Stand By Your Man

Chapter Fourteen

Greensboro was sleeping peacefully when I arrived back in town. I drove up Friendly Avenue, pacing myself to ride right through a string of green lights, winding around and turning onto Mendenhall, then slipping down the alley to my bungalow. There was no way I could stay there, but I needed enough clothes to last through the next few days. I could've kicked myself for not packing when I'd had the opportunity, but I'd been in too much of a hurry to get Sheila out of town and myself away from Carlucci.

I found myself flashing to the image of Carlucci, standing in my doorway, gun in hand, ready to take on the unseen threat to Vernell's family. I thought of the way he'd handled Sheila, easing her out of town, making her part of the solution, not another teenaged problem. And then I thought of him in a completely different manner. He was strong and attractive in a very different way from Marshall. Tony was there, in your face and ready. Marshall was more cautious, more reserved. I shook myself.

"Stop it," I whispered. "This ain't no time for thinking about men." After all, it was better to be called foolish than to be called unprepared. I had to be ready. By the time I reached my street, I was all business.

The lights were all out, and there was no sign of Tony Carlucci. "Probably found a hole to crawl into somewhere," I muttered. But to be on the safe side, I parked at the far end of the alley and crept back. I walked around the back of the house, peering in the windows before I remembered we'd closed all the curtains and shades. There was nothing for it but to go inside.

I slipped the key into the back door lock, turned it, and entered into my bedroom, pausing for a moment as the light from the alleyway shone in across my bed. Nothing. No Carlucci. I breathed a sigh of relief, closed the door, and crossed the room headed for the tiny blinking red light of the answering machine. "The key is not to turn on any lights," I whispered.

I hit the play button and settled in to listen to the messages. There were at least four hang-ups, followed by Terrance Griswald, the manager at the Mobile Home Kingdom.

"Hey, Ms. Reid, listen, this here's Terry. Some of the guys are getting a little restless about their paychecks. I done like you said and had Becca make checks out for the ones that needed 'em, but the others are mouthin' off about it now." Great, I thought, what else? "Maybe you could get the bank to swing us a loan or something. Hey, the owner of VanScoy's Mobile Homes, Archer VanScoy, called again, too. Says Vernell was talking to him about selling, so now he wants to talk to you on account of he wants to buy us out. Is that true? Give me a call." The line went dead and I waited for the next message.

"Ms. Reid," a tired, female voice said, "it's Bess King. You're right, we gotta talk. The, um, funeral's tomorrow at eleven. The Holy Vine United Methodist Church, out on High Point Road. The family's gonna gather after that at my place. I'll just try to find a time. I don't know how, with everyone up under me, but we've got to talk." She hung up then and I sat on the edge of the bed, listening.

Three more hang-ups and then a hushed voice began to speak.

"Baby, izzat you? Come on now, honey, pick up. Maggie, pick up the damn phone, it's almost midnight. I know you're there!"

Vernell Spivey, alive and knee-walking drunk from the sounds of it. I looked at the red numbers on the digital clock. He'd called less than two hours ago.

"Oh hell, honey," he said, "I'm in deep dirt now. Maggie, come on, baby, talk to me." There was silence and then a loud clatter as Vernell tried to put the receiver back on the stand. In the background I could hear the whine of country music but nothing else. Where the hell was he?

"There are no more messages," my machine said.

"Figures," I said back.

I stood up and made my way over to the walk-in closet that stood in the tiny space between my bedroom and the kitchen. I stepped inside, pulled the door shut after me, and reached for the light switch.

"This is stupid. Vernell Spivey, you three-legged dog, why are you such a total idiot? After all this time, here I am, still at the mercy of your stupidity. I thought I'd come further, but a woman forced to pack up her belongings in the dead of night, with the closet door shut, can't have come too far."

I pulled a black sequined shirt off its hanger and stuffed it in a brown paper sack. The trouble with my closet was it took the spillover from all the junk that didn't fit in the kitchen. So there were shopping bags and cookie cutters jammed in next to cowgirl boots and fancy belts.

I grabbed a black broomstick skirt, and was just fingering a belt with a huge silver buckle when the lights went out.

"Carlucci," I yelled, "that's enough!"

