They Won't Be Hurt

by Kevin O'Brien

  “Joey, honey, you need to take off that shirt,” she told him, standing in the bathroom doorway. She had the lost-and-found shirt draped over her arm. “C’mon, it’s okay . . .”

  He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off.

  Laura gasped.

  His slight shoulders, back, and chest were bruised and covered with at least a dozen reddish welts that looked like burn marks. And he was so emaciated, she could see his rib cage.

  Laura took a deep breath and tried to conceal her shock. But tears came to her eyes. She bent down and took the soiled shirt from him. Then she gently touched one of the welts that looked new. It was on his upper chest. “Joey, what happened here? Did you get burned?”

  He winced a little but didn’t say anything.

  “You know, I think I’ll have the school nurse take a look at you,” she said. “Maybe she can put something on these marks to make them heal faster. Do they hurt?”

  He nodded.

  “Did you get burned?”

  He nodded again. “Mommy’s cigarettes,” he murmured, “because I was bad.”

  Laura stopped to take a few more deep breaths. “Well, let’s get you fixed up, honey. I promise it won’t hurt.” Her voice began to shake. “I promise no one will hurt you again . . .”

  She had Joey wait in the teachers’ restroom while she ran down the hall to the principal’s office. She pulled Tom Freeman away from disciplining Donald so that he could see what Ms. Spiers was doing to her little boy. After one look at Joey, Tom immediately contacted the Department of Children and Family Services.

  The following day, Joey wasn’t in school. Laura learned that he was temporarily staying with his grandmother in Tacoma while Children and Family Services investigated the extent of his mother’s abuse. Donald Clapp was absent that day as well.

  But Mr. Clapp showed up—quite unexpectedly.

  While Laura was recuperating in the hospital, she got updates—usually over the phone, but sometimes in person from Tom Freeman. The school principal didn’t sugarcoat things for her. Mr. Clapp’s attorney maintained that she’d unduly persecuted his client’s son. And Donald claimed she gave Joey preferential treatment over all the other children in the class. Meanwhile, a court-appointed lawyer for Joey’s mother asserted that—without another adult present—Laura had made Joey partially disrobe and then she inappropriately touched him. Tom said that although the charges were ridiculous, an official investigation was pending. So—while still in her hospital bed, Laura was interviewed for ninety minutes by two brisk women from the Board of Education.

  Laura didn’t admit to them—or anyone besides Sean—that she wondered if there wasn’t a grain of truth in what Mr. Clapp’s attorney had said. She loathed Donald, and it was mostly for the way he picked on poor Joey. It was true: She felt very protective of that little boy, and she wanted to help him.

  Her concern for Joey kept her mind off her own troubles while she recuperated in the hospital. Her injuries kept her out of the lawyers’ offices and the courtroom, but while still recovering, she signed four different affidavits—one against Mr. Clapp and three against Ms. Spiers.

  In the end, Laura was cleared of all accusations. Mr. Clapp ended up in prison. After he died there, his wife moved with her kids to Eugene and remarried.

  Joey’s grandmother was awarded custody of him. His worthless mother served very little time in jail and spent several months in a state-run rehab facility. She was allowed supervised visits with her son twice a year. Laura had a feeling the woman didn’t bother showing up for any of them.

  Laura had often wondered what had happened to Joey. Now she knew. And now he expected her to help him again.

  From the kitchen, she glanced over at Joe and James, still mesmerized by the kids’ show on TV. It wasn’t lost on her that the last time she’d tried to help Joe, she’d wound up with thirty-eight stitches in her face.

  * * *

  The wastebasket taken from Liam’s bedroom was now full, almost overflowing. Beside it were more items Vic had deemed as contraband from the other rooms, closets, and bathrooms. It was an eclectic assortment: two flashlights, the baby-monitor set from the linen closet, a can of aerosol hair spray, various medications, a nail file, the modem to their dad’s desktop computer, another letter opener, an ancient pay-as-you-go phone, three pairs of scissors, an old wooden ruler with a sharp metal edge, a set of knitting needles, Sophie’s laptop, and several other items.

