by Ann Minnett
Lark awoke at 4:00 a.m. fully clothed and in the exact position, arms clasped around her knees, in which she had fallen asleep. A plan had developed overnight. But first, Flathead Realtors' offices needed cleaning. Her joints creaked, muscles pulled in a slow, languorous stretch on the diagonal of her bed. She made coffee and showered while it brewed. She could finally use her right hand in dressing and took it as a good omen for the new day and her resolve. She finger-combed her wet hair and yanked a skull cap over her damp head. Hot coffee in the go-cup took the edge off the frigid car during the short drive to Sky’s office.
She unlocked the door to Sky's uncluttered office. Flipping the lights on, she said, “Thank you, dear brother, for being such a neatnik." Not yet 5:00 a.m., and she'd be home googling Rob’s background long before Sky arrived at six-thirty.
Nora's phone call interrupted Lark’s dusting an hour later. "Is it true?"
"I think so."
"Dee called in sick, and I feel like throwing up myself." Nora coughed on the line. "Are you working?"
"Yep, but as soon as I'm finished here, I'm going to see what I can find out about him.” She tossed her dust rag into her satchel. “And then we need to talk.”
Lark hung up and switched on the vacuum cleaner.
Lark was home within the hour. While the computer booted, she phoned her sister. "Hey there." Lark tried to sound casual. "What's your boyfriend Rob's last name?" She had practiced this exact phrase in a calm voice to let Lulu know she wasn't interested in Rob. Just curious.
"Hold on a sec." Lulu set her phone on the counter of the ski shop where she worked part-time. Lark nervously clicked her mouse on her browser, opened her Gmail account, deleted trash emails, reduced and expanded Pinterest.
Lulu jostled the phone. "Okay, what do you mean my boyfriend?"
"Rob. The new guy. I thought that you were friends. Starts with a W."
"Yeah, sure," Lulu said distractedly. "Why not ask him yourself? I already told you I don’t know his name." She directed someone to the sunglasses case. "I saw his name on a package once. But I don't know. Why?"
"I want to write a story about him, but –“
"Oh. Got to go." Lulu hung up abruptly.
Lark had no time to dwell on Lulu’s flighty attention span. If anything, she was relieved Rob remained a stranger to her sister.
Patty had Rob's name on file, but the name would cost Lark a lunch hour and prying conversation about Zane's legal status. She reluctantly left the computer and walked over to the store.
* * *
It was worse than she expected.
Patty waved her behind the counter and started right in. “And what about this Rob, hanging around my daughters and grandson?”
“I just want to know his name, Patty. I’m not interested in him.”
Patty bit into a baby carrot. "He's a handsome man, Larkspur."
"Oh, for God's sake, I know he's good looking, but I'm not interested." It was an old story between Lark and Patty—neither had patience for the other's point of view, and Lark would never be interested in a man who appealed to Patty. Especially not this one. "Give it a rest!"
"Touchy, touchy." Patty rustled toward her customer card file. She constantly appeared to be standing in a slight breeze with skirts and long hair wafting out behind her. She adjusted her readers which hung from a beaded chain around her neck. "Let's see. Here it is. Raven Whalen." She spelled it out.
Lark chatted for as long as necessary before shooting out the door toward home and her computer.
Come to find out, no Rob or Robert Whalen ever graduated from The University of Missouri. Lark found an R. Thomas Whalen back in the 1950s… too old. No Robert Whalen in Montana whitepages.com. No Robert Whalen in St. Louis, his supposed hometown. All Rob Whalens on Facebook appeared to be other people. The internet never heard of him.
She called Sky and asked, "How do I find out the name of a property owner?" He must have been busy because he didn’t ask her why she needed to know. Sky emailed her step-by-step directions with links to county records, and he did so without pressing her for details. In two hours, she learned that ZRWZ Enterprises owned Rob's property, the company registered in Delaware. Delaware? Within five minutes she learned that corporations registered in Delaware aren’t required to list names of their officers. Suspicious, to say the least.
When Zane got home from working at Patty’s and now Ozzy's as well, she was still at it but becoming frustrated at the paucity of information. Against her better judgment, she got him involved. If anyone could find Rob Whalen's tracks, a fifteen-year-old computer aficionado could, but he came up short, too.
By that evening, Lark was convinced that Rob hadn't used his real name. He hid something, just as a criminal and fugitive would. That had to be the reason for not allowing a photo or even his name in an article.
He was a rapist. She was sure now.
What if he'd raped others? Rapists strike more than once, right? Lark typed and edited a short paragraph, channeling the women of Montana and beyond he might have harmed. She rubbed tired eyes as it printed, and emailed a copy to both Dee and Nora warning about her next step.
Lark had composed a letter on behalf of all three of them but wrote in first-person for the dramatic effect. Letters to the Editor and Comments had to be signed, which she would not do, so she paid for an ad anonymously. The Daily Inter Lake published the three-inch ad on Thursday, page five.
To my rapist R:
Years ago you and at least two other men drugged and gang-raped me on a campus in a faraway city on the last day of finals. I did not regain consciousness or register your faces. I awoke in a hospital feeling like I'd been gutted.
Then we met again (by chance?), and you recognized me.
Do you feel guilty? Do you mean me harm? Or do you simply want to be acknowledged? All right, then. I'm on to you. I know what you did and you can't buy me off. Stay away from me, my family, and my friends. Make a wrong move and I'll go to the police.
L.
After cleaning Alice’s office Thursday morning, Lark hung around to tell her about the letter. They had conducted business at Alice's kitchen table, at the condo, and over the phone. Although Lark knew the offices intimately, she had never entered them formally as a client, and it made her nervous. Alice wheeled her enormous SUV into the small lot behind the cottage that housed Stanhope and Stanhope, Attorneys at Law.
"Well, this is a first." Alice reached into her backseat for a satchel and lunch container.
Lark ground out her Marlboro on the pavement, thought again, and picked up the butt. "I was hoping you'd have a minute."
"Just that, Lark." Alice walked straight through and into her street-facing office. She opened the blinds. "What's up?"
"If anything happens to me," Lark said, "report Rob Whalen to the cops."
"Okay." Alice stopped. "You've got my attention." She gestured toward one of two upholstered chairs Lark admired. The chairs’ Art Deco sleek lines contrasted with the Stanhopes’ oak and stained glass style at home.
"Today's Inter Lake published a letter I wrote." Lark took out the copy she bought at Walgreen's. She opened the newspaper to page five and tapped a finger where Alice should read.
Alice closed her office door. She donned her red framed glasses and read in silence. "What's the story, Lark?" She toddled around her desk and sank into her leather chair.
Hands twisting in her lap, Lark recounted everything she knew about Rob. The older woman's calm questions drew out the truth about what happened at the end of freshman year. Finally. A fourth person, and a woman she trusted, knew the whole story.
Alice listened without taking notes. "I'm not sure your vague public threat holds much promise of resolving the problem."
"I don’t want to resolve a damn thing with him."
“What did you intend to accomplish then?”
Lark inhaled deeply. "I want him to know that I know and to fear me. Fear us. Let him see how it feels."
> "Your actions might only enrage him, Lark."
"That's why I told you. If he does anything crazy… well." Lark thought about what constituted crazy.
"It's a big step, especially given you don't have proof he was involved. He might be nothing more than a creepy guy who coincidentally moved to Whitefish."
"Hardly."
Alice picked up her lunch bag and led the way out of her clean office into the small, newly-vacuumed reception area where a jittery guy in Carhartt overalls stared at his phone. Lark remembered him from the Subaru parts center. The wall clock over his bowed head showed 9:45.
Alice deposited her lunch in the kitchenette's refrigerator and returned to reception. “Be careful.”
"I'll do that."
Alice ushered Lark out the back door. "Don't you get in a pissing contest with Rob Whalen. Don't poke the sleeping tiger."
The knot in Lark's stomach tightened. Now what?
* * *
Rob subscribed online to the skimpy local daily newspaper. He lived too far from town for morning delivery. Not that reading local news was high on his priorities. Some days he didn't open the email, but Thursday's edition carried upcoming weekend events. So that day he read with moderate interest.
He skimmed the mysterious note on page five and paged down. What? Alarms clanged in his head. He couldn't have read it correctly. He turned back and read the triple-bordered “Letter to My Rapist.” He logged into the paper's website for more information and noted twenty-seven reader comments. All expressed sympathy for the poor woman and outrage at the rapist.
Rob sat still for most of the morning, wondering how his plans had derailed. What did he do to make her think that he raped her? He'd been nice, for gods sakes. His sin had been an act of omission, not commission. Drunk. Dumb-founded. An accessory. He always thought of the event that way.
He snowshoed that afternoon, returning home once to check on Raven’s healing wounds, and then he left again. He wanted to become so fatigued that he'd collapse into sleep without worry. Whatever action he chose to take, he must proceed slowly and with care. He decided to do nothing. See what happened.
Friday's edition of The Daily Inter Lake contained a front-page feature entitled, "L's Story Raises Local Outrage," which posited three scenarios: 1) L feared for her life because a rapist stalked her; 2) L over-reacted to an incident that happened a long time ago and to their coincidental meeting; and 3) L's letter was a hoax. The reporter stated random people she interviewed wanted to know more about L and why charges weren't filed against R. Some even thought they knew L but wouldn't reveal her identity.
Rob had to make this right, but how, without bringing the crime and himself into the open? He allowed his thoughts to drift toward getting even. Did she really believe he'd be bullied?
CHAPTER 16
Friday afternoon, Lark parked in her carport behind the condo and lit her last Marlboro in the pack to collect her thoughts. She smoked way too much lately. Nervous as a cat. Nope, cats are laid-back and cool. Nervous as a… oh, what the hell did it matter? She had the jitters. She got out of the mud-caked car and watched the VFW parking lot for a moment. Four o'clock and the bar was doing a good business. Matter of fact, she wished she had time for a beer to calm her nerves.
She had been crazy to write the public letter, much less sign it with her first initial. Locals would put two and two together and figure out who had left for college out of state, eventually returned home, and recently met a new man. And she had the initial L. Exasperated with her stupidity, she brushed mud from the back of her jeans, gathered cleaning cloths to launder and headed inside.
Zane was home. Voices seeped through his closed bedroom door. She knocked and opened it.
He bolted from his bed, shielding a girl with his body. Boxers slung around his hips. She caught the back view of a girl wearing pink bikini underwear. Long auburn hair fell down her back, covering the potential of a bra.
"Mom!" His arms extended backward, corralling the girl. He had the good grace to appear mortified.
"Oh, for gods sakes. Put some clothes on and come out here."
She closed the door, noticing textbooks, spiral notebooks and an iPad on the table. Two chilled (she touched one) Dr. Peppers and an open bag of Cool Ranch Doritos there, too. They hadn't been in the bedroom very long. She could wring Zane’s neck.
Lark poured a cold cup of black coffee, nuked it in the microwave, and braced herself against the counter. Within a minute, the young lovers, fully clothed, sheepishly joined her in the living room. She burned her upper lip on scalding stale coffee. She gestured them toward the couch.
The girl had been crying. Good.
"What in the—."
"Mom, I can explain."
Lark laughed. Coffee spouted up her nose and choked her. Brown drops spewed into her palm. "Then explain."
"See, Katie and I were doing homework." Zane's long arms circled the air, an effort to appear reasonable. "This is Katie, by the way."
Katie glanced up, hands between her knees, cheeks flushed. "Nice to meet you." Her eyes flashed large, realizing how ridiculous she sounded. She slumped again.
The teenagers’ total embarrassment trumped the urge to scream and banish them both from the condo. If anything, she felt sorry for them. "Stop. Don't explain. I get it."
"But Mom." Zane's feeble comment made Lark snort.
"Look, this is not okay. Understand?" She took the easy chair across from the couple. Were they a couple? "Zane, you cannot have Katie here when I'm gone."
"I thought you'd be home! You're always home by 4:30."
