Presumption of Guilt (8 page)

But what was that? Something moving in the darkness beyond the dusty window. She stepped further back from the house and tried to focus better. Was it a reflection from the sun through the trees, or had she seen movement?

She stepped to the side, trying to see it without the glare of sunlight on it, and stared at the glass.

Then she saw it again. The slightest, slowest movement of something rising up, then jerking back down.

Someone's in there! They're watching me!

She jerked the puppy back into the house by its leash and grabbed her gun again. This time, with bold, renewed anger, she ran up the steps and burst into the attic. She kicked at the box beside the window, knocked over the four-foot stack of newspapers in the corner, clutching the gun in front of her.

“I saw you, you sleazeball! I know you're in here!”

She was shaking so hard she could hardly hold the gun, but she swung around, knocked over more boxes, kicked at others, shoved things aside.

Then she saw, on the far wall, the shadow cast by the light coming in from the window.

She took one step cautiously closer, then another, and cocked the pistol. He was behind that box in the corner, she told herself. Crouching like a coward, waiting to pounce on her or run like the wind . . .

What was Bill doing about all this? Would he try to come after him and get him out? Or would he just leave him here to rot?

And what was Lisa thinking?

He closed his eyes and tried to come up with a plan, but there wasn't one. Until she left, he was stuck here.

“Don't move!” she screamed as she trained the gun on him and kicked the box away.

A little boy with red hair looked up at her with frightened green eyes, frozen like a doe in the glare of headlights. “Don't shoot, lady,” he whimpered.

She caught her breath and stepped back, lowering the gun instantly. “You're—you're a kid! Just a kid! I almost shot you!”

“I know.”

“What are you doing here?” she asked, breathless. “How did you get in?”

He slowly rose to his full height, no more than four-feet-four.

The front of his black jeans were wet, and he was soaked with perspiration. “I was . . . uh . . . I was lost, and I saw your house . . . I knocked, but no one was home. I came in through a window downstairs just so I could call my mom . . . that's all I wanted to do . . . but then you came home and I got scared . . .”

“You've been here since last night?”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn't you let me know you were here? I would have helped you.”

“I was too scared.”

She tried to stop trembling. She reached for his hand—it was dirty and rough—and pulled him around the box. “Come on, we'll call her now. She must be worried sick about you.”

He grabbed up his backpack as she led him out of the attic, into the full light of her loft. “How did you get lost, anyway?

What's a kid your age doing out alone at night?”

“It's a long story,” he evaded. “Can I use your bathroom?”

“Of course.” She glanced at the wet spot on his jeans. “If you'd like to change, you could probably wear a pair of my shorts.

They'd be baggy, but—”

“That's okay,” he said, embarrassed. “I don't need 'em.” She led him downstairs and showed him the bathroom. He went in quickly and tried to bolt the door behind him.

“The lock's broken,” she said through the door. “Tell me your number, and I'll call your mother.”

There was no answer. In a moment, she heard a scraping sound, and realized he was raising the window—probably the same one he'd come through last night.

She burst through the door and caught him halfway out.

And suddenly it dawned on her. Black jeans. Black shirt. Black backpack. This child had been put here deliberately, planted in her house to rob her or spy on her or maybe even hurt her—She grabbed him and wrestled him back in, her face reddening with escalating anger. “You lied to me,” she said through her teeth. “You're not some lost kid. You're from SCCH. You're one of Bill Brandon's kids, aren't you?”

The kid looked stunned, and she knew instantly that she was right.

“Answer me,” she demanded. “Did he make you break in here? What was he looking for? Papers? Tapes?”

He lowered his worried eyes to the floor, and she turned him around and yanked off his backpack.

“Answer me!” she bit out as she unzipped it and examined the contents.

“I didn't get anything!” he said. “You came home—”

“What
would
you have gotten?” she asked, jerking up his chin. “What did he tell you to get?”

The fear in his eyes was real. Instantly, she let him go, but she didn't break that lock she had on his eyes.

“He's gonna kill me,” the boy whispered.

Her anger crashed. She knew that fear, understood that certainty. “What's your name?”

“Jimmy,” he muttered.

“How long have you been there, Jimmy? At the home?”

“Three years,” he said. “Me and my sister. Lady, if you report me, they're gonna put me in the juvenile center, and there won't be anybody left to take care of my sister. She's only seven.”

But the words weren't penetrating. She was too caught up in the realization that if this kid had gotten into her house, it was because Bill Brandon knew where she lived and how to get in. The fact that she wasn't already dead was a miracle.

“How did he know where I live?”

Jimmy shrugged. “How does he know where anybody lives? I don't know. He doesn't tell me stuff like that.”

“So what
did
he tell you?”

He looked miserable as he struggled with the truth, and she knew that he wondered if any of his mission was salvageable now.

He was probably hoping to get out, go back to the home, and act as though he'd never been caught.

“Come on, Jimmy. I'm not going to let that man hurt you.”

“You can't stop him.”

“I sure can. And he knows it. That's why he made you come here. He wants to stop me from telling what I know.”

His eyes were raging as tears filled them. “He
will
stop you.

He's mean, and he doesn't give up. He woulda stopped you last night if you hadn't lost him.”

She caught her breath. “How do you know that?” Then her face changed as she remembered the phone call, the boy's voice . . .

“That was you on the phone, wasn't it?”

He swiped at the tears spilling down his face. “He told me he'd call to warn me you were coming home. I thought it was him.

It was stupid. I shouldn't have answered. Man, he's gonna kill me.”

“No, he's not. Because you're not going back there.”

His face began to redden now, and he looked up at her with pleading eyes. “I
gotta
go back. You don't understand. Lisa's still there. He told me the sins of the brothers are visited on the siblings. It's in the Bible.”