I whipped around. The huge shape filled the doorway. I stepped right up to him and shoved as hard as I could, and that's when I realized it wasn't Carlucci. The man shoved me hard against the back wall of the closet, up against the shoe rack, then stepped up to me, grabbing my shoulders and slamming me into the wall again.

I screamed and tried to kick, but I couldn't get enough leverage to push off and lash out. His breath smelled of garlic and stale alcohol.

"Shut up," he said, his voice cold and even. In the dark I heard a tiny click, and then felt the needle-sharp point of a knife touch my neck.

"Where is he?" the voice asked. He had me pinned with one beefy arm, his hand pressed to my chest, the fingers curving in a claw at my neck. The knifepoint jabbed a little harder, and I knew he'd cut me.

"I don't know!"

He wasn't satisfied. The knife moved a little down my neck, biting into my skin, scratching a thin line as it cut.

"Then I guess I'll have to leave him a message," he said. "This'll hurt you a lot more than it'll hurt me." He laughed softly.

His fingers curled around the neck of my shirt, ripping the buttons as he tore it open. My hand tightened around the big belt buckle in my hand, and I brought it up, smashing it into his face with every ounce of strength I could find. He howled, pulled back briefly, and I tried to duck under him. He grabbed for me, then seemed to fall backward.

"Get off her!"

My attacker, surprised from behind, turned away from me, lunging out of the closet, his attention turned toward the new arrival.

"He's got a knife," I screamed.

"Get out of the way, Maggie!" Carlucci's voice thundered through the darkness. My attacker roared and jumped forward. All I could see was a tangled blur of black forms, wrestling. Then there was the sharp retort of a gun, echoing in the tiny space, muffled somewhat by the body in front of it.

There was complete silence. When the lights came on in the kitchen, Tony Carlucci stood over the still form of a man I'd never seen before. Tall, thickset, and balding, with short black hair, and a gunshot wound that was quickly turning his chest red and his face a pasty gray color.

"Call nine-one-one," Tony said, his voice dull and removed.

Within five minutes my house was a sea of black uniforms and guns, all standing over the body of one very dead man. Tony still leaned against the wall of the kitchen, but his gun was in a clean, plastic evidence bag.

In the minutes between my call to the police and their arrival, after we knew for sure that Tony had killed my attacker, he'd only said one thing to me:

"See what happens when you think you know better than everybody else?"

I wanted to think he meant the words for the intruder, but he didn't. I was wrong. I should've stayed away.

Marshall Weathers arrived about thirty minutes into the process. He stepped across the threshold of the back door, his eyes searching for me, then turning to the scene. He moved across the room, nodding to the other officers, listening to the squawk of the walkie-talkie he held close to his ear. He'd changed from camouflage to jeans, his shield clipped to his waistband, along with his gun.

"Are you all right?" he asked. There was no hint of how he felt about me in those words, and at that point, I really wasn't looking for one. His hand reached out, involuntarily, to touch the thin line of blood that ran along my neck. "He do that?" he asked, his jaw muscle twitching.

"Yes."

"Okay." He turned away, studied Carlucci for a moment, and then looked back at me. "I'm gonna have to catch this call, it's mine and it'll take half the night doing the paperwork. Where are you staying?" It was obvious to both of us that I wouldn't be staying at my place.

"I guess with Jack." The jaw muscle twitched again, but I didn't hear him offer to take me back to the sanctuary of the Blessed Saint Wanda. I was out of options, and Jack was the only person I could think to turn to.

"All right, I'll get up with you in the morning then." He looked at the officer in charge. "We have your preliminary statement. I'll probably have a few questions."

Carlucci watched us now, his face still a neutral mask of resignation and indifference. As if he felt Carlucci, Weathers turned and walked toward him, his hand extended.

"Detective Weathers," he said. "Let's go on downtown and sort this out."

Carlucci pushed off the wall and stood looking at Weathers, his legs slightly apart, like a boxer, on his toes, waiting for a thrown punch. He was a good three or four inches taller than Marshall, and probably outweighed him by fifty pounds, but Marshall was all coiled strength and readiness. Neither man looked away. Carlucci's eyes were hooded, black pools that studied Weathers as if he were considering the invitation.

"All right," he said, finally, "let's get this over with."

He turned and walked toward the back door, with Marshall following him. Both men left without turning around, leaving me in a kitchen filled with the coppery scent of death.