3

Roger sat stiffly on the front porch swing at the McIverson Bed and Breakfast and stared straight ahead, acutely aware of Bill, Trina’s dad, who sat beside him. When he had arrived an hour ago, a neighbor had occupied one of the two wicker chairs across from the swing. He had thought about changing spaces when the neighbor left, but, for now, he remained in place.

As the sun fell behind the sheltering limbs, the air cooled, but not enough to warrant a jacket. The ceiling fan wobbled as it rotated, and the moving air passed over him in soft waves, just enough to keep persistent fall gnats from becoming a nuisance. Two years in the south, and he still couldn’t get used to the warmer weather.

Bill towered over him by at least a foot, but then, Bill towered over almost everyone. It wasn’t the man’s height or bulk that made him cautious: the big man seemed to know more than he should.

Lillian could arrive any time now, and Roger’s nerves were raw from being constrained within his forced good behavior. Hiding his tension from Bill ate at his energy. Roger hated Lillian. Although nothing would undo the past, some things, when the law proved to be inadequate, demanded a personal touch. Soon he could restart his life. Darlington, and even his partner, would become nightmares of the past, dreams he would never revisit.

Sitting on the edge of the second wicker chair, Ted puckered his brow and clenched his lips as he watched the approaching cars.

A little girl, perhaps three years old, stumbled on the uneven sidewalk. A man, presumably her father, grabbed her and picked her up. She wrapped slender arms around the man’s neck and rested her head on his shoulder.

An ache tightened Roger’s throat and he turned away from the scene of trust.

The rhythmic squeak of the porch swing, and its lulling, rocking motion, usually soothed him, but today it did little to loosen the balled muscles in his neck. Tilting his chin upward and rotating his head, he felt the ache, like a flame being held against a rope. He ran his hand down the short beard he had grown to cover what he considered his greatest physical flaw, a weak chin.

The sidewalk stood empty now, but in the yard, a pair of squirrels scampered up the old oak, their cheeks bulging with acorns. A siren sounded and his heart thumped wildly, even though the wailing remained muffled by dense air and distance.

He was too reactive and needed some activity to burn off the adrenalin that laced his blood, but a walk, which usually helped calm him, was out of the question. He might miss her arrival. A piece of loose skin dangled beside his right thumbnail and he pulled it off. Blood oozed out and he stared, watching it grow to a small bubble before he wiped it off with his other hand.

He rose from the swing and went upstairs to the bathroom to wash his hands. Back on the swing, he turned to Bill. “Did you make it to the festival?”

Bill’s size fourteen shoes maintained a steady rhythm as he pushed the porch swing back and forth. “I walked up for awhile,” he mumbled, brushing his hand across the top of his head, the short salt-and-pepper stubble barely disturbed by the action. “Seemed wrong not to, but there wasn’t much that interested me.”

“You made quick work of those sweet potato fries,” Ted said, his gaze darting from his father-in-law and back to the street.

Bill knew things about people, what they were feeling, if they were good or evil. Kind of like Santa Claus. More than once in the past hour, Roger had turned to find Bill staring at him. Did he suspect?

The minutes suspended, mocking, refusing to move on.

“So, Bill, anything new between you and Sandra that I should know about?” he asked.

The steady rocking stuttered. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You and Sandra. You’re a couple, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know where you got that idea.”

Bill and Sandra were always together. And the way the big man looked at her, something zinged between them.

“I just thought—”

“Well, just quit thinking.”

The disagreement fed Roger’s tension. If there was one thing he did well, it was observe. Any other day and he might have challenged Bill, but not today. He couldn’t risk an out-and-out argument and have to leave the house. Not with Lillian on her way.

Vibrations as Ted bounced his leg radiated across the porch floor. The iced tea on a stand at Ted’s side rippled, as though a beast approached each time Ted’s heel struck the floor.

Roger stared at the ripples; in a way, a beast was approaching.

