Nick had allowed her to believe he would take care of it, but he hadn't. Something about Bill's and Sheila's rationales didn't ring true. Something about the mother's pleas did.
He had begun to look deeper into problems at the home. He had gone to the public school where Bill Brandon's children were sent, and had studied the records of the SCCH kids. He saw a repeating pattern of children falling asleep in class, over and over and over. When he spoke to their teachersâno small feat since it was summer and some of them had been difficult to locateâhe was told that they had contacted Brandon about the problem, only to be told that he would “take care of it” when the kids got home from school. Fearing what Brandon's punishment might be, and sensing the terror on the kids' faces when they thought they were being reported to him, most of the teachers had fallen into a routine of letting it slide without calling the home. They, too, suspected that things might not be all they seemed at the home, but they had little evidence to back it up. There had also been a few reports of some SCCH kids being caught committing crimes, but everyone had written those incidents off to bad parenting or to the typical rebellion of low-status, high-risk kids. None of his suspicions, none of the facts he'd compiled, added up to enough evidence to close down the home, or even to start an official investigation. He'd been at a dead endâand then he'd gotten a phone call from a young woman who had identified herself as a reporter with the
St. Clair News
and said she was working on a story about some alleged abuses in the St. Clair Children's Home. It had been just the encouragement he'd needed to convince him he was on the right track. But when Beth had told him that she suspected Brandon was using the children in a crime ring that worked in areas within a two-hour radius of St. Clair, Nick had been stunned. Was that why the children were so sleep-deprived?
The idea had been so far-fetched that it was almost unbelievableâyet some part of him believed it. First, he had beaten himself up about placing so many children in the home. Then, he'd determined to get them all out. But first he had to get enough proof.
He'd met with Beth, told her everything he knew, and promised to help her in any way he could. Since then, she'd been busy putting together the story that would outline all of Brandon's alleged crimes. Now they could add to it his attempt to run her off the roadâif they could somehow prove that he was the driver.
Nick thought back over the things she'd said tonight, the look on her face when he'd frightened her, the shakiness with which she'd revealed, little by little, how she had been followed from the interview. She hadn't looked so tough then. She was scared.
I might regret this,
he told himself as he made a U-turn. But the fear in Beth's eyes haunted him.
He pulled his car into a metered space in front of the St. Clair Police Department. Larry Millsaps and Tony Danks were probably still there processing the parents of the boys Nick had placed earlier. Maybe they'd have time to give him a minute.
The station was noisy, as usual, and smelled of sweat and booze from some of those who waited in handcuffs to be booked. He scanned the desks where cops answered phones and did paperwork. Tony Danks sat tapping at his computer keys, probably getting a history on the couple who sold dope for a living. Nick ambled over.
“Man, don't you ever go home?”
Tony looked up and grinned. “Don't
you
? You look tireder than I do, Nick. How are those kids? Get them placed okay?”
“Yeah, no problem. They were a little scared, but I think they'll be all right. That's not why I'm here.” He took the chair across from Tony's desk, crossed his legs and slumped back until his neck almost rested on the top back of the chair. “You got a minute?”
“Sure,” Tony said, turning away from his computer and leaning on his desk. “You want Larry in on this?”
Nick glanced over at Larry's desk, saw that he was filling out reports. “Yeah, if he can spare a minute. I just need some police advice.”
“You came to the right place.” He half stood and yelled, “Larry!” over the din, and Larry looked up. He saw Nick sitting there and got up to head over.
“You get those kids placed?” Larry asked as he approached the desk.
“Yeah,” Nick said. “But there's something else I need to ask you. Off the record.”
Larry's eyebrows lifted, and he sat down on the edge of Tony's desk. “Okay, shoot.”
Nick dropped his foot and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “I have this friend. A woman. She's a reporter, and was doing an important interview tonight, and she got followed most of the way home until she lost him. She thinks she knows who it was, and she thinks it has to do with the story she's working on. Basically, he wants to shut her up, so I don't know what he might do to her. But she's convinced he doesn't know where she lives.”