“That's not in the Bible, Jimmy. That's something he made up.”

“He'll still hurt Lisa if he thinks I ratted on him. He swore he would, and I know it's true.”

“Jimmy, even if you did go back, don't you know Bill's going to go ballistic when he sees you after this botched-up break-in?”

“He hates mistakes,” he whispered, leaning back against the wall and clutching his head. “But at least he'll go off on me and not Lisa. She didn't do anything. She doesn't even know about all the stuff Bill makes us do. I don't want her to know.”

“But don't you want Bill stopped? Wouldn't it be great if he could get caught and arrested for what he's done?”

“No!” he shouted. “
I'll
get arrested, too. Bill didn't break into anybody's house.
I
did. I'll be the one they put in prison. Not him.”

“Jimmy, that's all just a lie. He tells you that to keep you doing what he wants. He wants you to be afraid. But the truth is that they don't put little kids in prison. How old are you, anyway? Eight, nine?”

“I'm ten,” he said, insulted. “I'm just . . . short for my age.”

“Probably why he chose you. You can fit into small places. But Jimmy, they don't put ten-year-olds in prison. And if they stop Bill, they'll put you and Lisa and all the other kids into a decent place—”

“That
is
a decent place,” he screamed. “Don't you get it?”

“Just because something is familiar, Jimmy, it doesn't mean it's good.”

“It doesn't
have
to be good.”

She rubbed her face, wondering what she should do. Call the police? Or Nick Hutchins? Go against this kid's will and turn him in, or let him go back?

He was afraid that he would go to prison, and she couldn't blame him. Bill had probably pounded that threat into his brain.

She took his arm and led him to the kitchen, picked up the phone, and started dialing.

“Who are you calling?” he asked.

“My friend, Nick Hutchins. He's a social worker. He'll know what to do.”

“No!” The kid jerked away from her. “Are you crazy? No social workers! I'm tellin' you, he'll beat the daylights out of Lisa, just to get back at me.”

“Maybe Nick can get your sister out of there.”

“Nick? The one who
put
us in there? No way! Lady, you're gonna ruin everything!”

“Jimmy, I want you to call me Beth,” she said. “I'm going to help you.”

Tears came to his eyes, and he swatted them away. Under his breath, Jimmy muttered, “I ain't calling you nothing.”

Beth heard what he said but ignored him. Of course he was angry. Of course he was afraid. So was she.

She breathed a sigh of relief when Nick answered the phone. “Nick, I was wondering if you could come over. I need to see you.”

At the other end of the line, Nick hesitated. “I could get there in a couple of hours or so. I'm kind of tied up right now.”

“It's really important.” She glanced at the boy. “There's something I need for you to see.”

“What is it? You're not going to keep me in suspense until I can get there, are you?”

“I have to,” she said. “Nick, come as soon as you can.”

“Is it the article? Have you finished it?”

“No,” she said. “I got a little sidetracked. I'm still working on it, though.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. For now, yes.”

She could almost hear the wheels turning in Nick's head.

“Beth, just hold tight. I'll be there as soon as I can tie up some loose ends here.”

“All right, I'll see you then.” She hung up the phone and gave Jimmy a look.

“I thought you were gonna tell him,” he said, wiping his face.

“Not over the phone. I want him to see you in person. He's a nice guy, Jimmy. He cares about you.”

“He doesn't care about me! None of them do! I
hate
social workers. They don't care if they separate sisters and brothers, or if they take you out of one place to put you in a worse place. They don't care about nothing.”

Her heart ached for this jaded child. “Jimmy, you've obviously had some bad breaks. But Nick is going to change your opinion of social workers. I promise you.”

“Yeah, I've heard promises before, too,” he said. “Let's face it, lady. I'm sunk. The sooner we get this whole thing over with, the better.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

W
hile they waited for Nick, Beth made breakfast for the boy, who attacked the food as if he'd been starving to death. She sat with him as he ate, sipping on her coffee and studying him.

“What did Bill tell you about me?” she asked. W He hesitated, then shrugged. “Nothing. Just told me to come in here and get the papers and tapes. And dump the files about us on your computer.”

She frowned. “He didn't say why?”

“Said you were gonna write a story about us. That we'd all go to jail if you did.”

“I'm writing a story about
him.
He's the only one going to jail—he and the other adults working with him. But not the kids, Jimmy. I'm not out to get the kids.” She wiped the wet ring from his glass off her table, then looked up at him again. “Did you find anything?”

“No, nothing.”

“That's because I had most of it with me, and I hadn't put anything on the computer yet. I imagine he was planning to kill me before I got home, and then he would have destroyed any evidence I had with me.” She thought about that for a moment. “Why do you think he
didn't
come out here last night? If he knew where I was, and that you were still here, why didn't he come?”

“I don't know. I kept thinking he would. Maybe he thought I got away, and that you called the police after he followed you. Maybe he was too scared to come.”

“Bill Brandon, scared? I don't think so.”

The boy looked up and stared at her for a moment. “You know him, don't you?”

She met his eyes, then looked away. The doorbell rang, and she got up, grateful for the chance to evade the question. “Maybe that's Nick,” she said.

“Or maybe it's Bill.”

She stopped halfway to the door, reached into her table drawer, and pulled out her pistol.
It's not as if Jimmy doesn't know I have one,
she thought,
I almost shot him with it an hour ago.

Peeking through the curtain, she saw Nick, and quickly put the gun away before opening the door. “Nick, you got here sooner than I thought.”

“Had to. You had me so curious.” He stepped into the house and saw the little freckle-faced boy with a milk mustache, his red hair tousled and unkempt. “Who's this?”

Beth drew in a deep breath. “Nick, this is Jimmy. A very interesting kid, with a very interesting story. Why don't you sit down? This could take a while.”