by AR Simmons
“Now you stop it,” she said sharply. “You and I both know it wasn’t like that. You never told Molly that her baby was still alive, or that you were going to get her back.”
“But Molly believed it, and I didn’t do a damned thing to keep her from believing it.”
“It’s hard to kill a person’s hope, especially if you really care about them,” said Jill softly.
“Jill, how’s she ever going to get over this?”
“She won’t get over it, Richard. Whether you came along or not, she was never going to get over it. People live with these things, but they don’t get over them.”
A knock at the front door interrupted them. Jill went to see who it was. Richard heard an exchange of female voices, and closed his eyes in dread. A moment later Molly came into the kitchen with Jill.
“The little sleeper they recovered wasn’t hers,” said Molly. “It didn’t belong to Mancie. I’m real sorry for whoever the little girl’s momma is, but it wasn’t Mancie. I knew it wasn’t.”
“Molly, whoever took her could have put different clothes on her,” said Richard.
“It wasn’t her,” she said confidently. “They took a blood sample from me for DNA comparison. They’ll find out they’re wrong soon enough.”
“Molly, listen to me. You have to prepare yourself … for the … for the possibility—no, actually it’s the probability that the baby they found is your little girl.”
“That’s what Adams said. He’s wrong. It’s not Mancie.”
“Molly, you can’t know that,” he said gently.
“I do. God wouldn’t have brought you right next door to me like this unless it was to find her for me.”
Richard was stunned to realize that she meant it. Then he was appalled. “No, Molly. No. It was just random chance that Jill and I moved here when we did. Don’t you see? It was just an accident.”
“There aren’t any accidents, Mr. Carter. Everything happens for a purpose. It come to me down at the police station. Mancie’s alive. You’re going to find her for me.”
•••
6:30 PM
“What am I going to do, Jill?”
Jill stared at the door through which Molly had gone nearly an hour ago. “You’ve done enough,” she said. “More than enough. I just wish we could afford to move.”
“Don’t blame her, dear. I’m the one that’s responsible for this mess. She had already given up hope before I came along and started … dabbling!”
“She fastened onto to you, Richard. You can’t blame yourself. We’ve got to find some way to … detach her.”
One part of Richard wanted nothing more than to do just that, but another part, an essential part, would not let him walk away from the tragedy that he had inadvertently deepened.
“A godsend!” he said in disgust.
“She had no right to say to that to you.”
“I can’t blame her for hoping, Jill. I can barely stand it myself, and I didn’t even know Mancie.”
Jill frowned, and then sighed as if she had finally seen through to the end of a problem.
“I think maybe she’s just going through a process. This is just denial. If so, she’ll proceed to anger and then finally accept it. The more I think about it, the more I’m sure. I don’t know how long it will take, but I think she’ll eventually come to terms with it.”
It was Psych 101, and neither of them really believed it.
Chapter 6
September 17
The next day Adams pulled Molly in for a follow-up interview.
“I told you it wasn’t Mancie,” she said patiently. “I would know if it was my baby. It’s not.”
“The DNA is going to confirm that it is,” he said.
“It wasn’t her,” Molly insisted.
Her reaction angered him. “You know what I think, Molly? I think you killed your little girl. And then I think you—or maybe a boyfriend of yours, just put her in a trash bag like she was so much garbage and threw her in some dumpster.”
“I don’t give a damn what you think,” she said calmly.
“Don’t be such a smart ass. We’ve got the bag too, Molly,” he said. “I’ll bet we get fingerprints off it.”
“I hope you do. Maybe you can find out what happened to some other poor momma’s baby. Maybe she’ll be somebody more important than me.”
“Look, Molly. That’s your baby. You and I both know it.”
“It’s not.”
“No others have disappeared! When the DNA test comes in, I’m going to arrest you.”
“I don’t care. It’s not Mancie.”
“What if it is, Molly?”
“It’s not. But if it was, Mr. Adams then my life would be over anyways.”
•••
Jill came home at two, to find Richard staring at the computer screen. “You’re home early,” he observed listlessly.
“I had a headache, so I left right after the last class. Are you okay?”
“Oh I’m peachy. Nothing like finding this stuff to brighten your day,” he said, nodding toward the screen.
She came closer and saw a professionally designed web page. “What kind of advertisement is that?”
“It’s a personal site,” he said, choosing an option. “See. You can leave messages and addresses. However, it’s not for everyone, only for like-minded aficionados.”
She read over his shoulder. “Pedophiles! I knew they communicated via the Internet, but …”
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” he said, returning to his search page. “There are chat rooms, picture galleries, even Op Ed sites to champion this poor, misunderstood, persecuted minority. I found out that we—that is, the tyrannical majority, just don’t realize that this is just another type of sexual orientation. You see there’s nothing inherently bad about personal choices like that. My favorite site is called ‘Young Love.’”
He clicked the selection.
“Get out of that disgusting site,” she said as soon as the home page lit the screen.
