Mortal Faults

14

Rush hour, which lasted pretty much all day in L.A., was even worse than usual, and it took Abby two hours to get from Santa Ana to San Fernando. She arrived in Andrea Lowry’s neighborhood at five thirty.

She cruised past the house and saw the Chevy Malibu in the carport. Andrea was home. No surprise. Clearly she wasn’t the type who got out much.

Abby parked on a side street, figuring that Andrea had few if any visitors, and if the same car was parked in front of the house two days in a row, it might get noticed. At the corner she glanced up and down the block. The neighborhood was deserted except for a few children in the playground across the street.

She approached the house and went up the front walk. The door opened before she had a chance to ring the bell.

Andrea Lowry stood in the doorway. She was unarmed, and Abby was glad about that.

“ You.” Her eyes were narrowed to slits in her broad, fleshy face. “Do you really think I’m going to give you an interview?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Then go away.” The door began to close.

“I’m not here for an interview,” Abby said. “I’m not even a reporter.”

Andrea flashed a glare at her. “You already told me-”

“I lied. I’m good that.”

There was a beat of silence as Andrea took this in. “You lied? And you expect me to believe you now?”

“I’m hoping.”

“You must take me for a fool.”

“I was hired to locate you. I’m a sort of private investigator. Someone thinks you’re stalking him. He put me on the case.”

Andrea drew a slow breath. When she spoke, her voice was softer. “Who?”

“Congressman Jack Reynolds. You are stalking him, aren’t you, Andrea?” No answer. “I need to know why.”

“I’m not stalking anyone.” The denial was perfunctory, without conviction.

“You’re showing up at his public events. You have a list of them in your car.”

“You looked in my car?”

Abby ignored the question. “Last night you wore a wig to his town hall meeting to disguise yourself. And you don’t even live in his district. Something’s going on.”

She saw the heavy swallowing motion of Andrea’s throat. “And he

… he hired you to ask me about that?”

“He hired me to track you down and get to know you. It’s what I do. Only last night it didn’t go so well.”

“Track me down?” There was a new look in Andrea’s eyes, a look Abby knew well. Fear. “You’re saying you gave him my address?”

Abby raised a placating hand. “I haven’t given him anything. I don’t trust him. He’s not telling me the truth. I’m hoping you will.”

Andrea shifted her weight uneasily. “Why should I talk to you at all?”

“Maybe I can help you.”

“But you’re working for him.”

“Not anymore.” Abby shrugged. “You going to let me in, or should I take a seat on the front steps?”

Andrea took a hesitant step back. “Come in.”

Abby stepped through the doorway. She’d gotten inside. It was a start.

The living room was dimly lit by a lamp on an end table. The curtains were closed, shutting out the sun.

“You’re a private detective?” Andrea asked.

“More or less.”

“May I see your license?”

“Haven’t got one.”

“How can you do your job without a license?”

“Same way porcupines mate-very carefully.”

Andrea frowned, either not getting the joke or not finding it funny. “You could be arrested.”

“The least of my worries.”

“Are you some kind of vigilante?”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“You’re carrying a gun, I take it.”

“Yes.”

“Let me see it.”

Abby wasn’t in the habit of showing her firearm, but she would do so if it gained the woman’s trust. She opened the special compartment of her purse and produced the. 38.

Andrea nodded. “Okay. Put it back. Now put the purse on the end table and leave it there.”

“You want me disarmed?”

“That’s right. I don’t trust you. Not entirely. And I won’t talk to you until you give up the gun.”

Abby wasn’t wild about the idea, but she did as she was told. Without the purse she felt suddenly vulnerable.

“You were armed last night,” Andrea said, not asking a question.

“So were you, as I recall.”

Andrea brushed off the comment. “I wouldn’t have really shot you.”

“That’s comforting to know. Was the gun loaded?”

“Well… yes.”

“You point a loaded gun at somebody, there’s always a chance it’ll go off. You should know that.”

“I just wanted you out of my house.” This seemed like an understatement.

Abby smiled. “Message received. I wouldn’t have come back, except I need answers.” She settled on the couch. “What’s with you and Reynolds? There’s a history. I’m sure there is.”

Andrea reluctantly took a seat, placing herself near the end table within reach of the purse-and the gun. “I knew him once. Twenty years ago.”

