Such a Pretty Girl (9 page)

I try to hold back, but her words are more potent than vitamins and I sit, blood thrumming, knowing it can’t be this easy, and yet…“Which room do I get?”

“The blue or the rose, your choice,” she says, writing again. “The mattress in the blue room is new, but the view from the rose room is better.”

“What about my stuff? My clothes and all, I mean?”

She glances up with a quick frown, like I tripped her in the middle of a full-out stride. “We’ll get to that at some point. I don’t want you going near that complex by yourself. Now, I need to make some important calls, so why don’t you go up and choose a room?”

“Okay.” I push back my chair and stand, awkward, wanting to let her know that I’m trying to believe, but all that comes out is, “Which one would you take?”

“The one with the new mattress,” she says, picking up the phone. “A good sleep makes all things possible.” She studies my face and she sees something, maybe everything I can’t say, because she replaces the receiver, crosses the room, and folds me into a fierce hug. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “I should have forced the issue and done something sooner.”

Two people, four arms. Strong numbers. “What could you have done, Gran? Kidnap me? I mean, up until yesterday everything was fine. If he hadn’t gotten out early, none of this would be happening.”

“Well, now it is, so let’s get busy and solve this problem once and for all.” She releases me with a brisk smile and goes back to the phone.

I gather her bathrobe around me and trot upstairs. The bedrooms are beautiful, guest rooms out of a magazine, with polished wood floors and thick throw rugs, matching sheets and comforters, and tons of fringed pillows. The walls have framed old-fashioned paintings on them, one with rich, blue hydrangea bushes and one with lush pink roses. The women in both pictures are wearing long, flowing dresses and have kittens romping at their feet.

I perch on the bed in the blue room, careful not to crease the comforter, and then do the same in the rose room. My cigarettes and knife thud against my thigh as I cross and re-cross the hall. I can’t tell the difference in mattresses. The door locks are the same, press-in buttons and flimsy like home. The rose room looks out over Gran’s flower garden, the blue room over the quiet street, but neither has a tree branch or a drainpipe near enough to use if I ever need an escape route.

“Meredith?” Gran’s voice echoes up the stairs.

I trot out to the landing. “What?”

“I’ve spoken with my assistant and he’s going to meet me down at my office to work on our strategy and set things up for Monday. We’re going to try and reach my attorney, too, so I may be gone for a couple of hours.” Pause. “Do you want to come with me or will you be all right here alone?”

I feel my cigarettes nudging my leg. “No, you go ahead. I’ll be okay.”

“Are you sure?” she asks.

“Just lock the door and I’ll be fine,” I call back.

“All right, then, I’m on my way.” Keys jingle. “I left the direct phone line to my office on the pad by the phone. The TV remote is on the coffee table in the den. I’m taking my laptop with me, but you’re free to read any of the books or use the other computer if you’d like. When I get back, we’ll order Chinese for supper. How would that be?”

“Fine,” I say and wave as she bustles out the door. I listen for the lock’s click, then zoom down the steps and double-check it. I remember the back door and race through the kitchen, narrowly missing a stray shard of ceramic plate on the floor, and check that door, too. It’s locked and so is the sliding glass. I dart from room to room, checking all the windows, hunkering down to stay below the sills until the last moment so if my father is out there watching the house, he won’t be able to follow my progress.

I scurry back up the stairs to the blue bathroom, turn on the fan, and shut the door. Crack the tiny window and light a cigarette. Perch on the cold, hard edge of the tub and use the toilet as an ashtray. It’s not the most satisfying way to smoke, nothing at all like hanging out at Andy’s….

Andy.

He’s leaving for Iowa tomorrow and I never kissed him good-bye. Never even
said
good-bye, just ran out of there like some kind of paranoid lunatic. He doesn’t even know I’m safe at Leah Louisa’s. No one does.

I should call and tell him, but I can’t leave the room with my cigarette. I wish I still had a cellphone, but my mother took it back after my friend Azzah and her family moved to Miami and I’d racked up a six-hundred-dollar bill calling her.

Funny, how bad I’d missed her until Andy moved in and then it was like I’d almost forgotten she’d existed. She forgot me, too, I guess, as she never returned my last call.

