Tracy's hopeful mood went bang! like a balloon that met a sharp fingernail.
"You mean, a guy," she said flatly.
She should have known. Mom hardly ever cooked anymore, instead of doing the microwave or order-in thing. Besides, just looking at her, Tracy could tell. Mom was all made-up, and her hair was bundled on her head in a way that looked casual but Tracy knew had taken her forever. She wore her favorite tight jeans, and heels instead of the fluffy pink scuffs she would have had on if no man was around.
"You don't have to say it like that." Mom was bustling, this cute ruffled apron tied around her waist. "Norm is nice. I know you'll like him."
Mom always said that when she was bringing a guy home. Every single time. Tracy didn't know if even she believed herself.
She was going on about how Norm was sensitive about this little bald spot he had on his head, like that made him nice, and how he'd been hanging around the bar every evening for weeks because he liked Mom.
Fear swelled in Tracy's chest from a first tiny nub to a huge, crushing thing.
"We're just friends…" Mom said.
"Sure," Tracy said rudely. Lashing out seemed to quiet the fear. "Like Jason was 'just a friend.' Two days before he moved in. Friends don't sleep in your bed. Do they?"
Mom faced her, eyes flashing. "What's so bad about my having a boyfriend? Why should I have to be a nun just because I'm a mother?"
"Because I hate all your friends!" Tracy yelled. Her hands knotted into fists. "Either I'm invisible, or else I have to hide from them!"
"What do you mean, 'hide from them'? Because they're trying to be friendly?" Mom came toward her, one hand out.
Tracy backed up so violently the table shuddered when she bumped it.
Her mother stopped, her nostrils flaring. "I don't know what they're teaching you at school to make you think every man who hugs you is trying something, but I've told you and told you that you're wrong. You hurt Jason's feelings. He and I might still be together if you'd just tried to be nice."
The hurt was a quick knife thrust. Tracy let all her pain sound in her voice. "You mean, let him feel me up? Walk into the bathroom even when he knew I was in the shower?"
"It was an accident!" Mom yelled back.
"It was not! He did it over and over! You just didn't want to admit it because you were jealous!"
Mom slapped her.
Tracy stood very still, feeling the sting.
"Oh God!" Mom clapped a hand to her mouth and then reached out for Tracy. "I'm so sorry!"
Tracy shook off her touch and shoved a chair so she could back away. "It's true."
"Honey, you're a pretty girl. If he … maybe flirted a little…" Mom was begging. She wanted an excuse.
"He grabbed my breasts."
Her mother pinched her mouth together. "I asked him to leave."
Tracy heard herself as if someone else was talking, a long way away. "I heard him. He's the one who got bored. You wanted him to stay. You never listened to me."
"You weren't scared of him, were you?" Mom was pleading, but almost immediately her voice changed, as she talked herself into believing what she'd wanted to believe all along. "You never said that. All you did was complain that he brushed your breast with his hand when he was reaching for a cereal bowl in the cupboard. That kind of thing happens all the time! I thought you were imagining things!"
Tracy started to shake. "What about that other guy you brought home? What about Eddie?"
Mom looked startled and mad at the same time. "What about him? He didn't even spend the night, for Pete's sake!"
"You mean, he didn't spend it with you."
In the silence that followed, Tracy couldn't breathe. She saw the expressions leapfrog across her mother's face: shock, guilt, anger, and then a stunning kind of pain.
"What do you mean?" Mom said quietly.
"You know what I mean!" she screamed, and ran past her mother and out of the kitchen.
"Tracy!" her mother yelled.
Just as she reached her bedroom, the doorbell rang. Tracy threw herself facedown on her bed and buried her sobs in her pillow. She heard the murmur of voices, and then her mother's footsteps and the sound of the bedroom door opening.
"Honey…"
She stiffened and clutched her pillow. "Go away!"
"We need to talk about this."
She drew a shuddering breath. "I don't want to talk about it."
Mom was quiet for a long time, but she didn't go away. At last she asked, in a low voice, "Why did you never say?"
Tracy shook her head violently.
