The Bourbon Kings
Page 125
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FORTY-SIX
That night, Lizzie arrived home to no tree in her front yard. Getting out of her farm truck, she looked around. The Yaris was still where it had been crunched, the mangled little car with its busted-out windows and its soaked and leaf-riddled interior looking like something out of a video game. But the limb was gone, nothing but fresh, sweet-smelling sawdust sprinkling the ground in its place.
Don’t you dare, Lane, she thought.
Don’t you fricking dare try to take care of me now.
She glanced up high and saw that the ragged wound from where the tree had split had been cut with care and sealed up so that it would heal and the magnificent maple would survive the damage.
“Damn you.”
At least he’d left the car where it was. If he’d taken that, too, she would have had to contact him to find out where to reclaim the body, so to speak.
She should have known better than to assume it was over between them.
Marching up to her front porch, she talked at him the entire way—
Lizzie stopped with her foot on the first step. On her screen door, a note had been taped to the wooden frame.
Great. Now what. Some kind of, Now that cooler heads prevail, blah, blah, blah.
He was a sick man.
And she was doing the right thing leaving. As much as it was going to kill her to go, she had to get away from him, from Easterly, from this bizarre stretch of her life that could be described only as a bad dream.
Forcing herself into gear, she went up and tore the paper off the door. She wanted to throw the thing out, but some sick, pick-at-the-wound impulse made that impossible. Opening the note up, she—
Howdy, neigbor. Cows out n all over yur yard. Ruined beds out back. No good with flowers so took care of yur tree. The wife made you a pie. Left on yur counter.
—Buella ’n Ross
Exhaling, she felt a wave of exhaustion wash over her, and instead of continuing into the house, she went across and sat down on her porch swing. Kicking the floorboards with her foot, she listened to the crickets and the creak of the steel chains that were bolted into the ceiling above her head. She felt the soft, warm breeze on her face and watched the waning sunlight thicken into a peach wash that created long shadows across the good earth.
She needed to plant her porch pots—
No, she really didn’t.
Hey, at least she had good dessert tonight—Buella made pie that was out of this world. Maybe it would be peach. Or … blueberry.
Lizzie found herself wiping her eyes and staring at the tears on her fingertips.
It was a horrible thing to have to save herself by leaving all this—rather like, she supposed, having to cut off a diseased limb.
She’d been doing so well, she thought.
And then Lane just had to come back down here and ruin everything.
“That’s as much as Edward took out of there,” Lane said as he paced around the guest room Jeff had been given.
It was the best of the suites, looking out over the back garden and the river, and it also had a desk big enough to qualify as a kitchen counter. In fact, back a million years ago, the set of rooms had been his grandfather’s private quarters, and after the man’s death, nothing had been touched except for regular cleanings.
Jeff’s comment when he’d walked in had been stereotypically dry. Something about whether the Civil War had been commanded out of the space.
Predictably, though, the second the guy had accessed the financial data, the smartass qualifiers had dried up and the man had become all business.
“Anyway, it’s almost time for dinner.” Lane looked at his watch. “We dress here. Well, everyone except for me. So your suit should be fine.”
“Bring me something up here,” Jeff muttered as he yanked off his tie, his eyes never leaving his computer screen. “And I need some legal pads and pens.”
“You mean you don’t want to see me and my father glare at each other across the soufflé?” Yeah, ’cuz Lane was really looking forward to that himself. “You could also meet my sister’s fabulous new fiancé. The guy’s about as charming as cancer.”
When Jeff didn’t respond, Lane walked across and peered over the guy’s shoulder. “Tell me that makes sense to you.”
“Not yet, but it will.”
Right man for the job, Lane thought when he finally left.
Out in the hall, he found himself staring at his mother’s door. Maybe Edward was right. Maybe if everything went poof! his mother wouldn’t notice: All those drugs kept her cocooned and safe in her delirium—something that, for the first time, he was coming to understand.
On that note, how about some bourbon.
Heading for the front stairs, he decided he was going to skip dinner himself. He still wanted to punch the hell out of his father, but with Jeff in the house, he had, hopefully, a much better way of taking the man down.
And then he was going to follow Lizzie’s lead and get good and gone with all this.
It was just too much here, too Byzantine, too polluted.
Maybe he would go back to New York. Or perhaps it was time to cast a wider net. Take off to somewhere overseas—
Lane stopped halfway down the grand staircase.
Mitch Ramsey and two CMP officers were standing in the grand foyer below, their hats off, their faces like something out of a textbook on criminal justice: no expressions. At all.
Shit, Lane thought as he closed his eyes.
Guess Samuel T. had been able to work the old boys’ network only so far.