  He also kept her father’s checkbook, an iPod Classic, and all the money he’d uncovered—including loose change. He even took Liam’s Homer Simpson piggy bank.

  He stopped in her parents’ bedroom and stole a pearl necklace from her mother’s jewelry drawer. It had belonged to Sophie’s grandmother and was supposed to go to Sophie when she got older. Vic slipped it into the pocket of his cargo pants.

  Sophie’s hatred for the guy was surpassed only by her fear of him. She didn’t like it when her own brother poked around her bedroom. And here was this murderer, making her clear off every shelf and empty every drawer for his inspection.

  As she unloaded her desk drawers, Sophie worried Vic would want to read her diaries. She wanted to be a writer when she graduated from college. Early on, she’d figured it would be smart to keep a record of everything she was going through—so that, some day, she could use it in one of her books. The three maroon notebooks held two years’ worth of private reflections, embarrassing moments, heartaches, and fantasies. She kept the diaries buried in the bottom of her desk drawer—under a pile of school assignments and short stories she’d written. The journals looked pretty inconspicuous amid all the other things she’d already dumped on the floor.

  “What are those?” Vic asked, nodding at the books. He was standing beside the window near her dresser.

  “Notebooks for school,” she lied.

  Liam was by her bathroom door, subtly recording the two of them.

  Vic seemed to buy her explanation. Then he looked out the window—for the fourth or fifth time. There was a tree outside it, blocking the view of the vineyard. “You could climb out onto that branch and then right down the tree.” He smirked at her. “Or maybe you and your boyfriend, Lucky Matt, already know that.”

  Sophie gave him an icy stare.

  He turned to Liam. “Cut that camera shit out and make yourself useful. Come with me . . .”

  Biting his lip, Liam lowered the camera.

  Vic led him into the hallway. “Hey, Joe!” Sophie heard him call. “I’m sending the kid down to show you where they keep the hammer and nails. I need to nail shut a window in the girl’s room. I want you with him when he gets them. Then send him back up to me!”

  Sophie heard Joe yell something back at him, but she couldn’t make out the words.

  With Vic out of the room, she moved toward Liam’s wastebasket—full of items Vic feared they might use to defend themselves. She eyed the knitting needles on top of the heap. She was just about to reach for them when Vic stepped back into the room.

  Sophie picked up a couple of sweaters from the floor instead. She heard Liam running down the stairs.

  Now that they were alone in the bedroom, Vic gave her that lecherous look again. Sophie did her best to ignore him. She picked up some more clothes from the piles on the floor and returned them to her dresser drawers.

  “If you need to use the bathroom, honey, do it now,” he said, sitting on the edge of the twin bed she usually slept in. “But leave the door open a crack.”

  Even if her life had depended on it, Sophie couldn’t have peed with him right outside her half-open bathroom door. But she welcomed any chance to get out from under his filthy gaze for a couple of minutes. She ducked into the old-fashioned pink-and-white tiled bathroom and splashed some water on her face.

  She left the faucet running and crept over to the small frosted-glass window above the hamper. The window seat’s picture window didn’t open, and he’d just announced his plan to nail shut the only other window in he
r bedroom. But he hadn’t bothered to check this window yet—maybe because it was small. Still, Sophie figured she could squeeze through it if she wanted to. The window was above a garden trellis outside. She wasn’t sure if she could lower herself from the ledge to the trellis—or if she’d have to jump.

  With one knee on the hamper, Sophie reached up and raised the window. It squeaked, and she coughed to cover up the noise. She got the window open high enough to poke her head out. She couldn’t lower herself to the trellis from here. She’d have to jump, and the trellis looked pretty rickety. She might crash through it and kill herself.

  Feeling defeated, she pulled her head back in and quietly closed the window. She heard Vic moving something around in the bedroom. “Well, you sure have a pretty collection of panties here,” he called to her. “I can imagine you in them . . .”

  Sophie shut off the faucet. She saw her apprehensive reflection in the mirror.

  “So—are you a virgin?”

  Sophie didn’t answer. She thought about the Singleton murders again. She’d seen photos of the family. A couple of the girls were a little older than her, and very pretty. But according to the news reports, no one had been raped or molested.

