Johnston - I Promise Page 14

  It was as though time had stood still. She saw her mother sitting at her desk writing checks, and herself standing in the doorway scared to death, needing to tell her mother of Ray John’s perfidy.

  She remembered the mild irritation in her mother’s glance when Delia interrupted her, and the dawning horror as Delia said, in soft, halting words, what she had come to say.

  Her mother had risen from her chair, her face splotched with red, the whites of her eyes visible, and headed toward her. Delia had been expecting comfort. She had gotten a vicious slap instead.

  “Liar! Take back those filthy lies!”

  Reeling from the slap, she had protested, “I’m not lying, Mama!”

  Her mother had grabbed her hair and yanked hard enough to bring tears to her eyes. “It’s that North boy. He’s the one who’s been doing these things to you. He’s the one who got you pregnant, and you need someone else to blame for behaving like a slut. Well, I won’t have it! Marsh North can’t help himself to my daughter and get away with it. I’m calling the sheriff. I’ll have that boy arrested.”

  “It wasn’t Marsh,” she said, hanging on to her hair close to her scalp, trying to ease the pain, numb with disbelief. “It was Daddy. And it isn’t only me he’s been bothering. It’s Rachel, too.”

  Her mother’s eyes had narrowed in fury. “You wicked, loathsome child! Take back those filthy, disgusting lies!” The spittle had flown from her mother’s mouth, landing on her face.

  Delia wiped at it now. But her face was dry. She rubbed at her scalp, at the spot where the hair had nearly been yanked out. But that was remembered pain.

  Her heart thundered in her chest. The room was empty. All that had happened long ago. She located the phone on the desk, forced herself to cross to it, and punched in the number for her office in New York with trembling fingers.

  “Janet,” she said. “I’m glad you’re still there.”

  Nothing much new was going on, except the Times had called to confirm some statistics.

  “What kind of statistics?” Delia asked, sliding into her mother’s chair behind the desk.

  “Number of trials scheduled, number of pleas granted, that sort of thing,” Janet said. “Said they’d been in touch with the DA and he had given them numbers and did you have anything different.”

  Delia rubbed at the wrinkles in her brow. What was the Times after? Had they called Sam Dietrich, or had Sam called them? Frank’s warning came back to her.

  Watch your back, Delia.

  What the hell was going on? There wasn’t much Sam could do to her. She hadn’t done anything that wasn’t by the book. Except she had a few more trials scheduled than the other judges. Delia’s mouth curled wryly. About twice as many, to be exact. That might be unusual, but there wasn’t anything wrong with it. So where was the Times headed?

  “The Times reporter still wants to talk to you. Do you want me to give him your number in Texas?” Janet asked.

  Delia wanted to know what was going on, but she expected to be at the hospital most of the time for the next few days, and if the reporter didn’t reach her by phone, knowing reporters, he would show up on her doorstep. “No. I’d rather not have him hounding me here.”

  She hung up the phone, picked up a pencil, and nervously rapped it against the old oak desk. Her stomach was churning. She wondered where she could get hold of a copy of tomorrow’s Times in Uvalde. Not that she expected to see her name in print, but it couldn’t hurt to keep her eye on the damned thing.

  She sighed and pushed herself upright. Maybe that churning in her stomach had something to do with not having eaten much of anything for twenty-four hours. She was hungry. The Amber Sky beckoned.

  Chapter Ten

  The Amber Sky was almost full when they arrived. It looked smaller than Delia remembered. She eyed an old codger wearing a sweat-stained white straw hat and scuffed cowboy boots who had a toothpick hanging from the corner of his mouth. At least the crowd was the same.

  The single fan in the ceiling was turning, but despite the closed orange blinds, the air-conditioning unit was struggling vainly to counter the heat of the setting sun.

  The cafe had a familiar feel that made Delia think she had come home at last. She wished Peggy Voorhees hadn’t moved away to California. She could have used another friend in town. The people she and Rachel passed on the way to their table either avoided her eyes completely or gave her a too-effusive greeting. She was home, all right.

