The old woman nodded toward a door that opened into a hallway. Whit thanked her and moved toward the hallway.
‘I’ll stay here,’ Gooch said, ‘in case she comes back.’ He leaned down toward the woman to see what she was reading. She flopped open her book for him.
‘Robert Browning?’ Whit heard Gooch say good-naturedly. ‘You’re not wasting your time on him, are you? He’s a psychobabble bore.’
‘Nonsense,’ the old woman said. ‘Now, when I taught Browning…’
At the end of the hall Whit found a bay of large windows that opened out onto a grove of mossy oaks. In the foyer formed by the windows, a bathrobe-clad crone hunched in a wheelchair while a spare, trim woman, dressed in the bright magenta scrubs of the nursing staff, mopped up around the chair.
‘Bad bad girl,’ the woman chirped in a singsong voice reminiscent of a preschooler ditty. ‘You keep your hands off your diapy-diap now so I don’t have to clean up after you again.’
A half grunt, half wail was her answer from the poor old woman in the chair.
‘Excuse me,’ Whit said. ‘Are you Kathy Breaux?’
She gave him a bright smile he suspected was reserved only for visitors. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m here to talk to you about Pete Hubble.’
The smile barely dimmed. ‘Who?’
‘The man who placed several phone calls to your house over the past week.’
The grin stayed as fixed as stone. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’
‘Judge Whit Mosley. I was a friend of Pete’s. He’s dead.’
Her grip whitened against the handle of the mop.
‘I’m conducting the inquest into Pete’s death and I’d like to talk to you about why Pete was calling you,’ Whit said.
‘You know, I would love to help you with whatever this is, but I can’t talk now. I’m working.’ She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear with a coy little flick of the wrist.
‘Considering this is an investigation into a possible homicide, I’m sure the home’s administrators would be glad to provide us with a private office and time alone.’ Whit kept his tone friendly. He’d heard enough voice to know she was the woman who had called on the boat. ‘He was shot. In the mouth.’
‘Please,’ she said, ‘let me get her cleaned up and then I’ll talk with you.’ She turned and wheeled the woman around in the foyer, then said, ‘Oh, why don’t you just come with me while I get her settled and then we can talk?’ A tenseness framed her face. ‘Just come right along with me.’
Whit got the distinct feeling she didn’t want him out of her sight. ‘Actually I need to borrow a rest room.’ He had noticed a men’s room right off the foyer. He didn’t wait for her permission, he turned and ducked into the bathroom. He washed his hands while counting to one hundred, and then came out. Kathy and her incontinent charge were gone. He hurried back to the main room; Gooch was still there, arguing the merits of Victorian poetry with his new friend. No Kathy. Whit wandered back down the hallway, peeking into the rooms. One room was tidy with its lack of occupants. Another held an ancient black woman, napping and snoring loudly.
The third room was occupied. Whit peered into the dimness. An emaciated figure lay in a bed, a rope of drool uncoiling from his slack mouth, his eyes at half-mast. His dark hair was cut in a crisp burr, and an ugly scar split the hairline. His skin was sun-starved, his cheeks sunken, but Whit could see the man was young. Too young.
‘Oh, my Lord,’ Whit said.
It was Corey Hubble.
38
Velvet was awake when he returned. Wriggling carefully, she had worked the blindfold back into place. She kept her head turned to the side to hide any lopsided silk.
‘Did you miss me?’ Corey asked.
‘Why do you hate me so,’ she said, ‘to do this to me?’
‘I don’t hate you. Not at all. I love you.’
She wanted to scream. This isn’t love, you freaking nut bastard. Even as screwed up as I am I know this isn’t love. Instead she said, ‘Are you doing this because you’ve seen my movies?’
A soft laugh. ‘I’ve seen your movies. Am I better than Pete?’
She didn’t answer.
He touched her cheek. Gently. ‘Tell me.’
‘Of course you are,’ she lied. She heard shoes easing off feet and hitting the wooden floor, the soft rustle of clothing sliding down legs, a jingling of keys tossed to the floor.
‘Don’t,’ Velvet said. ‘Please don’t.’
Silence again.
‘Why not?’ Corey finally said, sounding amused. ‘Since I’m so much better.’
‘Because,’ she said, her voice calmed with a mighty effort, ‘you don’t have to. Not this way.’
‘I need to.’
‘Corey?’
Silence again, longer this time. She heard the even rasp of his breathing, near her ear.
‘What?’ he finally said.
‘Corey. Please don’t.’ She put even more fear into her voice than she felt.
‘No talking now.’ He climbed upon her and forced himself on her again. She gritted her teeth, tried to summon memories from faraway sweetness. The tang of lemonade on a summer day, the soft pine-cologne smell of her father’s camel-hair jacket, cinnamon and butter pooling on hot toast. Sitting in the quiet dark of her daddy’s church on a Saturday afternoon, leaning back in a wooden pew while he practiced his sermon, pretending to snore if the sermon got a little dull, him never getting mad. Pete, bedecking her with roses on her birthday. But all the good failed her and she screamed and cried, muscles aching, body sore. She told herself. It will be over soon, over soon, over soon.
It was. He lay atop her when he was done, his skin sweaty and smelling of burgers, her skin clammy. His face was buried in her hair, and she felt him breathing in its scent. Lingering on her, like they were lovers. She so wanted her gun. She would fire a thousand bullets into his guts and brain and what odd lump passed for a heart.
‘Why did you kill Pete?’ she asked.
‘Who says I did?’ His voice was muffled in her hair.
‘Did you kill him to get at me?’
No answer. His seed trickled out of her and she wanted to vomit.
‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘Please.’
‘I didn’t kill him. I wanted to, but I didn’t.’
‘Liar.’ She couldn’t hide her contempt.
He sat up, going on his knees, straddling her, and slapped her hard. Once, twice, three times. Her ears rang. Blood leaked from her nose. He stopped; she felt his erection return, pressed into her breasts.
‘I thought I was your darling,’ she managed.
He made a guttural sound. She could feel his legs shivering against hers.
Velvet wet her lips, tasted her own blood. Pete loved you, Corey. He only wanted to help you.’
Another low laugh.
‘Do you want me to love you, Corey? Maybe I could.’ She heard him laugh but not move. ‘I can’t love you if I don’t know you, though,’ she said.
‘You love Whit Mosley.’ His voice grew distant. ‘I saw you hug him.’
‘I sure as hell don’t love him. I hate his guts.’
‘Don’t hate his guts. I might bring them to you.’
Velvet’s tongue felt stuck. She expected him to rape her again, but instead he clambered off the bed. She heard him gathering his clothes and then the door shutting behind him. In a minute or so the soft hiss of a shower began to run.
