Candles Burning Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  Forty-eight

  Forty-nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-one

  Fifty-two

  Fifty-three

  Fifty-four

  Fifty-five

  Fifty-six

  Fifty-seven

  Fifty-eight

  Fifty-nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-one

  Sixty-two

  Sixty-three

  Sixty-four

  Sixty-five

  Sixty-six

  Sixty-seven

  Sixty-eight

  Epilogue

  “A mix of magic realism and Southern Gothic, this stunning collaboration between King and McDowell . . . moves at a hypnotic pace, like an Alabama water moccasin slipping through black water.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Spooky . . . Supernatural elements, complicated schemes, and a neatly portrayed sense of place—was the sunny Gulf beach ever so threatening?—make this a shivery fun novel for summer.”—The Tampa Tribune

  “[A] lightly supernatural confection . . . King completes it beautifully as to tone, aura, and flavor, and it’s funny and intriguing, magnetically readable.”—Booklist

  “A superb paranormal gothic thriller that grips readers from start to finish . . . Tabitha King completes the late Michael McDowell’s tale so that no one will be able to ascertain who wrote what nor care as the growing suspense to an anticipated High Noon showdown is what the audience will appreciate.”—Alternative-worlds.com

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  CANDLES BURNING

  A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the authors

  Copyright © 2006 by Tabitha King and Michael McDowell.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-0-425-21570-8

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  Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

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  For Michael

  This novel is a collaboration. Michael McDowell began it a decade ago. He died before he could finish it. His editor, Susan Allison, approached me through my agent, Ralph Vicinanza, with the idea of completing it. I was immediately intrigued. The manuscript and the notes that Michael left were incomplete, but he had carried the story forward several hundred pages. The story as I completed it is not the story that Michael set out to tell, or the one that he would have told, had he lived to finish it. Every novelist knows the difference. This is the story that I drew from Michael’s manuscript.

  I hope that it would have pleased and amused him, and that it pleases Laurence Senelick, Michael’s longtime companion, and Michael’s sister, Ann, and brother, James, who survive him. Laurence has given me generous support and approval for this project and provided notes and fragments of the original manuscript that had gone astray. He has my deep gratitude.

  Thanks to Julie Ann Eugley, Marsha DeFillippo, Barbara Ann McIntyre, Margaret Morehouse, Marcella Spruce, and Diane Ackerly, providers of logistical support, research, scheduling, and lunches; to Dave Higgins, who maintains our Macs. As always, to my first readers, Nora K., Kelly B., Owen, Joey, Steve, Sarah Jane, M., my oldest sister, and M., my youngest sister. Thanks to my family also, for the humor with which they have tolerated my antisocial prickliness when I am working. Thanks to Douglas Winter, who knows for what, and shrieks to Lyn.

  Thanks to Ralph and to Susan.

  But most of all, thank you, Michael. It was fun. And I miss you.

  One

  MY father died unpleasantly.

  Mama put it that way. “My husband died,” she used to say, letting her voice catch before concluding, “unpleasantly.”

  Stepping on a wasp barefoot—that’s unpleasant. A mouthful of sour milk—that’s unpleasant. What happened to Daddy was no mere unpleasance. It was murder. And not a cozy one. Not the butler in the library with the revolver, not a bloodless, painless, game of clues with a polite high-class suicide to avoid the common gallows at the end.

  I was seven years old when Daddy died. I did not entirely understand the nature of Daddy’s death nor did I accept its finality. His death was an event that had happened to me, and to Mama, and to my brother, Ford; the realization that it had happened to Daddy came only with the passage of time. The pictures of the bloody footlocker that made the cover of what turned out to be the last issue of True Sex Crimes, the stories that appeared in that grimy little scandal shee
t and its trashy ilk—Savage Real Crimes, Twentieth-Century Grue—were successfully kept from my eyes until much later.

  Recently I have read or reread all the newspaper and periodical clippings and the popular psychological forensics farragoes, such as Dr. Meyers’s 1975 publication, Sexual Pathology and the Homicidal Impulse, which included a chapter entitled “Footlocker, Broomstick and Cleaver.” The unspeakably cruel details of Daddy’s death quickly defeated the cynical attitude with which I had armored myself. Mama’s once ludicrous euphemism now lodges sharp as a fishbone in my throat.

  The women who actually murdered Daddy were caught. They were tried. They were judged guilty and sentenced to die in the electric chair. Even in Louisiana in 1958, it was rare for women to be executed but what they did to my father was, in the opinion of the judge, “an unimaginably heinous atrocity against nature.”

