Trust in Me (9 page)

Murphy glanced behind Ron to the second row of chairs. Ron knew Quaid sat back there with Doc Holt, a little guy with a brush cut and dark, knowing eyes. He was the mastermind of three Winston Cup cars that flew like the wind. Ron had studied every single car Holt had ever worked on. Five years before the man had had some heart problems and retired from the racing circuit, and had come to live in a cottage on Glenora Lake, twenty miles away. Quaid was here probably because, in an article Ron had read about him, Quaid had called Holt a father figure. In racing books, they’d been compared to Clark and Chapman—the famous Formula-One driver-and-crew-chief team.

“Mr. Quaid,” Murphy said. “You’ve stated that you don’t want to press charges.”

“That’s right.” Quaid’s voice was deep. “Considerin’ what the boy just stated.”

Murphy nodded. “Still, we can’t let this go.”

That uptight son-of-a-bitch Pratt leaned forward. “Legally, that’s not an option. And Ron knows that. I’ll listen to the Council’s recommendation, but I’ll put it before the judge only if it’s acceptable punishment.”

“Perhaps we should list our options,” Murphy suggested. Man the guy was cool as a cucumber in this room full of people who hated him. He wasn’t even sweating, like Ron was.

The retired teacher, Mrs. Breed, who’d always told Ron he wasn’t living up to his potential, stood and crossed to a board behind the table. “I’ll list the choices as we brainstorm them. I miss this,” she said picking up a piece of chalk.

For ten minutes Ron watched his future etch out on a freakin’ blackboard. Trial and most likely prison was the first option. Fear hit him when he saw it so starkly written; it felt like a kick in the nuts.

Weekend jail, suggested by Pratt, was the second suggestion. Fuck, he couldn’t do that. His mom needed him to work at the diner on weekends. The list continued with counseling, and a few other mamby-pamby things he knew would never fly; it ended with community service.

In another ten minutes, the panel members had narrowed down their choices. Pratt wouldn’t settle for probation again, or nightly curfews or making monetary restitution, all of which Ron’s grandparents had pulled strings to get him in the past.

“All right, let’s discuss these four.” Murphy had put on glasses and was staring at the board.

Mayor Hunsinger cleared his throat. “Weekend jail would hurt his family’s business. Ron works there to help his mother.”

Straightening, his mom shook her head. “I’ll be fine, if it’s an alternative to prison. I can take care of the diner myself.”

She couldn’t, Ron knew.

“No offense, Beth” —the straight-arrow lawyer glanced at her then turned to the others— “but in any case, should our decision be based on Mrs. Donovan’s needs?”

The prick. Becker had dated his mom and she’d dropped him after a few months. It was payback time.

“We need to consider everybody’s needs in this, Mr. Becker.” Seemed this Murphy guy had his own opinions.

Ron sensed movement behind him. He knew Quaid was gonna say something and he braced himself. Goddamn it, he didn’t want a murderer’s help.

But instead, a rusty voice that sounded like it had a history with Camels and cheap bourbon boomed out, “Can I speak?”

“And who are you?” Murphy asked.

The man identified himself as Doc Holt and explained his relationship to Quaid and the town.

Murphy cocked his head. “Is it okay with the rest of you?” The members of the panel agreed. “Go ahead, Mr. Holt.”

“I got a way for the kid to make reparation for the three-K plus damage he did and maybe learn somethin’ in the process. Assign him community service until September. To me and Tucker Quaid. He can help us on the car.”

Ron whirled around fast, but Margo grabbed his hand and dug her nails into his palm, telling him to shut up.

“We’re doin’ this whole exhibition race for the benefit of the town,” Holt went on when nobody jumped at the offer. “So it’d be genuine community service if the boy helped us. We’ll work his butt off.” Holt glanced quickly at Quaid, whose face was blank. But his green eyes burned fire. “And the kid’ll have to deal with the demons that chase him.” Still, the stunned silence. “Seems like a mighty big punishment to me. The devil inside’s the hardest one to face, ain’t it?”

Things happened in a blur after that. All Ron knew was, by eleven o’clock, a decision had been made by the panel and accepted by the cop to be presented to the judge: biweekly counseling sessions with this Murphy dude, weekend detention at the county jail until Memorial Day, and assignment to Doc Holt and Tucker Quaid for fifteen additional hours of community service each week until September.

o0o

“WE ain’t on the track, man. Slow the hell down.” Inside Doc’s Mach I Mustang, the old man leaned against the passenger’s door. Tucker drove with Grand Prix concentration as he and Doc headed home from the Council meeting.

