Touch of Evil (8 page)

“No, Dad. I really should talk to him.” Though Justine hated the idea, jail privatization
would
offer a solution to an otherwise impossible budget challenge. Maybe she could hammer out an agreement that the winner would hire on at least some of the staff she’d be forced to cut. She knew already that her people would have to take pay and benefit cuts, but something was better than nothing, wasn’t it? Especially considering the county’s unemployment rate.

“You’re in no shape to be bothered with this bullshit right now.” Her father headed for the door. “So sit yourself down and let me get rid of this fella.”

Justine might be furious at her dad for taking over, but she was secretly relieved when he went outside and chatted with Whatley for about ten minutes before returning with the huge arrangement in his arms.

Looking up from the file she’d been studying, Justine said, “I could’ve handled him…but thanks. Wow—those are really gorgeous. Smell good, too.”

Her father shook his head. “You’re such a girl sometimes.”

“Why thank you,” she said, though she knew he hadn’t meant it as a compliment. “So did Whatley shoot you his spiel?”

Another shake of the head. “Man didn’t say one word about business. Only wanted to know how you were doing. Said he’d heard about your ‘accident’ and couldn’t stand to think about you hurt.”

“Oh, you sly, sly vice president of regional expansion, you,” she said in the direction of the departed Cadillac.

“If I didn’t know any better”—her father smirked to show that he did—”I’d say that poor fellow’s sweet on you.”

Standing, Justine rubbed the back of her neck. “See how many cards and flowers he sends if I find another way around this budget—or choose his competitor. I’ll be right back, Dad. I could use a couple of Tylenol.”

She started toward the bathroom, but at the sound of a faint rumbling, Justine looked toward the window and spotted not Hal Smithfield’s black CorrecTex Hummer, as she’d feared, but Gwen Bollinger’s small blue BMW rolling up the driveway. The sight made Justine forget her headache in her eagerness to see her son.

“Our boy’s home,” she called to her father on her way to the back door. After yesterday’s ordeal, she wanted nothing more than to pull him into her arms and cover him with kisses, or tickle him and roughhouse, in spite of her sore head.

With an effort, she reined in her exuberance, reminding herself that when it came to Noah, a smile and a hand squeeze were about as much physical contact as he could handle. She’d lost her most recent chance of physical affection when Ross had cut her like a cancer from his life.

Shunting aside the thought, she quickened her step, hurrying toward the son she’d learned to accept on his own terms.

To love the way she wanted to be loved in return.

But as she trotted down the back steps, her smile fell at the sight of the empty seat beside her sitter.

Gwen shut off the engine and climbed out of the car, and Justine asked, “Where’s Noah?”

A slender woman of nearly thirty, with tousled, wheat-blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes, Gwen looked startled by the question. “You mean he isn’t here? I—I thought you’d picked him up on your way home from the hospital.”

“I would never do that without calling you.”

Gwen’s fair skin turned even paler. “My cell phone died the other day, and the new one I ordered hasn’t come yet.
When I stopped in the office to ask where Noah was, somebody radioed student pickup, and the teacher on duty said she was sure she saw you get him.”

“I wasn’t anywhere near the school.”

Gwen shook her head. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I should have found that teacher personally and asked her. But the office was a zoo, kids and parents running in and out, some ordeal about a bus that broke down, and two boys with bloody noses.”

Justine believed it. Whenever she had been there at dismissal time, she’d witnessed the controlled chaos as almost six hundred kids were shuffled into waiting cars or buses or sent to walk or ride their bikes home. “Not your fault,” she told Gwen, “but we have to find out where he’s—”

“What if he got mixed up?” Gwen asked. “You know, because of all the excitement last night with your getting hurt, maybe he thought today was Thursday and he got on the bus.”

“I guess it’s possible,” Justine said. On Thursdays, Gwen met the bus at the house.

“I’m calling the school right now,” she said, but she’d barely turned toward the house when a realization bumped against her chest wall. “Wait a minute. I just heard the bus pass by here a few minutes before you came.”

Ed Truitt came outside to join them, looking around eagerly. “Where’s that handsome grandson of mine?”

“We aren’t sure, Dad,” Justine told him.

His face froze as he looked from Justine to Gwen. “Aren’t sure? What the hell do you mean, you aren’t sure?”

Flinching at his tone, Gwen explained what she’d been told at the school and her theory that Noah might have ridden the bus home. “Maybe he did get off the bus, but he didn’t come straight in for some reason.”

