Chapter 25

25

Metairie, New Orleans, Louisiana

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 16, 6:30 P.M.

"REVEREND BEAUCHAMP, ARE YOU listening to me?"

Alan winced at Mrs. Gregory's shrill tone. "Yes, ma'am. I've been listening to you." For hours, it seemed.

"No, you're not," she snapped. "You've been watching your phone. What could possibly be more important than the Christmas cantata? It's next week, Reverend, and the choir is not ready. The sets are not ready. We need another camera for broadcasting and the sound system is not working. I repeat—what could be more important than this?"

What could be more important? Just about everything.

Mainly the fact that he hadn't heard from Sage in hours. Sage should have finished off the Caulfields by now and checked in, but he hadn't called.

Nor had Dave Reavey, Alan's PI. He'd sent the man to shadow Sage, just to make sure Sage did what he was supposed to do. He'd told Reavey that he was worried about Sage's state of mind, that his grandson might be planning something terrible. His PI had bought the story, hook, line, and sinker. Reavey was one of Alan's most faithful parishioners and Alan had never questioned his loyalty.

But the PI hadn't checked in, either. Not by phone, text, or email, and that was unusual. Alan was anxious about Reavey's call, because that would trigger the in-person meeting with the PI to hand over any photos that might prove Sage's guilt. At which time, Alan would have to kill the PI. He'd shoot him in the head, making it painless, of course. He wasn't a monster.

And then he'd have to find a new PI, but that was a task for tomorrow. Eliminating the Caulfields was the task for today.

But there hadn't been any news reports about a fire in Merrydale. Alan had been surreptitiously watching the Baton Rouge local news on his phone, although not as surreptitiously as he'd thought, because Mrs. Gregory was still yammering about him not paying enough attention.

"Enough," Alan snapped. "That is enough."

Mrs. Gregory fell silent, her mouth open. "What?"

"I said that is enough. I'm very busy and you are the choir director. If the cantata isn't ready, then make it ready. Recruit friends. I don't care."

She straightened in her chair, expression indignant. "You don't care?"

He stared at her, refusing to allow her to further fray his nerves. "I do not care. I have a headache and I'm behind in nearly everything. Please. Go find someone to help you." He made a shooing motion with his hand, cognizant that he'd pay for his flippancy later.

Maybe he should shoot Mrs. Gregory in the head, too. It was very tempting.

But he couldn't do that. Could he?

No. He could not.

She stood, vibrating with anger. "I will pray for you, Reverend Beauchamp. I'll ask everyone to pray, because you are clearly going through a trial."

Wonderful. She was going to tell everyone that he was in an ugly mood.

She left his office with an indignant flounce, closing the door hard enough to make him wince. He exhaled, shaking out a few aspirin from the bottle in his desk drawer. It was nearly empty. His head had hurt a lot the past few weeks.

But he was almost on the other side of things. Sage would do what he needed to do and, even if Cora Winslow discovered her father's other clients, there would be no way to link the Caulfields to him. Therefore, no way to link the murder of Jack Elliot to him.

And if Sage doesn't do as he's told? Then what?

Alan couldn't think about that. He just couldn't. Once again he cursed the disease that was slowly robbing him of his eyesight. A year ago he would have driven to Merrydale himself.

The job would already have been done.

He'd be—

His cell phone buzzed and he immediately picked it up. Then frowned. There was no name on the caller ID, just the number. But Alan would know that number in his sleep. Glendale Psychiatric Hospital.

Maybe she was dead. It was a gruesome thought that should shame him, but it didn't. Jenny's existence there was hardly living.

"Yes?" he answered.

"This is Mrs. Collinsworth. I wanted you to know that your daughter had three visitors this afternoon."

Visitors? Alan was suddenly on his feet, his headache now excruciating. "Which visitors? What happened?"

"Names are Val Sorensen, Phin Bishop, and Cora Winslow."

Alan's knees gave out and he fell into his desk chair. He knew all three of those names. He'd told them incredible lies when they'd visited Sara Morton the night before.

He'd thought they'd believed him. That they'd go after Medford Hughes for pedophilia. But they hadn't.

Because they knew.

But how did they know?

"Reverend Beauchamp?" Collinsworth sounded concerned. "Are you all right? Should I have detained them?"

Yes. You should have killed them. Which was ludicrous. He couldn't ask for such a thing.

I'm going to ask Sage to do it.

Because they knew.

"It's fine. Thank you. Good day." He ended the call, feeling sick.

Just calm down. Breathe. It might not be that bad. He might not need to ask Sage to kill anyone else.

