Thread of Deceit (15 page)

“Raydell writes down the names of kids who’ve caused trouble. He won’t let them into Haven. It’s for the good of everyone.”

“Flora isn’t a danger!” Ana cried, her brown eyes sending sparks across the table. “You can’t kick her out. She has nowhere to go—except to some motel with a prostitute!”

“How can I be sure she’s not a threat? She cut herself—that means she got a weapon into the building.”

“She probably picked up a piece of glass or a broken tile. You’ve got potential weapons scattered all over the place, Sam. Screwdrivers, razor blades, wire. If someone wants to hurt a child, your metal detector isn’t going to prevent it. Flora’s act wasn’t intended to harm anyone else—it was a cry of desperation, a plea for help.”

“If that’s what you believe, then help her, Ana. You’re the only one who can speak her language. You’ve made headway with her. Now come teach that class, and see what you can do to save Flora.”

She looked away, her lips tight. “You have no idea what kind of pressure I’m under. The lead paint series is due next Friday, Sam. I can’t even get the first article right. No way can I teach writing class or anything else for you. I don’t have time.”

“You have time to give our kids one hour. You’re single. No children. No pets.”

“How do you know I don’t have a pet?”

“No hair on your skirt.”

She stared at him. “I might have a bird.”

“So how much time does that take up? Besides, you don’t have a bird.”

“Are you spying on me?”

“I spy on everyone. I told you that—it was part of my training.”

She leaned forward in her chair and pointed a finger at him. “Do not know too much about me, Sam Hawke. I won’t like it.”

“Why not? What might I learn?”

“Just stick to your own agenda, okay? Help kids. Save their lives, or whatever it is God told you to do.”

“You can help.”

“With a writing class? Please. How many of those children will finish high school, much less go to college? How many have the slightest hope of publishing something?”

“Is that the only reason to write? To get published? To win a Pulitzer prize?”

She clenched her teeth. “Go on and say it. How shallow can I get, right?”

“That’s not the only reason you write, or you wouldn’t keep coming back to Flora. You nosed around in her corner when she wasn’t even there. You found the blood, and you went after the kid like a rocket. You care about her. You want to make a difference in her life. And you can do that by volunteering at Haven.”

“Flora won’t come to a writing class. She doesn’t speak English, Sam.”

“But you speak Spanish. So draw her into your group. Talk to her about what’s going on. Find out why she wears that green skirt every day. Why she sits in that corner. Maybe even why she cut her arm.”

Ana’s fingers tightened on her coffee cup. “You would let me interview the kids?”

“How could I stop you?”

Moistening her lips, she assessed him. “What time?”

“Come this evening—say six? That’s when we have the biggest crowd. They all want to play basketball, and we don’t have enough room. We end up with a lot of kids loitering. It’ll be good to have another place to put them.”

“Basically, I’m there to babysit until the basketball court frees up. Is that what you’re saying?”

He leaned back in his chair and shrugged. “You’re a little overqualified to babysit, but if that’ll get you there, so be it.”

“Why are you doing this, Sam? Jim Slater doesn’t even want Haven mentioned in my series. Yesterday, you did your best to throw me out of the building. But today you came all the way over to my office. Why the change? What’s in this for you?”

“It’s not for me. It’s her. Flora.” A familiar knot formed in his throat. “She needs you.”

“I don’t buy that. Why do you suddenly care about her so much?”

Sam cleared his throat, looking away and hoping she couldn’t read his face. “Some kids…some are just special, you know?”

She sat up and leaned forward, her face suddenly intense. “Sam, what is it about Flora that you’re not telling me? You know something. It’s Terell, isn’t it? Tell me the truth. He’s been abusing kids, hasn’t he? He molested Flora that day in the restroom. That’s why he came in so fast. That’s why she was bleeding.”

“What?” Sam couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Terell? Molesting kids? Absolutely not. Are you nuts? Terell is the kindest, most compassionate man I’ve ever met.”

