Nothing Sacred

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  “They might also be able to help shed some light on who he is,” David added, destroying the small bond Martha had just grudgingly made with him.

  “No,” she said. She knew she wasn’t thinking straight. That the others had very good points. But she had a child to protect. Nothing else mattered.

  “Can we let the town know there’s been a rape, and where, without disclosing any names?” David asked. “You could say where, what day. No one would imagine Ellen in that vicinity.”

  Martha didn’t like it. “Ellen hasn’t been herself since the attack. People might put two and two together.”

  “She had a fight with her boyfriend on Thursday afternoon before the attack,” David said. “And broke up with him on Friday. Everyone knew how much in love those two were. Even I knew, and I’m new to town. From what I can tell, most people are blaming her unhappiness on the breakup.”

  That was true. Martha worked at the same university Ellen attended. A couple of her students were friends of Ellen’s. They’d mentioned the breakup, hoping Martha could shed some understanding on the seemingly unbelievable occurrence.

  Once again she was grateful to the minister for his insight and sensitivity.

  “We have a plan, then?” Greg asked, looking only at Martha.

  “As long as we don’t mention Ellen….”

  Greg stood and the others got up immediately. “I’ll put a notice in the paper tomorrow….”

  Martha’s stomach cramped and she almost doubled over. Visions of Ellen at home, suffering such silent agony, haunted her. If this in any way made her situation worse…

  “It’ll be okay,” David Marks said, following her out of the office.

  Martha nodded, marginally comforted by the words. She could only hope they were doing the right thing.

  And for a woman who’d lost faith in hope, that wasn’t much to go on.

  FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE coming to Shelter Valley, David was thankful for his relatively light workload. He couldn’t get rid of the suspicion riding constantly in the back of his mind. An idea that, while it made no sense, wouldn’t be ignored. He considered discussing his thoughts with the sheriff, but he didn’t really know Greg Richards all that well.

  And he had too much to risk for something that might come to nothing at all.

  Still, it didn’t hurt to do some checking on his own.

  On Wednesday afternoon, after he’d once again spoken to Helen Carr, putting forward another request to see his dying mother, he made a few confidential pay-phone calls to some people he used to know in Phoenix. And then drove to speak with James Nesbitt, the owner of the building where Ellen had been held hostage.

  Unfortunately, the man, with his claim that he’d already told the sheriff everything he knew, refused to be forthcoming at all. Finally, at David’s continued but friendly persistence, he closed his door firmly in his visitor’s face.

  David turned his Explorer toward the desert stretch outside Shelter Valley, hoping for a peaceful hour or two, in which to think and maybe relax a little. The day hadn’t been all bad, he told himself. There’d been a couple of times that morning in the mayor’s office when Martha Moore had actually seemed to warm up to him. It was the first time he’d really seen her since the night of Ellen’s attack. She always seemed to be otherwise occupied when he stopped by to see her daughter.

  And, as of his phone call an hour before, his mother was still alive.

  That meant there was still hope.

  A very good thing.

  He’d just begun to relax, to enjoy his drive into the desert, when his optimism took another hit. Up ahead, a group of kids were wandering away from a nearby hill, carrying blankets. He had no idea how they expected to get home. They were miles from anywhere, with no cars in sight.

  Some of the teenagers were laughing uproariously; others seemed to be using up every bit of concentration placing one foot in front of the other.

  David recognized one of the laughers.

  She was better dressed than the rest, forgoing the black leather and chains most of her companions were wearing.

  Slowing, he waited until he was close enough to see that they were passing around a bag of name-brand potato chips as they walked, before calling out, “Shelley! Come on, I’ll give you a lift.”

  He could have been a breeze on the desert for all the attention she gave him.

  “Shel!” He tried again.

  The girl kept right on walking—and laughing—as though she hadn’t heard him. But David had seen the tightening in her shoulders.

  And knew that she had.

  ELLEN STARED STRAIGHT ahead while Mom drove them home from her counseling appointment in Phoenix on Thursday morning.

  Staring out the windshield was what Ellen had done every other time she’d been in a car, or out anywhere, since the attack.

  She was scared to death she was going to see that man again. That he was still around, watching her. Waiting to see if she’d told on him and he’d have to come back and kill her.

  Or waiting to get her alone so he could do it again.

  She wasn’t sure which she’d hate more. If she was alive, there was always hope. Pastor Marks had been talking to her a lot about that. About the happiness she could make for herself. About a higher power that was always with her, ready to help if asked. And she believed him.

  But the thought of ever having a man between her legs again, forcing her to accept things she didn’t want, that she hated, touching her most private parts with greedy hands and fingers, was more than she could bear. She would rather he killed her.

  This was the kind of stuff her counselor wanted to discuss. Ellen understood that.

  She just couldn’t talk about it.

  “Sweetie, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  Ellen’s hand on the door handle tightened. “What?”

  The tension in her mother’s face made Ellen’s heart ache. She probably hated the man most for this—what he’d done to a woman who’d spent her entire life giving, only to have everything stolen away.

