Carol O’Connell - Stone Angel

A half hour later, when Malcolm rose from the table, Charles shook his hand with genuine warmth. Shortly after the door closed, the sense of energized well-being died off, and regret settled in with a feeling of loss. Charles was left alone at the table with an untouched sandwich, one last question and no witnesses to the worried state of his face.

What did Mallory really want – what had brought her back to this place? Homesickness was not in his bag of possibilities. Even if she were not devoid of sentiment, there was no longer a family tie to this place. Her mother was dead – a sudden death, according to Augusta Trebec.

The sheriff gripped the bars of Mallory’s cell. “You haven’t changed so much. Taller, that’s all. How well do you remember me?”

Very well. Her last memory of Sheriff Jessop was betrayal. Though she had buried it deep, the act had come back in bits and pieces of unguarded thoughts and violent dreams.

In the early days, Louis Markowitz had rescued her from every screaming childhood nightmare. He had flooded her bedroom with light and held his foster child close until her dreaming feet ceased to run from the bloodbath, and she awakened to touch down on safe and solid ground. When Markowitz died, her life had begun to unravel. Ugly images had plagued her every day since she had laid the old man in the ground.

Mallory waited for Tom Jessop to tire of being ignored, to go away and leave her in peace. But he was a stubborn man. He hugged the bars. She was tempted to rush the cell door and rake him with her nails. Her hands balled into fists, and her long red fingernails pressed into the flesh until she felt real pain.

She stared down at the indentations in her palms. Was she getting a little crazy? Hadn’t she been moving in that direction for more than a year? Markowitz was gone, and now she didn’t even have his pocket watch anymore. The sheriff had it, and Mallory added this to the list of Tom Jessop’s crimes against her.

“Do you know how your mother died?”

As if you didn’t. And didn’t the sheriff know another song? She was so tired of hearing the same words every day. Mallory stared at the wall in silence. She heard him sigh.

“When you were a kid, you didn’t talk much,” he said. “But you laughed all the time. You were a little copy of your mother. I miss her, too. Maybe we could help each other, Kathy.”

“Don’t call me that.” And now she turned to him. Her face conveyed solid hate.

Startled, his hands dropped away from the cell bars. “I can guess what you’re thinking.”

Can you? Then why don’t you die? She continued to stare at him until he looked away.

“You think I should have closed the case by now, arrested every one of them.” He turned his face back to hers. “Don’t you think I wanted to?”

No, I don’t.

And now he looked into her eyes again, and it seemed to cause him some pain. “I wanted to do a lot worse to them.”

Yeah, right.

“What the hell happened to you out there?” He grasped the bars again. “You were the sunniest child. Look at you now. You got the coldest eyes I’ve ever seen. If I knew who did this to you, I swear I’d kill him.”

He wanted to touch her; she could sense that. She had an old memory of this man tossing her high in the air and catching her in a bear hug. How old was she that first time? Three or four? She had screamed in delight. Every time she saw him after that, she had run into his arms for the chance to be airborne again.

And then the world changed. Four days ago, she had wanted to shoot him dead the moment she recognized him.

“When are you going to charge me, Sheriff?”

“With murder? Never. You’re a material witness in protective custody.”

“Give me my gun. I’ll protect myself.”

“Maybe it’s the town I’m protecting. I don’t care if you killed Babe. I wouldn’t touch you for that. But what about the rest of them? I can’t let you go after them all.”

Mallory waited out this last long silence, and then, finally, she heard his footsteps leaving her, walking down the corridor. She spun around, pressed her face to the bars and whistled a short phrase of familiar music.

He faltered in his steps, and one hand went to the wall, as though he suddenly needed its support. The sheriff walked on, but his stride had changed. He was less sure of his legs now, and his head was bowed.

Augusta fished deep in the pockets of her dress. “I can’t think what I did with those keys. I know I had them on me this morning.”

The white horse lowered his huge head over the paddock fence to nudge her shoulder.

“Oh, I remember. I gave them to Henry Roth. He said he’d look at a pipe joint for me. The local plumber is a thief.”

“I don’t want to disturb Mr. Roth while he’s working.” Charles stroked the horse’s silky muzzle. The stallion was a bit long in the tooth, but still a fine-looking animal.

“That’s no problem.” Augusta held the paddock gate open, and the horse walked out to nuzzle her neck until she waved him off, annoyed and pleased at once. “We’ll give Henry a call after supper.”

They crossed the open ground between the fenced enclosure and an old carriage house in need of paint. The horse wore no halter, but trailed behind them, docile as an old dog.

“So, Charles, how do you find our small town? Does it bore you?”

“Hardly. I met Malcolm Laurie today. He’s a fascinating man.”

Augusta pulled on the latch of a wide arched door, and it swung open on a dark and cool interior, pungent with the smells of hay and horse. The sound of running water came from a trough at the rear of an open stall, and the horse was on his way to it.

When the stall gate was closed and latched, Augusta turned a stern face on Charles. “Don’t you go falling in love with Malcolm.”

That was an order.

“I beg your pardon?” Did she think that he was -

“You know, it’s been years since I made a man blush like that. Come along.”

His eyes had no sooner adjusted to the dimness than she was leading him into the bright light. He was blinking, making all the readjustments to his eyes and his head.

Fall in love with Malcolm?

She motioned him to follow her back to the house. He walked alongside of her, hands jammed in his pockets as he picked his words. He was searching for just the right phrase to protest – but not too much, when she took his arm, as she had done on the day they first met.

“Settle down, Charles. I’m not implying anything carnal. Men are always falling in love with other men. What with their war heroes and sports heroes, I believe the love for another man is much more potent than the love for a woman. Though any man would be shocked if you threw that up to him.”

“It’s not quite the same thing,” he said, and perhaps he said it a bit too fast.

“Not like sex, you mean? Well, of course it is. Malcolm uses sex just like a woman does. He’s shameless. And men succumb to him the same as women do.”

Charles squared his shoulders and drove his hands deeper into his pockets. “The leader of a cult religion has the devotion of his followers. I’ll grant you that.” He wondered if his tone of voice was too defensive. “But based on a psychiatric profile of the typical cult member – ”

“Forget the psychiatric voodoo.” Her grip on his arm tightened, and she scowled at him as if he were an errant child. “Get your mind out from behind that zipper in your pants, and pay attention. You’re going through a bad patch, Charles. You’re vulnerable now – easily led or misled. We’ve all been there. Man or woman, sometimes we all feel that need to be swept up in strong arms. Malcolm invited you to the show tomorrow night, didn’t he?”