Safer

by Sean Doolittle

I feel a quick shot of disappointment that it isn’t Sara.

  Then relief creeps in. Melody just called.

  I hadn’t doubted her, but the relief is still there. She called first thing in the morning, just like she said she would; she’s slept on this, and she hasn’t changed her mind. “When will you talk to her?”

  “She’s coming in this morning,” Bennett says. “How soon can you be here?”

  “Actually, I’m a little tied up at the moment.”

  “Sorry to complicate your busy schedule. Tied up how?”

  “Isn’t it better if I’m not there anyway? So she can speak freely or whatever?”

  There’s a pause, then Bennett says, “What are you up to?”

  “Just errands,” I tell him. “I need a toothbrush. And a razor. Maybe a new tie for the thing on Wednesday.”

  “Hey, as long as you’re running around, do me a favor, would you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Save the bullshit for the reporters.”

  I don’t have a response for that.

  “Let me tell you something, Paul, if you’re thinking about trying to go talk to Brittany Seward while her dad’s at work and Melody’s here—”

  “Give me some credit,” I say. “I’m not stupid.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Look, if you think I should be there, I’ll come in.”

  For a moment, Bennett doesn’t say anything. Even his silence sounds frustrated with me.

  Finally, he says, “Subtle pattern.”

  “Sorry?”

  “The tie you’re buying for Wednesday. Best to go with a subtle pattern. Nothing flashy.”

  “Oh.” Does this mean I’m off the hook? “Thanks for the tip.”

  “Make sure you keep the phone with you.”

  “It’s practically an extension of my hand.”

  Bennett hangs up just as I’m turning left off Belmont. I drop the phone into the console and follow Wildwood into the subdivision. I’ve never actually entered Ponca Heights from this direction; even after patrolling the area on foot, the meandering network of streets and roundabouts and cul- de- sacs plays with my sense of direction.

  Around me, smoke trails from the chimneys of the homes of Ponca Heights South. Rooftops and windowpanes shimmer with frost. It’s mid- morning and sunny—18 degrees, according to the sign at the bank downtown—and of course I haven’t been entirely truthful with Douglas Bennett.

  I might well be stupid. I’m also forbidden from contacting Brittany Seward. That much I’ve come to accept.

  But nobody’s ever said anything about me talking with her friend Rachel.

  The McNallys live on a corner lot in one of the newer sections. My plan is simple: find a place along the curb, park, walk to the front door, and ring the bell.

  It’s Monday morning, and the Clark Falls public schools have released early, due to storm predictions, for the holidays. Best case, I get lucky, Rachel is home alone, and I’m somehow able to convince her not to slam the door in my face and call the police. But even in the probable case—that this goes nowhere— I’m confident of one thing:

  It will get back to Roger that I came here and rang the doorbell. I’d like Roger to know that. I want him to know that we have no truce, and if it puts him at ease to think that ringing Rachel McNally’s doorbell is the best defense maneuver I can come up with, so much the better.

  The minivan backing out of the McNally driveway makes all of this strategy a moot point. Rachel’s mother is behind the wheel. At a glimpse, I take the girl in the passenger seat to be Rachel’s older sister. Through the minivan’s tinted back windows, I can just make out a third head of hair.

  I pull to the curb and watch my rearview mirror. From the corner of my eye, I become aware of the irony of my position:

  I’m sitting directly beneath one of our curbside Safer Places coalition signs. This neighborhood is monitored by the Ponca Heights Neighborhood Patrol.

  The minivan turns onto Walnut and heads away down the hill.

  I doubt that Douglas Bennett would advise me to turn around in the nearest driveway and follow.

  26.

  THE PARKING LOT of the Loess Point Shopping Mall is aswarm. Holiday shoppers stream from their cars onto the sidewalks, making lines toward all visible entrances. The Salvation Army is out in force, standing by their red buckets, scarves over their mouths. The peal of handbells fills the air.