They looked around, gazes touching on the stable, shed,
and detached garage, then sweeping an empty pasture, save for old Moonshadow grazing solo in the distance. There were a million places where an undersized nine-year-old could hide. But to Justine, that made no sense. Noah
always
ran directly inside for milk, string cheese (warmed in the microwave for exactly eight seconds), and some grapes or half an apple, the same after-school snack to which he’d clung religiously for three years.

He wasn’t a boy who varied his routine. Not willingly, anyway. Anxiety curdled in her stomach and reawakened the sick throb in her head.

Justine turned to her father. “Did you say anything to him this morning?”

“What? No. He went off with Mrs. Crane—Say…”

Justine finished his thought. “Maybe Marianne thought she was supposed to bring him by, and she’s heading this way with him now. Let me run inside and try to reach her.”

Her father nodded. “You do that, and we’ll check the outbuildings. ”

Hurrying back inside, Justine fought back the crush of memories, the calls she’d made as a deputy and during her short time as sheriff. The horror-stricken faces of desperate mothers, frantic fathers, reporting missing children. The splintering of hope, of love, of the life the family took for granted in those cases when the missing were found dead. Drowned in a neighbor’s weedy pond or filthy pool. At the bottom of a rooftop. And in those worst, most heartbreaking of occasions, at the hands of some adult.

Stop it. Stop now. Think about all those times when you found the kid safe. Think like a professional and get your act together.

But as Justine dialed the school’s number, her mind spun like a roulette wheel, an ivory ball bouncing from one black question to the next. What if last night’s assault had been something more than a crime of opportunity, a general lashing
out against local law enforcement? What if, instead, something personal was playing out, some grudge that could translate into an attack against her son?

“Lakeview Elementary,” a harried-sounding woman answered. But then, the school’s secretary always sounded stressed and put-upon.

Justine stayed on the line long enough to learn that Marianne Crane had left early for a doctor’s appointment, definitely without Noah. And that Noah’s teacher, who’d been supervising student pickup after school, could have possibly been distracted by a fight that broke out between two boys while she was ushering various children to the vehicles that pulled up.

“This happens every couple weeks or so.” A scintilla of compassion competed with the know-it-all in the secretary’s voice. “The parents always find their kids safe and sound. Every one of them in the sixteen years I’ve worked here.”

“My child’s disabled,” Justine shot back. “He’s barely verbal. He rarely makes eye contact, ignores the other kids, and can’t handle meeting strangers. Does that sound like the kind of boy who suddenly makes a new friend and decides to play at his house?”

“Justine—Mrs. Wofford. Hurry,” Gwen shouted from outdoors.

Unable to distinguish her sitter’s panic from horror or even elation, Justine broke the connection without saying good-bye.

When you reach the end of your rope, tie a knot in it and hang on.

—Thomas Jefferson

Though Ross would have preferred catching up on lost sleep in the blue bungalow he’d spent the last two years restoring, he stretched out on the sofa at his aunt’s house instead. It was too short for his height and nowhere near as comfortable as his bed at home, but he had no intention of leaving Laney until her sister showed up after work.

When the doorbell woke him later, he groaned, hoping his cousin would answer but prepared to ignore the interruption if she slept through it. Rolling over, he attempted to get back to a mouthwatering dream he’d been having about Anne.

Except it wasn’t his dead wife in the dream, he realized. The hair was too dark, the eyes a smoldering near-black, the pale and ample breasts overflowing both his hands as he squeezed them. Proving once and for all that a man’s subconscious was ruled by lust instead of reason.

Yet even awake, he wanted Justine. Wanted her fierce intelligence, her dark, deadpan humor, and God help him, the most exciting sex he’d ever experienced. He half dreamed it was her he’d heard at the door, and he envisioned himself rising from this sofa, from his very body, to let her in.

When the doorbell sounded again, he gave up his attempt to reenter the dream. Woke to the cold knowledge:
It’s all
over.
Broken beyond fixing, even if it weren’t for Justine’s suspicion of his cousin.

The doorbell rang yet again, the chiming followed by a series of hard raps. Ross got up and answered, determined to get rid of whatever neighbor or door-to-door salesman had come calling. Instead, he was greeted by young deputy Calvin Whittaker in uniform, a concerned expression on his broad face.

Ross hoped like hell Calvin wasn’t about to tell them they’d come up with security video of Laney buying the rope. Though Ross’s knee-jerk response had been to defend her, he’d started to wonder, in those brief moments before sleep took him, about how odd Laney’s behavior had seemed, how unlike her the claim of racial intimidation had been.