“Yeah,” he said. “My sentiments exactly.”
But when he exited “Young Love,” the photo of a nude little boy filled the screen. He closed it, but it was replaced with a similar photo of a little girl. When he closed it, another one popped onto the screen. Finally, one came up which refused to be closed. Jill reached over his shoulder and shut off the computer.
“Makes you look at censorship a little differently, doesn’t it?” he said.
“Too late,” she said. “The Internet is the ultimate multinational entity. No government has the power to manage it. Besides, if you want freedom of expression, you have to take the good with the bad.”
“Freedom of expression, huh? I doubt our founding fathers had anything in mind but politics and religion. They didn’t even have pornography back then.”
“Of course they did,” she corrected. “Even the Greeks and Romans had the kind of filth you just found.”
“Our address is probably on some list now. Sorry,” he said.
Jill knew she had been right to come home early. As she feared, the discovery of Molly Randolph’s dead child was quickly eroding the progress he had made since her return from France. A collapse into apathy seemed imminent. She hated thinking of him as an emotional cripple. As melodramatic as that sounded, however, it was the case. No matter, she would not let him succumb to his wounds.
“Go shave,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. “You are going to take me out for a late lunch.”
“We’re short of money. Remember?” he said without moving.
“That’s why we’re going out,” she said, affecting levity. “After you get some energy, you’re going to go tell your boss that you are ready to come back to work. We need another breadwinner.”
“You’re right,” he said, trying to sound upbeat. “Can’t have a slacker under our roof.”
“Without additional income, we may have to find another roof,” she said. “Come on, lazy bones. Up
and at ‘em.”
•••
After a fast-food meal, Richard called the office for the work site, trying to find his boss. He told Patterson that he was fit, and asked when he could return to work. Although he seemed reluctant, he told Richard to report at ten tomorrow at a work site in a new subdivision being built on the eastern edge of town.
“I’m glad it’s new work,” he told Jill on the way back home. “I hate removing old shingles. All I have to do now is lay shingles and pop ‘em with a nail gun. And it’s all single-story work too. I won’t have as far to fall.”
“Be careful this time.”
“Trust me. I will.” he heaved a sigh. “It’ll be good to get back to the kind of work that wears you out. Man was meant to earn a living by the sweat of his face.”
“Isn’t that supposed to be ‘sweat of his brow?’”
“‘Sweat of his face.’ Look it up. I like physical work.”
Jill thought he was trying too hard to sound upbeat. She hoped it wasn’t just for her sake. “Good,” she said. “Let’s call Mr. Carson when we get back home.”
“The landlord? Why?”
“I want you to talk to him about the back porch rail. It’s really in bad shape. Tell him that you’ll fix it if he’ll buy the new materials.”
“Trying to keep me busy, huh?”
“I thought you liked physical work.”
•••
They spent the afternoon on routine tasks, neither mentioning Molly nor her murdered baby. Richard faked an upbeat mood, but it fooled neither of them. He understood what was happening to him. They both did, but talking about it wouldn’t help. The “thing” was not amenable to reasoning, encouragement, or understanding. His depression was a dark addiction without the reward of a high. It was a sucking mire of despair and guilt. Jill blamed Molly, although it was obvious to her that the woman had mental problems of her own.
In the evening, Jill bathed, fixed her hair, put on perfume, and slipped into the negligee that he liked the most. When she came in and turned down the lights, he made the requisite remarks of approval, but her heart sank at his artificiality. Stubbornly, however, each of them pushed on, trying to force it. After a time, he faked a coughing fit, made the excuse that he thought he was coming down with a cold, and rolled away from her. She pretended to believe him.
Two hours later she was still wide awake, staring into the dark and listening to his steady breathing. She got up and rummaged through her dresser without turning on the light until she found something comfortable enough to sleep in. She changed, leaving the negligee on the floor beside the bed until the morning. When she carefully crawled back into bed, he stirred slightly and rolled farther away. She scooted over to his side of the bed and gently put an arm around him.
“I’ll take care of you, love,” she whispered softly. “I’ll take care of you.”
Richard didn’t move, but her words struck like an accusation.
That’s not the way it’s supposed to work, he thought.
•••
September 18
Carpenters prefer new construction to old work because things only have to be done, not first undone. The railing was not merely fastened to the back porch; it was constructed as an integral part, its corner posts serving as support for the deck. A decent reconstruction required disassembling much of the deck so that he could dig out the rotten corner post nearest the house. When Richard got that far, he discovered that it had been sunk in concrete. The whole problem could have been avoided by using treated lumber and devising an aboveground means of anchoring the posts.
“Looks like you got your work cut out for you.”
Richard looked up to see Molly sitting on what remained of the deck. “And I don’t have much time,” he said. “Got to be at work by ten.”
“You’re going back to work?”
“My ankle’s about as good as it’s going to be for a while.”“
She looked away, frowning. “I don’t guess you’ll have much time to look for Mancie.”