If the Caulfields were dead, Cora knowing about Jenny wasn't a big deal. Even if Cora had found out about Jenny's child, it would be his word against that of a woman who'd been hospitalized for mental illness for twenty-three years.

It would still be all right. If the Caulfields were dead.

Alan called Sage's cell phone, his gut twisting anxiously.

"Grandfather. Hello."

Sage sounded…all right. "Did you do it?"

"Of course." The boy sounded affronted. "I did what you told me to do. The house went up like a box of matchsticks. No one could have survived the blaze."

Alan wanted to be relieved, he wanted to believe that Sage had killed the Caulfields. But something was off. Something is wrong.

Sage might have just lied to him. He knew the boy's every vocal inflection.

But he didn't want to believe it. He needed to be certain. He needed to see the boy's eyes when he promised he'd completed his assignment. "Thank you. Where are you?"

"I'm at my place, cleaning up. I smell like a bonfire."

"Please report to me in thirty minutes. It's urgent."

"Absolutely," Sage said, the word a clash of discordant notes. "I'll be there."

Alan stared at the phone when the line went dead. Sage had hung up on him.

Something was very wrong.

He'd lost control of his grandson.

Unfortunately, Alan would have to end the boy very soon. A staged break-in. A thwarted robbery. A bullet between the boy's pretty blue eyes.

I'll do it myself. A sleeping pill in a cup of coffee to knock him out and Alan wouldn't need to be able to see to aim. He'd put the gun up against Sage's head and kill him like he'd done Medford Hughes.

He'd leave Sage's body to be discovered by a cleaning lady. Alan would be shocked. He'd be out of his mind with grief.

The congregation would grieve with him. They'd mourn.

And Alan would finally be free of this whole nightmare. Because two can share a secret if one of them is dead.

His phone buzzed in his hand.

His PI. Finally.

"Yes?" he answered hoarsely.

"Your grandson is a motherfucker," Reavey snarled. "He hit me. Knocked me out. Tied me up in the back of my own car. Two cops had to free me. I had to tell them that my date had tied me up for kink and then left. They hauled me downtown."

"Did you tell them about me? About Sage?"

"You really are a selfish asshole. No, I didn't, even when I almost got arrested. If I find your grandson, I'm going to kill him."

Alan closed his eyes, so tired. "What exactly happened?"

"I went to the address you gave me and waited for him. He arrived, talked to some girl and an old lady, then drove away. I followed him out."

So Sage had lied. He hadn't killed them.

Why hadn't he killed them?

"Did he say anything when he hit you?"

"Oh yes. He said to tell you that you're a sonofabitch and he's not doing your dirty work ever again. Oh, and that your granddaughter is very sweet and he told them to run. Look, Reverend Beauchamp, I don't care what you're up to. I don't want to know any more. I'm out. You're not worth it."

And then, once again, Alan was staring at his phone after being hung up on.

Sage had turned on him. Sage knew that Ashley was Alan's granddaughter.

His stomach roiled. Sage hadn't killed the Caulfields. And Cora Winslow knew about Jenny. How could she have found out?

And then Alan knew. Cora Winslow had found Ashley. She'd found the Caulfields.

She knows everything.

I need to run.

He closed his eyes and concentrated. Twenty-three years ago, he'd had a brilliant escape plan. He'd leave New Orleans by boat for Mexico.

He could do that now. Even more easily because now he had more money.

"I need a boat." Surely a member of his congregation had a boat. He'd ask to be taken to a village in Mexico. He'd say that he was preaching there, helping them start a church. But not to worry, he'd be home in time for the Christmas cantata.

He nearly laughed. He was getting hysterical, and he needed to calm down.

Maybe he shouldn't ask a congregation member. He needed someone who didn't know him.

Or he could get on a cruise ship. Plenty of them left out of New Orleans every day. That hadn't been the case twenty-three years ago. He'd still have to use his own passport, but he could get off at the first port and never look back.

He brought up a cruise reservation website. He didn't care which cruise line. He didn't care how much it cost. He'd pick whichever one left the soonest.

His heart sank. The earliest departure was tomorrow afternoon. If Cora was telling the police about Jenny, tomorrow might be too late.

Panic rose, making his head hurt even more. He needed to fly out now. If the police tracked him, he'd just have to lose them later.

He opened a new browser and found an airline website.

Better. He could fly out in two hours. He clicked on the fare and typed in his credit card number.

Declined.

What? No. Not possible. He typed the number in again.

Declined. He ground his teeth. Not a good time for the credit card to glitch on him.

He chose another card and typed it in.

Declined.

