Turning Angel Page 2

  “Will you call that meeting?” Jan presses. “Because this problem’s not going to go away.”

  “I will. Now I’m going to see Jenny Townsend. Theresa, will you lock up when everyone’s gone?”

  The secretary nods, glad for being given something to do. While the remainder of the board members continue to express disbelief, my cell phone rings. The caller ID shows my home as the origin of the call, which makes me unsure whether to answer. My daughter, Annie, is quite capable of pestering me to death with the phone when the mood strikes her. But with Kate’s death fresh in my mind, I step into the secretary’s office and answer.

  “Annie?”

  “No,” says an older female voice. “It’s Mia.”

  Mia Burke is my daughter’s babysitter, a classmate of Kate Townsend’s.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt the board meeting, but I’m kind of freaked out.”

  “It’s all right, Mia. What’s the matter?”

  “I’m not sure. But three people have called and told me something happened to Kate Townsend. They’re saying she drowned.”

  I hesitate before confirming the rumor, but if the truth hasn’t already spread across town, it will in a matter of minutes. Our secretary learning the truth from an ER nurse was part of the first wave of rumor, one of many that will sweep across town tonight, turning back upon themselves and swelling until the facts are lost in a tide of hyperbole. “You heard right, Mia. Kate was found dead in St. Catherine’s Creek.”

  “Oh God.”

  “I know it’s upsetting, and I’m sure you want to be with your friends right now, but I need you to stay with Annie until I get there. I’ll be home in ten minutes.”

  “Oh, I’d never leave Annie alone. I mean, I don’t even know what I should do. If Kate’s dead, I can’t really help her. And everyone is going to be acting so retarded about it. Take whatever time you need. I’d rather stay here with Annie than drive right now.”

  I silently thank Jan Chancellor for recommending one of the few levelheaded girls in the school to me as a babysitter. “Thanks, Mia. How’s Annie doing?”

  “She fell asleep watching a documentary about bird migration on the Discovery Channel.”

  “Good.”

  “Hey,” Mia says in an awkward voice. “Thanks for telling me the truth about Kate.”

  “Thanks for not flipping out and leaving the house. I’ll see you in a few minutes, okay?”

  “Okay. Bye.”

  I hang up and look through the door at the boardroom. Drew Elliott is talking on his cell phone at the table, but the rest of the board members are filing out the main door. As I watch them go, an image from our promotional TV commercial featuring Kate rises into my mind. She’s walking onto the tennis court in classic whites, and her cool blue eyes burn right through the camera. She’s tall, probably five-ten, with Nordic blond hair that hangs halfway to her waist. More striking than beautiful, Kate looked like a college student rather than a high school kid, and that’s why we chose her for the promo spot. She was the perfect recruiting symbol for a college-prep school.

  As I reach for the office doorknob, I freeze. Drew is staring at the table with tears pouring down his face. I hesitate, giving him time to collect himself. What does it take to make an M.D. cry? My father has watched his patients die for forty years, and now they’re dropping like cornstalks to a scythe. I know he grieves, but I can’t remember him crying. The one exception was my wife, but that’s another story. Maybe Drew thinks he’s alone here, that I slipped out with all the others. Since he shows no sign of stopping, I walk out and lay my hand on his thickly muscled shoulder.

  “You okay, man?”

  He doesn’t reply, but I feel him shudder.

  “Drew? Hey.”

  He dries his eyes with a swipe of his sleeve, then stands. “Guess we’d better let Theresa lock up.”

  “Yeah. I’ll walk out with you.”

  Side by side, we walk through the front atrium of St. Stephen’s, just as we did thousands of times when we attended this school in the sixties and seventies. A large trophy cabinet stands against the wall to my left. Inside it, behind a wooden Louisville Slugger with thirteen names signed on it in Magic Marker, hangs a large photograph of Drew Elliott during the defining moment of this institution. Just fourteen years old, he is standing at the plate under the lights of Smith-Wills Stadium in Jackson, hitting what would be the winning home run of the 1977 AAAA state baseball championship. No matter how remarkable our academic accomplishments—and they were many—it was this prize that put our tiny “single A” school on the map. In Mississippi, as in the rest of the South, sport overshadows everything else.

