Hunt waggles his finger and scolds, “You know counseling sessions are confidential. I couldn’t tell you even if I wanted to.”
I shake my finger back at him. “Unless she revealed something that might put her in harm’s way. Then, you’re required to notify the proper authorities.”
His studied expression of concern slips briefly, and I see something primal and savage flash in his eyes. “What makes you think I haven’t done that?”
“So you have talked to the police?”
His eyes shift to Venable, who pauses, a bony finger marking his place, to stare at me, his eyes half hidden behind hooded lids. I curse myself for not taking the time to call Marty to see if anyone was concerned enough about Sara to report her missing.
Once again the jolly caretaker of souls, Hunt says, “I can tell you this much. Sara is a very troubled child. I did my best to offer her comfort. It’s possible she may have run off with a boyfriend.”
“She didn’t have a boyfriend,” Nick says.
Hunt gives Nick a conspiratorial wink. “Women have their secrets, son. That’s what makes them so interesting.” He stands and glances at his watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Gordy and I have a committee meeting. Sorry I couldn’t help.”
After assuring us he’ll pray for Sara, Hunt ushers us out. We walk to the car in silence. When I pull up in front of Nick’s house, he looks at me with pain-filled eyes. “We’re never going to find her, are we?”
I grab his hand and squeeze. “Keep looking for that storage locker, bud. That’s your job. I’ve got a plan.”
He snatches his hand away. “You do? What?”
“Tell you tomorrow.” Maybe I’ll know by then.
I turn the car toward Paradise Point and drive to the home of Robinson Hunt. With no plan in mind, I hope my clumsy charm will prove to be the unlikely key to the Hunt family secrets.
The massive three-story house soars above its distant neighbors and is set well back from the street. I turn in to the long drive, round a curve, and stop at the massive iron gate that will swing open if only I know the code, which, of course, I don’t.
Robinson Hunt has erected a veritable fortress. Strange, I think, for a man of the cloth. And why? Disgruntled elders? Angry luncheon ladies? Or is there a more sinister reason? I rein in my overwrought flights of fancy, get out of the car, and look for a way in.
Mounted next to the keypad is an intercom. I press the button and call, “Hello? Anybody home?”
After a hiss and crackle, a woman’s voice says, “Who there?”
“Flowers for Mrs. Hunt,” I say, hoping her husband is a traditionalist, a batterer who follows up a beating with flowers.
After a brief pause, the heavily accented voice says, “Sí, yes. I open gate. You come in.”
The gate slides open, and I drive through, dismayed when I glance in the rearview mirror and see it close behind me. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.
Flowers! I promised flowers. I hit the brakes and peruse the palatial grounds for signs of color. The lilacs are spent, the roses in tight bud, and the annual beds newly planted and bloomless. Uneasy, I glance over my shoulder at the gate and spot a scraggly rhododendron fighting for its place in the sun behind two tall arborvitae, its three puny pink blossoms my ticket into the mansion. Hoping I won’t hasten the shrub’s almost-certain death, I use my nail file to saw and hack the woody stems.
Looking like a prospective suitor with my hastily gathered bouquet hidden behind my back, I press my finger against the doorbell and listen to the chimes bong “Rock of Ages.” The door flies open, and a middle-aged Hispanic woman, round and plump as a Bosc pear peers at me through dark, suspicious eyes. The small boy from church clutches the leg of her navy polyester pants and gives a gurgle of delight when he spots me. I grin back at him. I wave the flowers and step past the maid into the massive entry hall featuring two flights of stairs that I assume lead to different wings of the house. My actions result in a spate of furious Spanish I loosely translate to mean “Get the hell out!”
I lean over and speak to my only ally, hoping he’s old enough to talk. “Hi, little guy. What’s your name?”
“Mason,” he says, holding up three fingers.
“Wow!” I enthuse. “You’re only three? I thought you were at least ten.”
He giggles and pats the maid’s leg. “Lucita,” he says.
Lucita gasps as if some sacred house rule has been violated, and begins berating the child. I recognize only the “No, no, no” part. Mason seems unperturbed.
