by Justine Dare
So this time the bad guy paid, Regan thought as she opened her office door. She felt that same sense of grim satisfaction that had bothered her before.
"She talked to him again, you know."
Regan snapped out of her reverie. Mitch was plucking fading petals off the arrangement on the credenza behind her desk. He made sure fresh flowers were always added every day, so in effect Regan had a never-dying bouquet. It was a touch of beauty in what could be a grim house at those times when the occupants lost sight of where they were going in the horror of where they'd been.
"She what?"
I heard her. On the phone with him. Just yesterday."
Regan went still. "Who called who?" Not giving out this phone number was one of the strictest rules of Rachel's House, right after not letting anyone pick you up or drop you off. And if you took a bus, it had to be at least one stop beyond the closest one. Regan hammered on those rules constantly, and on the fact that a violation didn't endanger just you, but everyone here.
"I didn't hear it ring, so I think she must have called him," Mitch answered.
"When?"
"Yesterday. She was planning to meet him again."
Regan's brows furrowed. Voluntary contact with your abuser was cause for serious reevaluation of resident status. Rachel's House was the next step beyond a safe house. While it still protected women the same way, it was for those who had made the break and were ready to move on, to rebuild their lives. They tried to accurately guess when a woman was ready to make the break, but sometimes they were wrong.
The women were taught skills if they had none, prepared for job hunting if they did. They acquired experience, often in a Court company; Mrs. Court
's involvement and generosity was on all levels. And Regan hated to see it go to waste when she misjudged someone.
"You're sure she was going to meet him?" Regan asked. She hated to think Dawn would risk it, knowing she was up for review because of the last contact.
"From what I heard, there was no doubt." Mitch's brown eyes were wide and troubled. "Why do they do it? Why do they go back?"
Regan let out a weary sigh. "I could give you all the standard reasons, no confidence, financial dependence, self-esteem so low they're convinced they deserve the abuse—"
"But you give them all that here. You give them a way out, and they still go back to those mutants."
Regan gave him a flicker of a smile. The name Mitch always used for the abusers was appropriate, she thought. "Some just can't break the pattern," she said. "But some make it, and that takes more courage than most of us will ever have. And you help them find it, Mitch, with the time you spend with them, and"—she gestured at the flowers—"in making this place a little brighter."
For a moment the gardener just looked at her. Then he smiled warmly, and Regan smiled back.
"I've got this cleaned up now," Mitch said, gesturing at the arrangement. "My mother always says you should keep them nice or throw them away."
"It's lovely, Mitch. You be sure and take your mom some, with our love."
His eyes grew even warmer, as if the bad things had been forgotten. "I will. She'll like that."
The man took his plucked petals and left the office. Less than a minute later he was back, looking flustered. 'There's a strange man outside."
Regan tensed immediately. Her first thought was always that one of the women's exes had found them.
"Is it the police?" she asked.
Mitch blinked. "The police? No, no, I don't think so. He says he's here about the roof."
"Ah." Regan relaxed. "The roofer. I've been expecting him." She'd warned the residents he'd be coming today, but hadn't thought to tell Mitch when he'd arrived this morning.
Regan headed for the front door, pausing when she heard a low whistle to her right. She glanced over and saw that Mindy had come back downstairs and was peeking out through the mini-blinds. The slats were always kept at an angle on the street side, to prevent anyone from being able to see in from outside. They were on a cul-de-sac with only one entrance, but that didn't mean they could be careless.
"Mindy?"
Caught, the girl giggled. She glanced around as if to be sure no one else was there before saying,
"Boy, he's enough to make you put a hole in the roof yourself!"
Regan grinned in spite of herself. She knew Mindy's comment was the kind of thing that likely would have gotten her punched if she'd said it near her boyfriend.
"Don't forget. I told Marty you'd call him, let him know you're all right."
"He can wait a minute," Mindy said.
Despite her offhand tone, Regan knew Mindy adored her big brother. It had been Marty who had talked her into getting away from Joel, Marty who had convinced her she deserved better. From what Mindy had told her, Marty had been more of a father to her than their brutal biological father.
When Regan got to the door, she was glad Mindy had prepared her. If she'd opened the door to this man without warning, she probably would have gaped. As it was she did stare for an instant before recovering. She had to agree with Mindy's assessment. He might not be knockout gorgeous, but thick, dark hair, killer blue eyes, and a scar that tilted one brow upward made him very attractive. Even the worn condition of his jeans, T-shirt, and running shoes didn't detract from the appeal.
"Hi," he said, "I'm Alex Edwards. The roofer."
"And?" She'd learned never to assume anyone was who they said they were.
"Sorry if I shook anybody up. Mrs. Court
told me I should be careful."
Regan relaxed a little, but not completely. It was hardly a secret that Lillian Court
was involved with Rachel's House.
"Did she tell you anything else?"
The smile became a grin. "Yeah. That I should tell you—you are Regan, aren't you?" At her nod he went on. "She said I should tell you September fifteenth, lunch at the Shores Grill."