I take one last drag, drop the cigarette in the toilet, and flush. Tighten the sash on Gran’s robe, crack the door, and slither out, closing it behind me so the smell won’t taint the rest of the house. I hate the thought, but I have a feeling my smoking days are numbered. I hurry down to the kitchen and lift the receiver, punch out half of Andy’s number, and then stop.

I don’t want to say good-bye to Andy over the phone. I need to see him, and I need him to see
me
. I need to be fixed solid in his arms and his mind, not as the one who’d led the nightmare straight to his door this morning, and then freaked and bolted, but as me, Meredith, something good enough to sustain him to Iowa and back. Leaving him with that last awful memory, saying “See ya” over the phone, or sneaking him a covert wave as Leah Louisa and I move my stuff out of my condo isn’t going to do it.

I can lose a lot, but I can’t lose Andy.

I replace the receiver and scribble my grandmother a note saying I’ll be back. I have no key so chances are she’s going to come home and find me sitting on her doorstep waiting for her anyway, but still.

My overalls and tank top are almost dry. I change, transferring my stuff from pocket to pocket. I hang my grandmother’s bathrobe on a hook and, tucking my hair back behind my ears, slip out through the mudroom door and into the sunlight.

I
take the direct route back and within fifteen minutes am turning off Main Street into the complex. My overalls are wrinkled but dry from the hot, whooshing breeze stirred by passing motorists.

“FFWHEEEEEEEEEEEEPPP!”

I wince, pause, and track the shrill whistle.

Nigel Balthazar is on his front stoop. “Finally. Come here.” His face is florid and the pits of his shirt are dark with sweat. “Christ, don’t make me yell. It’ll kill me.”

I hesitate, then pad up his front walk. I can spare a couple of minutes. “What?”

Gilly appears in the smeary living room window and barks to join us.

“Have a seat,” he says, waving me toward one of the two rusty, nylon-strapped lawn chairs squatting in the sun. “I want to show you something.”

“You must be kidding,” I say, eyeing the spiderweb shrouds draping the chair legs and the bug corpses dangling from the arms, wafting and bumping lazily in the breeze like macabre wind chimes. “What did you do, steal these out of Stephen King’s cellar?”

“They’re the best I could do on short notice,” he says crankily, maneuvering his bulk in front of a chair. He grips the plastic armrests and gingerly lowers himself until the chair stops screeching in protest. His butt scrapes the ground and I have no idea how he will ever get up. “Are you gonna plant it or what?”

I sigh and settle into my hellish throne. Light a cigarette and lay the pack on the rickety table next to a mummified daddy longlegs. My throat is parched and the cigarette makes me cough. “Water?” I look around for a hose.

He frowns at my staccato hack. “You should have said something before I wedged my ass into this torture device. Go into the fridge and grab a couple of Snapples. And you might as well bring Gilly out, too. Her leash is by the door.”

“You sure?” I rasp, because I’ve never been in his condo before.

“Of course I’m sure,” he says, deliberately misunderstanding my question. “I just dropped it there ten minutes ago. I may be a relic, but I’m not senile yet, kid.”

“A matter of opinion,” I say, earning a dark look.

Gilly prances as I make my way through the shabby living room to the kitchen. The place smells of coffee, cigarettes, and dog. Framed police commendations are mounted on the wall around an autographed black-and-white glossy of some leather-
faced cowboy actor. It’s really old, so it might be John Wayne. Or maybe Clint Eastwood.

Fuzzy white hairballs stir and drift along the hardwood floor as I pass through the doorway separating the living room from the kitchen. There are twelve more pictures hanging here, all scrawled with signatures, all black and white.

“Nigel Balthazar, autograph hound,” I murmur, grinning. “Who would’ve thunk it?” I open the fridge and choose a Snapple grape and a raspberry iced tea. Bump the fridge closed, find Gilly’s leash, and lead her back outside.

“Nothing like taking your time,” Nigel says. “What were you doing in there, sightseeing?”

“I was star struck,” I retort, holding out both Snapples. He picks the raspberry iced tea. Good. I want the grape.

He slams the bottle’s bottom against of the heel of his hand, breaking the internal suction, then twists off the cap with a muted pop. Taps it against the cardboard box settled on his lap. “I’ve been thinking about what you said the other night, how your father’s already started harassing you and all.”

