Southern Ghost

In a sizzling, eye-shocking instant of light, they saw Julia's shabby car parked in front of Tarrant House.

Annie broke into a run, but Max was faster.

He pulled open the driver's door.

Annie peered past him. The car was empty.

Max slammed the door. They darted across the sidewalk and through the open gate. They began to run up the drive. The house was a blur of darkness with the faint gleam of light almost obscured by the pelting rain. Above them branches creaked and swayed.

Then, between blasts of thunder, they heard the sharp, unmistakable bark of gunfire.

The front door was locked. Max knocked and pounded and rattled the handle; then, feet skidding on the slick wetness of the drenched piazza, he and Annie flung themselves out into the night and ran around the side of Tarrant House.

And found that Death had been there first.

It was the only time Annie ever felt sympathy for Charlotte Tarrant. Her chenille robe plastered against her, her hair lank against her head, Charlotte cradled Whitney's bloody head against her breast and moaned, a low, wild, desolate cry.

It was a tableau Annie would always remember. Then movement broke the nearby darkness, and Miss Dora darted into the pale circle of light from the fixture above the back steps.

Suddenly Chief Wells was there, too, and Sergeant Mat­thews.

Miss Dora had come first. Alone. That seemed important. Annie clung to that piece of knowledge.

Chief Wells and Miss Dora knelt by Charlotte and made her loosen her grasp. Matthews swept the surrounding area with a huge flash that was puny against the rain and night.

The chief eased Whitney gently to the ground. Charlotte whimpered and reached for his limp hand.

Miss Dora caught her arm, and Annie remembered the strength in those wiry old fingers. 'Come now, Charlotte. We must take shelter.'

Chief Wells nodded. 'Take her to your house, Miss Dora. I'll come when I can.' He shouted at Matthews. 'Stay with them.'

It was a nightmare walk through that storm-battered garden to the open gate in the wall and up the rain- lashed path to the house next door. Max and Annie supported Charlotte between them. Every few steps she halted and tried to twist free and turn back.

But, somehow, they reached the house, wet, numb, shaken.

Miss Dora led the way to the drawing room. Water dripped from their clothes, splashing on the gleaming heart pine floor. Annie could take no comfort now in the bois-de-rose silk hang­ings or the costly Georgian furniture. Rain spotted the rose Aubusson rug.

Charlotte stumbled to the nearest sofa. She looked up, dazed. 'It's cold out there.' She shivered. 'Whitney . . .'

Annie could imagine her feelings. Whitney was still in their garden, the cold rain washing away his blood.

Miss Dora busied about, bringing blankets and whisky. Annie helped.

A door slammed at the back. Matthews put a hand on the butt of his gun.

Sybil stormed into the drawing room.

Harris Walker was close behind. 'Jesus Christ,' he de­manded, 'what's going on?' He jammed his hands in his pockets and stared at Charlotte.

'Who shot Whitney?' Sybil carried a crimson umbrella, now closed, but her silk raincoat was dark with rain. She strode to Miss Dora. 'Have you found Julia? Milam called me.'

'Julia?' Milam's voice carried from the hall, rising with excitement and hope. 'Julia?' He rushed into the drawing room. His clothes were sodden. He wore no raincoat, no hat. His eyes swept the room, seeking, seeking, then his shoulders slumped. He appealed to Miss Dora. 'Tell them to look for Julia. They'll listen to you.'

'They are looking.' Her voice was toneless. 'Sit down, Milam.' Her skin was waxy, and the hands tightly clasping the silver knob of her cane trembled. Her old black bombazine dress glistened like wet raven feathers. 'When did you get here?'

'Just now. It was hell driving into town. A bridge was out and I had to come the long way round. They've got a barricade up at the end of the street.' His eyes blinked. 'I couldn't get through the police line at Whitney's. But I saw him. Is he...'

'Yes.'

Milam threw back his head. 'Julia didn't do it. I tell you, Julia didn't do it. She's out in that storm—' Tears glistened in his eyes.

Charlotte blazed out of her stupor. 'She killed Whitney! It must have been Julia. There was a banging at the back door. I

begged him not to go downstairs, but he did—and then I heard the shot and I ran—but there was no one there but Whitney.' She shuddered, her mouth quivering. 'His blood. Oh, God, his blood, everywhere.' Charlotte pulled herself to her feet. 'Julia! You've got to catch her. She's killed Whitney —and she killed Amanda and the Judge and—' Charlotte broke off. She took a step back, but the sofa blocked her way. One hand clutched at her throat.

'And?' Julia's voice was harsh. She stood in the doorway from the hall. Her green poncho glistened, but it didn't drip. She stood with her arms folded, her hands tucked into the floppy sleeves of the raincoat.

Annie wondered how long Julia had been there, how she had avoided capture by the men at Tarrant House