Blood Vines

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Thursday, March 11

10:45 P.M.

Alex waited for Reed on her front porch. She had spent the time since leaving Angie Wilson’s home studying the situation and attempting to decide what she believed. What Angie said made sense: Max hadn’t been strong enough to accomplish what the police believed he’d done. Plus, the man had been happy with his life. A devout Catholic as well, one who believed taking your own life was an unforgivable sin.

But murder?

Alex rubbed her arms, chilled. Someone had come to Max’s door while they were on the phone. He had said so; she had heard the bell sound. Not Angie, as he had thought that night. His killer? Probably.

She shivered again, though the night was mild. How could she even consider this? Who would kill such a sweet old man? Why?

Her ring. To keep him quiet.

Could it be? It sounded crazy, but her gut told her she was right anyway.

She had to convince Reed. She couldn’t let whoever did this get away with it.

Headlights sliced across her line of vision. She turned and watched as Reed eased to a stop in front of her cottage. He stepped out of the SUV and slammed the door behind him. She lifted her hand in a silent greeting, then waited.

“I know it’s late,” she said when he reached her, “but I had to talk to you tonight.”

“No problem.”

She motioned him to follow her inside. When he did, she closed the door behind them and faced him. “Max didn’t kill himself.”

“Okay. You have proof of that?”

“Yes.” She clasped her hands together. “Not exactly. I mean, you may not call it proof, but-”

“You’re convinced,” he finished for her. “And you believe you can convince me.”

“Yes.” She held out a hand. “Just hear me out, please. Two things.”

He sighed and shrugged out of his jacket. “Can we sit down? It’s been a long day.”

Without waiting for her response, he headed into the adjacent living room and sank onto the couch. He looked drained.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“For what?”

She spread her hands. “This. Calling you so late. Not considering that you might be tired.”

“Your tax dollars at work. Shoot.”

She took the chair directly across from his. “When I met Max,” she began, “I was struck with how content he was. How at peace he was with his life, even with his physical limitations.” She cleared her throat. “He showed me a photograph of his daughter and granddaughters. He called himself blessed.”

“Alex-”

“I can’t stop wondering, why would a man who described himself as blessed take his own life?”

“That’s the first thing?”

“Yes.” She laced her fingers. “Here’s the second: how’d he do it, Reed?” She leaned toward him. “He was weak. His hands shook so badly he couldn’t carry his own teacup without spilling.”

“You spoke with his daughter, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but-”

“I understand how difficult this is for her,” he said softly. “How difficult for you, because of your mother.”

“That’s not it.”

“I’ve seen suicides play out this way, over and over again, Alex. Family members never want to accept their loved one chose to take their life. It’s too painful. They feel it’s a personal rejection. Or somehow a reflection on how good a spouse, parent or in this case child they were.”

“No.” Alex shook her head. “Someone was at his door that night, while he was on the phone with me. I heard the doorbell ring. It wasn’t Angie. You need to ask the neighbors, maybe someone saw who it was. It could have been his killer.”

“Alex-”

“What about his doctor? Have you even spoken with him? Have you asked if, in their opinion, he had the strength to hang himself?”

She saw by his expression that he hadn’t. “You should, because I don’t think he could. Why would an old man like him choose that way to die? He’d do what my mother did, take a handful of pills and… I can’t stop thinking”-tears blurred her vision and she blinked to keep them from falling-“I can’t stop thinking that he was murdered because of me. Because of the ring. So I wouldn’t find out who’d had it made.”

He stood and crossed to her. “No.” He caught her hands and drew her to her feet. “It didn’t go down that way.”

“It can’t be a coincidence that just hours after he called me about it, he was dead.” Her voice rose. “He was so weird about it. He made me promise not to tell anyone we’d talked.”

He tightened his fingers over hers. “I promise you, Max Cragan was not killed because of you or your mother’s ring.”

“How can you be so certain? How?”

“There’s something I have to tell you. Something I just learned.”

She searched his expression. Something in it, some regret, had her backing away from him. “I don’t want to hear this, do I?”

“It’s about your mother. I’m sorry.”

Alex turned away from him, crossed to the fireplace. She laid a hand on the old pine mantel and breathed deeply through her nose, trying to calm herself.

She wanted to know, she told herself. Whatever it was, she could handle it.

“Okay,” she said softly, “what is it?”

“Max did design the ring.”

She turned slowly and met his eyes.

“It wasn’t a gift. Your mother had it designed for herself.”

She felt some of her tension slip away. “How did you find that out?”

“Some people who knew her well.” He looked away, then back. “I was interested in the ring because I’d seen the design before.”

“Where?”

“A tattoo. On the bottom of a man’s foot.”

Her heart leapt to her throat. Her father. Of course. It had to be.

“Who is he?” she asked, voice shaking. “Does he know about m-Of course he does. Was he married? Is that it? Is that why they couldn’t acknowledge each other?”

“No, Alex. This is difficult, so I’m just going-”

“It’s Harlan, isn’t it? It makes sense that he-”

He laid his hands on her shoulders. “Your mother initiated young men into sex. The sons of her and Harlan’s friends. Some of them were as young as fifteen.”

She stared disbelievingly at him. “What did you… you didn’t just say-”

But he had, she realized. She started to tremble.

“I’m sorry, Alex. Maybe you should sit down?”

She shook her head. “It’s not true.”

