She bristled at this last, although I could tell she'd been taken in by the compliments. "There is no mister to take care of them. I do. Anything you want to know about these roses, you best ask me."
"Ahh, so you're the horticulturist. Why, madam, I am impressed. Have you been at it long? These roses look to be a good forty years old."
"Fifty's more like it. They were here before I bought the place. Been takin' care of them ever since. A few of 'em have died off, here and there, so not all of 'em are that old. I always replaced 'em with the same, though. Those over there are British Queens. You with the newspaper?"
"Bloom Forever Magazine," I said, digging out the calling card that identified me as a journalist and hoping she wouldn't wonder why it didn't have more information.
"Never heard of it," she said, peering at me suspiciously.
"We're Canadian, though we're trying to get a foothold here in the lower Northwest. That's why I'm here. What better way to get people interested than in showing them the splendor in their own backyards?"
While we spoke, I kept peering over her shoulder, trying to see into the room. Mrs. Harris didn't miss a thing.
"If you're so interested in the roses, why on earth do you keep looking in here?"
I laughed, thinking the English accent was becoming ridiculous. "Terribly sorry," I said. "To tell the truth, I'm in desperate need of the loo. I was hoping you'd be so kind as to let me borrow yours. I had no idea it would be so far between excellent rose gardens. Our scouts, of course, gave us the addresses, but they didn't say a thing about mileage! I haven't been able to, well, you know, since quite early this morning."
"Rose garden scouts?" she asked incredulously. But to my relief, she opened the door and ushered me toward the bathroom.
The house was both dismal and spotless at the same time. It had the smell of mothballs and something medicinal, a strange combination. I strained my ears, trying to tell if Joel was home, but the only sound came from a radio in the kitchen. No music — just the fevered ramblings of an evangelist.
I shut the bathroom door and leaned against it, wondering if I should go ahead and place the recording transmitter I'd brought behind the toilet, or hope for the chance at a better location and risk not getting to place it at all. The beauty of the transmitter is that it can be concealed almost anywhere and can pick up conversations within a thirty-foot radius. The problem was the same as with my tracking device. Unless I wanted to set up surveillance nearby and monitor the transmitter, I'd have to set it for Record Only, then use my cell phone to activate the play-back option. The device could hold up to eight hours of tape and was sound-activated, eliminating wasted recordings. Since all I really wanted was a general idea of what went on in the Harris household, the Record Only option would probably be sufficient.
I made a rough estimate of the square footage and floor plan and decided the living room would be a much better spot to place the transmitter than the bathroom. Besides, I didn't really care to hear everything that went on in the bathroom.
I flushed the toilet to mask the sound of the medicine cabinet opening and quickly scanned the contents. From the aftershave, I surmised that this was Joel's bathroom. There was also toothpaste, aspirin, Clearasil, Kaopectate, Turns, Milk of Magnesia, Preparation H and Ben Gay. It seemed little Joel had an impressive list of ailments for such a young man. How many of them were inflicted by the mother? I wondered. Just then, the mother in question knocked on the door.
"Everything okay in there?"
I ran the tap water, closing the medicine cabinet as quietly as possible and told her everything was just fine. Since she wasn't likely to invite me into the living room for a cup of coffee, I'd have to think of something quickly. When I opened the bathroom door, she was standing on the other side waiting for me.
"Uh, this is kind of embarrassing, but you wouldn't have a tampon, or sanitary napkin, would you? It's rather an emergency and I'm afraid I've used my last one."
Her nose wrinkled at the words, but she turned on her heel and marched up the stairs toward her own bathroom. "Haven't needed that nonsense in years, but I may still have a pad somewhere. Wait there."
I'd followed her as far as the living room, and the second she disappeared up the stairs, I rushed for the maple coffee table, practically diving head first in my rush to get the transmitter concealed. Behind me, the sudden bong of a grandfather clock startled me and I banged my head on the table. I was just standing up when she came back into the room, holding the wrapped pad out in front of her like she was carrying a dead mouse by the tail. I grabbed it from her, rushed down the hall to Joel's bathroom and slammed the door behind me.
A few minutes later, knowing I'd already pushed my luck, I thanked the woman for the use of her bathroom, asked her if it was all right to send the photographer by in a few weeks, pretended to make notes on the clipboard I'd brought, then got the hell out of there before Joel came home.
