Ben figured the man must have failed the customer service aspect of his job training. How does a dive like this stay open?
“Yeah. How ’bout a soda water with a squeeze of lemon.” With his eyes adjusted to the light, Ben could clearly see the man’s incredulous expression.
The bartender poked his coworker, who was also pouring drinks. “Get a load of this … rich guy here wants a soda water with lemon. Do you buy that? Soda water with lemon?” The short man turned his attention back to Ben. “What are ya, Mormon or something, pal? Need a break from the wifey—”
“Wifies,” the second bartender interrupted. He leaned over the bar and sized up Ben as though he were an alien. “Those Mormon boys have lots of wives.”
“Listen, buddy,” the short one said. “If you’ve got lots of wives you better have a double at least.”
Ben was not afraid of the men, but he was growing tired of their noise. He stared at the short one first and then the one who had joined him. “Listen, I said I want a soda water with lemon. If that doesn’t work for you, I’ll take my business somewhere else.” He thought he’d dressed down for the occasion but he could see that his tailor-made trousers and knit pullover still made him stand out among the patrons.
The taller bartender stuck out his hand and angled it back and forth. “Scare me, rich boy.”
Ben was tempted to go behind the bar and get the drink himself when the bartenders suddenly stopped hassling him and returned to serving customers.
“Hey, sorry ‘bout that … ” A man in a pinstriped suit appeared at Ben’s elbow. He was dark and handsome, and something told Ben he’d found the man he was looking for. “The boys think they’re funny, but they get a little carried away sometimes. Did you, uh, come for anything else?”
Madeline Johnson’s words flashed in Ben’s mind. He’s into some nasty things, Ben … be careful. Ben frowned. Wasn’t there an article that appeared in the Cleveland Gazette not long ago? It had said that bars often were sites of heavy-duty drug smuggling. The sale of beer and other alcohol only helped the success of the cover-up. Shady characters frequented bars all the time, so if one showed up and left with a case of something, most people would assume it was alcohol.
Ben cleared his throat. He wouldn’t be surprised at all to find out this was such a place.
“Actually, I’m looking for John McFadden.”
“That’s me. Did Bobby send you?”
“No … I’m here on my own.” His soda water arrived and Ben took a sip. He noticed that the man in the suit was built like an athlete. Odd, but he even thought they resembled each other. So this is the man, huh, Maggie? The one you hid from me all these years, the one who—
“Good … good. What can I get for you?”
Again Ben had the sense that McFadden was offering more than alcoholic beverages, but none of that mattered now. He was here because of Maggie, not to uncover a drug smuggling ring. “This is going to seem a little strange, Mr. McFadden, but I need to ask you a few questions about Maggie Johnson.”
Ben prided himself on being able to read people, and the moment he mentioned Maggie’s name any doubts that he had the right man dissolved instantly. A look of recognition came across McFadden’s dark face, followed quickly by deep suspicion. “What about her?”
“I’m married to her.” He hesitated. “Maggie’s … well, lately she’s been having some trouble. Her mother told me the two of you used to see each other.”
John held up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, man, I don’t have AIDS or nothing, if that’s what you want to know. Me and Maggie only dated for a little while. Not like we were lovers for a year or none of that … ”
Everything about Topper’s Pop and John McFadden and the atmosphere in the bar felt like an assault on Ben’s spirit. A dozen unspoken warnings told Ben to turn around and leave, but he was sure this man held part of the secret to Maggie’s past. Give me strength, God. Please.
“I’m not here to get a health report on you.” Ben paused and slid his hand into his pocket. “I need to know if there’s anything you can tell me about Maggie, anything that happened during the time you two were together that she might still be troubled by now, eight years later.”
McFadden leaned casually against the bar and sized up Ben much the way the bartenders had earlier. “What’s it to you?”
Ben was confused at first. “She’s my wife. I need to know.”
“No … what I mean is what’s it to you; how much you willing to pay?”
