“She thinks she’s wily,” said Mike, “but she forgets who takes out the trash.”
“Agatha’s a great kid,” said Maude. “You’ve probably seen her out jogging around town. She’s out there in the early morning like you, but she’s about sixty times faster. And she runs with a little dog.”
“Thanks, Maude,” said Sally. “You always raise my self-esteem.”
“Just the verbal version of Mike’s elbows,” said Hawk.
“So you balance out the elbows by taking in troubled teenagers?” Sally prompted, trying to work things around to Charlie Preston.
“Every now and then,” said Julie. “Usually they show up in Mike’s photo classes just about the time they’re flunking everything else. We’ve gotten so we can tell when they’re getting ready to run away or the parents are about to kick them out. Sometimes we have to go through the courts, but usually it’s more informal.”
“And it’s not always a great thing. They get into certain patterns, and a lot of them can’t get out. I can’t tell you how many times we’ve been lied to, ripped off, or gamed,” said Mike. “When there are drugs involved, it’s almost an impossible situation.”
Sally decided to go for it. “Actually, I’ve got a student— her name’s Charlie Preston. I heard she’d spent some time with you. She hasn’t been to class in a couple of weeks, and I wondered if you might have heard from her.”
Mike frowned. Julie looked worried. “No. We haven’t. She moved back home about six weeks ago. We haven’t talked to her since,” said Mike.
“That Preston kid’s a handful,” said Maude. “I doubt those parents can cope with her.”
“How do you know so much about her?” Sally asked.
“She lived with these kids,” said Maude, adding, “and I’ve done some work for the Safe House. No need to elaborate.”
Not that she could. As Sally well knew, for Maude even to imply that the girl had sought the services of the Safe House bordered on violating confidentiality.
“So Charlie hasn’t been coming to class,” said Julie. “Bad sign. I wonder if Aggie’s been in touch with her?”
“They got to be pretty good friends, almost like a big and little sister,” Mike explained. “They bonded over Aggie’s puppy. Charlie really loves dogs. So does Aggie.”
“Charlie Preston,” said Maude, “needs a hell of a lot more than a dog to cure what ails her.”
“Would you mind asking your daughter if she’s heard from Charlie?” Sally said, choosing her words carefully. “She’s a really bright girl. I’d hate to have to fail her if something’s wrong.”
“Oh, make no mistake about that,” said Maude. “When it comes to Charlie Preston, something is very definitely wrong.”
Chapter 3
Running Weather
The next morning dawned clear and remarkably calm, a day made for running. As Sally took her usual circuit around Washington Park, she passed and was passed by pretty much everybody she’d ever seen running around Laramie in the morning, including a leggy girl in short shorts, a light fleece warm-up jacket, and a knit cap, running the legs off a little dog who was scampering hard to keep up. Sally realized she’d seen her often. The girl ran with a long, easy stride, all smooth speed and muscle efficiency. A joy to watch, until she turned a corner and she and the dog disappeared. If the girl was indeed Aggie Stark, Sally reflected, panting, the mere idea of trying to casually catch up with her while out jogging was enough to threaten a coronary.
It didn’t do her heart any good either when she turned onto Eighth Street and saw Sheriff Dickie Langham’s Albany County truck parked in front of her house. Dickie had been known to drop in for a visit now and again. He and Sally had been friends for a hell of a long time, and he played poker with Hawk every other Wednesday night. But this was Friday morning, and the sun had been up barely an hour. Not the time for a social call.
Dickie was sitting at the kitchen table, tapping an unlit Marlboro on the tabletop. He was a big man, well over six feet tall and more than half that around the middle. He cleared a lot of space. Hawk navigated around him, working up breakfast and making a pot of coffee.
Sally went for cheerful, giving them each a smacking kiss and plopping down into a chair. “How divine to come home to my men in the kitchen and the smell of coffee brewing,” she said, and gestured at the cigarette. “Don’t even think about lighting that.”
Dickie gave the cigarette a mournful look and put it down on the table. He glanced up at Sally. “You have a student named Charlotte Preston?” he asked.
