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  DRAGONFLY

  By John Farris

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  Copyright 2012 Penny Dreadful, LLC

  Copy-edited by: Kurt M. Criscione

  Cover Design By: David Dodd

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Meet the Author

  John Lee Farris (born 1936) is an American writer, known largely for his work in the southern Gothic genre. He was born 1936 in Jefferson City, Missouri, to parents John Linder Farris (1909–1982) and Eleanor Carter Farris (1905–1984). Raised in Tennessee, he graduated from Central High School in Memphis and attended Southwestern College (now Rhodes College) in Memphis. His first wife, Kathleen, was the mother of Julie Marie, John, and Jeff Farris; his second wife, Mary Ann Pasante, was the mother of Peter John ("P.J.") Farris.

  Apart from his vast body of fiction, his work on motion picture screenplays includes adaptations of his own books (i.e., The Fury), original scripts, and adaptations of the works of others (such as Alfred Bester's The Demolished Man). He wrote and directed the film Dear Dead Delilah in 1973. He has had several plays produced off-Broadway, and also paints and writes poetry. At various times he has made his home in New York, southern California and Puerto Rico; he now lives near Atlanta, Georgia.

  Author's Website – Furies & Fiends

  Other John Farris books currently available or coming soon from Crossroad Press:

  All Heads Turn When the Hunt Goes By

  Catacombs

  Dragonfly

  Fiends

  King Windom

  Minotaur

  Nightfall

  Phantom Nights

  Sacrifice

  Sharp Practice

  Shatter

  Solar Eclipse

  Son of the Endless Night

  Soon She Will Be Gone

  The Axeman Cometh

  The Captors

  The Fury

  The Fury and the Power

  The Fury and the Terror

  The Ransome Women

  Unearthly (formerly titled The Unwanted)

  When Michael Calls

  Wildwood

  DISCOVER CROSSROAD PRESS

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  Excerpt from "Blues" from Collected Poems 1948-1984 by Derek Walcott. Copyright 1986 by Derek Walcott. Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux, Inc. "Stop My Heart Like a Pistol-Ball Blues" copyright 1995 by Honky Cat Music, Ltd. Reprinted by permission. The quotation on page 297 is from "Night Wind" from The Carrier of Ladders copyright 1967, 1968, 1969, 1970 by W. S. Mervin. Reprinted by permission. The quotation on page 351 is from Pliny the Elder. The quotation on page 505 is from A Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 5, scene 1, by William Shakespeare.

  PART ONE

  still, it taught me something about love. If it's so tough, forget it.

  —Derek Walcott, Blues

  Chapter One

  By seven-thirty on that Saturday evening in June, it was obvious that the wedding of Clare Sumrall Malcolm and Joseph McLaren Tucker, scheduled to begin on the spacious south lawn of the Malcolm estate at five o'clock, wasn't going to happen. Joe was missing.

  He had left Omaha forty-eight hours ago, shortly after the wedding rehearsal, on a quick business trip to his home state of Texas. Then he planned to stop by Fort Worth on his way back to Nebraska. His mother, a reclusive sort who also was a determined nonflyer, had weighed her neurotic fears against the prospect of missing her only son's wedding, and had opted to make an appearance rather than watch the nuptials on a cassette. Darly Rae Tucker had always been real sweet to Clare on the phone, and Clafe was looking forward to meeting her.

  They were due on Friday night at ten o'clock, but Joe called at the last minute, leaving a message on Clare's answering machine. He explained that his mother was suffering an attack of sciatica; but that they could be counted on to arrive by noon the next day. Cutting it a little close, but Clare wasn't worried. In the time she'd known Joe—it was to be exactly five months and four days from "Nice to meet you" to "I do"—he had been the soul of reliability and thoughtfulness. Also she was too caught up in the last-minute fuss of preparations for the small (strictly limited to seventy-five guests) but elegant wedding. And around her head, as everyone could see, there were shimmering clouds of bliss. Clare had been married before, at nineteen, an event she seldom thought about and never associated with this one, her real marriage, the only one that would ever matter.