“I saw the way he was holding that little blond girl on his lap. The one who’d been slapped. Sam, be honest with me. Terell did that, didn’t he?”

“You cannot be serious about this, Ana. Terell would never touch a child inappropriately. The man has never hit anyone in his life. He’s a teddy bear. You’ve seen how the kids hang on him.”

“Yes, and how he hugs them and rubs their backs.”

“Of course he does. Most of those children have no male figure in their lives. Terell is not—” He pushed back from the table. “I’m not going to participate in this conversation. Terell and I’ve been friends since we were eighteen. I lived in the same dorm room with him for four years. Terell Roberts is no child abuser.”

“Then who hurt Flora?”

“You said she cut herself.”

“Before that. Why does she hide in the corner, Sam? And why are you so determined to get me over there to help her?”

He let out a breath. “Because…” He shook his head, fighting to clear his scrambled thoughts. “It’s just that Flora…okay, she reminds me of someone.”

“Who?”

“It doesn’t matter, Ana. Let it go, will you?” He wiped his mouth on a paper napkin and fought to keep the memories at bay—the whiteness of the napkin taking him to the glaring desert sand and the white van rolling toward him and the white robes of the men beside him and the blinding glint of afternoon sunlight on the barrel of his gun.

“Do you have a daughter?” Ana asked. “Does Flora remind you of her?”

“No.” Sam slammed his palm down on the table. “And I told you to drop it.” He stood, knocking the chair over backward, startling the other customers.

Yanking the chair upright, he turned and strode out of the coffee shop. He didn’t have to talk about it. The post-trauma psychologist he’d been sent to had tried to make him talk, and he had said all there was to say. The past was gone, he told them. The past had nothing to do with the future, and that was where he was headed. Moving forward. Going on down the road. His mother had taught him the hard way, and he would never forget that lesson.

This reporter—this Ana Burns who believed Terell could molest a child—thought she could force Sam’s past out into the open. She was crazy. And now she wanted him to go back there, to take out the memory and look at it and discuss it like some trite tidbit she could put in her little article. He didn’t have to do that, and he didn’t have to remember any of it.

“Sam!” She was behind him now, running to catch up, her hand touching his arm. “I just want to ask you one thing.”

He turned on her, fists balled at his chest. “I told you. I don’t want to talk about it. It’s in the past.”

“Stop,” she said, covering his hands with her soft palms, pulling them toward her and holding them against her stomach. She lowered her head and stared down at his fists and cradled them even more closely. “Sam, I’m not trying to force you to talk. I only wanted to ask you what time I should be at Haven for my class.”

He blinked back a droplet of sweat. “Six.”

“Okay.” She rubbed her thumbs over his knotted fingers. “I know about painful memories. About not wanting to talk. It’s all right, Sam. I won’t ask.”

He nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“I shouldn’t have accused your friend. Things are tense right now. I should have kept my concerns to myself.” Her voice was soft, barely audible above the sounds of traffic on the street. “Flora reminds me of someone, too, Sam. I knew a girl like her once—scared, alone, hurt. My sister. I tried to protect her, but I failed. I failed her, and now she’s gone. That’s why I keep going to Flora’s corner. It’s why I followed her to the restroom, and it’s why I researched that name she gave me. Flora is why I’ll come tonight.”

Despite the broiling heat and the gawking passersby and the call of his duties at the center, Sam thought he could probably stand just this way with neurotic, tightly wound, beautiful Ana Burns the rest of his life. For this one moment, he felt understood. Connected. Accepted. In some mysterious way, she knew him, and he could put his anger and guilt and regret into her hands…and for this single instant, he could let them go.

But she stepped back. “All right, then. I’ll see you.”

“Yeah.”

She started away, walking down the sidewalk toward her building, but she turned back once and looked at him. He lifted a hand, tried to smile. Her brown eyes were sad and deep, and he knew where he had seen eyes just like that, and he understood now why Ana would visit Haven and go to Flora’s corner even when the little girl wasn’t there.

