Devil's Pawn, page 21
Julia Bishop. Isabelle’s cousin.
Carlton stands and makes a show of ducking a punch. “Whoa, big man, here to finish the job? Do I need to call security?”
“Sit down, Bishop, you’re making a spectacle of yourself.”
“Wouldn’t want that,” he says.
I don’t get him. He’s a fool but too much so. It’s not real and I know enough to keep my guard up.
Julia meanwhile watches me with hawk-like eyes. When I turn my gaze to her, she gives me a wide smile and I get the feeling she’s used to men looking at her. Tripping over themselves to please her. I glance at Carlton and wonder if he’s one of those men. Kissing cousins. Wouldn’t be the first time.
“I hear coffee’s good here,” I say taking an empty chair from the next table and setting it at theirs. Not bothering to wait for an invitation, I sit down, and Bishop watches me with incredulity, then resumes his seat. He raises a hand and snaps his fingers, actually snaps his fingers, all the while his flat eyes are locked on me.
“Coffee,” he says when a waiter approaches.
“Congratulations on your nuptials,” Julia says, picking up her fork to spear a strawberry and pop it into her over-rouged mouth.
“Thank you,” I tell her and turn to Bishop. “I’d like a word.”
“Why ask permission now? Just make yourself comfortable.” He pushes his half-eaten breakfast plate away. “Your presence has ruined my appetite.”
“Well, I’m sure skipping a link of sausage won’t do you any harm.” He looks a little like a sausage, I think. A raw one. Pink and soft. “I’d like a word alone.”
He narrows his gaze as if trying to glean what I’m thinking then turns to gesture to Julia with a dismissive nod of his head.
“I haven’t finished,” she says.
“You have. Go,” he tells her, and I watch this dynamic between them. I can’t say they like each other exactly but there is something there.
Julia sulks but stands, tucking her designer bag under her arm and shaking her ass as she walks away in her sky-high heels.
“You seem to take in all the Bishop strays,” I say.
“I’m generous like that.”
“M-hm. What about your wife?”
“My wife is none of your business.”
The coffee comes and the waiter leaves. I pick it up and take a sip.
“What do you want, St. James?” he asks.
“I want to know why you said what you said about my father and sister.”
He picks his napkin off his lap and wipes the corners of his mouth which have curved upward. I don’t like this. I don’t like having to ask. Don’t like being at a disadvantage.
“Why not ask Ezekiel? Which by the way,” he starts, setting his elbow on the table and leaning toward me. “Who the hell named you three?”
“Why did you say it, Bishop?”
He sits back again, makes a point of studying me, head cocked to the side. “You know, I’d thought you two were in cahoots. Just assumed it.”
My jaw tenses but I keep myself perfectly still.
“To defend your sister’s honor and all that shit,” he adds.
I pounce, picking the knife off his dish and stabbing it into the polished wood of the table a millimeter from his little finger. “Be. Careful.”
He looks down and I can see he’s visibly shaken. For all the hurt he’s caused he’s just a coward. Aren’t most men like him, though? Giving the orders but unwilling to carry out the violence. Or maybe they think that excuses them somehow. Makes them less culpable.
Carlton picks the knife out of the table with a strange little giggle and holds it in his hand. He turns it over, examining the edge which is too sharp for sausage and eggs.
“You and I may have more in common than either of us cares to admit,” he says.
“I doubt that.”
He studies me for a long minute. “Did you fuck her yet?”
I’m not sure if it’s the question itself or the way he phrases it that gets my hackles up.
“That’s none of your business, is it?”
“Her mother was a whore, you know. Like mother like—”
“That’s my wife you’re talking about. Be. Very. Careful.”
His expression darkens but he doesn’t finish the insult. He changes gears. “How much are you willing to sacrifice to avenge your dead fiancée?”
My hands fist, my heart hammers against my chest. I’m going to kill this man.
“It would be a shame if your pretty little girl became an orphan, wouldn’t it? Wait. Would that make Isabelle her mommy?”
“Why did you say it?” I repeat, fingers digging into the arms of the chair as I tell myself to keep calm. To remember why I’m here. To not let this man rattle me. Because it’s what he wants. It’s all he wants.
He throws his napkin onto his plate and pushes his chair back but instead of standing, he leans close to me. “Sometimes it’s better to hide in a corner and lick your wounds. Admit the better man won. And walk away while you still have something to lose.”
I lean toward him, too, but he doesn’t back away. “Why did you fucking say it?”
He grins. “You want to know about daddy dearest and your dead sister? Let me ask you this. How badly do you want to know? What are you willing to give up for that knowledge? What do they say? Ignorance is bliss, did I get that right?”
He stands.
“Are you so anxious to know the stock you come from? Because you’re just like him, aren’t you? Even the fucked-up eyes. A carbon copy of dad. I just hope you don’t commit the sins he did. Recycle an ugly past.” He takes a step away but stops, turns. “Just ask Zeke if you’re not sure what I’m talking about.”
34
Isabelle
I walk out into the hallway and remember my promise to Angelique to kiss her goodnight when I returned last night. Feeling guilty, I walk toward her bedroom, not sure she’ll be in there. I’m surprised to find her door open a crack and Angelique inside with Leontine and an older woman I’ve not yet met.
