Punch Like a Girl (14 page)

I'm glad Rachel, Jonah, Manny and the others are gone, because gawkers are gathering, whispering together and even taking videos of the crime scene from a distance. They're like vultures waiting to pick the flesh off the bones of dead animals—only worse.

From the picnic bench, I can see teenage guys on bikes. I recognize faces, but they're younger than me, so I don't know their names. Some grandmother types with worried faces and gossipy mouths. A few anxious parents. Even a local
TV
news van with a hungry reporter and cameraman.

The picnic bench is now in full shade. My shorts and T-shirt are clammy against my skin, and I'm shivering. An officer interrogates me again. How many times have I met Stewart Foster? Has he ever phoned me or followed me home? Has Casey ever talked about her father? Do I know any favorite places they went together?

The questioning is endless, but it's nothing compared to what Casey must be enduring. Will he harm her? Will he flee to another country? Is she crying for her mother right now?

The male cop—his name is Constable Wilkinson—approaches me. “We're finished with you for now. Is there someone you can call to pick you up?” He squats down beside me.

“I'm fine on my own.” I can't explain to my parents or anyone else what has happened when I can hardly fathom it myself.

Then Peggy appears beside Constable Wilkinson. “You need to go home, Tori. You're probably in shock.”

Wilkinson nods. “If no one can pick you up right now, I can have an officer drive you home.”

“Good idea,” Peggy says.

“No. That's okay.” I'm not arriving home in a cop car. I make a show of pulling my phone from my pocket and pressing a button, even though it's waterlogged. To my surprise, the screen lights up.

Wilkinson rises, his knees cracking. “Good. Get yourself home.”

“Get some rest. You've been through a lot,” Peggy adds.

“I will,” I lie.

I don't tell them that I have somewhere else to go first. The corner house with the blue front door. Even though the cops are checking it out, I have to see for myself who really lives there.

I slip away from the police officers and go toward the street. A crowd of bystanders blocks my way.

“What happened?” a middle-aged man asks as I approach. “Did someone drown?”

I push past him. There's an eagerness in his face that disturbs me. People are way too willing to witness the fallout from a crime. But where are they when someone needs help?

I skirt the crowd and head for the sidewalk.

Just as I'm free of them, someone thrusts a microphone in my face.

“Janice Reese reporting for
Glencrest Region News
.” Her teeth are bright white, like in a toothpaste commercial. “Can you tell us anything about what happened here today?”

“None of your business.” I keep moving.

She matches my pace. “There was a report of an altercation involving a young girl. Can you confirm it?”

I scowl. “Do you listen to police scanners to get your stories? What's wrong with you?”

“The people have a right to know.”

I explode in the reporter's face. “The girl has a right to be safe.”

She startles, almost dropping her microphone.

“Where were you when she needed help?” I say to everyone gathered around. “If only one of us had been more vigilant, maybe Casey would be safe now.”

People in the crowd stare.

I walk away as fast as I can without running.

STAGGER
to walk unsteadily

The lawn is perfectly trimmed. Delicate yellow flowers cluster under the locust tree. Terra-cotta tiles line the path to the blue front door.

It's surreal, like nothing bad has happened.

People walking by give me strange looks. They probably think I'm a homeless kid from downtown. I stink. I'm filthy. I sway dangerously on the lawn. I'll probably scare whoever lives here. But I can't turn back now.

I squeeze my eyes shut and wish I'd never heard the name Stewart Foster. If only I could knock on the blue front door and have the nice Mr. Manicure open it. I imagine him telling me his real name—Brad, maybe. Or Kyle. Casey will be playing on the floor, drawing pictures. She'll smile when she sees me. Mr. Manicure will laugh when I tell him about the mix-up at Mill Pond Park. “They think you kidnapped Casey,” I'll explain.

I open my eyes.

The front door is wooden, arched, painted forget-me-not blue. A vine is growing around it, clinging to the bricks. As I head up the front walk, the door opens and an elderly woman, maybe seventy, hobbles onto the porch with a purse on one shoulder. She has a boot cast on her foot and a four-pronged walking cane in one hand. When she sees me, a shadow crosses her face.

“Can I help you?” Her eyes linger on my shaved head and my cast.

“Uh, I hope so.” I stop at the bottom of the stairs. “It's a long story, but I'm looking for a man I met here a few days ago. It was after dinner. He was mowing your lawn.”

