Author: Dale Wiley
Category: Thriller
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/dale-wiley/page,11,457982-southern_gothic.html
Michael sunk down deeper in the hot water. At least he passed the first test. He enjoyed the night before, and the passion had been better than he expected. He knew it had something to do with her intelligence and probably, as much as it hurt him to say it, with her maturity. As shiny as Quinn was, she could not have had the same experience Meredith had.
Of course, there had been others in between, but he never allowed himself to connect beyond the carnal. He indulged regularly, always when he visited a big city, always when he loaded the debit card and set himself up for a couple nights at a hotel. Originally, he would try to use the liaisons as a place to stay, but those situations led him into his stalking routine, which he found distasteful and a waste of time spent on those beneath him. Invariably, if he knew where they lived, curiosity would get the better of him, and he would wind up spending weeks on a woman who wasn’t worthy.
He developed his rules, and to his credit, he stuck to them. But living life at that level of interaction led him to start the full-on press with Meredith. Unlike the others, impressing her meant something. If all went according to plan, he could write the story he wanted with the companion who had eluded him for years.
It could all go wrong in the next few minutes. If she saw too much in what he had written or if she figured out the key he had hidden, it could be over—or even worse, she could turn him in. He had planned his escape route just in case. While he waited, he re-read Chandler’s classic. There were many worse ways to spend a tense moment.
RED RIBBON
Chapter Thirty
I waited until I knew she was well out of the room, and then I waited a little longer. When I opened my eyes, I saw she had almost closed the door. I looked outside and saw Catherine looking at me through the window. She looked at me with a mix of love and fear. I motioned her to stay quiet and threw on a pair of tennis shoes.
I walked softly to the door, holding my breath and praying it didn’t creak.
Outside, her eyes met mine. “You’ve got to go. I’ve tried to get to you and warn you,” Catherine whispered.
“I get it. I’m leaving now.”
She reached to my lips and kissed me softly. “One thing. Please make sure she’s not hurt.”
My eyes widened. That was not what I was expecting.
“She’s not one of them or, at least, not yet,” she said. “She doesn’t know it was not his fault.” She looked at me earnestly. “Don’t doom her.”
Maybe my look gave me away. I was so confused, but suddenly, a feeling came over me. An understanding. A dread and a fascinating calm. A shock beyond any revelation I had ever experienced. I tried to make sure I understood. I wondered if this would be the last time I saw her, if knowledge of this strangeness would take her away from me.
I looked at her. “Did they take you the other night? Did they hurt you?”
The look she gave me was full of pity as if I didn’t understand any of this.
“You can’t hurt a ghost.”
That word.
I understood. The scars. The strange manner of speaking. Her concern about this house. Her strange statements about the views. Of course you could see the river a hundred fifty years ago.
But her tortured eyes revealed that her words weren’t true, that she was again trying to keep me safe as if her pain didn’t matter. I closed my eyes for the briefest moment, trying to process all of this. When I looked back, wanting desperately to kiss her again, she was gone.
Then Leah started screaming.
Chapter 30
Michael felt restless. He knew it would take her a reasonable time to finish the book, but he genuinely wanted to hear what she thought. He wasn’t used to being in houses this long anymore. He knew he couldn’t return to her carriage house, his hiding place of the last six weeks.
Excuse me, Meredith. I’d like to go back to hiding in the corner where you clearly should have seen me every time you pulled into your garage.
That would be strange—even to him.
Excuse me. Are you aware every time you leave, I go in and rummage through your panty drawer and sniff every bit of your dirty laundry? I picked this week because you’re about to go on your period, and I knew you would be extra sexual and emotional?
There were no dowagers hiding him out in Europe. He had never left the states, figuring he would get caught going through international security. His identities had been established long before Quinn became so clingy and unrealistic. He wasn’t going to marry her, but she wouldn’t shut up about it. She grew angrier and angrier, and when she came home with a pregnancy test, well, he couldn’t take it. He knew he might eventually need good papers. His friends all told him she was too young and didn’t understand how the world worked. But he would smile and think of her ass shining in the air. He told them a twenty-two-year-old girl was like puppy’s breath. There just wasn’t anything better.
But oh, she was an idiot, and he couldn’t stand her hanging around anymore, nagging him. She had planned to trap him, but he had more brains. He lured her out by asking her to go on a drive with him so they could talk, and he did what he had to. The escape was easy. He paid a fortune to spend three months on a Montana ranch, letting his hair grow long, wearing sunglasses, and camping. He did miss one thing though: being recognized as the master he was. He missed being Michael Black. He missed the publicity, the book signings, and the awards banquets. He missed getting blowjobs from suburban housewives in bookstore bathrooms.
He had hidden money in five different places—some investments hidden in shells and some accounts. The investments had proven to be winners. Thank God he had also opened up a bank account in the name of one of his characters before regulations nearly made it impossible to open up new accounts without ten different photo IDs and seventeen credit cards. He had nursed the relationship at the small bank in south Texas to the point everyone—caretaker to president—knew him as Jim Andrews. He could go there any time without fear of being found out.