“If I slow down, I’m gonna reach over there and strangle you one-handed, old man.” Tucker tried to make his voice take on the cold hard tone of The Menace.

Doc cackled. “Yeah? You and whose army?”

Tucker gave him what passed for a smile these days.

Doc pulled out a cigar, sniffed its rich tobacco scent, and went to light it.

“Put that goddamned thing away. Didn’t you learn anything from those angina attacks?”

At least that got to him. “I’ll oblige, if you get off your chest what’s buggin’ you. You’re actin’ like you did every time we lost a race.”

The dark night was broken by the headlights of an oncoming car. In their cold glare, Tucker could see the angular planes of Doc’s face. “What the
hell
possessed you to do that tonight?”

Doc shrugged. “Like I said, time to get the monkey off the kid’s back. And yours.”

Tucker shot a sharp look Doc’s way; the papers had called that expression “green ice,” and it had shriveled grizzled mechanics, pushy newspaper reporters and the likes of Richard Petty. Doc, however, seemed immune to it.

“I wanna help the kid,” Tucker said. “But this is nuts.”

“Don’t think so.” Doc settled his bones into the chocolate-colored leather he’d ordered from New Mexico, obviously appreciating its fine, smooth feel. “The kid’s on a fast track to the pen, Tuck. You and me both know it.”

“Because of me.”

“The NASCAR sanctioning board said you didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”

“The NASCAR report was
inconclusive
. I was negligent in my driving that day. I drove like a bat outta hell and didn’t care who I took out.” The guilt still clawed at him.

Doc let loose his best curses. Then he said, “You really think that, then do somethin’ about it instead of nailin’ yourself to the cross in this godforsaken town.”

“What can I do for the kid?” Tucker finally asked.

“Well, we talked them highbrow social workers and law people into keepin’ him outta jail ’cept for the weekend. Which’ll probably be good for him.”

Tucker frowned, seeing again Beth Donovan’s face when they came up with their verdict. “What will she do, you think?”

“Who?”

“His ma. I wonder if she really needs the kid to work at the diner. Between the weekend sentence and spendin’ fifteen hours a week with us, he won’t be able to help her out much.”

“She’ll be okay,” Doc said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “She’s got some people workin’ for her. One—Gerty Stoffer—is a little batty, but they seem like good employees. And Beth Donovan has family and friends to help out.”

“How you know all that?”

“Small towns.”

“You don’t live in town.”

“I truck down
into
the place on occasion.”

“I...worry about her.”

“I know,” Doc said gently. “But you tried to give her money years ago, and she refused. The girl’s a tough one. She’ll come outta this okay.”

“At the police station, she told me she’d been in more trouble than the kid by the time she was his age. You know what she meant?”

“Yeah, some.”

“What?”

Doc smiled. “Seems she was a real hellion as a teenager. There was this group of kids in Glen Oaks that made up a gang of sorts; called themselves the Outlaws. They weren’t as bad as the gangs in the city, but they got in a shitload of trouble. Her brother was the leader.”

“The minister?”

“Yep. They drank, did some drugs. Big-time vandalism. They even got into scrapes with some thugs in the city. And there was a robbery when she was sixteen that could’ve sent her to juvy.”

“Didn’t it?”

“Nope. Seems the owner of the diner took an interest in her and her brother, and corralled them into workin’ for him as punishment. I guess it turned their lives around.”

“Why would a stranger do that?”

“The two kids were orphans. Grandparents raised them, but they pretty much got to run wild. Like the rest of the town, the diner guy felt sorry for ’em and wanted to help.”

“So you tryin’ to play savior like him?”

“That’ll be the everlovin’ day.” He waited a bit, then confessed, “I just wanna help the boy, Tuck.”

“Well, I hope your hair-brained scheme doesn’t backfire and make things worse for her.”

“Nah, it won’t.”