Chapter Eleven
It was almost three when I pulled into Maggie's parking lot and it looked like I was the last to arrive. As nonchalantly as I could, I slipped beneath Harold's truck and clicked on the transmitter's digital read-out. Again, the mileage and direction matched those I'd calculated in my log. It looked like after Tuesday's therapy session, he'd gone straight home and that the rain had kept him from going to work again on Wednesday. Apparently, today he'd gone straight from his home in Riverland to the construction site, to therapy. I reset the device and slid back out, sighing. This was turning out to be a lot of hassle for nothing. I dusted myself off and entered the office.
Buddy was standing at the desk when I came in, apparently afraid to turn her back on the group since being hit on the head. The gauze bandage had been replaced by a tiny, waterproof rectangle and wasn't even noticeable until she turned.
"I heard the kayaking went well," I offered, signing in.
"Dr. Carradine's a natural. She looks good out there, she really does. Like she's been doing it all her life."
I didn't need little Buddy to tell me how good Maggie looked. I turned toward the waiting room.
"You shoulda joined us. I bet you'd look good out there, too. Still water and all."
When I looked back, Buddy was laughing. God, she really did look like Donnie Osmond in his heyday. It was hard to stay mad at her for very long.
"If that was a compliment, thank you."
"Oh, definitely. I mean, it was. I mean ..." Now she was blushing. This kid could charm the pants off a nun, I thought. I found myself smiling as I entered the waiting room.
To my surprise, Stella Cane was there. My heart skipped when I saw her. I quickly looked away, hoping like hell she wouldn't recognize me. Before I could even sit down, Maggie ushered us all into the group therapy room.
The first thing she did was welcome Stella back and introduce her to me. I was trying to look meek and unassuming and it must've worked because Stella hardly gave me a second glance. Of course, she hadn't heard my voice yet. With any luck, I wouldn't have to do much talking.
"Who would like to start today?" Maggie asked. Everyone was looking at Donna Lee Kramer. Then I noticed the sunglasses and understood.
"You-all want to talk about it?" Mrs. Bombay asked. She was wearing a bright red polyester pants suit that matched her shade of lipstick exactly. Her dyed blond hair had been touched up again, and fewer of the roots showed. Donna Lee shook her head, still looking at her lap.
"Roy again?" Harold Bone asked. His fists were clenched at his sides. Donna Lee nodded and her lip started to tremble.
"What h-h-happened?" Joel asked, eyes wide. His milky skin had erupted in acne since Tuesday. I thought of the Clearasil in his medicine cabinet.
"What happened," Mrs. Bombay cut in, "is that Roy Boy lost his little ol' temper again, didn't he?"
"Please don't call him that," Donna Lee said. "I hate that." She took off her glasses, revealing a purpling bruise beneath her left eye. Stella Cane gasped, then started to cry. "It was my fault this time. It reall
y was. Don't cry, Stella. This isn't like with Hector, okay? We had a fight and I said some pretty nasty things and I, well, he caught me lying to him."
"What'd y'all lie about, darlin'?" Mrs. Bombay asked.
"That's not our business," Maylene said. She was wearing another expensive suit, I noticed. This one was a drab olive green, the color of military camouflage. "She doesn't have to tell us."
"That's okay, Maylene. I…" Donna took a deep breath. "He thought I was on the pill but I quit taking them and he found out." Silence filled the room.
"You wanted to get pregnant?" Maggie finally asked.
Donna Lee nodded, starting to cry. "I thought it would make him grow up a little, get more responsibility."
"Bullshit!" Stella's voice startled us all. She stood up, her tear-streaked face red with emotion. "You thought he wouldn't hurt a pregnant woman. Wouldn't hit his own baby!" She blew her nose and mopped at the tears, squaring her shoulders. "I made the same mistake, Donna. And it worked for a little while, too. But not long enough. Pretty soon the baby starts growing, and you can't stay pregnant forever." She was staring at Donna Lee, forcing her to acknowledge the truth in what she said. I was amazed at the change in her. She looked and sounded more like her sister Toby than herself.
"I thought he could change," Donna said. "You're saying they can never change?"
