Bad Memory Page 21

  “Stop it!” Rose yelled. She jumped to her feet. Lunged at her mother and shoved her hard against the wall. Barb slid to the floor, her bony chest heaving under the clingy material of her green Lycra minidress.

  “It was me, okay?” Rose said, pulling Rue close to her again. “I did it.”

  Barb glanced at the dead body, then back at Rose.

  “What did you do?” she demanded. “Lure him in here? Try to seduce him?”

  “He tried to rape me.”

  “You little whore,” Barb spat.

  “You’re the only whore around here,” Rose yelled. “The whole town knows it. I bet you don’t even know his name.”

  The spiteful expression on Barb’s face turned to shame, and she looked away.

  “He tried to rape me, Mom,” Rose whispered. “Why do you think he had a knife?”

  Barb pulled her knees up to her chin, buried her face in her arms, and cried like a baby for what felt like a long time. Her slim frame rattled with the force of the sobs. Eventually, her bony shoulders stilled, and she fell silent.

  Rose said, “We need to call 911.”

  Barb looked up. Her eyes were red and swollen. Her cheeks sooty with mascara. She looked a decade older all of a sudden.

  “No,” she said calmly, her voice raw. “No police.”

  “But I told you what happened. You do believe me, don’t you?”

  “I believe you, but the cops won’t. All they’ll see is a dead body in a house belonging to a drunken piece of trash. They’ll pin this on me.”

  “I’ll tell them what happened. I’ll tell them what he tried to do to me.”

  Barb smiled sadly. “Did he beat you up? Cut you with the knife? Leave his seed inside you?”

  Rose shook her head.

  Barb went on, “Then they won’t believe you. Even if he had done all those things, they still wouldn’t believe you.” She laughed bitterly. “Trust me; I know.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We get rid of him,” Barb said. “That’s what we do.”

  35

  JESSICA

  “What happened next?” Jessica asked.

  They had relocated to the privacy of Rose’s room, the woman understandably reluctant to share her story in a public area, within earshot of a father and his two young daughters. The room was basic but clean and tidy. Rose’s clothing hung pressed and ready to wear in the closet; a dog-eared paperback and reading glasses were the only personal items on the nightstand. There was no mess and no clutter, but Jessica had spotted the two empty wine bottles in the trash can and wondered how well Rose was really coping.

  There was no table, chairs, or even a bureau, so they both perched on the edge of two neatly made-up queen beds and faced each other across the small space between them.

  Rose said, “We rolled him off the bed onto the floor. My mom dragged him by the arms along the hallway and outside into the front yard, where his pickup was parked. We removed his sale stock from the truck and stored it in the garage for several weeks before burning the lot along with his wallet and driver’s license. The house on Perry Street was fairly isolated, but we didn’t want to risk lighting a fire in the middle of the night. Between the three of us, we managed to bundle him into the space we’d cleared on his truck’s flatbed. It was not an easy task, I can tell you. Took us around a half hour and a lot of sweat and energy.

  “We drove out to some wasteland, and my mom spent another hour digging, while Rue and I kept watch for any headlights. We wrapped the body in plastic trash bags and rolled it into the hole in the ground. Covered it with dirt and prayed the grave wouldn’t be disturbed by wild animals.

  “Then we drove the pickup to Devil’s Drop, wiped every inch of it with bleach, released the hand brake, and rolled the truck off the edge. The crash when it landed at the bottom of the canyon was so loud we were sure the whole of Southern California must have heard it.”

  “But no one ever found out?” Jessica asked.

  Rose shook her head. “A few weeks later, my mom heard the cops had been asking about Manners in some local bars, but nothing ever came of it.”

  “Wasn’t Barb worried someone might remember her leaving the bar with Manners the night he vanished?”

  “They hadn’t been drinking together,” Rose explained. “They’d been in different bars. Manners picked her up by the side of the road when she tried to hitch a ride back to Hundred Acres. I guess they’d both struck out trying to get laid earlier in the evening and settled for each other. Or so Barb thought. I assume he’d asked if she had any kids and thought he’d hit the jackpot when she said yes.”