I open my mouth to say,
Well, guess what? I don’t have to worry about that anymore,
but something in his face stops me and sends my stomach into a familiar, downward spiral. “And?” I retrieve my cigarette and open my drink.

“And I don’t like it.”

“Join the club.” A yellow jacket circles my Snapple and I blow smoke rings at it until it flies off in disgust. I may die of cancer, but I haven’t been stung in years.

“I’ll do better than that,” he says and sets the box on my lap. “Open it, but be careful. I had to call in a lot of favors to get my hands on this stuff.”

I put my bottle on the table and wipe my damp hands on my overalls. I sit up straighter and carefully open the box flaps. Look at the contents, then at Nigel. “A teddy bear and a smoke alarm? I don’t get it.”

“Look closer,” he says.

The bear is brown, fuzzy, and has glassy black eyes. The cheap, white plastic smoke alarm is the same kind that hangs on my kitchen ceiling. “So?”

“So,” Nigel says, “haven’t you ever heard of a nanny cam?”

“Yeah,” I say and then my eyes widen. “Are these…?”

“Yup,” he says, knuckle rapping a cigarette from his pack and wedging it into the corner of his mouth. He lights it and exhales. “We’re gonna do us a little covert surveillance, kid. Start building you a case so when the sh—er, crap hits the fan….”

I want to say,
Sorry, but that’s not my problem anymore because you see, I’m going to live at Leah Louisa’s now,
but the words won’t come. I run a finger over the teddy’s rounded stomach. “So you think something bad is gonna happen.”

“Don’t you?”

I shrug and keep my gaze on the bear.

“I know it sucks, but the problem is that we can’t do anything until
he
does something. No kid in town, including you, is gonna be safe until he’s back behind bars where he belongs.” Nigel shakes his head. “He’s not one of those guys who wants to change. I wish he was. He’s gonna start again, Meredith. It’s not
if,
it’s
who
and
when
and
how many.
”

“I know,” I whisper because he’s right, it’s true, it’s everywhere in the heavy, choking air over this complex, but I still don’t want to be hung back on the meat hook and sent to the chopping block.

In a better world, I think I would have chosen the rose room.

He drags on the cigarette until the end glows and blows out a thick stream of smoke. “His being alone with you and all? We could probably grab him for a parole violation, but even if he’s sent back for it, he’s just gonna get out again. We’re nickel-and-diming our way through it, you see? But
this
way…” He pokes the bear. “Juries love video proof. Bingo-bango, conviction. Makes their job easy.”

Conviction. The second sweetest word in the world. I look at the teddy and the smoke alarm, my two new best friends. “What should I do with them?”

“Put ’em wherever it’s most dangerous. Each one has a pocket-size remote that’ll turn on the camera up to a hundred feet away.” He shows me how to work the remotes. “Run them every time you two are in the same room. We’ll nail him yet. Think you can do it?”

“Yeah.” Despair cracks my voice. “I just don’t want to do anything wrong.”

His wrinkles deepen and for a second I get the crazy idea that he’s near tears.

“You’re fifteen years old, kid,” he says gruffly. “He’s the adult. It’s all on him.” Clears his throat. “Did I tell you he and I had a little chat this morning?”

“No,” I say, closing the box. Four flaps, all interlocking. I move slowly because I’m back on familiar ground and there’s no hurry now. “How did that happen?”

He leans back in his chair. “I was sitting here reading the paper when I notice some mope jogging around the complex. And there’s something about the way he’s moving that makes me wonder what he’s doing.”

“He was looking for me. We had a situation and I christened that knife you gave me. No, I didn’t stab him,” I add at his interested look. “I cut through my window screen and took off. Why, what happened?”

“Well, something about him doesn’t look right so I figure it’s time to do a little investigating, and just my luck, Gilly decides she wants to go for a walk.”

“How convenient,” I say dryly.

“Wasn’t it?” His eyes gleam. “So we head down the sidewalk and this guy’s jogging past Andy’s building, then back to your building, then to the one across from you, and around and around he goes.”

“Did you know who he was by then?” I’m fairly sure of the answer.

His mouth thins. “Yeah, I recognized that pointy head right off. Do you know what he had on? His old Estertown Middle School tank. Guy’s got nerve.”

