Her sister’s hand flew to her chest. “You think he was one of Mother’s customers, right?”
“More than that,” Rachel said. “I think Nathan Richardson was my father.”
Carrie shook her head, denying this idea. “Why would you say that?”
“Because it makes sense,” Rachel answered. “Mother got pregnant, then she probably tried to extract money from him. If Richardson paid child support, she would have had to let him see me from time to time. Mother probably had no idea that Richardson went on to become a pedophile. She might not have known his real name. Most men don’t tell prostitutes their real name.”
“I refuse to believe this,” Carrie said, walking around in a circle. “Why would he molest his own daughter?”
“Why would he molest any child?” Rachel said. “Before he kidnapped the other girl, Nathan Richardson was a successful pediatrician. When he took my clothes off, it was almost as if he was examining me.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “The man was a pedophile. He tricked you into walking over to his car, locked you in the trunk, took you to that sleazy motel room. If he didn’t molest you, Rachel, what the hell was he doing?”
“Don’t you see?” Rachel said. “Richardson was probably molesting children for years under the guise of giving them an examination. When he got to the point where touching no longer satisfied him, he kidnapped that girl and raped her.”
Carrie picked up the photo and studied the picture again. The longer she looked at it, the more familiar Richardson’s face became. “You might be right,” she said, setting the picture back down on the table. “One of Mother’s customers used to give me the creeps. He gave me money to buy candy, but I always had to kiss him on the lips first. He never tried to bribe me with a doll, though.”
“After he molested me,” Rachel said, the final piece of the puzzle snapping into place, “he sat me in a chair and took pictures of me. Maybe he wanted to compare them to pictures of himself as a child. He could have thought Mother lied to him, and he wanted to confirm that I was really his daughter.”
“If what you are saying is true, it might explain Mother’s disintegration after the kidnapping.”
“Exactly,” Rachel said. “It was as if she hated me, Carrie. Every time she looked in my face, she must have been reminded of Nathan Richardson. She blamed herself, don’t you see? She brought this man into our lives. She demanded money from him. When they told her about the doll, she must have freaked, terrified I would remember seeing Richardson all those years ago in our house.”
“That cop hanging around all the time probably didn’t help,” Carrie said, taking a seat at the table. “What was his name?”
“Sergeant Larry Dean.”
Carrie snatched the photo off the table, walked over and dropped it in the trash can. “Forget it,” she said, turning to face Rachel again. “The past is over. Whatever happened, happened. You’ll never know the truth now. Mother’s dead. Richardson’s dead.”
After Carrie headed to the master bedroom to go to bed, Rachel removed the green rubber pitcher from under the sink and occupied herself by watering her plants. She caressed a leaf on the potted fern in the dining room, feeling its delicate texture between her fingers. Joe had insisted that plants could somehow experience emotion. Was the fern trembling in fear? By touching it, was she molesting it? Rachel knew that the world was far more mysterious than people realized.
After she finished watering her plants, she went to check on the children. Joe was curled up in a tight ball, sucking on his thumb. She gently slipped his thumb out of his mouth, then kissed the damp hairs on the top of his head. Tracy was sleeping on her back, her arms stretched out at her side, her chest gently rising and falling. The girlishness was disappearing from her face, and Rachel knew her daughter would soon be a beautiful and confident woman. Positioning the sheet over her sleeping form, Rachel slipped out of the room.
She removed a fresh uniform from the hall closet, placed her shiny black shoes on the floor next to the sofa, oiled down her leather. Carrying her badge in her hand, she set it on the end table, then nestled down on the sofa to go to sleep.
As Rachel’s eyes closed, she expected the nightmare of Nathan Richardson chasing her with the china doll to return. When she awoke the next morning, however, she felt refreshed and energetic. For twenty-four years, her subconscious mind had shielded her from the truth. Now that it was out in the open, she knew the dream was gone forever.