"It wasn't that teacher at all, was it?"
Tracy's face convulsed in a silent wail she hid in her pillow.
"I didn't hear Eddie leave. I should have walked him out. I'd had a few drinks, and—" She stopped. "Honey…"
"Go have dinner with your friend." Tracy's voice was thick with tears. "He's out there, isn't he?"
"I can ask him to leave." Mom sounded defensive.
"I don't want to talk now."
She was silent for a minute. "All right," she agreed finally. "But we have to, you know." Tracy didn't say anything.
The door hinges squeaked. Mom asked, "Can I bring you some dinner?"
Tracy only shook her head. Her stomach hurt so much, she would only throw up if she ate. Especially if she ate her mother's gross casserole.
"Honey, I wish…" Mom's voice died away. She stood there for a moment without saying what she wished. Then she closed the door and went away.
Tracy thought about running away. She could take all the money out of Mom's purse tomorrow right before she left for work. Mom didn't usually look in Tracy's bedroom when she got home; she wouldn't even notice Tracy was gone. She could hitchhike to Seattle. Maybe look for her dad. Mom had said that's where he lived.
Her huge racking sobs slowed, as if her body was too exhausted to keep them up. Tracy began to feel almost numb, listening to first voices from the kitchen and finally laughter.
It was the sound of her mother laughing that made Tracy think dully about killing herself. Mom would find her slumped in the bathtub, blood everywhere. She'd be sorry then.
Tracy played with the pictures in her mind: with Mom finding her, the announcement at school, the funeral. Reluctantly, at last, she turned to the practicalities. Could she get her hands on a gun? That would be the fastest. You wouldn't even have to think. Just pull the trigger, and it would all be over in a booming second. Or she could just get a knife out of the kitchen drawer. But doing it that way would be harder. Wondering if she was brave enough to cut her own wrists, Tracy dropped into a heavy sleep.
On Wednesday, the long-lost Jason Haworth was pulled in on a warrant for a missed court appearance on an assault charge. Galvanized, Connor went straight to the jail.
A guard brought a sullen Haworth to an interrogation room. Lanky hair pulled into a ponytail, he wore the jail's white T-shirt and denim pants. Trouble on the hoof.
A resentful gaze swept Connor. "I don't know you," he said in faint surprise,
From his place behind the table, Connor said evenly, "No, I'm not interested in your drunk driving or bar fights."
Haworth pulled out a chair. "I was trying to get into treatment."
Uh-huh. His attorney was trying to get him into treatment. "Your honor," he would say, "my client realizes he has a drinking problem. Prison isn't the answer. Give him a chance to clean up his life in a thirty-day program." He'd have a treatment center prepared to accept Haworth. Chances were all too good that the judge, unhappily aware of the overcrowding at the jail and prisons, would say, "Fine."
Not Connor's problem. Not today.
"I'm here to talk about Tracy Mitchell." He watched Haworth carefully.
A blank stare was his reward. "Who?"
"Until a month ago, you lived with Sandy Mitchell. Tracy is her thirteen-year-old daughter."
"Oh." He slouched in his chair. "Tracy. Yeah, sure. That was her name. The kid. I reme
mber her."
Big of you, Connor thought.
"Pretty girl." Connor made his tone musing.
The bastard shrugged. "Yeah, nice tits. So?"
"Mom didn't mind you getting a little on the side with her daughter, huh?"
He shoved his chair back and half rose in a quick, violent motion. "What are you talking about?"
"Tracy says she was raped."
Alarm exploded on his face. "I never touched that little bitch!"
"But you looked."
"Sure I looked!" He sat again, but on the edge of the chair, his hands braced on the table. "I mean, the kid is parading around in tank tops without a bra and shortie pajamas. Who wouldn't look? But that's all I did. Shit, she isn't even in high school!"
Connor couldn't shake him. Okay, Tracy had whined to her mother a few times that he'd bumped her or walked into the bathroom when she was naked, but he swore to God those were accidents.
"I may drink too much, but I don't screw little girls," was his final word.
To his regret, Connor believed Haworth. He would have enjoyed putting this son of a bitch behind bars, the only cure for a drinking problem like his.
