prominent incisors a resemblance to his sister Alison.

“Yes,” she said.

He tapped his fork twice against the plate. “What a piece of work the guy is.” He shook his head. “But you’re here interviewing me for the article so it didn’t work. Good.”

“Stuart, why do you think he’d want to buy me off the story?”

“Oh, I suppose because he thinks poor little Alison can’t take it.”

“Is he right?”

He thought about it for a minute. “Well, that’s a hard question. Al is something of a mess emotionally. I guess I agree with my father on this—not with his trying to bribe you, but I agree that this won’t help her any. A few years ago she had what used to be called a nervous breakdown, but she seems to be functioning now. I’d hate to see you upset her equilibrium, such as it is.”

“She lives with Mark Redinger?” Molly asked, though she knew the answer; she hoped he’d elaborate.

“Yeah, for almost two years. She moved out of the house when Dad and Georgia got married, but she didn’t much like living alone. Al’s never been much for being alone. She wanted to come live with me, but I declined. She only lasted a few weeks on her own before she moved in with Mark. There’s no accounting for taste.”

“You aren’t fond of your cousin?”

“No. He’s a jerk.”

“Your father seems to feel the same,” Molly said.

“Yeah. It gives Dad fits.”

“Because Mark’s her cousin?”

“Among other things,” Stuart said. “Lots of other things.”

“For example?”

“Oh, Dad always thought Mark was a bad example for us when we were kids. And I suppose he was, but Alison and I both had crushes on him, especially Alison, didn’t know any better. Mark’s three years older than me and he knew about all the neat stuff—sex, poaching rabbits, evading parents, smoking pot.…”

He lathered some butter on his roll and took a bite of it. “He’s kind of a sex maniac. It’s all he thinks about, or talks about. Let’s not talk about him anymore.”

It was time to get down to the real business of the interview. “I hear you’re coming to the execution, Stuart.”

He shrugged. “Yeah. How about that? I had to get my schedule here changed so I could go watch my mother’s murderer be put to death. My supervisor said that was the first time in thirty years he’d ever heard that particular excuse.”

“I bet. But as a physician, Stuart, you are committed to saving lives. I was wondering if that makes it more difficult to contemplate the death penalty.”

He pushed back slightly from the table and gently massaged his closed eyelids with his index fingers. When he opened his eyes they looked even redder and he had the confused look of someone who wasn’t quite sure how he had come to be where he was.

“I know this is going to sound pretty bloodthirsty and unhealerlike,” he said, “but I agree with the Bubba majority on this. I think we need the death penalty. Not for deterrence; it doesn’t deter shit. But for retribution. I think certain terrible crimes demand that we respond with a terrible anger. It preserves the moral order.” He looked at her with a half smile. “Come on. You see some pretty heinous crimes in your work. Don’t you think that some people are so evil and dangerous that we need to get rid of them, just cut them right out of the society?”

“People like Louie Bronk?”

He nodded, picked up his fork again, and went after the little bit of remaining mashed potatoes on his plate.

“What do you think it’s going to be like Monday watching him being executed?” she asked.

“Well, probably easier for me than you. I witness death pretty frequently, you know. I doubt this will be much different.”

“But the deaths you witness are not inflicted coldly and deliberately by the state.”

“True. But I think death by sodium thiopental is one of the easiest ways to go. Some of the deaths we see here are messy and painful.”

“Do you think it would be better if Louie’s were like that? Messy and painful?”

He looked down at his empty plate for a long time before saying, “Do you?”

“Sometimes,” she admitted. “When I think of the pain and fear he’s caused. But, then, I’m afraid I have a vengeful nature. What about you?”

“Sometimes I feel very angry when I think about my mother. It really affected Al more than me. So I get angry on her behalf.”

“I was wondering, Stuart, if your mother’s murder had anything to do with your choice of medicine—and emergency medicine in particular.”

The question seemed to surprise him. “No. Why would it?”

“Oh, I was just thinking about your coming home and finding her there, and how it might make you want to do something where you wouldn’t be so helpless in emergencies. I’ve often thought medicine would be comforting in that way. You’d always know something to do.”

He laughed bitterly. “Now that’s a romantic view of medicine, Mrs. Cates. Lots of the time there’s nothing to be done. Like in my mother’s case. By the time I got to her the best surgeon in the world couldn’t have done anything for her.”

“Stuart, if it’s all right I’d like to ask you a few things about that day.”

He wiped his mouth with the paper napkin and pushed back from the table. “Sure.”

“When you found your mother in the garage, did you notice any little cuts on her scalp?”

He looked up, eyebrows raised. “Cuts? On the scalp? I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, just something an assistant ME called to my attention. There were a number of tiny nicks done post-mortem.”

“First I’ve heard of it,” he said. “But you know it was kind of dark in that garage. Even with the door open. Since I didn’t even
notice the bullet hole at first, or the blood, I could easily have missed something else.”

“And in moments like that, it’s hard to observe,” Molly said, remembering when the sheriff’s deputy came to tell her a body that fit her father’s description had been found floating in the lake. She’d been sixteen then, just two years older than Stuart had been when Tiny was murdered. It was something they had in common. She wondered if it had affected him as profoundly as it had affected her.

