Fox River

“Bertha Petersen says she talked to you?”

“About Karl Zandoff? She did.”

“It must have been on your mind ever since.”

In truth, Christian had refused to let himself dwell on his conversation with Bertha. False hope was more dangerous than none, and “long shot” had been coined for coincidences like this one. “It hasn’t been on my mind. Why should it be? Zandoff’s about to fry, and the only thing we ever had in common was his brief residence in Virginia. If he ever lived here at all.”

Mel waved his hand, directing the conversation like a hyperactive symphony conductor. “He seems to think you have more in common than that. You were convicted of Fidelity Sutherland’s murder, but Zandoff was the one who calmly slit her throat.”

For a moment Christian couldn’t breathe. Then he shook his head. “You’re telling me this is what you believe? What you hope for?”

“He’s telling you what Zandoff told the authorities in Florida this morning. He confessed to killing Fidelity. He was there, at South Land, the afternoon Fidelity was killed. He caught her alone in the house. He killed her—”

“How does he say he got my knife?” The knife that had killed Fidelity, a specially designed horseman’s knife with several blades and tools, had belonged to Christian.

“Found it in the Sutherlands’ barn on a window ledge. You’d been there that week to ride, hadn’t you? You probably used it to pick a hoof or trim a strap, then left it.”

“What about the jewelry? I’ve read Zandoff’s history. He only killed for pleasure.”

“He always took trophies.” Mel fanned himself with his hand. “And this time he says he needed money to get back to Florida. Nobody was at home, so afterward he took his time looking for something he could sell. She didn’t keep her jewelry under lock and key. We knew that. He found it, pocketed it and went outside.”

“That’s when he saw you,” Peter said. “You were calling Fidelity’s name. He said you were on the way inside and you looked furious. He knew you would find her, and he started to worry that someone might catch and search him before he got far enough away to avoid suspicion. So he dug a hole and buried the jewelry.”

Mel took over. “But not everything. After he heard your voice, he was in such a hurry that he dropped a necklace.”

Christian stared at him.

“That’s the necklace you found on the stairs,” Peter said. “The one that put you in this prison.”

“They’re looking for the jewelry now.” Mel took out his handkerchief again. “He’s told the police where to look. When they find it, it will corroborate his story.”

Christian sat forward. “And if they don’t?”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“Because it’s been nine years. Where does he say he hid it?”

Peter answered. “Along the fence line between South Land and Claymore Park.”

“Do you know how many people come and go at South Land? Do you think there’s really a chance that if any of the drifters who’ve worked for the Sutherlands found that jewelry they would have turned it in?”

“Zandoff says he was planning to go back for it,” Peter said. “Only he never had the chance. He got scared and took off for Florida without it. But he claims he hid it well. We’ve got a good chance, Christian. A very good chance.”

“And if they do find it?”

“Then we’ll be back in court to have you released while the matter’s investigated further.”

Christian sat absolutely still, but his heart was speeding. He could school his appearance, even his thoughts, but his body remembered what it was like to be free.

Peter reached across the table and rested his hand on Christian’s. “I know how you must feel. Believe me, I know, and so does Mel.”

“How do I feel?” Christian wasn’t even certain.

“Angry so much of your life has been wasted. Hopeful that the worst is almost over. Afraid that it isn’t.”

“Why would Zandoff confess?”

“He doesn’t have anything to lose.”

“He’s got a wife, children….”

“Maybe he wants to do the right thing for once, to show his kids that he had some kind of morals.”

“Maybe he just feels sorry for you,” Mel said. “He knows another man is serving time for something he did.”

Christian knew other men who had killed simply for the pleasure of it. Not a one of them would care if someone else took the rap.

“Maybe he’s bragging.” Peter removed his hand. “Maybe he just wants the world to know how good he was at what he did and how many times he did it.”

“Or maybe he’s hoping if he confesses to a few more murders, he can string the authorities along for a while and hold off his execution date.” Mel put his arms on the table. “Who the hell cares, Christian? That’s not your problem. In fact, as far as I can see, you don’t have a problem right now. You just got to sit tight and wait. They’re bringing metal detectors, and they’re going to start digging holes along the fence line today. Zandoff’s outlined the general area, but this may take a while. Nobody’s exactly sure where or how deep he buried it. We don’t want to miss it by inches.”

