PROLOGUE

At twilight, the gray-haired man drove through the open gates of SOUTHERN ROCK AND LIMESTONE, parked his night blue Chevy truck inside the entrance, and dismounted. Florida rancher, Claude Collette, picked his way across the rutted truck-torn road, threading along the random piles of rubble and around abandoned weed-strewn mounds of dirt to the excavation’s edge. He strolled along the rim in contemplation, laying a box and implements beside him, and moving ahead with care a foot or two. He stopped a few safe feet before the edge and scanned the distance with its profile of cranes and dunes and piles of rock. He waited. Though the sun had not yet set, a melon moon crept from the horizon. The air was soft with autumn. To fill the time, he gazed into the darkening depth beyond the steep and rugged drop-off. Opaque, unnatural green, the shadowed expanse below him had the unearthly appearance of a formation from another world.

The water’s depth was 70 feet. A solid bed of Cretaceous rocks, limestone, anhydrite, and dolomite, rested where once they flowed many thousand years ago. Then, seas were high and Florida was an island. More water came and the land was awash with the limestone and sea creatures. When the island joined the mainland, the sea fell back and came again and the underlying strata formed in layers of peat and sand and stone. After that, men came to dig, hollowing a base. A spring was tapped and flooded it with water. The pit grew deeper.

Lulled into inattention in his musing, Collette fancied all the changes to this land. As he did, without a sound, a figure stepped behind him and moved ever closer without triggering the rancher’s aging ears. The figure didn’t speak. It paused within feet, reached forward with both hands square upon Collette’s back, full force, and pushed him into the unmoving, silent water of the pit. The old man couldn’t swim. He sank. The figure scanned below the rim for confirmation. Collette was gone, disappeared below the dark, impenetrable water. The figure moved away.

CHAPTER ONE

It was the last hour of Friday afternoon. Outside, the white blaze of Florida summer had deepened to gold. Through the live oaks, sun played on the stained glass at the window, dappling the wall. Amber light burnished her walnut desk. Caught up in the colors, Shelby Wallace sighed, shook her arms to shed stress from the day’s tales of anger and pain, death and divorce, and stretched in her chair. Segovia strummed on the radio. Psychology books huddled like sports fans on the bamboo étagère—Freud, Adler, Jung, and others—in silent support.

Her DSM lay on the desk where she had used it to diagnose her 3:00 client. DIAGNOSTIC AND STATISTICAL MANUAL OF MENTAL DISORDERS. She wouldn’t need it for the session to come. She had treated this woman before. Chere Blanton wasn’t crazy nor was this new problem severe, so Wallace had been told. A situational crisis, a relationship thing. Just a typical problem—an individual, troubled, frustrated, grieving, yet familiar—nothing Shelby hadn’t handled before. One easy buffer between her professional week and her personal life. In the lull of the traffic outside on 301, she had ten more minutes of calm before this final hour of the day. Relaxed, as she was, in the moment, she wasn’t aware her prized intuition had gone missing. She had no idea what was coming.

Psychologist, Shelby Wallace, had chosen Brunell for escape. Disillusioned by divorce and the agency politics of the city, she had found this brick house on the main road through town. The lower floor was her office. She lived in the apartment above. The county seat of Quarry County, Brunell was as far in its mood from her “stormy, husky, brawling” Chicago of the 70’s as one could get. No longer hooked on the pace of the city where Carl Sandburg‘s words had enticed her and a marriage had kept her, cabin fever had urged her southward to Tampa. From Tampa, she’d come to Brunell.

The building sat on the edge of the highway which, before the advent of interstates, had been a main route through Florida. Dotted by towns like Ocala, Wildwood and Starke, 301 still had a few vestige gift shops and orange stands that served as relics of the road’s former days. Across 301 on the old Seaboard track, the CSX trains ran barely 40 yards from her door. In a lone practice with no partners to consider or administrators meddling, Shelby lived a much simpler existence than in Tampa. She chose this rural stretch of mid-Florida, in a state manic for development, where she could design her days as she pleased—long or short, disciplined or indulgent.

She stood and glanced at the arrangement of small antique mirrors on the wall. Dr. Wallace peered back several times. Of average height and still trim, one might say, she saw deep brown hair streaked by several sun-lightened strands near her face. They were blonde, not gray, she was sure. Not athletic like a female “jock,” but with a quick response that implied physicality. “Intuitive, empathic, and fearless,” she had been told; fearless, that is, at problems of others, not always fearless about her own. But, she was still working on that. The flipped coin of this feedback was “stubborn, driven, and relentless,” like one of those rat terriers Grandpa Zerbe had kept in his barn. Way too serious, she thought, and, at times, too impulsive.

