Something big was coming. Why else would she go to such extremes to be nice instead of ordering me off the property?
“In that case, we both should,” I said, then waited to speak until she had complied. “Did your husband mention that I run a small investigation agency? My uncle started it, but now that he’s dead-”
She waved me off. “The way this works is, I talk and you listen-for now anyway. I hope that doesn’t offend you. I’m about to share something I’ve never told anyone. Not out of guilt. I want us to trust each other. Understand?”
“I think you’re rushing things. We’ve barely met.”
“In a way, but not really. The law firm I pay way too much money has a team of investigators, so I know more about you and your mother than you realize. Don’t worry, I’ll leave Loretta out of it-for now. This is about us, you and me. There’s something we have in common. Something that if a woman hasn’t experienced it, she can’t understand. Are you with me now?”
I sensed where the conversation was heading. Lonnie Chatham had read about my past. Now she was probing, testing for empathy, before risking details about her past and, possibly, a murder she had committed more than twenty years ago.
SEVENTEEN
Lonnie already suspected Reggie had told me what happened on that New Year’s Eve night long ago. Perhaps she also suspected he’d shown me the cement weir where she’d left a handprint and signed her name. I had neither confirmed nor denied what the chauffeur had confided, but she would know if I appeared too eager to talk.
I said, “Like every woman, I’ve had experiences I don’t feel comfortable sharing. I’m not sure what you’re asking.”
Her glare accused me of playing dumb. “A traumatizing event. The kind most women don’t have to deal with, thank god. What happened to you made the news, for christ’s sake. Does that help?”
I let down my guard in a visible way by unfolding my arms. “It’s not an easy subject,” I said, “but I figured that’s what you were getting at. This has to do with the man who attacked me. You read about what happened.”
“The man you shot, yeah, but only wounded. Thank god. I was starting to think you’re one of those Xanax twits who needs to be coaxed like a child. I want to ask you something, and there’s a reason. Did you shoot the guy-I forget his name-did you shoot him after he…? What I mean is, did he get his hands on you first?”
“He tried,” I said, aware of what she wanted to know.
“But he didn’t…?”
“No,” I said. “Never touched me. I didn’t give him a chance.”
A glossy fingernail tapped another cigarette from the pack. “It must have been close, though, if you’re reluctant to talk about it. Consider yourself one of the lucky ones. Rape is a hell of a sad way for a girl to lose her virginity. I’m not talking about you, by the way. From the stories-you were never quoted in the articles-but they gave the impression you were so scared, you might have pulled the trigger accidentally. Is that true or just some bullshit they fed the jury?”
She was seeking an ally regarding her own attacker, I realized-an event that had taken place decades ago. “Every person has a right to defend herself,” I said. “Guilt doesn’t apply when you have no choice.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
“I hoped that’s what you wanted to hear.”
Lonnie Chatham’s arrogance vanished, replaced by a surprising sadness and vulnerability. “What I was hoping for was, someone who’d talk openly. We get so few chances, but it’s obviously none of my business. I guess I’m as wrong about you as you are about me.”
I reconsidered, while she reached to gather her purse and cigarettes. “Hold on a minute,” I said. “My attorney told me to never discuss it, but I’ll tell you this much: pulling that trigger was no accident.”
This earned her attention, and a wilted smile. “Thank you. I know that wasn’t easy. I hate to press, but are you willing to tell me a little more?”
I said, “Most of what happened was in the papers. The guy we’re talking about had assaulted several women. I’d been hired to track down a girl who was still running from him. He caught me in an open area-my boat had broken down and… well, it’s a long story. When he came at me, I aimed for his thigh, hoping to knock him down. The pistol was new to me; I’ve spent a lot of time at the range since then. Anyway, I shot high and the round clipped his pelvis. Afterward, I could’ve killed him. Maybe I should’ve.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“It wasn’t a matter of having no choice, although I didn’t, I suppose. That’s not the way my mind processed it at the time. He came at me; I shucked a round, took aim, and fired. No… Truth is, that’s not the way it went. First, after I got the gun up and steady, I told him I would count to five if he didn’t back off.”
“You actually did that? Counted out loud?” She lit the cigarette and sat back, enjoying herself.
“He had to be warned,” I said. “Yes, I counted. Well… I started at five but skipped to the end because he said something so crude, I won’t repeat it. That’s when I shot him.”
“Skipped some numbers, you mean? Like what? Five, four-bang? That’s so damn cool.”
“I think I made it to three. Then I had to make another decision when he get got up and hobbled off. He was yelling things; threats, mostly. I could’ve shot him in the back, but… I don’t know, it didn’t seem right. On hindsight, I’m glad. I might be in jail now.”
“Jesus, Hannah, that is so very, very ballsy. Five… four… three, and you did it.” Somewhere in the woman’s mind, the scene was playing out as if in a theater. “Hold on, tell me the truth-you aimed at his thigh? The chest area, center mass, that’s what I was taught. Are you sure you weren’t aiming at his crotch? I can see a girl like you doing that. First, make the bastard wait while you count down from five, then pow. You shoot his balls off.”
“I threatened him,” I said, not smiling, “but I didn’t do it to be cruel. I was as scared as I was mad. I just wanted him to go away.” Before she could ask more questions, I said, “Was it the same for you when you shot Raymond Caldwell?”
The question surprised her, but not as much as I’d hoped.
“Who told you that? Was it Martinez, or that little worm, Reggie? No matter, they weren’t there that night. They don’t know a damn thing about what really happened. But I am curious about how you came up with Raymond’s name.”
“I started to tell you,” I said. “My uncle opened an investigation agency for his wealthy clients-they had to be careful about hiring part-time help. He was a detective in Tampa before he went into fishing and was good enough at both to open a small office. I worked for him all through school, so it wasn’t hard to narrow down what might’ve happened. You, a college cheerleader; him, a football star who was about to stand trial for sexual assault, but the football star disappeared. The timing seemed about right. Can I ask you something?”
“Fire away.”
“Was a drug of some type involved?”
“In those days? Always.” Her smirk suggested I was naïve. “You know Harney was in the pot-hauling business. They brought in all sorts of stuff on those boats. Your mother was, too, from what I’ve heard.”
I refused to take the bait. “This is different. The typical date rape drugs didn’t come along until later, but I found articles on a dangerous one called Devil’s Breath. There are other names. It’s a powder; tasteless, and looks like cocaine. If that’s what happened, you-no woman, I mean-has a reason to feel guilt for what she might have done to get away.”