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Exhaling in relief, Bay threw a load on her own welder. She began the bottom weld on her spear and was immediately lost in her work.
How long was it before she picked up on the change, the smell? Two minutes, three? It couldn’t have been much longer. In any case, the strong odor, wholly unnatural to their environment and so clearly wrong, prompted her to throw up her hood and sniff again.
She turned around.
Smoke was coming from Glenn’s table, so much smoke that she couldn’t see him. Nevertheless, the nauseating smell told her he was there. Swatting the hood off her head, she ran to his machine, flipped off the ignition switch and, while her reaction was fast, her movements automatic, her mind froze on one thought. Heart attack.
The horrible stench gagged her as much as the smoke did, speaking too clearly of burning clothing and worse. As horror urged retreat, she grabbed the lead to get the stringer out from beneath him, at the same time pushing against his shoulder to roll him off it. In that instant something struck her forearm.
Through tearing eyes and suffocating smoke she saw a metal rod—no, one of the Maiden’s lances.
The spear was impaled through Glenn’s back.
Also available from MIRA Books and HELEN R. MYERS
FINAL STAND
DEAD END
LOST
MORE THAN YOU KNOW
COME SUNDOWN
WHILE OTHERS SLEEP
No Sanctuary
Helen R. Myers
www.mirabooks.co.uk
For Norma L. Wilkinson
Who has also known what it takes to stand alone.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Like many, I grew up hearing the sage advice “Two things should never be discussed at the dinner table—politics and religion.” An adage, I should add, that was rarely heeded by those who taught it to me. Then my family moved south of the Mason-Dixon Line and, a few years after we were married, my husband and I settled in east Texas, a place, I have wryly concluded, where there are more churches than pine trees. As hard as I try, avoiding the subject of religion here is more difficult yet—in fact it’s virtually impossible. Salutations are typically followed by one of two questions: “What church do you belong to?” or “Who are your people?”
It is partly because of such troubling and inappropriate queries that this story evolved. My other inspiration came from actual crimes—two in particular. One to this day remains unproven, although I’m sure the U.S. Treasury Department continues to watch over it hoping for a break, and the other was brought to trial but failed to win a conviction. From there on, this is a work of fiction. To the best of my knowledge, Mission of Mercy Church does not exist in this area. But sadly, I have seen a few too many variations of it and of characters like Martin Davis and Madeleine Ridgeway. They present great fodder for a writer, but I despair for the innocent minds they abuse and corrupt.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Several people need to be thanked for sharing their stories and expertise, or for going out of their way to try to arrange interviews—Darese Cotton, Karen Kelley and Linda Broday. To those of you who write in approval of my protagonists’ “real” professional backgrounds, I hope you’ll enjoy Bay and her work. All credit for its accuracy goes to my husband, Robert, a master craftsman and shaman with metal. Any error there and elsewhere is entirely my own.
The world is governed by very different personages from what is imagined by those who are not behind the scenes.
—Benjamin Disraeli
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Epilogue
Prologue
Tyler, Texas
August, 1995
It was well past nine, hours after their usual quitting time—more if the battery-operated clock above the office door had stuck again—and yet Bay Butler reached for another welding rod. With two more ornamental lances to tack then weld into the division bars, she could call her half of the entry gate completed, and she wasn’t shutting down until done. The gate had to be installed the day after tomorrow. It couldn’t matter that every muscle and bone in her back and neck screamed from fatigue, or that her eyes had been on fire since the rest of the crew had gone home for the day. Never mind that sweat saturated her long-sleeved denim shirt and jeans, threatening to slow-cook her to death. It was August, this was Texas, and only a bankruptcy-intent fool air-conditioned a welding shop.
At least her clothes were providing some protection from the red-hot sparks shooting at her. Denim was not ideal for such work, but allowed flexibility of movement that the leather vest wisdom dictated a welder use didn’t. Those contraptions felt as weighty as a warrior’s breastplate, the arms as stiff and restrictive as the pauldrons, rerebraces and couters of any good knight’s armor. The invention was also meant to guard against worse health problems down the road; however, thanks to her creditors, there would be no “down the road” for Bay if she couldn’t work with reasonable speed and flexibility. Which was also why she replaced her wardrobe every few months; none of which, her CPA chastised repeatedly, was deductible because her shop wasn’t union and denim didn’t qualify as a uniform.
Two more lances…
It might as well be six and she had to visualize something pleasant to keep going. Once she dragged her butt home, she would fill the tub with whatever the faucet marked C offered considering this was Tyler and triple-digit heat had been the status quo for thirty-eight days straight. A tray or three of ice cubes from the freezer would help, as would the quart of cold milk from the fridge that was a few days past its expiration date. Whole milk, which was why she rarely drank it, the kind that clung to skin like a pearl’s sheen. Then she would pop the tab on a tall Miller Lite to cool off her insides, and hopefully pass out from sheer exhaustion.
“Christ Almighty, will you knock it off, already?”
She paused in lowering the Darth Vader-like hood over her face and glanced behind her to see Glenn English glaring from beneath his own raised hood. Behind him on the rolling parts table were five other ten-foot tall iron rods with the sharp arrowheads that would finish his side of the entry gate. It wasn’t like him to be so far behind her, and he knew what was at stake. But as she accepted she might have to forgo the soak, maybe even the beer, she shouted back over the motors, “Go ahead and quit if you need to. I’ll finish for you.”