Christian said nothing, but his mind was whirling.

“We wanted you to know,” Peter said. “We didn’t want to spring it on you. There’s a chance this won’t come to anything, but it’s a small one. Even without the jewelry to back up Zandoff’s story, we can still get back into court with this. It will take longer, and the outcome won’t be as certain, but the odds are still in your favor.”

“If we have to, we’ll try to find somebody, anybody, who remembers Zandoff being in the area when Miss Sutherland was killed.” Mel took out his handkerchief once more, this time to clean his glasses. “We’ll search the records of local contractors, cheap hotels, ask at bars….”

Everything they described cost money, and lots of it. Every breath Mel took cost money. He had reduced his fees since the beginning, believing he would free Christian, and the resulting publicity would be worth the fees he lost. And to his credit, even after a devastating defeat, he had continued to reduce his fees during the appeals process. But even reduced, Christian’s legal fees could put quadruplets through Ivy League colleges and send them to Europe after graduation.

The money had been paid by Peter Claymore.

Christian switched his gaze to Peter. “If something does happen, and they let me out of here, I’ll find a way to pay you back.”

“You were my son’s best friend. You’re like a son to me, Christian. Robby would have expected me to help you. You don’t owe me a thing.”

But Christian knew he owed Peter everything. Were it not for Peter, his life would be entirely without hope. And despite his better instincts, Christian could feel hope stirring. Despite a past that railed against it. Despite the friends who had deserted him and the detractors who had silently nodded their heads. Hope was light pouring through the broken pieces of his heart.

7

Maisy was a good cook, but Jake was a better one. Together they fixed a dinner that tempted Julia out of her self-imposed fast. She had Callie to think about, a vulnerable daughter who did not need another anorexic role model. Television already supplied too many.

She decided to address her own embarrassment upfront. “This is delicious. But I bet I’m making a mess.”

Callie giggled. “You have gravy on your chin.”

Julia felt a napkin dabbing around her mouth. She let her daughter take care of her, grateful that Callie seemed more interested in than frightened by her predicament.

“I’m going to try eating with my eyes closed,” Callie said.

“One messy eater at a table, please.” Julia smiled in her daughter’s direction. “Poor Maisy will have enough to clean up as it is.”

“Another biscuit?” Maisy spoke from across the table. “Julia?”

Julia shook her head. “This is more than I’ve eaten in a week. It’s wonderful.” And it really was. Maisy had always been an eclectic cook, quickly tiring of one cuisine and moving on to another. Thai lemon grass soup or Salvadoran pupusas had been as commonly served as country ham. Tonight she and Jake had prepared Southern classic. Fried chicken, biscuits and cream gravy, green beans cooked with salt pork and Jake’s famous sweet potato pie for dessert. A heart attack on a plate.

“Pie after I clean up?” Maisy asked.

“I’ll help,” Julia said. “I can dry dishes.”

Maisy didn’t argue or fuss. “I’ll help you find your way.”

“I want to see Feather Foot.” Callie’s chair scraped the floor beside Julia. “He might be lonely.”

“I’ll take you.” Jake’s chair scraped, too. “Then we can close up for the night. I could use your help.”

“Can I, Mommy?”

“You bet.” Julia got to her feet and slid her hands along the table until it ended. Maisy took her arm, and, shuffling her feet so as not to trip, Julia followed her mother’s lead.

The kitchen was large enough for a table of its own, enameled metal and cool to the touch. Julia rested her fingers on its edge. Whenever she had needed help she had done her homework here as a young girl, letting Maisy drill her on spelling words or Jake untangle math problems, step by step. She had abandoned this warm family center as she grew older, preferring her own company to theirs. Her room had become a haven, the telephone her lifeline.

Again she thought of Fidelity, and, inevitably, of Christian.

“You have the expression on your face you used to get as a little girl.” Maisy released Julia’s arm. “You’re a million miles away. I used to wonder how to travel that far.”