“You're not convinced?” Tony asked.
“Well, I can't be sure. This guy's shrewd, and he has a lot to lose. And I'm not entirely convinced that the whole interview wasn't a setup. Anyway, she didn't want to involve the police for fear of having the story come out before she breaks itâyou know, the competition might get itâbut I'm not sure waiting is a good idea.”
“It's not illegal to follow someone,” Tony said. “And it could have been a coincidence. Did he do anything to her? Ram her fender? Try to force her off the road? Anything to indicate ill intent?”
“Absolutely. She has at least two dents on her car where he tried to run her off the road.”
“Then he did break a law. Would she be willing to file a complaint?”
“No, she won't. Not yet.”
Larry shook his head dolefully. “Sorry, Nick. Nothing we can do.”
“Officially, no,” Nick said. “But what about unofficially? Could you kind of keep an eye on her tonight? Watch over her so that nothing happens?”
Larry and Tony exchanged looks. Tony rubbed his eyes. “Truth is, we're a little busy here tonight, Nick. We could send a squad car to patrol her house every hour or so, but we can't leave anyone there all night.”
“Well, maybe that would be enough. Anything you could do would help. And I'd prefer that you told the cop who does it not to pull all the way down the dirt road leading to her house. Just far enough to get a look at the house and make sure no other cars are there. Seeing headlights would scare her to death. Besides, I don't want her to know I came to you. She wouldn't like it.”
Larry stared at him for a moment, then broke into a sly grin. “Who is this girl, Nick? She sounds important. Something you haven't told us?”
Nick rubbed his stubbled jaw. “Actually, I just met her a few days ago. But yeah, I like her. She's a little young. Only twenty-one┓And you're an old man at . . . what? Thirty?”
Nick grinned. “Not quite.”
Tony had to laugh. “Nick Hutchins, the guy who's too busy for a woman. Looks like he's clearing some time.”
“Don't get carried away,” Nick said. “I've just been trying to help her out some. She's nice. Smart. Savvy. Different than the other women I know.”
“Uh-oh. Famous last words,” Tony teased.
Nick got to his feet, fighting his own grin. “All right, guys. I'm just worried about the lady, that's all.” He grabbed a pen off Tony's desk and jotted her address on a pad. “If you could get someone to patrol around there, just watching for anything suspiciousâa dark Buick in particularâI'd really appreciate it.”
Larry looked down at the pad. “All right. No guarantees, though.”
“Didn't expect any.”
He gave them both friendly handshakes, then walked out of the police station, wishing he could rest easy now. But he knew he wouldn'tâit would be a long night for him.
And it wouldn't be any better for Beth.
B
eth loaded her tape recorder and began to play back the tapes of her conversation with Marlene, quickly typing the words into her laptop computer. Beside her, Dodger slept, his little rhythmic snore making her wish she could lie down herself. But she had to get this doneâ and she was too tense to sleep anyway.
She heard something creak over her head. Lifting her hands from the keyboard, she looked at the ceiling. Was it her imagination, or had the floor squeaked upstairs? She cut off the tape recorder and listened.
There it was again. Quickly, she grabbed for the gun she kept in the table beside the couch. She went to the stairs and stared up at the top. Nothing there. She started to go up, then thought better of it. Still aiming at the stairs, she backed up and groped for the telephone. She snatched it up and dialed 911.
Her voice trembled as she tried to get the words out quietly. “There's someone in my house. Pleaseâsend someone right away. It's on Kramer Road, the number 343 is on the mailbox at the beginning of a long dirt road. Turn in there, and you'll see my house about a quarter of a mile in. Please hurry.”
She hung up, but kept the gun aimed at the stairs. If he came down, she would shoot him. She had no choice. If Bill Brandon had found her, if he had broken into her home, then he was planning to kill her. Her only hope was to kill him first.
