The Gray Zone

by Daphna Edwards Ziman

  “Jake, I can’t handle this,” she sobbed. He folded her in his arms, her brittle shoulders heaving in an uncharacteristic moment of honesty. For reasons he didn’t care to figure out, it felt good just to hold Suzanne and rock back and forth. She held on even after she stopped sobbing.

  “I did know,” she whispered. “I knew he was seeing someone.” Her shoulders shuddered. “And it hurt like hell.”

  “It’s okay,” whispered Jake. “It’s okay.” Grief held them together, where life never had.

  Long before the widow had stopped crying, the gravediggers tossed their shovels into the back of their pickup truck and quietly coasted down the hill.

  CHAPTER 10

  KELLY CROUCHED IN THE BACKSEAT OF THE TAXI, her hands icy even in the black gloves. Her head was spinning; she could hardly think straight. She had seen the FBI agents staked around the crowd at the funeral, their alert eyes looking for any hints of Porter’s murderer. Her heart felt like an out-of-control airplane tumbling through the air as it lurched from feeling to feeling. Porter was dead. She would never love anyone like that again. She had shaken hands with his wife. Big players she recognized from Las Vegas had attended the funeral. The net was closing in on her.

  “Please hurry. I need to get back to the hotel,” she said in a whispery voice.

  The driver looked back in his mirror. “Lady, are you okay?”

  Kelly slid farther down in the seat, feeling faint. “Fine,” she answered. “Please, just hurry.”

  “Well, don’t puke in my cab,” the driver muttered.

  Kelly fought to regain control, to force her mind to work like a computer, dispassionately and fast. Typing away on her Sidekick, she did a Google search to locate a pay phone nearby. She sat upright and glanced out the window onto Cahuenga Boulevard. Her eyes searched for the phone booth that should be coming up on the right. She had at last faced up to what she had to do: get her kids someplace safe.

  “Driver? Stop here, please,” Kelly demanded in a still shaky voice. The driver turned quickly, afraid of some imminent danger to his cab. And as soon as he pulled into the driveway and stopped, she headed for the phone booth—a rare commodity, since just about everyone from bankers to gangbangers now had mobile phones.

  There’s not much difference in that spectrum anyway, thought Kelly grimly, scooping a handful of coins out of her purse. She dialed a number in Las Vegas and peered around from under her hat, hunched her back in case anyone was watching. She was just old Lydia Haines, on a pay phone because she refused to learn how to use a newfangled cell phone. The line rang, and rang again.

  Come on, answer, Kelly prayed.

  “Hello?”

  “Holly, it’s me.”

  “Sweetheart! Where are you?”

  “I can’t talk long. But I need your help. Help with the kids. I’ve got to get them out of here.”

  “Of course we’ll help, honey. We’d love to have them.”

  “I’ll give you the directions. Can you come tonight?” The desperation in Kelly’s voice cut through any rudeness.

  “Sure, sweetie. We’ll be there. Where are you?”

  “Los Angeles.”

  “Los Angeles?!”

  “Please say you’ll come.” Kelly’s voice was thick with pleading.

  “Of course we’ll come. How do we find you?”

  Kelly spoke quickly and hung up the phone. In the cab, as the driver continued toward the hotel, she slid out of view of the rearview mirror, pulled chunks of putty from her face, and cleaned her makeup off using a wet wipe, keeping her hat on to shield the transformation her face had undergone.

  “Pull up here, please,” she said, using Lydia’s thin voice once more.

  She paid the cabbie, rolled up her skirt, and climbed out. She lost the hat when she was crossing the street to the hotel—watched as several cars ran over it.

  When she got up to the room, the kids were glued to the Disney channel and the babysitter was flipping through fashion magazines. The girl was doughy and seemed a little dim, but the concierge had assured Kelly that the agency they used did background checks and the sitters were CPR certified. Kelly paid her and shut the door.