“Good morning. Or afternoon,” Leontine says, making a point of checking her watch.
I blush. “Good afternoon,” I say in a quiet voice as Angelique looks up from her small desk and waves. I realize this must be her teacher. “I can come back if it’s a bad time.”
“It’s all right,” she says. “Come in and meet Mrs. Strand, Angelique’s teacher.”
I extend my hand and shake hers. She smiles but her lips are more pursed than anything else and I wonder if they couldn’t have found a friendlier looking teacher for the little girl. But I stop myself. I’m judging and it’s not fair.
“Good morning,” Mrs. Strand says. “It’s nice to meet you and although I don’t expect interruptions daily, I understand last night was a special night.”
“Well, I don’t mean to interrupt. Just wanted to check in on Angelique. How are you doing, sweetheart?” I ask as I walk around the desk and look at the book they’re studying. “Oh, that has pretty pictures,” I say, crouching down beside Angelique’s chair.
“I like my princess books better,” she says. “This one’s too easy.”
“Memorizing is not the same as reading, child,” Mrs. Strand says in a tone that bothers me.
“I didn’t memorize,” Angelique says, casting her eyes down.
I rub the little girl’s back. “We can read a princess book later, okay?” I whisper in her ear.
She nods but I see how her eyes glisten when they meet mine and I wonder how sensitive she is. And how a comment like this dour old woman’s could hurt her tender feelings. I make a funny face to show her I’m on her side and she giggles.
“Daddy’s going to teach me how to swim this afternoon,” she says.
“He is? That’s great.”
“But we can read after that.”
“That sounds good to me,” I say and straighten when Mrs. Strand clears her throat, her not so subtle signal. “I’ll see you after your lessons, okay?”
Angelique nods reluctantly and I walk out of the room, leaving the three of them in the room.
I go downstairs to find coffee and something to eat, making my way into the kitchen where May, the woman who had carried in my dinner the other night, is washing dishes. The smell of cake wafts from the oven.
“That smells delicious,” I say with a smile.
“That’s Catherine’s cake.” May switches off the water and turns to me, wiping her hands on a towel. “Can I help you, ma’am?”
Ma’am. “Isabelle,” I say. It feels weird to be called me ma’am.
She smiles and nods. “Can I get you something?”
“I can get it myself if you don’t mind. I’m just looking for coffee and maybe a piece of toast or something.”
“Of course,” she says and walks over to a restaurant style espresso machine. “What would you like?” she asks.
“A cappuccino if it’s easy enough.”
She nods and gets busy making me a gorgeous cappuccino. She then goes to a bread box and opens it to reveal a loaf of homemade bread. She picks up the knife and slices two thick pieces for me. Setting them on a dish and adding them to a tray loaded with jams, butter, and various cheeses.
“That’s fine,” I tell her when she starts grabbing for more jars. “More than enough.”
“I’m sure Mr. St. James wants his bride well fed,” she says just as Catherine walks into the kitchen.
“That he does,” she agrees. “Come on now, we’ll set you up in the dining room.”
“I don’t want to be any trouble. I can just take the tray and eat outside.”
“It’s already quite warm and there will be rain later.”
“I don’t mind the heat and if it’s going to rain I’d better get out when I can.”
“All right then.” The younger woman carries the tray out and I follow her, still feeling guilty about being waited on. I take the seat at a table near the pool with an umbrella to shield me from the sun. I’m glad when she leaves me alone and I can eat my breakfast, thinking about what Angelique said about Jericho teaching her how to swim. I can’t picture it. At all.
I’m at a loss for what to do when I’ve finished breakfast and confirmed Angelique will be in her lessons for the next few hours. It seems a bit much for such a young girl but what do I know. After spending some time walking around the house and peering into rooms all of which are empty but immaculately clean and richly decorated, I change into running clothes and decide to go for a jog. I want to get my bearings around the property and get some exercise while I’m at it.
The sun is hot and I’m grateful for the cloud cover as I jog into the woods using the same path Jericho had taken me that night he played his stupid game of chase. Running feels good. Makes me feel like myself. Or maybe it’s just making me feel a little in control. Whatever it is, I like it and thirty minutes in, I feel rejuvenated, albeit a little sweaty.
I keep going until I come to the edge of the property where the wall that divides Bishop and St. James lands stands, impenetrable like the men on either side of it. Ivy grows along the wall and in some places, I see blooms of soft yellow flowers, the same that bloom on the other side. I think about Angelique then. I think she’d like to see this and make a mental note to bring her. If I’m allowed to, that is.
The wall encompasses the entirety of the property and I remember many a time standing on the other side of it. Running my fingers over the cool stone. I think about my life before and after Jericho St. James, this wall the physical divider between the past and my new present. My future.
My mind wanders to what Julia said. To Jericho’s intention. It’s too harsh to process though. Having a child for the purpose of revenge. Of taking something that doesn’t belong to you. Has he given thought to the child? To that little life he would bring into the world in the name of his vengeance? A child for a pawn. It’s unthinkable.