She made sure her tone was matter-of-fact; after all, he had someone waiting for him. Maybe Holly had committed them to an engagement and he’d neglected to share that tidbit of information. It wouldn’t be the first time, and who could blame Holly for deciding that tonight she’d eaten one too many dinners alone, received one last-minute excuse beyond what a fiancée should endure?
“You’d like me to walk out on you, wouldn’t you? A perfect ending to the martyr image.”
Dumbfounded, Bay could only stare. She loved her work. What they were doing was hot and dirty for sure; but the opportunity it represented was a challenge, and a terrific business opportunity. Whatever his problem, she was willing to shrug it off to fatigue and the god-awful heat. Everyone in the shop had been snarling at each other on and off for weeks, thanks to the weather and the company’s money crunch.
“We only have tomorrow to finish up,” she said, drawing on the last of her own patience. “If this project doesn’t go in on Friday morning, you won’t have to worry about more overtime. We’ll have to shut those doors for good.”
It wasn’t an exaggeration since they had yet to begin the painting-finishing process. The gate would be a navy gray, two careful coats of top-grade, weather-resistant flat—a third if, upon final inspection, Bay decided it was warranted. When that was completely dry, they would begin the painstaking hammering of the yellow brass wire wrapped in three strategic points along the length of each lance. She called the design The Iron Maiden, a little tongue-in-cheek acknowledgment after one of Glenn’s remarks about her “ball-breaker” work habits and her dogged determination to keep the shop afloat. As luck would have it a few weeks ago, the grand duchess of all ball-breakers had driven by the small sidewalk-size version of the Maiden exhibited outside and stopped. On the spot, Madeleine Ridgeway had demanded a driveway size model for her new estate. Nobody turned down Mrs. Herman Ridgeway, daughter and sole heiress to Duncan Holt’s vast grocery warehousing empire.
“Friday,” Bay said to Glenn with more emphasis. “And don’t forget Mrs. R. needs access for the caterers and florists by early afternoon. That’ll create a squeeze for us no matter how smoothly things go. What if Zamora shows up in the morning with the shakes, or the paint runs, or the wire snaps too often as we’re hammering the trim?”
“Shit happens.”
“Not when she signs the check.”
“So she doesn’t get her frigging gate in time for her party. You don’t think the house is enough to keep everybody gaping?”
The answer to that was so obvious it didn’t need to be voiced. Nevertheless, Bay wanted people to see The Iron Maiden first.
As a hunch about Glenn settled deeper in her gut, she frowned. This wasn’t about their intense schedule, at least not entirely. Something else was wrong. He’d been as thrilled as she was when they’d landed this job and they’d hugged and cheered, despite it coming only a few weeks after Bay turned down his marriage proposal. She’d thought, hoped, they’d cleared the air since. He’d certainly started up with Holly fast enough. Could there now be trouble in that paradise?
Heaven spare me from love.
They had to hang on. Once their financial pressures were behind them, they could think about expansion, a future that would allow for larger projects, independence. Dreams. The end of what she privately saw as a two-year leeching of everything creative inside her. She couldn’t let him fall apart one check away from freedom and inspiration.
“I can’t and won’t do that to Mrs. Ridgeway,” Bay told him.
“You think she wouldn’t cut you loose in a heartbeat if it suited her?”
Glenn’s cynicism worked like hot salsa on her empty stomach. If this abrasive attitude was his way to complete his emotional “disconnect” from her, to assure her that he’d learned his lesson, he needed to rethink his strategy.
“Look, I’m not a mind reader, and if you have something to say, I wish you’d can the sarcasm and get to the point…only not tonight. I’m begging you, Glenn. Let’s get this job done.”
He stood for several more seconds as though he wanted to press a point, but as abruptly as he’d flared, he reached for another lance from the rolling table behind him, slid it in place and dropped his hood. Striking an arc, he began welding again.
Exhaling in relief, Bay threw a load on her own welder. She began the bottom weld on her lance and was immediately lost in her work.
How long was it before she picked up on the change…the smell? Two minutes. Three?
It couldn’t have been much longer. In any case, the strong odor, wholly unnatural to their environment and so clearly wrong prompted her to throw up her hood and sniff again.
She turned around. “Jesus.”
Smoke was coming from Glenn’s table, so much smoke that she couldn’t see him. Nevertheless, the nauseating smell told her he was there. Swatting the hood off her head, she ran to his machine, flipped off the ignition switch and scrambled over lines to reach him. While her reaction was fact, her movements automatic, her mind froze on one thought. Heart attack. The stench gagged her as much as the smoke did, speaking too clearly of burning clothing and worse. As horror urged retreat, she grabbed the lead to get the stinger out from beneath him, at the same time pushing against his shoulder to roll him off it. In that instant something struck her forearm.
Through tearing eyes and suffocating smoke, she saw a metal rod—no, one of the Maiden’s lances.
The spear was impaled through Glenn’s back.
1
Six years later
Gatesville Unit, Texas Department of Corrections
Gatesville, Texas
Wednesday, May 9, 2001
“Butler! Shut it down, you have a visitor.”
About to drop her hood to weld the rest of a handrail, Bay Butler hesitated and glanced over at Sergeant Draper scowling at her from the doorway. At first she thought she must be hearing things, then the woman squeezed into a size-sixteen prison guard uniform aimed her baton. Bay shut down the machine.
What the hell…?
She couldn’t imagine who wanted to see her. She had no family, so-called friends had abandoned her ages ago, and the most rabid reporter had long lost interest in her. Nevertheless, she knew better than to question when a prison guard gave a directive, particularly this one. Bay got along well enough with most of the staff—they left her alone, while she pretended they were part of the concrete and steel surrounding her—but Draper had made it clear from day one that she thought Bay belonged on Death Row.