A
s she got out of her car, Ana tugged down the hem of her new white blouse. She hadn’t intended to buy it. White wasn’t her best color. But two days before, she had passed a boutique on her morning run, and there it was on a mannequin in the window, looking so perfect with its cap sleeves and scooped neckline and row of tiny pearl buttons. On her way back by, she had jogged into the boutique just to have a closer look. And somehow, without meaning to, she had bought it. Now, wearing the new blouse with a skirt and slip-on sandals, she stepped onto the sidewalk down the street from Haven.

Okay, she admitted to herself as she locked her car and set off toward the recreation center, she did look good. But she hadn’t bought that blouse just to wear to Haven. A white blouse was versatile, and this one didn’t even need to be dry-cleaned. Which was of little consequence, because she had no intention of mentioning that fact to Sam Hawke. Or even talking to him at all, for that matter. This evening, after teaching her writing class, she would speak to some of the younger children—those most likely to be affected by the lead paint. After getting what she needed for her series of articles, she wouldn’t need to return to the center at all.

One writing class—an hour at the most—ought to do it. Reflecting on memories of favorite teachers in school, Ana had written out a lesson plan she thought the children might enjoy. They would do a little writing, and then the time would be over. She had promised Sam only this one Saturday.

Ana couldn’t imagine that Flora would leave her corner to attend a class taught in a foreign language. As much as she cared about the child, Ana was under no illusions. A girl might get some help and encouragement along the way, but that was about it. Flora would have to make her own way through this world just as everyone else did. No matter what Sam had said about Ana, one fallible human being could not truly change another’s life for good. Ana had learned that lesson the hard way. Only God knew what the future held.

Absorbed in memories of her sister’s painful last months, Ana crossed the street toward Haven. She was passing a boarded-up storefront when two young men stepped out onto the sidewalk, blocking her path. The early-evening sunlight slanted across their glistening skin and gleamed on the gold chains around their necks. From one teen’s chain dangled the hippie symbol for peace outlined in large fake diamonds. A large gold cross adorned the other. They wore their shirts unbuttoned, their shorts slung low on their hips, and their sneaker laces looped loosely through the eyeholes. A silver blade glimmered, the weapon held low but angled so the point faced Ana.

“Hey, lady,” the taller one growled, his voice husky. He gestured with the knife blade toward the shadows of the nearby door. “Get in there.”

At the command, Ana went rigid. Her breath vanished as her brain was jolted by an adrenaline rush of fear. “What did you say?”

“Into that store. Go inside. Do what we tell you, or else.”

“No.” She said the word slowly, evenly, remembering the can of pepper spray in her purse, assessing the deserted sidewalks and the knife.

“Do it,” the tall one barked, taking a step toward her, brandishing the blade at her belly. “Do what I say!”

“Yeah,” the other one echoed.

Blustering. Teenagers. Ana’s mind reeled. She had to think her way through this, outwit them. They had no advantage except the knife.

“What do you want?” she asked. “Money? I have a ten-dollar bill in my wallet.”

“We gonna teach you a lesson.” The tall one smirked, revealing a chipped front tooth. “You gonna learn you’re in the wrong hood.”

“Listen, I’m a volunteer at Haven. I teach a class…a writing class.” She took a step back, stalling, hoping someone would appear. How could the street be so empty?

“This is our hood, and we don’t like no reporter ladies stickin’ they noses in our bidness, you know what I mean? Now get in there.”

He gave Anna a shove. She tried to push out from between the two of them, but the shorter one caught her. He slung his arm around her neck and slapped his hand over her mouth. The tall one, panting, swearing under his breath, jammed the fist holding the knife against her side.

“Get in! Get inside!”

“No!” she tried to scream. Panic swirled around Ana’s eyes like a black curtain as she fought them, fingernails scratching and knees slamming into their bare legs.
Dear God, please help me!