He felt miserable for her. As bad as things were, they were bound to get worse. “Molly,” he began. “Let’s just wait, you know until …”
“They’re wrong. Carter. That little baby they found wasn’t my Mancie. They showed me the blanket and stuff. It wasn’t hers. They even asked me what kind of diaper she had on. It was the wrong kind. I don’t know who that baby’s poor momma is, but it ain’t me.”
He could tell her that the kidnapper may have kept Mancie for several days, bought different things for her. Who knew how a child killer, let alone a pedophile might think or act?
“You still going to help me?” she asked.
“Molly, even if that child wasn’t your—”
“It wasn’t,” she insisted.
“Okay, Molly. But look, I think maybe you’ve … overestimated me. That was my fault for letting you think that I was experienced enough to know what I was doing. I misled you.”
Molly began shaking her head as soon as he started talking. “I don’t care about that. I never did. You’re smart, and you care. That’s good enough for me.”
“Don’t trust in me, Molly. I can’t do anything for you.”
“Mr. Carter, you’re the only one who can.”
•••
Richard escaped by fleeing to the building supply store to price materials for his repair job. After taking an estimate to his landlord, he killed time driving around town until ten when he was due at the housing development.
Two hours into the job, while coming off the roof, he miscalculated which rung he was on and, not only stepped down too far, but planted his foot on the side of a two by four. He winced as pain shot through his injured ankle. Unfortunately, his boss was there when it happened, and watched intently as Richard tried to walk it off.
“Go home and ice that down, Carter,” he said sourly. “I want you to go get that taken care of. I’ll file a workman’s comp claim, but … Well, you’re accident prone. You need to get you another job.”
“No. I’m not filing a claim. The ankle will heal. I need the job, boss.”
“I like you, Carter, but I can’t afford you. You’ve been disabled a hell of lot more than you’ve been at work.”
“Hey. I said I’m not filing for comp. Come on, man. I need the job.”
“I can’t do it, Carter. Next time it might be something more serious than an ankle.”
“You know I’m a good worker.”
“When you’re not on the disabled list. I can’t have you falling off a roof on me. Look. I know a guy who might take you on if I put in a good word. All his work’s at ground level.”
Richard bit back his frustration. It was no time to vent.
“I’d appreciate it,” he said.
•••
“At least he’s giving you a reference,” said Jill when he told her his news on the way home. “How badly did you injure yourself this time?”
“I won’t have to go to the doctor,” he said. “It looks like it’s back to square one as far as healing is concerned, though. Sorry.”
“We’re managing fine.”
Richard recognized her tone. Jill had shifted into her “cheerful coping” gear. A “sour bitching” gear might have made him feel better, since it would allow him to focus his frustration on her instead of himself, but he wouldn’t get that from Jill.
Not to worry, “sour bitching,” in the form of Lieutenant Adams, was waiting for him at the curb when they got home.
Richard limped over to see what he wanted.
“Take a ride with me,” said Adams.
“Just a minute,” he said before going back to the car.
“He wants me to go with him,” he said.
“Does he have a warrant?” asked Jill, glaring toward Adams.
“Of course not. I think I’ll go with him and see what he has to say.”
“Tell him to leave us alone. He has no reason to bother us like this.”
“Okay, dear,” he said, but only to pacify her. He had no intention of saying anything of the sort to Adams.
“So what do you want with me?” asked Richard as they pulled away from the curb.
“I want to see your list,” said Adams.
“What list?”
“The list of Molly Randolph’s acquaintances. You’ve got one, don’t you?”
Richard’s ankle hurt, and he wasn’t in a particularly good mood. Adams’s officious manner didn’t help things. “I don’t have to show you anything.”
“What? Client-investigator privilege?” snorted the detective. “Stop playing games unless you want a part in the crime. That woman either killed her kid, or she’s covering for whoever did.”
“That’s ridiculous! If you had a brain in your head, you’d know better than that.”
“Why? Because she gets all weepy and comes on like she’s so desperate to find out what really happened? Wake up, Carter! She’s playing you.”
“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
Adams laughed as if he found Richard’s naiveté vastly amusing. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll admit that she might not know exactly what happened that night, but she damned sure knows who killed her kid, even if she doesn’t want to admit it to herself.”
“You’re not making any sense,” said Richard.
“Let me explain it to you. The blood work showed that she was floating on Valium, and her alcohol was high too. It’s a wonder it didn’t kill her. Now it could be that she somehow killed the kid by accident. The kid had a broken neck like can happen with violent shaking. But as much crap as she had in her, there’s no way she could have gotten it together enough to get rid of the body all by herself. They tell me she couldn’t have driven in her condition. So someone else got rid of the body. I’d make you for it if you lived here at the time.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” said Richard.
“Yeah. Well, let me go on. It ain’t consistent with the retarded babysitter. So it’s gotta be that Molly is covering for someone and vice a versa. Either she’s covering for the killer, or she’s the killer and had an accomplice.”