So much for cheerful. Sally pressed her lips together, then nodded. “Yeah. She’s in my women’s history class. Smart kid, but not given to regular attendance. I haven’t seen her in a while. What’s going on?”
“We had a call early this morning from her father, a lawyer named Bradley Preston.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Sally said. “A pretty influential guy, I’m told.”
“Whatever,” Dickie said.
“He’s reported her missing.” It had been a good two weeks since Charlie had shown up in Sally’s office. Why would the parents just now file a missing person report? Despite her own promise to the girl that she wouldn’t call the cops, she’d been tempted to do so every day since the girl had disappeared. But at least she hadn’t said anything about what she would do if the sheriff himself came to her. “I haven’t seen her in a little more than two weeks,” Sally told Dickie, accepting a cup of coffee from Hawk and taking a quick swallow. “She came to my office. Somebody had beaten her up, pretty bad. She asked me for money and I gave her some. Then she left.”
Dickie’s eyes narrowed. He picked up the cigarette and began tapping it again. “Why, may I ask, didn’t you call me?”
“She begged me not to,” Sally said. “She said she was on the way to a doctor she knew would help her.”
“Somebody in town?” he asked.
“Charlie said not. She didn’t give me a name,” Sally answered. “She was terrified. Evidently there have been problems at home for a long time, and Charlie doesn’t seem to have much faith that bringing in the authorities will help her out.”
“So what’d you do, Mustang?” asked Dickie. “Make the informed decision that you, personally, know better than law enforcement, social workers, judges and juries and doctors and shrinks when it comes to assault on a young girl? That all that was necessary to save this poor misbe-gotten victim was for you to throw a fistful of dollars at her and tell her to have a nice life?”
Sally’s temper spiked, but she could understand his being pissed. Dickie, after all, had more than one point. “No. I did everything I could to convince her that she needed to get to a hospital and let me call you. She absolutely refused. If I’d picked up the phone, she’d have been out of there before I could dial nine-one-one. I could have wrestled her to the ground, I guess, but I didn’t see it as a good idea.
“She was a mess, Dick. The poor kid didn’t even have a coat. I did what I could. She said she had a car.”
Dickie sighed heavily. “Yeah. Bradley Preston reported that missing too. A British racing green Mazda Miata. A gift from him to her.”
Hawk looked at Sally. “You think the father beat her up? What kind of father batters a child and gives her a Miata?”
“Weirder things have happened,” said Sally.
“All the time,” Dickie assented. “Like a kid who blames her parents for everything, including stuff they haven’t done. Not”—he said, as Sally sputtered to explode—“that I’m saying that’s what happened. But it’s at least possible. Did Charlotte say that her dad had hit her?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Sheriff!” Sally said. “I think I can trust my own eyes to see when somebody’s had the shit beat out of them. Do you want me to paint you a picture? Bruised, swollen face, eye half shut, gasping and flinching like maybe some cracked ribs. Then again, maybe no broken bones. She insisted she could drive. Obviously, I’m not that kind of doctor, but of
course, neither are you.” She glared at Dickie.
“Settle down, amiga,” said Dickie.
She took a deep breath. “Okay. All right. I just know what she looked like, and what she said. She was one broken, frightened kid, and she made a point of telling me that her friends were afraid of her father.”
“There could be any number of reasons why,” said Dickie. “The girl’s got a juvie record—shoplifting, vandalism, minor-in-possession, one marijuana charge that didn’t stick. The father’s a no-nonsense, law-and-order kind of guy.”
“From what I’ve heard,” Sally said, “it wasn’t always that way.”
Dickie’s eyebrows twitched. “It’s said that there was a time,” he said, “when Bad Brad was one of those people who liked to show up for last call at Dr. Mudflaps’s tavern.”
As Sally was well aware, Dickie was referring to customers who had shown up at the bar at closing time, because the bartender, in addition to making a mean tequila and grapefruit, was known to do a brisk business in blow. The entrepreneurial bartender in question had been, in fact, Dickie Langham, back before he’d gone underground, gone into rehab, gone straight, and gone in for catching criminals instead of being one.
“Charlie’s dad must be some kind of serious hypocrite to blame her for straying from the path of righteousness,” Sally pointed out.