She did let down then. She and Lillian had worked out that code—the place they had met to plan Rachel's House—long ago, when Regan had realized how hands-on the woman intended to be. It had become clear they would need some way to verify she had actually sent a person to take care of this problem or that, so they had worked out this password system. They changed the dates regularly, just in case.
"Come in," Regan said. "I'll get you the report we had done that shows the problem areas."
He stepped inside. He was taller than she'd realized, when he'd been standing one step down. He glanced around and Regan wondered if he was surprised at the relatively new furnishings and fresh paint. But then again, if Lillian had sent him, he had to know there was solid money behind them. And she and Lillian had agreed that nice surroundings were essential to the residents.
"Is all that really necessary?" he asked as she closed the door behind him. "That password thing?"
"Do you know what this is, Mr. Edwards?" "Alex, please. Yes, she told me, but—" "We don't expect you to understand, just observe the rules."
He blinked. Figures, Regan thought. Eyelashes a mile long. The distribution of assets was really messed up in this world.
"Sorry," he said, sounding stung, and she realized what she had sounded like.
"No, I'm sorry," she said. "We're just wary around here."
"I guess you have to be, but..."
"A couple of years ago, at our old shelter, the ex-husband of one of our residents managed to get his eight-year-old son off his school playground. He dropped him off out in front with orders to call for his mother while he hid. When she came outside, he blew her away with a shotgun from the bushes."
Alex went still. All traces of amusement vanished. "He used his own child as bait?"
Her mouth twisted downward. "You find that surprising, from a man who would murder a child's mother right in front of him?"
Regan watched him grow pale. If he was going to be working here, she had to make the point of how crucial it was that he tell no one.
&n
bsp; "The little boy was still there?" His voice was barely above a whisper.
"His mother was still holding his hand."
He looked queasy. He swallowed hard.
Point made, Regan thought.
He'd read the file. He'd flinched then. But the dry, detached wording of Grimm's report on the incident, which left out the more gruesome details, had only made him react intellectually. Regan Keller's stark recounting made him sick.
"I'm sorry," he said, meaning it. "I didn't mean to sound like I wasn't taking you seriously."
She studied him. He held her gaze, sensing it was important just now. Not that it was painful; she had a fascinating, if not beautiful face. Her eyes would normally be a warm hazel, he guessed, but at this moment, they were cool and assessing.
After a long moment she nodded. "We're overly cautious," she admitted. "But I had to be sure you knew how important it was that you tell no one who or where we are."
She gestured him toward an open door that he could see led to an office. "How did he find out? The guy who ... with the shotgun? Did the child tell him?"
"No. Somebody sold us out to him."
He stopped dead. "What?"
"The police found out it was a delivery guy who had brought out a new appliance for us."
"And he sold the location of the shelter?"
"Yes." She stepped into the office ahead of him. "We were worth a thousand dollars."
"Not much for a life," Alex muttered.
"Two lives. Jamie, the boy, will never be the same. He's ten now, and still has nightmares. And other social problems."
She walked to her desk. As she opened a drawer and pulled out a folder, he took the chance to look around the office. Unlike the main room they'd come through, it was furnished more for utility than decor, but there were touches that drew the eye: profusion of flowers in a bright blue vase atop a credenza, a bulletin board full of notes and color photos of children and women who were apparently the success stories of the shelter.
"Here's the inspector's report," she said, handing him several stapled pages.
He took it from her, noting there were no rings on either of her hands. No jewelry at all, in fact— her utilitarian watch hardly counted as such—and he wondered if she had soured on men altogether after working here for so long.
"You do understand I'll need to know your hours of coming and going, and that you can't show up unexpectedly."
He nodded. Grimm had briefed him on the rather unique requirements. "And no coming in the house unannounced. You have to be let in."
"I will be careful," he promised. "I know you must be more on edge than usual around here these days."
She stiffened. "Why would you say that?"
"Well, with those murders ..." His voice trailed away.
"I'd appreciate it if you didn't bring that up to anyone here," she said, her voice flat and emotionless. "Is there anything else?"
His first instinct was to back off, to let her be. This was odd enough to him that he took note of it. "A sore subject? Have the police been putting the pressure on?"
Her head came up then. "On us? No, why would they?"
He shrugged, as if it were merely casual conversation. "Motive's usually where they start, isn't it?
And I'd guess your people, and their families, have as much as anyone."
Suspicion flickered in her eyes, and he knew he'd
come close to the line. He backed off. "Just wondering if I should be expecting the cops to drop by while I'm here."
The suspicion changed to wariness. "Is that a problem for you if they do?"
Alex winced inwardly; he didn't usually get in trouble this early on. Something had thrown him off stride. He countered with the truth. "No. Mrs. Court
would make sure of that."
"You could have lied to her."
His mouth quirked. "I'm not stupid."
"She ... trusts you?"
"I've done several jobs for her over the years."