  “Long time ago,” he says. “Eternity.”

  I’m standing on second base in the photo, waiting to sprint for the tying run. “Not so long.”

  He gives me a lost look, and then we pass through the entrance and pause under the overhang, prepping for a quick dash through the rain to our cars.

  “Kate babysat for you guys, didn’t she?” I comment, trying to get him to focus on the mundane.

  “Yeah. The past two summers. Not anymore, though. She graduates—was supposed to graduate—in six weeks. She was too busy for babysitting.”

  “She seemed like a great kid.”

  Drew nods. “She was. Even these days, when so many students are overachievers, she stood out from the crowd.”

  I could point out that it’s often the best and brightest who are taken while the rest of us are left to carry on, but Drew knows that. He’s watched more people die than I ever will.

  His Volvo is parked about thirty yards away, behind my Saab. I pat him on the back as I did in high school, then assume a tight end’s stance. “Run for it?”

  Instead of playing along with me, he looks me full in the face and speaks in a voice I haven’t heard from him in years. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  The emotion in his eyes is palpable. “Of course.”

  “Let’s get in one of the cars.”

  “Sure.”

  He presses a button on his key chain, and his Volvo’s lights blink. As if triggered by a silent starter pistol, we race through the chilly rain and scramble onto the leather seats of the S80. He slams his door and cranks the engine, then shakes his head with a strange violence.

  “I can’t fucking believe it, Penn. It’s literally beyond belief. Did you know her? Did you know Kate at all?”

  “We spoke a few times. She asked about my books. But we never got beyond the surface. Mia talked about her a lot.”

  His eyes search out mine in the shadows. “You and I haven’t got beneath the surface much either these past five years. It’s more my fault than yours, I know. I keep a lot inside.”

  “We all do,” I say awkwardly, wondering where this is going.

  “Who really knows anybody, right? Twelve years of school together, best friends when we were kids. You know a lot about me, but on the other hand you know nothing. The front, like everybody else.”

  “I hope I see past that, Drew.”

  “I don’t mean to insult you. If anyone sees beneath the surface, it’s you. That’s why I’m talking to you now.”

  “Well, I’m here. Let’s talk.”

  He nods as if confirming a private judgment. “I want to hire you.”

  “Hire me?”

  “As a lawyer.”

  This is the last thing I expected to hear. “You know I don’t practice anymore.”

  “You took the Payton case, that old civil rights bombing.”

  “That was different. And that was five years ago.”

  Drew stares at me in the glow of the dashboard lights. “This is different, too.”

  It always is to the client. “I’m sure it is. The thing is, I’m not really a lawyer anymore. I’m a writer. If you need a lawyer, I can recommend several good ones. Is it malpractice?”

  Drew blinks in astonishment. “Malpractice? You think I’d waste your time with bullshit like that?
”

  “Drew…I don’t know what this is about. Why don’t you tell me what the problem is?”

  “I want to, but—Penn, what if you were sick? You had HIV, say. And you came to me and said, ‘Drew, please help me. As a friend. I want you to treat me and not tell a soul.’ And what if I said, ‘Penn, I’d like to, but that’s not my specialty. You need to go to a specialist.’ ”

  “Drew, come on—”

  “Hear me out. If you said, ‘Drew, as a friend, please do me this favor. Please help me.’ You know what? I wouldn’t think twice. I’d do whatever you wanted. Treat you without records, whatever.”

  He would. I can’t deny it. But there’s more than this beneath his words. Drew has left much unsaid. The truth is that without Drew Elliott, I wouldn’t be alive today. When I was fourteen years old, Drew and I hiked away from the Buffalo River in Arkansas and got lost in the Ozark Mountains. Near dark, I fell into a gorge and broke my femur. Drew was only eleven, but he crawled down into that gorge, splinted my leg with a tree limb, then built a makeshift litter and started dragging me through the night. Before he was done, he dragged me four miles through the mountains, breaking his wrist in the process and twice almost breaking his neck. Just after dawn, he managed to get me to a cluster of tents where someone had a CB radio. But has he mentioned any of that? No. It’s my job to remember.

