Author: Dale Wiley
Category: Thriller
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/dale-wiley/page,19,457982-southern_gothic.html
How frantic and foolish she looked yet again. She drew the blackout blinds and climbed into the starched, white sheets. Sleep came quickly. A black, dreamless sleep.
Chapter 75
Meredith slept for ten hours. When she woke from her coma-like state, she reached for her phone on the bedside table. Twelve missed calls. All from Allen. This couldn’t be good.
She dialed him, and he picked up immediately.
“Thank God,” he said. “You’re okay.” He exhaled like a nervous parent, his voice heavy with relief.
“I’m fine. Why do you ask?”
“Because of the book. Oh, and thanks, by the way, for sending it 1992 style in paper form with no disc. Break out the Day-Glo and turn up the Arrested Development.
“About that. I spilled coffee on my copy. Can you scan me one?”
“Well, that’s how we had to deliver it to the publisher, so I guess we can do it for you,” he said, still a little edge in his voice.
He normally didn’t act this jolly. It seemed almost too much.
“What did you think?”
“Obviously, I haven’t been able to read every page, but it’s pretty great. Super ballsy. I’ve never heard of an author putting her own suicide in a book, though.”
He continued talking, but she didn’t hear the words.
“What?”
“And I just thought with the year you had, well, anything’s possible.”
Meredith felt dizzy. “I ... I thought the book deserved it,” she said, scrambling for words.
“Don’t be modest. It’s a pretty great scene.”
She had to be careful here. She didn’t want to give herself away. God, she hated having all of these things to watch.
“Murder-suicide, whatever you want to call it. The bastard finally getting what he deserves. I love that you put that in there.”
Meredith needed to read the manuscript.
Chapter 76
(Via email)
M-
Did you get a chance to read it yet?
Come back to Savannah, sweet. Let’s be a literary Bonnie and Clyde. Or Romeo and Juliet.
I have it all planned out. If you can get me, you don’t have to die. But it’ll be more fun if we do it together. Your house, 4 p.m.?
Our secrets will go to the grave with us, and you will become a legend.
-M
* * *
Meredith had given Michael everything, so it shouldn’t have surprised her he expected her to give him her life, too. She had traded the good for the perfect and given up her own life for a worthless immortality.
Michael hadn’t treated her any differently than Quinn or Kate. He gutted her and threw her out like the trash. He made her dance and get naked and then ripped her apart, all to give him pleasure. She wasn’t special. She was only a toy to him.
Meredith would be brave enough to own up to her crimes. She would tell the world and live in infamy. But she would live. She did not have to be a butterfly pinned in a frame.
She needed help. It was time to get the police involved.
She replied, short and sweet.
Clyde -
I’ll be there.
- Bonnie
Chapter 77
Michael didn’t really think Meredith would give up and return to Savannah. Even his fantasies weren’t so naïve. He would give her the benefit of the doubt, but if she failed him, he would end it.
His plan worked like this: if she went to Savannah, he would let her live. If she disobeyed him, she would die.
He waited forever for her to wake up and read the message. Her reply was tame; she would be returning to Savannah. That told Michael she would most likely not be returning to Savannah. He assumed his position at the periphery of the Doubletree, his binoculars trained on her room.
An hour later, when she walked out of the hotel into the orange sunlight, he felt the Viagra kick in. Her eyes were puffy, and she wasn’t wearing makeup, but she still did it for him. She was still his forever girl. She wandered across the pavement tenderly, her head down, defeated. Maybe she really was going to Savannah. The thought made his blood stir. He loved the moment when they gave everything to him. When he had sucked them dry. She had given him everything but her life—at least, not yet. Oh, how he loved it.
He gave her fifty yards and pulled out onto the road behind her.
She merged onto the I-20 going west as if she were heading towards Atlanta, away from Savannah. Although he had expected it, the choice infuriated him. He needed to stop her.
Chapter 78
Broderick had his phone rigged so he would know as soon as Michael pulled out. It beeped and gave him an update. Not wanting to fall behind, he had chosen to nap in his truck.
He read the emails and decided he should wait in the car—wait for the opportune moment to act. He held back to see if she would be stupid yet again.
When he saw Michael heading west, he craned his neck around and saw Meredith ahead. She wasn’t going back to Savannah. Thank God, he thought.
He pulled his truck back and let Michael have a little more rope. He was on the trail. When he saw her turn off in Thomson, he had a feeling he knew what was going on.
Chapter 79
Meredith hadn’t read a book in months. In the time leading up to the trial, she was too emotionally drained every night to keep her eyes open past eight o’clock. Then in Key West, she had a novel to write and Mason to enjoy.
She planned to find a hotel, alert the police, stand back, and let them catch the deranged man.
Thomson, a city close to Augusta and not far from Fountain, had a Hampton Inn, and seemed like the perfect hiding place for a day or two. She’d get settled in, call the cops, find a cheap novel, turn off her phone, and hibernate. Or perhaps by that time, Allen would send her Michael’s manuscript so she could figure out what the hell he was talking about.
