South Of Hell

“No, I love you. I love you.”

He stared at her. Fear colored her eyes a navy blue. Funny, the same fear had turned Jean’s brown eyes black.

“Owen, please,” she whimpered. “I won’t leave you. I’m not her. I’m Margi.”

He shoved her away. Still, the stupid bitch did not make any attempt to leave the attic. She huddled in the corner, holding her throat. For a long time, he just sat there, staring at the knife.

“She was going to leave me,” he whispered.

“Is that why you killed her?” Margi asked.

He looked to her, surprised that she would ask that — or even speak.

“It’s okay if you did,” Margi said. “I understand why you had to. I still love you.”

He held the knife to the sunlight. Still loved him? He didn’t care if she loved him. But he had never told anyone what had happened that night, never given it voice. Maybe that was why he couldn’t find Jean. Maybe if he talked about it, it would make things more real, make her more real.

“I think I killed her,” he said.

“You think?”

“I stabbed her with this,” he said. “Must’ve been a hundred fucking times. In the kitchen.”

Margi was quiet, but he could hear her fast, frightened breathing.

“When the knife busted, I went to the barn to get the axe,” he said. “When I got back, Jean was gone. And there was this long smear of blood on the floor, like she had drug herself out the back door.”

“She got away?”

Brandt rose and walked to the tiny window that overlooked the cornfield. There was no rain today and no mud, but he remembered how it looked that night. Everything a dark, wet blur, making it impossible to see a trail or to find someone who couldn’t have been but a few feet away.

Where had she gone to that night? Where was she now?

“Owen?” Margi whispered.

He didn’t look back at her. This place, these memories and everything else were loosening his mouth, but just as he couldn’t stop thinking about her, he couldn’t seem to stop talking about her either.

“The next day,” he said, “I searched the whole fucking farm for her, but I never found her. For a long time, I figured she made it somewhere and got help.”

He turned away from the window. “I can’t help thinking that she might be alive and living somewhere with another man,” he said, “fucking another man and laughing at me for what I tried to do to her.”

“She’s gotta be dead, Owen.”

“Then where the fuck is she?” he shouted. “You tell me that, god damn it. Where the fuck is she?”

Margi lowered her head. “I don’t know, Owen,” she said. “But you can’t let it eat at you like this. You don’t need to be thinking about her, anyway. You got me now. Ain’t I enough?”

He looked down at the knife blade. He could still see Jean’s face as it was that night when she lay on the floor. Her eyes electrified with horror, the color draining from her cheeks as her heart pumped the blood from her chest.

He stuck the knife into his belt and walked across the plywood to the hole. As he started to climb down the ladder, Margi reached for his arm. He shrugged her off.

“Owen, where are you going?” she asked.

“To walk the farm again.”

“To look for a dead woman?”

He started toward her, but Margi scrambled into the corner. He stopped, let his fist fall. His eyes moved away from Margi, away to the small window that looked out over the fields.

“She ain’t dead,” Brandt said. “She’s out there somewhere, and I’m going to find her.”

Chapter Twenty-eight

Joe pulled the Bronco to a stop, and Louis looked out the window at the Kerrytown market. The place had once been the site of the old farmer’s market, but now it was a bustling complex of shops and eateries, the fruit and vegetable vendors competing with cafes, hair salons, toy stores, and boutiques. On this sunny Saturday afternoon, Kerrytown was crowded with families pushing strollers and carrying bags of gourmet cheeses, wines, and fresh-baked breads.

He tried to conjure up an image of Jean Brandt selling tomatoes out of the back of her truck to Shockey but couldn’t see it. All he could see was that faded snapshot of Jean’s wan face. All he could think about was Shockey’s desperation to prove that Amy was his daughter.

“Is that her?”

Louis turned to look where Joe was pointing.

Lily was sitting alone on a park bench in front of Zingerman’s deli, wrapped in a bright red sweater, a plaid skirt, red tights, and patent-leather shoes. A second later, Eric walked up with a wad of napkins. Louis watched as Eric gently held a napkin to Lily’s face while she blew her nose.

“She’s beautiful,” Joe said.

“She looks like her mother,” Louis said, regretting it immediately. He didn’t have to look at Joe to know his words wounded her. She had been unnaturally quiet all morning and he knew that Lily — and, by extension, Kyla — was the reason.

“I’ll pick you up in an hour,” Joe said. “We need to be at Dr. Sher’s at two.”

Louis glanced at Amy sitting in the backseat. Then he leaned over and put his hand around Joe’s neck. He pulled her to him and kissed her. He felt her respond, but when he let go, her eyes still held doubt.

“Thanks,” he said.

He got out of the Bronco and started across the old brick street. Eric saw him before Lily did, and he rose, holding out a hand.

Louis shook it. “Sergeant.”

Eric glanced down at Lily, then back up at Louis. He looked like he was about to hand over his most precious possession in the world. With a small kick to his heart, Louis realized that was exactly what he was doing.

“You be good now, baby,” Eric said to Lily. “Remember what we said.”

Lily rolled her eyes. “No chocolate.”

Eric looked at Louis. “She’s allergic.”

Louis nodded.

“I’ll be nearby,” Eric said, nodding to the cruiser parked around the corner.

“Thanks,” Louis said.

Eric hesitated. Then, with a stiff nod and a last glance at Lily, he walked away.

Louis waited until he had disappeared before he looked down at Lily. “I’m hungry,” he said. “How about you?”

She smiled. “Do you like hot dogs?”

“Sure.”

“They have really good ones here. Let’s go.”

Louis wondered for a second if he should take her hand. But before he could decide, Lily hopped off the bench and led him to the door. The deli was swirling with noise and mouthwatering smells. Lily seemed to know where to go, so Louis followed her up to the counter, getting a tray for each of them. Lily asked him for a Coke. He got two. When the man asked Louis what he wanted, Louis looked down at Lily.

“Two Icky dogs,” she said. She looked up at Louis. “Do you like French fries?”

“Love them.”

“And a large order of fries, please.”

They took their trays of food to the picnic tables outside.

Lily settled in across from Louis, spreading a paper napkin carefully across her skirt.