Suddenly, Harold Bone stood up, knocking over his chair. He kicked at it, sending it skidding into the wall. Everyone in the room stayed motionless. His fists were knotted at his sides, the anger so palpable, his eyes bulged.
"Harold?" Maggie said in a soothing voice.
"Goddamn it!" he shouted. The vein near his temple stood out and began to throb. "God fucking damn it!"
Even Mrs. Bombay was speechless. We watched as Harold walked over to retrieve his chair. He picked it up, hefted it over his head and held it aloft. Every muscle in his body twitched as he struggled with the need to smash the chair to pieces. Finally, with small, deliberate steps, he carried the chair back to the circle and sat down. I realized we'd all been holding our breaths. No one said a word. Stella, who'd been standing, slunk back into her own chair.
"I'm sorry," he said. He bowed his head, covering his face with both hands, and started to sob.
"W-w-what happened?" Joel finally asked. He was looking from Maggie to Harold and back again, panic-stricken.
"You want to talk about it, Harold?" Maggie asked, her voice low and calm. Her eyes were full of empathy and I marveled at how composed she seemed in the midst of the maelstrom. Was she accustomed to these kinds of outbursts? I wondered. Or was she just this good under pressure?
Harold shook his head but looked up at Maggie. His eyes were red and swollen. "I'm just so afraid," he finally mumbled.
"Afraid?"
"That I'll be like him," he said. "My old man. That I'll take it out on the baby. Bonnie's pregnant. It scares me to death. What if I lose my temper one day and hurt him? God, I'd rather die." He started to cry again, big silent tears rolling down his cheeks and into his beard.
"Have you ever hurt Bonnie?" Donna Lee asked, sitting forward in her chair.
"Never!" he exploded. "I'd kill myself first!"
"So what makes you think you'd ever hurt the baby?" Maggie asked.
He looked down at his fists and started pounding his thighs. "I lose my temper sometimes. I go out back and chop wood. Sometimes I want to scream, I've got so much anger. When I'm in my truck alone, sometimes I roll up the windows and howl like a damned animal. It scares me, Dr. Carradine. I can't control my rage. I can't contain it!"
"But Harold" — Maggie's voice was soothing and calm — "it seems to me you are controlling your rage very well. It doesn't hurt anyone to chop the hell out of wood out back, does it? It doesn't hurt anyone to cream at the top of your lungs. The anger you're so afraid of is only dangerous if you don't let it out. It's okay to be angry."
Before he could answer, Stella spoke up. She blew at the blond bangs on her forehead, letting out a mammoth sigh. "Sometimes I wanted to kill Hector. I really did. He made me feel like I was trash. Scum."
The others looked at Stella, clearly surprised at her candor.
Mrs. Bombay started to nod. "I used to dream about killing my mother," she offered. "Sometimes they were night-dreams and sometimes they were just daydreams. I still have them sometimes, even now." The room was silent.
Suddenly, Joel sat forward in his chair. "I-I-I dreamed my m-mother died." Everyone looked at Joel, whose eyes had temporarily lit up. When he noticed the attention, he slouched back in his chair and looked down.
The room was thick with the shared emotion, and everyone seemed to be holding their collective breath, waiting for the next bombshell. Finally Maggie broke the silence.
"I think what we're hearing is that a lot of us have rage and anger, especially toward those who've abused us. Learning to live with that anger is the tricky part, as Harold has pointed out. How can we channel that anger so that it makes us stronger, not meaner?"
She was about to go on when the sound of raised voices filtered through the closed door. Maggie stood up.
"Oh, God. It's Roy," Donna Lee said. Her face was ashen. The voices grew louder and I could hear Buddy clearly.
"You can't go in there!" she shouted. Maggie started for the door. Harold and I were right behind her.
As Roy pushed open the door, Buddy was doing her best to hold him back, tugging at his shirttail, but he was bigger and stronger and dragged her behind him. It was the man I'd seen hosing down the shark blood on the fishing boat next to Donna Lee's houseboat. His dark good looks were ruined by smoldering eyes, and the dark stubble of beard did nothing to hide his clenched jaw.
"Can I help you?" Maggie said, blocking his path. Roy tried to see around her, but Harold and I blocked his view.
"Where is she? You fucking butcher, if you've touched her I'll sue your damn ass to hell and back!"
"I beg your pardon?"