Ted glanced at his watch. Again.

“She’ll be here soon,” Bill murmured.

“I know, I know.” Ted pushed thin strands of blond hair off his forehead. “But Trina’s so much better at this than I am. She usually greets new guests, not me. I just wish she were home.”

Bill chuckled. “Can’t expect her to miss her own baby shower.”

“Trina’s having a baby shower today?” Roger asked.

“You might know these things if you showed up at church now and then.” Humor ringed Bill’s eyes, but Roger knew the man was serious.

As Roger ran a hand across the dark hair on his chin, he knew to let Bill’s second challenge also go unanswered. Going to church had been his way of meeting Ted and Trina, nothing more. Some may have regretted the trouble the young couple would soon experience because of their guest, but not him. Regret wasted energy and time, both commodities he held close to his chest. At least he had worked out the details to protect them. Killing the family would be wrong.

He mulled over his personal metamorphosis from a man who pleased into a man who killed. When had it happened? He didn’t see himself as a bad person. There was no lust for blood. And this would be the last time. One more death. That’s all he needed to be finished.

~*~

With the blue light reflecting in her rearview mirror, Lillian eyed the sandy soil beside the road, clenched her teeth, and pulled off. If the car sank to its rims, it wouldn’t be her fault.

She lowered the window and waited for the smug grin of the small-town cop. So this is my new home, population 6,500. Transported to the 21st century, complete with speed traps.

“Ma’am, do you know how fast you were driving?”

She turned and stared, her eyes level with the officer’s belt buckle. “About 45.”

“The speed limit’s 30.”

“But the sign said…”

The officer bent over and quickly perused the interior of the car before resting his attention on Lillian’s face. “The speed limit changed back down the road a ways, about half a mile. I followed you to see if you’d slow down, but you didn’t.”

Lillian melted at the sound of his southern drawl, and then chided herself for the stupidity of her emotion. “I missed the sign,” she said, still trying to get a handle on her unexpected attraction. “I’m sorry.”

The lanky officer returned to his cruiser, carrying Lillian’s driver’s license and car registration.

Through her rearview mirror, she watched the patrolman’s long-legged stride. Definitely not what she had expected. And cute, too. Shame flamed her cheeks.

Thirteen hours on the road. I’m almost there. No wonder my mind is acting crazy. And now a traffic ticket. She felt the hardness of the seat against the back of her head. Is it too much to want a quiet life, maybe a house someday and—

She sucked a lung-full of air as a large hand reached through the window.

“Sorry ma’am. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Two deep breaths, and she grabbed the documents secured between the officer’s gloved fingers.

“I have to give you a ticket, you know.” His breath smelled like mint.

Passing cars slowed. Their occupants stared.

“You’re from out of town.”

She looked up at the officer, shielding her eyes against the pulsing light. “I’m from Ohio, Cleveland, actually.”

He smiled, exposing white, slightly crooked teeth. “I’ve never been to Cleveland. Would like to get there someday and see the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.”

The throbbing lights. The stares. Memories of flashing cameras sent her back to Cleveland…back when…

She jumped as he spoke.

“Where you headed?”

“The McIverson Bed and Breakfast.”

“Ted and Trina’s place!” Lines crinkled the corners of his eyes. “You’re gonne love it, but it won’t be easy getting there today.” He glanced toward town. “Hey, tell you what. I’m off duty in a few minutes anyway. What say I lead you there?”

“I have directions…”

“Not going to do you much good. It’s the Sweet Potato Festival. The main streets into town are shut down. It’s Ms. Lillian, right?” As he sprinted toward the cruiser he called over his shoulder, “Just pull out behind me and follow close.”

She groaned. Why God?

~*~

The tension push from the inside of Roger’s body, ready to explode from his skin, leaving him exposed and vulnerable. How much longer before she would arrive? He picked at the skin on his thumb again, pressing a finger against the raw flesh, relishing the burn, wishing it were more.