“That, old man, remains to be seen.”

o0o

JUST hours after the Council meeting, Annie stared hard at her reflection in the beveled, free-standing oak mirror she’d purchased at a flea market and refinished. “You’re thirty-four now, not thirteen,” she told herself over the soft rock that crooned from her CD player. “You own a house, and a dance studio. You’ve made a good life for your kids. He has no control over you like he did then.” She swallowed hard. “He can’t interfere.” Light brown eyes, full of apprehension, peered back at her, calling her a liar. By virtue of the fact that her children were biologically Joe Murphy’s, he could, and obviously would, interfere.

But he wasn’t going to choreograph the whole thing; he did not have
control
, and that’s what it had all been about before—the isolation from others, the orders on how to dress, the battering. And the insistence on sex when, and in ways, she didn’t want. She’d been a marionette for over fifteen years and only after intense counseling had she realized what a bastard had pulled the strings. And what a wooden doll she’d been to allow it. Six years ago she’d cut those ties and had no intention of tangling herself or her kids up in them again. None.

With renewed confidence, even if it was tinged with unease, she turned away from the mirror, made her way out of her in-the-process-of-being-remodeled bedroom and strode down the hall. Hardwood floors squeaked under her feet; unwillingly she took the past with her into Faith’s room.

The child had kicked off all her covers, just like Joe used to, and was sleeping in the same position he always had, sprawled on her stomach, face half buried in the pillow, arm over her head. He’d taken up most of the bed, too, which was a symbol Annie had never recognized before. His needs, his wants, his views were the only important things. Thankfully, Faith was the opposite of him in every way that counted—she was the most giving child Annie knew.

Carefully, Annie settled down on the end of the white canopy bed, her legs crossed, her posture dancer-straight, and gazed at her daughter.

Faith stirred, and Annie leaned over and smoothed down her hair. The weight of the braid was heavy in her hand. Suddenly an image overwhelmed her. A flashback to the past struck as if she’d touched a live wire. Usually she kept the memories at bay, but tonight she allowed this one to come, to give her strength, to remind her just what Joe Murphy was capable of. Annie’s hair had been braided just like this...

“Get over here, bitch.” Joe had yanked on her braid when they’d reached his car after leaving the seedy bar on the outskirts of town. “I saw you come on to that guy.” He’d jerked on her hair again and swayed drunkenly. He’d been downing shots of scotch all night. “I told you not to flirt with him....”

She’d shrunk away from him. He’d never been this physical with her before. “You’re hurting me, Joey.”

He slammed her up against his battered old ‘77 Chevy. “Yeah, well it’s gonna hurt a lot more,” he said raising his other hand.

It
had
hurt more, but inside rather than out. Because it was the first time the love of her life, the boy who’d rescued her from neglectful and sometimes abusive parents, had slapped her, twice, across the face. It had stung like a whip, but the emotional scourge had hurt worse. And she’d been so shocked. Oh, she’d been slapped before, by her mother, her father. But never, never by Joey. He was her savior. He was the one who’d given her hope. And he told her over and over she had done the same for him.

Tears had formed in her eyes and she’d tried to sidle away from him. He grabbed her arm roughly and dragged her back. “Get in the car.”

A noise from the bar distracted him. Three men exited and shuffled toward the van parked next to them, joking and singing one of the Country Western songs from inside. Joe saw them and let her go. He circled around to the driver’s side and slid in, assuming she’d follow his orders like the good little girl she was. Instead she’d darted away, into the woods next to the bar. As she ran, she glanced over her shoulder. Blurry through her tears, she could still see the men go up to the car. One asked, “Hey man, what’s goin’ on?”

Once in the woods, she’d run and run, the low tree limbs scraping her face and arms, her lungs burning right out of her chest. She’d run until she couldn’t run anymore and fell sobbing by a large oak tree on the other side of the woods that bordered a town playground. Dazed, she stared at the swings and teeter-totter, wishing she was six again, wishing back her childhood illusions for a knight in shining armor. But she was sixteen, all grown up now. And that knight had turned black and dangerous.

He’d found her there at six the next morning, shivering in the early June chill. She’d fallen asleep, never gone home. He’d been bleary-eyed, a rough beard shadowing his jaw, his clothes rumpled. And he smelled like stale booze. He’d knelt down, sober and sorry. “Oh, baby, I was so worried. I passed out in my car...”

Still afraid, she’d tried to scramble away from him. “Leave me alone.” Her hand flew to her cheek. “You...you
hit
me.”