Anger flared through Ben, burning his chest and throat. He straightened to face the man, squaring his legs and crossing his arms. “I didn’t come here to bribe you. I came here to find out about my wife.”
John shrugged and a slow grin spread across his face. “Those are the kinds of things that sometimes go together.” He held out his hands, palm up, raising and lowering them as if weighing something. “Information on Maggie, money; information on Maggie, money.”
“All right, look. I’ll give you a hundred dollars. It’s here in my pocket. All you need to do is tell me what happened that year. Anything, any details you remember about Maggie.”
Now it was the man’s turn to stand straight and as he did he took a step closer so that he was only inches from Ben’s face. “No deal, friend. Why don’t you take your questions and your lousy hundred dollars and get lost.” He spun around, shouted several orders to the bartenders, and disappeared into a back room.
Ben watched him go, fighting the urge to chase the man down, tackle him to the floor and …
Instead, he pulled out a business card and set it on the bar with a five-dollar bill. “Here. For the soda.” The short man took the five and started to get change but Ben stopped him. “Keep it. And give my card to your boss, will you?”
The bartender looked pleased with the tip and took the card gladly. “Hey, rich boy, you come on back anytime you want. We’ll serve you up the best soda water in town.”
There was a chorus of laughter behind the bar but Ben didn’t bother to acknowledge, it. Cretins. He left and headed back to the parking lot. How do people have fun in places like that? Outside, he spotted three or four men unloading a crate full of boxes from the back of an unmarked blue van. Ben recognized John McFadden as one of them, and at that instant their eyes met. McFadden whispered something to the other men and then vanished into the storage facility.
God, this place gives me the creeps. He knows something about Maggie and he won’t tell me. Help me, Lord. At the last second, before reaching his car, Ben changed directions and headed toward the blue van and the men still working with the boxes.
“Get lost, buddy!” one of the men shouted as Ben approached. “This is private property.”
“I’m looking for Mr. McFadden. We weren’t finished talking.” Ben continued toward the man but before he could ask another question something came crashing down on his head. His knees buckled and he fell to the ground, his body screaming, writhing in pain. Instinctively he reached for his head and felt a pulsating, warm, wetness in his hair.
Blood! I’m bleeding. Help me, God; I don’t want to die here.
He covered his head protectively with his hands. “What do you want?” He shouted the question, but there was no answer. He couldn’t move, couldn’t see clearly. He thought of Maggie and how if he bled to death here in the parking lot of this bar she would never know why, never realize that he was only here because he loved her. At that instant a second blow connected with his skull and one of his hands, and he felt the searing pain of his fingers breaking. “Stop! I’ll give you whatever you want … ”
Ben had considered bringing his handgun with him tonight but he figured John McFadden wouldn’t be antagonistic—certainly not to the point of harming him. Now as he lay there, two sets of feet walked past him. One foot kicked him in the head, and then the feet all walked toward the van and inside the warehouse.
In the distance he heard another set of footsteps, this time growing closer. T
hey’re going to kill me. Lord, take me quickly. And please, God, let Maggie know I love her. Whatever it was she did or lied about I love her.
His head was pounding and he felt himself losing consciousness. How much blood had he lost anyway? And how much longer would it be? The steps were closer now, and he could make out the shoes. They stopped inches from his face. “Give me the hundred dollars.”
Ben struggled to make sense of the words and realized they were coming from John McFadden. Apparently he had ordered the beating. Ben’s reflexes were slow, and pain seemed to assault him from every part of his body. But he managed to slip his good hand into his pocket and retrieve the hundred-dollar bill. There was almost no strength left in his arms, but he held it out for him anyway.
“What … what do you want from me?”
“I want you to leave me alone and never come back.” McFadden’s words were more of a hiss and they held a threat Ben knew was worth taking seriously. If he lived long enough to worry about it. “Are you getting this, Ben Stovall, attorney at law?”
The man had Ben’s business card. Whatever McFadden’s staff was involved in, they communicated directly to the man leaning over Ben, and apparently he didn’t take kindly to curious lawyers. Ben struggled to stay conscious.