The eyebrows wiggled again. “Who among us would have our kids do what we did? We’re fucking lucky to be alive, and I’m guessing this Charlie Preston does a very good job of pushing her own luck. She hangs out with some pretty dubious types. Her boyfriend, for example. He’s nineteen, and he’s been in and out of jail since he was ten. He’s out now, with two auto thefts and some forgery charges pending. I went to see him, but his roommates told me he wasn’t home. I’m guessing he might not be home for a while,” said Dickie. “But we’ll keep checking.”
“Anybody else who might have some idea where she’s gone?” Sally asked.
Tap, tap, tap went the cigarette. “She waitressed for my sister. Who told me that she doesn’t keep tabs on her employees, because she’s their boss, not their mom. Which is, of course, a complete crock of shit. I mean, if Delice was worried about the girl, you’d think she would have seen the wisdom of letting me know what was going on, but she claimed she just assumed Charlie’d gone AWOL and hired another waitress. No big deal. Very un-Delice-like. I wonder why?” He twirled the cigarette between his thumb and third finger and shot a glare at Sally.
She was saved from having to dream up an answer when Dickie’s cell phone rang. He unhooked it from his belt, stood up as he answered. “Yeah. Yeah. Let’s cordon off a four-block radius all around. Crap. Okay. We’ll just have to detour ’em off Ivinson and Grand. Yeah, I know. I’ll be there right away.”
“What’s going on?” asked Hawk.
Dickie took his gray Stetson off the table and put it on. “There’s a new ob-gyn in town who has, very discreetly, let it be known that he’s willing to perform therapeutic abortions. I mean discreetly—no advertising, no listings on the web, no intent to provoke the right-to-lifers. Just a guy who’s got the idea that there’s a problem when women can’t exercise their constitutional rights in the state of Wyoming because doctors are being intimidated.
“I guess the word’s gotten out. Some group’s holding a ‘prayer vigil’ on the front walk of his office this morning, and there’s a crowd building up. I gotta get down there.”
Sally frowned. “I’m not surprised that the doctor’s trying to keep a low profile, but I’d have thought I might have heard about him. Where’s his office? I think I want to go down there.”
Hawk reached over and put his hand on her arm. “I’ll come too,” he said.
“I wouldn’t advise it.” Dickie said. “Ignore these guys and hope they preach themselves out, and go away. I wouldn’t mind doing the same, but I don’t have the option.”
“You know that’s not the way it works,” Sally told Dickie. “It’s not just prayer vigils. Bomb threats. Bullets through the window. Anthrax, for God’s sake.”
Hawk finished her thought. “Which is why no doctor has been willing to do abortions anywhere in Wyoming for the last four years,” he said. “Some Equality State.” He got up and walked into the mudroom to get his denim jacket. Sally went to the counter, rummaged in her purse, grabbed her cell phone, driver’s license, and a ten-dollar bill to stuff in the pocket of her fleece pullover.
“If you’re going to drive,” Dickie said, “you’ll have to park a few blocks away. We’re setting up barricades. Just to be on the safe side,” he added, too casually.
The office was on a side street between Ivinson and Grand, only ten blocks from their house. They decided to walk.
The building that housed the doctor’s office wasn’t much, a one-story tan brick cube with a still-brown crab-grass lawn and a straggly cottonwood tree out front. Somebody had planted a ring of pansies around the base of the tree, a month earlier than they should have. A waist-high chain-link fence formed a border between the sidewalk and the grass.
A dirt parking lot adjacent to the building held only two cars, parked in the spaces farthest from the building, leaving room for patients’ cars closer in. The front door bore a placard with the doctor’s name, followed by the letters M.D., OB-GYN. Nothing else.
The struggling pansies were in imminent danger of being trampled to dust. Several dozen people milled on the grass or paced the sidewalk, some holding signs with messages like “Stop the Death Doctor” and “Abortion Is Murder.” Others prayed silently or aloud, some very loud. Clouds were rolling in fast from the mountains, and the wind was kicking up, boding to kick hard. The protesters had to raise their voices to be heard at all.