  They ended up at a table near the back of the cafe that gave them some privacy. Delia ordered chicken-fried steak smothered in white gravy, mashed potatoes, and green beans, with iced tea to drink, and Rachel said, “Make it two.”

  “I’m so glad Cliff didn’t insist I catch the five o'clock flight today. I’ve missed talking with you.”

  “I’ve missed you, too,” Delia said.

  “I hope Cliff doesn’t create a scene when I tell him I’m serious about a divorce. What if he won’t let me leave?”

  Delia gave her sister a stern look. “He can’t lock you in.”

  “He can get a restraining order to keep me from taking Scott,” Rachel said. “He threatened to do it once before when I said I was leaving him.”

  “On what basis? Have you abused Scott?”

  “Heavens no!”

  “Neglected him?”

  “No.”

  “Any excessive use of drugs or alcohol?”

  Rachel remained silent. She turned to stare out the window at the traffic on Highway 90. Delia had to admit it was a better choice than the godawful blue-green wall over the counter.

  “Rachel?”

  Rachel glanced at her with wary eyes. “I . . . I’ve been on medication for a while, Delia. For depression. Prozac, actually.”

  Delia made a small moaning sound.

  “And some pills to help me sleep.”

  “You take sleeping pills?”

  Rachel nodded. “I’ve also been seeing someone, a psychiatrist. A while back . . . before Scott . . . I took a bottle of pills.”

  Delia stared in horror at her sister. They spoke on the phone at least twice a month. Rachel hadn’t even hinted at this kind of trouble.

  Rachel stared at her hands, which were knotted in front of her. “I wasn’t really going to kill myself, Delia. I was just so unhappy. I thought Cliff might pay more attention if . . .” Her lips curled in the mockery of a smile. “Anyway, it didn’t work. He kept it out of the papers, and I started seeing the psychiatrist.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Delia said, searching her sister’s face. “Why didn’t you let me help?”

  “I couldn’t.” Rachel tucked her hands under the table where Delia couldn’t reach them. “Don’t you see, Delia? It was my problem. I had to solve it myself.”

  “But I’m your sister!”

  Rachel shook her head. “You left, Delia. You had your own life, and I wasn’t a part of it.”

  Delia wanted to put her arms around Rachel. More than the table kept them separated. Delia felt for the first time that she didn’t have the right to comfort her sister, or to seek comfort from her. She had known Rachel was out there somewhere, but she had been too busy running from the past to be there for her sister. Lord, Lord, it was time the running stopped.

  Delia thought of the bed she had barely glimpsed in her room at the Circle Crown and realized she was going to have to sleep there, to face what had happened there, and somehow let go of it once and for all.

  “I know why you left,” Rachel said. “I know you blame yourself for what happened to Daddy. But Delia . . .” Rachel stared at her, wide-eyed and breathless. “It . . . it wasn’t your fault.”

  Delia rubbed her brow. “I know that, Rachel.”

  “You do?” Rachel asked, surprised.

  It was not her fault that Rachel had murdered their father. Except that she should have done something sooner to stop Ray John. At least she would find a way to help Rachel this time before it was too late.

 
“The past doesn’t matter anymore,” Delia said, meeting Rachel’s gaze. “What matters is how we’re going to get you and Scott away from that madman you’re married to. Maybe taking Scott and running isn’t the best plan. Maybe we should think about this a little more.”

  Rachel tucked in a wayward strand of hair. “Are you saying I should stay with Cliff? Not try to leave again right away?”

  Delia caught the look of despair in Rachel’s eyes. She laid her open palm on the table and waited for Rachel to put her hand in it. When she did, Delia gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Only until I have time to talk to some of my friends here in Texas and see what we can do. Is there anything else I should know, Rachel? Anything else that might make it possible for Cliff to take Scott away from you?”

  Rachel lowered her eyes and tried pulling her hand free.

  Delia wouldn’t let her go. There was something else. Delia was afraid to ask, but she had to know. “What is it?”

  “I don’t think Cliff would bring it up. Because he might have to talk about what happened before.”