He communicated with his confidants once a year and let them know he was okay. He did this cryptically, of course, but it worked just the same.
After six months on the lam, he fell out of national memory. Writers, other than maybe Mr. King and Ms. Rowling, have a short shelf life. They didn’t warrant exposure on TV. If they wanted to drop off the scene and disappear, so be it. Even if they had a crazy family trailing them, thinking they had killed a woman.
The isolation made him itch and his skin burn. Then six months ago he read the article about Meredith’s store and came up with the plan to bring her back in his life. He admitted to himself he had moved further and further from social norms, although his behavior back when she first wrote him was weird enough; he was just much better at letting it go unnoticed.
RED RIBBON
Chapter Thirty-One
I walked inside and could hear Leah above. Her voice spewed anger and confusion.
“It’s not what you think,” I said, wanting to calm the situation down.
“What I think? I think I have an unfaithful husband who also conspires with the general!”
I sighed deeply. “The general?”
“You know what I mean.”
I still couldn’t see her. It sounded like she was rummaging around for something. I certainly wasn’t going to rush up there until I knew what I was facing. “Leah?”
The dead silence chilled me.
“Leah?”
I heard her walk closer to the downstairs. The floorboards still creaked as she approached.
“Leah?”
The creaks headed in my direction. She breathed audibly but no answer.
Step.
Creak.
“What’s wrong?”
Step.
Creak.
She finally spoke. “You violated our wedding bed.”
Step.
Creak.
“With a woman of a scarlet reputation”
Step.
Creak.
“You creat
ed this,” she said, with death in a voice that seemed to be coming from someone else.
Step.
Creak.
I could see her now. Her eyes were black and unknowable. She scowled and nearly spit the hatred at me. She held the same knife she had danced with in her hand. She held it differently, more expertly. She took each step slowly and deliberately.
“What do you say to these charges?”
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do. I was foolishly standing at the landing, but I didn’t move when she made her move, jumping the final half-dozen steps in the hopes of knifing me then and there.
I had enough presence of mind to move slightly and focus on the knife. I was able to fend off the main blow, but it still cut my finger deeply, and I began to bleed. I could hear her banshee screams, and the knife skid away to the corner. She leaped toward it, and I tried to follow.
It was something about the blood. As I felt the sting of the cut and saw my blood—how dare she shed my blood!—my calm left me. My reason left me. This woman had robbed me of my hope, then let me believe a sliver of it was returning, only to bring me down yet again. She raced toward the knife, but she was no match for me. I ran after her and pushed her to the ground. I saw everything. And I was enraged. I grabbed the knife and stabbed her—again and again. I welcomed her cries. I welcomed her blood. It was going to end like this—her or me. And after a year of sacrificing my life for hers, I had had enough.
“No more,” I said.
She struggled, and I heard the wet attempt at breath. I could feel the blood under us and rolled off of her. The knife stuck out of her ribcage. It was in deep. I couldn’t pull it out.
And then it was gone. My rage was gone, and regret smothered me completely. She coughed and wheezed loudly, struggling for life. She looked at me with horror and tried to speak, but I put a finger to her lips. I think she was Leah then. My Leah. I think I was back to being me, and I wanted to throw up. 9-1-1 wouldn’t save her. She was going to die unless her ghosts could save her. I knew they couldn’t; they couldn’t save themselves. I looked at her tenderly, thinking about my beautiful wife. My bride and joy. I couldn’t imagine her pain being any greater than mine.
I kneeled by her. “Do you need anything?”
She shook her head. She knew.
Chapter 31
Despite his ability to write about normal men and women, he was clearly not one of them. His ideal relationship amounted to a bookstore blowjob. All the release, excitement, fear of being caught, none of the having to listen to her later.
About a month and a half ago, he went to Meredith’s store every day for a week, even buying a couple of books. He didn’t worry about anyone noticing him; he looked radically different than he had in his previous life. He knew the address of her house, and he came by daily, just on a stroll, knowing it would eventually lead to more. He bribed a shady locksmith and had a key made. Then he moved into her carriage house. It was big enough for what he needed, and he had enough experience watching people to know how to quietly take up space in a way they wouldn’t notice. Meredith’s place had been easy; her space was detached, and she never kept the light on. It felt nearly like a regular house after he feathered his nest.
He loved getting close enough to feel the women he stalked—see them, smell them, taste them—all without them knowing he did so. It was a different type of intrusion, a different type of joining of two lives. He didn’t have to tell them anything. He achieved intimacy without having to share it.
He actually preferred a dank post to being inside her house. He felt exhausted from having to constantly put on a show.
Michael wondered if something was wrong. Meredith was taking an excruciatingly long time. Maybe she wasn’t even there. Maybe she had run to the police and told them the murderer of Quinn Yancey stayed at her house. Maybe he should look out the window and see if they were there.
He tried to refocus on the book. But his eyes slid off the page. Quinn could speak to Meredith through the manuscript. She was planning for his trial. He could feel those cold chains on his wrists as they walked him down the hallway to death row, the prison uniform sagging on his body.
