Overkill(50)

Mouthing invectives aimed at Bridger, he turned onto his street, noting that his watchdog had either been called off or had followed the Uber car. In any case, he wasn’t there.

He opened the gate at the end of his drive with a remote and drove through. The landscape’s artificial moonlight and strategically placed security spotlights were all that were on.

His father’s bedroom windows were dark. Good. He wouldn’t be grilled—in the artful manner that only his father was capable of—on how he’d spent his evening.

He drove around back and parked Frida’s car in its place, but didn’t immediately get out. He sat staring at nothing through the windshield, deep in thought.

The gloating satisfaction he’d felt for having successfully violated Kathryn Lennon’s home, and underwear drawer, had been squelched by seeing Bridger. That bastard was turning up every-fucking-where. First, an unprecedented visit to Rebecca, now a sleepover at Kathryn Lennon’s house.

The state prosecutor and the ex-husband, whose finger was on the button of Rebecca’s fate, were cozied up and plotting the ruin of Eban Clarke.

It was funny when you thought about it. He actually laughed out loud.





Chapter 21





New Orleans was a city ravaged by corrosive elements, Mother Nature’s foul temper, and political corruption. Yet it retained its unique charm, and a good part of its enchantment was due to decadence and decay. Under different circumstances, Kate would have been delighted to explore its eccentricities with Zach.

But neither of them had any enthusiasm for this trip and they had said little to each other after their good morning greeting when they’d met at the coffee maker in her kitchen. Each was subdued by dread. They’d spent most of the flight from Atlanta pretending to doze.

“This is it,” Zach said.

He pulled the rental car to the curb in front of a brown brick house with cream-colored trim and a green composite roof. He’d told Kate that Mary and Doug Pratt had lived here for the entirety of their married life, and that Rebecca had been loath to claim the humble dwelling as where she’d spent her first eighteen years.

They got out of the car and walked toward the front door. Zach asked Kate if she knew what she was going to say.

“Generally,” she replied, “but not specifically. Anything prepared would sound like a speech. I want him to see me as a person, not as a spokesperson.”

“Let’s hope. Here goes.” He pressed the doorbell.

Doug answered the door dressed in khaki pants and a golf shirt left untucked. Kate noted now, as she had at their initial meeting, that the only remarkable thing about him was that he’d fathered someone with Rebecca’s exotic beauty and vitality. In every respect, Doug was average: height, weight, mien.

However, when he saw Zach, his bland features turned hostile. He scowled at Kate. “When you called and asked to see me, you failed to mention that he was coming, too.”

“I was afraid you wouldn’t agree to see us.”

“You were right about that.”

Before he could shut the door, she said, “Mr. Pratt, Zach needs to be in on this discussion. You are intelligent and reasonable enough to understand why.”

“I understand, all right. You two are ganging up on me in the hope of bringing me around to your way of thinking.”

“You’re mistaken,” she said. “Zach continues to honor your wishes.”

He moved his gaze from her to Zach. “Are you going to beat me up, too?”

“Beat you up? What are you talking about?”

“That deputy sheriff, Dave Morris, called me this morning, said you busted him up good.”

“He threw the first punch, after he almost caused me to skid off the cliff. I don’t apologize for defending myself.”

“He told me you weaseled my name out of him.”

“If you wanted to know my frame of mind now that Clarke is free, why didn’t you ask me man-to-man? A phone call? An email? Instead you hired a spy.”

Pratt set his jaw and didn’t respond.

Zach made a sound of disgust. “Grow up, Doug. This issue is a hell of a lot more critical than your pissing contest against me.”

Before the interview could unravel further, Kate said, “Mr. Pratt, Rebecca’s fate still lies with you.”

“Then what is there to talk about?”

“Eban Clarke’s fate. Which also lies with you.” She let that sink in, then said, “May we come in?”

Looking sour, he unhooked the latch on the screen door and pushed it open. “Hurry, or the cat will get out.”

Inside, the atmosphere was stuffy. Dust motes danced in the streaks of sunlight allowed in through slits between partially closed Venetian blinds. Kate was glad when Doug led them through the house onto a screened-in back porch.

“It’s not too humid out here today.” He sat down in a wicker rocking chair with a faded cushion. A tabby cat—who looked too old and infirm to escape through an open door—came over to the chair. Doug bent down and picked him up, laid him in his lap, and began stroking him.

Kate sat in a matching chair that she figured had probably been the late Mary’s customary seat. Zach had a settee all to himself.

Once he was seated, he said, “Doug, my condolences on Mary’s passing. I didn’t know until Kate told me.”