Her clock read four-fifty. An industrious squirrel gathering nuts for the winter ran up and down and peered through the window. Segovia gave way to an etude by Chopin. Listening to music, all kinds, was a custom. In her office, in her car, it heightened her mood or gave her a method of transport to a new frame of mind. And, if music was her refreshment, art was the entree. Since childhood, her hobby was painting, and a habit grew—to turn casual scenes into art works in her mind, designs of her own or the Masters. Like a beginning typist who might practice in thoughts, Shelby painted in hers.

A jasmine candle on her side table flickered as she turned to the weekend to come. In those last minutes left, her thoughts wandered to seeing, at this time in her 40’s, the first love of her youth. This was someone she knew, someone she liked. Yet, should she go down that road again. Men took extra effort to deal with. Still, she thought of the past. Cool blues and soft kisses, prom gowns, and corsages, and aftershave on a beardless cheek. Losing her virginity in the back seat of his car . . .

Suddenly, a commotion broke through her daydream as Chere burst into the room. The woman stopped just as quickly. Gold purse clutched to her chest, Chere groped in its contents. Though it had been some years since Wallace had seen her, Chere still had that same overripe body and that sweet, baby doll face Shelby remembered. Her fair skin was flushed, her mouth a pearly, pink gash. Sweat dotted her forehead, and her blonde hair fell in ringlets. She lurched forward. Her eyes were un-focused. She blurted, “He’s going to hurt me, Dr. Wallace. I know it.” Chere leaned on the desk.

“Well, hello, Chere. I see that you found me.” Shelby smiled, and grabbing a tissue, gave it to her. “Here! Take a breath. Sit!” She gestured to a chair. “Do you mean Darley? What’s up? I thought you two were finished.”

“He’s stalking me. Came up here last night.” Chere gulped and continued in bursts. “Out there for hours. I saw his damned Mustang. Stands outside the house. Playing his music. That same friggin’ tape of his over and over.” She dabbed at her face. Her voice quivered. “I called the cops.”

Chere still stood. Wallace sat down and allowed her to talk.

“He’s just like he was when you saw him. You know? He won’t let me go. Since I come up here. At Daddy’s. He’s up here, too. All the time. I can’t turn around.”

Chere ranted on in her Southern drawl. She had moved near Brunell from Hillsborough County four years ago just after she had seen Wallace, she went on to say. “Left Darley Ray whining down there, and I started divorce.” She sniffled. “I moved back home with Daddy, ah, to help run his business. Then Dar starts coming around. Put up with it first because I thought he would stop when the divorce went on through. But he comes right up to the door. All duded up in his jeans and his boots. Mama would send him away.” She paused, seemed to study the room for a moment, and looked back at Shelby. “I thought that would stop it because he had respect for her over the years—you know what I mean—called her ‘Miss Rene’ and ‘Ma’am.’ Did what she asked. Like that. And she was real sick then, like a rail.”

Chere sniffled again and eased onto the edge of a chair. In the way she was housed in her tight black crepe dress, Wallace thought, Chere had a look that a man might want to lurk on—a Playboy glossy with pouty lips and a voluptuous body.

By this time, Shelby had questions, but she let Chere continue. There was little of concern at this point. She’d seen this woman hysterical before.

Chere paused, patted her nose, then looked for a long moment at Shelby, weighed her thoughts, and went on. “And then he starts stalling. David said ... ah, that’s Mr. Kingston, my attorney, says Dar is ‘dragging his feet.’ He gives lame excuses not to settle.”

Chere described a long period of offers and refusals where Darley would call her to talk and then ask her to “try it again.” She would say, “No.” Then he’d “cry and hang on and whine like he used to,” she said.

Wallace had first met the Blantons over five years before in Hillsborough County, when they first dragged the law into their fights and ended up in her office. Darley came first.

He drove a big rig then, was tall, almost lanky, a wanna-be cowboy in his Western clothes, with a studded red shirt and tight jeans and sharp-toed black boots. He had brown wavy hair, soft blue eyes, and a boyish dimple on one cheek. He had stood out in Shelby’s mind over time because he was one of the first clients she’d seen in a diversion program she conducted for the State’s Attorney’s office for domestic violence cases. “Wasn’t fixin’ to hurt her,” he’d said, ducking his head, looking guilty. “Didn’t smack her or nothin’” was how he had put it. She “got in his face” and he “just stopped her. Just pushed her away.”