  Out of necessity as a single mom, Kelly had occasionally had to leave her children with others. She knew the strict rules of Child Protective Services: If the children were found left alone or in incapable hands, even when she knew they were safe, they would be taken away from her. Kelly always made sure she had enough cash to stay at hotels that offered proper babysitting arrangements, and she always insisted on the best the agencies had. But leaving the children was always a leap of faith no matter her precautions, and every time she did, she was torn between what she had to do and what she wanted to do. But now she needed something safer and longer term for them. She had to get them out of the city.

  Holly had been Kelly’s closest friend in Las Vegas over these past two years. They had met through Holly’s husband, Frank, who was the bartender at Shrake’s club. Holly and Kelly shared the kinship of motherhood, and Holly had pulled Kevin and Libby into her life along with Kelly. She joked that the two kids filled the void left by her son, who had just started college. Kelly and Frank knew that was the truth. Holly was a natural mom, and the kids loved her like an aunt or, Kelly sometimes thought wistfully, a grandmother.

  Kelly didn’t know that behind her back Holly and Frank talked about how she was the most seductive person they had ever met, which said a lot, coming from two seasoned natives of Las Vegas. Not seductive in a sexual way, they always said, although she was beautiful, and plenty of men and women were attracted to her for that. What made Kelly an exception was more a part of her personal demeanor, the way she made you feel as though she needed you for your unique self, not for what you could do for her. Holly and Frank teased each other that they were both in love with her. But it was a pure kind of love, de-sexualized, like what you might feel for a child or a pet. Indeed, Frank had always seen a hunted animal—perhaps a doe ready to take flight—under the brave façade of Kelly’s eyes, and he had felt a need to shelter and protect her.

  As for Holly, she just loved Kelly for her directness, her sense of humor, and her clear love of her children. She’d thought a lot about Kelly’s looks and their effect on people. An ex-showgirl herself, Holly was beautiful. A little softer around the edges now, but no stranger to the power of beauty and the neuroses that can underlie it. She was most intrigued by how Kelly’s beauty didn’t alienate other women. Kelly had an equality about her and held other men and women up to equal scrutiny. When they got close, she allowed them equal access to her vulnerabilities and defenses.

  With such strong chemistry among the three, they had developed a small extended family together that had been Kelly’s main source of emotional support in Las Vegas. There was no one else Kelly would dream of leaving her children with for more than a few hours.

  It was past midnight by the time Holly called the hotel room from her car. Kelly had explained to Kevin and Libby that they were going to spend a few days with Holly and Frank in Las Vegas, and they’d get to go on a road trip in their RV. Kelly would join them as soon as she could. It wouldn’t be long, just a few days. The two children had protested loudly, as was to be expected, but they perked up at the idea of spending the time in the RV. Kelly had managed to calm them down enough for them to get a few hours’ sleep before bundling them downstairs into the underground garage.

  She found Holly’s car immediately in the prearranged spot, hugged her friends, and let Holly pack the kids in the backseat while she spoke further to Frank about her plans.

  “Are you going to be okay?” murmured Frank, his sincere brown eyes moving from Kelly to the sleepy children. “You’ve never handed over the kids in such a rush. Is he on your trail?”

  Kelly smiled a tight smile. “I need a little time to maneuver through a minefield.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “And I just need to have the kids in a safe place for a while.”

  �
�So we’ll meet at the place we always talked about—unless we hear from you?”

  Kelly nodded. She found herself in the strange position of being the one to comfort Frank. “Don’t worry. I’ve got a plan. And they’re better off with you for right now.”

  Holly came up to the two of them. Her voice was firmer than Frank’s. “I’m glad you called us for this. You’re smart to have a safety hatch for them, and I’m glad we can help. We’ll see you in a few days. Keep in touch.”

  Holly’s kind efficiency made Kelly’s eyes start to sting. She gripped Holly’s shoulders. “Thank you,” she said earnestly. Then she leaned into the car. “It won’t be long, my true loves,” she whispered to her sleepy kids, kissing their temples, between their eyes, the tips of their noses.

  Holly squeezed Kelly’s hands before getting into the front seat. “We’ll take good care of them,” she said softly.