"I have a new client on Thursdays that will keep me later from now on, and don't you take advantage of that fact." She shook her finger and wished she hadn't. "Anyway, Katie, you're welcome as long as I'm here, too."
Katie's shy expression turned defiant, eyebrows raised, lips tight.
Lark shot her down. "You have something to add?"
Katie's shoulders sagged an inch. "No, Ma'am. I'm sorry."
"Good." Lark stood, making both kids jumped to attention. "I brought wraps for dinner, but not enough for a guest."
"I have to go anyway." Katie fairly leaped toward the table to cram her iPad, books and phone into her backpack.
Zane shoved his bare feet into boots by the door. "Mom, she lives over by the airport. Will you drive us?"
"Sure. Why not?" Why the hell not?
The sound of Katie's boot zippers filled the quiet until they walked out to the car and left for Katie’s house.
Thinking now or never, Lark turned left at the new stoplight at Second and Spokane. She wriggled taller in the driver's seat, meeting Zane's eyes in the rear-view mirror. He had his arm protectively around Katie, and they hadn't said a word.
“I assume you guys use protection." Present tense inferred they have sex routinely. Should she have used past tense to mean this one time—their first ever for having sex? Lordy, why did she ever become a mother?
"Jeez, Mom."
"I'm serious." Her attention focused on the back seat and not the road ahead. Her foot hovered over the brake. "Believe me, you don't want to be parents at sixteen."
"I don’t believe this." He rubbed his eyes.
"Not to mention STDs."
"For fuck sake, Mom!"
Lark stomped on the brake, and both kids jerked forward. Katie yelped, and Zane screamed, "We didn't have sex, all right?"
"We're just thinking about it, Ms. Horne."
"So, you're not…?"
"I'm sorry. We shouldn't have done that in your house," Katie continued, contrite. "I don't want to be disrespectful, but sometimes it's hard to..."
"Katie!" Zane's voice cracked. He blushed and suffered in the back seat.
Lark wanted to laugh at his discomfort, but she didn’t. She was a terrible mother, just like she always feared. Her shaking hands gripped the wheel for stability. "Don't talk to me like that again, Mr. Zane. No more f-words. Katie, which way?"
Ka
tie lived in a new Craftsman two-story out near the dog park. The development attracted working families, not so many snow-birds or vacationers, nor monuments to the wealthy. Working people. For some reason, the home’s forest green exterior with white trim reassured Lark.
Before the kids stepped out of the car, Lark said, "Katie, let's get to know one another under better circumstances next time." To her astonishment, Katie squeezed Lark's shoulder and slid out taking Zane's extended hand. He walked her to the porch, arm over her shoulder as Lark had witnessed at school. She looked away and felt old.
Zane refused to speak to her during the ride home or for the rest of that evening.
* * *
The next day out of the blue, Patty said, "Did you see the letter to the rapist in the Inter Lake?" A cocker spaniel endured a blow dry on her work table.
"What letter?"
Patty described its contents rather sensationally, emphasizing the gang-rape, which oddly annoyed Lark. "I wonder why she wrote it?" Her mother's eyes focused on the tan dog.
Lark controlled a pent-up scream. "Because she feels helpless." Then she remembered how she and the others decided to handle the issue. "It's probably a hoax."
Patty fluffed the dog's belly hair. "The reporter mentioned that possibility today, but it didn't sound like a hoax to me."
"Today? What reporter?"
"You didn't see it?" Patty tossed the daily paper onto her counter. "Page three, I think."
Lark bent over the newspaper, holding her breath. Damn. She needed reading glasses. She squinted at the small print under the headline “Letter to a Rapist” and a feature article. Her heart plummeted into her gut. She hadn't thought about others getting involved.
"Do you know who L might be?" Patty held the loud dryer in one hand, a wire brush in the other, searching Lark's face too deeply for comfort.
"No idea." Lark studied the print long after she had read it through. Anything to avoid her mother's probing eyes.
"Lark…"
"Got an appointment near the lake, Patty." Lark closed the paper, folding it neatly. "Someone new trusts me enough to clean her house." She hurried out Patty's back door.
