First Family (Sean King & Michelle Maxwell 4)

Michelle said, “That must be why she made up that lie about letting Reagan play in the golf tournament with Mom. She didn’t want to admit that it was done without her permission.”

“Or being so adamant that your mother was not seeing another man,” said Sean.

Michelle added, “So she planned to kill Mom because she was fooling around with Reagan. She made a dinner date with her, obviously knew about the pool party next door and all the noise. She slipped into the garage and waited until Mom came out…” Michelle’s voice trailed off for a moment. “What did she use? To kill her?” she asked Bobby, who had a cluster of tears in his eyes.

He drew a deep breath. “Golf club. A newfangled putter. That accounted for the weird shape of the head wound. The police found it in her car trunk. Still had trace on it. She went after you last night with a club too. Except it was a driver.”

Michelle rubbed her arm and leg where the bruises were large and purple. “Lady has a natural swing,” she said wryly. “But why come after me?”

Her father answered. “Reagan was at the country club last night. I know because I was too. I was following him. He saw you by the trophy case. He overheard you talking to the man about Donna. He must’ve put two and two together. Did you notice in the picture in the trophy case?”

“That Donna was a lefty? Yeah, I did.”

“So then he slipped away, made a phone call, certainly to Rothwell, and hightailed it off.”

“To your house?”

Frank said, “I wasn’t sure about that because I stopped following him and started following you. But it ended up there because they were planning to ambush you.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because you were getting closer to the truth.”

“No, I mean why did you start following me?”

“Because I was worried about you. Because there was no way in hell I was going to let that scum hurt you. Guess I failed at that.”

She reached out and touched his arm. “Dad, you saved my life. But for you I’d be at the morgue right now.”

These words had a remarkable effect on her father. He put his face in his hands and started to cry. His children rose and knelt next to him, holding him.

Sean rose too, but he didn’t join them. He left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

CHAPTER 64

QUARRY SAT in the library at Atlee counting his remaining cash. Two years ago he’d done something he never thought he would. He had sold some of his family’s heirlooms to an antiques dealer to help finance what he was doing. He hadn’t gotten anywhere near what they were worth, but he wasn’t in a position to be choosy. He put the cash away, pulled out his typewriter, slipped on gloves, wound the sheet of paper in, and commenced the last letter he would ever compose on this machine. Like the others he had thought through each word.

The communication after this one would not be through letters. It would be far more direct. He finished and called Carlos in. The wiry little man was staying at the house while Daryl pulled guard duty at the mine. He had a task for Carlos to perform. And after his fight with Daryl he’d decided to keep his son closer to home.

Carlos wore gloves too, as instructed by Quarry. He was going to take one of the pickup trucks and drive north and then out of state to mail this last letter. The man didn’t ask any questions; he already knew what was expected. Quarry gave him money for the trip along with the sealed envelope.

After Carlos left, Quarry locked the door to the library, stoked up the fire, lifted the poker, plunged it into the flames, got it hot, rolled up his sleeve, and added the third line to the mark on his arm. This was a slash perpendicular to the long burn, but on the left side of it. As the skin sizzled and puckered under the touch of the red-hot metal, Quarry sank back in his old desk chair. He didn’t bite his lip since it was all bandaged up and swollen from his fight with Daryl. He cracked open a bottle of Beam, winced as the alcohol burned his cuts, and watched the rise and fall of the flames in the fireplace.

He only had one more line to burn into his skin. Just one more.

He left the library and staggered up the steps to Tippi’s room. He opened the door and stared into the dark space. She was in the bed. Hell, where else would she be? Quarry said to himself.

Ruth Ann had quickly learned Tippi’s needs and had settled into a routine helping Quarry take care of her. He contemplated going in and reading to her, but he was tired, and his mouth hurt.

“You want me to read to her, Mr. Sam?”

Quarry slowly turned around to see Gabriel standing there on the landing, his small hand on the thick wooden railing that a man who’d owned hundreds of slaves had put there a couple centuries ago. Quarry figured that wood was just about rotted out now, as was the man who’d built it, or rather had the sweat and labor of his slaves to do it for him. To see that small dark-skinned hand on top of that old chunk of rotted wood was comforting to Quarry somehow.

“I’d ap

preciate it,” he said, his damaged lip moving slowly.

“Ma said you fell and hit your mouth.”