  But the two guilty women did not die by electrocution.

  Judy DeLucca was murdered in the prison laundry—slit open from throat to crotch with a razor blade embedded in the handle of a toothbrush. When Janice Hicks, housed in a different wing of the same prison in Baton Rouge, heard of her friend’s death, she began to gasp frantically. She was dead before a doctor could be summoned. The autopsy showed that her lungs were full of water.

  Seawater.

  Two

  MY name is Calley Dakin.

  I was christened Calliope Carroll Dakin. Every time I ever asked Mama why she named me Calliope, she spun a new and blatant lie, from the lackadaisical to the sadistic: Calliope was the name of the best friend in college who had proved to be treacherous, or of the childhood doll that had always had an odd smell, or the forbidden creek where a naughty child was bitten by a water moccasin and when the body was recovered, the snake was inside the child’s mouth.

  I discovered for myself that a calliope is a nineteenth-century steam organ associated with circuses, and that Calliope is the classical Greek muse of epic poetry. At my first opportunity, I informed Mama of these facts.

  “I had no idea,” said Mama, in a flat sarcastic tone. “If only I had had an inkling.”

  From my earliest babyhood, Daddy took me to the circus as often as one showed up within reasonable reach so that I came to know the range of sounds of the calliope. No one could call it a delicate instrument but I did admire its great rowdy wind. Mama never went with us. She had an allergy to hokum, she said. It was some years before I was disabused of the notion that hokum was some kind of plant like ragweed that provoked people to sneeze and swell up.

  Mama was born Roberta Ann Carroll. The Carrolls were a very old Alabama family, very high in Alabama, as high as you could get without actually being the current governor or so rich that people in other states had heard of you. Mama never let me forget that I was a Carroll, or that I was failing to measure up to being one.

  But my last name was Dakin.

  The Dakins were very low in Alabama, as low as you could get without being colored. The Dakins had never amounted to anything, Mama always said. They were not quality. Without history, without standing, they might as well have hailed from the backside-of-the-moon.

  The only things they did have were hillbilly accents and boys. There were no Dakin girls, just family after family of Mama Dakin, Daddy Dakin, and four, five, six, or in the case of Daddy’s mama and daddy, seven little boy Dakins.

  So why did Roberta Carroll marry Joe Cane Dakin?

  Because, unlike all the other Dakins in Alabama, Daddy was rich.

  Though his name actually was Joe, Mama called him Joseph. She asserted that it was typically ignorant of the Dakins to put a nickname on a birth certificate. Daddy’s brothers were Jimmy Cane Dakin, Timmy Cane Dakin, Tommy Cane Dakin, Lonny Cane Dakin, Dickie Cane Dakin, and Billy Cane Dakin. Mama claimed that the middle name was because they were all born in a cane field.

  Daddy told me that it was his mama’s lesson to them all, so they would not forget the stain of Cain upon the human race. The misspelling was of no import. The idea of spelling as a strict science never penetrated very deeply among the barely literate like Daddy’s mama, or the illiterate like his daddy. Indeed, it is an idea that begins now to seem a quaint affectation. I have seen the signature of Daddy’s father, on county documents, signed variously Cyrus, Cyris, Syris, and even Sires Dakin. He had the Dakin down cold; it was his Christian name that was a speculation every time. Daddy’s mama signed the family Bible in neat printing: Burmah Moses. Daddy’s mama was herself an orphan, raised in an orphanage operated by The Daughters of the Pharaoh. They were a peculiar, and now extinct, offshoot of the Eastern Star, but while they existed, they sent all their charges out into the world bearing the last name of Moses. No doubt her orphan soul, like the too-large shoes she was given to wear away from the orphanage, could hardly avoid picking up the odd pebble of a religious enthusiasm.

  I never knew Cyrus or Burmah Moses Dakin or Daddy’s brother Tommy Cane Dakin, who died of whooping cough when he was four, or his other dead brother, Timmy Cane Dakin, who died in his late twenties from a mule kick in the head—not before he had a chance to leave a widow and four boys under the age of seven.

  Daddy was the youngest. He started out with nothing, and as little education as rural Alabama could in those days provide. Daddy had a knack for fixing cars. From his early teens, he would have six or seven broke-down Model T’s or baling-wired farm trucks in the yard of his widowed mama’s dogtrot. He scrounged parts from junkyards and cannibalized hopeless wrecks. Nobody in rural Alabama had much by way of currency or coin in the middle of the Depression, so the owners of the rattletraps he put back on the road paid him as often in barter—a chicken, a sack of sweet potatoes, a ham, a bundle of firewood—as cash. The quarters and fifty-cent pieces and dollars came sweaty and slow, but once won, they did not escape his grasp.