Setting her hood on top of the welding machine, Bay approached the woman whose face would make a plastic surgeon think, “Windfall.” Keeping her own expression passive, she dealt with an unwelcome rush of adrenaline. Why hope? Hope, she’d learned the hard way, was for babies, brides and fools. Yet Draper knew something. Suspicion and trouble were unpleasant scents to season Bay’s memory as she struggled to remember what she might have done wrong in the last six days, never mind six years. It had to be a trick of some kind; no one on the outside cared whether she lived or rotted here and she had no assets, therefore, no need for a beneficiary to encourage her early demise. Her life had been reduced to its lowest common denominator.
Six years…in another six weeks. Any more sixes, she mused, and she was going to start wondering if the Bible-thumpers—whom she avoided as diligently as she did prison troublemakers—were right about the antichrist already being present on earth. That, too, said bad things about her state of mind.
Wary, Bay followed the surly guard’s directives down the hall. She knew better than to ask questions. As far as Draper was concerned, if you were at Gatesville, you were guilty and should serve your full term, and the guard did her best to make sure Bay understood that went doubly for her.
The cloudless Texas sky blinded Bay as she crossed the prison yard, and the packed clay tested her bones and joints as much as the concrete floors of the prison did. Gatesville was the state’s main women’s facility, located about an hour west of Waco, hard country that fooled you. Gently rolling terrain let you believe over the next slope was a lake, a stream, maybe an oasis of woods when the only break from the incessant sun was the scrub brush and rain-starved cedars. For as far as she could see the dusty, heat-scorched vegetation littered the land like storm debris. Bay never yearned for the soothing shade of the piney woods more than when she was ordered outside to fulfill state requirements for “fresh air and exercise.”
The plant-bare yard was speckled with a number of women cloistered in a corner like chickens without feed and unionizing in protest. Several called to her, whistled and blew taunting kisses. Bay had a certain reputation among the inmates, not for any unpredictability or violent tendencies, but for her refusal to make group alliances. It wasn’t a focused intent, she simply wasn’t and never had been tribal, didn’t join clubs and other variations of so-called support groups as a means of feeling secure. An only child raised in what any first-year psych student would recognize as an unorthodox manner, her social skills weren’t only untapped, they remained buried rootstock, or worse, like invisible seeds on Mars.
Unfortunately for her, Bay resembled the very people who came from various ministries to attend to the needs of her soul. Slim to the point of gaunt, having saved her sanity by plunging herself in relentless work, she was as pale as a chronic anemic. What color she did have was welding burns. Add her artist’s feverish, unblinking stare and she could pass for a seer, or someone in need of a white jacket with sleeves that tied, which explained why all but the most fearless inmates avoided her, as one would any unknown commodity. It was those predators, the ones who traveled in the strongest packs that refused to be permanently thwarted. Bay carried a few scars from them—the chronic ache of cracked ribs, a broken finger and damaged spleen.
It was her skill with metal that had kept her alive, that and the fact that the new warden, after a visit to the infirmary, had done her homework. Upon reading Bay’s file, the woman assigned her to the prison mechanic shop. Ever since, Bay worked at repaying her by methodically cutting down on the list of repairs and improvements needed at the facility, those frequently put off due to budget constraints. The move hadn’t stopped the diehards from their taunts, though. As she crossed the yard they stuttered, “B-b-b,” or called, “Hey, Baby Butt Butler!” or “Yo! Bitch Bonnie Bay.” But, as always, unless someone addressed her as “Bay” or “Butler,” she tuned them out.
After the debilitating heat it was a relief to enter the visitors building, although the air-conditioning sounded as though it was ready to go at any second. Either that or souls from previous inmates were haunting the ventilation system. Still, it was a good twenty degrees cooler than outside, almost thirty better than at the shop. But what caused Bay to shiver was the reminder that she hadn’t been in here since her first month at Gatesville and that she’d forgotten procedure. Hesitating once too often after a directive earned her Draper’s scorn.
“Hell, Butler, has inhaling those gas fumes numbed your brain?” the guard snapped as they stood outside the last set of gates. “I said pass through.”
Bay intended to…but she’d spotted whom she was being handed off to, a great hulk of flesh with a face that made Draper a beauty queen. Would he insist on a body search, too, before she was allowed to see if any of this was worth it?
Bay clenched her teeth and stepped into the cell-like corridor. Then she stood staring through the bars at the door of mystery while the WWF reject attempted to get his jollies, only to discover he was wasting his time, since she was flat going and coming.
Muttering in disappointment or disgust, he directed her to the visitation room. “Cubicle six,” he recited in a voice that Disney Studios might contract to play a drowning grouper. “Stay seated, use the phones, no passing anything over the partition. No body contact whatsoever. Any infraction and the meeting’s over. You give me any lip and the meeting’s over. You try something stupid and you go into Solitary. Clear?”
“Yes, sir.” Bay’s automatic reply hid her consternation. Sixth cubicle. Six-six-six.
Her trepidation didn’t ease once she arrived at the designated spot. Not only was the man waiting for her a total stranger, he had all of the markings of a lawyer, the successful kind. She took in the educated, pampered face, the manicured hands, the salon-styled, flaxen hair and the suit she figured cost more than her court-appointed attorney had made handling her entire case, and considered doing an about-face. What stopped her were his eyes. He resented being here as much as she did the prospect of having to speak to him.