The picture of Rachel and Chief Bates was on the front page of the morning newspaper. Tracy rushed to the corner market and bought a dozen copies for her friends at school. “I’m so proud of you. Mom,” she said, hugging Rachel before she left for work that morning. “You showed them all. Wait until my friends see this. I have a famous mom now. I’m going to spend all day bragging about you.”
Rachel chuckled, bending down to pick up her son. “You’re not going to give Aunt Carrie a hard time today, are you?”
“Sandbox,” he said, clapping his hands in delight.
Carrie was washing dishes at the sink. “We’ve come to an understanding,” she said. “If Joe eats his eggs every morning, I’ve promised to buy him his own sandbox.” She shook her finger at him. “No more Froot Loops, guy. You don’t want your teeth to rot.”
Joe giggled, squirming in Rachel’s arms.
Rachel covered his face with kisses, then placed him back on the floor. Carrie said she was going to work on her resume and begin contacting some local law firms. “I couldn’t have made it through this without you,” Rachel said, walking over to embrace her. “Are you certain you want to do this, Carrie? We’re fine now. If you want, you can go back to San Francisco. All your friends are there. Brent’s at Berkeley. Don’t you want to live close to him?”
“Brent has his own life now,” her sister told her. “Besides, it’s only a short plane ride away. Since I lived in San Francisco the entire time I was with Phil, it’s kind of exciting to start fresh in a new town.”
Rachel wondered if Carrie was staying because of her attraction to Mike Atwater, but it didn’t really matter. Already Joe and Tracy had grown very attached to her. Since they didn’t have a father, Rachel decided, a little extra help in the parenting department might work out just fine. Waving to them, she headed to the front of the house to go to work.
Rachel felt like a celebrity when she entered the station that morning for the watch meeting. Sergeant Harry Blackmore, who supervised the day shift, walked over and pumped her hand. One of the female officers stepped up and congratulated her. Some of the men were standoffish, but they knew better than to harass her. The picture of her in the newspaper with the chief had served her well.
Once the watch meeting was over and they all headed out to their units in the parking lot, several of the male officers walked over and mumbled a few words to welcome her. Whether they were sincere or not didn’t matter. Rachel smiled and shook their hands.
She spotted Ted Harriman exiting the back of the station in his street clothes, and walked over to speak to him. “I guess I wouldn’t be back on the job if it wasn’t for you,” Rachel said. “Thanks, Ted, it took a lot of courage to speak out the way you did.”
“Yeah, well,” Harriman said, shuffling his feet, “I wanted you to know that we’re not all bad guys around here, Rachel. Oak Grove has some outstanding officers.”
Rachel started to extend her hand, but a handshake didn’t seem adequate. She moved closer to embrace him. It was one of those awkward moments when intent slips away and emotion takes over. With her arms at her side, Rachel simply leaned into his chest, her cheek pressed against the cotton fabric of his shirt. Instead of the casual embrace of a friend, Harriman became a father comforting a child. She felt his hand touch the back of her head, felt the warmth of his body through his clothing. She remained still for several moments. “I’m sorry, Ted,” she said, laughing nervously. “I hope I didn’t embarrass you. I guess I needed some reassurance. First day
back, you know.”
Harriman’s face spread in a wide grin. “Hey, any time I can be of service.”
Rachel walked off to find her unit in the string of police cars, then turned and waved as Harriman took off across the parking lot. The sky was overcast and gray. She had to get used to the morning fog now that she was working days. Locating her unit, she quickly ran through her checklist, then headed out to her assigned beat.
The hours clicked off. Rachel issued several traffic citations for speeding in a school zone. At a little after ten, she was dispatched on a residential burglary and ended up waiting over two hours for the crime scene unit to arrive. After lunch, she parked and worked on some of her paperwork.
“2B3,” the dispatcher’s voice squawked over the radio, “respond to 589 Rosemount Drive on a report of a suspicious person possibly casing the neighborhood.”
“Station one,” Rachel asked, depressing the foot pedal for her microphone, “can you advise a description of the suspect?”
“The caller didn’t give his name, 2B3. Just make a pass by the house and see if you spot anyone. Suspect should be a white male dressed in dark clothing.”