  Rose went on, “The next time I heard Clayton Manners’s name was when those construction workers pulled him from the ground in late ’87, and the cops eventually figured out who he was. By then, Rue was in prison, and my mom was dead. I sold the house on Perry Street and left for Arizona soon after the body was discovered.”

  “You never told Rue about him being found?”

  “No. She had been through enough already.”

  “When I spoke to Rue on the telephone earlier today, she claimed she’d never heard of Clayton Manners. Didn’t react at all until I mentioned the clothing he was wearing.”

  Rose said, “I think she repressed a lot of what happened the night he died. It would have been traumatic enough for anyone to deal with, let alone a ten-year-old kid. She was never the same after that night. For a long time, she was withdrawn, wouldn’t speak to anyone. Then she started acting out and being disruptive. You already know how she went off the rails when she was a teenager, boozing and taking drugs, but she never once mentioned Clayton Manners or what she did to him. I started to believe she’d buried the memories a whole lot deeper than we were able to bury his body. So deep, she didn’t know where to find them anymore. For her sake, I hoped that was the case anyway.”

  Jessica said, “You told her to put all her bad thoughts into a box, lock it, and throw away the key.”

  Rose was surprised. “Yes, I did. How did you know?”

  “Rue spoke about it during her interview with Dr. Ted Blume, shortly after her arrest. What about you, Rose? Were you able to lock those memories in a box and throw away the key?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know about Jed Lockerman and his broken nose. I also know about the guy in Randy’s who ended up with scalding coffee all over his baby-making parts.”

  “You’re right,” Rose said. “I was never able to forget, not like Rue was. For years, I couldn’t stand the thought of anyone touching me. Was terrified of being alone with a man. Moving to Arizona and escaping the ghosts of Hundred Acres was the best thing I ever did.” She smiled. “Bob was a coworker, and we became friends over time. He was the gentlest, kindest, and most patient man I’d ever met. Between the love and support of my husband, and the help of a very good therapist, I eventually got better—but it was a long and difficult journey.”

  “Does your husband know about Clayton Manners?”

  “He knows about the attempted rape. That’s all. The official story is, between the three of us, we managed to fight him off, he fled, and was never seen or heard of again.”

  “I need to ask you a difficult question now.”

  Rose smiled tightly. “And here was me thinking we’d just been shooting the breeze until now.”

  “When Rue confessed to the murders of Lucas and Megan, did you believe she was confusing the events at Devil’s Drop with Clayton Manners’s death?”

  “To begin with, no. There was a lot of evidence against Rue after Devil’s Drop—the murder weapon, the blood on her dress, the eyewitness placing her near the scene around the time of the murders. All things I still can’t explain. At first, it didn’t even occur to me that Devil’s Drop and Clayton Manners could be connected. After a while, when Rue told me about the flashbacks and nightmares, it did seem possible she was confusing the two incidents.”

  “Those flashbacks and nightmares were a
major contributory factor to Rue’s confession,” Jessica pointed out. “Don’t you think you should have talked it over with her? Told the cops that her memories of Devil’s Drop were not reliable and could have been related to something else entirely?”

  “What was I supposed to say to the cops? ‘Hey, you know those two murders you think my sister committed? Well, here’s another one to add to the list.’ I don’t think so, Jessica. Please believe me when I tell you I agonized for weeks, months, years over the best thing to do. In the end, I truly believed telling the authorities the truth about Clayton Manners would only have made a very bad situation even worse.”

  “For yourself, you mean,” Jessica said. “Things couldn’t really have gotten much worse for Rue. She was already on death row.”

  Rose said, “I guess I always hoped something would turn up to prove she was innocent of the Devil’s Drop murders. Clayton Manners, though? There would’ve been no way out of that one. It’s like my mom said all those years ago—who would have believed us?”