  Was it something they’d kept from the press?

  “Did you hear me?” Vic called. “I asked if you’re a virgin.”

  She hesitated. “That—that isn’t any of your business.”

  “Maybe I’ll just have to find out for myself later.”

  Sophie said nothing. She stayed in the bathroom—and wondered what was taking Liam so long.

  * * *

  It was too quiet up there.

  Laura stood at the bottom of the stairs and anxiously listened. She couldn’t stand the idea of her daughter up in her bedroom alone with that murderer. She’d seen the way he’d looked at her earlier.

  It had only been a minute or two since Liam had come downstairs—and then he and Joe had headed down to the basement. Only a minute or two, and she was going crazy. How could Joe expect her to drive off tomorrow and leave her children alone with him and Vic for hours?

  She hurried back through the kitchen and then to the top of the basement stairs. She saw Joe and Liam coming up the steps. Joe had the hammer in his hand, and Liam carried an old Welch’s jelly jar full of various nails.

  “What took you so long?” she whispered to her son. “Hurry up, honey. I don’t like your sister being alone up there with him.”

  “We weren’t sure what size nails he needed, so we got these,” Liam explained, showing her the jar. Joe handed him the hammer, and Liam made a beeline for the front hall.

  Laura heard him running up the stairs a moment later. She turned to Joe. “Listen, if I go to Lopez Island tomorrow, you’ll have to agree to at least one condition. The most important thing is that I’m able to phone here at least every couple of hours and talk to my children—so they can assure me they’re fine.”

  Joe hesitated. “Well, I’ll have to clear that with Vic.”

  She gave him her best teacher’s stare. “Well, you’ll have to make him understand. I won’t go unless you agree to that . . .”

  * * *

  Sophie stayed in the bathroom until she heard Liam return. Even though she hadn’t used it, she flushed the toilet and then washed her hands. She emerged from the bathroom in time to see Vic nailing shut the bedroom window.

  She and Liam quietly watched him finish the job.

  Then he made the two of them lug his collection of confiscated materials and plunder downstairs.

  Sophie found Joe sitting on the floor in the family room with James. They were playing with James’s toy trucks and watching Sid the Science Kid on TV. It was a bit bewildering to see her baby brother hanging all over this accused murderer. Her mom didn’t seem to mind. She was in the kitchen fixing dinner.

  “Hey, kiddo,” Vic said to his friend. “Do me a favor and help Junior here haul this crap out to the garage, will ya? Somebody else can look after the brat.”

  Joe quickly got to his feet. He seemed almost as scared of Vic as they were. He collected Liam’s loaded trash can from Sophie and nodded politely at her.

  Vic opened the basement door, glanced down the stairs, and then shut the door. “Remind me after dinner to nail this door shut,” he said to Joe.

  Sitting down on the family room floor, Sophie took over keeping James amused. Her baby brother was clearly unhappy to see Joe step outside. “Joe!” he yelled. He even started to cry a little—until she distracted him with the trucks.

  But then Vic grabbed the remote and stepped between them and the TV. He changed channels from Sid the Science Kid to the evening news, and James became all pouty again.

  The Singleton murders were still the top story on the local news. The newscaster said a man “tentatively identified as Victor Moles, a person of interest in the Singleton murder case,” had been recorded by a security camera as he’d stolen some beer and confronted a clerk in a Seattle convenience store at the time of the Lopez Island killings.

  This was a revelation for Sophie, who had assumed Vic had murdered the whole family. It seemed that he now had an air-tight alibi.

  The news show also had an update on Wes Banyan, the University of Washington freshman who had been dating Jae Singleton. He was still in critical condition, but stable. He wasn’t yet able to identify or describe the man who had shot him in the Singletons’ driveway. It was unclear from the newscast whether or not Banyan had been shown mug shots of Vic and Joe.

  Sophie couldn’t help wondering if Joe had been telling the truth earlier when he’d said they were innocent.