Rachel placed her unfinished report back in her briefcase, started the engine and sped off. Rosemount was only a few blocks away. Normally when this type of call came in, the suspicious person was gone by the time police arrived in the area. Slowing as she turned onto Rosemount, she glanced at the houses on either side of the street. The development was one of the most prestigious in the city. Unlike most of the homes in Oak Grove, the houses on Rosemount had been custom built to the owners’ specifications, the lots well over an acre. Most of the structures were set back from the street, and the yards were shaded with mature trees.
Rachel drove to the end of the block, then turned around and returned, looking for the complainant’s address so she could make contact. Finding the number 589 painted on the curb, she steered the car over. She was parked next to a large oak tree and birds were perched on the limbs, chirping away. She sucked in a breath of fresh air. Someone must have just mowed their grass. She could smell its fragrance in the air. Picking up her clipboard off the seat, she glanced at her watch so she could note the time on her activity sheet.
The morning haze had finally blown away. Opening the car door, she stepped out into the sunshine. The light burned her eyes. Turning around, she reached back into the front seat to get her sunglasses from the visor.
A loud explosion rang in her ears.
Rachel felt something strike her back with enormous force. She tumbled forward onto the front seat, her feet still grazing the asphalt. At first she thought someone had thrown a baseball at her, possibly one of the kids in the neighborhood. She had trouble catching her breath, but she felt no pain. Blood oozed out onto the seat, then spilled over onto the floorboard of the police car. Rachel did not try to move, nor did she call for help.
She felt strangely peaceful, as if she were floating outside her body. Her wedding day passed through her mind. She saw Joe smiling at her in his tuxedo. They were standing at the altar in the church. He pushed back the lace veil from her face and kissed her on the mouth. “Come on,” he said, tilting his head to let her know it was time to walk down the aisle as husband and wife.
“I can’t go,” she told him. “I have to stay here with the kids.”
“The kids are fine,” he said, firmly clasping her hand. “Look, Rachel, everyone is waiting for us.”
She didn’t hear Ratso’s heavy footsteps racing toward the car, the urgent sounds of his rapid breathing. When the swarthy man raised the rifle to his waist and blasted away at the prostrate form draped over the front seat of the police car, Rachel had her arm linked in her husband’s as he proudly escorted his new wife from the church.
EPILOGUE
Six months had passed. Carrie had gained ten pounds, but instead of making her look heavy, the extra weight made her look shapely and radiant. Her dyed hair had finally grown out, leaving a halo of lively brown curls. Dressed in a royal blue suit, she was standing beside Mike Atwater in front of the police station, dabbing at her eyes with a Kleenex. It was December 20th, but the day was unseasonably warm. “If only Rachel could have been here today,” she said, gazing at the bronze plaque on the front of the building bearing her sister’s name.
The ceremony had been covered by the media. Tracy and Joe were posing for photographs with the mayor and Chief Bates. Tracy held a framed photograph of her mother in her police uniform in front of her chest. Joe was dressed in a miniature three-piece suit, clutching a white rose someone had handed him. His face had grown more slender over the months, but his legs were still chubby.
Tracy looked every bit the young lady. Her hair was swept back in a French twist. She was wearing a white dress with a shawl collar, hose and white pumps. She looked over at Carrie and the attorney with a trembling smile on her face. She would not cry. This was her mother’s day, and she knew her mother would not want them to cry. Her mother was a hero. Tracy had to be strong, dignified, proud. Everyone knew who she was, what her mother had done, how she had sacrificed her life for her community. Even the kids at her school looked up to her now.
Carrie had filed a civil lawsuit against Grant Cummings for attempted rape and aggravated assault. Cummings’s parents had left him a sizable inheritance, and the jury had awarded Rachel’s children a large sum of money.
Tracy’s eyes fell on Mike Atwater. He had become a reassuring presence in her life. Every day after work, the attorney stopped by the house and they went running together. If she kept her grades up, Atwater was certain she would be able to get into Stanford, the college he had attended.