She pulled into the Hampton Inn’s parking lot. She fiddled with her phone and checked to see if Allen had sent her anything. Nothing yet. She thought she had better check her email and see if Michael knew she wouldn’t be attending his little party. For once, there were no emails there either.
A wave of paranoia hit her. She checked her surroundings, but there was no one who looked like Michael, just a spry older man walking quickly into the hotel. She looked again, just to make sure, and grabbed her bag out of the trunk and headed inside.
The clerk stood behind the front desk, a bored look on her face and gum popping in her mouth. The old man now sat in the lobby, scrolling through his phone.
Everything felt like a chore. She just wanted to climb back into bed.
“Have any rooms?”
“I have a bunch,” the clerk said. “What do you want?”
“I just need a king bed.”
The clerk started to mutter under her breath.
“Excuse me?” Meredith asked. She felt too exhausted to deal with this. Her whole body ached to get into bed.
“I said, that will be $210.25. Credit or debit? And I’ll need to see an ID.”
“Credit, thanks.” Meredith handed her a card and her ID and waited.
“Okay. Room 233. Elevator’s to the right. Continental Breakfast from six to ten.”
The old man walked past her. He headed down the first floor hallway.
The clerk took forever, dropping the key and launching into a detailed explanation when she found it on the floor. Meredith really didn’t care. She didn’t want to be rude but just wanted her to make the damn key.
Finally, she made the key, still all thumbs, and handed it to her with a smile.
Meredith offered a fake “Thank you” and pivoted away as quickly as she could.
She rode the elevator up, walked all the way down the hall, and collapsed on the bed. Maybe she should extend her reservation and stay here a while. The anonymity, the thing she would have dreaded and ridiculed a year before, now seemed a sweet panacea for this never-ending nightmare.
Since
she had been charged with murder, she rarely slept well. Instead, she rode an all-night coaster through the narrow zone between waking and resting. She could feel her subconscious pulling her back underneath, the whoosh of the heater lulling her into a tired purgatory.
Suddenly, she heard a click. She leaped out of bed. “Michael?”
She thought the sound came from the closet, but she couldn’t bring herself to open the door. Oh God, not more nightmares. No more of anything. She walked slowly back and forth across the room, breathing deeply, the beat of her heart slowing. She didn’t hear anything else.
She crawled back into bed, and her body pulled her mind back into a drowsy long hallway. Scenes flickered—Michael showing up on the porch for the first time, as if by magic out of the darkness, smiling at her, making her feel truly seen for the first time; the first rainy night with him, snuggling next to him, his arms wrapped around her, pulling her close.
Those memories shackled her; they would own her forever. Her breath caught in her chest for a moment, returning her to the waking surface. She pulled the sheets up over her head.
Chapter 80
She heard another click—the sound of a key card in the lock and the handle turning slowly. She felt the steel fingers of fear run up her spine.
Michael grinned at her as he came through the door. “Chapter Eighty.” He read from the papers in his hand. “Michael entered the room, knowing now the woman he had seen as his protégé and pupil was nothing more than a cheap whore.”
Meredith looked around. It was too late to hide in the closet, and besides, she could only stay in there for so long. So she lay there, listening to the words wash over her.
He read on. “He wondered if she knew how much he loved her, how many nights he had hidden, protecting her from the rest of the world. He wondered if she would ever know.”
Meredith opened and closed her eyes slowly several times. Yes, this was real.
“He decided to let her choose her method of death: slit of the wrists and watch her life float out like a crimson sea or a needle of heroin to her vein and let her soul rise with the stars and clouds. He asked her what her choice would be.”
Meredith didn’t respond—she had nothing left to say.
A look of frustration crossed Michael’s face. “Meredith, what do you chose?”
She sat up, suddenly awake. “Michael, please,” she said, in the sweetest and calmest voice she could muster, “it doesn’t have to be this way. You know how much I love your books. How much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I would be no one without you. Michael, listen ...”
Michael sneered. “You aren’t capable of love.” He moved closer to her. “Now choose, or I will just start cutting until I get the desired result.”
She thought back to her childhood prayers but couldn’t remember anything. Oh please, God, save me, she thought. Please save me from my own horrible, selfish choices.
She looked at Michael, standing over her, daring her to resist. He had trapped her and destined her to die like Quinn at his hands—the hands of the man they both thought they loved.
“I want you to know one thing you’ve never asked. Don’t know if you’ve figured it out. How did I know to get to Key West so quickly?”
Meredith hadn’t even considered the question.
He continued. “Our little friend Allen—let’s just say I played on a few weaknesses.”
Meredith just stared, realizing how deep the deception ran. “Allen?”
Michael nodded. “My bitch. Sewn up tight. And with my employees at Gandolfo-Griffie, I didn’t have any trouble keeping everything from you.”
It hit her all at once. His employees? “You have a controlling interest in the company?”