As curiosity won out over pride, she sat down and matched him stare for stare. What helped was that he was as fine-boned as he was fair—her male counterpart. He picked up his phone, then waited for her to reach for hers. That’s when she noticed the condition of her hands—black from grease and dirt. Certain that he’d noticed, she took her time to wipe them on her thighs, further staining the already soiled orange jumpsuit.
“I’m Lyle Gessler,” he snapped as soon as she brought the receiver against her left ear. “Mrs. Ridge-way sent me.”
All reluctance and embarrassment evaporated like summer drizzle on sun-baked Texas earth. If the name Ridgeway had clout in this state, it had double that with her. One thing she believed—the widow of oil tycoon Herman Ridgeway and daughter and sole heiress of the late grocery-distributor magnate Duncan Holt was the only reason she didn’t call Death Row home. For Madeleine Ridgeway, she would listen.
“As you know, Mrs. Ridgeway has continued to protest your situation.”
Continued? “She was supportive before and during the trial. But since…I couldn’t say.”
Mrs. Ridgeway had sent a note right after her arrest saying she would be following the trial and offer herself as a character witness for the defense, but Bay had refused for fear of public opinion turning on the good woman. Later she’d learned from her lawyer, court-appointed Mary Dish, that Mrs. Ridgeway had spoken to some influential political friends who had somehow convinced the D.A. that while a conviction was likely, a Murder One charge would be risky. For that, if nothing else, Bay would always be grateful.
“Then allow me to enlighten you. After saving you from a date with the Lethal Injection Boys, she expanded her own investigation—and at no small expense. It’s a result of that, the evidence we’ve unearthed, that I’m here. Your conviction has been vacated.”
Bay struggled to figure out what the hell that meant without looking like a fresh-hatched chick. She was sensitive about her lack of formal education. Schooling she had, having gone through the whole welding school apprenticeship and being mentored by some of the best journeymen in the business. But the rest of it, the college-range curriculum had been denied her. She’d used some of her time here trying to catch up, improving her reading skills and sense of history and politics, anything to fill the endless days; however, the sense of stigma remained.
“I don’t understand,” she admitted at last.
“We convinced the D.A. to agree with your defense attorney and request that your trial be set aside.”
He might as well have announced her the winner of a jackpot lottery. “How?” she whispered, surprised she could speak at all. She’d had a full trial, the whole gamut of legalities and jury and media humiliation.
“What does it matter? The point is you’re getting out.”
As much as she wanted to believe him, Bay stared at the stranger with the feminine nose and pinched lips reading him like a Times Square billboard. Not only didn’t he believe what he was spouting at her, not only didn’t he care if she did or not, he thought coming here undeserving of his time.
“Excuse me.” She gripped the phone tighter, aware that manners counted in such moments and that she had to hang on to what was left of hers. “I don’t mean any insult, and I am…I’m in shock. What I’m trying to say is that no one listened during the trial. What’s changed?”
“Facts.” The attorney focused on the unopened file before him. “It appears new evidence finally surfaced that was unknown at the time of the initial investigation. The deceased was recently discovered to have had a gambling problem. Apparently—”
“The deceased had a name. Glenn English.”
“—Mr. English’s debts,” Lyle Gessler continued frowning at the closed folder, “had gotten so out of control that a collector was sent after him.”
“Bull.” Bay would never have stood for that kind of behavior, and Glenn had known it because her father had been a compulsive gambler. Glenn had witnessed the worst of what that meant; in fact, he’d almost been as hurt by the effects of her father’s addiction as Bay was. They’d come a cold sweat away from losing the business and Bay the pitiful roof over her head. No way would Glenn have allowed himself to become consumed by the same weakness. He’d cared, cared too much.
“Look, I don’t specialize in appellate law, but Mrs. Ridgeway found someone who does. He, in turn, found the right investigators and we ended up with the testimony from a small-time crook by the name of George ‘Catfish’ Tarpley, who knew the hit man sent to settle things with Mr. English.”
“Hit man?”
Gessler stiffened and leaning back glanced around to see how much attention she’d attracted from the other booths. Satisfied that it wasn’t much, he whispered, “Do you mind? One Raymond Basque. Razor to those who use nicknames instead of Yellow Pages advertising.”
Ignoring the snide retort, Bay shot back, “Someone with the kind of debt you’re inferring would be warned several times, even at his place of business. I never saw or heard any—”
“Do you want to know why you’re getting out or not?”
There was no arguing with that. Bay nodded.
“Like Basque, Tarpley’s from Louisiana,” Gessler continued. “But he has a record here that should have been long enough to make him a permanent resident. Several weeks ago he was stopped in Houston for a traffic violation. Police found an unregistered handgun in the car, and he was also in illegal possession of prescription drugs. Needless to say, once he understood that this time he was facing Texas’s strikeout situation, he was anxious to plea bargain.”
If it happened, no doubt; but to Bay it sounded too pat. “The D.A. and a judge wouldn’t listen to me, why should they listen to a career criminal?”
“Because he helped close the book on Basque. Basque is dead…has been for over six years. He was found at DFW Airport with a single gunshot wound to the head the morning after fulfilling the contract on your friend. As luck would have it, at the time there was no reason to connect him to your friend’s murder because the Tyler police believed they had their killer.”
The whole story was insane, and yet Bay saw the way Fate had played nemesis in her life. “How much did Glenn owe?”
“I have no idea.”
“It cost him his life, what do you mean you don’t know? Ten thousand? Fifty?”
“I’m pleased to be able to say such things aren’t in my general area of expertise.”