  Kelly could only nod, holding back the tears she didn’t want the kids to see. The car drove away, and she ducked back into the elevator and rode up to her room. She tiptoed into the bathroom, shut the door, and stared at her image in the mirror. Looking pale and unbalanced in the fluorescent lights, she grimaced. One part of her mind was desperately torn away from her, was holding on to her children even as they got farther and farther away. She forced herself to let the other part of her mind take over.

  The plan was falling into shape.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE TEACUP RATTLED IN ITS SAUCER AS CHERYL Gordon placed it on the coffee table. Jake didn’t drink tea, but he was aware of the social obligation at work here. Mrs. Gordon must have served a lot of tea to Houston county officials over her years as a foster parent. There was both a practiced and a guilty air to the ritual.

  The large living room was neat, almost obsessively so, although the furnishings would have looked cluttered in a less orderly environment. The five out-of-date issues of National Geographic stacked on a side table looked as though they had been arranged with a ruler. All the wooden surfaces in the room gleamed. The room smelled of strong cleaning fluids overlaid with air freshener.

  Mrs. Gordon sat on the edge of a Lambright Comfort Chair. “You’re with Child Protective Services?” she whined. “I’ve never seen you before.”

  “Actually, I’m an attorney with the county council,” said Jake, turning the handle of the teacup ninety degrees. “I’m following up on a complaint.”

  Mrs. Gordon narrowed her eyes.

  Jake smiled. “Someone’s always complaining. It’ll be something dismissible, I’m sure.”

  Mrs. Gordon regarded him silently. Jake pushed on, hoping she didn’t know that a social worker or court-appointed special advocate was supposed to accompany him for this sort of visit.

  “Do you remember Natalie St. Clair?” he asked.

  Mrs. Gordon sucked on her thin lips. She scratched one thumbnail across the other, pushing the cuticle back. “Yeah, I remember her.”

  Jake pushed his Xerox of Kelly’s driver’s license across the table. “Did she look like this?”

  Mrs. Gordon squinted. “Could have. I don’t really remember. She ran away all the time. She was troubled.”

  Jake sat back. The woman wasn’t meeting his eyes. He held himself back, knowing that when the time came, he would be able to make her tell him what she was hiding. From the way she looked, she had a lot to hide. She was about five-foot-two and weighed around two hundred pounds. The skin on her feet puffed up and around her flip-flops, nearly burying them entirely. Below the hem of her skirt, her calves sagged; her blouse was sleeveless, and her papery arms, bulging with several rolls of flab, wobbled every time she moved. The top had a turtleneck collar around which Mrs. Gordon had tied a scarf that her fingers adjusted and readjusted. It was impossible to tell if her face had once been pretty. It was now swollen with fat and had unnatural dark markings, possibly from bruising, and her suspicious eyes peered out of it with animal fear.

  “Why did she run away all the time?” asked Jake.

  “She was just one of those out-of-control kids. A real difficult one.”

  “Did she have any reason to be unhappy here?”

  Mrs. Gordon’s hands fluttered to the knot on her scarf. “She was always unhappy. Gary used to say she was born a hard case and would never change.” Her mind’s eye appeared to lock in on Natalie. “She seemed to look at us like a wounded cat on the run.”

  Startled at her own words, she clenched her teeth to stop herself from uttering any more.

  “Does Gary enjoy having foster children?” Jake kept his voice neutral and focused, wondering what angle would draw her out. He was confident one would; he just had to find it.

  “He was a great dad. They were lucky to have him. You know, these kids come here like animals. They smell, they’re wild, just like animals. Gary is strict. He teaches them values. He gives them discipline they’ve never had before. They need it.”

  Jake forced himself to take a sip of tea. “You keep a very orderly home,” he said. “It must take a lot of work to maintain it the way you do.”

  Mrs. Gordon stared at him, judging his flattery. He smiled at her, the way he smiled at juries he needed to sway.

  “Mr. Gordon will be home any moment,” said Mrs. Gordon. “He’s just gone to the market.”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting him,” said Jake politely. “But I’m enjoying talking with you too, ma’am. Do you have any pictures of your foster children?”

  Mrs. Gordon touched her throat. “Gary doesn’t like it.”

  Jake kept the polite look on his face. “But you do keep photos?”

  Mrs. Gordon’s eyes flicked toward the door. “I keep an album in the closet. Do you want to see it?”

  Jake tried to conceal his enthusiasm. “How many have you had?”

  “Just one.”

  “Album?”

  “Yes.”

  “I meant foster children.”

  “Oh. Twenty-five, thirty.”

  “I’d like to see the album.”

  As Mrs. Gordon plodded up the stairs, Jake looked around. There was an umbrella stand by the front door with half a dozen canes sticking out of it. A fan tried to move the stale air through the room. Jake loosened his tie.

  Mrs. Gordon returned with the album, and Jake dutifully looked at each picture, pushing back his eagerness to find a photograph of Kelly. Each child had a story; Jake noticed that Mrs. Gordon labeled them either as “a good kid” or “a clumsy, troubled kid.” He wondered how many had run away from the abuse that was evident by the Band-Aids and bandages that marked the “troubled” ones.

  “I don’t see any pictures of Natalie. Are you sure she lived here?”

  “Of course she lived here. All the children are like my own. Even the bad ones.”

  “Tell me more about her. What did she look like?”

  Cheryl Gordon’s face turned sour. “Very pretty. Skinny kid, though, and real wild. She always gave us a lot of trouble. She ran away.”

  “Why don’t you have her photo in the album?”

  Mrs. Gordon looked at her hands. Jake asked her again, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  “How long have you been married?” Jake asked abruptly.

  Mrs. Gordon stirred in her chair. “Thirty-one years.”

  Jake looked surreptitiously at his watch. He had to do this before Gary got home.

  “He ever hit you?”

  Mrs. Gordon’s fingers went to her scarf again, and she looked like she was about to answer, but stopped herself.

  “Did you ever try to stop him?”

  Mrs. Gordon looked down, her thumbnails working against each other double time.

  “Did he hurt you too, when you tried to stop him?”

  Mrs. Gordon looked up, her small mouth trembling. “Natalie got it some of the worst,” she whispered. “She got to him like no one else did. If she had just stopped resisting, he would have quit on his own. If she had just stayed put, or—” She suddenly clamped her mouth shu
t. “He’s in the driveway.”

  Jake cursed to himself, and saw through the window a red-faced man getting out of a minivan. Jake spoke urgently.

  “Mrs. Gordon, this is critical. You let him ruin her life once. This is your chance to make it up to her. I need to have the information. Whatever it is you’re not telling me, I need to know it.”

  Mrs. Gordon squirmed in her chair. Jake could hear Gary Gordon’s shoes crunching on the gravel walkway.

  “I never understood why she lived with us. She had an uncle. He always came by to check on her, but he never took her home. I didn’t understand that. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with him.”

  There was a key in the door. Jake held Cheryl Gordon’s eyes.

  “What was his name?”

  “Michael. Michael Young.” The front door swung open and in walked Gary Gordon, carrying a bag filled to the brim with cigarette cartons and liquor bottles. He stopped when he saw Jake; his eyes narrowed when he noticed the photo album.

  “Gary, this is Jake Brooks,” said Cheryl Gordon.

  “Mr. Gordon.” Jake stood. “I’m with Child Protective Services,” he said, hoping Mrs. Gordon would back up his lie. “We’re interviewing foster homes in the area to assess the educational assistance our foster children need. There is a national focus on matching academic mentors with our kids.”

  Gary Gordon grunted, putting the grocery bag down by his feet.

  “We’re hoping to highlight some of our families who’ve made a special effort to educate the kids. We think it will get new families involved.”

  “We’re not interested in statistics,” said Gordon, his voice surprisingly high-pitched for his size.

  Jake pressed on. “We’ve lost track of some of the children over the years. Do you remember Natalie St. Clair?”

  Gordon turned on his wife. “What have you been talking about?” he bellowed. Cheryl Gordon cringed in her chair, her eyes averted.