The Law of Moses(97)

“Oh, no,” I breathed.

“Yeah. Unbelievable.” He looked at me steadily. “People are talking about you again, Georgia. And it’s a damn shame. But your name is forever going to be linked with his.”

I raised my eyebrows and pursed my lips. “What are you talking about, Dale?”

“Nobody’s waitin’ around on this one. Word is out that they already dusted the van for prints. Just preliminary stuff. And someone leaked out that Moses Wright’s prints are all over that van.”





Moses



I FELL ASLEEP. That was all. I’d finished sanding the deck, my eyes straying to Georgia’s corrals and outbuildings throughout the morning, catching a glimpse of her now and then, which helped me relax and eased the nagging worry I could not shake. When my back started to scream and my arms were sloppy with fatigue, I took a break, fixed myself some lunch, and climbed into the big brass tub Georgia had occupied last night, making me miss her and contemplate how I was going to get her there again as soon as possible. The heat and the lapping water soothed me, and I hadn’t slept at all the night before. My eyes grew heavy and my thoughts slowed, and I finished my bath in a muggy stupor, sluggishly pulled on some jeans, and fell across my bed on my belly, my face sinking into the pillow Georgia had slept on the night before.

I was asleep instantly.

I woke up with a gun pointed at my head.





“THAT WAS TOO EASY. I didn’t know how this was all going to go down. I thought I’d have to shoot you straight up when I came through the front door.”

I wondered why he hadn’t, and then decided shooting me in the back while I slept would be harder to explain. And he was going to have an explanation, I was convinced of that. He was dressed in his uniform, dark brown pants and dress shirt ironed and tidy, so official. And I had a feeling I was officially dead.

“You here to arrest me or kill me, Sheriff?” I asked conversationally, my hands in the air as he ushered me down the narrow stairs, his gun at my back. I didn’t know where we were going, but my feet and upper body were bare and I wasn’t dressed to leave the house. I wasn’t dressed for the narrative he might have in mind.

We walked through the kitchen and stopped.

“Grab one of those knives. In fact, grab the whole block,” he instructed, nodding toward the new, black handled set of knives I’d purchased for the house.

I stared at him, unmoving. I was not going to help him kill me.

He fired the gun, burying a bullet in the cupboard near my head. His eyes were flat and his shooting hand was steady.

“Take the knife!” he repeated, raising his voice, his finger on the trigger, just waiting for me to comply. I considered him for a moment, my heart racing, pulse pounding, adrenaline making me want to grab the knives, just like he said, and start hurling them toward him. I reached toward the block and drew out the longest, sharpest knife of the bunch and held it loosely in my hand. The sheriff obviously hadn’t talked to his nephew about my appreciation for knives.

“You want me to throw this at you, Sheriff? Maybe cut you a little, so it all looks like you had to do it? You’re just here to arrest me for something, I’m not entirely clear what, and I come at you with a knife, so you have to shoot me. Is that your plan? Shouldn’t you be reading me my rights or telling me why I’m under arrest?”

“I’m here to question you in the disappearance of Lisa Kendrick,” he said, finger on the trigger, eyes on my knife, waiting for me to make my move so he could make his. “When you’re dead, I’m going to find her here. Tied up somewhere. Drugged. And no one will question me, no one will care if you’re dead.”

I didn’t know if he was crazy or if I was just missing something again.

“You mean Sylvie Kendrick?” I asked, my head spinning.

“I mean Lisa. Such a lucky break for me, seeing her walking along the street last night. And I knew you drove her van when you came to the jail to get David Taggert. It was like a little miracle. Just for me.”

“Did you kill my mother? Is that how this all started, Sheriff?” I asked softly, trying to put the pieces together as quickly as I could.

“I didn’t kill her. I loved her. I loved her so much. And she was a whore. Do you know how it feels to be in love with a whore?” He laughed, but it sounded more like a sob and he stopped immediately, gritted his teeth and kept his hand steady. But I’d touched a nerve. I’d touched THE nerve.

“You don’t look like me at all. I couldn’t believe it when I saw you. Just a tiny little thing hooked up to a bunch of machines. I thought they must have made a mistake. I thought you were mine,” he said, and slapped his chest with his left hand. “I thought you were mine, but I’m the wrong color, aren’t I?” Another laugh that made me wince, inch for the door, and grip the knife in my hand. He took an aggressive step toward me, but he wasn’t finished talking.

“You sure as hell aren’t mine! I was so stupid. Jenny was sleeping around, obviously. I would have given her anything she wanted. It didn’t make any sense to me. Does that make sense to you?” Jacob Dawson peered up at me in puzzlement, clearly wanting me to say something that he still hadn’t come to terms with in twenty-five years.

“She was messed up. I thought I could fix her, but she couldn’t leave the shit alone. She couldn’t leave it alone. Just like Molly Taggert and Sylvie Kendrick. They reminded me of her. Pretty girls, but so messed up. Hurting their families. I did them a favor. They were heading the same direction as Jenny, taking drugs, running away from home, selfish bitches. I did them a favor. Saved them from themselves, saved their families from more hurt.”