“It really is. When I rode my bike into the garage and saw her, it was like I was underwater or in another dimension.”

“When did you know she was dead?”

“I was so dumb. Doesn’t say much about my aptitude for medicine, I’m afraid. I saw her there and I thought immediately I’d try CPR which I’d just taken a class in. Then I noticed the bullet wound and the blood.”

“I’ve wondered, Stuart, why you came home early that day. Weren’t you planning to stay at Mark’s all day and spend the night?”

“That was the plan.” He reached out and picked up a tiny piece of roll, the only morsel left on his plate, and popped it into his mouth. “But I changed my mind.”

“Why?”

He sighed. “I already told you Mark’s a world-class jerk. And I’ve always been a loner, basically. I just wanted to go home.” He pushed farther away from the table, stretched out his legs, and yawned. He didn’t cover his mouth.

“Do you ever dream about it?” Molly asked, thinking of her own underwater dreams.

“Never have. Knock on wood.” He rapped on the Formica table.

“What about the long delay between conviction and execution, Stuart? It’s been more than eleven years since the murder.”

“God. Eleven years—long enough for me to finish high school, college, and medical school. Almost half my life. And they’re just now getting around to carrying out the sentence.” His head moved slowly from side to side.

“So what are you thinking?” Molly asked.

“It sure is a long time, but on the other hand, I think it’s important for someone to have every chance to appeal, make sure the trial was fair and all. That’s the vital part of this—that we get the right person.”

“Do you think Louie got a fair trial? You were pretty young, but you were there.”

“I wasn’t so young—fourteen. I remember it all perfectly, kept a journal, watched most of it. I think it was fair. After all, the guy said he did it. And there was plenty of evidence.” He pushed his plate away. “You’ve been asking me a lot of questions. Now may I ask you one?”

“Sure.”

“I told you over the phone that I just finished your book, the only nonmedical thing I’ve read in five years, by the way. My sister gave it to me.” For the first time he looked at her with interest in his eyes. “I wondered about your motivation for writing it.”

“My motivation?”

“Yes. Why this case? So unpleasant. It was a gargantuan chore. Lots of tedious research. Why did you do it? Was it worth it?”

“I have a living to make,” she said, watching his face to see if that explanation would satisfy him. “And whether it was worth it I won’t know until I get some royalty statements.”

He shook his head. “Uh-uh. No. There have to be easier ways than that to make a living.”

“In the beginning, I covered the case for the
American-Patriot
and I just got hooked on it. I don’t know if I can explain it, Stuart.”

He planted his elbows on the table and rested his chin in his hands. “Maybe you feel that if you can really understand one murderer, then violence will lose its mystery.”

Molly was about to answer when Stuart frowned and raised a hand to someone across the room. “Oh-oh. There’s Alison.”

Molly turned and watched the girl approach. She wore the same torn jeans and white T-shirt from yesterday. Her narrow shoulders sagged and her hair hung in her face, limp and greasy. She looks like she did a vigil last night, too, Molly thought.

Alison leaned down and kissed her brother on the cheek. “Hey, Stu,” she said, resting her hand on his shoulder.

He got up and pulled a chair over for her from a nearby table. “Sit down, Al. God, you look awful. Don’t you ever wash your hair?”

“I know. I was going to have lunch with David, but he stood me up, so I decided to come see you before my shrink appointment.” She turned to Molly. “Hi, Mrs. Cates.”

Molly was feeling a cold chill at the news about David Serrano. “Did you try going over there?” she asked.

“No. I might have gotten the time or place wrong, though.” She put a hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. “Lately I seem to be getting lots of things wrong.” Eyes still closed, she said, “Mrs. Cates, I don’t want to be rude, but I need to talk to my brother in private. Are you almost done?”

Stuart answered before Molly could get a word out. “Yes. We are. And I have to be back in a few minutes anyway.”

Molly didn’t feel anywhere near finished, but Alison looked so desperately in need of some comfort from her brother that Molly decided to withdraw quickly. She stood and said, “Thanks, Stuart. Could we talk again?”

“Maybe in Huntsville,” he said. “I know the execution’s not until after midnight, but I’m going to drive over early Monday—take the day off. Maybe I’ll see you there.”

“Okay.” Molly was about to walk off when the thought of David Serrano stopped her. She turned back to the table. “I’m worried about David. I’ve been trying to get him since yesterday. When did you-all last see him?”

“I haven’t had a chance to see him at all yet,” Stuart said.

“He was over Monday night,” Alison said. “Mark was going to go running with him Tuesday, but he didn’t. I can’t remember what happened. David finked out, I think.”

“Well, if you hear from him,” Molly said, “please tell him to give me a call right away.” She looked down at Alison. “And we’re on, Alison, for tomorrow at eight-thirty?”

Alison pushed her hair back from her forehead. “Oh, yeah. You’re coming to my house so we can talk for your article. I already gave you directions, right?”

“Right. Take care,” Molly said, thinking it would take a great deal of care indeed to fix whatever was wrong with Alison McFarland.

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