  Her strong and optimistic mother had already lost so much of her faith. If she gave up, if she spent the rest of her life alone and unhappy because she couldn’t believe in hope and love after what her father had done, and now this, then Ellen was going to hunt down her attacker herself and kill him with her bare hands.

  “There was an article in the paper this morning about the assault.”

  The little bit of strength that had just buoyed her last thoughts slid away as Ellen sat there, feeling the cold spread from her face, through her chest and down to her toes.

  Aaron was going to know.

  And Barbie. And Anita. And everyone at church. And at school. All her teachers.

  She was dropping out of school. And quitting her job. She only had another week on her leave of absence from Wal-Mart, anyway, and she’d never be ready to go back in a week. She needed her room. Her bed. Sleep.

  She was going to throw up.

  “…so when Pastor Marks came up with the compromise…”

  What? She hadn’t heard a word her mom had been saying.

  “What compromise?” she asked.

  And withstood Martha’s concerned stare. “I wouldn’t let Sheriff Richards say anything to the town that was going to touch you in any way.” She reached over and grabbed Ellen’s free hand as she repeated what had obviously already been said…

  Mom’s hand was warm. A good thing. Ellen didn’t feel quite so sick. Though she was still consumed by the fear that had wrapped itself around her throat when the man had kicked the boardinghouse door shut behind them that night. The fear had never let go.

  “But people have a right to know,” Mom continued. “A need to know.”

  Ellen listened, withholding judgment. Judgment was too much work.

  “Until this man is caught—”

  “I know,” Ellen said when her mother broke off abruptly. “He could attack again. Me or someone else.”
/>   She was proud of how calmly she’d said that. No one had to know that every time she thought about it, she felt like she was suffocating.

  “The sheriff also hopes that someone saw something, noticed the car leaving, or will recognize the composite of the man. Anything that might help him catch the guy.”

  “Okay.”

  “You sure?”

  “Um-hmm.”

  “I love you, honey.”

  Ellen stared straight ahead. “I love you, too, Mom.”

  They drove in silence for a couple of minutes, but Ellen could tell by the way her mother kept peeking over at her that she had something more to say. Ellen longed for her bed. Covers she could crawl all the way under.

  Her whole body hurt with the effort it took to sit there, pretending she was okay.

  “Maybe you should call Aaron tonight.”

  “No.” Never. Ever. As long as she lived.

  “Why, sweetie? He loves you.”

  “No.”

  “Are you afraid? You think because Aaron’s a man he might remind you of what happened?”

  For a second there Ellen almost smiled. Sometimes her intelligent mom was so far off base. Ellen had always kind of liked that about her.

  But “no” was all she said.

  “I know your counselor’s already talked to you about this, but I want to make sure you believe that sex can be wonderful, sweetie. Not now, I understand that, but someday…”

  Ellen had to shut her up. “I know, Mom. Aaron and I have been lovers since January.”

  “Oh.”

  Not quite the way she’d wanted to break that news. If she’d ever chosen to break it at all. Mom had always talked openly with her and her sisters about their bodies and sex, but there were some things a girl just cherished all alone.

  “Well, then…he was good to you?”

  “Very.”

  What a bizarre conversation. Ellen really just wanted to go to sleep. Was that too much to ask? A little sleep?

  For the next five years or so? Maybe longer if she woke up and found all of this was still here, too much for her to deal with.

  “Can I tell you something?” Martha asked, taking Ellen’s hand again.

  “Of course.” She braced herself.

  “I’m glad.”

  Ellen looked away from the road for the first time since she’d got in the car. She stared at her mother. “You are?”

  Martha nodded, and from her vantage point, Ellen could see the moisture glistening in her mother’s eyes. “I’m glad it wasn’t your first time.”

  So was Ellen. Really glad.

  Not that it made the memory of last week any less awful. Not that it made the insidious terror any less potent.

  Would she ever feel safe again?

  “I don’t understand why you won’t call him, then,” Mom was saying now. “You love him so much and I know he loves you….”

  Aaron again. Her counselor had been harping on that today, too. Why did they have to poke and prod at wounds that were already too gaping to heal? Why couldn’t they all just leave her alone?

  “Because I’d rather die than have him know!” She hadn’t screamed since the man had silenced her with his mouth on hers seven days before. “I don’t want him to ever know, you got that?” she hollered. “I don’t ever want to have him look at me like he would if he knew.”

  She couldn’t seem to stop yelling, not even after her mother pulled off the freeway and stopped the car.

  “That’s why I broke up with him, okay?” She was screaming so loudly her throat hurt. “Because I’m not sure what I’d do if he touched me right now and I’m not sure if I’ll look different or feel different to him and I don’t—”

  She wasn’t aware of much, except that she couldn’t hold back the sobs anymore.

  And that her mother’s loving arms around her were the best thing that had happened to her in a long, long time.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  BECAUSE SHE’D BEEN the only child of an absentminded father, her mother having been killed in a car accident when Martha was too young to remember, Martha wasn’t all that familiar with the experience of being nurtured. But that first Saturday in March, at lunch in the home of her best friend, she drew strength from the wealth of unconditional love and care.