“Where’s your mommy?” I ask. “I have flowers for her.”
Mason releases his death grip on the maid’s trousers, puts his hand trustingly in mine, and pulls me toward the staircase. I feel a twinge of guilt at using an innocent child to achieve my ends, but then I remember why I’m here: another vulnerable youngster’s strange disappearance leads straight to the door of this fortified parsonage.
Lucita springs into action and flies by us, ordering, “I check with Señora. You stay here.”
We ignore her warning and climb the stairs as fast as Mason’s chubby little legs can carry him. He tows me toward a closed door. Though I can’t make out the words, I hear the muffled sound of female voices within.
“Mommy’s room,” Mason says with a proud grin.
Though I’m dying to ask if Daddy stays there, too, I thank him and pat the top of his head. He grins and scampers away.
The door’s unlocked. I slip into the dimly lit room and find Heather Hunt seated at a vanity table holding an ice pack to her cheek. Lucita whirls around and flaps her hands at me like she’s shooing chickens. “See what I tell you? She no listen!”
Heather stares at me through panic-filled eyes. Her face is ashen.
“It’s okay, Lucita. Mrs. Hunt wants to talk to me,” I say.
Lucita turns to her mistress, lifts her hands, and shrugs helplessly. I seem to affect people that way.
Heather thinks about it for a moment then nods. With one last suspicious look, Lucita vamooses.
I cross to the windows and pull open the heavy brocade draperies, revealing a sweeping view of Vista Valley. If I lived here, I’d never close the curtains.
I sit on the edge of the bed. “How long has he been knocking you around?”
She stares at me in the mirror. “You need to get out of here before my husband gets home.”
“Committee meeting. Hubby and Gordy,” I say.
She turns to face me, her face tight with anger. “How dare you barge into my home with your accusations? Everybody loves Rob. Get out before I call the police!”
Her words are filled with outrage, but her voice is soft, almost pleading. I understand the fractured nature of the conflict boiling within her. At the church, she let her guard down, an impulsive act as the result of rage, shame, or pain. But now, my arrival fills her with terror. To overtly acknowledge her abuse will break the code of silence that ensures her very survival.
I talk to her, keeping my tone low and soothing. I tell her my name and that she doesn’t need to say anything because I know what’s happening to her. I watch her shoulders relax. She drops the ice pack to the floor, and I see the ugly evidence of her husband’s brutality.
Still, she won’t look at me but studies the items on the dressing table surface with a puzzled frown. She begins fiddling perfume bottles and squat jars of cosmetics, sliding them around into intricate patterns. Her fingers are long and graceful, but the nails are bitten to the quick. Faster and faster, her hands move, desperate to achieve some sort of order known only to her.
I dig around in my bag and pull out a business card. I step toward her, taking care not to enter her personal space. “Heather, please listen,” I say as her hands flutter over the tabletop like frantic birds.
She turns to face me, her expression dazed and unfocused. Has she forgotten I’m in the room? Her hand closes convulsively around a bottle of Vera Wang for Women. For a moment, I think she might throw it at
me or try to spray me to death. But she does neither. I hold out the card. She sets the perfume down, takes the card, and slips it into a pocket without looking at it.
“Think about your kids,” I urge. “Do you want your son to think it’s okay to beat up on women?”
She bites her lip and looks away.
“How old is your daughter?”
Her wary eyes slide back to mine. “Thirteen. Why?”
“I’m looking for one of my students. Her name’s Sara Stepanek. She’s sixteen, and your husband’s been counseling her. Maybe your daughter knows her. Maybe you know her.”
Her face tightens, and recognition flashes in her eyes before she turns her gaze downward. “I might have heard the name.”
“Anything you’d like to tell me?”
“You need to leave. If Rob finds you here …”
I walk to the door and then give it one last shot. “Your daughter will be next, if it hasn’t already started.”
“No!”
She jumps to her feet, her hands curled into fists. “You don’t understand. It’s not like that. He’d never hit Brittany.”
