The Charity (7 page)

The tavern was in an old building situated at the outskirts of a town not too far from Hamilton. Paint on the tavern was old and faded, and the shutters covering its paned windows were missing slats and in need of repair. The few upper windows were dark and Jessica could just make out the whispers of a curtain or two. The faint light from the dining room filtered out of dirty windows. One gritty spot light shone on the front door where the word “L O B S T E R” was slowly peeling away.

The building itself was perched on top of a small hill with two dirt driveways leading up to it from different directions. The drives were hardly more than two worn tire tracks with weeds sprouting up the middle. The lack of customers made her think it was closed, but lights glowed softly inside.

The place was more run down than she remembered and today it disgusted her. Jessica was accustomed to the nooks and dells of the North Shore. They seemed to offer countless stories and discoveries and this tavern was one of them. She and Anna would run away to this place because they felt no one would recognize them and make them go home. Well, home was always back to the farm for Jessica. Anna really did not have a place to return to. The memories of them there made her smile, but the tavern itself had run down to the point where it had become the kind of place her aunt told her never to go into alone, or at all if she could help it. She made a mental note not to come here again.

Jessica sat herself at a booth and gave her order to a man she recognized from years past. He was obviously the owner/waiter/cook. The tavern must never have gotten busy enough for him to hire anyone else to work there. Jessica was glad for the lack of people. She still felt the eyes of the patrons from the Black Swan on her back and welcomed a moment of privacy. Her hamburger and fries were delivered to her after a long while and Jessica ate them slowly, not wanting a reason to leave.

She was gazing out the dirty window and was amazed when Coogan sat down opposite her.

She did not know how to react. “What are you doing here?”

“You’re easy enough to find,” Coogan responded as he looked around. He raised his chin at the owner and held up one finger then pointed down to the table in front of him. His coffee arrived in a smudged mug. He seemed relaxed, almost eager. He looked around at the empty establishment and began to ask his questions.

“Did you think of anything more about last night that you want to tell me about, Miss Wyeth?” The tone of his voice was gentle, coaxing her to talk.

“No. Nothing more. I just don’t remember anything more than what I told you and Officer Shea this afternoon.” Jessica’s voice was a monotone. Detective Coogan made her skin crawl.

She tried to remember, but her mind was too clever for that. All she could think about was that she needed to put fresh flowers at the cemetery for her aunt, mother, father, and sister. She couldn’t decide what kind of flowers would be best. Daffodils? She liked the sunny yellow blooms of spring but then remembered that it was too late to find them growing wild. Ah! Mountain Laurel. Her mother and Bridget loved the Mountain Laurel sprinkled among the hillsides of their home. She resolved to go out and pick an armload of the flowers in the morning.

“Why didn’t you tell us that Gus Adams was trying to take the farm away from you and prevent you from working on it?” There was an edgier quality to his voice and Jessica thought he looked excited.

“What? Oh. No. No. No,” Jessica sighed, “Gus loved working with me on the farm. He loved my family and we trusted him. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Miss Wyeth, I want you to consider carefully what you’re saying here. Was Gus Adams preventing you from taking control of your own farm?” Coogan leaned across the table on his forearms. His thick eyebrows slanted down toward the bridge of his nose, brown eyes looking directly at Jessica.

“No. Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, eyes downcast.

“Look. I think you should know that we have statements from patrons of the Black Swan who state that you were seen having a heated argument with Gus Adams. Certain witnesses quote you as saying that he shouldn’t stand in your way or he could be sorry.”

“Seriously. Don’t be ridiculous. Gus loved me working on the farm with him. He just wants, um,
wanted
me to have more of a life before I got sucked up into the business, that’s all. What’s all this about?”

“Tell me about the ‘business.’”

“What’s to know? Gus is,
was
the best trainer and breeder around. He knew which bloodlines to mix and when. He knew the precise amount of potential he could pull out of every horse he trained. And there was no one like Gus for picking a winner. He understood handicaps for thoroughbreds better than anyone—even better than my father. He taught me all he could about breeding, training, and winning. He tried to teach me a sense about the horses. But I never could pick them like he could.” Words poured out of her to feed Coogan’s seeming hunger. Nothing made sense.