On the opposite side of the lawn, the district attorney draped an arm around Carrie’s shoulder. “Maybe Rachel is here, you know?” he said, a slight catch in his voice. “Tracy looks more like her every day.”
Fred Ramone had turned the rifle on himself after shooting Rachel. He had died instantly from a massive gunshot wound to the head. His body was found on the street next to Rachel’s patrol car. The Black Talon bullets had pierced her bulletproof vest. The coroner’s report said the first shot had killed her, passing through her back to shatter her heart.
Sergeant Nick Miller had been tried and later acquitted on the charge of conspiracy to commit rape, but the department had refused to rehire him. Grant Cummings was in prison and would remain there for twenty years, having been convicted of four counts of rape, along with numerous other violations, including the manslaughter of Timothy Hillmont. Carol Hitchcock had been convicted of breaking and entering and filing a false report. She had served thirty days in jail, and was presently employed by a private security company. She had married Grant Cummings before he had been shipped off to prison in a ceremony conducted by Judge Sanders in the courtroom the day of Grant’s sentencing hearing. Twice a month she traveled to the prison medical facility in Vacaville to visit her husband.
Luis Mendoza, the unarmed man Jimmy Townsend had shot, had been paroled from prison due to Mike Atwater’s intervention. The attorney had also filed a petition with the governor to grant Mendoza a full pardon.
With a solemn look on his face, Ted Harriman stepped up beside Carrie and Atwater. He had finally realized his goal to become a sergeant, taking the slot left open by Nick Miller. “Your sister was a courageous woman,” he said, shaking Carrie’s band. “Her death was not without meaning. The police officers in this county will think twice before they step out of line again.”
“I hope you’re right,” Carrie said.
“The department’s screening process was sloppy and outdated. Applicants will be checked more thoroughly now.” Harriman coughed in an attempt to keep his emotions in check. He could not forget the morning of Rachel’s death, standing in the parking lot with her head cradled to his chest. “I’m sorry we weren’t able to pick up Ramone sooner. No one suspected that he might be holed up in Grant’s townhouse.”
Once Harriman walked away, Carrie tur
ned to Atwater. “Brent is coming for Christmas. I haven’t even bought a tree yet. I just can’t do it, you know? How can we celebrate Christmas without Rachel?” She covered her face with her hands. “I knew something terrible was going to happen to her. Remember the first day we met? I told you how I felt when we were walking out of the courtroom.”
“Brent is coming for Christmas, huh?” Atwater said softly. He stood quietly for a few moments, then smiled. “You wouldn’t have an extra seat at the table, would you?”
He had taken Rachel’s death hard. Even though he had spent a great deal of time with Tracy and Joe over the last six months, he had consistently resisted Carrie’s advances. “The kids will be thrilled.” Throwing her arms around his neck, Carrie planted a big kiss on his mouth. “I’m going to get you, you know.” she whispered. “It’s only a matter of time.”
“Do tell?” Atwater said, laughing. “What makes you so confident?”
“I can see it in your eyes,” Carrie said, taking his hand and leading him across the lawn.
“Where are you taking me?” Atwater said.
“We have to tell Tracy and Joe,” she said. “I want them to know you’re going to spend Christmas with us. Now maybe I’ll feel like putting up a tree.”
Tracy, Joe, Mike Atwater and Carrie stood in a tight huddle. Atwater picked up Joe, then stretched his free arm around Carrie and Tracy. “If I come for Christmas, we have to enter into an agreement that we won’t be sad. That means singing carols, making popcorn balls for the tree, all that corny stuff. Understand?”
“I think we can handle that,” Tracy said.
“Listen,” Carrie said, playfully punching him in the shoulder, “I’ll make popcorn balls as long as you agree to clean up the mess.”
Atwater did a double take. “Maybe I’m getting in over my head here.” He looked at Joe. “We’re men, big guy, and don’t you ever forget it. We can’t let these girls push us around and turn us into sissies.”
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