“I’m not talking about hitting.”
We lock gazes, and I see awareness bloom on her face. My words hang in the air between us like a low-hanging cloud, redolent with unspoken truths. Splotches of red appear high on her cheekbones. She lifts a hand to her bruised cheek and whispers, “Brittany’s not his daughter. She’s mine, not his.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
She advances toward me, her eyes wild and crazy. “Mine!” she affirms. Her voice is stronger. “Not his. Mine!”
I slip through the door and close it behind me.
I hear a shrill cry and the sound of something heavy crashing against the door. So much for Vera Wang.
Not wanting to wait around for the man of the house, I take the stairs two at a time. A frowning Lucita stands by the front door and throws it open as I careen down the last few stairs and into the cavernous foyer. I thrust the pathetic bouquet into her hands and ask how to open the gate.
She points down the curved drive and snarls, “You go! You go!”
To my relief, the gate’s open, and I tool away without incident. The bizarre encounter with Heather Hunt lingers in my mind. I’ve never been good at puzzles. Where other people see patterns, I see none. And now, faced with tantalizing clues to Sara’s whereabouts, jumbled bits of information remain in chaos, swimming around in my cerebral soup like colorful neon tetras gamely trying to school up in a too-small tank.
At the bottom of the hill, I’m startled to see Hunt in a dark blue Mercedes convertible zipping by me toward the mansion. Must have been a short meeting. Or did Lucita call him when I showed up? Something akin to panic crashes over me as I imagine how it might have gone down if Hunt had caught me there, behind the iron gate. None of my nearest and dearest know where I am. I have no proof … but something in Hunt’s eyes scares the hell out of me.
“Stupid, stupid!” I say out loud, gripping the steering wheel harder to stop my hands from shaking.
I glance frequently in the rearview mirror and think about Heather Hunt, alone and hurting. Trapped in her luxurious prison. A feeling of unease settles in and stays with me the rest of the night.
Chapter 19
Friday
after endless teachers’ meetings and the official “turning in of the keys,” I collect Nick and head for Joe Stepanek’s graveside service. The inappropriately named Mountain View Cemetery has no view, situated as it is on bottom land. Not that it matters to its clientele. Massive iron gates stand open, a concession to those not planning a one-way trip. I steer the Ranger slowly down a drive that winds in graceful looping curves through the old part of the cemetery where elaborate above-ground headstones and majestic trees shelter Vista Valley’s pioneers.
To the right, a long, sad line of white crosses marks the final resting place of soldiers killed in combat. Miniature American flags fly from each cross, fluttering in the gusting wind that always follows rain in our valley.
Abruptly, the lushness of the old morphs into the starkly new. Gone are the grand old markers of a time past, replaced by the flat, in-ground slabs suitable for gang mowers and other labor-saving devices. A row of trees lines the drive, spaced far enough apart for a riding mower to pass through. Progress is not always attractive.
Finding Joe Stepanek’s graveside service is not difficult. From a distance, we can see the canopy covering an open grave and two short rows of white folding chairs, mostly empty. Drawing closer, I spot Sloan strolling around the hearse and pausing occasionally to peer in the windows and open doors. In honor of the occasion, he’s thrown a leather bomber jacket over his tee shirt and jeans. His eyes are hidden behind a pair of mirrored sunglasses.
I pull in behind a half dozen cars parked haphazardly on the narrow drive. I’ve barely come to a complete stop when Nick hops out and heads for the small funeral party, hoping against hope that Sara will show up. As I walk toward Sloan, I take note of the gray van nosed in behind the hearse. Mesh-covered windows and the words “Washington State Dept. of Corrections” printed on the side tell me it’s Marta Stepanek’s ride.
Sloan carefully closes a door. “Thought you weren’t coming.”
“Looking for something?”
“Nah, I just like hearses. This one’s a beauty. ’98 Caddy. Leather interior, recessed crown molding, violet strobe light, stainless steel flagstaffs.”
He pulls his shirttail out of his jeans and gently polishes a bit of chrome.