“What’s wrong?” Ross asked. “You find out something about last night’s break-in?”

Whittaker shook his blond head. “Nothing to do with your cousin, Dr. Bollinger. I’m here to ask if you’ll come with me. When your sister couldn’t reach you, she said I should drop by and see if you were here.”

“Gwen?” he guessed. “Is something wrong?” Self-reliant and levelheaded as anyone he knew, his sister wasn’t the type to call the sheriff’s department over something trivial. Pulling his cell phone from his pocket, he frowned at its blank face and realized he’d been too tired and distracted to recharge its battery.

“It’s Justine’s—the sheriff’s—little boy. Something’s wrong with him. Kid’s half-hysterical, pitching a fit over the idea of going to the ER. And Gwen thought, since you’ve seen him before…”

All thoughts of catching more sleep vanished. Regardless of his history with Justine or her suspicion of his cousin, this was a child, a child whose terror would be magnified by his developmental delays. “Is he sick? Injured? What’s going on?”

“We don’t know. He was missing after school—wasn’t
there when your sister went to pick him up, and he didn’t ride the bus home. A little later, they found him in the stable, crying. He’s wedged himself under a pallet where they pile hay bales. Real upset. Won’t let anybody touch him. Justine—Sheriff Wofford’s worried sick. They have no idea who brought him home or what’s happened to him, but they’re afraid of making things worse by dragging him out of there.”

Fully alert now, Ross said, “I’ll grab my bag out of my car.” Though he wasn’t in the habit of making house calls, he kept a medical bag stocked with first aid and a few basic items. “But first, I need to let my cousin know I’m leaving.”

After raking his fingers through his hair to neaten it, he tapped on Laney’s door.

No answer, so he cracked it open and found her sleeping with a child’s abandon, her wavy hair fanned out around her on the pillow. Reluctant to wake her, he found a pen on her dresser and jotted a quick note on the back of a junk-mail envelope:

Went to help Gwen at the sheriff’s place. Trudy here in twenty minutes. Sleep tight.

Returning to Calvin, he said, “Let’s go.”

As they locked up and hurried to the car, the deputy shot a glance his way. “I appreciate this, Doctor. Personally, I mean.”

In the younger man’s look, Ross saw a truth he’d half suspected in the ER’s waiting room the night before: that Justine Wofford was more than just a boss to Calvin. That the twenty-three-year-old rookie’s dreams were no less improbably full of her than Ross’s.

Among the loose chaff of the stable’s feed room, Justine went back down to her hands and knees and ignored the throbbing protest of her head and the wave of nausea that followed.
Paid them no heed because all that mattered was getting face-to-face with Noah.

“Please, honey, come out.” Justine peered into the recess in an attempt to see any sign of injury. “Come on in the house with me.”

From beneath long, chocolate-colored bangs, his brown eyes widened with horror. Scooting beneath the pallet even deeper, he used thin arms to shovel loose hay in front of him.

Crouched behind a nearby barrel of horse feed, Justine’s father caught her eye, then flicked a look at Noah’s small wrist while white brows rose with the unspoken question:
Grab an arm and drag him out, or leave him be?

As if he’d sensed the danger, Noah withdrew and shrieked, “No touch, no touch,” covering his face with one arm as if even eye contact overwhelmed him. “Bad touch.”

His terror struck at Justine’s courage like a hammer’s blow against a sheet of glass. But what overwhelmed her was the bruising on his forearm, a set of adult-size purpling fingerprints capped with crescent-moon-shaped cuts. Fingernail cuts, from where someone had gripped him. Gasping, she jerked back.

“Someone’s hurt him.” She was shaking so hard she could barely squeeze the words past her rage. “Some son of a bitch hurt my son and then just dropped him off like nothing happened. ”

With Gwen watching, horror-stricken, Justine’s father caught her by the elbow and helped her to her feet. “He’s already terrified, so pull yourself together. You cannot fall apart now. We can’t. Now let’s back off a little. Give the boy some breathing space.”

With fury ripping loose inside her, Justine snarled, “When I find who did this, he won’t fucking live to stand trial.” She pictured herself shoving her service weapon beneath some
bearded child abductor’s chin, staring him in the face as she squeezed the trigger.