He chose his bank cash card and typed it in.

Declined.

A sense of dread rose to choke him. Hands trembling, he dialed his credit card company.

"How can I help you?" the cheerful customer service agent asked.

He cleared his throat. "My card was declined, but I'm certain I have a sizable available balance." He gave her the number and waited, his skin becoming clammy with sweat.

"Let me check for you, sir." She was gone for a moment, then came back sounding less cheerful. "Your credit card was canceled, sir. Mrs. Beauchamp called to say the card had been stolen. We're sending new cards to your house by FedEx. They should arrive on Monday."

Monday. Monday was too late. He needed his money now.

Wait. "Hold on. Did you say my wife canceled the card?"

"She did, sir."

"Um…thank you." He ended the call and quickly typed in his bank password. She couldn't have canceled all their cards. The decline of their bank cash card must have been a mistake.

He stared at his computer screen.

Zero. His bank balance was zero. That was not possible.

His whole body shook now and he knew he was seconds away from being sick. He called the bank.

"How can we help you, sir?"

"I'm looking at my account online and all of my money is gone." All of it. Every penny.

"Let me check." There was the sound of typing in the background. "Well, sir, it appears that your wife came in at three o'clock and withdrew everything from your joint account. She said she was opening an account elsewhere."

Your wife.

Your joint account.

Lexy, what have you done? And why? The PI's reports showed a godly, submissive wife who didn't cheat.

What's happening?

"Sir? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, thank you." He ended the call.

He was not fine.

He called Lexy, breathing angrily as he waited for her to pick up. "What the hell have you done?" he shouted when she answered.

"I'm leaving you, Alan. You shouldn't have hired a PI to follow me. For years . I'm so angry . You haven't trusted me since day one . You've had me followed to make sure I'm not cheating, yet you have a secret family. Another child, Alan. How dare you!" She was shouting, too.

He'd never heard Lexy shout.

"Secret child? What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the photos of a girl in your secret safe behind your secret bookshelf, Alan. I'm talking about stacks of PI reports detailing every move I've made for years. Don't you even try to be the aggrieved party here. I'm leaving. And I'm telling everyone what a fraud you are."

My secret safe? Behind my secret bookshelf?

How…?

Then he knew. Sage.

He ended the call with Lexy and redialed Sage.

"Grandfather. How are you?"

There was a lot of noise in the background. Car doors slamming and traffic. "Are you coming in or not?"

"I said I would," Sage said, but there was a hint of mocking in his tone.

"What have you done, Sage?"

"Become like you, Grandfather," Sage said coldly. "Are you satisfied now?"

The call abruptly ended and Alan closed his eyes. What was happening?

This couldn't be real. None of this could be real.

Cora Winslow knew about Jenny. Which meant that she knew about him, too. And somehow had found out about Ashley.

She'd probably already told the police.

Then again, maybe she hadn't. That would mean telling the cops that her precious father's business was on the wrong side of legal.

Maybe they could come to an agreement. She'd keep her mouth shut and he'd pay her…

What? He couldn't pay her anything. Lexy had taken his money. The only money left was in the church's treasury, and he didn't have access to that account. Not for lack of trying, but the board of deacons had created a system of checks and balances that allowed no one person to have control of church funds. So money was not going to help him deal with Cora Winslow.

She would have to be silenced. He should have done so two weeks ago. I was soft. I was afraid.

He wasn't soft or afraid now.

It's her or me. I choose me. She could drive him to Mexico. He would end her there and he'd be free.

I hope her heart is right with the Lord. Otherwise she'd be going straight to hell.

Alan feared that was his fate as well.

At this point, he'd take as many people with him as he needed to.

The Garden District, New Orleans, Louisiana

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 16, 8:45 P.M.

"I'm starving again," Val said as they left the police station. "Being careful what you say is hard work."

It really was, and Cora found that she could eat again, too.

The detective had listened to them with wide eyes that grew wider with every revelation. Cora had decided—with input from Phin, Val, Antoine, and Burke—to tell the detective as much as they possibly could without exposing the people like Alice VanPatten who'd turned to Jack Elliot for help.

Alice hadn't done anything wrong, except to claim a false alibi. At a minimum, she'd perjured herself with the authorities at the time. Worst case, she could be held for conspiracy to commit murder, since she'd known that Jack had killed her husband but had hidden the truth, and she could still be prosecuted for that.

So Cora had asked that the team have a conference call as Val had driven from the psychiatric hospital back to the city. Timothy and Beatrice Caulfield had joined them as well, agreeing that their story needed to be part of what was shared with NOPD.