“I’ll go get my wallet,” Lane called out. “And I’ll call my lawyer—”
That night, Lizzie arrived home to no tree in her front yard. Getting out of her farm truck, she looked around. The Yaris was still where it had been crunched, the mangled little car with its busted-out windows and its soaked and leaf-riddled interior looking like something out of a video game. But the limb was gone, nothing but fresh, sweet-smelling sawdust sprinkling the ground in its place.
Don’t you dare, Lane, she thought.
Don’t you fricking dare try to take care of me now.
She glanced up high and saw that the ragged wound from where the tree had split had been cut with care and sealed up so that it would heal and the magnificent maple would survive the damage.
“Damn you.”
At least he’d left the car where it was. If he’d taken that, too, she would have had to contact him to find out where to reclaim the body, so to speak.
She should have known better than to assume it was over between them.
Marching up to her front porch, she talked at him the entire way—
Lizzie stopped with her foot on the first step. On her screen door, a note had been taped to the wooden frame.
Great. Now what. Some kind of, Now that cooler heads prevail, blah, blah, blah.
He was a sick man.
And she was doing the right thing leaving. As much as it was going to kill her to go, she had to get away from him, from Easterly, from this bizarre stretch of her life that could be described only as a bad dream.
Forcing herself into gear, she went up and tore the paper off the door. She wanted to throw the thing out, but some sick, pick-at-the-wound impulse made that impossible. Opening the note up, she—
Howdy, neigbor. Cows out n all over yur yard. Ruined beds out back. No good with flowers so took care of yur tree. The wife made you a pie. Left on yur counter.
—Buella ’n Ross
Exhaling, she felt a wave of exhaustion wash over her, and instead of continuing into the house, she went across and sat down on her porch swing. Kicking the floorboards with her foot, she listened to the crickets and the creak of the steel chains that were bolted into the ceiling above her head. She felt the soft, warm breeze on her face and watched the waning sunlight thicken into a peach wash that created long shadows across the good earth.
She needed to plant her porch pots—
No, she really didn’t.
Hey, at least she had good dessert tonight—Buella made pie that was out of this world. Maybe it would be peach. Or … blueberry.
Lizzie found herself wiping her eyes and staring at the tears on her fingertips.
It was a horrible thing to have to save herself by leaving all this—rather like, she supposed, having to cut off a diseased limb.
She’d been doing so well, she thought.
And then Lane just had to come back down here and ruin everything.
“That’s as much as Edward took out of there,” Lane said as he paced around the guest room Jeff had been given.
It was the best of the suites, looking out over the back garden and the river, and it also had a desk big enough to qualify as a kitchen counter. In fact, back a million years ago, the set of rooms had been his grandfather’s private quarters, and after the man’s death, nothing had been touched except for regular cleanings.
Jeff’s comment when he’d walked in had been stereotypically dry. Something about whether the Civil War had been commanded out of the space.
Predictably, though, the second the guy had accessed the financial data, the smartass qualifiers had dried up and the man had become all business.
“Anyway, it’s almost time for dinner.” Lane looked at his watch. “We dress here. Well, everyone except for me. So your suit should be fine.”
“Bring me something up here,” Jeff muttered as he yanked off his tie, his eyes never leaving his computer screen. “And I need some legal pads and pens.”
“You mean you don’t want to see me and my father glare at each other across the soufflé?” Yeah, ’cuz Lane was really looking forward to that himself. “You could also meet my sister’s fabulous new fiancé. The guy’s about as charming as cancer.”
When Jeff didn’t respond, Lane walked across and peered over the guy’s shoulder. “Tell me that makes sense to you.”
“Not yet, but it will.”
Right man for the job, Lane thought when he finally left.
Out in the hall, he found himself staring at his mother’s door. Maybe Edward was right. Maybe if everything went poof! his mother wouldn’t notice: All those drugs kept her cocooned and safe in her delirium—something that, for the first time, he was coming to understand.
On that note, how about some bourbon.
Heading for the front stairs, he decided he was going to skip dinner himself. He still wanted to punch the hell out of his father, but with Jeff in the house, he had, hopefully, a much better way of taking the man down.
And then he was going to follow Lizzie’s lead and get good and gone with all this.
It was just too much here, too Byzantine, too polluted.
Maybe he would go back to New York. Or perhaps it was time to cast a wider net. Take off to somewhere overseas—
Lane stopped halfway down the grand staircase.
Mitch Ramsey and two CMP officers were standing in the grand foyer below, their hats off, their faces like something out of a textbook on criminal justice: no expressions. At all.
Shit, Lane thought as he closed his eyes.
Guess Samuel T. had been able to work the old boys’ network only so far.
“I’ll go get my wallet,” Lane called out. “And I’ll call my lawyer—”
