Faces Of Evil: Traceless Part 32

Turner Mansion Midnight Granville poured himself a brandy, downed it, then poured himself another. He repeated the process twice more before he paused to catch his breath.

He was sixty-two years old. He'd spent the past forty-odd years ama.s.sing his vast fortune. He'd worked hard to reach this place in his life. The only thing he'd ever really wanted was for his family to be happy.

There had been sacrifices, of course.

A man didn't reach this level of security without having stepped on a few toes and over a few bodies, figuratively speaking. Those times weighed on Granville's conscience. He would, in the end, answer to his Maker for those choices, but even if he had the chance, he wouldn't do a thing differently. His daddy had always preached one motto: Do what you 're big enough to do.

As imperfect as he might be, Granville was still a d.a.m.n good Christian compared to many. He'd loved his wife and she had never known about his indiscretions. He gave to his church and he gave to his community, a hefty chunk, but then, who was keeping count?

Funny thing, he realized, beyond the warm fuzziness of the alcohol finally taking hold, none of his accomplishments mattered anymore.

His son was dead.

Granville had just returned from City Hall, where he'd learned what Troy Baker had to say. Keith and Troy had met to discuss Austin. Keith had broken down and admitted to his buddy that he'd been with another woman that night. Granville had known. Ray Hale had protected Keith for more than ten years. Now both Ray and Keith were dead.

If anything Troy said could be taken for truth, Granville's boy had fallen completely apart at that d.a.m.ned quarry. Troy swore he'd left Keith very much alive.

Surely Keith hadn't taken his own life. Granville couldn't bear to believe that theory. The autopsy might not be able to confirm anything one way or the other unless there had been a struggle before Keith fell. And even that might not tell the tale, since Keith and Troy had fought, which might also explain the extraneous tissue found under Granville's son's nails. Granville had to face the fact that he might never know exactly what happened. He would have done anything for his son; why hadn't he come to him?

Then there was the other question that seared like acid in his gut. Three people, besides Granville, had known what really happened that night, and two of them were dead. Maybe Granville simply wanted to believe there was something wrong with that equation. It beat the h.e.l.l out of the idea that his son had killed himself.

But the part that drove the idea home for Granville was the manner of Ray's death. The man had been burned to death inside his truck. The pickup was too old to have the fire-r.e.t.a.r.dant materials of newer models or any other safety features that might have helped him survive. They couldn't say for sure just yet, but there appeared to have been head trauma prior to his having been doused in gasoline and lit with a match.

To Granville's knowledge Ray had no enemies who would want to hurt him in such a heinous way. The manner of death, as Caruthers pointed out, indicated a strong emotional motive. There was only one incident in Ray's career that might sp.a.w.n that kind of emotion.

It would be very easy to blame Granville's son's as well as Ray's murder on Clint Austin and be done with it. If Austin had discovered the truth, he would have strong motivation, he actually had enough even without that knowledge. But he also had an alibi for both murders, leaving Granville with quite a quandary on his hands and with only one other possible candidate.

Granville had suspected his son had the occasional affair. Like the time Violet had come to him fearful that her husband was cheating after finding a gift she was certain hadn't been purchased for her. After all, Violet was not one to wear such wicked lingerie. Then there was the time before the children were born when Violet had been out of town with her folks and Keith had staggered in well after midnight, drunk and with another woman's red lipstick on his unshaven jaw. Granville had been surprised to find his son, drunk as a skunk, at his door that night. Keith had locked himself out of his own house and it had been too cold to sleep in his car, so he'd come dragging home.

Granville certainly hadn't minded the smell of whiskey on his son's breath. A man had a right to pull one now and then. It helped relieve stress, took him to the bottom so he could rise up and be whole again.

The problem was, Granville had smelled more than alcohol that night; he'd smelled her perfume.

At first he'd played it off, a.s.suming she wasn't the only one who wore that particular perfume. But that combined with that bloodred shade of lipstick had nagged at him. Eventually he'd asked her and she had laughed, saying she'd helped Keith get home that night. Granville had believed her, had even thanked her for looking out for his son.

Had she been toying with Keith all this time? A more active than usual s.e.x life was something Granville enjoyed, as had his son. h.e.l.l, there wasn't a healthy man alive who didn't need a little more than he could get at home in most instances. Unenc.u.mbered s.e.x could be a good thing. Everyone got something they wanted. G.o.d knew he'd spent a fortune buying gifts for that woman. But could she have used that old secret to drive Keith to that edge? Granville knew her... knew her power. If he discovered that she had used that night to manipulate his son, she would pay.