The Caulfields were anxious about the possible fallout but agreed that the benefit of taking Alan Beauchamp down was worth the risk of any legal ramifications of admitting to the private adoption. Ashley and her parents wouldn't be safe until Alan was in custody.

Technically, the couple had done nothing wrong. They'd thought they were participating in a legitimate transaction.

At least that's what they kept insisting aloud. Cora had heard the doubt in their voices.

They'd known what they'd been doing twenty-three years ago. But confirmation that Jennifer Beauchamp had been unwilling to part with her child had shaken them soundly.

As it should have, Cora thought sadly. But that was water under the bridge now. Ashley had had two good parents whose care for her had likely been much better than she would have received at the hands of Alan Beauchamp.

Cora really hated that man.

So she'd told Clancy everything she could and he'd said he'd bring Alan Beauchamp in for questioning right away. He'd already been investigating Patrick Napier. The detective had pieced together much of what they already knew—the Renaissance-era paint, the gallery owned by Patrick, the connection between Patrick and Vincent Ray through the mentoring program.

Vincent had admitted that Patrick had paid him to set Cora's attic on fire.

That had been a blow.

Then Clancy had shared that they'd found the black Camry that had followed her—and that there had been a body in the trunk. The victim was Sanjay Prakash, twenty-five years old, a clerk at one of the rental car companies at the airport. Both the Camry and the minivan seen in Cora's driveway had been rented in his name.

They were still looking for the white van that had been in front of Medford Hughes's house the night the man had been murdered. The white van that had killed a carful of college kids as it had fled the scene.

Clancy wasn't sure who'd killed the man found in the trunk of the Camry. At the moment, he had eight bodies in the morgue—Medford Hughes and his wife, the four college kids, Sanjay Prakash, and Minnie Edwards—and three suspects—Alan, Sage, and Patrick. Clancy wasn't sure who'd done what, but he was now looking for all three of them.

That Patrick might have killed so recently left her numb.

But not so numb that she shared everything with Clancy. If Patrick chose to share his and Jack Elliot's client list to get a plea deal, then the police would find out. Cora wouldn't help them with that, though. Clancy had asked for the documentation they'd found on her father's old computer, and Cora had promised to get it to him when she got back home.

Antoine had been busily creating the documentation while she, Phin, and Val had been in Clancy's office. He said it would be simple to craft a note from Jack Elliot to his wife saying that he was doing a favor for an old college friend, helping transport an infant to her newly adoptive parents. The note would look like it had been created twenty-three years ago.

It wasn't a perfect scenario and didn't explain the Swiss bank account, but it protected the people who her father had risked his life for. Who he'd ultimately lost his life because of.

Maybe she wasn't so hungry after all.

But she was hot and itchy. "I'll just be happy to get this Kevlar off. Can we go to my house, Val?"

"That's the plan, Cora Jane," Val said as she merged onto Rampart Street. "I'll be glad to have Molly relieve me tonight, not gonna lie. This has been one long-ass day."

"It really has." Cora turned to Phin, who'd been quiet throughout their interview with Clancy, only speaking when spoken to. His hand had never left SodaPop's back, the dog plastered to his side.

But he'd made it through with no major mishaps. At least none that Cora could see.

"You okay?" she murmured, and he turned to meet her eyes.

"Yeah. Just can't stop thinking about Jenny. How her father dumped her in that place and never came to visit."

"Your family would never have done that."

He nodded. "I know that. Kind of had an epiphany, there in Jenny's room."

"I figured. I could see the moment it hit you." He'd physically reeled in shock but had rallied quickly. He'd been so good with Jenny. So sweet and calm. "What was the epiphany?"

"That my family's always loved me unconditionally. I knew it in my head, y'know? But I think I finally got it today."

Cora smiled at him, cupping his cheek in her palm. "Good."

"You still going to see them for Christmas, Phin?" Val asked.

He nodded. "I am. Scared to death over it, but I'm going."

Cora took his hand. "I'll go with you if you want me to."

His shoulders seemed to uncoil. "Yes. I'd like that."

"I usually spend Christmas with Tandy and her father," she said sadly. "Guess that's over forever."

"I'm sorry," Phin said. "So sorry."

She got that he was sorrowful, not apologizing. "Thanks. So…new traditions have to begin, right? What does your family do, Phin?"

He started to tell her, lulling her with the deep rumble of his voice while Val drove them through the darkened streets of the Garden District.

Her home for her whole life. She didn't want to leave, ever. And now that Clancy had what he needed to arrest Alan, Sage, and Patrick, she could start thinking about her plans for the house that was far too big for one person. She could start planning for the way to best help Phin's people.