"Will you agree to a DNA test?" he bluffed.
Haworth looked him in the eye without flinching. "Sure I will. I never touched her."
Connor nodded to the guard, who steered a still protesting prisoner back to his cell.
Tapping a pencil on the table, Connor gazed blindly at the scarred wall. So Tracy wasn't raped by her mother's last boyfriend, the one who'd left after a big fight. So who the hell had raped her?
And who was she protecting?
In a call to Mariah that evening, he asked again.
"I don't know," she said, "but I wish you'd find out. Tracy wasn't in school today. Why would she skip, when she'd already faced the worst of the talk?"
"She could just be sick," he suggested.
"Or have bad cramps. I know." She was silent for a moment. "Tracy has just been so … subdued since she came back. She seems to be quieter and quieter. As if she's fading away." Mariah sighed. "That sounds melodramatic. I'm sorry."
"Don't be." He stood in front of the window in his living room looking out at the courtyard. Wet leaves plastered the cobblestones and the bare branches of the trees dripped. His own frustration and discouragement sounded in his voice. "The last time I talked to her, I thought she was scared. But I got to tell you, Mariah, I'm running out of ideas. About all I can do is keep stopping by, make myself available in case she changes her mind."
Mariah was quiet for a moment. "Do you think it would be all right if I called tonight, just to be sure she's okay?"
"I don't know why not. You must contact students and parents at home sometimes."
"Yes, but not usually to find out why a kid has missed one whole day of school."
He said what he'd been thinking. "Tracy is a powderkeg."
"I think I have all the students' numbers here." Paper rustled. "Yes … no. Wait." More rustling, and then a triumphant, "Here it is."
"I could have given you her number," he said mildly.
"Is that ethical?" she asked, in a doubtful tone.
"Is it ethical for me to discuss her with you?" He rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't know. You tell me."
She apparently gave it some consideration, because after a pause she said stoutly, "I think it must be okay, as long as all of us only want to help her."
One corner of his mouth lifted in a crooked smile. "Keep our eye on the goal, huh?"
"Shouldn't we?" She sounded tart, as if he had criticized.
His smile deepened. "Yeah. That's my philosophy."
"Well, then…"
"Call. Just… Let me know if you reach her, okay?" His own uneasiness made him add, "Or if you can't."
She phoned back ten minutes later. "I talked to Tracy's mother. She said Tracy has a bug, that she's been throwing up all day."
Reading her tone, Connor said, "But you don't believe her."
"I don't know. For starters, why's Mrs. Mitchell home?"
"It's Tuesday. This can't be a big night at the bar."
Her voice lightened. "You think Monday and Tuesday are her regular days off?"
He hated to tell her. "Actually, Sunday and Monday are. But she's probably entitled to extras, just like anyone else."
Mariah sighed, her mind already having moved on. "She just sounded … too perky. You know? 'Oh, no, everything's fine. Poor Tracy just caught a bug.'" Dropping the mimicry, she continued, "I stumbled through some explanation of how I was just concerned because Tracy has missed a lot this semester and how I hope I'll see her tomorrow in class."
"Better to stumble than not take the step in the first place."
"The philosopher again."
"That's me."
"You must be working on ten other cases."
Involuntarily he turned to glance at the sheaf of notes he'd dropped on the breakfast bar. "Five active, a dozen others on the back burner."
"This isn't that big a town!"
"I handle a variety of crimes, remember, from child sexual abuse to rape, indecent exposure—unfortunately I have a goody right now, a fellow who strolls up to school bus stops and whips open his raincoat. Classic. I'm even checking out a stalker right now, because there's an implied sexual threat. I'm an all-around guy," he mocked himself.
"How will you catch the, um, exhibitionist?"
"Loiter around school bus stops in a raincoat, I guess." He grunted. "Sorry. Black humor. Only half-true. I have loitered in a discreetly parked car near bus stops every morning for the past week and a half. No cigar."
Her voice softened. "You don't often see people at their best, do you?" She giggled, then stifled it. "Oh, dear. I just realized…"
He had to grin. "That I might yet get to? When he opens his raincoat?"