  “Why do you want to hire me, Drew?”

  “To consult. With the protection of confidentiality.”

  “Shit. You don’t have to hire me for that.”

  He pulls his wallet from his pants and takes out a twenty-dollar bill, which he pushes at me. “I know that. But if you were questioned on the stand later—as a friend—you’d have to lie to protect me. If you’re my lawyer, our discourse will be shielded by attorney-client privilege.” He’s still pushing the bill at me. “Take it, Penn.”

  “This is crazy—”

  “Please, man.”

  I wad up the note and shove it into my pocket. “Okay, damn it. What’s going on?”

  He sags back in his seat and rubs his temples like a man getting a migraine. “I knew Kate a lot better than anyone knows.”

  Kate Townsend again? The sense of dislocation I felt in the boardroom was nothing compared to what I feel now. Again I see Drew sitting at the table, weeping as though for a family member. Even as I ask the next question, I pray that I’m wrong.

  “Are you telling me you were intimate with the girl?”

  Drew doesn’t blink. “I was in love with her.”

  Chapter

  2

  My heart is pounding the way it does on the all-too-rare occasions when I run for exercise. I’m sitting in front of the St. Stephen’s Preparatory School with one of the most distinguished alumni who ever attended it, and he’s telling me he was screwing a high school student. A student who is now dead. This man is my lifelong friend, yet the first words that pass my lips are not those of a friend but of a lawyer. “Tell me she was eighteen, Drew.”

  “Her birthday was in two weeks.”

  I suck in my breath and close my eyes. “It might as well have been two years. That’s statutory rape in Mississippi. Especially with the age difference between you. It’s what, twenty years?”

  “Almost twenty-three.”

  I shake my head in disbelief.

  He takes my arm and pulls it toward him, forcing me to look into his eyes. “I’m not crazy, Penn. I know you think I’ve lost my mind, but I loved that girl like no one I’ve known in my life.”

  I look away, focusing on the playground of the middle school, where water has pooled on the merry-go-round. What to say? This isn’t a case of some horny assistant coach who got too chummy with a cheerleader in the locker room. This is an educated and successful man in the grip of a full-blown delusion.

  “Drew, I prosecuted a lot of child molesters in Houston. I remember one who had regularly molested an eleven-year-old girl. Can you guess what his defense was?”

  “What?”

  “They were in love.”

  He snorts with disdain. “You know this isn’t like that.”

  “Do I? Jesus Christ, man.”

  “Penn…until you’re in a situation like this, you simply can’t understand it. I was the first to condemn that coach who got involved with that senior over at the public school. I couldn’t fathom it then. But now…I see it from the inside.”

  “Drew, you’ve thrown your life away. Do you realize that? You could go to jail for twenty years. I can’t even…” My voice fails, because it suddenly strikes me that I may not have heard the worst of what will be revealed in this car tonight. “You didn’t kill her, did you?”

  The blood drains from his face. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “What did you expect me to ask?”

  “Not that. And there’s something pretty damned cold in your tone.”

  “If you don’t like my tone, wait till you hear the district attorney. You and Kate Townsend? Holy shit.”

  “I didn’t kill her, Penn.”

  I take another deep breath and let it out slowly. “No, of course not. Do you think she committed suicide?”

  “Impossible.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we were planning to leave together. Kate was excited about it. Not depressed at all.”

  “You were planning to run away together?”

  “Not run away. But to be together, yes.”

  “She was a kid, Drew.”

  “In some ways. Not many. Kate had a different kind of upbringing. She went through a lot, and she learned a lot from it. She was very mature for her age, both psychologically and emotionally. And that’s saying something these days. These kids aren’t like we were, Penn. You have no idea. By fifteen they’ve gone through things you and I didn’t experience until our twenties. Some of them are jaded by eighteen.”

