The Second Lie (25 page)

"Yeah, Viola, what's up?" he asked. She sounded as if she'd been crying, and it was before dawn. This wasn't a social call.

"It's Bob..." He could hear her blowing her nose. "He's dead, Kyle."

The fork in his hand dropped to the pan of sizzling bacon. Kyle moved the pan to another burner. Turned off the stove. "What?" He couldn't believe he'd heard right.

"I found him half an hour ago. The paramedics have just taken him away and I...I don't know what to do, Kyle. I couldn't call the girls. Not yet. He was their daddy and things have been so... They haven't been speaking with him and now they won't ever have that chance and--"

"Sit tight. I'm on my way...."

Kyle speed-dialed Millie. The minute she arrived to finish preparing Grandpa's breakfast, he grabbed a denim jacket off the hook, slid into his boots and was out the door.

The back door to the Branson farmhouse was unlocked and Kyle let himself in, making his way to the beam of light coming from the kitchen. The room was huge--enough counter space to cook for an army, double oven, top-of-the-line appliances and a massive, mahogany kitchen table with matching chairs that had been the focal point of life in the Branson home.

Viola sat in her chair at one end of the table, eyes open but unblinking.

"Hey." Kyle bent over to take her into his arms. She started to cry, to sob, and he slid onto the chair next to her, pulling her onto his lap. "Shhh," he said. "It's okay."

And then he just held on, lending her his strength.

"Today was our anniversary." Viola, her eyes still pooling with tears, sat back in her chair at the table an hour later, a cup of freshly brewed coffee in her hand. Kyle sat with her. "I came over here to make breakfast for him. To surprise him."

"You two were talking, then? Trying to work things out?"

She shook her head, her face still wrinkle free and beautiful. "Not really. Because of me, not him. Bob didn't want the divorce. He didn't want me to leave at all. But I just couldn't stay here and take it anymore. Maybe if I had..."

"Couldn't take what?" He sipped coffee he couldn't taste in a kitchen that was at once completely familiar and totally foreign to him.

"The mood swings. The broken promises. The mania."

A strange description for the reliable, responsible, calm man Kyle had known. "He told me he had a problem that got the better of him. I thought maybe he meant cards, or horses or something."

"I know," Viola said, her expression so filled with sadness he could hardly stand to look at her. "That's all he told anyone. And all I ever said, too. Including to our girls. Maybe that was wrong. I just... I wanted to spare him. To protect him. Instead, I guess I killed him."

"Viola, what are you talking about? Bob had lost a lot of weight. Was he sick?"

But that didn't make sense. Viola Branson was the ultimate nurturer. She would never have left her husband if he were ill.

"He was addicted to methamphetamine, Kyle."

"What!" His first thought was that Samantha was behind this cruel and very sick joke. She and Viola were staging this whole thing to get him to confess.

The thought flew by the wayside without landing.

"I didn't know about it at first. I knew he was taking something, but he told me the doctor had prescribed it for fatigue."

"Fatigue? Why would Bob be so tired he needed medication?"

"After Jaime moved out a year ago July he went into a funk. And then when Shauna miscarried last fall and they told us she wouldn't be able to have any more children, he started to withdraw. Like it was all somehow his fault. For the first time in his life he couldn't make something right for his baby girls, even though Shauna's fate was completely out of his control. With the kids gone, our sons-in-law pretty much running things here, he felt worthless."

Kyle understood. Sort of. He couldn't imagine not having a day's worth of work facing him every morning.

"And then last winter Chuck Sewell had a parolee who needed a place to stay," Viola continued, "and he asked Bob and me if he could work on the farm for his room and board. It wasn't the first time. We've taken in several young men over the years."

"Why don't I know that?" Kyle asked.

"Because we never told anyone. The idea was to let first-time offenders with a good chance of rehabilitation work without a criminal reputation hanging over them. So much of the time, it's the reputation that's a barrier to a productive life. To anyone outside our family, Yale was just another worker on the farm."

Viola sighed. "Bob probably needed him more than he needed us. Yale was like the son we'd never had. Bob insisted that he have dinner with us every night. And pretty soon he was at the breakfast table, too."

"Did that bother you?"

"No. The house was empty with the girls gone. And Yale was so sweet, so grateful. He'd grown up in foster care. Never had a real home or a dinner table he felt welcome to come to every night. He was eager to learn and worked tirelessly."

"What had he been in jail for?"

"Stealing tires off cars and selling them. Nothing violent or anything. Chuck wouldn't have asked us to take him if he'd thought Yale would be a danger to us."

She was right about that.

"Then last spring Bob found out that Yale had been cutting corners, sending out eggs without meeting the strict health standards. Thankfully Bob discovered the lapse before the department of agriculture did, which saved the farm's reputation, but he had to visit each supplier personally, take back all of the possibly contaminated stock. And then he purchased another, smaller farm in Indiana in order to make good on all the orders. Between here and Indiana and all the traveling, he was going about nineteen hours a day."

"I could have helped. Any of us could have."

"He felt like such a fool for allowing it to happen. And he insisted on protecting Yale. He said the boy had only been trying to save them money and he couldn't bear the thought of Yale ending up back in prison. Everyone had down times, he figured, and he wasn't going to crucify the young man for one mistake."

"How old is this guy?"

"Twenty-two."

"What did your kids think of him?"

"They all liked him."

"Where's Yale now?"

"I'm not sure. I caught him in my purse and told Bob that he had to go. Yale claims that he was only looking for a pen. Bob believed him. But the next day Yale was gone and his room was empty. Bob never mentioned him to me again."

"Was anything missing out of your purse?"

"No, I caught him before he had a chance to take anything."

"Do you think he took things from the house?"

"Not that I know of. But look at this place. Someone could take a car load out of here and it'd probably be years before anyone noticed. The attic's full, too."

