The Summer Children

by Dot Hutchison

  “What are you doing back there?”

  I turn to the front, keeping to the middle of the aisle with my hands cupped loosely around my elbows to be nonthreatening and show that I’m not holding anything. The woman is probably mid- to late forties, with a severe expression and an ugly corduroy patchwork blazer. Her lanyard is plain black, no buttons or pins. “Admiring the cross-stitch,” I answer simply. “Which one is yours?”

  Her eyes flick to the last desk, the one with the most subversive saying. “No one is allowed behind the walls.”

  “My apologies.” I walk past her, back to my spot near the door. “I’m an FBI agent; Agent Kearney is back with the administrator and Caroline.”

  She leans against the sturdy divider between Caroline’s desk and the one behind it. “And you’re not back there why?”

  “Not my case; Kearney needed to stop in before we got lunch.”

  The woman pulls the blazer closer, tucking her hands deeper into the sleeves. The air-conditioning is limping, working not well enough, but she looks genuinely cold in the warm office. She gags suddenly, coughing harshly into one sleeve. Her other hand braces against the divider to keep her upright. I sway closer, but her ferocious glare pins me in place through the rest of her fit. When it’s done, she carefully gulps in deep breaths, the blotchy flush slowly receding. Then the color flares back in full force when she lifts a hand to her hair and realizes she coughed hard enough to set her blonde wig askew.

  I look away, watching from the corner of my eye as she straightens it with shaking hands. She has the look of someone losing weight, an underlying pallor and skin sagging slightly in unexpected places. It could explain her feeling cold even in this heat. “Can I get you some water?” I ask neutrally.

  “Like water’s going to help,” she wheezes, but she does move back to her desk to pick up a tumbler. The name tag on the divider says she’s Gloria Hess.

  My phone buzzes with another text from Sterling. Simpkins is sending a pair of agents to the hospital after lunch. Eddison and I are eating with them, so we can tell them what we observed about the kids.

  Okay, come on, Cass. We’ve got to go.

  After a few minutes of silence and Miss Gloria glaring at me from across the room, Caroline and Cass return. Cass comes to my side, and I hold the phone out so she can see the message. This one doesn’t take a great deal of familiarity to decode, and she nods quickly.

  Crossing to her desk, Caroline smiles at her coworker. “Gloria, this is Agent Kearney. She’s working on the case with those poor kids.”

  Gloria arches a carefully drawn eyebrow. “Can you think of a case in this office that doesn’t include ‘those poor kids’?” At Caroline’s blush and stammer, she turns to Cass. “Are you able to tell us which case?”

  Cass glances at me, and I shrug. The incidents have hit the news, even if the details and their connections have been withheld, and confidentiality aside, an office is an office; people gossip. “The Wilkins, Carter-Wong, Anders, and Jeffers murders.”

  Both women look startled at the length of the list, and Caroline pales. Gloria moves up to pat her shoulder. “There was another one?” the older woman asks. At Cass’s nod, Gloria looks at me with narrowed eyes. “You’re Agent Ramirez, aren’t you? The one the children are taken to.”

  Damn. “Yes,” I acknowledge, “but please don’t mention I was here. I’m not actually allowed to work the case, not when it involves me to such an extent. I’m just worried about the kids, so Agent Kearney allowed me to tag along.” I rummage up a sheepish smile. “Honestly, I was kind of hoping to run into Nancy, maybe get an update.”

  “She’s doing visits all day today,” Caroline informs me. “But I can leave a message?”

  “Oh, no, I don’t want to get her in trouble,” I say quickly. “I’m supposed to be hands off, but these kids . . .”

  To my surprise, Gloria seems to thaw a bit at that. “We’ll let her know you called, unofficially. If there’s been a change, I’m sure she can find a way to let you know.”

  “I’d appreciate that, thank you.”

  She nods slowly, thoughtfully, like I’ve given her something new to consider.