“Stop it, Justine.” Her father’s voice cracked like a whip. “Stop it before your deputy gets here with the doctor. If you can’t do it for Noah, do it to keep the respect of—”

“This is my son, Dad. My. Son. I don’t give a damn what anybody else thinks about it or me or anything. You understand that?”

Gwen wiped away tears and rushed out of the feed room, her lips moving in a fervent prayer. Justine wanted to tell her it was useless, wanted to scream at her and God alike.

But abruptly as a thunderclap, she realized what she was doing: She was escalating the emotion, communicating her fear and rage to a child who desperately needed steadfastness and comfort if he were ever to recover.

She clasped her father in a fierce hug and told him, “Sorry, Dad. When you’re right, you’re right. I’m pulling it together. Now.”

Her father nodded his approval, then moved past her to squat, knees cracking, a few feet back from the pallet. In the shadow beneath it, Noah’s face was barely visible beneath loose golden stalks. The boy’s eyes were wet and swollen, his nose streaming so that Justine ached to wipe it.

Instead, she forced herself to stand and watch. Forced the hysterical mother in her to take a backseat to the sheriff.

“Time to come on out, son,” said her father, smiling as easily as if this were any other day. “We can bang your pans awhile while your mama makes some supper. Or you can get that new recorder I heard about, and I’ll rip off a great big belch for your collection. Waay better than anything your mom or Miss Gwen can muster.”

Though Noah only peered at him suspiciously, the sight of her dad, looking and sounding so big and warm and friendly, reminded Justine of the days she’d thought her father equal to
any situation. The days before Eddie’s death, when the man’s harsh words had smothered her childish trust forever.

She hugged herself, chills rippling up her arms, and said, “Where are they? Calvin said they would be here soon.”

As if conjured by her words, she heard the crackling of tires on the gravel driveway. Before she could leave the feed room, her father pulled out a white handkerchief and handed it up to her. “Mind your face now, Sheriff.”

Snatching it away, she blotted burning eyes as she rushed out the open doorway and waved an arm at the approaching department SUV.

When Ross Bollinger, looking strong and tall and capable, climbed out the passenger side, a tight knot inside her loosened. The recent past fell away, and his concerned, competent expression convinced her she’d been right to accept Gwen’s suggestion.

His sister kissed his cheek. “Thanks for coming. Trudy told me you’ve been up with Laney, but I thought you’d want to—”

“It’s fine. No problem.” Ross looked past her to Justine. “Where is he? Do you know what happened?”

“He has bruises on his arm,” she said. “Bruises from where someone’s grabbed him and God only knows what else.”

“Justine…” Ross started to reach for her, but cut short the reflexive move.

“He’s still in the feed room, hiding,” she went on. “We can’t get him to come out from underneath the pallet.”

“You need an ambulance?” Calvin asked. “Want me to call for one? And what about more deputies? Should I ask for—”

“His grandfather’s got him out!” Gwen cut in, and Justine followed her gaze to the stable door, where her father—thank God for him—was carrying Noah, who’d wrapped his arms and legs around him like a monkey and buried his face against his grandfather’s broad shoulder.

Justine ran toward them, trailed by Gwen, Ross, and the deputy.

“Didn’t see any bleeding,” Ed Truitt assured them, “nothing but a little bruising. But his shirt’s all cockeyed, buttoned up the wrong way.”

Justine felt her knees weaken, felt her world fray at the edges. Buttons perfect, tags tucked, the tabs on zippers pressed down: Noah was obsessively attentive to such details, wouldn’t leave the house without checking each one in the mirror.

“Let’s get him inside,” Ross said, “where I can take a good look at him.”

Justine looked at Calvin. “Maybe that ambulance is a good idea. Ask ’em to come in without sirens, and you wait for them out here. Don’t let them inside without my say-so.” Noah was already freaked enough without throwing more strangers into the mix.

With a crisp, “You can count on me, ma’am,” Calvin rushed toward his SUV.

Justine reached the back door first and held it open. “Dad, take him up to his bedroom. Familiar territory. Gwen, could you wait downstairs? The fewer people we have—”

Gwen nodded, understanding.

But Ross glanced Justine’s way and said quietly, “You stay downstairs, too, Mom.”

“What?”

“I’ll want to examine your son.” Ross’s look spoke volumes, the sympathy in his gray eyes belying his matter-of-fact tone. “And I think it might be better if it was just us guys.”

Before Justine could react, her father rushed upstairs with Noah, the doctor in his wake. Leaving her to stare after them, a sickness growing in her soul.