  As a courtesy to his sister, Donald Malcolm went to the airport to personally pick up Joe and his mother when they got off the direct flight from Dallas–Fort Worth International. The plane happened to be delayed, so it was one-fifteen when "Brud" found out that Joe and Darly Rae were not on it.

  All of Brud's doubts about the legitimacy of Joe Tucker returned in a steaming flood that soon had him red-faced and in danger of losing his infamous temper. He was a stocky, balding pit-bull type who bit savagely when aroused.

  An airline supervisor was reluctant to say if Joe and Darly Rae had been booked on a subsequent flight, not due until four-thirty. Brud was not family, there fore not privileged to have that information. Brud got the airport manager on the phone and chewed on him for thirty seconds. The information was given out promptly. None of the airlines servicing Omaha had either of the Tuckers on their manifests for Saturday arrival.

  Meanwhile Clare and Brud's cousin Philippa, who Brud knew could be counted on to keep her wits about her and her mouth closed in this emergency, was trying to locate Joe Tucker in Texas.

  The number they had for Darly Rae Tucker turned out to be a pay phone at a Christian Science reading room in downtown Fort Worth.

  An airport cop reported that the black Maserati which was Clare's wedding present to Joe Tucker was not in either of Brud's VIP parking slots at the airport. It soon was apparent that Joe had not flown out of Omaha following the rehearsal dinner.

  By then Brud realized it was going to be bad news all the way. Not that he could blame himself; he'd been very thorough looking into Joe Tucker's background, once he observed that certain light in Clare's eyes whenever Joe was around. Damn it, you couldn't be more thorough, and Tucker had checked out all the way: certified birth certificate, TRW, high-school and college records, IRS returns obtained from agency files—good God, it was virtually impossible to fake some of that stuff! Yet Brud was readily convinced "Joe Tucker" was not the name of the man Clare thought she was going to marry. And all Brud knew about him was contained in an obviously fraudulent financial and business profile. Joe had somehow managed to sucker-punch them. But how?

  Brud was getting sicker by the minute. The fact that his little sister was about to be jilted didn't bother him so much. She'd had a disastrous history with men almost since adolescence; it was her lot in life, apparently. What he cared about was that he and Clare were about to look like fools to their friends (and Brud's enemies), and obviously Clare was out a lot of money, from some scheme or other she'd been careful not to consult him about.

  Familiar with Brud and his reputation, the resident manager of the Horizon Towers condominium had no qualms about opening the two-bedroom furnished penthouse that Joe had leased for the past six mon
ths. Joe had cleared out very neatly, leaving nothing behind except possibly his fingerprints; but Brud already had a set of Joe's fingerprints, and he was not on file with the FBI.

  There was plenty that belonged to Clare in the penthouse suite, mostly in the bathroom and in a bedroom armoire. Some frilly, baby-doll lingerie, not typical of Clare's taste: Brud had never seen her at breakfast in anything but a sensible plaid bathrobe. Bikini underpants he found in a drawer had the crotch cut out. He saw a book of erotic art on a bedside table, opened to some eighteenth-century Japanese drawings of women astride men with everything showing. Picturing the two of them dallying in the broad bed with the plum-colored silk coverlet, Clare assuming similar lewd postures for Joe—Brud was enraged.

  It was a few minutes before sunset when Brud drove through the gates of the country estate where he and Clare had continued to live after the death of their father five years ago. Most of the family fortune, which Brud managed astutely, was from ranch land in the Sand Hills country, and considerable property on either side of Dodge Street, from Westroads Mall to Boys' and Girls' Town. There were twenty, acres of windbreak woodlots, a nine-hole private golf course, air-conditioned horse barns, paddocks and show rings. Brud's passion, other than golf, was Arabians, and Clare owned and rode hunter-jumpers. She had her own money, most of which she was willing to let Brud invest for her. But there were a couple of accounts on which he was not a cosigner, money she could draw on when she wanted to buy a horse or invest in little businesses run by friends in Omaha or Hobe Sound, their winter home in Florida. How much money? He wasn't sure. She'd been lucky on a couple of her investments, and stud fees for her champion jumper Roshomon had been impressive the last couple of years. She might have had a million, maybe a million two in cash or cash instruments. That was before Joe came along, and she began sinking money into the gallery they were starting together.