Julia was surprised. Maisy, for all her love, her sneak attacks into intimacy, rarely expressed what she was feeling. She decided to be honest. “I was just thinking about Fidelity.”

“What brought her to mind?”

“Being here, I guess. I feel like a girl again.”

“She was a big part of your childhood. Christian, too.”

Julia couldn’t touch that. “And Robby. So much sadness.”

“You saw too much sadness.”

“I’ve wondered if that’s what this is about. If I’m blind because of that. If everything finally caught up with me. Fidelity’s murder, Christian’s conviction, Robby’s accident.”

“Did you ask the doctor?”

“Would you share the time of day with that man?”

“Julia, do you want me to see if I can find you a good therapist, somebody you’d feel comfortable talking to?”

Julia could imagine the sort of therapist her mother might choose. An escapee from Esalen, a guru who started each session with ancient Hindu chants or a fully orchestrated psychodrama.

Maisy laughed a little, low and somehow sad. “This is interesting, but I really can almost see your thoughts now. You’ve always been so good at hiding them, but that’s changed.”

“Maisy, I—”

“There’s a woman in Warrenton who is supposed to be excellent. No fireworks or instant revelations. Just good listening skills and sound advice.”

Julia wondered what choice she had. Did she want to call her own friends for recommendations and open her life to more gossip? Could she trust Bard to find someone more suitable?

“Why don’t you give her a try? If you don’t like her, we’ll look for someone else.” Maisy took her arm. “I’ll wash in the dishpan, and I’ll put the clean dishes in the other side of the sink to rinse. You can dry them and stack them on the counter.”

Julia joined her mother at the sink, but the first dish she picked up slipped and fell back into the sink.

“Don’t even say it.” Maisy adjusted the water to a lighter flow. “I won’t put you to drying the good china just yet.”

Julia picked up the plate again and started to rub it with the towel Maisy had provided. “We did this when I was little. Remember? Of course, then I could see what I was doing.”

“From the time we moved in here. When it was just you and me.”

For Julia, those early days seemed like centuries ago. She remembered little before Jake joined their lives and almost nothing of living in the big house with her father. “Why did you move here, Maisy?” She had asked the question before, of course, but she hoped now she would get a more detailed answer.

“Truthfully? Ashbourne’s too large to manage without help, and I thought we needed the time alone to heal after your daddy died.”

“How about later?”

“By then I’d grown to love this place. I couldn’t imagine the two of us rattling around the big house. Then Jake came along…”

Julia couldn’t imagine Jake at the big house, either. Ashbourne had been built by and for people who assumed that they, too, were somehow larger than life. Jake had no such illusions.

Since the conversation was going well, Julia ventured further. “Ashbourne almost seems like a museum. A record of life on the day my father died.”

“Ashbourne belongs to you. I never saw the point of changing things or selling the antiques. I like living here. It will be up to you to decide what to do with Ashbourne once you’re ready.”

“Bard would like to live there.” Ashbourne was grander than Millcreek, although Millcreek had been in his family since the Revolutionary War.

“I always thought as much.”

“But not until you open the property to the Mosby Hunt. It would be too embarrassing for him to live there if you didn’t.”

“And I won’t.” Maisy plunked more dishes on Julia’s side of the sink. “Not as long as the land’s in my name.”

Maisy’s objection to foxhunting at Ashbourne was legendary. Her determination to keep foxhunters off her land had made her the butt of many a local joke and the occasional prank. Julia, by default, had suffered, too.

“Speaking of Bard…” Maisy turned off the water. “I think that’s his car.”

Julia had been waiting all evening for the low purr of the BMW’s engine. Now she heard it, too. “This should be a laugh a minute.”

“Where would you like to talk to him?”

“Somewhere Callie can’t overhear. How about the garden?”

“It’s a little cool tonight.”

“I have a sweater in the dining room.”

“I’ll get the door and the sweater.”

Julia listened as Maisy’s footsteps disappeared. She had steeled herself for this confrontation. Her marriage to Bard had always seemed simple and forthright. It had also been untested, and it was failing this one, as if the added weight of her blindness had tipped a precariously balanced scale.

