Thread of Deceit (13 page)

“It’s about time!” he hissed into the phone. “I told you to call me right back. Where’ve you been?”

“Listen, things aren’t good here,” Stu said. “I think they may have found something in one of our clients’ computers. The dead guy.”

“What makes you say that?”

“A man came to my office today. He told me he worked for the company that services our computers. He was there to upgrade our system. That’s what he said, but I don’t think so. He wanted to see my files. He was in there for hours, fiddling with my computer and going through my stuff. I didn’t have anything at the office, of course. But I don’t know what he might have found. I mean, I’ve…well, once or twice maybe I’ve accessed some of my home files—”

“Are you nuts? You used your office computer to pull up files from your house?”

“Just a couple of times. But I didn’t save anything to the hard drive. It was only a quick—”

“You’re dead meat, Stu.” He tried to breathe. To think. To reason. The point was not Stu’s fate. The man had cooked his own goose. The issue now was his own safety. “Listen, did you talk to your client? Does he still want to do this deal?”

“No way.” Stu’s voice quavered, as though he was holding back tears. “He says things are too hot right now. And look, you’ve got to help me. If they take me in—”

“You deserve it. I never should have trusted you.”

Trying to clear his brain, he found himself wishing for the blissful escape of alcohol. Lately, his martini consumption had increased to the point that he was concerned about driving. Not at all sure he could go out. Or talk to people. And yet, what choice did he have? Things had to be done. Situations resolved.

“Maybe I can help you, Stu.” He was relieved at how easily the lie slid from his tongue. “I have connections here. I’ll send someone your way, and we can try to cover your tracks.”

“Really? Thanks. That would be great.”

“First and foremost, I want you to take your computer and all your hard copy files to the dump. The city dump. Don’t save anything.”

“Okay.” He was sniffling now. “Or maybe I could just hide my things somewhere, you know. Rent a storage shed or something. I mean, I’ve been working on this for a lot of years now, and I’d hate to—”

“If you want to keep your sorry hide out of prison, you’ll take everything to the dump. Call me back once you’ve done that. In the meantime, I’m going to need your help disposing of the problems I’ve got here.”

“Disposing?”

“You know what I mean, Stu.”

“Let’s not get into that again. Please. It’s one thing to go down for having files, trafficking, possession—maybe six years at the most. But you’re talking serious stuff now.”

“Of course I am. I’ve got to clear my property.”

“What have you got?”

“Two here and a girl I sent to Jefferson City. Don’t know how it happened, but she ended up back here. I have to deal with her. She can give them too much information. Information about me. About us. Blow the whole thing sky-high.”

“You’re talking about three. That’s a lot.”

“There’s one more—a reporter. She’s nosing around, asking questions, won’t quit. I need to put a stop to her.”

Stu was breathing hard, clearly in a panic. “Four?”

“Can you find someone for me? I need it done quickly and quietly. Nothing splashy, you understand. And no evidence.”

“Right.” He swallowed audibly. “I think I know someone who could help us. But it’ll cost plenty.”

“I can pay. How soon?”

“I’ll talk to him today. Maybe he can get right on it. But it may take a couple of days.” He sniffled again. “So, you’ll send someone to help me out, too?”

“Sure, Stu. I know who to call. We’ll be okay.”

As he hung up the phone, he let out a shaky breath. What an idiot. Stu would bring down the whole organization. Everything he’d worked so hard to build would be gone in a flash, and he’d be on his way back to the slammer. He ought to get out his gun and drive to Illinois and blow the fool’s brains out. The thought of leaving St. Louis set his heart racing. Maybe he would head for Texas, instead. And then Mexico.

But how could he leave the house this way? There was too much evidence. Too much…and they would come after him even if he left the country. It would be a federal case, no doubt about that. The authorities would hunt him down and extradite him. He would rot in some stinking prison somewhere.

He sat gripping the arms of his chair. If he drank only one martini, he could still concentrate. An anxiety pill would calm him. The two together couldn’t do much harm, he reasoned. Maybe he could actually get some sleep. And perhaps his head would stop pounding.

Yes, he thought as he headed for his special cabinet. That was exactly what he needed to do to take care of himself.

Flora slipped through the metal detector at noon the next day. As usual, she wore pink plastic sandals and a green skirt. Another female accompanied her, Sam noted in surprise, this one older and taller. With her dyed black hair, pink satin blouse and denim shorts cut far too high in the leg and low on the hips, the older girl had the world-weary appearance of a young streetwalker. Pointing to the oversized man’s watch on her wrist, she made several exaggerated gestures, clearly attempting to communicate with Flora, who nodded and gave the first smile Sam had seen from her. Turning on her spiked heel, the friend strutted out of the center.

Sam watched with interest as Flora donned the white T-shirt given to her by the boy on Duke duty. The girl who had brought Flora to Haven was not Hispanic—a
Latina,
as Ana put it. How had she found the silent child, and what bonded the two?

Flora edged down the side of the basketball court—as far away as possible from the office and the row of classrooms. Her skeletal legs barely shadowed the wall. Her luminous brown eyes glanced at the ballplayers, then focused on the floor as she hurried to her corner.

Sam chewed on a bologna sandwich, all the while watching Flora through the broken front window of his office. She slid down into the darkness of that small triangular space and tucked her legs primly to one side. Once settled, she leaned back into the corner and watched the basketball game. Sam had seen many frightened, withdrawn children at Haven, but Flora’s utter silence intrigued him. Only Ana had been able to break through to the child, and that bothered him.