  Joe was, or claimed to be, an art historian. He knew cutting horses, and could ride. His golf handicap was a respectable seven. For a young guy, twenty-nine according to his birth certificate, he was damned competent at a lot of things. Good-looking, certainly, confident but without cockiness, well read and soft-spoken, a rock-ribbed Republicaxi. And he had to be a genius at seduction, because Brud knew very well that Clare had had a lot of problems with sex over the years, thanks to good old Tunkie, her psychopathic first husband.

  Imposing thunderheads filled the sky over the Missouri River, a dozen miles away; rain had been promised for the weekend, but Clare had wanted an outdoor wedding, in the century-old south garden among the flowering pink dogwoods. In the gathering twilight, the guests were still waiting there, along with the string orchestra and the Episcopalian ministers, four bridesmaids and a flustered wedding coordinatorwith her crew.

  Philippa met Brud at the front door and told him Clare was incommunicado in her second-floor suite, waiting for her brother. Nothing had been heard from Joe, of course. Brud nodded and told her to pass on the news that the wedding had been postponed.

  "Give them all a couple of drinks and the buffet if they want it, and get them the hell out of here as quick as possible. Oh, and call Gordon Estes. Number's on the Rolodex in my study. I want him here tomorrow morning, no excuses!" Estes and Associates was the Washington firm Brud had employed to check on the background of Joe Tucker. The associates were all former FBI and Secret Service agents. Brud was primed to give Gordon Estes hell.

  He went upstairs and down the hall of the west wing, which had been added when the century-old, classically Victorian house underwent massive renovation in 1952. The quarters that Clare occupied had been their mother's; Evangeline was devoted, as Clare was, to Spanish motifs. The marquetry double doors were unlocked. Brud passed through an arcaded entrance to the empty conservatory/sitting room, walked past a Miró and a Becquer and a Tapies abstract on one wall. Tapies was Spain's leading contemporary artist, but the abstract looked like a cow wallow to Brud. His only interest in art was the bottom line, and he knew within a few dollars the current worth of all the art collected in Clare's suite.

  "Clare, it's Brud; you in there?"

  No sound; he stood back respectfully a few steps from her bedroom door, and called again.

  The door was wrenched open. What seemed to Brud like an apparition stood there, staring at him in hope and dread. She was a big woman, five-ten, with the bones of their late father, whereas Brud had inherited the short stature and blunt, pugnacious jaw of their mother. Clare had never been fat, but still there always seemed to be too much of her, even after breast-reduction surgery gave her figure more pleasing proportions. She looked strong and competent, a throwback to her pioneer forebears; but emotionally she was as fragile as a porcelain teacup, and in the hours since her scheduled wedding, Brud could see that she had come undone.

  "Now, Clare—" Brud held his hands up in a placating gesture, while his stomach burned with the acids of his hatred forJoe Tucker. "—I want you just to take it easy."

  Her wide mouth, with all the lipstick chewed off, worked hard; her throat muscles stood out. She gasped.

  "What... was it? An accident? Was he badly hurt?" Her normally high voice had a nervous tremolo. "Where is he?"

  "Glare, just let me come in, and we'll—"

  "He's dead." The dreadfulness of this assumption seemed to grow in force like a bad wind shrieking through her mind. Her eyes lost focus even as her body twisted tight as rope and she screamed out, "TELL ME!"

  "No. I seriously doubt that he's dead. Yet." Brud sighed and moved toward the bedroom doorway, guiding his sister back with the flat of his hand against her side. Under his breath he added, "The son of a bitch."