Then Meredith walked in.
The water felt lukewarm, and he’d been in the tub so long his whole body had turned into a prune. She didn’t seem to notice; her eyes wouldn’t focus on him. She sat down on the floor beside the tub and finally looked at him.
“Is The Shoals a real place?”
He nodded. “It’s closer to Augusta than Atlanta.”
“So you changed that. Why?”
He shrugged. “Great little details about the general. Worth putting in.”
She bit her lip.
He could tell she wanted to be diplomatic, and he promised himself to play it cool, even though his heart pounded in his chest.
“If I go there, say tomorrow, am I going to find any ...”
“Surprises?” he laughed.
“Surprises. That’s a good word.” She watched him intently.
He could do this. “Darling, if we get in the car and drive up to The Shoals, you won’t find anything buried there. I just felt it needed some real detail to bring everything together.”
She looked skeptical. “Then why use a real place?”
Michael had practiced this next expression. It needed to appear mirthful. It helped that, as ridiculous as it was, it was also true. “I know the guy who owns the place. He’s an asshole. I want him to have to deal with all the crowds.” He gave her his best Cheshire cat grin.
She laughed. She needed this to work.
They both knew she couldn’t let this opportunity go.
She looked at her watch. A good portion of Saturday had already slipped away, and Georgia would be kicking off soon at 3 p.m. “Want to watch some football with me, then ravage me again, and then plan for a road trip?”
Michael smiled like a benevolent king, the pieces of his plan falling into place. “Go Dawgs,” he said, “as much as it pains a South Carolinian to say so.”
Red Ribbon
Chapter Thirty-Two
Oh, dear, God. What did I do? What terrible, soul-killing thing had I done? Everything was covered in blood, and her body had gone limp and heavy. I laid her body down in the hall and set off in search of matches and gasoline. But I thought of our year there and selfishly couldn’t do that. That wouldn’t hide my crime, only bring more attention to it.
Selfishly. That’s a funny word. Everything I did that night was selfish.
I picked up her body and carried it out the front door. It was awkward in my arms, and death seemed to make it heavier. I ended up dragging her. To my left, I saw some pine trees with an opening. My muscles ached as I laid her down in the pine needles. The moon was full, and I could see everything.
I looked at her. Her eyes were open, and the spirits no longer held her body. Her beautiful face, with those clear, intense eyes, stared towards eternity. Her slack mouth told me I did it. I knew I would bury her face down.
I went back to the house and grabbed a shovel. I heard a mournful cry in the distance. Some might have thought it was coyotes, but I knew. It was Catherine. I disobeyed her. I certainly disappointed her. It deflated me and weighed me down even more.
I found the spot and stared at my wife’s lifeless face. Her eyes had held such joy—and such terror. I looked at her cheekbones, her lips, and her hair framing her face. Then I remembered that sound she made just before she died—the wet, sickly sound that was her breathing in her death. I leaned over and vomited into the bushes.
I dug all night, my head still pounding from the shovel days before. Just as the sun rose, I came to a spot I knew I would eventually hit. My shovel discarded another mound of dirt. I was bone-tired, so I wasn’t moving as fast as I had earlier, and the dirt seemed to slide down the trowel. For some reason, I watched and then saw it—a silky red ribbon, one I had seen Catherine wear so many times. I held it in my hands, not knowing what el
se I could take—confirmation, warning, revelation ... all of it—in this dark and horrible night. Just when I thought there was nothing else, I saw an old letter, folded multiple times. I couldn’t believe it had survived all these years, but it had been underneath a large flint rock, which must have covered it well enough to keep it from deteriorating. The letter was covered in blood, dried and very old. I knew what it was ... or thought I did. The sun had now given me enough light to read it.
Dear General Kilpatrick:
I fear my letters have been compromised after the disappearance of the Morris girl, who had been quite felicitous in delivering them for me. This, therefore, shall be my last. Please note you must take all appropriate precautions as I was not able to make the special ink that I have on previous occasions.
Last night, my husband was again boasting about the designs the turncoats have on your life, again referring to the “Dahlgren-Kilpatrick” affair, laughing at your designs on Richmond. The traitors are your men. This is not a Southern plot. They intend to send some soldiers you do not know Friday next, and among those men, there is one who is skilled in the art of poison. Beyond this, I know nothing, but I do not wish to see ill come to you.
I fear my husband believes I am being unfaithful to him. Of course, I am not, but I could understand his logic. My husband was my rock, and even though he too has become a monster (like so many in this war), and even though I now feel I don’t even know him, I cannot do anything to bring dishonor to him. Therefore, I shall leave this missive at The Shoals, and I shall not correspond further.
I hope this letter finds you well. I pray you may stay that way.
Your obedient servant,
Catherine Vaughan
I buried my head in my hands. Catherine had not been having an affair; she had been trying to save General Kilpatrick. That was her connection to The Shoals; she was trying to complete the task life had not allowed.