  “Agent Kearney!” A man hurries out from the admin hallway, holding a neon green Post-it in his hand. It nearly matches the polish on his fingernails. He’s a slender man of average height, with a soft voice. “When you get that warrant signed, this is my direct line,” he tells her in a faded Charleston accent. It’s the only city I know where rushed and clipped Southern is a thing that happens. “Give me a call and we’ll get right to work on that list for you.”

  Cass murmurs a thank-you and tucks the note into her credentials. “Mr. Lee, this is Agent Mercedes Ramirez. Mercedes, this is Derrick Lee, the file administrator.”

  He takes one of my hands in both of his. “Isn’t this all just awful? How are you holding up?”

  At the moment, I’m a little distracted by his eyeliner game being fiercer than mine. How does he get the wings so even? “I’m okay for now, Mr. Lee, thank you. Just trying to find out how the kids are doing.”

  “Nancy says they’re all being terribly brave.” He squeezes my hand and lets it go. “If you two need anything, and I mean just anything, please let us know. We all want those little angels safe, don’t we?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lee.”

  Cass repeats her own thanks and a goodbye, and we head out to the car. “What’s on your brain, Mercedes?” she murmurs as we’re buckling in.

  “When the warrant clears, see if the filing clerks are listed on the files they work the way the nurses and social workers are.”

  “Which name should I look for?”

  “Gloria Hess.”

  “Any particular reason? If charming personalities were conclusive factors, after all, Eddison would have been jailed years ago.”

  “Blonde wig and a port in her chest; she’s got cancer. You spend your life face-to-face with the best and worst the system has to offer, what’s a thing you want to do once you have nothing left to lose?”

  Cass blinks.

  “Also Derrick Lee,” I add. “We haven’t definitely ruled out that the killer could be male. Put a wig and loose clothes on Lee, he could easily be mistaken for a woman. So we should check him out as well.”

  Cass stares at me for a moment, then lowers her forehead to the steering wheel and swears emphatically.

  17

  We speed to the hospital, because there’s really no telling how long Sterling and Eddison can stall Cass’s teammates. I mean, I have a healthy respect for their ability to bullshit and inconvenience—Sterling once managed to make a person of interest not only miss his flight, but willingly leave the airport to give her a ride back to the precinct, it was gorgeous—but Dru Simpkins keeps a pretty tight rein on her team. If she tells them to leave NOW, it won’t matter if they don’t have all the information.

  Cass has only been on Dru’s team about a year and a half, and I give it another few months or one more bad case before she goes to Vic and asks to be moved to a different team. She approaches life and investigations more like we do.

  Oh, God, Cass on our team.

  Poor Eddison.

  Mason, Emilia, and Sarah are all in the hospital for treatment, but they allowed Ashley and Sammy to stay with their sister rather than move them to a group home or foster family. We stop in with the Carter and Wong trio first. Sammy is fast asleep in Sarah’s lap, a stuffed tiger fisted in his hands. The teddy bears the killer gave the children have all been taken into evidence, but they gave them different plushies for comfort. I don’t see Ashley in the room.

  Sarah flinches at first, when the door opens, but she smiles when she recognizes me. “Agent Ramirez.”

  “You can call me Mercedes, Sarah. How are you doing?”

  “We’re . . .” She hesitates, running her fingers through her brother’s dark hair. He squirms at the touch, then relaxes into it, drooling a little onto the tiger’s bright fabric. “
We’re okay,” she finishes. “Okay for now.”

  “Can I introduce you to someone?”

  She looks curiously at Cass and nods. She’s met an endless succession of new people in the past nine days (God, has it really only been nine days?) so getting asked for permission must be a switch.

  “This is Agent Cassondra Kearney—”

  “Cass,” my friend interjects, with a cheery wave.

  “—and she’s on the FBI team that’s officially partnered with the Manassas Police to find the woman who killed your mother and stepfather. She’s also an old friend of mine, and someone I trust.”

  Cass blushes a little. We’ve been friends for ten years, and there’s a lot that’s implied by that level of friendship, but I don’t think I’ve ever stated it so explicitly. I’m not sure there’s ever been a reason to.

  Sarah gives her a shy smile, but it quickly drops into a frown. “So . . . you’re not on our case anymore?”

  “Technically, I never was. I can’t be.”

  “Because it’s your house?”

  “Right in one. Cass is part of a team, and I think you’re going to meet a couple other members of the team this afternoon, but I wanted to check on you. After this, I might not be allowed.”

  Sarah looks between me and Cass. “Those are strange rules.”

  “They are,” I agree, “but they’re meant to protect you. Speaking of which, where’s Ashley?”

  “A volunteer took her down to the cafeteria. They’re getting ice cream. I think they’re just getting her out of the room.” Her lip wobbles a bit, but she takes a sharp breath and squares her shoulders. “She really liked Samuel. He gave her things she wanted.”

  “She’s angry.”

  “Really angry. She keeps saying it’s my fault.” Her eyes are bright as she looks down at her brother. “Mercedes . . .”

  “I’m right here, Sarah.” I sit next to her on the bed, one hand on her shoulder.

  “Nancy doesn’t think we’re going to find a place for all three of us. I don’t . . . I don’t want them to split us up, but Ashley is so angry . . .”

  I change the hand to a sideways hug, rocking her gently. “Sounds like Nancy is keeping you in the loop.”

  She nods against my shoulder. “She says it’ll help me. Maybe I don’t get a say in what’s going on, but I at least know about it.”

  “Have you talked to your grandparents?”

  “Once. They’re . . . they’re really . . .”

  “Racist?”

  “Yeah.”

  Settling into a chair near the bed, Cass’s eyebrows climb toward her hairline, but she doesn’t say anything.

  “And like I said, Ashley really liked Samuel. If she had to listen to our grandparents bad-mouthing him, I think she’d run away. And, well, Sammy.” She sniffs back tears, and it breaks my heart to see her working so hard to look strong. I already know she’s strong; I know what she’s survived. “What did you do?”

  Cass shifts in her chair. She knows I’ve got a personal reason for being in CAC, it’s the kind of thing that gets around, but I’ve never told her what that personal thing is.

  “I was the only one taken away,” I tell Sarah softly, “and my extended family was never really an option. It’s different for you.”

  “The doctors said I’m clean,” Sarah says abruptly. “That’s like health-class stuff, right? Like diseases?”

  “Diseases, and making sure you weren’t pregnant.”

  “What if I had been? Pregnant, I mean.”

  “It would depend a lot on how far along you were, if it was posing risks to your health, who got custody of you. There’s not really one straight path there. Did they say how you’re healing?”

  “I have an infection, but they said it’s a really common one. An, um . . . a youtee?”

  “UTI. It means urinary tract infection, and yes, it’s really common for women for all sorts of reasons. Fortunately those don’t have long-lasting effects and they’re pretty easy to treat.”

  “They won’t let me put sugar in the cranberry juice.”

  “Yeah, that is pretty gross, isn’t it?”

  We stay for a little bit longer, but I don’t think she’s lying when she says she’s okay for now. Ashley isn’t back yet when we leave; that may be for the best. If she’s as angry as Sarah says, she’s probably pissed at me too. It’s not entirely logical, but anger and grief and trauma so rarely are.

  “I always forget,” says Cass as we head to Emilia’s room.

  “Forget what?”

  “How honest you are with victims.”

  “Kids,” I correct. “I’m honest with kids, and I think everybody should be.”

  “No Santa Claus for you?”

  “That’s different. Santa Claus isn’t asking them to trust him.”

  We announce ourselves at Emilia’s room, and she calls out for us to enter. She’s pacing in front of the long window, one arm up in a sling. I introduce her to Cass, just like I did for Sarah, and ask her how she’s doing.

  She snorts and looks down at the sling. “I don’t want to wear this, but they said I have to.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “They said my shoulder’s dislocated and, um, my collarbone is cracked. Said they have been for a while, so they want me to wear this for a few weeks. Let everything ‘heal properly.’”

  “Why does the sling bother you?”

  “It . . . it . . .”

