by Donna Ball
“Carol, don't torture yourself.” Laura was swiftly beside her, embracing her shoulders with one arm. “This isn't like you.”
“I know.” After a moment, Carol took a long, unsteady breath, and tried to straighten her shoulders. “It’s just that... it really threw me. A young girl's voice, calling me Mama, crying...”
When she trailed off, Laura said sympathetically,” But it didn't sound like her at all, did it?”
Carol shook her head wordlessly.
“Oh, honey.” Laura gave Carol's shoulders a sympathetic squeeze. “What an awful thing. After all you've been through, to have something like this happen just when you were finally getting over it.”
Carol shook her head. “You never get over it. It's a nightmare that never ends.”
She walked back to her desk and picked up the coffee mug. She gazed at the contents but made no move to drink. “You're probably right. A wrong number, a misunderstanding, a sick practical joke ... or I dreamed the whole thing. In a way, I almost hope that is what happened. It's easier than thinking she's out there somewhere, needing me—”
“Carol,” Laura said firmly, “no mother ever fought harder for a child than you did when Kelly ran away. No mother ever tried harder to help her before she left. Whatever has happened since then isn't your fault, and God knows it's out of your hands. Please don't start beating up on yourself again.”
After a moment, Carol managed a strained smile, and she sipped her coffee. “I suppose you're right.”
Laura hesitated. “Did you tell Guy?”
With a grimace, Carol resumed her chair. “God, that's all I need.”
“He's her father. If it does turn out to be anything, don't you think he has a right to know?”
Instead of answering, Carol began to shuffle through the folders on her desk. Her relationship with her ex-husband was complicated, and did not lend itself to easy replies. So much of what had gone wrong with their relationship was tied up with Kelly, and so much of what still linked them together revolved around Kelly, that it was difficult at times to know where hurt ended and need began—even now.
Their marriage had begun deteriorating long before Kelly's problems started, of course, and the fault had been with Carol as much as with Guy, though it was she who had finally and inevitably borne the responsibility of asking for the divorce. When Kelly disappeared, the hurt and anger of separation was still too fresh on both their parts for trust to survive; reckless accusations had been thrown back and forth about her motherhood and his fatherhood, blame had been cast irresponsibly, and instead of joining together in crisis for the sake of their child, they had turned against one another, working oftentimes at cross-purposes and to no avail. Months had passed before each of them, privately and alone, had learned to forgive the other—and themselves—for the things that were said and done at the peak of fear and crisis. And though now that Guy had moved back to the island, they were in many ways closer than ever, the peace they maintained was often an uneasy one. She did not want to talk to Guy about this. Not until—or unless—she had to.
She said, changing the subject, “What a week. First I lose the Kerrigan listing, then I almost missed that closing yesterday.... It's no wonder I'm having nightmares. Have you seen the folder on Porpoise Watch? I had a callback message.”
Laura took the hint and let the subject drop. “Yes, they called again before you got in this morning.” She took the folder from her desk and handed it to Carol. “They're coming in at ten and they sound pretty serious. They're looking to rent for the whole season, maybe buy if they like what they see. I thought if Porpoise Watch doesn't work out, you could show them Sea Dunes. We had it booked for June, but the party cancelled, so it's free for the season.”
Carol gave another shake of her head as she glanced over the message slip. “I have never understood why anyone would want to spend the summer in Florida. Fortunately for us I don't have to, hmm?”
Laura grinned, relaxing a little now that Carol's mood seemed to be back on course. “You got it. Besides, this isn't Florida, it's Paradise. It helps to remember that when you're showing $3500-a-week rental property.”
“I think I'll have that laminated on a key chain.”
Carol's smile, though faint and not very convincing, faded altogether as she looked again at her friend. “Do you know what I think is bothering me the most? The thought that some mother's child, somewhere, was crying out for help ... and no one will ever know.”