“Hey, Caleb, you’re from New Mexico, right?” Sam asked the young volunteer. Though it was a Saturday, and his friends had taken the day off to explore the St. Louis Science Center, Caleb had chosen to come to Haven and work. He was muttering to himself as he peered into the innards of another computer someone had donated to the center. “Do you speak Spanish?”

“Some. We have a housekeeper, Josefina. She taught me a few words. Why?”

“How do you say, ‘Are you hungry?’”

“
Àtiene hambre?
Who’re you planning to talk to?”

“That girl over in the corner near the classrooms. She sits there every day.”

Caleb joined him at the window. “Hmm. I never noticed her before.”

“Name’s Flora. Ana Burns told me Flora speaks only Spanish.”

“Ana Burns—is she that reporter who was in the girls’ restroom with you and T-Rex?” Caleb chuckled. “That was weird. Dude, you wouldn’t catch me in the girls’ room no matter what. The kids were freaking, saying there was blood everywhere.”

“It was Flora. She got cut somehow.”

“Cut bad?”

“No.” Sam swallowed the last of his sandwich, forcing down the bite as he recalled Ana’s face. “You ever heard of people cutting themselves on purpose?”

Caleb peered out at the game. “We had this one girl at my school. She wore black eye makeup and black lipstick and stuff like that. Nobody talked to her. One day she cut her wrists, but she didn’t die. They put her in a hospital in Albuquerque, and she never came back to school.”

“It was a suicide attempt?”

“That’s what I heard.” Caleb grimaced. “I don’t know though. Some of the girls said they had seen cuts and scars all over her arms.”

“Wow. How can a place like Haven even begin to help someone like that?” Sam mused. This sort of thing was far beyond his knowledge or ability to handle.

“When you try to make a difference, you can run into all kinds of trouble.” Caleb regarded Flora for a moment before speaking again. “But I don’t think that means we should stop doing all we can. Jesus told His disciples in Matthew 25, ‘I was hungry and you fed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was in prison and you visited me.’ Remember all that? I believe He really meant those things.”

Sam nodded. “That’s exactly what we’re trying to do at Haven.”

“Be obedient—it’s all Jesus asked of us.”

Sam studied the little girl in the corner. She hadn’t moved an inch. Still wedged against the wall, she stared with dark eyes at the ball game. His heart felt tight, aching, each time he focused on her.

“When our youth group heard about Haven,” Caleb continued, “we wanted to come. We’re trying to really do Matthew 25. But we aren’t responsible for changing people. God is the only One who can do that.”

Sam shifted his focus from Flora to the teenager at his side. At Caleb’s age, Sam had been angry and rebellious, bridled only by his drive to make the varsity basketball team. He had stayed in high school in hopes of getting to play college ball. Sports were at the center of a world focused on himself. He was motivated by what he could get—admiration, girls, beer, fast cars, the works. Everything revolved around him. He never would have considered giving up a summer to help disadvantaged children. Not in a million years.

“You’re doing a lot at Haven, Caleb,” he told the young man. “More than you realize. It’s not just the computers—though they’re going to make a big difference. But your presence here shows the kids that you care about them. That’s something many have never known.”

“Yeah, like that little girl in the corner. She looks as if she could use a friend.” Caleb stared at her for a moment. “I’m not that good at Spanish, though, and I’d feel kind of weird befriending a little girl.”

“It’s awkward. Ana Burns did it, though.”

“Hey, maybe you could get her to help you. She’s hot.”

“Hot?” Sam followed the boy with his eyes as Caleb returned to his computer.

“You know—good-looking. I mean, better than that. Pretty. Beautiful.” He shrugged. “Hot.”

Sam turned back to Flora and tried to remember the sentence Caleb had taught him in Spanish. Frustrated by how quickly it had slipped away, he reflected on Ana and how bright her eyes had been when she told him of her concern for the little girl. Ana had said that without God she wouldn’t exist. There had been a desperation in her voice—and a conviction that had made him believe her.

Had Flora tried to end her young life? Was that why she had cut herself?

And could Ana Burns help to heal the child’s pain—Ana, who somehow had detoured from her own self-focused drive to take an interest in a child? She wanted to win a Pulitzer, she had told him. Fame and glory. He had heard that one before, Sam thought, remembering his mother and the way she had abandoned her family in pursuit of shallow dreams. Contempt churned in his stomach.

Yet he had just admitted to himself that not so long ago, his world had revolved around Sam Hawke. Was it possible that little Flora could be changing Ana? He didn’t want to believe it. People like Ana ran over those who got in their way. Ambition turned them inward. They didn’t reach out. They didn’t help.

Despite her claim to be a Christian, Ana Burns seemed destined to continue down the dead-end road toward self-absorption. Or did she need Flora as much as the little girl needed her?

Caleb, still a teenager, was so focused on following Christ that he had left the security of his home to come to these gang-infested streets. In the same way, Sam had given up his life for the children of Haven. Was this what Christ wanted? Did He demand such service of everyone? Or could “hot” Ana Burns continue gliding through life like Cleopatra, queen of the Nile, and still be serving God?

Sam began pulling off his T-shirt as he headed for the row of lockers. “Hey, Caleb, tell T-Rex I had to run an errand. I should be back before the next activity change, but if I’m not, help him out.”

“Where are you going?”

“I think there’s only one way to help that girl.”

“Which girl?”

Sam thought about it—who needed help the most? Flora or Ana? “The one in the corner,” he said finally. “I’ll be back.”