The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires(99)

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” she told Slick. “But I need to go home and get some groceries in the fridge and make sure the children are still alive.”

“Of course,” James Harris said. “I’ll be happy to give you a ride.”

Patricia bent over Slick.

“I’ll see you soon,” she said, and kissed her on the forehead.

Maryellen insisted on walking with her to James Harris’s car, which was on the third level of the parking garage. Patricia appreciated the gesture, but then came the moment when she had to go.

“Well,” Maryellen said, like a bad actor on television. “I thought I was parked up here but I guess I was wrong again. You go on, I’ll have to figure out where I put my car.”

Patricia watched Maryellen walk to the stairwell until all she could hear were her heels, and then those faded, and the parking garage was silent. The door locks chunked up and Patricia jumped. She pulled the handle, slid self-consciously into the front seat, pulled the door closed, and clicked her seat belt on. The car engine came to life, idled, and then James Harris reached for her head. She flinched as he put his hand on the back of her headrest, looked over his shoulder, and reversed out of his space. They drove down the ramps in silence, he paid the attendant, and they pulled out onto the dark Charleston streets.

“I’m glad we can have this time together,” he said.

Patricia tried to say something, but she couldn’t force air through her throat.

“Do they have any idea what’s wrong with Slick?” he asked.

“An autoimmune disorder,” she managed.

“Leland thinks she has AIDS,” James Harris said. “He’s terrified people will find out.”

His turn signal clicked loudly as he made a left onto Calhoun Street, past the park where the columns from the old Charleston Museum still stood. They reminded Patricia of tombstones.

“You and I have been making a lot of assumptions about each other,” James Harris said. “I think it’s time we got on the same page.”

Patricia dug her nails into her palms to make herself keep quiet. She had gotten into his car. She didn’t need to talk.

“I would never hurt anyone,” he said. “You know that, right?”

How much did he know? Had they cleaned his stairs completely? Did he know she’d been in his attic, or did he just suspect? Had she missed a spot, left something behind, given herself away?

“I know,” she said.

“Does Slick have any idea how she got this?” he asked.

Patricia bit the inside of her cheeks, feeling her teeth sink into their soft, spongy tissue, making herself more alert.

“No,” she said.

“What about you?” he asked. “What do you think?”

If he had attacked Slick, what would he do to her now that they were alone? The position she’d put herself in began to sink in. She needed to reassure him that she was no danger.

“I don’t know what to think,” she managed.

“At least you’re admitting it,” he said. “I find myself in a similar position.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

They mounted the Cooper River Bridge, rising in a smooth arc over the city, leaving the land below, soaring over the dark harbor. Traffic was light, with only a few cars on the bridge.

The moment Patricia dreaded was coming soon. At the end of the bridge, the road forked. Two lanes curved toward the Old Village. The other two veered left and became Johnnie Dodds Boulevard, running out past strip malls, past Creekside, out into the country where there were no streetlights or neighbors, deep into Francis Marion National Forest where there were hidden clearings and logging roads, places where occasionally the police found abandoned cars with dead bodies in the trunk, or babies’ skeletons wrapped in plastic bags and buried under the trees.

Which road he took would tell her if he thought she posed a threat.

“Leland did this to her,” James Harris said. “Leland made her sick.”

Patricia’s thoughts fragmented. What was he saying? She tried to pay attention, but he was already talking.

“It all started with those damn trips,” he said. “If I’d known, I never would have suggested them. It was that one last February to Atlanta, do you remember? Carter had that Ritalin conference and Leland and I went on Sunday to take some of the doctors out golfing and talk to them about investing in Gracious Cay. At dinner, this psychiatrist from Reno asked if we wanted to see some girls. He told us there was a place called the Gold Club owned by a former New York Yankee, so it must be on the level. It wasn’t my kind of thing, but Leland spent almost a thousand dollars. That was the first time. After that, it seemed to get easier for him.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Patricia asked.

“Because you need to know the truth,” he said, and they were coming down the last rise of the bridge. Up ahead, the road branched: right or left. “I became aware of the girls last summer. Leland would be with a different one almost every trip. Sometimes, when it was places like Atlanta or Miami where we went a few times, he would see the same girl. Some of them were professionals, some weren’t. You know what I mean by that?”

He waited. She nodded stiffly in acknowledgment, eyes on the road. He drove in the middle lane, which could go either way. She wondered if this was a full and final confession because he knew she wouldn’t be able to tell anyone soon.