“Stewart Foster.” She frowns. “Why? Are you friends with him?”

“Not at all.” I remember how he ripped Casey from my grasp. “But I'd love to know where he is right now.”

“The police were just here asking the same question.” She pauses, watching me. “But he's certainly not here. I didn't even know his real name until the police told me.”

So it's true. Mr. Manicure isn't a harmless neighbor, no matter how much I wish it. My chest hurts. My head feels woozy. I lean against the stair railing.

“Why are you asking questions about that man?” Her nose wrinkles as she examines me.

“I just saw him…” I grip the railing as a wave of dizziness hits. My knees pick that moment to falter, and in seconds I've crumpled to the ground.

“Oh!” She takes a step toward the top of the stairs and then hesitates. “You just saw him where?”

“At Mill Pond Park.” I get to my feet, still unsteady. “He abducted his daughter.”

“You were there?” Her eyes widen and then her face softens. “You poor thing!”

Her sudden kindness shocks me. My body trembles.

“What a state you must be in! Sit down.” She gestures toward her two verandah chairs. “I'll bring you a cup of tea.”

I'm surprised she'd offer tea to a total stranger. “I'm fine,” I say, but I feel weak, and my stomach is churning.

“I'll be right back. I'm Lenore, by the way.”

A few minutes later I'm seated in a verandah chair, and Lenore is handing me a steaming mug that looks like the barrel of a camera lens. She hobbles back inside and emerges with a mug for herself that's plain blue. The tea smells delicious, and the mug warms my hands.

“Sorry about your cup.” She wrinkles her nose again. “My kids gave it to me. I'm an amateur photographer, so they thought it was on theme.”

I sip the soothing tea. “It's awesome. Thanks.”

She sets her mug down and then gradually lowers herself into the chair beside me.

“It's decaf chai. Won't keep you up tonight.” She reaches for her mug. “Now, what do you know about Stewart Foster?”

I sigh, hating the tidy lawn that Stewart Foster has mowed, wondering what's happening to Casey right now and not wanting to think about it at the same time. As I tell Lenore my story, the nightmare images flash through my mind again, and I shudder.

It turns out that Lenore gathered some details about what happened at the park from her conversation with the police. She also knows about the shelter across the street—I suppose it's obvious to the neighbors.

“How do you know Stewart Foster?” I ask.

“A few weeks ago, I ventured into the ravines with my camera for an early-morning walk. I wanted to get some good sunrise shots through the trees, but I stumbled and broke my foot in two places. I got some great pictures of my rescuers, and at least eight weeks in this thing.” She taps her boot cast disgustedly. “A few days after I got my cast, this man who called himself Mr. Paul knocked on my door and offered to mow my lawn. I'd never seen him before, but he looked so…”

“Clean?” I suggest.

“Exactly.” She turns up her nose. “Maybe he was watching me, trying to find a way to get close to the shelter. But I should have been able to tell he was up to something. Then maybe that little girl would still be with her mother.”

“It's not your fault. He's obviously a good liar.” I cringe, thinking how he fooled me at first. “Do you know where he lives?”

“No clue. But the police are looking into it.”

I set my mug on the window ledge. “Sorry for bothering you, but I guess I was wishing he really was just a friendly neighbor.” I stand up to leave, even though I'm still wobbly. “Thanks for the tea.”

“You're not going anywhere. We're going to call your family to pick you up here. You've been through so much already. Too much for anyone to handle alone.” Her sharp blue eyes meet mine.

If only she knew. “I should be going. I shouldn't have even stopped for tea. Casey is still—”

“Sit down,” she orders. “You can't help anyone until you help yourself. I'll get the phone.”

Joel's jaw drops when I sway into the kitchen, trailed by Mom and Dad. “What happened to you?” He's got a half-eaten piece of beef jerky in his hand.

“I don't want to talk about it.” It was enough to deal with Mom's and Dad's questions and worried looks in the car. I bend over to slip off my shoes, get a head rush and lean against the end of the counter.

Mom grips my arm. “Are you sure you're okay?”

“I told you, I'm fine.” I grimace.

Joel takes a step closer to me and inhales. “Whoa! You stink! Did you roll in horse shit?”

“That's enough, Joel,” Dad warns, striding around me.

But Joel is like a dog tugging a chew toy. “Or maybe—”

“You don't want to joke about this.” Dad grabs Joel by his ear.

Joel yowls. “Hey, cut it out!”