Laura wanted to say that she understood, but the truth was she didn't. Instinctively, she knew that no one could ever understand the pain that was in Carol Dennison's eyes unless she had first experienced motherhood. And Laura was ashamed of the relief she felt when the phone rang and she could put Carol's problems aside in favor of those she did understand, and could do something about.
~
Chapter Three
“Well, I guess my official quote is that St. Theresa County welcomes all visitors—as long as they abide by the law. Unofficially ...” Sheriff John Case rocked forward in his chair, balancing his linked fingers flat on top of his desk blotter. “You could take the whole lot of the jive-talking, bare-assed, horn-honking drunks and goose march 'em right into the Gulf and me and my deputies would manage to be otherwise engaged in an important poker game at the time. I'll tell you the truth, Guy, this whole goddamn business has gotten out of hand. In my day it was a privilege to go to college, something you worked hard for and were damn proud of. Now it's just an excuse to run wild at taxpayers' expense. Things are too damn easy for kids these days, that's the whole problem. Everything is too damn easy.”
Guy grinned. “Now are you going to tell me how you won the goldfish swallowing contest and crammed sixty people into your Stutz Bearcat, Granpap?”
Case tried to frown but his own reluctant amusement won out. “Yeah, okay, so I guess I pulled a little mischief in my day, too. We all did. The trouble is...” And his grin faded. “The kind of shit we did was just that—mischief. I'll tell you the truth, Guy. I'm fifty-two-years old, and when I was twenty, I couldn't even think of the kinds of crimes kids are committing today just for fun.”
“Come on, John, we're talking about spring break, not the L.A. riots. Don't you think you're overreacting a little bit?”
The sheriff's expression was impatient. “St. Theresa County averages one reported rape every three years, maybe two grand thefts and half a dozen burglaries a year, twelve or fifteen possession arrests. Between March fifteenth and April fifteenth of last year we had six rapes, two grand-theft autos, an average of three break-ins a night, and a hit and run. I'd have to break out the computer to even tell you how many D&Ds, driving under the influence, and possession of controlled substances we brought in. And we're sixty miles from Panama City. We're just getting the leftovers. I'm telling you, it’s getting way, way out of hand.”
Guy was jotting down notes in his cramped, all but illegible shorthand as he spoke. “How much do you estimate it costs the county to host spring break?”
“Host is a bad choice of words. Tolerate is more like it. As for my guess—it could get as high as a couple of hundred thousand dollars a week. Of course, that's just in public property damage, court costs, overtime for emergency personnel, and now the county attorney is telling us we've got to hire lifeguards for the beaches even though eighty percent of them are under private ownership. Now, that wouldn't be a lot if we were Gulf County, but we've got limited resources here. I couldn't hire as many temporary deputies as I need even if I had the budget—they just ain't to be found, you know what I mean? Same with EMS and the fire department. And you need to talk to the Coast Guard and the Marine Patrol about how their business goes up during spring break. I tell you, it's out of control.”
“So how do we control it?”
Case shrugged. “We can't. It’s greed, you see. We've got four hundred and sixty motel rooms in St. Theresa County—you figure six kids to a room—and maybe two hundred rental houses open this ti
me of the year, and you can get ten, fifteen kids easy into a one of those beach houses. There are maximum occupancy laws, but who's going to enforce them? And what about the merchants that cater to college kids? March first like clockwork and here they come, like the goddamn swallows to Capistrano—T-shirt stands, head shops, surf shops, skateboard rentals ...”
Guy smothered a grin. “I don't think they're called head shops anymore, John.”
“Same difference.” Case waved an impatient hand. “What it amounts to is no better than a sign over the freeway saying This Way to a Good Time. Nothing's going to change until A”—he ticked it off on the index finger of his left hand— “we pass an innkeeper's ordinance with some teeth in it and B”—second finger—”The merchants stop targeting kids and transients. In other words, roll up the welcome mat and slam the doors, just like they did in Fort Lauderdale— only do it before we turn into Fort Lauderdale.”