She gave another choked giggle. "I'm so sorry!"
"Nah. If we can't laugh…"
He heard a voice in the background. Mariah briefly covered the phone and answered, whatever she said muffled. Then she came back. "Time to tuck Zofie into bed. Let me know if … well…"
"Yeah," he agreed laconically. "Mariah?"
Instead of sounding wary, she answered with warmth. "What?"
"When does Simon take Zofie?"
"Right after work on Friday."
"Any chance we could have dinner Friday night, too?" He held his breath. Damn it, he just had to push.
"You're not going to get sick of me?"
"I think about you all day," he said quietly. "Whenever something happens, I think, I can tell Mariah. Or I see a mom and child and start to turn, thinking, Mariah. I want to know what you'd say about an idea. I want to know why you clam up sometimes, why you became a teacher, why you so rarely mention your parents."
In the silence that followed, Connor thought, Way to go. Tell her you've got it bad.
"Because we're not that close. But mainly, because they didn't like Simon," she said unexpectedly. "I told you that. It made me mad. I never told them why we're divorced. I refuse to admit they were right."
"What?"
"That's why I don't often mention my parents."
"Ah."
"As for why I became a teacher, I guess I can tell you Friday night. If you really care."
He heard the roughness in his voice. "I care."
"Why me?" she asked. "I don't want it to be because you feel … I don't know. Responsible, maybe. The fact that I left Simon was not your fault."
Wasn't it? He gritted his teeth against the uncomfortable reminder. He had thought Simon Stavig was guilty as hell, and he'd tried to impress that on her. He'd wanted her to leave her husband. And she was trying to tell him he hadn't influenced her decision. "Nice try," he said.
From her tone, it was clear that her chin had shot up. "What's that mean?"
"Different cop, you might have made different decisions."
"So that's it?" She sounded stunned, hurt. "That's why you're in
terested in me? Because—what? You owe me?"
"No." Now his voice grated. "My … sense of responsibility is why I shouldn't be seeing you."
"Then why are you?" she challenged.
Because I'm falling in love with you. I am in love with you.
"Let me count the ways," he said, almost lightly. "The way your forehead crinkles when you think, and your chin comes up belligerently when you're feeling defensive. Your expression when you look at Zofie. Your eyes, green with little flecks of gold. The pink that touches your cheeks when I embarrass you. Which, by the way, is easy to do," he added. "Your intelligence, your kindness, your sense of responsibility, your laugh. Your passion, and I mean both kinds. The sway of your hips and the swell of your breasts and the way your hair smells. Should I go on?"
"No." She swallowed. "That was … very romantic."
Damn. He couldn't tell whether she was genuinely moved, made uncomfortable by him coming on so strong, or amused at his idiocy.
"Thank you," he said, still in a tone that suggested he wasn't altogether serious.
Coward, he accused himself.
"So, what do you say to dinner?" He gripped the cordless phone so hard the plastic creaked.
"Dinner will be nice," she said primly. "I'll probably blush when I see you now, but then, apparently I do often."
"It's cute," he assured her.
She chose to ignore the less than staggering compliment. "Simon usually picks up Zofie about six. Shall we say seven?"
"Deal," he said. "In the meantime, maybe I can catch Tracy when she gets home from school tomorrow."
"I wish you would." This hesitation had a different quality. "I just feel as if she's … fragile."
He knew exactly what she meant. Fragile in an almost literal sense, as if the teenager would shatter at the wrong word.
Teenagers, unfortunately, had more options when they cracked emotionally than they did a hundred years ago. Despite the Port Dare PD's best efforts, a cornucopia of drugs were all too readily available. Teenage runaways no older than Tracy sold themselves to sailors on the streets of Bremerton and shot up heroin in derelict buildings in Seattle. Locally a fifteen-year-old high school freshman had killed herself with her daddy's gun just last spring.
Tracy had some powerful inner conflicts and no way acceptable to her to resolve them. That put her at serious risk.
THE WORD OF A CHILD Page 18