Kyle had to agree with that assessment. Viola kept a clean house. And she kept everything else, too. After thirty years, every room in the farmhouse was cluttered.

"Anyway," she said, "this past June, Bob fell asleep at the wheel, driving home from Indiana. He went off the road, but got lucky and ended up in a field with minimal damage to his truck. He wasn't hurt and thankfully neither was anyone else. But he got checked out by the doctor once he was back home, and next thing I know, he's got this stuff to take to help him stay alert."

Kyle could see the train wreck coming.

"I didn't like him taking anything, but he insisted it was perfectly safe. And since I thought it came from the doctor, I didn't say much. By the time Bob told me the truth, it was too late."

"Where'd he get the meth? Did he tell you?"

"No. I accused Yale of getting it for him. Bob insisted that it was no one in Chandler. But he never did tell me where it came from. He said I was better off not knowing anything."

Viola looked at Kyle, tears falling down her face. "That stuff is a synthetic version of chemicals in your brain, and once it gets in, it's not long before it takes hold. Sometimes one or two highs is enough. By July, Bob was fully hooked. I was watching him kill himself, and I thought that if I didn't do something drastic, he'd be dead by Christmas."

And so she'd threatened divorce and moved out. The meth had won.

She started to sob.

After the research he'd done, Kyle could give her statistics to show her that the fault wasn't hers, but he figured she already knew them. Numbers that spoke of death and destruction.

He just couldn't believe Bob Branson was one of them.

22

T
hings were changing. He had thought what he did was safe, but no longer. He'd been weak and fate was stepping in.

Mac headed for his rendezvous.

So many questions with no answers.

And there she was. Fresh. Innocent. Ordinary, yet otherworldly at the same time. She knew none of the questions and had all of the answers.

They'd been at this for months, with no problems. But he couldn't shake his uneasiness.

What if something went wrong?

What if she got hurt?

What if they got caught?

People were watching her.

"We have to stop."

The fear in her eyes pierced his heart. He had to protect her.

"Why?"

"Because it's time."

She wasn't his.

"But...the kids. They need us." And I need you, her eyes told him, when they shouldn't.

She wouldn't look like that if she were older. More experienced.

Someone was going to break that heart.

Unless he took care of it.

For all time.

"New health-care plans will help them." It wasn't a complete lie.

"What new plans?"

"Government policy. The new president has been working on it for the past eighteen months." He took a risk, betting on her lack of knowledge.

But then, he'd been taking a risk all along that she'd figure out there were no sick kids.

Just addicts who were going to use regardless of where their drugs came from.

At least his way, the money stayed home and paid for services that supported prisons and law enforcement. Programs that helped the sick kids Maggie cared so much about. The money paid for new computers at Maggie's school and financed so many other public services that people took for granted until they lost them.

People were so stupid. Everyone waited for someone else to do something. It had taken him, a relative nobody, to make a plan.

Their work these past six months had saved the Chandler library from closing. Paid the public defender and the sheriff. Kept lights on in the court building.

"And you're sure these new health-care plans will help poor kids?"

"Positive."

"What about me? Will I qualify?"

"It depends on your mom's job. But if you get really sick, you'll get the help you need."

He hoped he was right. He'd do what he could to see that there was extra money in the Fort County public health coffers.

Funny how anonymous donations were accepted without question.

"Oh." Maggie wasn't arguing. Wasn't fighting him. She was going to walk away. Out of his life. He'd never see her again. He'd make sure of that.

And she would be hurt. By life. By her mother.

That woman should burn in hell for her sins.

Selling this child.

This precious spirit.

"So should I go?" She was staring at him, her big brown eyes consuming him.

She was too vulnerable to be alone out in the jungle the world had become.

Someone would steal her innocence. Take her gift. She would have scars that would never heal.

He wanted to tell her that. To warn her.

He couldn't change the world, but he could help take care of her. He could make certain that no animal deflowered her in a way that would leave her wounded.

"Do you want to go?"

"No."

"Why not, Maggie? Why don't you want to go?" But he knew.

She was young. And so wise.

"Because I'll never see you again."

Their thoughts were mirror images. Two souls in one.

"And that matters to you?"

"Yes." She didn't move closer. But she didn't move away.

"Why?"

"I don't know."

Her honesty called out for an answer.

"Do you want to know?"

She nodded, her neck so fragile looking with her long dark hair trailing down over her shoulders. Touching her breasts.

Oh, those breasts. He dreamed of them. Nightly. Touched them. And woke up with his hands empty.

In other countries it was perfectly acceptable for men his age to love women her age. In this country, years ago, women Maggie's age were marrying.

Age was just a number.

"Come here." He wouldn't go to her. That would be wrong.

He wasn't surprised when she didn't hesitate.

His penis started to fill. And he knew that something else was changing. His life was altering course.

He didn't turn away. Didn't even look away.

She drew closer, watching him. Letting his eyes draw her to him.

This was no child. She was a woman with needs that she might not fully understand, but that she was powerfully aware of.

"If I were to kiss you, what would you do?"

"I don't know."

He couldn't make love to her here. Not now.

"Do you want to find out?"

"Yes."

He'd have to be very careful with her. Pick the perfect time and place. Soon.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

It was her lack of hesitation that sealed their fate.

A blood test showed large amounts of chemicals commonly found in methamphetamine in Bob Branson's system. They were enough to explain the hypothermia and convulsions that ultimately sent him into cardiac arrest. The death was ruled an accidental drug overdose, not a suicide.

An autopsy was done and by Monday the body was released to the local funeral home.

The obituary, which was all that was reported in the paper, spoke of Bob's life, not his death.

Rumors flew around town, but those who'd known and loved Bob all their lives quickly squelched any talk of drug use.