They wrestled her through the narrow door, partially boarded with plywood.
Help me, God!
She stumbled forward into the darkness, dropped to her knees and made them drag her.

“Now we gonna teach you! Get her down!”

Terror like the fangs of a snake stared her in the face. A snake—mouth open wide, jaws unlocked, venom oozing from white needles as slanted yellow eyes focused on her. Ana had seen this snake before. She recognized it. Knew it well. And this time, the fangs would fail to find their mark.

Grasping the smaller youth’s wrist, she jerked his hand from her mouth and shouted for help. Her cries echoed through the empty building, louder and louder as her voice gained strength. She lashed out with her teeth, her elbows, her knees as they tried to pin her.

“Shut her up!”

“I’m trying!”

Again and again she yelled, screaming for help, deafening even herself. Pain skittered up her arm, but she barely noticed as her kick found its mark in the taller boy’s groin. He let out a surprised grunt and fell to the floor. Ana heard him coughing and gagging. The second youth stayed with her, his sweaty hands pressing and pushing, trying to keep her down.

“What? Jamal, what happened?” he called into the darkness.

“You boys better get on outta here now!” A new voice called out—husky and threatening. “Go on! Get!”

And then the boy was gone.

Ana rolled up onto her knees and found the rectangle of light eking in from around the boarded-up doorway. Screaming in silence now, she ran toward it, her hands out and her fingers stretched wide. Her palms met the plywood full force, and she burst through. She staggered out onto the sidewalk, the sun too bright even at this late hour.

And then she ran, all her years of jogging poured into a headlong sprint toward the familiar square of concrete with its tattered green awning and small white sign,
Haven.
She blew past the child at the entrance and dashed through the metal detector, which let out a hiccup and began to beep. Duke charged at her, barking, barely contained by the startled boy who gripped his leash. And she kept running with the dog at her heels and the children crying out all around her and the metal detector whooping.

“Ana?”

Sam met her halfway across the gym floor, caught her in his arms and pulled her close. “Ana, what happened? You’re bleeding! Who did this?”

Then he was talking to the children, calling off the dog, giving orders, all the while holding her against him in a cocoon of warmth. Ana trembled, shuddered, tried to breathe as she hugged her own arms and let Sam lead her away from the crowd. She kept her face buried in his shoulder, grateful for its solidity and strength. She didn’t want to see the children or let them see her looking so fragile and imperfect.

No one should see her this way. She hated it. Hated herself for her weakness. How had she let it happen? Why hadn’t she anticipated an attack? How could she have been so naive as to stroll thoughtlessly down a street in this neighborhood? She should have known. She did know. Stupid.
Stupid.

“Ana.” Sam’s voice was low, almost a whisper. “I want you to sit down.”

He lowered her onto a chair. They were in his office with the door shut, and she folded over, put her face in her hands, fought the urge to scream again.

“Talk to me, Ana,” he said, crouching beside her on the tile floor. His hand was on her arm, stroking gently, his fingers strong and firm. “Tell me what happened.”

She shook her head, squeezing back the tears, fighting the revulsion. “I’m all right,” she managed, hearing her hoarse voice.

“You’re bleeding,” he said. “There’s a long slash down your right arm. Terell will be here in a minute with the first aid kit. You’ve got glass in your hair, Ana. Your skirt is torn.”

“Okay,” she whispered.

“Did you recognize anyone?”

“Two boys. Teenagers. One with a chipped front tooth and a peace sign on his necklace, and another one, smaller but strong. They had a knife. They forced me into the store.”

Sam’s hand stopped stroking her arm. “Ana, did they…did they violate you? It’s important that you tell me.”

Yes!
she wanted to shout! They took away everything I’ve worked so hard to rebuild! They stripped away my security and my comfort and my peace, they tore through the barrier that is the knowledge of who I am, and they defiled my fragile confidence, the tender certainty that I can survive in this world.