He had gone on to describe bouts of fighting, then making up, where at some point they’d yell and she’d claw him and he’d grab her hands. That time he both grabbed, then he’d pushed, and she fell over the coffee table behind her. She ended up in the hospital, bruised, with a sprain, and then informing police. Later Dar met with the group for the men and Chere wound up working with Wallace herself.

Chere continued. Her face had a less frantic look. She stopped sniffling and started with sighs. “I just want out. Got too much to handle. You know him, Dr. Wallace.” She tilted her head almost coyly. “Can’t you do something? Can’t you get him to leave me alone?”

“Chere, let’s stop here for a minute,” Shelby paused and stood. She thought it was time for a break. “Want some tea?”

Chere had calmed considerably now and leaned back in her chair. She nodded. Outside sounds broke into awareness. The traffic had started again. A truck down-shifted for the corner light, followed by a loud whoosh of brakes. Shelby walked to a table near the window, brewed tea, and returned. In the distance, a slow-moving freight train started through town, the roar growing as it came. Slowly, very slowly, it stormed past the office and moved through Brunell, as both women sat with cups of green tea in their hands.

“Let me understand, Chere. First of all, how did you find me again?”

“Talked to Smitty.” She meant one of the graduates of the Domestic Violence Diversion Program who had returned as a volunteer leader. “He said you were here.”

“So you now live in Quarry County with your Father and Mother? And you and Dar are still married?”

“Well, ah, married. Yeah, legally. Don’t feel married though.” Chere shifted, caressing her skirt. She cast her eyes out the window in thought. “Haven’t for years. I was sure he’d moved on. Had a girlfriend and everything.” She shot back to Shelby and sniped, “Lord, she was skinny. And young. Only eighteen.” At that, Chere smiled.

Though Wallace thought about probing Chere’s feelings, she decided that establishing the facts at this point would be the most grounding thing she could do. “What does your lawyer say?”

“He tells me to prove, ah, Dar is dangerous. That he’s a stalker.”

“And is he?”

“You know him, Dr. Wallace. You know how he is.”

“So is that why you came here, Chere, to prove that Darley’s a danger?”

“Well ... ah ...” She paused and covered her mouth with her fingers. “I came for, ah, therapy ... of course ... help, I mean. For you to help me ... with my feelings. But with Dar, too.”

“Has he hit you? Touched you in any way?”

“Ah, no, not exactly.” Chere chewed on her lip. “Not yet.”

“Has he threatened? Indicated he’d hurt you?”

“Well, no. Not that either.”

“Have you asked him to come here?”

“No! I don’t talk to him!” She bristled. “Dave, Mr. Kingston, said not to.”

Shelby felt they were traveling in circles. “What did you tell the police? And what did they say?”

Chere snorted. “You know how they are. By that time they got there, he was gone. Just asked a few questions. And took down some notes.” She grimaced.

“I urge you to contact them again. Get a restraining order if need be.”

“I don’t know ....” Chere squirmed.

Wallace leaned forward, softening her voice, “Chere, I can help you with your feelings, help work this through. But unless Darley comes here, there’s not much I can do about him. Perhaps your Attorney might let you send a letter requesting he come.” Wallace took a sip of her tea and stopped while she thought. Then, she asked. “What do your folks say? Are they helpful?”

Chere paled. She whispered, “They’re gone.”

“Gone?” Shelby inquired.

“Dead,” she replied very low.

“Oh, Chere, I’m sorry.” Shelby paused. “When?”

Chere bit her lips, speaking so low the psychologist strained forward to hear. “Daddy, last fall and Mama this year.” She set her tea on the end table beside her and placed her face in her hands. Her blonde curls fell onto her cheeks, a Brillo of tendrils. She moaned.

It was here that Wallace’s disquiet started. Words from her mentor, Dr. Nathan, played in her ears, “My dear, when you work with someone and feel a glitch in your body, pay attention! Your wisdom is speaking!” Then he would laugh. “Or you may have the flu.” As Chere rocked back and forth in her chair, Shelby felt the first indication of what Nathan had meant. A vague sense of misgiving grew.