Unfortunately, they were in hers. “Then let me enlighten you. To be worth the trouble of killing, Glenn would have to have been so deeply in debt he would be sweating blood by day and pissing it by night.” Bay had seen her father in that condition enough to know the signs. “He would have had a few scares, maybe a slashed tire or bashed headlight on a vehicle, and then if that didn’t get the message across, he would have had the crap beaten out of him. No way Glenn could have hidden all of that from me.”
Although he turned a sickly yellow against his flashy suit, Gessler managed his own share of sarcasm. “I’m sharing confidences and insights I doubt anyone else on the case would. Your protests and censure beg the question of why I’m wasting my time talking to you. Perhaps Mrs. Ridgeway needs to be informed of that.”
Bay wanted to kick through the partition and grab the little snot by his platinum silk tie. In her dreams of justice, she’d found vindication and freedom, but not like this. Never at the cost of a dear memory, someone she’d respected and trusted. Glenn hadn’t just shared everything he knew about working with metal, he stuck around through the bad times when others quit due to one too many late paychecks. That was why she’d made him a partner, and why she’d called him a friend. What could she do to disprove these filthy lies? Nothing here. She had to temper her outrage and find the real answers outside.
“This Catfish guy,” she said, her throat aching, “he’s in custody on a commuted sentence? I can talk to him?”
“I told you, he was afraid that what he knew about Basque could be his death warrant if he went back to Huntsville, so he gave authorities various other tidbits that helped on several arrests and earned him a walk.”
She couldn’t deny the validity of that. In prison, what you knew could get you in as much trouble as speculating about what wasn’t any of your business and plenty of inmates lived in dread of returning to pay for their secrets.
“I don’t know, it still sounds as though he got the best of you guys. How do you know he didn’t?”
“We have the confirmation of a detective in Vice, one Nick Martel, who acknowledged he saw Tarpley and Basque in the exact booth at the all-night restaurant Tarpley mentioned when he described making Basque’s payoff.”
The news sucked the air out of the room until Bay felt her lungs burning. A cop…it was one thing to reject the word of a career crook and liar looking for any angle to gain a deal on his sentence, quite another to refute a cop. Sure, guys who carried badges and took oaths lied—naive she wasn’t. It would be a first for one to help someone in her kind of trouble, though.
“Would Martel talk to me?” she asked.
“To what end? He didn’t know English. He just saw what he saw.”
“Then what about Tarpley? Did they ask him who hired him to make the payoff?”
Gessler shook his head. “All of his leads dead-end because no names were used and payment was made at arranged drop-off sites for exactly those reasons.”
Bay could see she would get little from the man and had to allow that maybe that’s why he was sent. It could be that, like Tarpley, he was simply part of the conduit. For the moment it would be wise to let him believe he’d performed his role expertly. But Bay had known Glenn English. He may have cut a corner or two on projects in his time; however, his conscience always reminded him where and when, especially after becoming engaged to Holly Kirkland. And she was active in her church. The couple had been planning a modest wedding to save money for a house. It was inconceivable that he would have jeopardized her trust.
What to do…? So-called justice had already cost her six years of her life. If it took another big blunder to set things right, why not accept that as a gift? Sure as hell, she couldn’t do Glenn’s memory any good here. She also needed to get out for her sanity’s sake.
“So what’s next?” she asked, aware of a slight trembling in her legs. With her free hand she gripped her left thigh to control it.
“Sit tight for the formal paperwork to come through. You should be out by the end of the month, your record expunged.”
Incredulous, she was slow to find her voice. “That fast?”
“I told you, Mrs. Ridgeway has been working on this for some time.”
Free…and not just paroled, the sentence overturned. It was too much to take in. The only thing that saved her was the weight of her guilt. Glenn still wasn’t coming back. Her friend died because she hadn’t locked a door, wasn’t more conscious of what had been going on with him…something.
“Just don’t go doing something stupid like committing another murder before your release date,” Gessler said, breaking into her thoughts. “Mrs. Ridgeway doesn’t appreciate people who undermine her efforts.”
Bay had to wait until the throbbing behind her eyeballs eased. “I didn’t do the first one.”
As Lyle Gessler hung up the phone, she could almost hear his mind cranking away. He was doing his job. She’d gotten the same message from what’s his name, that detective who first questioned her that awful night. Despite his admitting to her that he’d believed something was fishy, he hadn’t fought too hard, either, when the D.A. twisted his words into what proved the prosecution’s strongest incriminating testimony. It was a miracle she hadn’t gotten the death penalty.
As the attorney collected his things, Bay knocked on the window. “Thank you,” she mouthed.
Gessler barely acknowledged her, but then Bay wasn’t really talking to him. She knew who deserved her thanks and she would voice them in person as soon as possible.
2
Tyler, Texas
Thursday, May 31, 2001
Things had changed. Nestled in the luxurious dove-gray leather of Madeleine Ridgeway’s white Lincoln Town Car sent to bring her home, Bay struggled to recognize landmarks as she was chauffeured around Tyler’s Loop. If it hadn’t been for the road signs, she would have sworn she wasn’t even on 323. Gone were the woods interspersed with stretches of pasture that had first given the East Texas community its charming rural appeal years ago. In their place was row after row of shopping strips, large chain stores and enough fast-food joints to keep the stomach bulging and the wallet starved. As for traffic, Bay had seen less congestion this morning as they’d passed under I-35 by Waco—the current main expressway connecting Mexico to the heartland of the U.S.A. It explained the increase of apartments, though. With everyone shopping so much, who had the money for a mortgage?