Vets who needed housing security, who needed a fresh start. A hand up.

She selfishly hoped Phin came back to New Orleans with her after reuniting with his family. She didn't want to start such a huge endeavor on her own. She could do it alone. She was sure of that.

She just didn't want to.

"What the hell?" Val muttered as they approached her house.

There was a car parked in the driveway, blocking access to the gate.

Cora sat up straighter. "That's Tandy's car."

Tandy was here. She'd come back.

For what purpose, Cora didn't know. Right now, she was just happy to see her friend's car.

Val parked behind Tandy, and Phin got out to look in her car, returning a moment later with a frown on his handsome face.

"She's not in her car, Cora."

But the lights weren't on in the house. It was totally dark.

"She gave me back the key, so she can't have gotten in," Cora said, remembering the sound of the key clanking on her kitchen table when Tandy had tossed it away. "She probably went for a walk until we got back. I'll text her to meet me."

Cora did so, then got out of the SUV. "I want this Kevlar off my body."

"Cora, wait," Val snapped, grabbing her arm. "Me first, remember?"

"Sorry," Cora muttered. Val was right, of course.

Phin fell into step beside her, his arm around her shoulders. "Let her do her job, okay?"

"I know. I guess I'm feeling relieved because this is finally over."

Clancy had everything he needed to charge Alan, Sage, and Patrick.

But Cora still didn't know which one had killed her father. Both had had motive. Please don't be Patrick. Please.

Val entered the house first, Phin holding Cora back on the porch as Val headed up the stairs to clear each room. But then Cora saw someone sitting at her kitchen table in the dark, barely visible past the foyer archway. Someone with a familiar ponytail.

"Tandy?" She pulled free of Phin's hold and ran to her friend.

Realizing too late that Tandy's hands were tied and her mouth was covered in tape.

Even in the semidarkness, Cora could see the helpless fear in Tandy's eyes.

Cora went still as something cold and hard pressed against her head.

"You couldn't let it go," Alan Beauchamp whispered. "You just couldn't let it go. I tried to help you. To give you something safer to investigate. But you didn't take my help."

Cora didn't move a muscle. Phin was behind her somewhere, as was Val. They're going to be so mad at me , she thought.

They'd be right. I'm so stupid.

Without moving her head, she looked to her right. A key sat on the table, shining in the dim light from the streetlamps coming in the kitchen window. That explained how Tandy had gotten in, but not how she'd gotten the key.

She'd sworn she'd made no copies, and Cora had believed her.

"What do you want?" Cora asked, her voice shaking.

"I wanted you to stop poking into things that weren't your business. Now I want you to get me out of here."

"Out of my house?" Cora asked.

Alan laughed, an unpleasant sound. "No, out of the country. You're coming with me, Cora."

"And then you'll let me go?" she asked, knowing that he wouldn't.

"Of course. I don't want to hurt you. I just want out."

Lies. All lies. "Did you kill my father?" The question was out of her mouth before she'd even planned to ask it. She winced when he shoved the gun harder into her temple.

"You have one job. That's to get me out of town. You're going to drive me to Mexico."

"Why would I do that?" she asked quietly.

"Because I will kill your friend here if you don't. Believe me."

Tandy made a noise, muffled by the tape over her mouth.

"I believe you," Cora said. "You've killed already. Medford Hughes and his wife. Minnie Edwards. Sanjay Prakash. The college kids who wrecked when you were running from Medford's murder. How do you sleep at night?"

There was a slight hesitation before the gun shoved into her head again. "Let's go. You there, in the chair. Get up or Cora dies."

Tandy struggled to her feet, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Phin, please be there. Please be ready to do something.

Because she knew that Alan wouldn't hesitate to kill her. He'd ordered the murder of his own grandchild today. The man had no soul. And he had nothing to lose.

"Why can't you buy your way out of the country?" Cora asked. "You're richer than God." She winced when he dug the fingers of his free hand into her arm.

"Do not blaspheme," he snapped.

Cora wanted to laugh at the irony, but she didn't dare.

Keeping the gun to her head, Alan urged her forward. "Move. We're going out the back, through the gate. I have your friend's car keys. You'll drive. If you scream, you both die. I'm one hundred percent serious."

Cora didn't doubt that. But his plan wasn't going to work. Val had parked their company SUV behind Tandy's car. She was surprised that Alan didn't know that. Hadn't he looked out a window?

She took a careful step forward, breathing a sigh of relief at the shadow she could see through the window in the door. Phin. Phin was there waiting.

Thank God.