"He thinks this is an abortion clinic," Buddy said, still holding Roy's shirttail.
"A what?" Maggie's voice was incredulous. By now, Roy had seen Harold and me, and a shadow of doubt played at his furrowed brow.
"I know she's in here. Her car's in the lot." He pushed Maggie aside, stepped into the room and saw the others.
Donna Lee stood, nervously tugging at her long red hair. "What are you doing here, Roy? "
"Are you okay?" he asked, suddenly solicitous. "You haven't gone and done something stupid, after what happened last night?"
"Oh, God, Roy. You thought this was a clinic?"
"Don't try to lie to me, Donna Lee. You know how I feel about that."
"I'm not," she wailed, looking from Roy to Maggie, her face creased with humiliation.
"Listen, dumb shit," Mrs. Bombay said, standing to face Roy. "You thought she was going to get an abortion just because you don't want her to have a baby? Get a life, pal. If and when she ever does get pregnant, she sure as hell won't let some man decide whether or not she's going to keep it. For Christ's sake, Roy, grow up!"
Roy looked at Mrs. Bombay with utter confusion. "Who the fuck are you?" He turned to Donna. "What are you doing here?"
"Learning how to say no to assholes who beat her," Harold said, stepping forward. He was about the same height as Roy, but a good fifty pounds heavier, and his fists were clenched in front of him. Donna grabbed him by the arm and I took hold of the other one, just in case.
"And who the fuck are you?" Roy asked, sizing Harold up. His voice was full of bravado but Buddy still had him by the shirttail and we pretty much had him surrounded.
"The guy who's gonna teach you a lesson, you ever lay another hand on her. Anything else you want to know?"
"Hey, I said I was sorry. That was between Donna Lee and me. It's no one else's fucking business."
"G-g-go f-f-fuck yourself, mister," Joel stammered, standing behind Maylene.
"Joel, don't!" Donna Lee hissed, real fear in her eyes.
&nb
sp; Mrs. Bombay let out a raucous laugh. "That's right, Roy Boy. You think Harold's tough, wait till we sick ol' Joel here on you. You know what's good for you, you'll just high-tail it outta here before we all get mad."
By now, Roy was definitely getting antsy. He took a step backward and tripped over Buddy's foot, landing on his rear end.
"You'll be sorry for this," he said, looking back at Donna Lee as he scrambled to his feet. It was all we could do to keep Harold from charging after him down the hall.
That evening, right in the middle of dinner, my high-tech surveillance equipment finally paid off. Harold Bone was on the move. It was just after six when he came within the five-mile radius and my transmitter showed him passing Cedar Hills, heading north on Highway 101. I ran for my boat and gunned it across the lake to the marina, but by the time I reached my Jeep, he was out of range. I headed north and picked him up again halfway to Florence. I stayed back, monitoring his direction and mileage. I had no idea what he was up to. Before he reached Florence, he did a U-turn and headed back south. He never even stopped. I pulled over and waited for him to pass me, trying to see him in the gathering dusk as he sped by. He was bent forward, almost leaning into the steering wheel, but his features were obscured. I turned around and followed at a safe distance, wondering where he was going.
When he reached Kings Harbor, he slowed way down and I had to pull back, letting several cars get between us. He seemed to be cruising now, almost as if he were looking for someone. He turned off into several residential sections, but again, he never stopped. He drove past Martha's condo, and I noticed she wasn't home. He drove past the Harbor Marina where Donna Lee lived on her houseboat and then past Maggie's office, all without stopping. Finally, he pulled back onto the highway and sped up, pushing the green pickup past the limit. I followed him until the turn-off for Riverland and satisfied myself that Harold was finally headed for home. I couldn't help but wonder if he was just letting off steam, driving with the windows rolled up, screaming at the top of his lungs.
By the time I got home my house was dark and cold. I hadn't finished my dinner, so after flipping on the hot tub, I sliced an apple, broke off a chunk of Gorgonzola and poured myself a glass of red wine. Then, throwing a toy mouse down the hall for Panic to chase, I pulled Gammon onto the couch and punched in the number for the transmitter I'd hidden under the Harrises' coffee table. I hit the playback option and waited while it rewound. Even if they were both sitting right there in front of it, I knew they wouldn't be able to hear the tape rewind. The only risk I was taking was if they were saying something important right now.
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