Moments passed. She heard murmurs from the front of the house, a door close, then footsteps. She dried her hands and turned, leaning against the counter with her arms folded. When he crossed the threshold, she was ready.

“Hello, Bard.”

“Julia.” His voice was tight, as if his throat was closing around it.

“We expected you earlier. Maisy saved a place for you at the dinner table.”

“I’d like to talk to you alone. If I’m allowed?”

She was annoyed by his tone. “You don’t need to be rude. Maisy?”

“Right here. I brought the sweater.”

Julia held out a hand, and Maisy placed the sweater in it. “Need help getting it on?”

“No, I’ll manage.”

Maisy must have turned, because her voice came from a different place. “Julia would like to have this conversation in the garden. Can you help her get there?”

“I can still escort my wife any place she needs to go.”

Julia spoke without thinking. “And any place I don’t need to go, as well.”

“Now who’s being rude?” Bard stepped forward to help her with her sweater.

She didn’t apologize, although it had been a cheap shot. “Let’s go out through this door. Callie’s in the barn with Jake.”

“I understand you sent for Feather Foot, too. Just how long do you intend to stay?”

“As long as I need to.”

She heard the kitchen door open, then felt Bard’s big hand on her upper arm. “Let’s finish this outside.”

He was a large man with a long stride. He did little to modify it as he propelled her to the garden. She stumbled once, and he slowed down, but she could tell he was annoyed by the way he continued to grip her arm.

“You should try this sometime.” Julia came to a halt when he did. “Being dragged along by someone bigger than you. It’s not a reassuring feeling.”

“I didn’t drag you.” He hesitated. “Damn it, I’m sorry. Okay? I’m just so angry.”

“Is this what happens when you don’t get your way? Or hasn’t that happened often enough for you to recognize the signs?”

“You’re determined to be stupid about this, aren’t you?”

“Stupid?”

“It was stupid for you to escape from the clinic. Do you have any idea how that made me look?”

“Let me guess. Like the husband of a stupid woman?”

“Damn it, Julia!”

She was silent, waiting for him to gain control. Although a large part of her wanted to have a screaming match, a larger part knew better. Not only would Callie hear, nothing would be accomplished.

He took a while to get hold of his temper. She imagined steam rising from a boiling kettle, then an unseen hand turning off the heat. The steam billowed, then puffed, and at last died away altogether. But the water was still hot enough to scald.

“Let’s sit down,” he said at last.

“Where are we?”

“There’s a bench under a tree.” He led her there. She could hear him brushing leaves from the wooden slats; then he repositioned her. She could feel the bench against the backs of her knees. She sat gingerly.

Julia knew enough of her mother’s gardening style to visualize how this garden looked in moonlight. With fall in the air, Maisy would have planted gold and orange chrysanthemums. Purple asters bloomed here when the weather began to turn, perhaps there was flowering kale this year. Maisy’s gardens were chaotically haphazard and more beautiful because of it, as if God Himself had randomly sprinkled all the colors of the world with a generous hand.

“I came here a lot as a teenager.” Julia explored the bench with her fingertips. “You can see the road through those trees.” She inclined her head. “Sometimes I’d see you riding by. Did you ever notice me?”

If he understood her attempt to take the conversation to a more conciliatory level, he gave no sign. “What were you thinking, Julia? Dr. Jeffers says you found your way downstairs by yourself. You could have been killed.”

“I had help. Did he also tell you he threatened to have me committed?”

“He was trying to keep you there for your own good.”

“Bard, I’m an amateur psychologist. I’ll admit it. But doesn’t it make sense that I won’t get better unless I’m part of the cure?”

“Maybe you don’t want to get better.”

“Then there’s no point to being at the clinic, is there? Think of all the money we’re saving. I can wallow in my blindness for free.”

He took her hand, swallowing it in his. “I don’t mean consciously, Julia. I know you think you want to get better.”

“Now who’s playing amateur psychologist?”

“Well, if you wanted it badly enough, wouldn’t you just see again?”

“Back to that.”

“I don’t know what to think.” He squeezed her hand.

She let him, even though she really wanted him to disappear.

She wanted him to disappear. The thought surprised her, and for a moment it choked off conversation.