  Shelter Valley’s mayor, dynamo Becca Parsons, had called the first-ever meeting of what she termed the “heroines of Shelter Valley.” They all knew each other. Most of them were friends, at least distantly or through one another. They’d all attended the Parsonses’ Christmas parties. And, at various times, Shelter Valley Community Church, although one or two were members of the Catholic Church in town. They’d all come to Becca’s swearing in. Sam Montford’s dedication. The Fourth of July festival. Little League games. And more… But they’d never, ever gathered, all at the same time, just the eight of them. Martha wouldn’t be there then if not for Becca’s insistence that the meeting couldn’t take place without her.

  Martha didn’t agree. All the other women invited had not only faced but also conquered some of life’s greatest challenges. Contrary to Becca’s claim, there was nothing heroic about Martha.

  Maybe that was why she was sitting at the perfectly set oblong table in the glass-walled family room of Becca’s million-dollar home, feeling as if everyone else there had a secret that hadn’t been revealed to her. Some way to overcome adversity that she hadn’t yet discovered.

  “That jerk doesn’t have any idea what he’s up against,” Randi Parsons Foster announced, brown eyes glinting, her short blond hair bouncing with the force of her words. The youngest of five, Randi had learned early on to speak up for herself. Becca’s husband, Will, was one of Randi’s four older brothers. “He might think the women of Shelter Valley are naive in our seclusion, but he’s wrong.” She took a bite of the tofu mixture Becca had prepared especially for her. “Underestimating us will be what gets him.”

  They were talking about the rape, of course. It was the reason Becca had called them all together. The town had been in shock since a copy of the composite drawing had come out in the paper the week before. None of the women present, with the exception of Becca, had any idea that Martha’s own daughter had been the victim.

  While the others seated at the formal table, with its candles and white linen, nodded, Martha thought about the pristine white tennis shoes she knew Randi was wearing. For some reason, her shoes always had to be sparkling clean.

  The rest of the women were in various stages of polishing off Becca’s famous Parmesan chicken salad. Martha was having trouble swallowing. Will and several of the other husbands had taken all ten of the offspring under the age of five to a circus in Phoenix. Tim and Rebecca had gone along, as well, supposedly to help baby-sit. But Martha figured they’d been the most excited of the bunch.

  “We just need to be sure we don’t underestimate him,” Tory Sanders said, the worried look she’d worn when she first arrived in Shelter Valley four years ago marring her lovely features. “He got one of us.”

  If she looked under the table, Martha would bet she’d see Tory wearing really high heels, even with the white blouse and jeans she had on. Tory always wore high heels. Martha wondered why. She’d never thought to ask.

  “I understand why the woman’s name was left out of the paper, but I sure wish we knew who it was,” Cassie Montford said gently, her long red hair twisted up on the back of her head. She’d brought the dessert; Martha had seen her carry it in. Cassie was famous for her desserts. Not her shoes.

  “It’s going to be difficult enough to recover from the horrendous violation as it is,” Dr. Phyllis Langford said, her short, curly red hair a complement to the deep intelligence shining from her green eyes. “Rape is terribly destructive. Having it happen in a town like Shelter Valley, where everyone always felt safe, is almost like having a family member turn on you.” A psych professor at the university, Phyllis, a Yale graduate, had been a therapist in her former Boston life. The opal on her righ
t ring finger shone beneath the sun coming in through the window as Phyllis moved her fork to her plate for another bite. Martha, who’d been one of the first to befriend her when she’d first come to town, had never seen the woman without that ring.

  “Which is why it would be better if we knew who it was,” Beth Richards said, her conventional beauty—straight blond hair and blue eyes—a front for the strong and intelligent woman beneath the surface. “The loving arms of Shelter Valley would help her heal.”

  Beth’s fingers were the only thing about the woman’s appearance that wasn’t fragile-looking. Long and muscled, with short, clipped nails, those hands were incredibly gifted—in two healing arts. Massage and music.

  “I know they sure saved me,” Beth said, her gaze serious as she glanced at the other women around the table. Beth never spoke of the cult—or the man—she’d been running from when she’d holed up in Shelter Valley. No one asked her to. They all knew Beth and that was enough.

  “I wish Greg had told us.” Bonnie Nielson, sitting next to Beth, gave her sister-in-law’s hand a pat. “Every woman I pass, I wonder if it’s her, look for some sign. I can’t undo what happened, but I can’t just sit here and not help her. Somehow.” Bonnie was the town’s caregiver. The ultimate mother among a community full of mothers. She ran a combination child and senior care facility that, even in its infancy, was becoming nationally known for its innovative programming.

  Martha wasn’t sure what shoes Bonnie was wearing, but they’d be flat. Bonnie moved too fast these days to wear anything but flat shoes.

  Becca, sitting in the middle with her back to the wall of windows that overlooked the mountains surrounding Shelter Valley, put down her fork, clasping her fingers together in front her. But only after she’d squeezed Martha’s hand under the table, a silent question to which Martha shook her head.

  She knew she should say something. But she just couldn’t. She couldn’t bear the outpouring of sympathy that would follow.

  Most importantly, she couldn’t break her promise to Ellen.