But she knew what he meant, and she shook her head. “I got away.”

“Thank God.”

The words stirred another memory. “Sam, someone else was there. He came at the end and threatened them. He helped me break free.”

“Did you see him?”

“I couldn’t see anything in there.”

He let out a breath. “Here’s Terell.”

“Aw, man, this is bad.” The man stepped up to her, his sneakers even bigger than Sam’s, which seemed impossible. “No one saw it happen, of course. Raydell is gonna ask around. The cops won’t find anything. It was a deal that went down. I’m sure of it.”

“Any idea who set it up?” Sam asked.

“Not a clue.”

“She says there were two of them. One had a chipped front tooth and a peace sign on a chain.”

“Now how many kids in the hood does that describe?” he scoffed as he knelt on the floor beside Ana. “I reckon we’ve got about fifteen or twenty busted teeth right here in the building, and at least that many peace signs.”

“But not all on the same kid. And this boy was outside.”

“Outside, inside. It doesn’t matter. It was a setup, Sam, and nobody talks if it’s a setup. That’s the deal.” He shook his head. “Miss Burns, let me have a look at that arm.”

“T-Rex is our blood man,” Sam explained. “I take care of vomit and excrement.”

Despite her pain, Ana managed a grin. “Thanks for the information.”

Terell pulled on a pair of latex gloves and washed her arm with an iodine solution. The knife had slashed her, but not deeply, and both men agreed it would not need stitches.

“Think we should shut down the center for the night?” Sam asked. “Give the kids a talking-to and send them home to think about it?”

“I reckon.” The other man sighed.

“They got her purse, Terell. She lost her shoes, too. Things will show up. When the police get here, she can give them a list of what was in the bag.”

“No,” Ana said. “Please don’t call the police.”

“They’re already on the way, ma’am,” Terell said. “A lady gets attacked in this neighborhood, you can bet the police will be over here like a shot.”

“Haven doesn’t need this in the newspaper,” she said, trying to make sense of her rambling thoughts. “It would be worse than the lead paint.”

“Yeah, but there’s no way to stop the cops.”

“I’ll tell them I’m fine,” she insisted. “I’m not going to file a report. And don’t shut down the building, either. I have a class to teach.”

“Ana, you can’t be serious.”

“I made my lesson plan, Sam,” she said, meeting his eyes for the first time. They were blue and clear and filled with concern. “I’m going to teach. And then I’m going to get my interviews. Nothing has changed, okay? Nothing.”

He swallowed. “Whatever you say.”

“I won’t let it be different. I won’t let them win.” She lifted her head and squared her shoulders. The phrase that had been her defiant anthem for so many years found its way to her lips. “I’m not a victim,” she said firmly. “I’m a survivor.”

I see him coming from a distance, the man with the blue eyes. I know this is not the good time now. This is the time of evil. Fear rises from its slumbering place in my stomach and steps into my heart. There it begins to hit my chest with its fists, pounding hard, as though it wants to crack open my ribs. When fear has filled my chest to the point of breaking, it forms a ball and crawls up into my throat. There it sits, laughing at me and trying to choke me. I swallow and swallow as the man comes closer, but fear grows larger in my throat, and it dries my tongue and glues it to the roof of my mouth.

“Come,” the man says, the goodbad man, the lovehate man. I look up at the lightbulb, which is my hiding place. It is where I am safe, where I can find the sunshine again. But the man takes my arm and pulls me away from the lightbulb, from my safety.

I follow him, and fear slides down into the very bottom of my stomach. There it rolls and turns, doing its dance, first this way and then the other. My hips ache, and my intestines twist into knots, and my legs go weak from the dance of fear.

The man takes me into the room, and that is when I see her. The girl who looks like me. Her brown eyes blink. Her black hair shines. Her mouth sits tightly on her face like a small pink rosebud that has not opened.