by Alan Lee
“It’s okay, Byron.” Hathaway shot him a look, the ghost of a smile long dead. “I’m handling it.”
Eyes wide. “But…what’s the deal?”
“Trust me. We’re fine.”
“Are you hurt?” said Byron.
“No.”
“Should I call the police?”
A man sitting at the kitchen table waved a hand. A big guy with a scary face. “I’m a private cop and I’m already here.”
“Byron, did you come up for a soda? They’re in the fridge.”
“Yeah, but…are we in danger?”
She said, “Everything’s fine.”
“You got me spooked. If something’s going on with my girlfriend, shouldn’t I know?”
“Yes,” said the second man sitting at the table. He looked athletic and fit. And he looked angry. “Yes you should’ve.”
Byron swallowed. “I’m really freaked out. You get that, right babe?”
“I know it looks weird, Byron. These are colleagues from school. We’re talking.”
“About what?”
“I’ll explain later.”
Byron wanted to argue but the handsome athletic guy at the table unnerved him. So did the private cop. They wanted him back downstairs and wanted him there pronto.
“Sure,” he said slowly. “I guess.”
“Thank you.” Hathaway smiled again.
“Call me if you need me?”
“I will.”
Byron returned to the basement, his soda forgotten.
Murray, leaning against the wall, rolled his eyes. On his list of guys who didn’t deserve a Daisy Hathaway, the boy in the basement ranked near the top.
After an awful moment of silence, Craig Lewis urged, “Back to the topic at hand.”
“There’s no way Lynch knew he was being recorded?” said the private cop, Mackenzie August. Jennings hadn’t known who else to call.
Hathaway shook her head. “I don’t think so. He was spilling secrets.”
“The girls he hurts and the field. Do you know what it means?”
“No.”
Jennings remembered, barely recognizable through the haze, journalist Kabir Patel mentioning the buried Californian woman. The one with ripped ears. But he didn’t know what to do with that either.
“The chances of your phone short-circuiting are astronomical,” said August.
“I agree. But water was everywhere and the waitress was crying…” said Hathaway.
“What do we do?” said Craig.
“I’m not sure yet.”
“We have to do something. She was in his backseat, screaming! I heard it. She ripped out his beard.” Lewis had been red in the face before Byron appeared, and he was again.
“And you shot his car,” said August.
“I did.”
“Why?”
“I heard her shouting.”
“You always shoot at women you hear shout?”
Lewis paused. “I didn’t shoot at her.”
“You live around there?”
“No.”
“You happened to go for a walk carrying a sidearm?”
“I have a permit.”
“Get the permit within the last five years?” said August.
“I don’t remember. That’s not the issue!”
“Does Lynch know it was you?”
“I don’t think he saw my face.”
“Hope not, because Lynch will suspect entrapment. He’ll grill your ass over the gun. He’ll make it part of the issue. You might get rung up for discharging a firearm in the city and reckless endangerment. Might end up paying for his car repairs, Mr. Lewis.”
“That’s outrageous.”
Jennings was quiet. This was his fault and he knew it and so did August, though the man hadn’t said it out loud. He had the queasy feeling he still wore an Army rucksack, loaded with shame and guilt and fury, and he was staggering under the weight. It’s easy to identify a commanding officer overcome by events.
Hathaway said, “He was sexually assaulting me. Mr. Lewis heard it. I ripped out his hair to get away. That counts for nothing?” A few pieces of hair were on the table, the only pathetic proof they had.
“I’m not saying that. I’m saying Lynch is a tricky sonofabitch.”
“If it was someone other than Lynch,” said Jennings, “what would we do?”
“If it was someone other than Lynch, I’d drive to his house right now and haul him out by his ear.”
“That’s outrageous!”
