Author: Dale Wiley
Category: Thriller
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/dale-wiley/page,12,457982-southern_gothic.html
She was just a couple hundred yards from delivering the message. I could see her, bravely climbing the hill, one last task before her conscience would let her rest. And there before her was a dead-eyed northern soldier, who cut her off, knowing her intentions. She kneeled, shaking, trembling, praying for mercy from a traitorous soldier, who would lose his life that night too although they would find his body months later and still upright. He ran his sword through her and threw her in a shallow grave, burying the last note with her.
I was glad the letter existed, and I took it with me as I returned to the house for the final time. I spread it out and put it on the kitchen table, hoping it would be understood and maybe help free Catherine from her eternal delivery.
I knew I wouldn’t be around. I stood and marveled at how much blood had flown from Leah, how clear it was what had happened. I left that place, looking around as if I expected the posse to already be on the way, and went back into the forest. I know they’ll find me eventually. May God have mercy on my soul.
Chapter 32
Dear Michael:
I feel like a girl getting ready for prom.
When I started writing, I didn’t think about the bestseller lists. I just thought of the feeling of walking into a bookstore and seeing my title up there on the shelf. Don’t get me wrong, I have plenty of pride in Southern Gothic and what the store has become, but there’s something about seeing my name there. It probably doesn’t seem like a big deal to you. But to me, it means everything.
These weeks of mystery and surprise and romance have been the nicest of my adult life. I appreciate your honesty and humor and the way you look at me. You have made me feel like every day is prom and every night is a promise. I am so excited to ride up to see this magical place, to feel the setting, to understand the land. I can’t wait. I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep.
You’re out on your walk, soaking in the sights and sounds of my town. I’d like for it to become yours. When we return, if you want to move in, under your conditions (given your peculiar circumstances), you’re invited. I want to share more of our lives. I hope you’ll take me up on this. It is not easy to offer. Lance made me wary about how lame most relationships become. You have already restored my faith in men. Thank you for that.
Yours,
M
RED RIBBON
Epilogue
The greatest thing for a fugitive in Georgia is the number of tree-covered acres. Not the occasional shade tree, but heavily wooded, Lewis and Clark-type acreage. We were so secluded already; I figured it would take at least a week before anyone came looking. I thought about getting in the car, driving south to Key West, and seeing how long I could make it there, bar tending or doing some such thing, but that wouldn’t work. I still held out for a visit from Catherine, a haunting from Leah, something to connect me to the bright past I chose to leave behind. No, I was here for the duration, another haunted soul to join the ghosts.
I found a cave so far back in the woods I was pretty sure snakes couldn’t find it. It was cool in the day and warm at night, and I thought I could make it through the winter. I like being close to the deeds I did. I have been here ever since, spending my days replaying that endless string of what-ifs and my nights hearing those haunting sounds, the ones they describe in books. Now I understand. Someday I will be one of them. These are the tortured souls who ventured too far, who chose to live in the shroud of mystery, for whom one life wasn’t enough. Sometimes they visit and sit with me a while, and some, like Catherine, can only be heard in the distance. She’s mad at me, and I understand why. I couldn’t follow her one request.
I don’t know if ghosts move on or if their torment is eternal. I chose her. I didn’t kill for her, but everyone would think I did. And now she hides from me. I chose to spend eternity with her even if I have to wait. Even if my punishment for my misdeeds is eternal separation.
I can hear Leah too. Her cries are more tortured, and I want to tear my ears out when I hear her. My guilt is unrelenting. My remorse is complete. Sometimes I hear her talking and arguing with someone, sometimes a man, sometimes a woman. I fear Leah’s anger, and yet, I deserve it. Leah made it hard to love her, but I made a vow, and I betrayed that vow in more ways than any man I know.
There are times I dream of forgiveness, for the soft touch of grace, or for some sort of mercy that rises above all of this. But I don’t think I could live outside of the prison I’ve built for myself, one where the past is all that matters, where the souls you’ve touched are close enough to be constant reminders.
If I am ever found, they will have to acquit me in court because I’m sure they’d find me insane. I know I could walk into any sheriff’s office, tell my tale, and live out my days in the relative comfort of the loony bin because the truth is just too crazy for anyone to genuinely believe. I know I wouldn’t have believed it before I landed in the middle of it.
But I can’t leave this place. If they find me, they’ll have to kill me. Because I’m waiting for her. I want to feel her touch my lips and peer into my soul. I don’t know if I’m ever going to get the chance until I become one of them, haunted in death the way I am in life. I know that’s where I’m heading.
As of now, that’s all I’m really waiting for.
PART II
Purgatory
“If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.”
—Henry David Thoreau
Chapter 33
Broderick Yancey hadn’t started out this way. His business had been highly successful. He married a beautiful woman and had three fantastic kids. All of them went to good schools. Patrick graduated at the top of his class at the University of the South in Sewanee, Randall aced medical school at Chapel Hill, and his lovely Quinn was all set to spend her last year at Emory and then move on to her lifelong dream of working on Capitol Hill.