  “Before what?” Delia asked.

  Rachel raised her eyes. “Before I held an empty gun to his head and pulled the trigger.”

  Delia’s eyes slid closed, and she swallowed hard. “Like Daddy used to do?”

  Rachel nodded miserably. “I only wanted to scare him. Because he had beat me. I wanted him to know if he did it again, I would kill him. And I would have.”

  “Would you? Really?”

  For a long moment, Rachel was silent. Then she sighed. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t want to, because then I would lose Scott for sure. Scott is the most important thing in the world to me, Delia. But I might, if I had to. I know you’d take good care of Scott for me, wouldn’t you? You’re his godmother. And I know you love children.”

  “Please don’t talk like that, Rachel. It scares 1ne.”

  “I’m sorry, Delia.”

  “Is there anybody else you’ve confided in?” Delia asked. “Anyone who knows what Cliff has done to you? Anyone who could testify in court?”

  “The psychiatrist.”

  “Has he seen the bruises?”

  “She. She’s seen them.”

  “And you told her how you got them?” Rachel nodded. “But I don’t have any proof, Delia. Cliff never hit me when anyone was around to see. And I hid the bruises when I was in public. I . . . I was ashamed.”

  Delia stared at an amateurish painting of a single live oak hanging on the wall for sale along with other equally woeful paintings by local artists, avoiding the pain in Rachel’s eyes. “I haven’t been a very good sister, Rachel. But all that’s going to change. I envy you having Scott, but I don’t want to end up raising my nephew.”

  “You envy me, Delia? I always thought you were happy with your career. You’re a judge, for heaven’s sake. That’s an incredible accomplishment. If you want to know the honest truth, I envy you.”

  “Want to trade?” Delia said with the hint of a smile. “I’ll take Scott. You can have my gavel and robes.”

  Rachel managed a grin. “You’re welcome to Cliff, but I think I’ll keep Scott.” The grin faded. “Will I be able to, Delia? Keep Scott, I mean, and still get away from Cliff.”

  “You will,” Delia promised. “I’m sure we’ll figure out some way to manage it.”

  Delia was eating the last bite of her buttermilk pie—a candy-sweet mixture of vanilla, sugar, buttermilk, and eggs that she liked even better than the cafe’s famous chocolate chiffon—when Marsh walked into the Amber Sky. Not walked, precisely. Stalked. Or stomped. Or tramped. He was obviously in a bad mood and searching for someone. She hoped it wasn’t her.

  She saw the moment he recognized her among the dinner crowd, because he headed directly toward her.

  “What do you suppose Marsh wants?” Rachel asked.

  “I don’t know,” Delia murmured. “Why don’t you ask him when he gets here?”

  Rachel laughed. “He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since he saw you. I don’t think he’ll even know I’m here.”

  Sure enough, when Marsh reached the table he focused his gaze on Delia and said, “Billie Jo didn’t come home on the school bus. I can’t find her.”

  Delia was at a loss. What did Marsh expect from her? She didn’t even know what Billie Jo North looked like. His next words provided her answer.

  “Where did you go when you were her age? Where is she liable to be?”

  The live oak. The flush came fast and hot to Delia’s cheeks.

  “She wouldn’t be there,” Marsh said, easily reading her mind. “I don’t think,” he added a second later. He shifted his weight onto one hip, pulled off his hat, ran a frustrated hand through his hair, put it back on, and tugged it down again.

  “Sit down, Marsh,” Delia said. “While I think.”

  He jerked a chair out, turned it around, and straddled the turquoise padded seat with his arms across the painted black wooden back. “The bus passed by the house without stopping. I got worried and came looking for her. The damned school didn’t even know whether she got on.

  “They were quick enough to tell me she got into another fight today. How the hell she could do that when she was already on suspension, I’ll never know.”

  “Another fight? Suspension?” Billie Jo was certainly following in her father’s footsteps, Delia thought.

  “Yeah, well, that’s a whole other story,” Marsh said. “Anyway, I had to wait around at school for the bus driver to finish his rounds to ask him if he’d dropped her somewhere else. He said she never got on the bus in the first place. So where the hell did she go?”