“You’re telling me.” My father used to wear that shirt teaching gym class. The only other thing he could wear out in public that would increase the attendance of his lynch mob would be his Boys’ League Coach T-shirt, and the way things are going I fully expect to see him wearing it tomorrow.

“So anyhow, I’m just standing there watching him, and he spots me and starts jogging toward me.” His mouth slides into a faint grin. “We’re oh, maybe fifteen yards apart, and he yells, ‘Hey buddy, have you seen my daughter?’ and just like that,” he snaps his fingers, “he recognizes me. Slams on the brakes so hard he leaves a skid mark. Took off a good chunk of knee, too.”

“He fell down?” I can’t keep the delight from my voice.

“Made your day, did I?” Nigel says, amused. “So I say, ‘How you doing, Chuckie? Been a while, huh?’ and my tone is nothing but pleasant—”

“He
hates
that name!”

“You don’t say,” Nigel says and grins. “He gets all defensive and starts in with that ‘I haven’t done nothing wrong and you cops have no right to stalk me,’ sh—er, crap. I wait till he’s done ranting and say, ‘Been down to register as a chicken hawk yet, Chuck?’ Because of course I know that he hasn’t. And while he’s turning green, I follow up with, ‘So Meredith’s missing? How’d that happen?’ I’m asking because now I’m thinking maybe you two got into it and he’s putting on a big show for the neighbors like he don’t know you’re dead and laying in the Dumpster.” He crushes the smoldering butt under his heel. “Sorry to say it, but it happens.”

My smile dies. “Yeah, I know.” My father can be charming, funny, a caring, good-natured guy always ready to help, a friend to the friendless and a sympathetic ear to kids in need. It’s the perfect public persona, and the shock waves after his arrest, the neighbors’ absolute denial and disbelief, were a real testament to his acting skills.

Gilly flops over in front of us, panting.

I swirl my Snapple. “So what’d he say when you asked about me?”

“Oh, he got up on his high horse and said, ‘I don’t have to talk to you! You poisoned my daughter against me,’ and I said, ‘Didn’t have to, Chuck. You did that yourself when you…’ ” He stops, looking embarrassed.

“Never mind, I get the idea,” I say, studying my stubby fingernails.

He shifts and the chair moans in protest. “Well, make a long story short, he takes off for your place and I’m just about to call in the boys on the force to do a Dumpster check, when I see you coming out of Andy’s and heading for the road.”

“I didn’t see you,” I say.

“I know. I couldn’t yell without drawing your father’s attention so I just let you go.” Nigel leans over, exhaling a grunt, and pets Gilly, sprawled at his feet. “Now I’m thinking maybe I was wrong. Maybe it’d be good for your old man to know you got friends around looking out for you.”

That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. “So that’s why we’re sitting out here advertising our unholy union.”

“Yup.” He sits up red-faced. “Think of it as a show of strength.”

I fumble for his hand and press it to my cheek.

Nigel clears his throat. “I say something right for a change?”

I nod and release him. “Don’t lose any sleep over it, though.” I drain the now-warm grape drink, tuck the box under my arm, and rise. “Andy and his mom leave for Iowa tomorrow.”

Nigel grips the chair arms, rocking and making the joints scream until he gains enough momentum to lurch to his feet. The chair is crooked and sagging, pitiful in its death throes. “You don’t want him to go.”

I shrug. “Maybe I’m just jealous that he can.” I look away, blinking hard, because
I
could have run. I still can as long as I never look back, never think about my father prowling the complex for other innocent little kids who don’t know who he is or what he’s going to do to them. I could run back to Leah Louisa’s, but I realize now that even if I do there will have to be better locks on the doors, blinds on the windows, and a fence around the yard because I will never be free as long as he’s out there, watching and waiting for me.

“Hey kid, listen. You think Andy’s running is really gonna solve anything?”

“He
thinks it will,” I mutter and meet Nigel’s steady gaze. “Do you?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” he says finally. “Andy’s demons chase him just as hard as yours chase you. The only difference is that instead of running, you met yours head-on and that’s pretty damn gutsy, considering.” He hesitates as if struggling with something and sighs. “That accident where he broke his back? Well, according to the doc, Andy wasn’t supposed to be crippled, he was supposed to be able to get up and walk again, but he never did.”