“The boys got tattoos afterward, in a vines and snake image.”

“No. You’re lying.”

“After Dylan disappeared, one of the boys went to his father, confessed everything. The fathers got together and ran her-and you-out of town.”

Alex felt ill. She brought a trembling hand to her mouth. “It’s not true. It’s not!”

“I got it directly from parties involved. Parties I trust.”

Her father had been just some guy her mother had fucked. She had always told Alex she didn’t know who he was; Alex had preferred to believe she’d been lying.

It hurt so bad she could hardly breathe. Everything she had ever imagined about her father and the past her mother kept hidden had just been shot to hell.

She lashed out at Reed. “That makes me, what? The whore’s kid? Not even conceived in love?”

“What she did or was has nothing to do with you.”

“What a joke my coming back must be to them all. I can imagine what they’re saying. How they’re snickering behind my back.”

“Why would they?” He tried to take her into his arms.

She fought against him. “No. No! Don’t touch me.”

Her stomach rushed to her throat and she turned and ran for the bathroom. She made it just in time, heaving over the commode, heaving until she was empty. And broken. The way she felt inside.

“I’m sorry, Alex,” Reed said softly from the doorway.

She flushed the toilet and stood. “Leave me alone.”

“Can’t do it.”

“Then hand me the mouthwash. It’s in the medicine cabinet.” He did and she rinsed her mouth and spit once, then again. “You don’t have to worry I’m going to freak out or something. I’m not.”

“I wasn’t worried. Sit.”

She flipped down the commode lid and did as he asked. He wet a washcloth and handed it to her. “Hold that on the back of your neck. You’ll feel better.”

She did as he suggested. “This is just great,” she said. “Simply fucking wonderful.”

“Feel better?”

“Than what?” She handed him the washcloth. “You’re calling my mother a whore. And a… my God, a child molester?”

“Technically, since the boys were all older than fourteen, it’s considered statutory rape or carnal knowledge of a juvenile.”

“I feel so much better now.”

“I’m sorry.”

She stood. “If you say you’re sorry one more time, I swear to God, I’m going to lose it.”

He let that pass. She stalked out of the bathroom and to the kitchen. An open cabernet sat on the counter. She poured herself a glass. “Want one?” she asked.

“I’d rather have a beer.”

“Sure. Help yourself.” She sipped the wine and made a face at the taste.

“I was going to warn you about mixing a good red and mouthwash, but figured you’d have tried it anyway.”

He was right, she would have. Stubbornly, she took another sip. This time, the taste was more tolerable. She looked at him. “Who are they? The young men my mother… initiated?”

“Does it matter?”

“To me, yes.” When he didn’t respond, she pursed her lips in thought. “Family friends, you said. As young as fifteen. Let me guess. Your brother Joe. Clark Sommer. The rest shouldn’t be too hard to figure out.” She narrowed her eyes. “The guy who was murdered. What was his name?”

“Tom Schwann.”

“Right. Him.” She thought of what Rachel had said, that Reed had more of a reason to take her ring than just Max’s suicide.

“He had the tattoo that matched my mom’s ring. Of course. That’s what got you asking questions.”

She nodded to herself, confirming her own thoughts. “Your questions either jostled someone’s memory or upset an applecart or two and… voilà, Patsy Sommer, defiler of young men, is exposed.”

“Alex-”

“Who’d you hear it from?” She tapped the stem of her wineglass, considering the options. “Your dad, I’ll bet. Am I right?”

She saw from his expression that she was and went on. “Too bad you were only ten. You missed out on all the fun.”

“Stop it, Alex.”

“But that’s not quite true. You had a piece of the whore’s daughter, so in a way-”

“Stop it,” he said again. He crossed to her, took the wineglass from her hand, then caught her by the shoulders. “Don’t do this.”

“Is it in the genes, then? Is that why I-” Sudden tears flooded her eyes. Dammit, she didn’t want to cry! She preferred anger or even bitterness.

But the tears spilled over anyway. And he caught them with his fingertips, then lips. Kissing her, he dragged her to his chest and into his arms.

He carried her to the bedroom and there, in a frenzy that obliterated grief and transformed anger to passion, they made love.

Afterward, he didn’t release her, instead held her tightly in his arms. She pressed her face to his damp chest. His heart thundered beneath her cheek and she pressed closer.

She thought of all the men she had been with, the therapy sessions she’d had, trying to figure out why. The answers had varied: she’d been looking for love, for Daddy, to rewrite history, as a way to complete or validate herself.

Did it all come down to genetics? Was she just like her mother?

Fear licked at her and she shuddered. Did the same future await her?

Reed stirred; he cocked his head to see her face. “Don’t like what you’re thinking,” he murmured.

“So, now you’re both cop and mind reader?”

She said it lightly, but he didn’t bite. Instead, he drew her up so they were nose-to-nose. “You’re not like your mother.”

She frowned. “I’m here with you, aren’t I?”

“I’m not young or uninitiated. And you didn’t seduce me.”

It hurt to look at him; she shifted her gaze and stared blankly at the wall. “It hurts,” she said finally, softly.

“I know.” He kissed her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

She turned to meet his eyes. “Don’t say that anymore, okay? I’m tired of people telling me that. I’ve heard it so many times. Not just since Mom’s death, but all my life.”

“What would you rather hear?”

She searched his gaze. “No clue. I just know pity’s not cutting it.”