  Clare whirled away from him, almost lost her balance—she was wearing only one of her wedding shoes—then straightened and lashed out with a slap he shied from, taking the blow on the point of a raised shoulder.

  "How dare you! If you won't help me—"

  "Clare, listen. He didn't go to Texas. He drove the Maserati out of town instead of to the airport, and it's probably sold by now. I'm sure that his mother, so-called, was somebody he hired to act the part. Joe Tucker, or Buttcrack, or whatever his name may be, is not coming back to Omaha. Now, my guess is he never intended marrying you. And I tried my best to warn you, Clare; but you never would hear a word of it."

  Clare batted her long eyelashes. The mascara had matted from the humidity of her grief. She swayed. She was ashen. It was a mean business and Brud had no wish to torture her, but usually it was best just to bore ahead and get the unpleasantness over with.

  "Lying to me ...

  "I wish to God I was," he said, staring her down.

  Now her hands fluttered; she grasped the large heirloom sapphire engagement ring as if she were afraid it would fly off her finger.

  "He gave… he said… in his family… almost two hundred…"

  "Oh, well, it's a nice enough ring, yes indeedy, and it probably did set him back a few thousand at some deluxe flea market. But he had money to invest in you, apparently. Looking to make more money. So, how much, Clare?"

  A shudder tore through Clare. Her eyes were growing blanker. "Get... out. Leave me alone, Brud."

  "Whatever share he put up for that art gallery, he probably withdrew it from the bank. We'll know Monday. It was his, anyhow. The crucial question is, did you give him anything? He went off to Texas supposedly to buy some pictures, wasn't that it? Some song-and-dance he handed you about this old-time wildcatter with the fantastic collection of Western art he had to get rid of in a hurry?" Brud paused; he didn't have to look at his sister to know he'd reached the heart of the matter. "Yeah, I heard about it from Harley. You can't keep anything from me, Glare, Ijust wish you wouldn't try." He paused again. "You gave your fiancé cash money to buy those pictures with, didn't you?"

  She nodded. Her hands fell to her sides. She looked down, as if she were about to throw herself from the roof of a forty-story building, then straightened with a snap. But there was a faraway look in her eyes, as
if she were witnessing a holy vision.

  "It… it's all right. Something happened. But he'll… definitely be here. I think I... I need to freshen up?" Clare looked up with a stark, ghastly smile. "Just tell everybody… to wait. We're going to get married, really, and… it's… uh… he loves me, Brud. Joe loves me!"

  "Clare. Darling… how much of your money did he leave town with?"

  "But it's okay! He's in Texas. Buying paintings. I know all about it. There was probably. . ." Glare broke off, cringing at the look in Brud's eyes. She crossed her arms over her breast. She was wearing a Dresden-blue wedding suit, and a pearl choker. The skirt was badly rumpled. "I wish Mama was here." Her voice had become feeble and childish. "I wish Daddy… You never have liked me, Brud. You never approved of me."

  "You're my sister and I love you dearly. But I need to know. A couple hundred thousand, Clare?"

  When she didn't answer him he stepped closer to her, held her right hand in a forceful grip and ground the knuckle bones together. He hadn't done that since she was a kid. Clare sobbed in pain and misery.

  "Don't!"

  "How much?"

  "Six. . ." Glare choked. He let her go. She turned and limped toward the four-poster bed. Her image swam in his vision. His blood pressure was way too high. Six hundred thousand dollars. Brud breathed harshly through his mouth, appreciating the skill and effrontery of "Joe Tucker," an appreciation that did not in the least diminish Brud's desire to kill him.

  Facedown on her bed, Clare went into hysterics.

  Outside on the south lawn, a violinist had begun to play something lilting and Hungarian.

  Brud bounded to the French doors and out onto the balcony, sighted a group of relatives, the women in flouncy spring hats, the men in cutaways, cravats and striped trousers, all of them drinking champagne.