  “You really don’t think Rue killed Lucas and Megan?” Jessica asked. “You said it yourself; the evidence against her is pretty damning.”

  “I can’t explain the knife or the dress or how she managed to walk away from that place with barely a scratch on her. But I know my sister, and I know, in my heart, she wasn’t capable of what they said she did. Especially not to Lucas and Megan. Sure, she was troubled and wild, but deep down, she was a good person. Still is a good person.”

  “Why ask me to take on this job, Rose? Pay me to dig into the past when you must have known there was a chance I’d find out about Clayton Manners.”

  “It’s like I said when we spoke on Friday. I owe her.”

  Jessica nodded. “I guess I understand now what you meant.”

  “Exactly.” Rose smiled sadly. “Rue saved my life, and it destroyed her own.”

  36

  JESSICA

  The digital numbers on the dash glowed bright green in the gloom of the truck’s cab as Jessica parked in front of the trailer.

  It was 10:08. Most of the four-hour journey back to Hundred Acres had been spent thinking about Rue Hunter. About how an act of bravery, born out of unconditional love for her big sister, had robbed a little girl of any chance of a normal life.

  But did the tragic events of one night in 1979 mean that same little girl had grown up to be a cold-blooded killer eight years later?

  Jessica didn’t think so.

  She no longer believed Rue Hunter was responsible for the murders of Lucas James and Megan Meeks. But if not her—then who? Rue would soon be put on a bus to San Quentin, where the death chamber awaited her. Time was fast running out to come up with answers.

  Jessica turned off the engine and climbed out of the truck, her head still full of Rue Hunter and Lucas James and Megan Meeks. As she approached the trailer, a feeling of unease washed over her like unexpected summer rainfall. In the half light from the street, she could see the Airstream’s door was not fully closed. Not quite ajar but not flush against the doorframe either, like it should be.

  She pulled the Baby Glock from her bag and approached the trailer slowly, her sneakers silent on the packed dirt. The window shades were up, and the overhead light inside was off, but the thick darkness beyond the glass was pierced by a flickering brightness, like the frantic beam of a miniflashlight.

  Jessica held her gun hand up in front of her face. It was steady, not even a hint of a tremor. Good. She huffed out a breath, quietly pulled opened the door, and slipped quickly into the room, leading with the weapon. She hit the light switch.

  Dylan was sitting at the dinette table, his cell phone in his hand. He glanced up. The smile on his face froze when he found himself staring at the barrel of a gun.

  “Jeez, Jessica,” he said, his eyes widening. “Can you please not point that thing at me?”

  “Dylan,” she breathed, lowering the weapon. She dropped the Baby Glock into her bag. Dumped the bag on the seat. “What the hell are you doing in my trailer sitting in the dark?”

  He held up the phone. “I was watching YouTube videos while waiting for you.”

  And drinking her beer, too, by the looks of it. A half-full bottle of Budweiser stood next to three empty ones on the table.

  “You didn’t think to ask before just letting yourself in?”

  “Do I need permission to visit my girlfriend now?”

  “When it involves breaking into my home, yes, you do. Especially so soon after someone else broke in.”

  “Ah, shit, Jessica. I didn’t think. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “How did you get in? I had a new lock installed.”

  “Mrs. Sugarman let me in with the new key you left her. She thought it was romantic that I wanted to surprise you.”

  Jessica eyed the bottles of beer. Her beer.

  “Yeah, real romantic.”

  He frowned. “Mrs. Sugarman didn’t know anything about the break-in, though.”

  Jessica sighed. “You told her about that?”

  “Sure, why wouldn’t I? Why didn’t you tell her?”

  “She’s an older lady who lives alone—that’s why. I didn’t want to worry her. Whoever was here, in this trailer, was after me or something belonging to me. It had nothing to do with Sylvia; I’m absolutely sure of it. Now the poor woman is going to be jumping at every little sound she hears.”