  The McNally family minivan pulls to a stop in front of the main atrium and sits there, circled in exhaust. I luck into a parking space and watch my mirrors.

  After a few minutes, the minivan’s passenger side opens up. Rachel and her sister emerge onto the sidewalk and heave their doors shut.

  Bye, Mom.

  • • •

  What I’m doing may not be well- advised, but it’s disturbingly easy.

  A hundred feet inside the main entrance to the mall, in front of the towering, ribboned Norway spruce rising up to the domed skylights three stories overhead, Rachel and her older sister stand bickering for a minute. The sister finally makes a zipping motion across her mouth, stabs a finger at her cell phone, and heads off in the other direction.

  I watch as big sis meets up with a group of friends and disappears into the crowd. I watch as Rachel takes off her stocking hat and heads glumly toward the escalators alone.

  And this is what I can’t help thinking, as I shadow a thirteen- year- old girl through a busy shopping mall, a crowd of oblivious faces circulating around us:

  It isn’t difficult. If I were the kind of person I’m accused of being, it wouldn’t be difficult to get close to this kid. I could be even worse than the kind of person I’m accused of being.

  Keeping a margin between us, I follow Rachel McNally up the escalators and around the second level. She stops at a few windows but doesn’t go into the stores. She spends a few minutes looking at cheap earrings at a jewelry pagoda.

  She ducks into a music store and buys a CD, paying at the register with two crumpled bills she pulls from her purse. She counts her change—a couple bucks and a few coins—and tucks what’s left in the front pocket of her jeans.

  We spend close to an hour at the big computer store at the far end of the mall. Rachel spends the whole time at the same counter, fiddling wistfully with the iPods.

  At last she looks at her watch and pulls herself away. She leaves the computer store and heads for the food court. She uses the money in her front pocket to buy a smoothie at the Jamba Juice.

  I watch her pick out a table by the railing and give her a few minutes to get settled.

  Then I walk over. “Rachel,” I say, smiling. “Hi there.”

  Her first expression is a smile in return. She’s been trained to be polite.

  But she recognizes me almost immediately. Her smile falters and melts away. By the time I sit down, she’s staring straight ahead, eyes wide, holding her smoothie in both hands, sucking purposefully on her straw.

  “Don’t be scared.” I speak softly, partly to seem as un-threatening as possible, partly to avoid being heard by the people sitting at nearby tables. It’s almost lunchtime. Pretty soon, the food court will be packed. “I’m a friend. I promise.”

  “Go away.”

  “I just want to talk to you for a minute.”

  “Go away.”

  I do my best to appear relaxed and familiar. Like maybe I’m her father. A father having a tangle with his difficult teen ager.

  Rachel McNally looks the way it seems to me a thirteen-year- old ought to look. Skinny. Freckles. Braces on her teeth. I imagine that it must be hard for her sometimes, being best friends with Brit Seward. Especially in the boys’ department.

  It’s funny, but based on the stories I’ve heard from Melody and Pete, I’d always sort of assumed that Rachel must have been the instigator of most of her and Brittany’s unapproved adventures together. Now I wonder. What kind of jerk accepts a fake ID from this kid?

  “Listen,” I say. “I know y
ou’re in a bind.”

  She scrunches up her eyes.

  “I’m in a bind too. I think we can help each other.”

  “You’re a creep. Leave me alone.”

  “Rachel—”

  “I’m calling my sister.”

  “You know I’m not a creep.”

  “She’ll bring a security guard.” She’s put down her smoothie and she’s digging in her purse.

  “Listen, Rachel, I know all about the pictures. I know you and Brit were just goofing around. It’s okay.”

  Her eyes are slits now. “What?”

  “I’m telling you, it’s okay. I’m not here to get you in trouble. I just need to talk to you a minute. Please?”

  “Get me in what trouble? What’s your deal?”

  “I know about the pictures, kiddo.”

  Her cheeks flush pink, and she looks away, over the railing. Below us, on the lower level of the atrium, a bunch of little kids stand in line with their moms and dads in an aisle made of giant candy canes, waiting to get their picture taken with Santa Claus.

  Rachel’s face clouds over. “Bet you got off on ‘em, too. Creep.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve never seen them. Any of them.”

  “Whatev.”

  “Rachel, I know that you took those pictures of Brit. I know she took some of you. Hell, when I was your age I know I did some—”

  “What are you talking about?” Her whole face seems to crunch toward a central point between her eyes. “That is so gross.”

  “You don’t have to prete—”

  “Brit totally wants to die. I hope you know that.”

  “Rachel.”

  “She totally trusted you.”

  “Brit knows I had nothing to do with this. So do you.”

  “Whatever,” she says. “You stole ‘em out of that guy’s house. Everybody knows.”

  The table seems to tilt slightly. That guy’s house? She’s obviously talking about Roger, and something sinks in my stomach. All this time, I’ve been trusting my assumption that he’s somehow manipulated Brit into playing infantry in his lunatic aggression against me. But it’s never occurred to me that he’s actually turned Brit against me.

  But of course he has. She wouldn’t tell these lies otherwise. I hadn’t realized that it would be possible to feel worse about all of this.

  “Brit really thinks I e-mailed her those pictures?”

  Silence.

  “But that’s not true.”

  “She totally trusted you.” Rachel stands up. “And you’re the same as Mr. B.”

  Mr. B?

  What are you talking about?

  That is so gross.

  “Rachel.”

  “I’m outta here.”

  “What are you telling me?”

  “Dude, shut up.”

  “No.” I stand up with her. I try not to tower, but I can’t help it. I’m a grown man, and she’s only thirteen. “Please talk to me.”

  Maybe she really does want to talk to me. Or maybe it’s that I’m an adult and she’s been brought up to respect us. Or maybe she’s just terrified.

  “Please,” I say. “I need your help.”

  She casts her gaze over the food court as if looking for help herself.

  “Tell me who took those pictures, Rachel. I need to know.”

  A few people are starting to look back at us.

  I’m in a bind.

  “Listen,” I say. “I have an idea.”

  She doesn’t want to listen, but she’s listening.

  What do I do?

  I take a breath and do exactly what I imagine I’d do if I were the kind of person I’m accused of being.

  We end up walking all the way back to the computer store on the far side of the mall together. Not unlike a father and his teenage daughter.

  I buy her the most expensive iPod they sell, and she tells me even more than I wanted to know.

  27.

  IT S BEEN A PRODUCTIVE MORNING, Douglas Bennett informs me.

  “How did she seem?”

  “Melody? Like she’d spent the night in hell.”

  I take a right on Van Dorn, which cuts through town on a diagonal. In doing so, I accidentally pull in front of another car in the oncoming lane and receive an angry horn blast for my mistake. I wonder if Bennett has one of those little hands- free earpieces I could borrow. This talking and driving is dangerous as hell.

  “But she’s committed,” he tells me. “Obviously, what she has to say won’t help us with the possession and distributing charges, but it’s one hell of a step in the right direction.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “What happens now,” he says, “is that you point your car toward my office. Meanwhile, I reschedule your PDC on Wed nes day to be combined with Monday’s hearing instead. I’ll tell them that we need the week to get our ducks in a row. Then, Monday morning, I’ll hit them with initial discovery and move for dismissal of the producing charges at the same time. From there, our position improves considerably.”

  I’m not entirely following this barrage of new strategy, but it all sounds promising.

  Bennett says, “When can you be here?”

  “I have another appointment.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I’m heading there now. I just need to stop at the hotel first and use the printer in the business center.”

  After a pause, Bennett says, “Professor, you’re beginning to piss me off.”

  “Listen.” Traffic slows to a crawl. There’s some kind of fender bender up ahead. “Have one of your interns do all the research they can on a guy named Timothy Brand. Last name spelled B, R—”

  “Who’s Timothy Brand?”

  “He was a history teacher at Bluffs View Middle School. Also Brit Seward’s seventh- grade volleyball coach.” I pause to pay attention while a patrol cop diverts traffic around the crash—a red pickup truck and a van from the Clark Falls Public Power District, hoods crumpled, glass everywhere. “I don’t know what he is now.”

  Bennett says nothing.

  “She got mixed up with a teacher at her school,” I tell him. “He’s the one who took the photos.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I’ll fill you in after my meeting.”

  “I want you to fill me in right—”

  “Look, Bennett, I just want to get started finding this guy, okay? I called the school, but they wouldn’t give me any forwarding—”

  “Stop. For your own sake, stop what you’re doing. Right now.”

  “I just need to—”

  “Are you listening? Get your ass to your attorney’s office where you can’t do any more damage. I swear to God, I’ll have Debbie track you down by scent. What meeting?”

  I’m afraid he might accidentally hurt himself if I tell him.

  “I’ll call you after,” I say.

  The Firehouse is a brewpub not far from my hotel, housed in a historic downtown building that used to be a fire station before it was converted into a brewpub.

  The interior is warm and dark, with old plank floors, modern finishes, brick walls hung with antiquated gear once used to battle blazes but now used as decoration. It’s two in the afternoon when I get there, and patrons are sparse. A few late lunchers. A few people at the main bar, watching a basketball game on a plasma screen.

  I spot Maya Lamb right away, sitting alone in a booth in a small alcove in back. Apparently, this is her regular spot; when I called her two hours ago, she told me that she uses this booth as an office on her days off. The afternoon regulars are used to seeing her, and the staff knows to leave her alone.

  The fact that being on television makes Maya Lamb a celebrity in a town the size of Clark Falls is only one of the reasons why I want to do this.

  Here in Clark Falls, Roger Mallory is a well- known face people trust. Maybe I can get a well- known face people trust on my side. She sees me coming, lays down her Lolita, and motions to the guy behind the taps.
<
br />   “Miss Lamb,” I say.

  “Professor Callaway.” She smiles. “Call me Maya, and I’ll call you Paul. What do you say?”

  “Maya, I feel like we’re practically old friends by now.”

  “In that case, how was your day, buddy?”

  “Illuminating.” I take off my coat and gloves. “Yours?”

  “Anticipatory.”

  As I slide into the booth across from her, she strips the menu card from its clip between the salt and pepper shakers and hands it to me. “Best beer in the Falls.”

  According to the card, there’s nothing stingy about the Ebenezer Stout. When our waitress comes over, that’s what I order. Maya orders the Backdraft Bock and studies me while we wait for our beers to arrive.

  “So,” she finally says. “How do we start helping each other?”

  It’s a good question. Sitting here, I find myself with the same narrative problem I encountered sitting across the square in my jail cell three nights ago: starting.

  “I have a story for you.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  “It’s a long one.”

  “I love long stories.”

  I think I’ve learned how to tell this one now. It starts the same place it always started. This time, my job is easier. Maya Lamb already knows the beginning.

  So I start at joining the Ponca Heights Neighborhood Patrol. I summarize the progression of my relationship with Roger Mallory, from becoming friendly to falling out. When our beers arrive, we toast the new year and raise our glasses.

  After an impressive swig, Maya Lamb wipes her mouth and says, “Proximity is perhaps the strongest predictor of friendship.”

  “Oh?” I have no idea what she means by this.

  “Of course, proximity also provides opportunities for assaults, rapes, and murders. Myers. Exploring Psychology.”

  “Who?”

  “Textbook I had in college. For some reason I always remembered that line.”

  “College,” I say. I can’t help smiling. “That was what, last year?”

  “Thanks for the compliment. I’m twenty- nine.”

  I decide to see her quotation and raise her with Roger’s favorite: Your own safety is at stake when your neighbor’s house is ablaze. Doing so, I’m struck pleasantly by the thematic aptness of our surroundings: a defunct firehouse.