Michael shrugged. “Something along those lines. When I got my last deal, I got a nice piece, and then I bought the rest. Hell, it’s come in handy.”
Then, like the final scene from a Michael Black novel, she noticed the mirrored closet inch open, and a face peered out. The man from the lobby. How could she not have realized it before? Quinn’s father was the only man who hated Michael more than she did.
He motioned for her to stay silent.
She moved her eyes back to Michael, hoping he hadn’t noticed her change in focus. If he had, he didn’t let on; his eyes continued to bore into her.
Broderick Yancey crept out of the closet door, a bone-handled knife in his right hand.
“I reread Cecelia just recently,” she cooed, trying to buy her savior time. “It’s just so good. So mesmerizing.” In her peripheral vision, she could see Quinn’s father edging closer. He was now close enough to tackle Michael and end this madness.
Broderick did not tackle. He thrust his knife in between Michael’s shoulder blades. The knife tore deeply into bone and viscera. Broderick struck again—and again. When he finally removed the knife, the blood poured in rivers. He reached down and searched Michael’s body for weapons.
“My daughter worshipped you. You used her up and spat her out. This is your justice, Michael Black.”
Meredith knelt by Michael and looked at Quinn’s father. The blood pooled around them. She reached for the manuscript and put it in a dry spot. She turned back to Michael and could see his light dimming.
Broderick took the knife, held in his gloved right hand, and held it out for Meredith, who took it instinctively.
“You deserve whatever happens next,” Broderick said. “This is almost as much your fault as it is his.” He nodded to Michael, whose eyes softened and adopted a faraway look, letting everyone know he was never coming back.
Chapter 81
Broderick turned and walked out the door. He listened closely to see if Meredith would follow, but he doubted she would.
He was proud of himself. He thought of putting the knife in her hand while he crouched in the closet in a position no man his age should. He walked briskly across the hall to the other room, stripped his bloody shirt and retrieved his tools, which were sitting on the bed.
When he left his room, he again checked to see if Meredith had followed. She hadn’t. Feeling the adrenaline of a dozen racing horses, he calmly walked to the clerk’s desk and handed her the second half of the two thousand dollars he promised her. He could tell by the look on her face she needed the money. He reached over and grabbed the cartridge out of the player that had been videotaping all the entrances and exits to the hotel.
“You never saw me.” He nodded and made sure she nodded back.
“Who?” she asked.
When he got to the door, he looked over his shoulder at the woman. “Hell’s gonna come,” he warned.
“Hell’s here every day.” She said it in a way he needed to hear.
Thirty seconds later, Broderick headed back to Atlanta, having closed the most horrible chapter of his life.
Chapter 82
Meredith crumbled like a rag doll. She sat motionless as the devil bled out onto the carpet in front of her. She still had the knife clutched tightly in her hand. She would be charged with murder again. She should get up, follow Quinn’s father, and take pictures of him. But her body felt like cement. She could barely move a finger. She heard the gurgling, the low, constant moans. She closed her eyes and moved closer to him.
He looked up at her.
She couldn’t save him now, and they both knew it.
“You know I’ll always love you,” Michael said in a whisper.
She looked at him with tears in her eyes and nodded.
Michael’s breath grew even more shallow.
She could hear the blood collecting in his lungs and then his breathing stopped. She squeezed his hand and felt no response.
Her phone rested on the nightstand. She dropped the knife without trying to wipe it off. She swiped, his blood on her fingers leaving glaring red smears.
She wondered whether she should call anyone. She didn’t know yet.
* * *
After she put the phone down, not having the courage
yet to talk to Scott, she looked at the manuscript. Blood had splattered on her legs, and she had no doubt it covered her face, too.
Meredith grabbed the stack of papers. She couldn’t avoid dealing with this death, and she didn’t care about her appearance.
She flipped to the cover of the manuscript Michael had brought in. Southern Gothic, it read. Her heart sank. He hadn’t handed her Creeping Vines. Michael must have switched it out and given her something different to send to the publisher.
Michael lay there, dead on the ground, and Meredith sat in a pool of his blood. For better or worse, she was finally rid of him. Her love affair with Michael Black and his books were the vivid scenes from the world’s worst nightmare.
She would read one final work. His pupil till the end.
* * *
SOUTHERN GOTHIC
A Novel
By Meredith Harper
PART I
HEAVEN
“To put meaning in one's life may end in madness,
But life without meaning is the torture
Of restlessness and vague desire—
It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid.”
—Edgar Lee Masters, Spoon River Anthology
Chapter 1
The letter came to the bookstore Wednesday morning, postmarked Savannah. The stationery was expensive and regal, and although it was not embossed with any initials, it felt important. It was addressed to Ms. Meredith Harper, Southern Gothic Bookstore in a powerful script, the angular letters formed with a fountain pen. The thick strokes of blue ink looked familiar to the recipient; she knew the handwriting but couldn’t place it.
The envelope’s inner lining was the same dark blue as the ink. She lifted the note card out gingerly, not wanting to smear any message: