“They like it enough to buy it?”
“Maybe,” he said and resisted the urge to add that he’d be surprised if they didn’t buy it. He reached down, hoisted Lily out of the tub and placed her wet feet on the towel. He began the job of drying her off.
Michelle reached out, levered open the drain. “You think they’ll want you to do the work?”
“How should I know, honey? I barely know them.”
“Yeah, but surely you got a sense of how interested they were.”
Joe didn’t answer, focused on getting Lily’s long black hair dry, and resisted the urge to say, Yes, honey, I got a sense. They all but hired me on the spot.
He could see she wanted more details, so he gave her a few more after he’d read Lily to sleep. He told Michelle that something about the people struck him as familiar, but he couldn’t say why. Maybe they’d been introduced before, a long time ago.
It wasn’t until after he and Michelle finally made love and she was fast asleep that Joe, lying on his side and close to drifting off himself, recalled where he’d seen the couple.
The funeral. They’d been at Angie Waltz’s funeral. Joe remembered them now but understood why he hadn’t before. It was because they’d been so incongruous among the other mourners by the graveside. Instead of tattooed flesh, blue jeans, and piercings, they’d been Burberry coats and tailored suits.
So what’s the problem? he thought, coming wide awake. They stopped at the cemetery to pay their respects. Was that a crime?
Not really, except for the timing. Why come here the same day as Angie’s funeral and inquire about a house that had been untenanted for at least a decade?
Joe didn’t have an answer for that, nor did he sleep for nearly two more hours. And when he did drift off, his dreams were horrifying, grotesque. He dreamed of Angie lighting herself on fire. Only this time the house that burned up around her wasn’t empty. There were voices screaming inside as people were roasted alive. The voices belonged to Michelle and Lily.
And when Joe finally did break through the flaming front door, the whole damned house came down on top of them.
Chapter Eight
It took some prodding, but in the end, Darrell Copeland agreed to let him know the names of the emergency foster parents: Bruce and Louise Morrison. Copeland then instructed Joe not to bother the foster parents, promising he’d kick Joe’s lily-white ass if he so much as drove past the Morrisons’ house. But judging from the resignation in Copeland’s voice, he already knew Joe would go over there.
Joe did, right after work.
Louise Morrison wouldn’t unchain the door at first, opting instead to peer at Joe through a crevice less than an inch wide.
Apparently, Joe thought to himself, she’d been warned about Angie Waltz.
“I’m sorry to drop in unannounced,” he said, “but I was wondering if I could talk for a minute.”
A single hazel-colored eye watched him through the narrow aperture.
“I’m a friend of Darrell Copeland,” Joe ventured and wondered whether or not it had been prudent to mention the policeman. It was a dead giveaway that he was here regarding Little Stevie. As if to confirm Joe’s folly, the hazel eye narrowed to almost a slit.
Joe shifted from foot to foot and did his best to make himself look unthreatening. “I can wait until your husband comes home if you like.”
“Why, so you can talk man-to-man rather than deal with me?”
Joe frowned. “It’s not that at all, Mrs. Morrison. I was just trying to put you at ease.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
Joe’s mouth was dry. “No, I don’t suppose you would.”
The door closed. Joe stood there a long moment wishing he could start over. Then he heard the muffled snick of the chain being slid out of its housing. The door opened, and Joe was faced with a tall, broad-shouldered woman in her fifties. Steel wool hair down to her shoulders. Very pale skin. Outfit that was clean, ironed, and very much in style thirty years ago, the button-down shirt ivory with green pinstripes. The jeans were stonewashed or whitewashed or some other kind of washed. Regardless, Louise obviously didn’t put a lot of effort into her appearance.
Her expression bland, Louise said, “You don’t approve?”
Joe stared stupidly at her for a moment, then found his voice. “I didn’t mean to stare. I just—”
“Expected someone younger.”
“I didn’t say—”
“You didn’t have to. CPS didn’t pick me because I’m a bombshell. You want that, you can go have a snuggle with your wife.”
Joe could only stare.
Louise gave him a shrewd look. “General contractor, married, one child. A daughter. Of course I know about you. Copeland told me. He’s the worst gossip I know. You came to see Stevie, I suppose.”
Joe nodded, feeling very much like a prizefighter dazed by a flurry of vicious jabs.
“Get in here then. It’s too chilly to keep the door open.”
Mutely, Joe stepped inside. The house looked like Louise did. Nondescript, though if there was a style here it was Outdated Country. The walls were beige with dark green trim up top. The tables and dressers were lined with knickknacks and cheap curios. Ceramic statuettes of country kids fishing and frolicking. Assorted gnomes and angels. A black rotary phone that Joe suspected the Morrisons still used.
“Stevie’s in the next room,” Louise said, throwing a nod to Joe’s left. “He’s playing with Jessica’s old Weeble Wobbles.”
“Is Jessica your daughter?”
Louise eyed him expressionlessly. “You should’ve been a detective rather than a contractor.”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“Jessica’s twenty-six now. They’re expecting their second child this fall.”
“Congratulations.”
“I have three grandbabies already.”
“Jessica has an older sibling?”
“Regular Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you?”
“I don’t play the violin.”
“You did the right thing for Stevie.”
Joe took in the woman’s changeless expression and discerned the merest hint of emotion there. So tucked away in the corners of her gray eyes, you wouldn’t notice it unless you looked.
“I really appreciate that, Mrs. Morrison.”
“Watch him for a few minutes while I cook his supper.”
Wordlessly, she left Joe standing in the front room. He watched after her, smiling a little. Then he followed the sound of Little Stevie’s babbling.
When Joe entered the starkly decorated living room, he noticed two things aside from the toddler sitting on the thick beige carpet, a pacifier in his mouth and a navy blue jogging suit covering his pale skin: the room was very clean, and there were three white bookcases, each of them crammed with books.
He fought off the urge to wander toward one of them to peruse the titles and forced himself to approach the child. It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested in Little Stevie. No, he realized as he came to a halt before him. It was something far simpler than that.
Joe felt guilty.
Here was a child who’d been orphaned, and it was at least partially due to Joe’s intervention. He’d been over it too many times in his head to believe he’d done the wrong thing, but as he peered down at the little blond-haired toddler in his velour jogging suit, he couldn’t help but rue the way things had turned out. Why had the kid’s dad evidently been such a deadbeat, and why, of all the potential moms in the world, had this innocent little boy incubated in the womb of such a wretched creature?
Wincing a little, Joe lowered himself to sit crosslegged on the floor in front of Stevie. The boy, apparently not noticing him, continued to manipulate the eight or so Weeble Wobbles lying before him on the carpet. Stevie would knock a pair of them together
with a sturdy clunk. Then he’d line them up and examine them, their bottom halves buried in the deep shag of the carpet. Joe noticed that the boy’s hair was combed to one side, giving him the look of a junior executive. Or maybe a future banker. Stevie sucked on the pacifier steadily, his blue eyes riveted on the Weeble Wobbles as though he were engaged in a serious game of chess.
Joe reached out, fiddled with a Weeble Wobble. Little Stevie grunted, shoved Joe’s hand away.
Joe chuckled. “Sorry about that, Stevie. Didn’t mean to mess up your arrangement.”
Silently, Stevie returned the Weeble Wobble to its former position.
“I want you to know I’ll help you,” Joe said. “I don’t know what my role’s gonna be, or even if I’m gonna have one. In your life, I mean.” He bit the inside of his cheek. “It’s not like I have any claim to you. Some might argue I have less right to be here than anybody. But—” Joe reached out, tousled Stevie’s hair “—I feel really crummy about what happened, and if you ever need help, I’ll give it to you.”
If Stevie understood, he gave no sign.
Joe reached out, did his best to finger comb Stevie’s blond hair back into place. “My wife and I are done having children. It took us a long time to get pregnant. Took Michelle a long time, I mean. Not that it was her fault or anything.” He scratched his jaw. “I just mean we tried for quite a while before Lily came along. I’ve been thinking that maybe…” Joe sighed, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Maybe it’s a dumb idea. Who the hell knows?”
“Don’t use that word in front of him.”
He turned and saw Louise leaning in the doorway, her hands tucked in the front pockets of a blue apron. Her expression was the same, but something about the set of her mouth gave the impression she wasn’t annoyed with him. Her eyes were on Little Stevie.
Joe turned and saw that Stevie was gazing up at her.
Joe said, “Do you think you and your husband…do you think the arrangement might be permanent?”
“It can’t be,” she said. “I’m fifty-nine this December. I’ll be in my seventies by the time he’s in junior high.”
“That’s not so old.”
“Says the guy not old enough to run for president.”
“I’m over forty. And I’ve got too many skeletons to run for president.”
“We all have skeletons, Mr. Crawford.”
“It’s Joe.”
Louise said nothing, only continued to watch Little Stevie, who’d returned to his Weeble Wobbles.
“It’s very good of you and your husband to look after him, Mrs. Morrison.”
“They call us when they don’t have a suitable foster home ready,” Louise said. She came over, pulled up an orange vinyl footstool, and sat on it. “Longest we’ve ever sponsored one is two years.”
“Sponsored.”
“CPS’s word, not mine.”
Joe reached out, rubbed Little Stevie’s shoulder. The velour material was soft and warm. “Two years,” Joe said in a quiet voice. “Must’ve been hard to say goodbye.”
He glanced up at Louise, who for the first time was really looking at him. Her gaze was a little misty. “It’s usually not that long.”
“What if they don’t find some place for Stevie here?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
Joe let his fingers glide down the boy’s sleeve until they touched the back of Stevie’s hand, the flesh there so soft the kid might as well be a newborn.
“You have the space,” Louise said. “You make a good enough living.”
“How do you know so much about me?”
“You’re not the only one Copeland talks to.”
Joe frowned. “Premature to talk about that now.”
He could feel Louise’s gaze on him. “Or maybe you just don’t want to get your hopes up?”
Joe’s voice wouldn’t work for a long time. When he finally found it, he said, “You mind if I come back to visit him?”
“If you have to ask that, you’d make the worst detective in the world.”
And with that, Louise rose and returned to the kitchen.
Joe sat playing with Little Stevie for ten more minutes before Louise reentered and fastened a Cookie Monster bib around the boy’s neck. Joe mussed Stevie’s hair, kissed his forehead, and said his goodbyes. The sky had cleared, leaving behind a silken orange twilight shot through with lavender-colored clouds. Across the street from the Morrisons’ house was a mostly empty park. The sight of the unused playground equipment made Joe a little bit wistful. Or maybe it was Little Stevie who’d done that.
He was nearly to his truck when he saw the woman angling in his direction.
Oh hell, Joe thought.
And waited for Sharon Waltz to unload on him.
“How’d you know he was here?” Sharon asked.
Joe swallowed. He knew it was pointless to play dumb, but he did anyway. “I was just visiting a friend.”
“Stevie’s not your friend,” Sharon hissed. “He’s an orphan whose mother was murdered by a bunch of lying snakes.”
Oh man, Joe thought. This was worse than he’d anticipated. He’d imagined this scenario several times in the past few days. Hell, this confrontation had nearly come to pass that day in the cemetery. But now that it was upon him, he found he had no earthly idea what to say. Sorry your daughter incinerated herself?
As casually as he could, Joe looked over at the Morrisons’ house and was grateful to note the front door was shut. With any luck, they wouldn’t even know this scene had taken place. As for whether or not they and Little Stevie were safe from Sharon, that would be a matter for Copeland and the social workers to decide.
Sharon stalked closer, effectively ensuring he couldn’t open the door of his truck. At least, not without knocking her out of the way. Accentuating every word with a poking forefinger, she said, “You did it. You fucking did it.”
When Joe didn’t answer, she bared her teeth. “Say something, you coward. You at least owe me that after stealing my daughter from me.”
Joe realized Sharon had been drinking. From bad to worse, he thought. He was pretty sure she’d been sober that day at the gas station. How much more ghastly would she be after a few drinks?
“Say something,” she demanded.
“Okay, take it easy,” he said and made the mistake of putting a hand on her shoulder.
She jerked it away as though his hand were on fire. “How dare you lay hands on me, you son of a bitch. You’re trying to rape me, aren’t you? You’re trying to bang me right here against your truck!”
My God, was she on drugs too? Joe put up his hands, palms outward, and took a step back. “Hey, I’m sorry about your daughter, but—”
“Oh, you’re sorry are you?” she asked, her eyes like bloodshot moons. “Well, that just changes everything, doesn’t it? Being sorry’s gonna bring her right back. Being sorry’s gonna make it all like it never happened.”
And as she advanced on him, Joe noticed something else, something that worried him even more than the swaying and the flaring nostrils. Sharon’s sweater—a couple sizes too tight and short enough to expose her pierced belly button—was on inside out. The tag stuck out in back and waggled like a tail every time she brandished her index finger at him. Joe glanced to his right, saw the public park spread out there with a couple little kids and their young mothers playing on the playground, and wondered if he should head in that direction. Oh, he was sure Sharon would follow him, but at least there’d be witnesses. For whatever reason, despite the fact that it was only early evening, there was nobody else outside on this street.
“Nothing to say?” she snapped. “And here I thought talking was your specialty. You didn’t have a problem telling your lies to the cops, didja? Didn’t have any trouble getting my grandson taken away from me.”
“I know you won’t believe me, but I didn’t want any of this to happen.”
“Bullshit!”
“I didn’t want your daughter to die any more than I wanted to witness her abusing her son.”
Whatever the right thing to say was, this wasn’t it. Joe knew that the moment the words left his lips. Sharon actually grabbed twin handfuls of her bleach-blond hair and tore at it. “She did not abuse Little Stevie!”
Joe was standing next to the truck bed; he wondered if he’d be able to scurry around to the passenger’s side and sneak in that way before she harrowed his face with those talons of hers.
Joe had actually backpedaled another step to attempt his escape when her expression changed to one of dawning amazement. “You have a daughter of your own, don’t you, Joe Crawford?”
Joe froze. “My daughter’s none of your business.”
Sharon’s face twisted into a hideous mask, like a caricature of a fairy tale troll. “I’ll decide what she is, you puling coward.” She poked a long nail into his face, actually abrading his cheek this time. “I’ll decide what she is.”
Joe took another step back, drawing even with the tailgate now, but she moved with him, muttering obscenities and flashing those pale talons at his face. She jabbed him hard this time, drawing blood along his cheekbone.
“I’ll bet that girl’s not even yours,” Sharon rasped.
Joe kept his eyes trained on the ground. “That’s enough, Sharon.”
“‘That’s enough, Sharon,’” she mimicked in a hateful, childish falsetto. “Not sure you’re her daddy, are you?”
Joe reached out, squeezed the top of his tailgate, and told himself to get control. He knew a rise was exactly what Sharon was seeking from him, but knowing it and preventing it were two very different things.
Sharon giggled. “Maybe that wife of yours has been bangin’ the help. You got a couple young bucks on your crew. Maybe she spread her legs for one of them.”
Joe glared at Sharon in disbelief. In the space of thirty seconds she’d transformed from a grieving mother to a vicious, taunting crone.
Get out of here, he told himself. Get out now before you really screw up.
The Nightmare Girl Page 8