  An automobile dealer from Montgomery, Mr. Horace H. Fancy, heard of him and offered him a job as a mechanic. With Burmah Moses Dakin recently gone to Glory, Daddy did not have any reason to stick where he was. Mr. Fancy discovered that Daddy was more than a natural-born grease monkey. Joe Cane Dakin was a natural-born salesman too—and as honest as an August noon in Alabama is hot. People liked him. They came away feeling that for once they were not being cheated. Mr. Fancy realized that he had found the man for whom he had been looking, the very one to take over his business so he could retire. Mr. Fancy taught Daddy the automobile business.

  And not just the business. Mr. Fancy saw to it that Daddy got a library card and educated himself. Mr. Fancy’s wife was dead but he had a widowed sister, Miz Lulu Taylor, keeping house for him, and she took it on herself to teach Daddy proper manners and diction and everything else that he needed to pass for a country gentleman. Mama liked to tease Daddy that Miz Lulu must have been sweet on him but Daddy said she was just an old retired schoolteacher who missed the schoolroom.

  In a very few years, Daddy bought Mr. Fancy’s dealership and made it the biggest Ford dealership in Alabama. It was so successful Henry Ford II called up personally from Detroit one day and asked Daddy to establish a dealership in Birmingham because nobody there seemed to know how to sell Fords right. So Daddy went and did it. By the time he was thirty-two—a decade before he married Mama—Daddy owned three dealerships—in Birmingham, in Montgomery, and in Mobile—and was worth three million dollars and change.

  A mild bout of polio in the summer of 1939 left Daddy with a slow stiff walk and a weak left arm. He had no choice but to fight the war at home. When the National Guard got federalized, Alabama organized itself a State Guard as a substitute. Daddy joined it, along with all the old men and boys and lame and halt fellows the military wouldn’t take. They were supposed to protect Alabama from being invaded by the enemy that actually was bold enough to blow up shipping in the Gulf of Mexico. Daddy sat on the State Defense Board that coordinated all the civil defense activities. He did his turn as an ordinary warden too. When the war came to a close and the factories shifted back to domestic consumption, Daddy
started making money again, hand over fist.

  Mama and Daddy met right after the war, in Boyer’s Drugstore in Mama’s hometown, Tallassee, not far from Montgomery. Daddy was buying a pack of Wrigley’s gum, to be polite, while checking on whether Mr. Boyer was still thinking about trading his old Ford for a new one. Mama went into Boyer’s to buy a lipstick she didn’t need. Mama knew who Daddy was. He didn’t know her, but it wasn’t ten minutes before she had him assuring her that that shade of lipstick was just right on her. She always made it seem like once she uncapped that new lipstick, he never had a chance.

  As he built his businesses, Daddy put his brothers to work in them.

  Uncle Jimmy Cane Dakin worked for Daddy in Birmingham, Uncles Lonny Cane and Dickie Cane worked for Daddy in Mobile, and Uncle Billy Cane and his wife, Aunt Jude, worked for Daddy in Montgomery.

  Mama declined to have anything much to do with his side of the family. He tolerated her ignoring the Dakins but snuck me out to see his people. If he ever took my brother, Ford, to see them, he had stopped doing it by the time I came along.

  I liked Billy Cane best, mostly because Uncle Billy and Aunt Jude doted on me. Being Dakins, they had nothing but a pack of boys. Aunt Jude was one of a flock of girls who all had girl children of their own and she missed not having a girl child for herself. I was special to them also on account of my being the first female Dakin child in memory. I reckon too that it didn’t trouble them any to aggravate Mama and her mama, whom Ford and I were taught to call Mamadee. I doubt that my Dakin relations minded making a few dead Carrolls groan in their graves.

  In photographs now, Daddy seems unfamiliar to me, someone I recognize not because I ever knew him but because, in looking for him, I have studied those photographs so intently. A man of middling size and height, his blond, thinning hair slicked back with Brylcreem, his light eyes, guarded in his long-jawed, sunburned face, look back at me. His nose was large and aquiline and crooked, as if it had been broken. Probably it had, but he never got around to telling me how. His ears were large too, and narrowed his face between them like a single book between unnecessarily large bookends. I recall him wearing both suspenders and a belt. His voice, though, I have never forgotten: a country tenor, softened by his Alabama drawl. His favorite song was “You Are My Sunshine.” He said, “gone” for “going,” and left off the “to,” as we were all apt to do, though, of course, we were taught better.