“Of course it is, Mr, Lewis,” said August. “Nothing about the justice system is just. I tried to explain this to Jennings earlier and now here we are again. This is a game of proof, and if you don’t play it right you’ll lose. His father’s the chief, His brother’s the judge. What do you have? You have your word against his, and you have what looks like entrapment and a pedestrian taking very ill-advised potshots. You have nothing proving all the other stuff. If we bring Lynch in, you’ll be in a mess up to your eyeballs and I’m not so sure you won’t get your asses kicked. I want you to win, not hurry.”
“What about the hair I pulled out?” Hathaway’s voice was soft.
“I know that was scary, Ms. Hathaway. And you did great. But a good lawyer like him can fight against it. If you insist, I’ll go bang on his door right now. I’m on your side. But you need to be sure, because Lynch has faced this before and he didn’t lose.”
Jennings said, “Do you have a better idea?”
“I have a suggestion.”
“We’re listening.”
“Give me a day. That’s my suggestion. Let me talk to a cop I know and an attorney. See what they say. I’ve been doing this long enough to know, if you rush then you lose. There’s a stupid way to do this and we need to know what that stupid way is and not do it.”
Hathaway searched Jennings’ eyes for wisdom. For courage. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know. But we could use more allies,” he said.
“Right about that.” Murray still stood in the corner. “Be nice if one of the allies was a brother.”
August said, “I’m not saying they’re allies. I’m saying they have experience and they do their job well.”
“Any of them black?” said Murray.
“In fact, yeah. The defense lawyer I mentioned, he’s black. He’s young and wild, but you can trust him.”
“Good. Could use another black man,” said Murray and August grinned.
Jennings said, “Okay, August. Talk to the people you mentioned and keep me posted.”
“Got a plastic baggie? That hair is evidence. I’ll give it to the cop I know and he’ll secure it in an evidence locker.” Hathaway stood and opened a drawer. August took a baggie from her. “This is a dangerous game. Sometimes they don’t end well.”
Hathaway said, “It wasn’t a game to Kelly Carson. She was just a teenager, Mr. August. She couldn’t run, not until it was too late. The next girl, her odds will be worse than ours.”
“If we run, we’re guilty. So I won’t,” said Jennings.
“What he’s saying, Mr. August, is that something’s wrong with the world. It’s broken,” said Lewis. “And we’re pressed against the brokenness and we have a choice. Mr. Lynch isn’t the source of brokenness, but he’s something broken about the world that can be fixed. And if we don’t, who are we? What will we do with the evil in front of us? That’s the choice.”
August said, “You’re speaking my language, Mr. Lewis. I’m buying everything you’re selling. This is what I do for a living. The only thing necessary for evil to triumph is for good men and women to do nothing, and all that. But, as you found out tonight, there is a cost. Are you ready to pay it?”
“I am,” said Jennings.
“But what if it isn’t you that’s gotta pay, Jennings? What if it’s someone else in the room?”
Jennings tried to answer but couldn’t. Tonight it’d been Hathaway.
“No one is forcing us,” said
Lewis. “We volunteered.”
“It’s Lynch the one forcing us. My job’s already gone, he told me,” said Murray.
“Stay alive. Don’t. Die. You’re currently my favorite people in Roanoke.” August went to the door, holding the baggie of hair. “You got another phone?”
“Yes.” Hathaway nodded absently. “An old one.”
“Activate it. Stay near Jennings. You guys call me if you need me. I’m close.”
He left and the four in the kitchen didn’t speak. Gravid silence reigned.
35
The Monday before Thanksgiving was warm but Hathaway dressed in boots, slacks, long sleeves, and a scarf.
Old Monty’s office was a cacophony of ringing phones and jostling teachers and boys with issues. She checked her mailbox before class and discovered a new iPhone. Still sealed in the Apple box. Her stomach twisted. She glanced at the attached note to verify it was from Lynch. She crumpled the paper and deposited it into the trash. She wrote her own note, Merry Christmas! Attached it to the unopened phone and slid it into the custodian’s mailbox.