“You haven’t been stalking him for twenty years, I assume.”

She looked away. The laughter of the children in the park was audible through the curtains. “I’m not-not stalking him. I only wanted to see him again.”

“Get back together? Renew old ties?”

Andrea shuddered. “No, no, nothing like that. I literally wanted to see him. Look at him in person, hear his voice. That’s all.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sure you do.”

“I don’t. It makes no sense. There’s no logic to it. From a rational standpoint, he’s the last man I would ever… The whole thing is crazy. It’s almost…” She let her words trail away.

“Yes?”

“Miss Bannister…” She frowned. “Is that your real name?”

“No, but it’ll do. You can call me Abby.”

“I suppose that’s an alias also.”

She ducked the question. “It’s a name I answer to. You were about to say something.”

Andrea faced her with a searching gaze. “Do you believe in demons?”

Abby kept her voice and expression neutral. “Do you?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Are you having demon problems?”

Andrea got up, embarrassed. “Now you think I’m a lunatic.”

“Didn’t say that.”

“You think I’m saying evil spirits drove me to seek out Congressman Reynolds. But that’s not it. By demons, I mean… dark forces inside us. They move us to do… inexplicable things.”

Abby selected her words with care. “I believe we all have motivations we don’t understand. I wouldn’t think of them as demons.”

“But what’s a demon, if not a dark part of yourself that can take control? Possess you, make you do evil?”

Abby didn’t stir. But she was beginning to wish she had held on to her gun.

“Have you been planning something evil?” she asked gently. “Something that involves the congressman?”

Andrea shook her head in violent denial. “No, not him-not anyone-not anymore. It was years ago.”

“What was?”

Andrea didn’t seem to hear. She paced the room, arms crossed over her chest, hands squirming fitfully.

“I only showed up at his events because I wanted to be in the same room with him. I had no intention of doing harm. Something just made me do it. Something…”

Abby ventured a guess. “The same thing that made you buy a gun?”

Andrea shook her head violently. “No. No, nothing like that at all. I bought the gun for self-defense. There’s a lot of crime in this area.”

Paranoia about crime would not be inconsistent with the woman’s psychology, but somehow Abby suspected there was more to the story. “Have you ever used a gun?” she asked.

“That gun? No.”

“But you’ve used another one?”

“I used-I’ve done-” Andrea whirled, flushed with sudden anger. “I don’t have to answer these questions.”

Abby sat motionless, aware that any shift in her position might be read as a threat. Her voice was low and steady, uninflected, almost hypnotizing.

“Andrea, you admit you’ve been seeing the congressman. You admit there’s a history of some sort between the two of you. You admit you own a gun, and you seem to know how to use it. And you talk about demons that drive people to evil acts. Now, am I wrong to be a little concerned?”

The tone worked. Andrea was calmer. “I told you,” she said quietly, “I have no intention of harming anyone. I’ve never intended …”

“What?” Abby asked.

“I’ve never intended to do any harm.”

Abby nodded. “You have, though. Haven’t you?”

Silence for several heartbeats. “Yes.” A whisper.

“You harmed someone?”

“A long time ago.”

“Twenty years?”

Andrea didn’t answer, but assent was written on her face.

“Who was it, Andrea?”

Abby waited. She was pretty sure she would hear it now-whatever the secret was.

“My name”-Andrea spoke slowly, each word pulled from her with painful reluctance-“isn’t Andrea Lowry. At least it hasn’t always been. It used to be… I used to be Bethany Willett.”

The statement hung in the room between them, heavy with a significance Abby couldn’t grasp.

“So?” Abby asked finally.

Andrea blinked. “You don’t know me?”

“Should I?”

A mixture of sadness and relief passed across Andrea’s face. “I suppose not. You’re too young. But twenty years ago I was quite a celebrity.”

“Were you?”

“Why, yes.” Suddenly she smiled, a cold smile empty of amusement. “I was the most evil woman in the world, or so they said.”

“Why would anyone call you that?”

The words spilled out in a rush. “Because twenty years ago I took a gun and loaded it and carried it into the nursery where my babies were asleep. Twin boys, ten months old.”

She raised her head defiantly, as if inviting judgment.

“And, well, I killed them, you see. I shot them both to death.”