“We won’t talk about the clinic anymore,” he said at last. “Maybe I was being too heavy-handed.”

Concessions came with a price. She waited.

“I want you to come home.”

She removed her hand from his. “I’m sorry, but for now I’m right where I need to be.”

“I’m not going to work on you to go back to the clinic, if that’s what you’re afraid of. That chapter’s over. We’ll—”

“You’re not listening again. Even if the clinic’s never mentioned, I want to be here. I need to be here. It feels right.”

“What are you really saying? That you need to be here—or you need to be away from me?”

Since she wasn’t sure, she couldn’t answer directly. “I need people I love around me. You work hard. You won’t be home much, and Mrs. Taylor will end up taking care of me.”

“I can take time off.”

She tried to imagine Bard preparing meals and making certain utensils were in reach. Bard mopping up spills. Bard leading her to the bathroom, or picking her up if she stumbled.

“You would hate it,” she said, and he didn’t deny it.

“How long do you plan to stay?”

She had no plans. Her loss of sight was so mysterious, so precipitous, that it defied logic. She might wake up tomorrow, her vision as clear as crystal. She might spend the rest of her life in a world as dark as a starless winter night.

“I don’t know how long I’ll stay. As long as I need to.”

“And what about me?”

“What about you?”

“I need my wife.”

She waited for him to mention Callie. He didn’t. “For what, exactly? I can’t be much of a hostess right now. And the foxhunting season will have to start without me.” Bard often acted as honorary whipper-in for the Mosby Hunt, and the thrill of the chase was one of the primary joys they shared.

“You make me sound shallow.”

“Then tell me why you want me there.”

His angry tone intensified. “What’s the point? You’ve obviously made up your mind. I’m the bad guy here. I tried to get help for you, and you rejected it. I asked you to come home, and now you want me to grovel.”

She lowered her voice to counteract his. “I don’t want you to grovel. I just want you to realize there’s no point to my going back to Millcreek except to keep people from talking. You can visit me here anytime you want. You can visit Callie.”

“That’s not a marriage.”

She wondered what exactly he would miss. Sex? She couldn’t imagine Bard making love to a woman who was less than perfect. But even if she was wrong, sex was only a small part of their marriage. For all his masculinity, he was a man who seemed to need little, and she had never insisted on more.

“What is a marriage?” She was genuinely curious to know his answer.

“What’s the point of this?”

“You have very little time for your family. If anything, this will give you an excuse to work longer hours.”

“You never complained before. Is that what this is about? You’re getting back at me for making money to support you?”

“Bard, you could support a harem. Already. Let’s be honest. You work because you love it. You have to work. You have too much energy to sit still for more than a minute.”

“And you never asked me to slow down. Maybe you liked it that way. You didn’t have to put up with me as often. You didn’t have to give up your dreams of another man!”

She was stunned as much by his words as his vehemence. “That’s not true!”

“No? You think I haven’t noticed how cold you are? You think I don’t know why? And you think I don’t know how much you hate it when I try to be a father to Callie? My name’s on her birth certificate, but as far as you’re concerned, I don’t have any real right to put my stamp on her. She’s your kid. Yours and a murderer’s.”

“Keep your voice down!”

“Oh, that’s right. Nobody’s supposed to know.”

“I have never tried to keep you from spending time with Callie.”

“As long as I spend it the way you want me to. You direct every facet of our lives, Julia. You have, right from the beginning. And you call me controlling!”

For a moment she felt dizzied by regrets. They had been married nearly nine years, and he had never expressed any of this. She had tried to be a good wife. She had not allowed herself to mourn for Christian Carver. She had believed her profound gratitude to Bard had quietly turned to affection. She knew his faults and limitations, but she knew her own, as well. She had believed that their marriage, even though it was built on a secret, was solid.

“She has never been my child.” His tone was bitter. “You’ve never let her be my child. I’m as much your prisoner as Christian is the state’s.”

She was suffused with guilt, even though she didn’t know if it was deserved. Her head was ringing with his words. “If you’re trying to make me come back to Millcreek, you’re your own worst enemy. We shouldn’t be living together. Not with all this between us.”