Then that man came. That narcissistic bastard. That wife-deserting, party-throwing, affected author bastard. Quinn didn’t stand a chance. Michael Black, who could have picked on someone his own size, would instead come over and eat holiday meals with them, shake Broderick’s hand, and pretend it wasn’t strange to date a college girl twenty-five years his junior.
He warned her. He didn’t want to dictate his daughter’s life. But something about the man wasn’t right. He saw it from a mile away. And it hadn’t done a damn bit of good.
She called that Saturday night and told him she was meeting Michael. Broderick had to be both parents to little Quinn since his wife died of breast cancer seven years earlier, and in moments like that one, he missed her the most. She would have known what to say. She could have made it better. Maybe she could have stopped Quinn from making such a foolish mistake. Instead, he caved and told her to call him the next morning. The call never came.
They never found any evidence, but a father knows the truth in his soul—at least one body was buried somewhere in Georgia. If he needed more proof, Michael’s disappearance said it all. He hoped Michael still walked this earth so he could kill him with his own hands. He wouldn’t hesitate. He knew his sons would do the same if they were given the chance.
Michael Black—and Quinn’s “disappearance”—had turned Broderick into a tense and angry man. He tried to play golf, meet his friends for drinks, and focus on his work, but his mind always returned to the black chasm of his daughter’s disappearance. What had that man put her through? What were her last words, her last thoughts before he squeezed the life out of her?
The emergence of Michael Black’s star pupil into the national spotlight poured salt on his wounds. The entire country raved about Meredith Harper’s book. Every article and every newscast made note of her close connection to Michael Black. He couldn’t stand it.
Flipping through the morning news shows, he switched the channel to MSNBC, and there she sat again, being interviewed by Candice Mackenzie, talking
about Michael’s influence on her as a writer. Dammit. He knew Michael Black was still alive, knew he lurked out there somewhere. Call it a father’s intuition.
He took out his Michael Black file and made some notes. It had been a long time since he’d visited Savannah.
Chapter 34
Meredith had made the trip to The Shoals with Michael. He had described the old plantation remarkably well in Red Ribbon. Although they couldn’t go in because someone lived there, Meredith measured out the steps to the graves in the book and, to her great happiness, found nothing that looked remotely like a burial spot. Michael rolled his eyes through the entire trip. He acted insulted by the insinuation, but he was a good sport about it. She floated back to Savannah amid publishing fantasies.
After Michael got over his hurt feelings, he gave her the game plan. He had wanted to send her to his agent, Lisa Haglund, but decided it would be too obvious. And besides, she knew him too well. They settled on Allen Mattson, a young, up-and-coming agent known for representing debut authors with blockbuster potential. Michael helped her write the query letter. He concocted a story involving Meredith’s involvement with Michael before his disappearance. It worked. Allen secured an advance of $250,000 by setting up a bidding war between rival publishers. In the end, Gandolfo-Griffie, former home of Michael’s novels, won. Publicists played up her connection with Michael, the famous author who disappeared under mysterious circumstances, and as Labor Day rolled around—almost a year after Meredith’s first encounter with Michael—Red Ribbon was poised to launch as a bestseller.
She got to see Michael occasionally. They had tried to set up a somewhat normal living arrangement, but it hadn’t worked for either of them. She was used to living alone, and Michael was going crazy having to stay in one place. Sometimes she went weeks without hearing from him, almost long enough to convince her he wasn’t coming back. In those times, Meredith missed him. She missed his body—his lovemaking had a manic energy she found irresistible—and she missed talking with him about books, those she’d read, their own novel, and the whole publication process.
When the critics declared Red Ribbon a book worthy of award consideration, it was a fait accompli. Her book—it had her plot after all—was going to be huge. Allen had even started talking to film scouts. The whole experience didn’t seem real.
Her publicist booked her on Charlie Rose and All Things Considered. Vanity Fair asked to do a spread about the bookstore and her novel. More and more, book-related commitments pulled her away from the day-to-day running of Southern Gothic, so she gave Nate a five percent stake. As the day moved closer to do the official first book signing—at her store, of course—she was practically floating.
Of course, in Meredith’s mind, everything reminded her the story was hers, but the rest of the book was not. All she heard circled around the ease of the prose and the stately setting. As long as this book proved the only source of her fame, Meredith would never be able to outrun Michael’s involvement.
She scheduled the signing for the afternoon—plenty of time for the Georgia churchgoers to finish services and brunch. She slept late, and then took a long, relaxing bath before getting ready for her debut. She thought about wearing something formal, a dress with heels, but then decided last minute to go with jeans and a blouse. She didn’t have to dress up for these people. They knew her.
She got a text from her agent.
Allen: Sorry. Had a family emergency. Can’t make it
Meredith: Oh no!
Allen: You go sell some books. We’ll have plenty of time for celebration later.