Startled by his enthusiasm, I say, “Wow! I had no idea.”
“My family’s in the business,” he says then clamps his mouth shut as if he wants to take the words back.
Golly, gee. Is this Sloan cutting loose with personal information? “Oh, yeah,” I say, fishing for more information. “Sloan and Sons. I’ve heard of them.”
“No. You haven’t.” True confession time is over. He grabs my arm and steers me toward the gravesite.
“Did you talk to Sara’s mom?” I ask.
Sloan nods.
“And?” I prompt, wanting to shake him until his teeth rattle.
“She’s an angry woman.”
“That’s it?”
He nods again.
“Can I talk to her?”
“Doubt it,” he says, guiding me to the second row of chairs next to Nick. He moves behind me and remains standing.
“Abide With Me” blares from a boom box sitting on a rickety card table. A black-suited man—probably the funeral director—hovers nearby, finger poised and ready to pounce when the song finishes.
I’m seated directly behind a small, black-haired woman, who turns as I sit down and flashes me a look so filled with hate it feels like an electric shock. I recoil in surprise but rally quickly and give her a brief rapport-building smile. If this is Marta Stepanek, we need to bond. It doesn’t work. She warns me off by narrowing her eyes before she turns to face the front.
Strike one. A swing and a miss.
I wonder if Marta can feel me studying her. Probably so, since she sits straighter in her chair. Her long, dark hair, fastened at the nape with a single rubber band, is tucked inside the white cardigan she wears over dark slacks. In a sudden, jerky move, she gathers up her hair and flips it back toward me before letting it fall down her back. Sort of a “take that, you bitch,” gesture.
Low and inside. Strike two.
After sending me two messages only women understand, she reaches out with her left arm and gathers in the small, blond boy sitting next to her. He looks up at her with a sweet smile before snuggling closer, his profile a cookie cutter version of Joe Stepanek.
I feel a lump in my throat and swallow hard. Despite Marta’s rigid posture, she lists slightly to the right. Her right arm is held low between the chairs and securely fastened to a correctional officer in full regalia. Jeez, I think, feeling bad for Marta. The least they could do is wear civilian clothes to a funeral.
The guard shifts in his seat, causing a domino effect that pulls Marta toward him. Her left arm tightens around the boy, almost pulling him off his chair. Marta turns her fierce gaze on the guard. He looks away and lifts a tobacco-stained hand, raking it through his hair in a gesture of supreme indifference. A blizzard of dandruff cascades from the man’s head. In a convulsive sideways jerk, Nick narrowly avoids the fallout. I hear Sloan clear his throat and cough in an effort to disguise a chuckle of mirth.
When the music ends, an elderly man, presumably the minister provided by the funeral home, stands before us and does his best to eulogize a man he knows nothing about. From time to time, the boy glances at his mother, a puzzled frown creasing his brow. Marta remains stoic. Nick slumps in his chair. Since Sara’s a no-show, he’s quickly lost interest.
The painful service concludes with the internment of Joe’s remains. Marta, still clinging to her son, is whisked off to the waiting van. I trail behind at a respectful distance, not wanting to interfere with their last moments together. Nick and Sloan come up behind me.
“Come on, Sloan,” I say under my breath. “Make it happen. A little girl talk; that’s all I want.”
“Yeah, I can tell she really likes you.”
“Please,” I say, though it sticks in my throat.
“I’ll have to pat you down, make sure you’re not carrying any weapons,” he says with a calculating look.
“What?” I yelp.
“Unless you want ol’ Sheldon, here, to do it.”
He points at the guard who stands outside the van smoking a cigarette and scratching his butt.
I shudder.
Sloan grins. “That’s what I thought.”
Chapter 20
Who the hell are you?” Marta Stepanek snarls as I enter the van. “Another narc trying to figure out where Joe hid his stash?” With a bark of humorless laughter, she adds, “Why should I tell you anything? ‘Cause you’re a woman? Well, fuck that!”
Rock and Roll Queen of Bedlam Page 14