Chere raised her head, pulled a tissue from the box on the desk, and began wiping her eyes. But they were already dry.

“What are you feeling now, Chere?”

“Well, a-a, I’m sad.” She declared.

“Was it sudden? Your parents?”

Chere lifted her cup from the table, took a sip, and spoke, her voice growing fainter again. “This time last year. Little later. November 18th.” She paused, recalling, “The week before Thanksgiving it was.” She dabbed at her nose. “Daddy didn’t come home. Mama put a call in to the Sheriff. They found his body next day. At the mine. He drowned.” She patted her hands on her dress. A strange choking sound grew in her throat and she stared straight ahead. Then she spoke, “I fainted ... at the funeral. But I got it together since then ... for the business. You know, the family show must go on.” She lifted her chin, looking stoic.

“What a shock for you, Chere.”

The woman said nothing then, lowered her head once more, and looked hard at the floor.

“It’s a mine, you say. And there’s water there?” Shelby asked.

“Yes. Damn lime pit,” Chere mumbled. “Out at the quarry.”

“I don’t know much about that sort of business. You say no one else saw him?”

“It was closed. After hours.” She still didn’t look up. “No one was there.”

“You must still be in pain,” Shelby said, offering comfort. “And your Mama, you say she passed away, too?”

“Just last month.” Then her tears came. “She gave up. Just couldn’t live without Daddy.” Gentle sobs shook Chere’s body as she stopped and gave in to her grief. Wallace rose from her desk, walked around, and placed her hand on Chere’s back. For some time, the woman cried soft, regular sounds; then they lessened, and she looked up at Shelby. Her make-up was smeared and she had circles under her eyes.

“Now, Chere, let’s clean out the wound.” Wallace left her and returned to her seat.

With some probing, Chere recounted the events of her year. Claude Collette had been buried on Thanksgiving Eve while SOUTHERN ROCK closed for the day. Chere had headaches and was depressed, so she said, for a month or more afterwards but she “tended to the books every day cause Mama was in no shape to do it.”

“You must miss him, Chere.” Wallace watched her for more tears. There were none.

Chere stole a “how’m I doing?” look at her like a child who peeks from a hiding place to see if she’ll be caught. “Well, he was my Daddy,” she said coldly. And all the time Dar was “hassling” her, too, on weekends especially, while her mother grew weaker. When she launched into “holdings,” and “rentals,” and “mineral rights,” Shelby found her thoughts wandering. A memory had started to nag.

Still, she went on with her questions. “And your mother was failing?”

“Just couldn’t sleep. She’d just roam.” Here Chere had more affect. Her feelings returned once again. “Or she’d sit up in her chair. With the light on. Or she’d clean. Or she’d cook. Till she wore out. Oh, God, Mama.”

For the rest of the hour, Chere rambled, mostly about her mother or Dar. When she started to tell the same stories over, Wallace suggested they meet again very soon. Chere agreed to come back the first of next week and rushed out the door.

Wallace sat in her chair for a moment to think. That Chere was dramatic, she had known from before, but she’d seen her express genuine feelings. This visit, Chere seemed contrived about her father and Dar, particularly, a Barbie in performance. Shelby’s recollection tugged her.

She stood up, took a key from her desk drawer and opened the door to her closet. At the back was a small fireproof file she had kept for important documents like her will and what confidential material she had retained. She unlocked it. In the top drawer was a folder labeled “Works in Progress.” The first sheets involved notes for a book she had published called MENDING MARRIAGE. She flipped past them to a second sheaf labeled DOMESTIC VIOLENCE for a work proposed but not published. Glancing down through potential chapters to “Seeds of Abuse,” she saw notes that read “Get written permission. Secure tapes.” She moved faster now. Opening the lower drawer, she reached in and pulled out a box full of audio tapes. She took it to her desk and picked through them until she found one that said “Chere Collette Blanton.” She placed it in her tape deck and scanned. Chere was speaking, “Darley Ray is ... just weak and he smothers me ....” And “he drives me insane ....”

Then Wallace heard her own voice, “What’s your mother like, Chere?”

“She’s a saint....”

Shelby moved to the edge of her seat.

“You haven’t mentioned your father.”

She continued to scan and stopped several times until she found what she had almost remembered.

“Daddy?” Chere sounded hard. “I wouldn’t throw him a lifeline if he was drowning!”

Coming Tuesday, July 13: Is There a Plot to Thicken?