The day passed in a fog. She felt okay, retaining the strong notion Lynch had caused no lasting damage. What haunted her the most last night was the memory of gore leaking from his mouth.
Students left her classroom after the final bell and Dean Gordon stepped in. He closed the door.
Hathaway was weary of men coming into her room and closing the door. Daniel always left it open. Waited by it until invited.
“Ms. Hathaway. I need a moment.”
“Certainly, Mr. Gordon.”
He set his phone on a student desk. Took a moment to express regret. “Peter Lynch came by my office.”
Hathaway hadn’t eaten today, yet her stomach lurched again. What now.
“Alright,” she said.
“I’ll never pry into your private life, Ms. Hathaway. I don’t care who you date and it’s not my business what you do.”
Hathaway had the sensation she stood on a trapdoor and Gordon was waving the trigger at her.
“But, unfortunately, your date last night warrants a discussion,” he said.
“My date.”
“With Peter Lynch.”
She swallowed accumulating saliva. “What’d he tell you?”
“Did you know part of your date was being recorded?”
“What?”
“I’ll take that as a no.”
“What… Which part?”
“The end. In the car.”
“He recorded that? And played it for you? What’d you hear?” she said.
“Enough.” He pointed at both of his cheeks. “Mr. Lynch’s face looks rough, Ms. Hathaway. His beard.”
“I…” She paused. On unsteady ground. The trapdoor threatening. “What’d he tell you?”
“That he’s not pressing charges. And he doesn’t wish for you to be disciplined by the school…yet. But he asked me to convey that he no longer feels you should be on the holiday party planning committee. And from now on, your parent teacher conferences with him should be supervised.”
“You have the recording? Play it for me.”
Gordon pressed a finger onto the screen of his phone and immediately the room was filled with the brassy sound.
Hathaway’s voice. “Mr. Lynch, where are we going?”
Lynch’s voice. “I’m taking you home, Daisy.”
In the car, after Bloom, turning onto 10th. Hathaway sat down before she fell.
“This street has shadows.”
“So it does.”
“Let’s park.”
Through the recording, Hathaway heard the Jaguar’s engine rev down. She started to sweat.
“Park?” said Lynch.
“You know. Park. With you and me in the backseat.” Her own voice, coaxing Peter Lynch into sex.
“Right now. In the backseat.”
“Why not?”
“Daisy…”
Her breath caught. The recording was doctored! He’d called her a whore then, or a slut, or something, and it was gone from the file. Lynch had spliced fragments together.
Hathaway tasted bile.
“Could be fun. Just a few minutes?” she was saying.
“In the backseat.”
“Yes.”
“Not exactly romantic, Daisy.” Movement. Car doors. Hathaway closed her eyes, pictured herself rooting in her purse. She felt Gordon watching her face. “Looking for a condom? …So nervous.”
More noises. Him grunting. Hathaway immediately understood he’d driven around in his Jaguar after fleeing the scene and made those noises with the intention of splicing them in later. Sexual sounds.
Hathaway’s voice, out of context, “Please. Yes.”
“Yes Daisy….ouch. Stop, Daisy.” Him shouting in pain. “That hurt.”
The audio stopped there like a gunshot.
Gordon said, “Mr. Lynch told me that’s when you ripped out his beard.”
Hathaway went to the trashcan and dry heaved. Her stomach tried to void itself but was already empty. Again and again. She placed her hands on the trashcan rim and that was all that held her up. Coughing.
When she stopped she was shaking and sweaty.
Gordon cracked a can of Sprite and set it on her desk; he’d hurried to the vending machine while her head was in the trash can. He was shaken and sweaty too.
“Ms. Hathaway, should I call the nurse?”
She tried to grip the Sprite but couldn’t.
“No thank you.”
“What about Mr. Jennings? He was a medic.”
Some illogical, irrational, girly part of her mind rebelled against the thought of Daniel seeing her like this.
“I’ll live.” She sank into her chair and held the Sprite with both hands. The chill revived her, focused her.