Not even Allen’s absence could get her down today. She jumped in her car to head to brunch at the Funky Brunch Cafe, not far from her store on Broughton Street, when she thought of something. She hadn’t left her driveway yet, so she threw the car in park, got out, and came around to the passenger side. She expected people to bring flowers and gifts, and she thought it would make sense to bring a couple of extra boxes.
Meredith flipped on the overhead light and started humming “A Case of You,” the Joni Mitchell song running through her head. She saw several boxes she had brought from the store in the back corner. She looked up at the naked light bulb and thought she needed to work on this place—it felt a bit creepy.
She decided two big boxes would do the trick. She grabbed one and tossed it towards the car. Then she reached for the second.
She noticed the smell first, a warm blast of alcohol—the way her grandpa smelled after returning from “going outside” as he called it. She looked behind the box and froze. There, on the ground in front of her, a man slept, breathing in a labored manner. She wanted to turn and scream, but she felt pretty sure he hadn’t sensed her presence. Her breaths grew shallow, and the blood rushed through her ears.
She heard a loud pop above her and couldn’t help but gasp. She bent so far forward, studying the scene, she nearly fell right on top of him. The man didn’t even stir. She realized the aluminum roof was just expanding and calmed herself.
By then, she had a sinking suspicion. Oh, don’t let it be true. The man had his hand across his face, probably protecting himself from sunlight, but the jacket gave him away. Her lover, her hero, the man who inspired her was stone-cold passed out just feet from her bed, where she would have welcomed him with kisses and the gift of her body. She wanted to make this something explainable—maybe he had drunk too much and couldn’t make it inside. But when she widened her gaze, she saw the extent of his nest: a sleeping bag, dog-eared paperbacks from her library, a Mag flashlight, a bottle of Absinthe—and a man in such an altered state her appearance and bumbling hadn’t even stirred him. He was used to sleeping there.
Meredith, no longer afraid he would stir, sat on the floor and tried to breathe around the awful stench. Who the hell was she dealing with?
There would be no time for brunch. She had to start over, fixing her face for this momentous day—with the knowledge her hero was nothing like what she had convinced herself to believe.
Chapter 35
The scene at the store could fulfill any author’s dream. Although she had imagined this moment her entire life, her stomach rebelled. She felt woozy and uninterested.
She plastered a smile and surveyed her surroundings. The crowd had spilled outside, and the atmosphere felt more like a football game or rock concert than a book signing. The women still wore their church hats, and the men had dressed smartly in blazers and loafers. And of course, her friends were already there. Terrie and Jennifer served punch and poured wine, and Lisa walked around with cocktail shrimp. The place buzzed with excitement.
But she couldn’t get him out of her head. Before she left for the store, she tried one more time to wake the bastard up, but he didn’t so much as crack an eyelid. He obviously hadn’t showered in who knows how long. Christ, he’d probably been pissing in there, too. How could she not take it personally? The jackass preferred sleeping in a dank nest to her bed.
She immediately accepted the red wine Nate handed her and had her second glass almost before he walked away. After downing her third, her nerves returned to some semblance of normalcy.
Since she had made the bargain with him, she had cut her life into small pieces. Now she needed that skill just to make it through this party. She had stifled the scary part because he fed her the dreams she so desperately wanted.
Meredith realized she really didn’t know much about Michael’s past. Could some bad series of events have brought him to this point? Mental illness? Alcohol? There must be a logical explanation.
She tried to shake her mind from such things. She needed to soak up the joy of this moment. She needed to be present.
Meredith thought about people who got swept up, whose lives got out of control. When did Monica Lewinsky know her life was ruined? What was the exact moment? When did Nixon know he was going down? They had to keep the mask on, keep moving forward. Meredith now had no idea what she did and didn’t know. When her hairdresser asked her to
sign a book, she thought she might burst into tears.
Chapter 36
In the middle of the first group of hopeful fans, many of whom seemed to frequent the bookstore, stood Broderick Yancey. He had come to buy the book, scan it for clues, and help him in his search. He also came to meet Meredith.
He hoped Michael Black would show. For years, he had stared at his picture, willing it to speak. Sometimes he felt more familiar with him than his own children. He peered around the room. He knew Michael was too smart to show up, but it didn’t hurt to keep an eye out.
He arrived early enough to browse the bookstore uninterrupted. He took in the bookshelves, the posters, the signs, the café. By the looks of it, Meredith had gotten carried away with hero worship, not just of Michael, but of so many others.
Broderick occasionally read, maybe once or twice a year, but he didn’t understand this adulation of the written word. Perhaps he judged too much because the book fetish led many people to protect his daughter’s abductor. Even on the message boards to this day, people continued to respect Michael because he could write well.
Meredith sat down at the signing table by the bakery, huge stacks of books piled on either side of her. Her assistant handed her a pen and a glass of wine. Despite himself, Broderick liked her. She had an effortless beauty. He noticed she was a little more reserved at first but then seemed to ease into the role of local celebrity. She touched people when they talked to her, gently emphasizing her words and making them feel comfortable. She met their eyes and smiled with hers.