Then Hang All the Liars (25 page)

Sam slipped back through the black velvet into the light of the lobby, then out into the still brighter afternoon.

*

Margaret stiffened at the footsteps on the stairs. Her ears perked up, her eyes widened, then narrowed.

She was more than a little drunk, more than a little crazy. And once she was hidden, down deep in the dark, the humor fled her eyes, frightened off by the madness, which glittered.

*

The screen door screeched.

“Margaret?

“Margaret, are you there? It's Samantha Adams. Do you remember meeting me?”

The door was open. Sam stepped inside, down a narrow black hall, feeling her way into the dark kitchen. All the shades were pulled in the apartment, blackout curtains. It was like night in here.

“Margaret?”

She could hear the nervousness in her voice, tinny in the stillness.

Well, shit. This was creepy. Smelled funny, too. The odor reminded her of something from her childhood. Maybe more recent. Something hot and sticky.

She felt along the walls for a light switch. Zero. She stumbled over a kitchen chair, bumped into a table. She rubbed her hipbone. That smarted. There'd be bruises to show for that lick tomorrow. Now she was in what had to be the dining room. More chairs and another table. An obstacle course of furniture.

She pushed forward.

“Margaret?”

Suddenly something brushed against her arm, then wrapped itself around her body. Panic climbed into her throat.

The thing was everywhere, touching her like a lover. Clicking. Long stringy things, clicking.

She got a handful of something now. Jerked at it. Something popped. Bouncing all around her. Jesus! It was a beaded curtain, its little wooden balls now rolling under her feet.

That's all it was.

Now you're scaring yourself shitless in the dark, Sam told herself. Get a grip on yourself. You need to think. Calm yourself.

She had to think.

Adams, you're making yourself stone crazy.

She had to concentrate now. Reach down and find a still place.

“Margaret? Are you in here? It's Sam Adams. I want to talk with you.”

Ask you a few questions about whether or not you sicked Randy Percy on your momma.

Ask you whether or not you're a murderer.

Or, if you don't count Percy, an attempted murderer.

Ask if you've felt murder in your heart.

Sam was in a long hallway now jammed end to end with pipe-iron clothes racks.

She felt her way past can-can skirts scratchy with stiff crinolines. A woolly monk's robe brushed her arm. Something satiny slithered down a leg. Jesters' bells tinkled.

It was close as hell in here. She could hardly catch her breath, tried to slow it down. A surgical mask would be nice. It smelled like a swamp. Things rotting.

*

From her hiding place, Margaret watched through a crack. What did the woman want? What was she looking for? What would she take? Not good. Not good at all. Margaret was going to have to do something.

*

Sam saw a little light ahead. Must be the bedroom. Probably where Margaret was. Lying in her sickbed just like the girl at the box office told her a couple of days ago. Good. She wasn't above picking on Margaret when she was down.

Sam squeezed past the closet door. The ceramic knob carved across her back, bumped over her backbone.

She'd cleared it now.

She was reaching for the bedroom door. At least she could
see
something there.

In the dark behind her, the closet door opened.

A hand snaked out, then another hand. And suspended between them was a length of scarlet satin.

Then Sam was choking to death.

Margaret was a good five inches shorter, but she made it up in fifty pounds of heft, all coming down on the ends of the red sash
—from a pirate's costume, see Laura, how handy these old things are, kill this motherfucker burglar
—she'd thrown over Sam's head in one lucky move. Jerk. Snap.

Sam scrabbled at the sash with her nails, tearing her own flesh. She couldn't breathe.

Step back, something told her. Step back into the force. Pull away and the noose tightens.

She stepped back. Margaret's soft bulk was like pillows behind her.

Sam went limp and collapsed onto Margaret and the choking sash, tumbling her over. The hands loosened now, flailed. Four arms and legs rolled in the darkness. Sam sat on Margaret. Bumped up against one another. Almost like love. But not quite.

“Kill you.” Margaret grunted.

“Be still or I'll knock the shit out of you.” Sam had one hand on Margaret's gullet and the other arm drawn back. She wasn't kidding.

A whisper from the floor beneath her now. Stench of booze breath. “Who are you?”

“Sam Adams.”

“Oh.”

“Who the hell did you think I was?”

“Burglar.” The word was slurred.

“Didn't you hear me calling you?”

She loosened her hold a little now. This was going to be all right.

“Please.” Margaret turned, trying to curl into a ball. “Please don't hurt me,” she said in baby talk. Then she pushed out an arm. “I hurt myself.”

“I don't want to hurt you. You know I'm not a burglar, Margaret? You know who I am?”

Margaret's whole body nodded yes.

“If I let you up, you won't try to strangle me again?”

“I'll be good.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

*

They were sitting in the kitchen now, lights blazing. Sam had called the police, and was lucky enough to get Charlie. She got him to agree to hold Margaret for observation at Grady in the psych ward. She'd crashed into a box of Christmas ornaments in the closet, and had a mess of cuts on one arm, which was now wrapped in gauze. It would do as an additional excuse to hold her. An ambulance was on the way.