  The next spot on the news showed Marilee Cronin, one of Scott Singleton’s partners in his church. “Scott had the courage to say what we’re all thinking,” she said at some press conference while flashbulbs popped. She wore a red blouse with a huge bow at the neck. Her fake-looking flaxen hair was swept all to one side and fastened in a strange-looking single pigtail. “Well, Scott may have been murdered for speaking his mind against the degenerates who hope to undermine our moral values. He may have had his throat slashed for speaking our mind, but his voice will not be silenced . . .”

  Sophie had lately seen enough of this woman on TV to hate her. She turned away from the screen and tried to keep James entertained.

  Liam returned with Joe. He gave the young man a wide berth. He was obviously a little more cautious around him than their baby brother was.

  “Do you need any help in the kitchen, Mrs. Gretchell?” Joe asked.

  “Joe, get in here,” Vic commanded. He plopped down in Sophie’s dad’s lounge chair.

  Joe meekly returned to the family room.

  “Sit down,” Vic said, nodding at the sofa. He scowled at James—and then at Sophie. “Does that kid have to be in here?”

  She wordlessly grabbed James by the hand and led him to the kitchen counter-bar, where Liam sat, filming the two men on his camcorder.

  “Don’t hang out with them,” she heard Vic rebuke his friend. “What are you trying to do, bond with them or something?”

  Sophie helped James climb up on the bar stool beside Liam. “You know, I think you’re really pushing your luck photographing that creep,” she murmured to her brother. “Do me a favor and keep James occupied while I help Mom, okay?”

  “Hey, they’ve got pay-per-view here,” Vic announced. He cranked up the volume on the TV.

  Staring at him, Sophie realized the gray-and-blue striped sweater Vic wore actually belonged to her father. That was why it had looked so familiar earlier. He must have stolen it out of the closet. So there he sat in her dad’s chair, wearing her dad’s sweater, while her mom slaved away, fixing his dinner. For a second, Sophie imagined him as her father, and the thought made her stomach turn.

  She stepped into the kitchen and started to set out the plates and napkins.

  Standing at the stove, her mother looked like the scared, abused wife. It broke Sophie’s heart to see her so shaky and on edge. It
scared her, too. Everyone in the family always turned to her mom during a crisis. And here she was, on the brink of falling apart. The scars on her face were more noticeable, which sometimes happened when she was extremely stressed. An ugly reddish bruise had formed on her chin from where Vic must have hit her earlier in the day.

  “What happened there?” she whispered to her mom, nodding at her chin. “Did he do that to you?”

  “It’s nothing,” her mom murmured. “What happened upstairs?”

  “You saw,” she said under her breath. “It’s going to take a week to clean up that mess—if we’re all still alive.”

  Her mother pulled a bottle of red wine from the cabinet. “Did he—try anything?”

  Sophie just shook her head. She was too embarrassed to go into it now. “He stole Grandma’s pearl necklace from your drawer.”

  Her mother sighed and returned to the stove. She stirred the boiling pasta.

  With the TV volume so loud, Sophie figured it was safe to keep talking with her mother. “Did you just hear that on the news about Vic? He was in Seattle at the time of the—”

  Her mother nodded. “Yes, I know.”

  “Do you think it’s possible they haven’t really killed anyone?”

  “I’m not sure about Joe,” her mom said under her breath. “But Vic is dangerous. I know he’s a killer. Don’t do anything to get him angry. Please, honey. Tell Liam, too. He’d kill you without giving it a second thought. Believe me. I know what I’m talking about . . .”

  * * *

  Vic had chosen a Steven Seagal movie from the pay-per-view lineup. He’d pumped up the volume so loud that it was oppressive. On the screen, some man had just gotten stabbed in the eye, and the blade was shown coming out the back of his head.

  Vic let out a cheer.

  Sophie sat at the kitchen counter-bar with James, trying to distract him and making sure more of his dinner went into his mouth than onto the floor. For the last twenty minutes, she’d been listening to the screaming, explosions, and nonstop cursing from the TV. James had given up pointing out when someone “said a swear.” Sophie sat between her little brother and the TV so that he couldn’t see the movie’s gratuitous nudity and violent sequences.