  “It’s too early for the movies,” Delia said. “And it’s too cold for tubing. Is there a game room somewhere?”

  “It went bankrupt a month ago,” Marsh replied.

  “Is there something going on after school she might be involved in?” Rachel asked. “A play or a club?”

  “I searched the school from top to bottom. She wasn’t there.”

  “Could she be with friends?” Delia asked.

  Marsh rubbed at the shadow of beard that had accumulated since morning, then pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. “I don’t know. If she has friends, I don’t know who they are.”

  Delia frowned and exchanged a look with Rachel, who shrugged. She didn’t have any suggestions. But it seemed heartless to leave Marsh to search on his own.

  “Would you like me to drive around with you? We could ask around at the Sonic Drive-In and McDonald’s and Taco Bell and Pizza Hut to see if anyone’s seen her,” Delia offered.

  Marsh lowered his hands. “Thanks,” he said gruffly. “I’d appreciate that.”

  “Can you drop me off at the ranch after we find her? That way Rachel will have the car to get home,” Delia said.

  “Sure,” Marsh agreed. “Anything.”

  He sounded desperate. Uvalde was a small, safe, friendly town, but Delia knew there were always isolated incidents where some stranger drove through a small town and a young woman disappeared.

  “Do you mind if I go with Marsh?” Delia asked Rachel. “I might not get back in time for us to spend much time talking before you have to leave tomorrow.”

  “I think we’ve discussed everything that needs to be discussed for the moment,” Rachel said. “Don’t worry about me. Just find Billie Jo.”

  A moment later Delia found herself sitting on the tattered red leather bench seat of a familiar '57 Chevy pickup. Memories bombarded her. Good ones, mostly. Of a sky with a million stars. Male and female flesh dappled by sunlight streaming through the branches of an ancient live oak. Steamed-up windows. And the grind of gears and rattle of loose metal as Marsh set the rusted-out truck in motion.

  “I’m surprised you still have this old rattletrap,” Delia said.

  “I left it home when I ran away,” he said. “Hitchhiked to Houston with a semi trucker and hopped an oil tanker for the Middle East. Luckily, fate took over in the form of an Arab oi
l embargo that brought a horde of American journalists past my hotel door. I ended up doing a little investigative work on the side for one of them. Which turned into a little more work. The rest is history.”

  She kept her eyes lowered as she admitted. “I’ve seen some of your stuff. It’s good.”

  When he didn’t say anything, she looked up and found him staring at her. He looked surprised. And pleased. She felt a flush creeping up her throat. She opened her mouth to make some sort of excuse or explanation for having followed his work and realized that would only make things worse.

  “What about you?” he said. “Where did you end up when you left town?”

  “Actually, I didn’t go far. A good friend of my father’s—my real father—lived in San Antonio. Nash Hazeltine is—was—my godfather. He was a rodeo clown, so he was on the road most of the time. I stayed with his wife, Lydia, and finished high school in Alamo Heights.”

  “Pretty nice area of town for a rodeo clown.”

  “Nash had family money. He and Lydia paid to put me through college and law school. They were both very generous with me.”

  “You keep using the past tense.”

  “My third year of law school at UT in Austin Nash died in a car crash on his way to a rodeo in Nacogdoches.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I still keep in touch with Lydia. She’s re-married. They were very good to me.”

  They had arrived at the Sonic Drive-In, which was west on Highway 90 from the Amber Sky. Marsh drove into one of the few remaining spaces and looked around at the collection of teenagers in cars and pickups. “I don’t see her,” he said.

  Delia opened the door and stepped down. “Let’s go ask if anyone knows where she might be.”

  “She’ll kill me,” Marsh said, “for checking up on her.”

  “If she didn’t want you to check up on her, she should have phoned, so you wouldn’t worry.”

  Marsh cleared his throat. “We . . . uh . . . don’t exactly have that kind of relationship.”

  Delia’s brow furrowed. “What kind do you have?”

  “She sort of takes care of herself without much help from me.”