Sam had found the coffee and was making a pot. Not that that would sober Margaret up. She should know. If you pour coffee in a drunk, you get a wide-awake drunk, that's all. There was no way she was going to get any answers now. She could do that in the hospital. But Sam needed the brew herself. She was still shaking. The scratches on her neck smarted. Coffee was the best she could do right now for comfort.

Margaret sat hunched in a purple robe. The color picked up the circles under her eyes. She didn't look good.

There was that smell again in the kitchen. Stale, hot, and sticky. Something about food.

“You cook a lot?”

“Yes.” Margaret nodded. Perked up. Eager to please. “Are you hungry?”

“No, I just wondered.”

Cookbooks were all over the place. Of course she did.

“I'll get you something to eat.” Margaret was slurring only the tiniest bit now. She was coming back. She stood and headed toward the refrigerator.

Sam kept a careful eye on her.

“Sit down, please, Margaret.”

“No trouble.”

“I'm not hungry, really.”

“Only take a minute.”

She reached into the refrigerator, pulling out little bowls and plates.

“Please, Margaret.”

The woman turned with a sad face. “Please let me. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you.”

Well, hell. It couldn't hurt to humor her.

“Are
you
hungry?”

“I don't know.”

“Okay. I'll take a little something if you'll join me.”

Margaret beamed.

“But put it all on the table over here, if you don't mind.” She didn't want Margaret diddling around with her back to her.

“Sure.”

Piece by piece, Margaret spread a small feast before them.

“Cold leg of lamb. Here's some black bread. I made it myself. Hot mustard. And some relish.”

She was fixing plates with little sandwiches for both of them, her broad hands busy and steady. She opened a Mason jar of marinated mushrooms and mixed it in with a relish.

“You like spicy things?” she asked.

Sam nodded.

Margaret grinned. It was almost the old Margaret. The original Margaret she'd seen a week ago on the stage and at the party. The brilliant Margaret. The poor, deranged lady had almost completely disappeared. It was an amazing transformation.

“I'll put some Pickapeppa sauce on it, too. Is that okay?”

“Fine. I like hot things.”

Margaret was finished now.

“There.”

“Thanks.”

Sam reached for the sandwich.

Margaret took a big bite of hers. “Oh, this is so good. I was so hungry.” She laughed with her mouth full, then began choking.

Sam stood to help her, but Margaret waved her off. She pushed back from the table, then spit in the sink. Margaret filled two glasses with water and drank them down.

“Laura teases me about being too fond of my own cooking. I eat too fast. But I can't help it.”

She drank more water.

Sam's sandwich was delicious. But the relish was very hot.

“Good,” she said and nodded to Margaret, who smiled.

“You want a beer?”

“No, thanks. I don't drink.”

“I do.” Margaret giggled over her sandwich in her hand. “A lot.”

“I know. Booze can get you in trouble. It got me in a lot of trouble.”

“Really? Well, that's too bad.” And then Margaret gestured, knocking her coffee into her plate. “Oh, shit. I'm a mess today.”

“Here.” Sam stood. “Let me help.”

“No, no. Finish your sandwich. I'll get this.”

Sam wolfed down the rest of the sandwich. She hadn't realized how hungry she was. She chased it with the hot coffee.

Margaret was listening now, her head cocked to the side. “I hear something downstairs.”

Sam stood. “Remember, we agreed that you should go to the hospital for your arm.”

Margaret pushed back from the table, the petulant drunk showing again. “I don't want to.”

Now Sam could hear their footsteps on the stairs. “It's going to be okay, Margaret.”

“No, it's not. I'm not going.” She settled herself into her chair. Well, they'd carry her out if they had to.

“Margaret, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. The hard way is going to be with a straightjacket, and you're not going to like it very much.”

“Bitch!” Margaret was up and swinging now, lunging at Sam with a heavy arm, but she wasn't even close.

“Look out now.” Sam was backing toward the door.

She'd run for it if she had to. The boys were almost here.

Margaret stumbled backwards, fell into her chair, staring straight at Sam, but she didn't see her. Then she began reciting Lady Macbeth's lines. Her voice sounded like taffeta ripping. Sam had fought her own monsters when she was on the booze. She didn't want to know what was in Margaret Landry's head. But she had to listen anyway.

I have given suck, and know

How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me;

I would, while it was smiling in my face,

Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums

And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you

Have done this thing…

Margaret faltered, then stood and paced. Her wide mouth began to quiver at the corners, to turn in on itself and hide.

“Babe. Poor baby.”

Tears trickled down her cheeks, leaving a black track of mascara.

She stopped dead still before a long cabinet, its top littered with theater programs, ticket stubs, framed notices, and dried flowers. Her fingers brushed a framed baby picture of Laura. She picked up a loose snapshot, old and crinkled, and made a face at it. Sam moved a little closer. The woman in the picture was vaguely familiar, a beauty with a heart-shaped face and huge eyes.

Margaret spoke again.

Root of hemlock digg'd i' th' dark,

Liver of blaspheming Jew,

Gall of goat, and slips of yew…

Sam recognized the speech from Macbeth. One of the witches was giving a recipe for their poisonous brew.

Sliver'd in the moon's eclipse,

Nose of Turk and Tartar's lips,

Finger of birth-strangled babe

Ditch-deliver'd by a drab…