A
t the police station, one of the sergeants grabbed Tony on his way out. “Hey, Danks. That address you gave us to patrol? We just got a call from the lady who lives there. Says someone's in her house.”
Surprised, Tony glanced over his shoulder at Larry, then back at the sergeant. “Have you sent a car out?”
“Yeah, there was one real close. In fact, he'd just made a swing by there and didn't see anything. Jane sent him back.”
“We'll head over there, too,” Larry said.
“Should we call Nick?” Tony asked as they hurried out to their car.
Larry shook his head grimly. “Let's see what's up first.”
T
he Fraser Gas Station was closed this time of night, and Bill Brandon sat in the shadows of the pumps with his headlights off, waiting for the kid to get there. It shouldn't have taken Jimmy this long to make it the five miles from her house to the gas pumps. What if he'd gotten caught? What if he'd made an even bigger mess of this?
He should have expected it. Jimmy was too soft, too young. Bill knew he should have used one of the more experienced kids. But this should have been an easy job, and Jimmy was so small for his age that slipping him in through the small bathroom window they'd found unlocked had been a snap. Besides, Jimmy was a whiz when it came to computers, and he knew that if anyone could handle the computer end of the job, it would be him.
Yeah, that was the way it was
supposed
to have gone. That was the plan. Send Jimmy in through a window, then the kid gets all the tapes and papers he can find, copies her files onto a disk, then erases her hard drive. Then everything went wrong. Bill had planned to stop her from getting home, but she'd gotten away from him. And then the stupid kid had picked up the phone. He'd pay for that.
Bill cranked his car, turned on the lights, and started back toward her house, hoping he'd see Jimmy on the road somewhere. He drove slowly, scanning the trees, watching, waiting. The kid had been trained too well to be seen easily, but Bill hoped he'd recognize the Buick and show himself.
Nothing.
He pulled over to the side of the road and thought for a moment, trying to build a strategy. Maybe he needed to go back to the house, look into the windows, see if she was home.
He pulled back onto the street and headed for her dirt road.
But before he reached it, he heard a siren, then saw a police car's lights flickering through the trees. The squad car turned onto her dirt road.
She called the police,
he thought, driving quickly past.
Which means the kid got caught. Now what?
He wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve and decided to return to the home. The cops would probably call him to report that they had one of his kids in custody, and he'd better be there to take the call. He'd pretend that the kid had escaped through a window when Bill thought he was sleeping, that he always had trouble with this one.
Jimmy wouldn't dare tell them differently. Bill had done too good a job preparing him for a time like this.
U
pstairs in Beth's house, the boy heard the sound of a siren approaching outside, and he strained to see through the window without moving. He saw blue lights flashing against the glass, a pale flicker illuminating the shadows of the attic. Did she know he was here? Had she called the police?
He heard the front door open, the dog yelping, and the lady's voice outside. With no one downstairs to hear him, he ran across the floor to the biggest box he could find, pulled out a four-foot Christmas tree, climbed into the box, then pulled the tree in on top of him. Trying to settle his breathing, he curled into as tight a ball as he could and waited.
It didn't take long. The door opened and a light came on, a light that seemed to flood through the attic, lighting every crack, every shadow, every particle of dust. He was sure it exposed him, too. Could they see him? Could they tell where he was hiding?
He heard voicesâseveral of themâas they filed through the attic, searching. He squeezed his eyes shut and chanted in his mind,
Don't let them find me . . . don't let them find me . . .
“There's nobody here,” one of the men said. “Maybe she heard a mouse or something.”
Someone else's feet creaked as he came closer to the Christmas tree box. Jimmy braced himself. “Yeah, this house is pretty old. Probably wouldn't take more than a mouse to make the floor squeak.”
“But what about the guy following her, Tony? You don't think this is a coincidence?”
“Didn't seem like it at first. But there's nobody here. Are you sure you checked thoroughly downstairs?”