“Was it the audio that upset you, Ms. Hathaway?”
Using both hands, she raised the can to her lips and drank. Refreshing. Perfect. Her stomach unclenched. “This Sprite is delicious. Thank you.”
They sat quietly for a full minute. Hathaway willing the tremors to subside and sipping Sprite and wondering what to do about the audio, wondering if rumors of her being a slut for Lynch were already circulating. Gordon silently scrutinized her, bearing the countenance of a man listening to warning bells.
“Ms. Hathaway, our official meeting is over. I said what I need to, as the dean. So I will leave the moment you ask me to, because now this is unofficial. And I will confess, that audio shocks me.”
If Hathaway could’ve laughed, she would have. “Me too.”
“It’s genuine, I assume.”
She didn’t answer. She closed her eyes and gave consideration to crying.
He said, “Ms. Hathaway?”
“You wouldn’t believe me, Mr. Gordon.”
“You know, Daniel Jennings said something very similar.”
“He did?” Eyes snapped open. “When?”
“Two weeks ago, approximately. When his truck was vandalized. He said he knew who did it but couldn’t tell me.” When Hathaway didn’t respond, he continued, “I know this is not my business. But are you still engaged?”
“I don’t know anymore.”
“Was Mr. Lynch telling the truth? Did you go on a date with him last night?”
“I did.”
“Is the audio genuine?”
Hathaway was unsure how to proceed.
Gordon had sprung the trapdoor and she’d fallen. Her violent reaction, however, had startled him. Now, pathetic and vulnerable, she wondered how far she could trust the dean. Not with all of it, because that would be turning the spotlight onto her cohorts too.
She said, “Much of it is genuine. But it’s out of order. He spliced and deleted important sections.”
Gordon leaned back in his chair. “What did he delete?”
“I asked him to stop several times. I said I changed my mind and wanted to walk. He deleted that. I ripped out his beard when he refused.”
; “He attacked you? In the backseat?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a weighty accusation, Ms. Hathaway.”
“And an honest one.”
“Did you call the police?”
Hathaway didn’t reply. Didn’t know how to reply. So she sipped her soda and wished she’d never come to Roanoke to teach.
Gordon said, “If the recording was doctored, an audio analysis will show it. But I don’t know where that would leave me.”
“Nor me.”
“Let’s say, hypothetically, I believe you, Ms. Hathaway. What would you like me to do?”
Mackenzie August’s words leapt into her mind.
Give me a day. Let me talk to a cop I know and an attorney. See what they say.
There’s a stupid way to do this. Let’s not do it that way.
“I don’t know,” said Hathaway. “Honestly. But I’ll get back to you.”
“Mr. Jennings said that too.” Gordon pursed his lips thoughtfully, fingering the phone. “In the meantime, I think I’ll have this audio file examined by our tech guy. If it’s obviously been spliced together—”
“Mr. Gordon, that file… I said things last night that I prefer no one hear. Ever. Please don’t—”
“Of course, you’re right. I wasn’t thinking clearly.” He sighed and raked his hair with his fingers. “The situation has me turned around. I apologize. Perhaps I can open the file with Garage Band and personally look at the sound closely.”
“Or you can take my word for it.”
A sympathetic smile. “I’m afraid this is a trust-but-verify issue. If it’s your word against his, it behooves me to know who is being dishonest about the audio.”
If it’s my word against the man who pays your salary, thought Hathaway, then a Sprite is the only help I can expect.
Mackenzie August knocked on Jennings’ door that evening at seven. He came in and tossed a baggie of hair toward Jennings.
“Guess what that is.”
Jennings, unsettled by the entry, held it up. “Looks like the bag of hair from last night.”
“It is. You know whose hair?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Guess whose hair.”
Jennings examined the baggie. It looked…different. “Is it not Lynch’s facial hair?”
“Nope. The hair in that bag belongs to a dog. A German shepherd, my guess. Smell it.”