  “That doesn’t mean they understand what they’re doing. But I’ll be sure and run that argument past the jury.”

  Drew’s eyes flicker. “Are you saying you’ll represent me?”

  “I was joking. Who else knows about this relationship?”

  “No one.”

  “Don’t be stupid. Someone always knows.”

  He sets his jaw and shakes his head with confidence. “You didn’t know Kate. Nobody knows about us.”

  The naïveté of human beings is truly breathtaking. “Whatever you say.”

  Drew puts his big hands on the wheel and squeezes it like a man doing isometric exercises. In the small space of the car, his size is intimidating. I’m six-foot-one, two hundred pounds; Drew has two inches and twenty pounds of muscle on me, and he hasn’t let himself slip much from the days he played tight end for Vanderbilt. It’s not hard to imagine Kate Townsend being attracted to him.

  “It comes down to this,” Drew says in a steady voice. “The police are going to start probing Kate’s life. And if they probe deeply enough, they might find something that connects me to her.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. A diary? Pictures?”

  “You took pictures?” Why am I asking? Of course they did. Everyone does now. “Did you videotape yourselves too?”

  “Kate did. But she destroyed the tape.”

  I’m not sure I believe this, but right now that’s not the point. “What about Ellen?” I ask, meaning his wife.

  His eyes don’t waver. “Our marriage has been dead for ten years.”

  “You could have fooled me.”

  “I did. You and the rest of the town. Ellen and I mount a major theatrical production every day, all for the sake of Tim.”

  Tim is Drew’s nine-year-old son, already something of a golden boy himself in the elementary school. Annie has a serious crush on him, though she would never admit it. “What about Tim, then? Were you going to leave him behind?”

  “Of course not. But I had to make the break from Ellen first. I’ll die if I stay in that marriage.”

  They always sound
like this before the divorce. Any rationalization to get out of the marriage.

  “I don’t want to say anything negative about Ellen,” Drew says softly. “But the situation has been difficult for a long time. Ellen’s addicted to hydrocodone. She has been for six years.”

  Ellen Elliott is a lawyer who turned to real estate in her midthirties, a dynamo who focuses on the upscale antebellum mansions in town. Originally from Savannah, Georgia, she seems to have pulled off the rare trick of breaking into the inner cliques of Natchez society, something outsiders almost never accomplish. I’ve never known Ellen well, but the idea of her as a drug addict is hard to swallow. My mental snapshot is a sleek and well-tended blonde who runs marathons for fun.

  “That’s kind of hard for me to believe, Drew.”

  “You can’t imagine Ellen popping Lorcet Plus like M&Ms? That’s the reality, man. I’ve tried for years to help her. Taken her to addiction specialists, paid for rehab four times in the last three years. Nothing has worked.”

  “Is she clinically depressed?”

  “I don’t think so. You’ve seen her. She’s wide open all the time. But there’s something dark underneath that energy. Everything she does is in pursuit of money or social status. Two years ago she slept with a guy from Jackson during a tennis tournament. I literally can’t believe she’s the woman I married.”

  “Was she different when you married her? About the money and status, I mean?”

  “I guess the seeds of that were there, but back then it just looked like healthy ambition. I should have seen it in her mother, though.”

  I can’t help wanting to defend Ellen. “We all start turning into our parents, Drew. I’m sure you have been, too.”

  He nods. “Guilty as charged. But I try to stay self-aware, you know? I try to be the best person I can be.”

  And that led you to a seventeen-year-old girl? I have more questions, but the truth is, I don’t want to know the gory details of Drew’s personal life. I’ve heard too many drunk friends pour out the stories of how their lives fell short of their dreams, and it’s always a maudlin monologue. The odd thing is that by almost anyone’s estimation, Drew Elliott has led a dream life. But as my mother always said: You never know what’s cooking in someone else’s pot. And one thing is sure: whatever happens as a result of Kate Townsend’s death, Drew Elliot’s touchdown run through life has come to an end.