Read Thread of Deceit Online

Authors: Catherine Palmer

Thread of Deceit (9 page)

“I won’t keep you long. I’m calling in reference to Haven. One of your reporters, a young woman by the name of Ana Burns, is proposing to write a piece on the recreation center’s lead paint problem. It’s a serious issue, certainly, and I can understand why the newspaper considers it worthy of coverage.”

“You’ve got that right. Lead levels in St. Louis’s children are at an all-time high. We published some big stories on the defunct lead plant in Herculaneum—the contaminated dust that kids were breathing. Now we’re learning the lead abatement crews here in the city aren’t making more than a dent in ridding houses and apartments of the old paint. And that’s not to mention the public buildings that are still contaminated.”

“I guess that’s where Haven comes in. Obviously we’re all doing our best to deal with the problem. But this reporter of yours isn’t going to make things easier. If the paper publicizes the center’s troubles, fund-raising is only going to get harder.” He fell silent for a moment, letting his words sink in. “Why don’t you call her off, Rod? Tell her to focus on the situation in a more generalized way. You don’t need to go throwing names around.”

The publisher considered the request. “I hear you, of course. But the public has the right to know what’s happening in the city. I don’t like to weigh in against an issue that one of my editors feels is important enough to investigate.”

“But think of Haven. Think of the future of all those children if this story turns away potential donors. If you let this Burns woman print the problems, it could shut the center’s doors forever.”

“I certainly wouldn’t want that to happen. I’m sure you know that. Tell you what. I’ll talk to Carl Webster about the situation. He’s the editor in charge here.”

“Thanks, Rod. I admire your courage. I know you’ll do the right thing.”

As he said goodbye and pressed the button to shut down his phone, a breeze ruffled the curtain near his chair. Despite everything he had done to calm himself, the motion of the fabric startled him. He knew it was only wind, but he leaped to his feet and checked behind the drape anyway. Satisfying himself of his safety, he let out a breath as he pulled the window shut and locked it.

This couldn’t go on much longer. Stu had failed to call back and was not returning his voice mails. No doubt the weasel had scampered off with his tail between his legs. Expected, of course.

As usual, he would face things on his own. He doubted Rod Davidson would help out, either. The publisher’s own agenda came first. Printing scandals, selling papers, making money—never mind how it might harm others.

And that nosy Ana Burns. He couldn’t believe how easily she had manipulated everything. If Davidson didn’t put a stop to her, there would be no choice but to step in and take care of her himself. Fortunately, he had connections. Not friends, of course, but people—acquaintances—who could make things happen to a single young woman, working downtown, walking the city’s streets.

From his earliest memories, he had known he was alone. The things he had suffered. The thoughts that plagued him. No one cared. Once he had told his best friend, Stevie, how he was feeling—shared his deepest emotions, his most troubling experiences, his inmost fantasies and fears. And from that moment on, Stevie had ignored him. Turned away. Abandoned him. Worse than putting him down or making fun of him, Stevie had simply pretended that his once-dearest friend no longer existed.

Though unbearably painful, the experience had been useful. Now he knew that no one could really understand him. They thought he was a deviant, a “sicko.” Well, they were wrong. What he did wasn’t perverse or strange—it was simply who he was. He was created this way, a unique and special human being—and how could anyone say that was wrong?

He never hurt anyone. His so-called “victims,” as the prison therapists had put it, weren’t bothered by what he did. They welcomed it. In a way, he was helping them, awakening them, and teaching them things they would need to know later in life. It wasn’t as though he got that much out of his “crime” anyway. His own pleasure lasted just a short time, and then he was forced to spend weeks preparing for it all over again.

The trouble was that no one was as smart as he. People were fools. They imagined their sex offender lists would deter him. How naive. He had simply left the state and changed his identity. Easy enough. He had contacts everywhere. His clients were respectable businessmen who worked in high-level positions. They had made his transition flawless. The authorities had no idea how effortless it was to elude them. Just thinking of this, he felt his anger grow. Idiots! He grabbed the curtain and gave it a jerk. He had intended to close it, but the fabric tore loose from the pins that held the pleats to the rod.

There! he thought, staring up at the dangling drape. That was exactly the kind of thing that infuriated him! Carelessness. Stupidity. People didn’t do things the right way. Someone had failed to properly secure the curtain, just as Stu had failed to set up the safeguards.

Sinking down onto the floor, he held his head in his hands. He thought he was going to vomit.

“Why not, Carl?” Ana set her palms on the city editor’s desk and leaned across it. She could hardly believe it was already Thursday, and she had only six workdays left to complete her assignment. Most of the previous afternoon had been eaten up with her fruitless visits to Haven and Jim Slater’s house. Though she had interviewed health workers, day care supervisors, a variety of public agencies, church youth ministers and the operators of two city recreation centers, the series was not coming together well.

She had worked hard on the stories, trying one angle and then another. But as the hours passed, Ana only grew more convinced that the
children
—and not the lead paint—needed to be the focus of the series. More important, she felt certain that something was going on behind the scenes at Haven.

Her news nose was rarely wrong, and it was telling her that she was onto a very smelly trail. A frightened child hiding in a corner, a little girl with a fresh bruise on her cheek, guard dogs and a man too free with his affection—Terell Roberts stood out like a blinking beacon on a dark night.

How could Ana ignore an investigation with such news value? Worse, how could she abandon the victims of a possible predator? Despite her trepidation about confronting and pushing Carl Webster—aware the editor could very well fire her and send her back to Brownsville—Ana knew she could not rest if she didn’t at least try.