Granville refilled his gla.s.s and brought it to his lips.

He couldn't prove any of this. All he had was his instincts. Pure speculation mostly. But there was one thing he knew after years of clawing his way to the top and then fighting ruthlessly to stay there: give a person enough rope and they would hang themselves.

"Gran, baby, where in the world have you been?" She came up behind him, pressed close to his back as she hugged her arms around his middle. "I was so worried. I missed you."

He downed the brandy in his gla.s.s and set it aside. "I needed to drive around, clear my head, after leaving City Hall."

"I'm glad you're home."

She loosened her arms so that he could turn around to face her. "Caruthers has Troy Baker in custody... seems he was with Keith right before he died. He thinks Keith may have jumped because of something that was bothering him. Wonder what that could have been?"

Uncertainty flashed ever so briefly in her eyes.

"I tell you," Granville went on sagely, leaving the last comment for her to stew over, "the longer Austin hangs around this town the worse things get. My son is dead because of him. He was fine until Austin showed up. His presence pushed him over that edge. I'm certain of it."

"You're right, Gran; we've got to do something. Ray apparently couldn't handle the situation. Caruthers likely won't do any better." She peered at Granville pleadingly. "Someone has to do something. Austin's ruining this town. Your town."

"I don't want to talk about it anymore," he said wearily. "My son is dead; what difference does the rest make?"

She crooked her arm around his. "Let me tuck you into bed, Gran. This day has been too long."

"Did you know that Austin and that Wallace girl broke into the courthouse and pilfered through the files stored there?" he said, fertilizing those seeds of worry he'd just planted. "The man is obsessed with proving his innocence. And now he's got that crazy Wallace girl on his side."

"Let's get you to bed," Justine urged as if the idea of what Austin and Emily had done was of no concern to her.

Granville allowed her to lead him up to his bedroom. She undressed him slowly, lathing every inch of flesh she bared with kisses and caresses. She brought him to the very edge of his sanity with nothing more than those skilled hands and that carnal mouth. He let her. He was only human after all.

Slim, lithe, beautiful, with her lovely full b.r.e.a.s.t.s and long, shapely legs. She would try anything to pleasure him. Whatever he wanted she gave him. Like now. She swallowed him fully, drew hard on his rigid flesh, once, twice, then worked up and down with those lush red lips until he exploded so forcefully he bucked off the mattress.

She crawled naked into bed next to him. His eyes closed, but he would not sleep. He would lie here and wait for her reaction. If she went to sleep, as a part of him fully expected, all would be wella"as well as could be with his son lying dead on a slab.

If she had anything to hide, she would do one of two things while she still had the cover of darkness to her advantage: run like h.e.l.l to escape the coming wrath or try to cover her tracks.

Just like the Good Book said, your deeds will always find you out. He'd made his share of mistakes; he'd paid the price. He would find out who was responsible for his son's death.

And then that person would pay dearly.

CHAPTER FORTY.

Austin Place Wednesday, July 24, 12:35 a.m.

"In the barn? That's where you want to sleep?"

"Yep."

Clint helped her out of the truck, which wasn't really necessary, but at this point she kind of liked holding his hand. And she was exhausted. Totally and completely.

"But what about that nice new trailer?" She gestured to the temporary housing that had been provided by the insurance company. They'd come and set it up without even notifying Clint. He'd been as surprised as she was when they arrived five minutes ago.

"That's where we want anyone who comes snooping around to think we are."

The heavy cloud cover didn't allow much of the moon to show through, just the occasional glimpse. Still sticky despite the cloudiness. They could definitely use some rain. If they were lucky, the ominous sky would deliver.

Clint led her deep inside the barn where it was even darker but, thankfully, cooler. He clicked on the flashlight, had her hold it, while he shook the sleeping bags to ensure no critters had crawled inside them.

"Will this work?" he asked when he'd arranged the bedding.

"Sure." A bed might have been softer, but he had a point. Out here would be safer. Considering how his house had been burned to the ground and that both Keith and Ray had been murdered, taking precautions was necessary.

"I'll be right back."