More people came, streaming toward the building. Some were obviously supporters of the group holding the demonstration. Others sported buttons that said “Pro-Choice” or “It’s Between a Woman and Her Doctor.” Sally saw lots of people she knew, including Dave Haggerty, recognizing him from the Dunwoodie opening. Looked like the pro-choice people hadn’t had time to make signs of their own. Pretty much everyone wore a grim expression, including Sally and Hawk.
One woman caught Sally’s eye. She was quite simply stunning, blond hair perfectly styled for a television-anchor-grade windblown look that was undisturbed by the rising gale. She wore a beautifully tailored pantsuit and shoes Sally instantly envied. She stood at the edge of the crowd, holding hands with two well-groomed young women, heads bowed, looks of terrible sadness on their faces. Her immense blue eyes seemed to brim with tears that didn’t quite fall.
Within minutes, the yard was packed with protesters, the crowd jostling and muttering in ominous anticipation. At that moment, Sally heard a familiar voice behind her.
“Excuse us. Excuse us,” said Maude Stark, softly but clearly. Sally turned to see Maude making her way toward the gate to the front walk, her arm encircling a girl in a hooded sweatshirt. From what Sally could see of the face, the girl was absolutely petrified.
“I can’t do this,” Sally heard the girl say. “I’m too scared.”
“I know, I know,” said Maude. “It’s entirely up to you, dear. If you’d rather come back another day, we can do that.”
“No. It won’t get any better, and I want to get it over with. We might as well go ahead,” said the girl.
“We’ll just get you inside,” Maude said soothingly. “It’ll be okay. I promise.”
Sally and Hawk exchanged a look and made their way to Maude’s side. “You’re an escort?” Hawk asked Maude.
Maude nodded curtly. “I’m on a list. Got the call this morning.”
“Can we help?” Sally asked.
“You’re not trained,” said Maude. “You’d better keep your distance.”
“We’ll follow your lead, Maude. Tell us what to do,” Hawk said softly, moving to the girl’s other side. Sally took a place between them and behind the girl.
Maude made a decision. She kept her arm around
the girl as she turned to face Sally and Hawk. “All right. Just stay close to my friend here. Keep yourself between her and the people who’ve come out to exercise their free speech rights. Some of them are going to say hurtful things, and we’ll all just ignore that and keep moving.”
Sally put a hand on the girl’s shoulder, for comfort and protection.
“What if they start pushing us around?” Hawk asked. Some of the protesters were pretty big. Sally noticed a clean-cut blond guy who looked like he could hold down the center of a defensive line.
Maude’s eyes iced. “Move fast toward the door. If somebody gives you a shove, or throws a punch, don’t respond. It’s the cops’ job to keep the peace.”
Under the hood, the girl’s eyes grew huge.
Sally craned her neck, caught sight of Dickie talking fast into his cell phone, and felt a small measure of reassurance. “We’ll keep moving,” she said, rubbing the back of the girl’s sweatshirt, leaving her hand on her back. “Remember,” she said, “you’re just here to keep a doctor’s appointment.”
The chain-link gate was ajar. They walked through. Angry faces surrounded them, drawing closer.
“Baby killer!” screamed a boy in a high school letter jacket. He jostled Hawk hard. Hawk gritted his teeth and kept walking forward.
A girl with a Mohawk, black lipstick, and multiple face piercings sidled up to Sally’s side. She leaned over and whispered to the girl in the sweatshirt, “Are you prepared for eternity in hell?”
“You’ll excuse us,” Maude said quietly, keeping moving even as, Sally noticed, she stepped on Mohawk Girl’s foot.
At that moment, Sally chanced to glance over at the beautiful blond. Time slowed. The woman began to chant the Lord’s Prayer, softly. The crowd took up the chant. At “Deliver us from evil,” she gave an all-but-imperceptible nod. The protesters continued chanting but closed ranks, blocking the walkway.
The wind rose with a moan that turned into a howl, hurling sharp grains of dirt in eyes, flinging small pebbles, roaring its power. Maude, Hawk, and Sally huddled closer around the hooded girl as they pressed forward.
Hello, Stranger Page 3