“Now listen and listen good.” McFadden jerked Ben to his feet and walked him across the parking lot to his car. The pain came in white-hot waves, and Ben was sure he’d lose consciousness soon. “You will get in your car and drive yourself to the hospital. You will report the news that you took a bad fall and you will never, ever set foot on my property again. Is that understood?”
Ben nodded. “Yes … let me go.” He was woozy and his eyesight alternated between blurred and double vision. Something dangerous and secretive was going on at Topper’s Pop Bar. Something much more secretive than whatever John McFadden knew about Maggie. Half expecting to be shot or beaten again, Ben pulled free of the man’s grip. Was it possible? Was McFadden going to let him drive off the lot with his body still functioning?
Help me, God; get me to the hospital before I lose too much blood. I can’t die without seeing Maggie one more time, without telling her I love her no matter what she’s done …
The man shoved Ben into his car and hunched down so that Ben could see him as he spoke. “Oh yeah. Your information … I almost forgot.” He smiled wickedly as if whatever he was about to tell Ben was going to bring him a great deal of satisfaction. “Maggie and I had a kid.” He chuckled. “But you probably already knew that.”
Ben’s heart dropped, and his body was hit by a wave of pain far greater than any he’d received so far. His eyes grew wide and he stared at John McFadden in disbelief. “You … what?” It was impossible. Maggie was a virgin when they married … she couldn’t have slept with … with this man. There couldn’t have been a baby … not with his Maggie.
The man tossed his head back and laughed. “You mean she didn’t tell you? Sweet little church girl like Maggie, and she didn’t tell you she gave a kid away? Imagine that.”
Someone called McFadden’s name and he was suddenly on alert again. “Now get out of here. You come back, and I’ll finish you off myself.” He slammed the driver’s door and kicked it hard with the heel of his boot before turning and walking away.
Ben did not hesitate. He started the engine, peeled out of the parking lot and headed immediately for Cleveland General. His head was still bleeding badly and his body was racked with pain. There were moments when he felt himself drifting, but still-he drove on.
In the depth of his heart, he wasn’t sure he was going to make it.
Not because of the beating he’d received, but because of the other blow. If John McFadden was telling the truth—and Ben had the unnerving sense he was—then Maggie truly had lied to him from the beginning.
Determined to hang on, Ben raised his eyelids and forced himself to remain conscious. As he drove, he changed his mind. It wasn’t possible. If Maggie had given a child up for adoption, certainly her mother would have known about it. The woman had said nothing about any of that. Ben felt himself growing calmer.
It was a lie. Of course it was a lie. That creep McFadden knew Maggie was a Christian and a virgin. She had probably refused to sleep with him, and he was using this false information as a way of further punishing him for spying on whatever clandestine operation was taking place in the parking lot.
He pulled into the hospital parking lot and veered his car toward the front door. Halfway to the emergency room entrance, he collapsed.
“Maggie!” He shouted her name as loud as he could, and all around him he heard people responding, hurrying toward him, trying to help. Blood covered his face and hands now and he felt himself slipping away.
“Sir, sir, what happened? Can you talk to us, sir?” Someone in a white jacket bent over him as he was placed onto a stretcher and hurried into the emergency room. But the sounds and sights were growing dimmer, and Ben couldn’t make his mouth work. Tell Maggie I love her. Please tell her. Oh, God, please.
Then everything disappeared and there was nothing but darkness.
13
Despite the chill in the air that late September afternoon, Amanda Joy walked home from the bus stop slower than usual. Things had gotten worse at the Graystone house; two of the foster kids had even talked about running away. It wasn’t that the old lady was always mean. But when chores weren’t done just so, Mrs. Graystone would change into … well, a monster.
And then the beatings would begin.
Amanda pushed the thought away. She didn’t want to think about that; she just knew she didn’t want to be anywhere near the woman. Chores had been assigned that morning—fold a load of laundry, make her bed, clean her windows, and wash the walls in her bedroom—but Amanda’s second-grade teacher had assigned a science project and much of her morning had gone toward finishing it.