"Where're you going?" She wanted to stay close to him, but she was beat. Her head had started to ache again.

"To turn on a light inside and maybe try to make the bed look as if we're in it."

Another good idea.

Emily got comfortable and waited for him to come back. When he returned he tossed something on the ground near the sleeping bags and settled in next to her. Not as close as she would have liked. The distance, only an inch or two, felt like a yawning canyon between them. Why didn't he touch her? She needed him to hold her... to make her mind stop playing everything over and over.

"Don't be afraid."

His deep, rea.s.suring voice whispering softly through the darkness made her tremble.

"I'm not afraid."

"Yes, you are."

"I'm... just tense." Vivid flashes of that first time they'd been together, right here in this barn, escalated that already-building tension. The cool, damp scent of earth and the vague smell of warm male flesh were drugging, and she breathed more deeply. A sudden unexpected breeze filtered in, bringing more scents and sensations. The lingering odor of charred wood... the chant of crickets... the promise of rain.

"You try to sleep; I'll keep watch. First thing in the morning we'll talk to Caruthers and start keeping an eye on Justine. If she's involved, she's bound to be getting nervous. But tonight we rest."

She snuggled closer to him and he slipped a protective arm around her. Finally. "Do you think anyone will take us seriously? I mean, if Justine was obsessed with Keith, would she kill him? Why kill Ray?"

They had no proof of anything. Maybe Justine was having s.e.x with some of her students, but that didn't make her a murderer. Sure, her friend Misty was weird, but that didn't make her a murderer, either. None of it connected fully. Especially the idea that Ray Hale would cover up for a murderer. Emily knew Ray. He'd been a good man. There simply was no motivation for him to protect Justine. And the idea that Justine would have killed Heather just to get to Keith was way too far-fetched. It didn't feel realistic or logical.

But then none of this did.

Clint kissed Emily's forehead. "Don't think about it, Emily," he murmured. "Get some sleep. I'll wake you every hour."

The concussion. He was right. And she was so very tired. But waking her so often meant he wouldn't get any sleep.

"We should skip Caruthers and go straight to the Alabama Bureau of Investigations," she suggested. "Or maybe the FBI." There was no way to know who they could trust at this point.

"Good idea. Now sleep. I'm not going to let anyone else hurt you."

She believed him. She was certain that as long as Clint Austin was breathing she had nothing to fear.

3:30 a.m.

Clint sat up.

Emily didn't rouse.

He heard the thud again. Some distance away from what used to be his house. Sound carried out here, especially in the dark.

He shook Emily's shoulder, leaned close, and whispered, "Stay put. I think we have a visitor."

She sat up. Grabbed his arm when he would have gotten to his feet. "You can't go out there alone."

"You just stay put. I'll be fine." He picked up the tire iron he'd rounded up and eased to the front of the barn.

"Be careful," she whispered.

"It may just be one of Turner's or Baker's friends. If you sense there's trouble, call for help."

Clint slipped out of the barn. No point in waiting until the trouble came out here looking for them. He took his time, thankful that the clouds hadn't lifted. The breeze picked up, bringing with it the first scattered droplets of rain. Finally. Maybe it would cool things off.

And wash away some of the ugliness from the past few days.

He stayed in the shadows until he reached the well house; then he hunkered down to wait out the intruder.

At first there were only small sounds. The occasional brush of a shoe sole across gravel. Another soft thud. The sweep of footfalls across gra.s.s. Closer now.

Something sloshed.

He inclined his head and listened.

More slos.h.i.+ng, an occasion shuffle. His pulse reacted.

On the front side of the trailer, facing the road.

He decided to make a move. If he waited on the back side of the trailer he could nail the b.a.s.t.a.r.d when he rounded the corner.

Moving quickly, Clint reached the back of the trailer just in time to flatten against it as the slos.h.i.+ng sound came around the end. He braced for a struggle.

He frowned as a strong odor a.s.saulted his senses.

Gasoline.

Holy h.e.l.l.

He lunged away from the wall, ready to swing the tire iron.

"Don't move!"

He froze. A lit match illuminated the face of the intruder.

Misty Briggs.

"You come any closer and I'll drop it." Misty wagged the gas can. "I swear."

Sweat popping out across his brow, Clint dared take a step toward her. He had nothing to lose. The way she was waving that can and that match, there could be an explosion any second. "You'll die first."