As her hymn-humming driver Elvin Capps wove his way between slower vehicles—most of them SUVs or pickups and all freshly washed—she dealt with a dizzying mixture of elation and alienation. “Is there a plan for street expansion or another loop?” she asked once the car stopped for yet another red light.
Darkly lashed hazel eyes met hers in the rearview mirror and crinkled at their corners. “My, yes. There’s always a plan. There’s a plan to adjust the latest plan, and a plan to oust the people wanting to stick with the original plan. In the meantime the traffic gets worse, accidents more frequent, insurance rates skyrocket and—” He punctuated his opinion with a shrug and sheepish smile. “I’m no expert, ask Mrs. Ridgeway. Next to her church commitments, improving the roads is her biggest interest.”
Then no doubt something would get done. Bay believed if Madeleine Ridgeway could get her out from under a murder conviction, unraveling the political and economic bird’s nest delaying a new multimillion dollar road system should be no problem.
The congestion didn’t ease up once Elvin turned south on Broadway. Before they cleared the second traffic light, she witnessed several near collisions…and the city stretched onward.
“Good grief!” Torn between a laugh and shout of warning as another impatient driver cut in front of them, she gripped the back of the front seat.
“Don’t fret none,” Elvin drawled, stopping before the intersection that featured one of the Ridgeways’ gourmet grocery stores. “You’re in good hands. Jesus watches over this car.”
As he went back to humming the latest gospel tune playing on the radio, Bay reconsidered his earlier advice that she fasten her seat belt. Back in Waco, she’d rejected the idea as too close a reminder of driving shackled in the back of a patrol car. To avoid it now she averted her eyes from the traffic to the growing city’s infrastructure.
Discount department store, super hardware store, super furniture store…American corporations were making a killing on cheap imports. Bay wondered…did she have a future in this kind of economical environment? Why would anyone pay premium prices for her one-of-a-kind creations when they could get slapped-together facsimiles for a fraction of the cost? Of course, the dream of having her own business again, let alone focusing on her sculpture was just that, a dream that would have to wait until she could manage to simply support herself. What she needed to think about was would anyone want to hire her? She’d been forewarned by the warden at Gatesville that the media knew of her release and was treating it as top-story material.
By the time Elvin steered the sedan past the electronic gates of the Ridgeway estate, some of Bay’s euphoria over being released faded under the weight of her cloudy future. When they stopped beneath the two-car-wide portico of the sprawling three-story structure, Bay, feeling less worthy than ever, got out before the cherub-faced driver could make it to her door. Elvin Capps seemed a genuine dear, comfortable in that middle-aged, barrel-chested way that probably made him a top candidate by organizations seeking volunteer Santas at Christmas. What won her approval was his unmistakable devotion to Mrs. Ridgeway.
But as Bay eyed his crisp white shirt, khaki slacks and navy blazer, she experienced renewed doubt. For all of their simplicity, Elvin’s clothes were designer quality compared to her cheap T-shirt and jeans. She might as well be back in her orange jumpsuit. How did she face Mrs. Ridgeway looking like someone even her chauffeur would find tacky?
“I don’t know about this,” she began. “Maybe I’ll come back after I get properly settled somewhere.”
“You get in there and let her enjoy the reunion.” Brusque as he pressed the doorbell, Elvin was beaming as he stepped back to make room for her. “I’ll be here when you’re ready.”
The door opened. A young Latino girl in a white uniform beckoned her inside, keeping Bay from questioning the latter half of his comment.
The maid led her across the foyer to a door on the left. Softly knocking, she opened it and gestured for Bay to enter.
On the far side of the high-ceilinged room sitting behind a huge rectangle of thick, smoky glass held up by a pair of marble elephants waited Madeleine Ridgeway. She sat framed in the mauve-ivory-and-silver decor, a sight to behold dressed in a silk tunic pantsuit that matched her platinum hair. Bay had never forgotten the elegance of the office; the woman had her gaping. Once Madeleine’s trademark had been her long, steel-gray mane coifed in a sophisticated bun at the nape, à la dancing legend Martha Graham. Today she wore it as short as a boy’s, as short as her own, and almost the same color. Bay had the oddest sensation that she was seeing herself in thirty years.
“My dear.”
Her mature alter ego rose from a gray leather chair similar to the car’s interior and swept toward her with arms wide. The women were twins in build now, too, except that Madeleine stood inches taller even without high heels. Despite her initial shock, Bay saw that time had been kind to her benefactress. Her skin was as luminescent as the six rows of pearls gracing her throat, complimenting well-defined features that held just enough secret humor in those clear blue eyes, only a shade darker than her own, to keep from looking severe. Madeleine’s smile broadened, diminishing the fine lines around lips painted a passionate burgundy. The life-size portrait on the wall behind her couldn’t compete with her flesh-and-blood radiance.
“You made it. This morning I woke in a sweat dreaming they’d kept you.”
As Madeleine drew her closer for an exuberant hug, Bay fought the impulse to reject. Displays of affection had been few and far between even before her incarceration, and that history compounded her awkwardness. But to her surprise, the harder Madeleine laughed and hugged, the deeper she felt a seeping warmth. It was a relief to finally break away before she turned into a blubbering fool.
“Mrs. Ridgeway. How do I begin to thank you?”
“Oh, don’t start.”
“I have to. I owe you everything.”
