In Big Trouble

'It's All Souls' Day-and the day of the All Soul Festival parade.'

The parade, Gus Sterne's brainchild, his ego trip through the streets of San Antonio. 'So what's Emmie going to do, Crow? She can't burn down a parade.'

Instead of answering, he walked past Tess into the main room, where he crouched in front of one of the built-in bookcases. From the lowest shelf, he pulled out a scrapbook, then sat on the bedroll, inviting Tess to sit by him.

'Do you know where we are?' he asked, opening the book. It was a pretty volume, with a moss green velvet cover and pale gray pages.

'On the old Barrett place, near Twin Sisters, somewhere between Austin and San Antonio, in the state of Texas, in the United States of America,' she answered dutifully.

'We're at a trysting spot. Two lovers used to meet here. Two lovers forbidden to be lovers. They met here and they promised to love each other forever and ever, despite the world's disapproval, despite all the obstacles in their path. One of them broke that promise, and the other one can neither forget nor forgive.'

He began flipping through the pages, and dust from pressed flowers rose into the air, their fragrance long gone. The first few pages were filled with photographs. A Polaroid, the kind taken in restaurants, of two men and three women, laughing over their margaritas. Tess recognized Marianna Conyers and Gus Sterne, guessed that she was looking at the long-dead Frank Conyers and the long-gone Ida Sterne. The third woman looked like Emmie-more correctly, like the woman Emmie was in the process of becoming. Lollie Sterne. Her obituary was pasted beneath the Polaroid and Emmie had circled her own name among the survivors, then written 'Survivor's List?' in the margin in the same red crayon.

'She thought it would make a good name for a band,' Crow explained.

'An odd photo to save.'

'It's the only one she has. Gus couldn't bear to have photos of Lollie around, after the murder. He put them away, planning to give them to Emmie one day. For obvious reasons, that never happened.'

Next page. A tall, handsome man with two blond children on tricycles. Emmie smiled into the camera with a charisma that had not yet soured into craziness. Little Clay stared at the ground, sulky and cross. Gus Sterne looked at Emmie. More family photos, clippings from the society pages, more fragile remains of old corsages. Gus Sterne and family at this gala or that. Ida was in some of these, then she disappeared, with no explanation or acknowledgment.

With or without her, the dynamic was always the same-Emmie looked into the camera, Clay looked away, features twisted into a pout or a frown, Gus looked at Emmie as if startled by a particularly lovely ghost. It was like watching a rosebud unfurl-Emmie looked more like Lollie with each passing year. Here she was as the princess of the Order of the Alamo, escorted by her grim-faced cousin. Emmie at a picnic. Emmie backstage, in costume for a school play. Oklahoma, given the gingham dress and the comical hat. The girl who can't say no. Every picture told a story. Every picture told the same story: A radiant young woman, an unhappy boy, an older man who could not take his eyes off the young woman.

'Jesus,' Tess said.

'There's more,' Crow said. She was barely listening. Had Clay known his father and Emmie were lovers, or had he merely guessed? Technically, it wasn't incest, not by blood, but Gus had raised Emmie as his daughter, so it might as well be.

Crow turned another page, to a glossy photo razor cut from a book. This was a famous image, one Tess knew: The old Life photo of a woman lying on the hood of a crushed car after jumping from the Empire State Building.

'The twentieth century's version of the Lily Maid of Astolat, who died for the love of Lancelot,' Crow said. 'That's Emmie's fantasy. She'll jump, and hit the hood of the car, the old Lincoln, and it will carry her down Broadway. I've told her dying isn't as easy as it looks, but she's determined. When she realized I intended to interfere with her plan, she decided to get rid of me. She's the one who put the gun under my bed, then called the cops.'

'So you do think she killed Darden and Weeks.'

'No. Emmie's not a killer. But she doesn't care about them. She doesn't care about anyone. Nothing is important to her, except making this grand, stupid, insane gesture.'

'All for Gus Sterne.'

Crow looked perplexed. 'Who said anything about him?'

'You showed me the pictures.' She took the scrapbook from him, flipped back to the earlier pages. 'You told me about the two lovers who met here secretly. I put it together.'

'You put it together wrong. Emmie wasn't in love with Gus, for Christ's sake. She's in love with Clay.'

'Clay?' That raw, unfinished boy-someone was willing to die for him? But Tess was coming to realize that it was futile to try to understand who might love whom, or why. She thought of Kitty and Tyner, of Kitty and Keith, of Kitty and everyone. Of Rick and Kristina, even the squabbling couple on the bridge above the River Walk, comical to everyone, but not to one another. Lovers made sense only to themselves.

'Since high school,' Crow said, answering one of her many unvoiced questions. 'Gus found out and forbade them to see each other. Clay, dutiful as ever, agreed. Emmie didn't. That's when she tried to burn the house down. When she left the psychiatric hospital, she followed Clay to Austin and they started again, meeting here. Then, about a year ago, Clay suddenly broke off all contact, with no explanation. In May he moved back to San Antonio-and into his father's house. He chose Gus over Emmie. At least, that's how she sees it.'

'May-that's about the same time a band called Poe White Trash arrived in Austin.'

Crow nodded ruefully. 'Yep. I was looking for a girl singer. She was in the market for an accomplice to her self-destruction. We both got more than we bargained for.'

'Did she tell you her whole saga, or did you just figure it out?'

'A little of both. I knew about her mother's murder before I met her-she wasn't shy about milking her past, whether for publicity or sympathy. One night up here the two of us ended up on a real maudlin drunk, literally crying in our beer. I showed her my broken heart, she showed me hers. She told me she had a fantasy about killing herself in front of Clay. Later she denied everything, said it was the liquor talking. But I had already seen the scrapbook. Besides, liquor's a pretty good truth serum. I've never known anyone to lie when they were drunk.' He looked at her. 'Once, when you had a lot to drink, you said…someone else's name in bed.'

She didn't remember this, but nor did she doubt it. 'You know, liquor isn't so much a truth serum as it is a paint thinner. It strips a lot of stuff away, takes you down to the old finishes. I am so over my past, Crow.'

'As of when?'

'As of this morning.'

He had nothing to say to that. Some things were so stupid they had to be true.

'You know, she may have been exaggerating,' Tess said. 'Emmie's definitely a drama queen.'

'No, she's going to kill herself, and she's going to make sure Clay sees the whole thing. When I couldn't talk her out of it, I thought I might at least be able to stop her.'

'How do you know it's going to be at the parade?'

'I don't, for a fact. But Sterne Foods is a fortress, she can't get to him there. Ditto the house on Hermosa. Besides, she has to jump, that's part of the fantasy. Falling to her death, falling in love. The parade route has a nice tall building in a key spot.' He frowned. 'Although not necessarily tall enough. I've tried to impress that upon her. There's a real chance she'll only cripple herself. Or kill someone else, a spectator along the route. A child, even.'

The wind was kicking up, but the chill Tess felt had nothing to do with the weather.

'Why did Gus care if Clay and Emmie were together, anyway? They were the children of first cousins. They could have married in most states.'

'Gus said she would hurt him, and he couldn't bear to see his son hurt.' Crow's face was sad and drawn in the strange gray-blue light. 'As if you can ever spare anyone the hurt of loving anyone.'

She reached for his hand, unsure whether to hold it or pat it. She ended up tugging on his index finger. 'I'm sorry, Crow.'

'Sorry for what?'

'Everything?' It still didn't seem like enough.