“What about the money? Did he ever tell you where it came from or where it went?”

“What
about
the money? Aunt Bridget and Gus took over the farm. He did a great job for me and my family. Gus was like a father to me.”

“Don’t be loyal to a dead man. Worldwind Farm had some of its most successful strings of winners after your father died. Didn’t you ever wonder where the prize money went for all of Gus’ success? Who took notice of the stud fees? How can you be so sure that Gus brought you every check like a faithful dog? The farm’s accountant said it’s barely working in the black despite the consistent wins. I can’t believe you’re as naive as you seem.”

“What are you talking about? Raising thoroughbreds is an expensive undertaking. The animals themselves cost tens of thousands of dollars and stud fees for animals from other bloodlines can be staggering. And think of the upkeep of the property itself. Even something as simple as maintaining a fence line can be expensive.” Jessica was breathing harder now and color had risen into her cheeks. It seemed the more anxious she became, the more Coogan enjoyed himself.

Coogan gave an odd little smile. “Yet, as one of the country’s most renowned farms, Worldwind flirted with operating at a loss with only enough money to keep the creditors at bay. As long as Wyeth’s Worldwind Farm operated at a profit, it could never be sold.”

“Who told you the terms of my trust?”

“It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that your faithful Gus just kept skimming the cream off the surface to his own pockets and hoped you would never catch on. But you did. And when he blocked you from coming into the business you snapped.”

“I
what
?” Jessica slammed her hand down on the table with enough force to slosh the coffee out of its mug. “Gus Adams was my best friend. He would never do what you’re saying.”

Coogan sat back in his chair, folded his arms and broadened his smile. “That’s quite a temper you have there, Miss. I’ll bet you would do anything to protect your little farm with your precious horses. Face it, Miss. You are the last person to have been seen with Gus that night. You were drinking and had an argument. The groom saw you leaving the barn this morning. I saw you with my own eyes this morning with blood on you. You killed Gus Adams.”

“No! You’re insane! I did not kill Gus! I saw two men argue with him about something and one of them killed Gus! I saw them!”

“
If
you saw them, then tell me about the men! Tell me what you saw!”

Coogan’s eyes honed down to slits. They had Jessica in a vise and would not let go. Why was he so agitated that she witnessed something? Didn’t Officer Shea report their conversation? She looked across at Coogan. He seemed bigger, inflated. His inexplicable manner unnerved her. It seemed that he knew the effect he had on her and pushed her that much harder.

Enjoying himself, he sat back. “Go ahead, tell me everything.”

“I can’t! I’m trying to but I can’t! I’m telling you they were there. Two men. One was older than the other. They were there! They did it! Each had on a jacket and one wore a hat!” Jessica’s words were slurring in her panic. She was trying to grasp at the images weaving in her head, but she could not. Each time she thought she had an image cornered to capture into speech, it would dodge and slither away.

“You said you saw them, now describe them! Tell me what you saw!” Coogan barked the order at Jessica.

“I can’t! Oh God!” Damn it, think! Did she see anything? Think! Everything was jammed in her head. “I thought I saw them but I can’t remember what they looked like! I don’t
know
what I saw!”

“We only found your footprints by the body and those of the groom. We also found a jacket identified as yours with blood smeared onto it, as if it was used to clean the weapon.”

“I can’t remember any more.”

His voice deepened. “Miss Wyeth, you are in a great deal of trouble. If you are not responsible for Gus’ death, then I suggest you tell me all you know about what happened last night. Where were the two men standing? How big were they? What did they have on? Now SPEAK!”

The last words were yelled across the table at the frantic woman. It had its desired effect. Jessica jumped back, and then sat trembling.