The pair of squirrels ran back across the grass and scampered up the tree. A jet, looking like a shining dart in the sky, left behind a signature trail of vapor. As a child, he used to lie on the grass and trace the streak with his finger, wondering where the plane was going, hoping one day to be on it. Eventually he had caught the flight, only to find out its destination was no better than where he had left.

“So what’s this lady’s name again?” Bill asked.

Ted remained focused on the street. “Lillian Hunter. She just got a faculty job at Francis Marion University.”

“What’s she like?” Roger hoped he sounded only mildly curious, as he would for any new guest, but he wanted to know Ted’s impression of his nemesis.

“Trina’s the one who booked her. I talked to her for the first time a couple of hours ago when she called to update me on her location.”

A car approached.

A crackling and wheezing sound came from the wicker as Ted lifted from the chair.

The approaching car slowed and then passed the house as it moved up the street toward the square.

Roger let out his breath. “What’s this Lillian Hunter like?” he repeated.

“She seems nice enough.” Ted slumped back into the chair.

“Isn’t she the one that’s coming from Cleveland?” Bill asked. “I can’t keep track of these people coming and going.” The big man leaned over and placed his empty glass on the floor.

Roger grabbed the arm of the swing, the tipping motion reminding him of a Ferris wheel. He never liked Ferris wheels, not since his mom threatened to toss him off one if he didn’t quit crying. He had been six at the time, and hadn’t stepped foot on a Ferris wheel since.

Even after Bill sat back in the swing, Roger maintained his death-grip on the arm, tightness building in his chest. Come on Lillian, come on.

~*~

Flashing lights stabbed her eyes as the cruiser passed. The officer extended his arm out the driver’s window motioning her to follow.

Wishing she were invisible, Lillian pulled onto the road. Squat houses and stores lined both sides of the street. They looked old, weathered by heat, history and time. Teen Mission. Nick’s BBQ. A funeral home with a white limo parked alongside. Someone’s flower garden still full of roses. A single railroad track, flanked on the left by a long, gray building with a picture of cotton painted white on the front.

Just before the orange barricades that blocked off rows of vendors, the patrol car turned right.

The two lanes of Broad Street were squeezed into one, the space filled with crowds: walkers, adults pushing strollers, a toddler tethered to a leash as a plush dog face anchored the straps to the child’s back. Middle aged people. Teens. The smell of grease and cotton candy. Voices. Laughter. All headed toward the square.

“Hey Paul!” A man waved toward the cruiser.

The officer waved back. Then the cruiser’s siren burst out a short wail, scattering those milling in the middle of the street like birds from an approaching cat.

Slinking down in her seat, feeling like an oddity on display, she followed in the wake of the patrol car. After another block, the crowd thinned to couples and families, all walking on the edge of the road, heading toward town. Cars filled the front parking lots of the closed hardware and farm and feed store.

Another left turn onto Irby Street. Mature trees, single family houses, small front yards, and potential quietness. Spanish moss hung in thick clumps like gray lace draped across the arms of Victorian ladies. She lifted her face, welcoming the warm air, so unlike the biting chill of Cleveland. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

Two more blocks and a right turn onto Cashua. The houses were large, ornate, and appeared well cared for. Sidewalks separated the yards from the road, some flanked by wrought-iron fences. Dark leaves of magnolia trees stood in contrast to the white and pink flowers adorning camellia bushes. At one house, yellow and orange mums in ceramic pots graced the steps leading to the front door.

Officer Paul pulled into the drive of a large brick house with a wide front porch. The pulsing lights from the cruiser cast a surreal glow, as though all was not exactly as seen.

The knot in the pit of Lillian’s stomach tightened and she swallowed against the acid that rose in her throat.

Three men were on the porch, all staring at her. Coated in blue, they appeared bloodless and monster-like.

If I step out of the car, there will be no turning back. God, what should I do?

Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to be back in Cleveland.