“It’s the children,” she told him. “They should be the center of attention in these articles.”

Carl rubbed his eyes. “Lead paint, Ana,” he said wearily. “That’s your story. Contaminated paint.”

“Who cares about paint? You said it yourself—
children
draw readers. This series has everything, don’t you see? The potential for gripping photos. Sidebars on individual victims of lead paint poisoning—I have an interview set up at Barnes Hospital tomorrow morning. It’ll be compelling, Carl. Just give me another week, and I’ll write a package of stories guaranteed to tug on readers’ hearts.”

“Stories that would make strong contest entries. Isn’t that what you mean, Ana? You’re still trying to win awards when what I want is good, solid coverage of an issue affecting this city.”

She straightened. “Fine, if all you want is paint, that’s what I’ll give you. But then no one will ever learn about Tenisha, who has cerebral palsy and is playing basketball for the first time in her life. Or Granny, the elderly deaf woman who teaches Gerald and the other little boys how to crochet. Or Flora, who came here from…from who knows where and can’t speak English and hides in a corner. And that’s just Haven.”

She grabbed a pile of press releases from his desk and straightened them as she raced on. “I’ve got great leads on children in home-based day cares—kids whose dads were murdered in drive-by shootings, kids whose mothers are thirteen years old. And those church basements you mentioned? Carl, there’s a group of grandmothers sitting day after day in a moldy basement with crumbling paint—and they’re rocking babies, reading to babies, singing old hymns—”

“Okay, okay.” He held up a hand. “You’ve made your point. But there’s no time for that. Besides, it’s out of the realm of what we’re looking for. I’ve told you what I want, and I see no reason to change it.”

“Carl, please. I’m all over this story. Just give me another week.”

He sighed and rolled his chair back from the desk. “You drive me crazy, Ana. And quit organizing my desk every time you come into my office.” He grabbed the papers from her hand and tossed them down.

“Yes, sir, but—”

“Goodbye, Ana.” He stood. “We’ve both got work to do.”

Her mouth dry, Ana swung back through the door and returned to her desk. Great. She had failed to win Carl to her point of view about the lead paint series. Now she would have no choice but to make the health department and its regulations the central theme of the series.

Sure, she could sprinkle in a few examples of local agencies in trouble. But the real children would take a backseat to droning quotes by politicians and physicians. And any hope of uncovering a scandal behind the scenes at Haven must go right down the drain, along with the dream that her writing could ever make a difference in this world.

Dropping onto her chair, Ana once again reflected on Sam Hawke and his military-style activities center. His dedication to the place appeared genuine. His long-term friendship with Terell Roberts gave a seemingly healthy impetus to the program. But something nagged at her. What lay behind that relationship? Why had two bright young men forsaken careers and financial security for a group of needy children whose problems were mind-boggling?

Sam said his Christian faith had motivated him. But was that really it? She sat staring at her computer screen, trying to absorb what he’d said, wanting to believe Haven was all it seemed, aching to trust that Sam was telling her the truth—yet skeptical all the same.

Ana’s experience with God had been different in so many ways. And yet, in essence, it was similar. She had wanted to die. And He had saved her. She trusted God and followed His guidance—at least she tried to. But was her passion for her life’s work actually self-driven, while Sam’s was God-driven?

Did they even believe in the same God? Why was her image of Him steeped in love while Sam’s was angry, hostile, a commander of forces armed for battle? Suddenly she wasn’t sure she knew God’s true nature or was even following Him.

Ana thought of the volunteers she had met in the past week. Young Caleb—why had the teenager relinquished a carefree summer to try to repair an ancient computer? How did an old woman who could hardly hear benefit from teaching crochet to a bunch of rowdy kids? Those grandmothers in the church basement? What did they get out of rocking babies day after day? Was God behind all this? Or was something else motivating these people?

Ana felt certain that her articles needed to focus on more than the lead paint. Her writing had to capture the plight of the children who might accidentally ingest it. But she also sensed a need to write about the adults who chose to work in these run-down old buildings, helping youngsters who probably never would utter a word of thanks. Dare she defy Carl and tell the stories her way?

The thought of the consequences that would surely follow made Ana’s stomach clench. As she absently cleaned up her desk, she reflected on the Texas home in which she had spent her teenage years and the latest phone call from her parents. They had sounded so forlorn, the sadness and blame echoing behind their words.

Ana took the letters and memos that had collected in her in-box and sorted through them quickly, tossing most into the trash. As she scanned the file of lead paint articles that the archives librarian had laid on her desk, tears sprang to her eyes. During that brief time as a reporter for the
Brownsville Herald,
she had made such huge errors. She had failed. Failed her parents…her sister…herself. Her brilliant series about drug traffic in the city won first place for investigative writing from the Texas Press Association. Despite what others thought, the award had been meaningless to Ana.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she opened the desk drawer and lifted her file of current assignments. She picked up the small framed picture and gazed at her family. The parents smiled into the camera, so pleased with themselves and their two lovely little girls. And the children—missing teeth, countless freckles, gangly legs—forced hollow grins to cover the pain they could tell no one but each other.

As Ana gazed into the eyes of the child she had been, another child’s eyes stared back at her. Flora. They shared the same silent, haunted terror. The dark secrets. The unspoken fear.

Do you know La Ceiba?
The words bubbled up inside Ana’s head, sounding like tiny echoes, barely audible.

La Ceiba. La Ceiba.

Propelled by a sudden need, Ana switched on her computer and clicked open an Internet search engine. She typed in the name of the silk-cotton tree that grew in Brownsville, then she chewed her thumbnail and waited for the screen to fill with information.

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