Guy said, “March is not exactly a boom month for tourism in St. T., you know. A lot of realtors refuse to rent to spring breakers, but those who do seem to be pretty happy with the profits. And some of the merchants and restaurants reported making one third of their yearly income in March last year. So what do you think it's going to take to get them to roll up the mat?”
“When the bill for damages is more than their profit,” Case replied promptly. “I just hope it doesn't come to that.”
“Or maybe,” suggested Guy with a smile, “we could impose a special tax on spring breakers and put it into the sheriff’s department budget.”
“You're joking, but that's not such a bad idea. What people don't realize is that maybe spring break only lasts a month, but the mess we're left to clean up can go on for years. Take that Conroy kid, disappeared during spring break last year. Now the parents are claiming somebody saw her here, in St. T., the day she disappeared, so I've got to assign an investigator. And that was not even in my jurisdiction. As far as I can tell, that kid's just another runaway—hell, they get dozens of them every spring break. What makes this one any different? She's going to turn up walking the streets somewhere—”
He broke off abruptly, a faint red line of embarrassment creeping up his neck as he realized what he had said and to whom he had said it. Guy kept his attention on his notes and his expression unchanged, and in a moment Case went on, a little self-consciously. “Anyway, you ask me, the worst thing that ever happened to this county was taking down the toll booth on F. W. Jackson Bridge. Not too many troublemakers will pay five dollars each way to get to the scene of the crime, if you know what I mean.”
“Not too many tourists, either.”
“Like I said.”
Guy flipped his notebook closed, smiling. “Sounds like another article, John.”
Case gestured toward Guy's notebook. “You're going to make me sound like a real son of a bitch in this one, aren't you?”
Guy reached for his jacket, which he had tossed carelessly across the arm of the chair, and absently brushed at the wrinkles as he stood. “Toughest gun east of the Mississippi,” he assured him.
“Well, as long as you spell the name right.” Case walked him to the door. “So how'd you get stuck doing piss-ant little stories about spring break, anyhow? Seems like I remember you from much bigger things.”
“Didn't you hear? I got a promotion. I get to pick my own stories now.”
“And you picked spring break?” Case gave a sad shake of his head. “I hate to tell you, my friend, but that ain't the way to becoming a prize-winning reporter.”
“Yeah, well you do me a favor and be sure to give me a call the next time the Democratic party holds its national convention here.”
Case grinned. “Hell, I'd probably just get your answering machine. 'Gone fishin,' it'd say.”
“Yeah, you got me there.”
They had reached the outer office and Guy paused, glancing around casually. Two deputies, a man and a woman, were at their computers, filling out up reports with that pained hunt-and-peck method favored by law enforcement officers everywhere. Maryanne, the dispatcher, had her earphones on and was talking to someone about a dog—lost or found, it was difficult to tell. Static and muffled voices came from her scanner as the units talked back and forth to one another, and in another part of the room a tinny-sounding radio was tuned to a country-western station. Garth Brooks.
Guy glanced toward the back wall, where a steel door separated the jail from the offices. He said, keeping his tone negligent, “So what's the story on that guy the state police brought in?”
Case's eyes narrowed with amusement and mild incredulity. “You sneaky S.O.B., you suckered me right in. You tie up a busy public official with an hour and a half of bullshit about spring break—”
“More like forty-minutes.” Guy lifted a shoulder toward the jail. “So how about it? 'According to Sheriff John Case.’
“He's gone,” Case said.
“Yeah, I know. Four o'clock this morning.”
“So there's your story.” Case turned back toward his office.
“Big-time drug pusher, huh?”
“Come on, Guy, all we did was store him. And you know how the state boys feel about locals riding on their coattails.”
“So what'd the state police ever do for you?”
“Cute.”
“I heard you confiscated eighty kilos.”
Case grunted. “Where are you getting your information? More like a hundred eighty.”
Guy gave a low whistle, scribbling in his notebook. “False bottom in the trunk, right?”