Her voice was barely a whisper. The shock of what the Detective was implying was numbing. It was true. She was responsible for his death. For everyone’s death. Voices from somewhere were telling her she killed them. She could have saved them all but didn’t. She didn’t lift a finger to help anyone. Her head slumped forward. “I don’t know if I’ll ever remember. I just thought I saw something. I just don’t remember.”

Coogan sat back in his chair and laughed. “Well! I guess that’s it then. So, you’re trying to tell me we have a suspect to a brutal murder who says she’s really a witness, but can’t remember anything. Oh, yeah. One was old. One was young. One had a hat. One had a jacket.” His tone of voice mocked her. “That’s ripe. I mean really ripe. I can’t wait to tell the boys at the house this one.”

“No. It... it’s all my fault.”

Coogan smiled. “Go on.”

Jessica began to cry. “It’s my fault.” Tears rolled down her cheeks.

He stood up and looked at her. “Look. Get a hold of yourself,” he told the shaking girl, “I’ll go get you a tissue or something. Wait here.” The expensive leather soles of his shoes barely made a sound on the hard wood floor as he turned on his heel and strode out through the kitchen.

Jessica remained seated in her chair, transfixed on the spilled coffee covering the surface of the table. She focused her efforts on making her finger trace a circle in the spilled drink. Mentally spent, the simple act of holding her head up was a chore.

She was unaware of the battle her mind was waging. While her external shell remained still, her subconscious self exploded. Her mind had deftly performed the dodges, faints and blocks it took to keep her memories of the past day and of her childhood within their jail. It took the brief respite from the recent onslaught to slide one of the last building blocks into place.

Over the years, her mind had occasion to strengthen its walls. If a fact found a chink in the walls and had floated to surface as conscious thought, it would cause its host’s heart to beat faster and force sweat to spring from its palms. Then it would release its troops of doubts and fantasies to swirl around the fact and to bring it back into custody. The location of the escape sutured shut. Its mission was to protect its host at all costs from the memories which could drive her insane. It would never lose the battles of protection and survival, and its strategy was one of deep cover.

But her mind sensed an additional wrinkle to its plans. Protection of its host’s physical vessel was essential to its survival. It had kept the memories suppressed and sent messages warning about the detective to its host by sending a shiver up its spine, only to be ignored. But now her mind saw its opportunity to have its host act.

“I’ve gotta get out of here. I just want to get back home,” Jessica muttered as she pushed herself away from the table. Her legs were wobbly as she covered the distance to the door with a few strides. She glanced over her shoulder. Seeing no one, she stepped out on the front porch and walked down to the drive.

The night air helped to revive her. Brilliant stars went unnoticed as she aimlessly walked around the corner of the building toward where she had parked her car. She didn’t make a note that it was the only car in the lot.

The confusion which boiled within her stood in sharp contrast to the stillness of the building and its surroundings. Trees bent toward the little tavern seemingly in an effort to protect it from the darkness. Weak light escaping from the window just touched their leaves and some shrubs growing on the other side of the road, making them glow in the sickly yellow light. Small, perfectly formed flowers could barely be seen against the dark green leaves of the bush. The pale blossoms reflected just slightly more light than its companion foliage. They were familiar somehow. Jessica walked over to them and inhaled their soft fragrance.

The sweet scent of the Mountain Laurel sifted through her head. She stood with her head bent, face buried in the comfort of a familiar smell. She grew stronger in its presence and closed her eyes to soak up the calm. Faces of her family glowed before her, smiling. Her mother’s dancing eyes, her aunt’s calm gaze and her father’s loving glance blended with the aroma of the flowers and took her back to a time when she felt connected to others and loved.

For a long time, she stayed deep within these pleasant memories, unwilling to surface back into a world where she now had no one. Back to a world which suspected her of murder.

The darkness was splintered by the force of the blast. The world burned red through her closed eyes. Heat of the fire mixed with the friction of the air, super-heating the atmosphere as it rushed passed her. The power of the explosion pushed her forward into the brush and down onto the ground, dirt jamming itself into her face. She laced her fingers behind her head in a weak effort of self-protection.