Eyes shooting fire, Eddie glowered at us for a few seconds, then muttered a curse before storming down the steps to climb into his mangy pickup truck.
He peeled off in a cloud of gravel.
Trace said nothing as he took my hand and led the way up the stairs. I switched on my phone’s voice record app, then discreetly tucked it into my breast pocket.
Once inside, we went down a short hallway to the master suite. Jackson Gray had retained ownership of this three-bedroom rambler, staying here whenever he visited from Roanoke.
Like the rest of the house, his bedroom hadn’t been cleaned in months. A horrible stench hit me like a fist. It smelled of rotted food, trash, and body odor. Soiled dishes were stacked on every available surface. Trash overflowed the receptacle. Clothes lay in piles.
Mouth agape, I took in the fetid surroundings. A king-sized bed dominated the left side. Its posts and frame looked to be made of the same mahogany as the floor and walls. Three bay windows lay hidden behind drawn wooden shutters, and the lack of natural lighting made the room feel like a crypt.
The loud flush of a toilet gave me a start. My godfather shuffled out of an adjoining bathroom wearing a baggy tan robe and scuffed leather slippers. Looking haggard, if not emaciated, Sheriff Gray ambled past us on unsteady feet. He’d lost a quarter of his body weight. His face was skull-like with deep-socketed eyes. And, dear God, he was drunk. The gamy scent that trailed him confirmed my suspicions. He smelled of Vick’s Vapor Rub, unwashed flesh, and booze. He looked like the room—unkempt and in dire need of a scrub brush.
He didn’t seem surprised that we’d come. If anything, he acted indifferent. I hadn’t seen him in more than six months, and as appearances went, his had changed for the worst. Silver hair spiked his pale crown. His moss-green eyes had turned so gray they almost matched the shaggy pelt of hair that peeked through the V of his robe.
He climbed on the mattress. “Sears warned me you’d come. Surprised to see you with him, though.” He pointed me toward a seat. Trace he ignored.
Dirty clothes littered the chair by his bed. I brushed them to the floor with my purse and sat, trying to keep the revulsion from my expression.
As a child, I’d ridden in his big squad car—me, with little girl’s eyes. Him, with a holstered gun, silver badge, and brass buttons adorning his barrel-chested frame. He’d been larger than life in that uniform, an invincible force that could do no wrong, but this wasn’t the indomitable man whose shoulders I’d ridden. This was a defeated shadow, a mortal who was not long for this world.
Sheriff Jackson Gray was dying.
Whatever latent anger I’d carried up until now vanished. Shock and soul-deep sadness had taken its place. I ached to throw my arms around him, to hold him and tell him I loved him, but this wasn’t the time for that. This was the time for answers. There was too much at stake.
I would have to save the grieving for another day.
Trace stood behind me. His hands curled over the backrest, so hard I could actually feel the tension in his grip. “You’ve been here all this time, haven’t you, old man?”
“Not that it’s any of your business.”
I cleared my throat and ignored the sorrow squeezing my heart. “So what’s with the Roanoke phone number I’ve been calling?”
“It’s an answering service,” Uncle Jackson said. His gaze skipped between Trace and me. “As y’all can see, my time is short.” He sat back, folded his bony arms across his sunken chest, and flashed a tilted smile chock-full of dark yellow teeth. “Prostate cancer. That’s why I’m holed up here. Spending my last days doing what I love. Watching TV and drinking. Living as I please, in peace. Now if you got questions, feel free to ask, but I don’t have to answer them.”
“You hypnotized me,” I said, trying to deliver my words with some semblance of calm. “I know it, and so do you. If you want peace, you’ll talk. You’ll right this wrong and meet Jesus with a clear conscience. Otherwise, you’ll not get rid of me. As I’m sure you’ve seen, I’m very tenacious.”
Trace rounded my chair. His eyes glittered with animosity. He snatched the hypnosis tape from his peacoat and shook the cassette before the sheriff’s suspicious eyes. “The proof’s right here.” He stuffed the tape back into his pocket, patted it. “We also paid Valene Campbell a visit. She says you strong-armed her into keeping mum about Shannon.”
Uncle Jackson erupted into a coughing fit until he’d hacked up a glob of green phlegm, which he spat into one of the many filthy glasses on his nightstand. The sight turned my stomach. Trace squeezed my shoulder when the sheriff grabbed a flask from a robe pocket. Three swallows later, he burped into his sleeve, then stared hard at the place where Trace’s hand rested.
I quirked a brow, daring him to comment. “Just tell me the truth. I don’t want to sit here all day.”
“Everything I done, I done for good reason.”
“So you admit it?” I asked, amazed.
He plucked a tissue from a Kleenex box on the bed and mopped his nose in a brisk gesture. “What the hell? I got nothing to lose,” he said with a huff. “‘Cause if you tell anybody, I’ll just deny it. Nobody’d believe you. Not after your shameful escapades with this murdering scum. They’ll just think you’ve lost your mind. All the mess you been stirring up. Your little trip to Cheltenham Manor. The accusations against your family. Siding with Dawson against my boy—”
“Your boy is a knuckle-draggin’ ape,” Trace barked. “You framed me to get revenge on my family, you gutless prick.”
Uncle Jackson sneered. The stroke he’d suffered two years ago had ravaged the nerves on the right side of his face, making his smiles—on the rare occasions he gave them—appear frightfully cartoonish. “You’re as stupid as ever,” he said.
“What’s the truth?” I asked. “That’s assuming you even know the meaning of the word anymore.”
He glared first at Trace, then back at me, his angry eyes steady. “You think I’d risk my career for a grudge? Not damn likely.” He burped into his fist. “Your daddy was my best friend, Shannon. Since high school. I stepped in when some stupid jocks tried to kick his ass. A strange alliance, considering our class differences, but Harrison Bradford grew to be the best friend I ever had. He was there when I went MIA in Nam. He made the calls. To congressmen. Senators. Hell, I pay my debts. What I done for you, I done for him.”
“How do lies honor my father’s memory?” I asked.
He wheezed a breath. “You had a diary and you drew lotsa pictures.” His expression grew sad. “We ended up burning everything.”
“For God’s sake, why?” I demanded.
“I had no choice,” Uncle Jackson said. His voice crackled with phlegm. “Your prints were on the murder weapon.”
I did a double take. “What?”
“Both your prints were on the spade, sweetheart.” He coughed again. “Any idea how yours got there?”
Trace was quick to answer. “She grabbed it when she found her mama on the floor. It cut her knee, so she tossed it. What the hell does the spade have to do with some stupid pictures?”
“More than you think, boy.”
“All you had to do was ask her why she touched the damn thing,” Trace hammered back. “Why go through all this smoke and mirrors bullshit when a simple question would’ve sufficed?”
I stared, speechless. A sick feeling festered inside me like gangrene.
“It wasn’t just the prints, you ignoramus,” Jackson growled. He blotted his sweaty head with a flaky tissue ball. “It was everything. Her diary was filled with…with things that fancy lawyer of yours could’ve used against her.”
“Like?”
“Twenty-seven letters to Jesus Christ asking Him to do a Job on Lilith,” he snapped fast and furious.