  Dylan’s frown deepened. “If you truly believe someone is out to get you, Jessica, then I really think you ought to seriously consider what I said about moving in to my place.”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s way too soon, for a start.”

  “Too soon?” Dylan threw his hands up in the air in exasperation, almost knocking over the half-full beer bottle. “We’ve been dating for six months.”

  “Exactly. Six months is nothing.”

  “When is going to be the right time? After a year together? Two years?”

  “Never,” Jessica said quietly.

  Dylan pushed himself unsteadily out of the seat and stood swaying in front of her.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means I don’t plan on sticking around in Hundred Acres any longer than I have to,” Jessica said. “I never did. You and me getting together doesn’t change anything.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying maybe we should call time on whatever this is. Maybe it’s better to do it now rather than later.”

  “Why, Jessica? We’ve got a good thing going on.”

  He took a step toward her and reached out to stroke her cheek.

  She turned her face away.

  “No, Dylan, we don’t. It’s not working. At least, not for me anyway.”

  “Is this about him?” Anger flared in Dylan’s eyes suddenly. “You’re throwing me away like a piece of trash so you can be with him, huh?”

  “What? Who?”

  “Don’t give me the ‘Little Miss Innocent’ act, Jessica. It really doesn’t suit you.”

  Jessica was genuinely baffled. But one thing she did know was that she didn’t like the sudden hard tone of his voice or the direction the conversation was headed. Not one little bit.

  “I have no idea what—or who—you’re talking about.”

  “‘MC.’” He made bunny-ear fingers around the initials. “That’s who I’m talking about.”

  MC?

  Matt Connor?

  Jessica hadn’t seen Connor in months. Not since Eagle Rock. Not since moving to Hundred Acres and dating Dylan. Why was he bringing up Matt Connor now? Then she remembered. The text.

  “You’ve been reading my messages?”

  Dylan looked away, his jaw clenched, wouldn’t answer her.

  “I asked you a question.” Jessica could feel white-hot anger building inside her. “Have you been going through my cell and reading my messages?”

  “Not until you started cheating on
me with another guy.”

  “And where did this ridiculous cheating theory come from?”

  “I was with you when you got the text, remember? I saw the look on your face when you read it. Surprise and then, I don’t know, happiness or delight or something. I don’t think you heard a word I said to you for the rest of the evening. Your mind was clearly on whoever had sent that damn text. So, yes, when you went to the bathroom, I read it. Who is he, Jessica?”

  She ignored the question. “How did you manage to access my messages? My cell phone has a security code.”

  “Oh, come on, Jessica. We’ve been dating for six months. You don’t think I’ve seen you tap in that code a million times? It wouldn’t have been too hard to figure out anyway. Your birthday? Seriously? You’re as bad as my dad.”

  “Have you been following me?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “I thought I saw your car in LA a couple of days ago when I was meeting Pryce. Did you follow me?”

  Dylan didn’t answer, but the expression on his face told her everything she needed to know.

  “Did you break into my trailer too? Snoop around in my things looking for proof of this so-called affair?”

  “Of course I didn’t break into your trailer.”

  “Let me rephrase the question—did you use a key to gain access to my home when I wasn’t here? You knew where Sylvia kept the spare.”

  “The whole town knows where Sylvia keeps that key. It’s not exactly an original hiding place.”

  Jessica didn’t know whether to believe him or not. Wasn’t sure she even cared anymore if he was telling her the truth.

  She said, “Okay, I think we’re done here. I have work to do. You should leave now.”

  “You’re throwing me out?”

  “I’m asking you politely to go home. Go sleep off your three and a half beers. We can talk tomorrow.”

  “Is he coming over?” Dylan demanded. “Is that it? You trying to get me out of the way so you can screw him?”

  “Just go.”

  “You’re nothing but a cheating whore.”

  Jessica felt like she’d been slapped. It was a side to Dylan she’d never seen before. But no way was she going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how rattled she was.