  “Emilia, there’s no wrong answer here as long as it’s an honest one.”

  “It looks like I’m begging for attention,” she admits, slumping down on the end of the bed. “Or showing people the easiest place to hurt me.”

  “They found somewhere for you to go, didn’t they?”

  Both she and Cass look startled. “How did you know? Oh,” she continues quickly. “Of course they told you.”

  “They haven’t, but you wouldn’t worry about looking injured as long as you’re in a hospital. It’s kind of what it’s for.”

  “She used to do this in the academy, too,” Cass fake-whispers to Emilia, who actually giggles.

  Running her fingers along the sling’s strap, Emilia adjusts it away from the small square bandage that covers the cigarette burn. “My dad has a cousin in Chantilly.”

  “Were your dad and his cousin close?”

  “Yeah, it’s like twenty minutes away, they said.”

  Cass grins. “I meant were they friends?”

  “Oh. They’d get together to watch games, sometimes, but not really. I’ve met him, though. Before, too, and he came yesterday to ask me if I’d be okay with living with him. He seems nice.”

  “Well, that’s a plus, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll have to change schools. But . . .” Emilia looks between us and takes a deep breath. “Maybe that’s not a bad thing? I mean, no one in Chantilly would know about my parents being murdered, right? They won’t know I was bad?”

  “You were not bad,” Cass and I say in unison, that startled look jumping back into Emilia’s eyes.

  I reach out and touch her knee with the back of my hand. “Emilia, I promise you, none of this happened because you were bad. Your dad lied to you for a very long time, and maybe he lied to himself. Maybe he convinced himself you were bad so he wouldn’t feel guilty for hurting you. But you weren’t. I promise you, you weren’t.”

  “Lincoln, Dad’s cousin, wants me to go to therapy.”

  “I think that could be a big help.”

  “Dad always said therapy was for sickos and wimps.”

  “Your dad was wrong about a lot of things.”

  She looks like she needs to chew on that thought for a bit, so we say goodbye, and remind her she can call Cass for anything she needs, even if it’s just to talk. Closing the door, we hear a sharp “There you are!” and flinch.

  It’s not Simpkins, though. It’s Nancy, the social worker.

  “Sorry,” she huffs, jogging down the hall. “Didn’t mean to sound pissed o
ff, I just didn’t want you to walk away. One of the nurses said you were here.”

  “Just checking up on the kids,” I tell her.

  “What would you think about meeting Mason?”

  Um. “Is he going to be okay with that? Us being female and all?”

  “Keep a good distance from him and he seems to listen calmly enough. And he’s started communicating with us, a little.”

  “He’s talking?”

  “Writing, but to be honest, I consider that amazing.”

  “Nancy, have you met Cass Kearney? She’s on Agent Simpkins’s team.”

  Nancy holds out her hand, and she and Cass shake briskly, exchanging good-to-meet-yous. “Mason read the note last night, and I think he wants to know who you are, Mercedes. I don’t know if meeting you will help him or not, but I don’t think it’ll hurt him. Tate agrees.”

  “Tate is another social worker?”

  “He is; he’s been in with Mason all day.” Nancy leads us down the hall to another room, knocking on the door with a “Tate, it’s Nancy. I’ve got a couple of agents with me.”

  “Come on in,” calls a warm male voice.

  “Rule of the room,” whispers Nancy as she turns the handle. “No women past the track of the privacy curtain. He seems to do okay with that amount of space.”

  Seven-year-old Mason Jeffers sits on a beanbag on the floor in the far corner of the room. A few feet away, a very tall, lean black man sits on the floor as well, long legs stretched out in front of him. Mason’s socked feet rest on Tate’s legs, just below the knee. Mason’s shoulders hunch when he sees us, fear jumping into his eyes, but otherwise he doesn’t move, just watches us with his hands around what I’d guess is Tate’s iPad.

  He’s too thin, almost to the point of sickly, but otherwise he looks physically unharmed. I know that’s not the case, especially not with what Cass told me in the car, but even with that visible fear, he’s unnervingly calm.