“I only did what I had to do for my own peace of mind.” Hands with rings on every manicured finger including the thumbs gripped Bay’s upper arms, while intelligent eyes held her gaze with as much concern as warmth. “How are you, my friend? You’ve cost me many a night of sleep from worry.”
Where to begin? Did she really want to know? Bay had narrowed her philosophy of life to match her social one—believe in no one and nothing save herself. This woman’s kindness worked against that, as did the bite of seawater as it washed away the germs in a deep wound. Curiously, it left her weak in an unfamiliar and uneasy way. She needed time to regain her strength, not to mention her voice.
“I’m fine now.” The recited words were from a dozen or so she’d prepared to aid her in getting through the initial days. “Great, thanks to you.”
“Huh.” After another hug, Madeleine Ridgeway pushed her to arm’s length. “You’re as substantial as a morning glory. Let me call Lulu and have her get Cook to make you a calorie-saturated omelet. Lulu is actually Lucia, but I only call her that in formal situations.”
Bay thought fleetingly of the girl who’d worked here before. What had become of her? A job with the Ridgeways undoubtedly paid better than most service jobs and would be prized. “Really, I don’t need anything.”
“After such a ride? What about coffee, tea, a lemonade? I’m leaving shortly for a luncheon. Nevertheless, you’re welcome to—”
Bay took a step back toward the door. “I won’t keep you. I only wanted to thank you…for everything. The ride, too.”
“Isn’t Elvin a treasure? He’ll take you to your new home. Any questions or needs you have just tell him.”
This was like stepping into a movie theater ten minutes into the film. “I don’t understand.” At the prison they’d returned her belongings—a wallet containing sixty-three dollars, an expired license and equally useless credit cards, keys to a car, trailer and business that no longer existed. Her new residence would be wherever her exhausted body landed once she found a job that she could start immediately.
Madeleine threw back her head and laughed. “I’m ahead of myself, aren’t I? Blame it on sheer giddiness.” Beckoning, she returned to the desk, picked up a manila envelope and offered it to Bay with both hands. “This is for you. It’s a little property west of town. The cottage isn’t much larger than a dollhouse and it’s as old as my poor bones, which should warn you that it needs substantial work beyond what Elvin’s had time to put into it. On the plus side, it’s on the airport highway and has a tin building out front close to the road that can serve as a shop.”
The envelope might as well have been a new warrant. Bay shoved her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. “I can’t afford anything like that, Mrs. Ridgeway. I’ll be lucky to find someone to hire me to wash dishes on a trial basis, let alone give me a chance to work in my own field.”
“That’s utter nonsense. Darling, surely Lyle explained it to you? Your record is cleared.”
“Then someone neglected to inform the reporters waiting outside the prison as I got out.”
“Well, the case did receive broad media attention from the first. It’s understandable the discovery of that awful Basque man being responsible would stir things back up again. But it’s died down considerably what with the other horrors going on in the state and around the world. That’s the one thing you can rely on with the press—a short attention span for anything that doesn’t provide juicy video and meaty sound bites. In any case, you have nothing to apologize for, let alone explain to anyone.
“I think you misunderstand me on another front, too,” Madeleine continued with a knowing smile. “The property described in that envelope has been deeded over to you. What’s more, you begin work tomorrow on your first contract.”
“Doing what?”
“Get that hideous animal cage monstrosity called a gate off of my property and put up The Iron Maiden.”
There had been no missing the boring wall of metal bars as Elvin drove into the estate. Whoever contracted the job did competent work, but the design lacked the imagination and flair to do the estate justice, creating instead something better suited for the entranceway to a storage rental business.
“It takes more than a building and a dream to create what you’re asking me to do,” Bay said with unabashed regret. “As much as I’d love getting the job done right for you, I can’t. Probably not for some time yet. I don’t have the credit record to obtain adequate equipment, let alone purchase the material. Then there’s a matter of personnel.”
White gold and diamonds glittered and jingled as Madeleine waved away Bay’s excuses. “Some of what you need you’ll find already there. I had Elvin look into the situation. The rest, I’ll finance you. It’s all in that envelope. You keep record of everything else and we’ll work out a payment schedule later. As for staff, I have people who work the grounds, perhaps they can help until you find experienced staff. And don’t discount Elvin. He may be all thumbs for what you need, as well, but in a clinch, he’s the strongest thing on two feet.”
This was amazing, and impossible. Convinced the past could never be buried completely, Bay held tight to her angst. “Mrs. Ridgeway, you’ll never know—this means the world to me. But how can you, as brilliant a businesswoman as you are, take this kind of risk?”
“I’m not suggesting it will be easy. First and foremost I’ll worry dreadfully about you being out there day and night by your lonesome. I’d be happier if you stayed here with me. The place is like a giant mausoleum with my dear son Duncan constantly traveling.” The instant Bay started to protest again, Madeleine held up her hand. “I know better than to ask. So I’ll chew on carrot sticks to burn up frustration and chip my nails punching in your number on my phone.”
Dazed, Bay struggled to find new words of thanks. This marvelous woman was throwing her completely off balance with her generosity. “Why are you being so good to me? Don’t you realize this might hurt your reputation socially as well as—okay, I’ll say it. What about your position in the church?”
“Ho-ho. No one there had better utter a peep, not one word. Not if they dare call themselves Christians in my presence. As for our pastor, Martin Davis has been wholly supportive of my mission since I first discussed the matter with him.” Madeleine grasped Bay’s hands. “Stop fighting me. Yes, I can see you are. This is the least I can do for someone who’s been so wronged. I’ll never forgive myself for not doing more sooner.”