Surely Mrs. Graystone wanted her to get her homework done, didn’t she? She wouldn’t punish Amanda this time, would she?
She slowed her pace even more, kicking up fallen leaves and stopping briefly to stare into the cloudy sky. Are You there, God? Isn’t there somewhere else I can live? She waited, but the only sound was the rustling of leaves in the trees overhead. I don’t really need a mother, God. I’d be happy to live with Kathy and her family. Or just someone who liked me a little.
There were no booming answers, no voices from heaven, but Amanda had the distinct feeling someone had hugged her close. The only one who hugged her now was Kathy, and Kathy hadn’t seen her all week. So this hug, this feeling of being warm and safe in the arms of someone who loved her, must have come from God. She glanced once more toward the sky. Thanks, God. I know You’re working on it.
By the time she walked through the door at the Graystone house, the other children were busy doing homework or cleaning. With her arrival, they stopped and stared at her, and the mixture of fear and warning she saw in their eyes made her heart pound.
“Hi.” Amanda set her things down and heard heavy footsteps coming closer. Mrs. Graystone marched into the room and headed straight for her.
“I’m sorry about my chores … ” Amanda took two steps backward until she was up against the wall. Her eyes were wide; her breathing was fast; and her arms and legs began to shake.
“You’re a good for nothing, brat!”
“I’m s-s-sorry, I had to f-f-finish—”
“Shut up! You sound like an idiot when you stutter.” Mrs. Graystone was upon her, yanking her by the hair and dragging her from the room. Amanda Joy knew better than to fight the old woman and she moved her feet in quick shuffling steps so the pain in her scalp would be less severe. Mrs. Graystone’s breath was strong, sickening … like it sometimes was late at night, when her words didn’t make sense. What was happening? Was Mrs. Graystone sick?
In the background Amanda Joy heard one of her foster sisters begin to cry. Chores had gone undone before, but Mrs. Graystone had never acted like this. Why did the other kids
look so scared?
Mrs. Graystone flung her into her bedroom and closed the door behind them. Amanda regained her balance and then stood still, head down, waiting for her punishment.
“When I tell you to do something, I want you to do it, do you understand me?”
Before the girl could raise her head, the woman yanked her hair so she could see her face. “Look at me when I talk to you!”
Amanda winced. Mrs. Graystone seemed fine but her breath had that strong, funny smell. “Yes, m-m-ma’am.” Amanda shook from head to toe. Whatever was wrong, it scared her to death.
“Oh, so you’re gonna play scaredy-cat around me, is that it, missy? Well, I’ll give you somethin’ to be scared about.”
Before Amanda could think or cover her face, Mrs. Graystone’s palm hit her hard across the cheek.
“Stop!” Amanda froze, terror seizing her. She knew the moment she’d let the scream out that her punishment would—
A second slap hit her face so hard it knocked her to the ground. Mrs. Graystone looked furious—and crazy. She yanked Amanda’s hair and pulled her to her feet.
“I will not have a brat under my roof who can’t carry her own weight, am I making myself clear?”
Amanda felt dizzy, and her vision was fuzzy around the edges. She wanted to answer, but the words seemed stuck in her throat somewhere. Before she could make herself respond, she heard a hissing sound and felt a terrible burning sensation in her eyes. She screamed. “M-m-my eyes! Oh, my eyes … !”
At the same moment she smelled the fumes and realized that Mrs. Graystone had sprayed cleaner at her face. “Help m-m-me!”
The words came out loud and shrill, and Amanda prayed someone would come take her away before—
“You’re a filthy excuse for a girl!” the woman shouted at her. “I’ll clean you up and maybe you’ll be worth something someday.”
“No, p-p-please! Stop!”
Another cloud of cleaner came at Amanda; the liquid and fumes filled her nose and throat and made her gag. “I can’t b-bbreathe … ”
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