Fay moved a step closer, stalking her prey. “Why don’t you tell me something, while you’re at it. Just exactly who is this doing the loving here?”
Kirsten backed away, or tried to, but was halted by the pantry door.
“You’re hiding something. Ain’t you now. Tell me the truth. What is it you don’t want nobody to know?”
This was what she had been looking for, why she had entered the kitchen, a reason to say a permanent farewell. But nothing emerged around the choking force that clenched her throat. She could not understand it. Here was her departure ticket on a platter. The woman had declared open war. Fay was asking the question Marcus had not dared to utter, the one to which she would never give an answer. Never. All she had to do was what she wanted. Leave.
“From the outside you don’t look like nothing but successful. You’re white, you’re rich, you’re beautiful. But I seen past all that, child. I seen what’s the truth. Inside you ain’t nothing but a mess. Come on now. Let’s you and me just get to the bottom of this. Tell me what’s got you so tore up inside.”
The first either of the women knew of Marcus’ presence was the slamming of the refrigerator door. Wham.
Fury emanated from Marcus like a silent bellow. Kirsten had never imagined him capable of violence until this moment. What the old woman saw in his features backed her up a full yard and more.
Marcus said, “You’re going to leave now.”
Fay did her best to hold on to her own ire. “This girl here ain’t nothing but smoke.”
“Wrong. This lady is more than I ever deserved.”
Kirsten felt as defeated as she ever had in her entire life. The opportunity had been given, the excuse granted, the door opened. She shook her head. Impossible situations. Impossible moves.
“If you ever speak to her again like that …” The grip he took on his thoughts clenched his face like a fist. Marcus took a hard pair of breaths, then started from the kitchen.
“Marcus.” Fay’s features crumpled as she reached toward his departing back. “I got me a bad worry.”
He stopped, but did not turn back. “What.”
“My youngest grandson, he’s been caught taking a gun to school.” The old woman’s voice settled down one shattered octave. She angled her words toward Kirsten, offering the only apology she was capable of just then. “What is a seven-year-old child doing with a gun?”
“He’s being held downtown?”
“I ’spect.”
“What’s his name?”
“Jason.” Fay was no stranger to pain. But she had little experience with weeping. The tears she shed seemed to melt her eyes. “Don’t go telling Deacon. It’d break his heart. He thinks the world of that boy.”
“All right, Fay.” He was already stalking away. “I’ll have a word with the sheriff.”
Kirsten had no choice but to follow him down the hall. “Marcus. I have to talk with you.”
“Can it wait?”
“No.” She pointed to where the check lay in the crumpled envelope and described what had happened.
“New Horizons sent a goon over here to threaten you?”
“Netty knew his name.”
His secretary appeared in the doorway behind him. “Sephus Jones. You heard of him?”
“No.”
“Pull up enough rocks around here, you’ll come across him sooner or later.”
Marcus turned to her. “I’m sorry, Kirsten. For Fay, for this latest New Horizons mess.” He cast a dark glare back toward the kitchen. “I can’t understand what got into her.”
“I can.”
Marcus pushed through the front door and started down the stairs. Netty called after him, “Should I call New Horizons and say you’re stopping by?”
He stuffed the check in his pocket. “Don’t tell them a thing.”
CHAPTER 7
Marcus did not focus upon his surroundings until he started up the bend past Deacon Wilbur’s church. As he turned into the New Horizons campus he inspected the brick centerpiece with its brass nameplate. On his first visit two years earlier, Marcus had been chased off by two men armed with baseball bats and lawyer-eating pickups. The chipped corner where he had bounced his SUV when fleeing for his life had been carefully repaired, but the spot was still visible. Marcus slowed and took a few deep breaths. A frontal assault would get him nowhere but crippled.
He was uncertain how he felt about finding Amos Culpepper leaning against his patrol car in the New Horizons headquarters parking lot. Sheriff Amos Culpepper had appeared soon after Marcus had arrived in Rocky Mount, back when Marcus had been so desperate for trustworthy allies he could not have named the need, only the hunger.
The rangy sheriff had one metal-tipped boot propped on the bumper. Darren Wilbur, Deacon’s nephew and the sheriff’s newest deputy, was bent over the open trunk. Amos surveyed Marcus from behind mirror shades, his face an unreadable cop’s mask. When Marcus opened his door, he demanded, “We going to have trouble here today?”
“No.”
“You sure about that?”
“I’m just going to return a check.”
“Should’ve used the mail.” Amos stepped over in front of Marcus, blocking his way. He was two inches shy of Marcus’ height, but his stern demeanor and buff cowboy hat raised him up to a giant’s stature. “Last time you marched in there they cleaned your clock.”
When Marcus had taken on New Horizons, Amos Culpepper had saved both Marcus’ life and his home. They remained friends in the manner of two men who took their professions seriously, and knew there would always be the risk of them standing on opposite sides of the courtroom. “Did Kirsten call you?”
“Matter of fact, she did. Good thing we happened to be in the area.”
His deputy emerged from the trunk. Darren Wilbur was a huge man who covered a severe stutter with silence and muscles. The pump-action shotgun looked dwarfish in his hands. It was a riot model, with a snout of a barrel and a ten-shot clip built into the butt. Darren nodded a tight greeting as he fed in shells. “Afternoon, M-Marcus.”
“This is not happening.”
“Wrong again, sport.” Amos stepped closer, inserting himself firmly into Marcus’ space. “Are you absolutely certain you have a valid reason to be here?”
“I’ve been asked to represent their chairman.” He studied his reflection in Amos’ sunglasses, and saw a man distorted by a world of half-truths. “I was told it was strictly a personal matter. Then this morning they send a man around to my house. He accosted Kirsten in my own front yard, Amos. I’m fed up with being led around by the nose. I need to find out what’s happening.”
The sheriff radiated a professional disapproval. “Here’s how it’s going to play. We’re walking in there together. We’re going to find your man, we’re going to have a word, and then we’re turning around and walking out. Together the whole way. And you’re going to promise me this is the last time you ever set foot in this place.”
“I can’t do that.”
A trio of business executives passed them, the men in gray and the dark-suited woman carrying an artist’s oversized portfolio. They made round eyes at the sight of Darren, tall and dark as a latent volcano and armed with his buff-black weapon.
“It’d be right tempting to call you ten kinds of fool.” Amos extended his hand toward Darren. “The communicators working all right?”
In response, Darren handed his boss a walkie-talkie, then slipped another one into his pocket and threaded the earpiece up through his jacket. “Channel t-three.”