“The D.A. was intent on getting me convicted. It would have been double the nightmare if he’d injured you somehow in the process.”
“Then we must all put that terrible time behind us. Oh, I know you can’t get back the years you lost, but you can rebuild your life. I know. I did it twice, remember, first when I lost my darling father and again when dear Herman passed so prematurely.”
Bay nodded remembering the story she’d shared about how each had devastated her.
“If it wasn’t for my son,” Madeleine continued, “I wouldn’t have found the strength to go on. I can be that rock for you, dear. I admire you enormously, your talent, as well as your endurance.”
“Maybe you should wait for proof there’s enough of that endurance left to be worth your while.” At the moment Bay was feeling a shadow of her former self, vulnerable and unsure.
“You need to find your footing, that’s all. This is your opportunity.”
It sounded too good to be true and Bay had firsthand experience about that unwritten law. “What about Holly? Once she learns what you’ve done—”
“She knows.”
One more shock and Bay was going to have to sit down. Holly Kirkland was aware that Madeleine Ridgeway was sponsoring her? Glenn’s former fiancée would never accept her presence in Tyler, let alone being the recipient of such benevolence at the hands of this good soul. “Mrs. Ridgeway, with all due respect, you’re way off on your perceptions about her. This is going to—I’m afraid she’ll see this as a betrayal.”
“You’ll remember that aside from being a member of our church, Holly is an employee and, as a result, she has a firsthand comprehension of what our foundation is about. Of course, if you do experience any negative behavior—by her or anyone—I want you to report it to me immediately.”
Bay couldn’t do that any more than she would have run to Sergeant Draper for help. “I’ve always handled my own problems.”
“Admirable, but no one disrespects my wishes. There, there.” Embracing her again, Madeleine ran her hand over Bay’s back in slow circles as though calming a high-strung thoroughbred. “It’ll all work out, you’ll see.
“Now in this envelope are keys, phone numbers I felt you might need, a bit of cash and a checkbook with a modest deposit to get started. It’s not charity. I know you too well. We’ll take it off what you’ll bill me for the Maiden. You’ll also find the hours for church services in there.”
Bay handed back the padded envelope. “I don’t do church.”
“You have to attend, dear. I’ve talked you up to the entire congregation, and I should tell you that our membership contains some of the most influential people in the city and beyond. Why do you think there aren’t vans from either of the local networks parked outside my property right now? Don’t you realize that as soon as you got into my car back at Gatesville, they knew where you were going? In any case, seeing your sweet face and how some things turn out for the good will provide sustenance to our congregation’s faith.”
Bay thought that was the longest stretch in any rationale Madeleine could have tried on her. “I’m sorry if this disappoints you, Mrs. Ridgeway, but I’ve never been religious.” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to a service and guessed it was her mother’s funeral. Her father had been lucky she’d arranged for a graveside prayer for him.
“Madeleine,” her benefactress intoned. “How often am I going to have to tell you? Having witnessed your art and your courage, I consider you an equal. As for religion—”
A knock at the door stopped her. Releasing Bay, she stepped around her to greet the newcomer. “Martin. Your timing is divinely inspired. Help me assure your newest lamb that she’s as wanted as she is needed.”
Into the room stepped a short man with the merry eyes and chipmunk cheeks of a fairy-tale elf. Although his fifties-style pompadour barely reached Madeleine’s choker, he grasped her hand between both of his and bestowed a kiss to rival any gallant performance in a royal court. Before Bay could worry she was about to suffer the same greeting, he patted her hand. “Praise God for this day. Madeleine has worked tirelessly to bring you out of Satan’s den. Welcome, child. Welcome home to where you will be loved and nurtured.”
Somewhere on the south side of his fifth decade, the auburn lights in his lush hair suggested he used a stylist for more than a good cut and blow-dry. His summer-gray suit also spoke of attention to detail and complemented Madeleine’s silk suit. Accident or had they color-coordinated over the phone?
“Don’t be shy, dear,” Madeleine said. “Martin is as genuine as his smile. At our Christmas gala more children want to climb onto his lap than Santa’s.”
“Merely due to besting his girth, Maddie.”
Charming as the self-deprecation was, Pastor Davis could hardly hope to squeeze Saint Nick or the Pillsbury Doughboy out of a TV screen. He was simply, pleasantly plump.
“And you know better than to push,” he continued. To Bay he said, “We’ve always succeeded because we don’t pressure. Our message speaks for itself.”
Madeleine’s skepticism came out in a ladylike sniff. “If only I had half that success with some of the politicians in this city. The cold hard truth, Bay, dear, is that aside from the gift Martin’s sermons present, you need to understand that you’ll meet business contacts through your affiliation that wouldn’t necessarily be accessible to you elsewhere.”
Pressing a hand over his heart, Martin Davis groaned. “Maddie! How many times do I have to tell you that you’re my earthbound angel, not a networking guru?”
Bay held her breath wondering how her benefactress would take this, even gentle, scolding. Astonished, she listened to the older woman’s girlish laugh.
“You know me, Martin. I can’t just juggle two or four projects—lucky for you, too. In any case, it’s no fun if I don’t have to dodge a few bullets now and again.” To Bay she added, “You have to let me show you off. I expect you to sit beside me in the family pew, and ignore what Martin says. Modesty is his vice. He’ll be wounded if you’re not even slightly curious to hear how he’s become the rudder of the fastest-growing congregation in the Southwest.”
As Bay stood between the two, she knew she was trapped. Worse, she had no energy—correction confidence—yet to fight.
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