Jeff Abbott: Promises of Home

I was stunned into silence, waiting for her to speak again.

Nola shook her head. “It ain’t nothing Arlene or Mark did that drove him out of here. It was something to do with his daddy. I thought y’all ought to know.”

“Why didn’t you say anything to the police?”

“Because I was sure your sister had killed Trey.” She shrugged. “I’m sorry. I’m telling you this because I thought maybe you and Arlene should know he left town because of something his daddy did. Not anything y’all did. If you want, I’ll tell the police, if you think it matters.”

I sat back in my chair. “Thank you,” I managed to say.

The only noise for a minute was the splatter of rain.

“I don’t expect y’all to ever take to me.” Nola looked at me with complete candor. “But I’m gonna stay in town for a while, even if Ed won’t leave that stupid sow he married. This’d be a good town for Scott. And I thought if he and Mark are gonna stay friends, I ought to mend fences.”

“Wait a second. Not that it’s much my business, but why are you picking up with Ed and Steven when Trey’s barely cold in the ground? I thought you loved him.”

“I did. I do. I’ve cried and cried till I ain’t gonna cry anymore. But I don’t like being alone. I need to feel needed. Don’t you know that feeling?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t understand how she could woo another man so quickly, unless grief propelled her, and Ed or Steven or any other fellow was just a temporary substitute for Trey, a comforting imitation. Suddenly I felt deeply sorry for her. But I didn’t offer my sympathy or condolences. She just would have misinterpreted it.

“You said you thought Hart knows who the killer is? I don’t understand.”

She stubbed out her cigarette on the porch, crushing it under her rain-spotted shoes. “Whatever reason Trey left- Hart knows what it is. Steven knows what it is. And I think that reason is why Trey was killed. And maybe Clevey, too.”

“Is that why you were kissing Steven?”

She smiled wanly. “No, Steven’s a nice man, but not nice enough. Scott’s been having awful nightmares since Trey died. He’s jumpy and nervous and I’m worried about him. I wanted Steven to counsel him, y’know, talk to him. But I don’t have the money for it. I hoped he’d give me credit. He won’t.”

“I’m sorry Scott’s having a hard time.”

“I am, too.”

“Scott came here. He told us that Trey and Clevey had argued, that Clevey wanted Trey to take part in some revenge scheme they’d make money out of.”

“Trey wouldn’t have done anything like that,” Nola protested. “You find out exactly why Trey left and we’ll know why he died.”

I watched her drive away. She’d been the last real companion of Trey’s life, as different from Sister as possible. Outwardly, at least. I believed they both shared a core of unsuspected strength that made them both survivors in a world that had been less than kind.

She’d given me plenty to consider. Some secret involving Louis Slocum, Mirabeau’s best horse trainer and drunk. Something that Steven, Hart, and Trey were all privy to. Had Clevey found out as well? He must’ve. He had to have known. And it got him killed.

Hart couldn’t have killed Trey. First, he cared too much about him. Second, he had an airtight alibi that Junebug had already confirmed-checking out horses on a farm miles away in Fayette County. But in our talk out on the back porch, Hart’d denied knowing why Trey had left six years ago. He’d lied. And just how the hell did Clevey fit into this? And the attack on Junebug?

I’ve never been a swift thinker. I stopped dead in my tracks, my hand reaching for the door. Steven Teague, if Nola’s story was true and she’d correctly interpreted the conversation she’d heard between Hart and Trey, knew the reason for Trey’s leaving. And here he was counseling Mark, giving me pithy advice on how to handle the trauma that’d nearly destroyed our family. While knowing all the while why Trey had forsaken us. And how the hell would Steven know-he wasn’t even living here six years ago! Someone had told him-perhaps Clevey, who he was counseling? God, that had to be it!

My face felt hot and a slow throb of headache started a surging pain in my temples. My mind felt dizzy, trying to trace the web of Trey’s life. I stepped inside and shut the door.

Clo sat with Mama in the living room, avidly watching a talk show with the sound turned real low. Mama doesn’t like noise much anymore. Clo glanced up at me.

“I wasn’t about to let that white trash in this house,” she proclaimed. “Be mad at me if you want.”

“I’m not mad at you. Where’s Mark?”

She jerked her head toward the kitchen. “Back porch, I think. How’d his therapy go? He feeling better?”

I didn’t answer her, heading out to the porch. It was empty, the rain the only sound, tapping like fingers on foil.

“He’s not there,” I called back to Clo, stepping into the kitchen.

“Well, he called Bradley Foradoiy and chatted with him a minute. Then he said he was going out on the porch and listen to the rain.”

Bradley. Oh, God, and Mark was so single-minded about discovering what was going on at the Foradorys’. I phoned Davis’s number. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. An answering click.

And then the screams.

I ignored the stop sign at the intersection of Heydl and Fifth where the Foradory house sat, screeching to a stop and spraying water. Mark’s bike lay sprawled in the yard, glistening wetly. I ran across the grass, vaulting his bike and leaping up the steps in two jumps. The front door was unlocked and I shoved it open, hollering for Mark. I heard a piercing cry from the back of the house.

I tore through the immaculate living room, ignoring the muddy trail I left in my wake. I burst through the kitchen, which opened up into a breakfast nook. And ran into a scene I hadn’t quite expected.

Mark, grimacing, was trying to drag a struggling Bradley back toward the porch door. Bradley kicked at the tiles, scuffing them with his cowboy boots, wailing and flailing his arms. The phone receiver, still off the hook, dangled above the floor and slowly revolved on its cord. Cayla Foradory, her eyes wild and her hair straggling in her face, held a metal broomstick in her hand, blood dotting one end of it. She was whacking the hell out of something on the floor. It was only after I’d taken four more steps in that I saw that she was beating the tar out of Davis, curled in a fetal ball on the kitchen floor.

“Uncle Jordy! Help us! She’s gonna kill him!” Mark screamed at me. I rushed toward Cayla and Davis. He didn’t appear to be moving.

I came up behind Cayla and grabbed the broomstick when she brought it back to have another go at her husband. I yanked it away and she spun toward me, her eyes filled with such blinding fury that I took a shocked step backward. She swung a fist at me and nearly connected with my jaw. Stunned with surprise, I seized her arms and shook her hard.

“Cayla! Stop it! It’s me, Jordy!” She struggled against me like she’d never seen me. I shook her again and she calmed, the berserker rage fading. She took a long, hard, shuddering breath and gasped, “Get out. Get out of here.”

“What did he do to you? Did he hit you? Hit Bradley?” I glanced at her son, but he seemed more upset than injured, crying and mewling in Mark’s arms.

“Hit her? Bullshit!” Mark screamed. “She hits him! She beats him! ”

Mark’s words oozed in. I glanced over at Davis; slowly, like a snake awakening to warmth, he uncoiled himself. I saw bruises on his forearms, his neck, and a vicious cut above the left eye. His tortoiseshell glasses lay broken by his elbow. He looked at me like a whipped dog, awaiting the next kick. This wasn’t my friend-this was someone else. Someone I didn’t know.