“Wheels. Jesus, what are you writing this down for? Nobody said you could have the story.”
“ 'According to an unnamed source ...’” Guy quoted, not looking up. “What's the street value?”
“You figure it out. You know more about this shit than I do.”
“I'm flattered. What did you do with it?”
“What?”
“The coke.”
“It's evidence. The state's sending a crime lab van for it.”
“Meantime?”
“What do you mean, meantime?”
But his eyes betrayed him with a sliding glance toward the steel door that led to the jail, and Guy burst out laughing.
“Are you kidding me? You're holding several hundred thousand dollars worth of high-grade cocaine prisoner in the county jail? Now, that's a headline.”
“Goddamn it, Guy—”
Guy put his notebook back in his pocket, still chuckling, and slipped on his coat. “Now do you see why I love working here?”
“Now you listen here, Guy—”
Case was starting to look alarmed, so Guy said, “Relax. I'm not going to say anything to impugn the integrity of your high office. You're too valuable a source.” He pretended to think about that for a minute before adding, “In fact, in a county this size, you're my only source.”
Case scowled at him, still disgruntled. “You better not forget it, either. That jacket looks like you slept in it.”
Guy glanced down at the jacket, brushed again at the wrinkles, and said, “Damn. I've got a lunch meeting with the commissioners, too.”
From her desk three feet away Deputy Marge Albrecker spoke up, her attention focused on her computer screen. “Hang it on the shower rod with the hot water going full blast for fifteen minutes. It’ll look good as new.”
Guy glanced at his watch. “Don't have the time or the shower.”
Marge grinned at him as she got up to collect some papers from the printer. “Then don't worry about it. People expect reporters to look rumpled—it’s part of their charm.”
“Yeah, I guess. Kind of makes me wish I was one.” Guy lifted his hand to both of them as he opened the door. “Thanks for the story, John. You know my number if you think of anything you want to add.”
Case replied sourly, “Nothing you'd want to print, Ace.”
Guy grinned and stepped out into the salty Florida sun. There were times, bleak, self-pitying times, when he wondered wh
at the hell he was doing here. But on days like this—which outnumbered the bad days a good two hundred to one—he couldn't imagine why he had ever left.
If Guy Dennison's resume could be plotted on a chart, it would look like the world's longest roller-coaster ride. It began with a Wakefield, North Carolina, radio station and progressed to the Miami Herald, a giant upward curve. A sharp fall led to the position of general reporter on the Gulf Coast Sentinel and another, smaller, upward curve took him to investigative reporter on the Franklin County Summit, then a straight run to newswriter for WECV-TV in Panama City, and another giant leap to crime reporter for WLTL, Tallahassee. A sharp downward slope resulted in a job as staff writer for the Tallahassee Herald and then a small hill and a straightaway took him back to the Gulf Coast Sentinel as managing editor, which position he currently held with varying degrees of enthusiasm.
It was no secret that his lack of ambition had been a major point of stress in his marriage and no doubt a contributing factor to its ultimate failure. Carol used to accuse him—usually at high pitch and in strident tones—of going out of his way to disguise his talent lest someone offer him a decent-paying job, and sometimes he thought she wasn't far from wrong.
After the divorce, which for some reason took Guy completely by surprise, he had been seized by the need to prove Carol wrong, or perhaps by the unconscious hope that if he worked hard enough and became important enough, she would somehow love him again. Toward the end of his marriage, he had taken the television job in Panama City and refused to understand why it only exacerbated matters between Carol and himself—which anyone with any insight at all into the woman he loved could have predicted. He had left her home alone with a career and a demanding teenage daughter while he worked long hours sixty-five miles away, and he told himself he was doing it to please her. The truth was that he was escaping from something he didn't understand and couldn't control, and by the time he realized his actions were only punishing them both, it was too late. He let the tide carry him to Tallahassee because he had no place better to go, and was well on his way to becoming the most relentless television reporter in the state when he—inexplicably, most people said—left to write the news again.