No, he can’t. Julia can’t be right. It’s too horrible. Too monstrous even for him. And I’m not sure how monstrous he is because my brain keeps taking me back to that moment in the cavern. How he hurt himself rather than hurt me. No monster would have done that. Not with his enemy bound and bared to endure his punishment.
Thunder crashes overhead. I look up to see how the sky has darkened and not a moment later, that sky opens up and a heavy rain rushes down. It will break the heat and humidity, but I have to hurry to take shelter and only realize where I am when I see the top of the stone building come into view from just beyond the trees.
The chapel.
The graveyard.
Lighting followed by thunder rock the ground beneath my feet. I don’t make a conscious decision but run as fast as I can through rain and toward the shelter of the little church. I don’t stop to think as I open the cemetery gate, the creaking dulled by the sound of a soaking rain. I hurry to climb the chapel stairs then push the heavy door open and slip inside. Closing the door behind me, I lean my back against it as my chest heaves with my breaths. I’m soaked through and hug my arms around myself.
It’s only slightly less eerie in here during the day and I try to remind myself there’s no such thing as ghosts, even though I know that’s not true. I walk to the altar, finding matches, and light some candles there for illumination. They’re dusty, I notice, but I realize something else. I smell incense. And it’s fresh. The other night when he brought me here the air smelled stale, the chapel closed up. Like no one had been here for a long time.
Someone’s been here since that night. I wonder if it’s Jericho.
Lightning brightens the stained-glass window over the altar catching the ornately carved wooden cover of what at first glance looks to be a bible. I touch the silver etched into it as I lift the heavy tome to have a closer look, but it’s too dark to read by the light of the few candles. I open it, see the fancy script remembering how Jericho had looked at it so reverently that night he’d brought me here. I wonder if it’s handwritten or just made to look that way. As I turn the pages, I realize it’s the former. When lightning next strikes, my gaze lands on the grave of the author himself and I find myself jumping away, as if warned.
My breath catches and I tell myself to relax. No ghosts. Not here.
I take a seat in the first pew to wait out the storm. And I find that same peace settling over me as did when I’d be in the chapel at the IVI compound all those years ago when I was a little girl. Jericho made fun of my mother thinking Jesus would babysit me. Maybe God was watching out for me, though.
Whatever it is, I find myself leaning my back against the wooden pew and just listening to the silence inside as the rain pours outside. I don’t know how much time goes by but when the rain stops and the sun shines, I get up to blow out the candles, noticing the tabernacle lamp burning still, and open the door to walk outside.
It’s bright enough that I have to squint and stop for a moment to take in the beauty all around me. The raindrops have made the green somehow brighter while droplets reflecting the bright gold of the sun drop from trees.
I glance around, seeing how the cemetery is well maintained. Mostly.
My eyes land on Nellie Bishop’s grave and I walk toward it, open the rusting gate surrounding it. She was Mary’s friend, he’d said. Both girls were innocent. I know that in my heart. And as I kneel in the overgrown grass of her grave and brush off the mud caking her stone, I feel a tug at my heart for her. For Mary, and even for Draca St. James. Not for Reginald Bishop, though. There I only feel a chill. The same chill I always felt when I passed his portrait hanging over the fireplace in the living room of the Bishop house.
The Bishop house.
I need to remember I am a Bishop, too. And that house has been my home for the last three years.
But for now, I don’t think about those things. I think of Nellie. Of how she was punished to punish the truly guilty. And I think we have at least that in common.
A chill makes me shudder at that thought. Will he put me in the ground beside her when he’s finished with me? Will he let me be forgotten just as the St. James’s before him have let her be forgotten? No, worse. Let her serve as an example of what happens to Bishops who cross St. James’s.
I find myself pulling at the weeds then, clearing her grave as best I can. And when I’m done, I get up, wipe the mud off my knees and shins and I go back to that wall where the yellow flowers grew. I pick as many as I can carry and take them back to lay at Nellie’s grave. Because I’ll remember Nellie Bishop. I won’t remember what happened to her. At least the horror story Jericho told. I’ll just remember the girl who didn’t deserve her fate. And as I spread the flowers over her grave, I think how beautiful it is now, a memorial to a life.
35
Jericho
Why did I let that bastard get to me? What did I expect going to him anyway? Asking him a question my brother should be answering.
Are you so anxious to know the stock you come from? Because you’re just like him, aren’t you? Even the fucked-up eyes. A carbon copy of dad. I just hope you don’t commit the sins he did. Recycle an ugly past.
I step onto soft grass and bring the bottle of whiskey to my lips. I don’t remember when I stopped pouring it out. Don’t remember when Dex drove me home from the bar I found myself in too early in the day.
The house is dark, and the rain of the afternoon only seems to have made the air muggier, more humid. I make my way to the path that will lead to the cemetery, grateful for the moonlight. Although I know this path. Even though I haven’t lived here for five years I’ll never forget it.
Dad’s funeral was the last one. Six years since then. I didn’t come back to bury Kimberly. I sent her body back for Zeke to take care of while I looked after my daughter. The fact that Angelique survived is still astonishing to me. She’s a miracle. Or she would be if I believed in them.