Quit while you're ahead, he told himself. He held up the inspection papers. "I'll go take a look, and see what materials I'm going to need."
"Do you need money?"
"No. Mrs. Court
set up an account, said this wasn't in your budget."
"No, it's not," Regan said. "If not for her, it wouldn't be getting done this year at all, let alone before the rainy season, such as it is here. But I wasn't sure how she wanted to work it."
"It's taken care of. I'll go get started."
She nodded. "Do you need anything else? I have to run over to the office for the afternoon."
"Office?" Wasn't this her office?
"We have an administrative office off-site, for business, and a center for donations and information."
So nobody knew where they were. What a way to live, he thought. "Oh. But you live here, with the other women?"
She nodded. "They need to have me here, to know they can count on me at a moment's notice." She opened the center drawer again, took out a business card, and handed it to him. "If you have any questions or problems, the main office number and my cell numbers are on there."
He nodded and stuffed the card into his back pocket.
"I'll go get started," he said again, and when he got out of the room he was surprised at the relief he felt.
It must be because this was so important to his mother. It put an extra fillip of pressure on that he didn't usually feel when working on something. Satisfied he'd figured that out, he headed back out to his truck for a ladder.
She wasn't comfortable leaving him there, Regan thought as she took a random, roundabout route to the off-site office. But she trusted Lillian implicitly. She would make sure of anyone she sent here.
She made a stop at the post office to drop off some bills, then started out again in the opposite direction from the office. It was more important to take a circuitous route on the way back to the shelter, but since she generally went to the office at least three days a week—although she tried to vary the days to avoid predictability—it made her feel better to do the roundabout both ways.
When she finally arrived, she was greeted by the young volunteer and Mrs. Tanaka, the administrator, but since a woman and child were sitting in the lobby, no one said anything about who she was. If asked, they knew to say she was just another volunteer.
She was deep into one of the files she'd been left, trying to absorb from the dry, dispassionate reports whether the woman whose sad story was told there would be a good match for Rachel's House, when she heard a stir up front. It wasn't an alarmed stir, the kind she heard when some angry ex-husband or boyfriend showed up demanding to know where the woman who had dared to leave him was, so she finished the sentence she'd been reading before she looked up.
She might not have guessed about the woman, but she'd have known the man was a cop in an instant. In fact, she thought she did know him. She must have met him on one case or another. She couldn't remember specifically, but had the uneasy feeling the experience hadn't been pleasant.
"Regan?" Danielle, the high school volunteer, sounded concerned.
She closed the file folder and out of habit locked it in her desk drawer, then got to her feet. "Come on back," she said. "We can use the private office."
"I'm Detective Garrison," the tall blonde with laugh lines around her green eyes said, extending her hand. She was a healthy, athletic-looking woman, but still feminine, Regan thought as she shook hands with her. Her grip was firm but not out to prove anything. "And this is Detective Durwin."
"I believe we've met," Regan said neutrally as the paunchy, partially balding man came in and pulled the door shut behind him.
"Yeah, we did." He took a seat without waiting to be asked. 'The Rodriguez case, couple years ago. Whatever happened to her?"
"She's one of our successes, I'm glad to say." She took the seat behind the desk, and the woman detective took the remaining chair. "She took the computer training we got her and landed a g
ood job out of the area. She and her son are doing very well."
"Hmm."
He didn't say anything else, but Regan suddenly remembered why she hadn't liked this man. He showed no sympathy for the battered woman. She might as well have been another criminal.
"I want to thank you for your call," Detective Garrison said.
"We would have found out anyway," the man put in.
Regan didn't think she was wrong in guessing that the glance the woman gave the other detective was irritated.
"Does anyone come to mind who might be doing this?" the female detective asked. "Anybody who's made threats, or has never quite calmed down?"
Marty Baker and his fury jumped into her mind, but she hesitated, fearing she would get him in trouble.
"If you know something, you'd better tell us," Durwin said.
That decided Regan. "You have the list of family members?"
"Yes," Detective Garrison said. "We've talked to some of them already."
"I have no names to add to that," she said. Detective Garrison flicked a glance at her partner, as if she knew Regan's sudden coolness was his fault.
"Was there something else?" Regan asked.
"Your residents at Rachel's House," Garrison said. "I assume you are aware of where they are most of the time?"
Regan nodded. "We try not to make it like a prison, since most of them have just escaped from that kind of situation. But for their own safety, we do keep fairly close track of them, yes."
"A written record?"
"They sign in and out. So we know if anyone hasn't returned when they were supposed to."
"Which is rarely good news in your case, I imagine," the woman said, and Regan thought the sympathy in her voice sounded genuine. The detective wore a plain gold band on her left hand, and Regan wondered what it was like to be a man married to a cop.
"No," Regan agreed, "it's not often good news. Batterers don't give up easily."
"I know. But we'll need you to tell us where each of them was at these times," the woman said, handing her a piece of paper with three dates and range of hours listed. The times of the murders, she thought, and tried not to shudder.