Hello, Stranger

by Virginia Swift

  “How the hell do you know that?” Hawk said, revving up as she ratcheted down. “You say you’ve barely met the guy—for all you know, he might spend his spare time hacking into Justice Department files and dropping charges on political prisoners. For that matter, he could be an axe murderer for the ACLU.”

  “Oh yeah,” said Sally. “I hear that’s pretty common.”

  “Hmph!” said the techie deputy from the kitchen table. “This is weird.”

  “What’s that?” Scotty asked.

  “I sent a message to the university tech support, letting them know about the virus. And I just got a message back saying that their diagnostic indicates that the thing isn’t acting like a worm.”

  “What do you mean?” Sally said.

  “It doesn’t appear to be replicating itself at random,” said the deputy. “The problem is localized.”

  “What’s the pattern?” Scotty inquired.

  “They didn’t send that information.”

  Hawk said, “Excuse me a minute. I think I’d like to check my email.” He headed toward his desk in the corner of the living room.

  “Thanks,” said Scotty. “Let’s get packed up and get out of here,” he told the deputy, motioning to Sally as he walked toward the front hall.

  “Look,” Scotty continued. “I know you’re worried about your student...”

  “Yes, as it happens, I am. And about finding her father, dead. And about this new crusade her stepmother is launching against godless commie college professors. And maybe five or six other things. Do you really think I have the option of laying low at this point, Scotty? Apart from that virus message, my inbox was full of stuff from people who want me fired unless I hold revivals in my classroom. Do you really think I can just lie back and nibble on bonbons?”

  Scotty’s face didn’t change, but he was giving what she said some thought. “Okay,” he said at last. “I’m not going to tell you how to do your job. But don’t do mine. We’ll find Charlie Preston. We’ve got some leads.”

  “What leads?” Sally asked.

  “I can’t tell you that. And if I could, I wouldn’t, because the next thing I knew, you’d be barging in and getting in my way.”

  That hurt. She didn’t think of herself as getting in the way. In fact, she rather thought she’d been a help a time or two. “I don’t think that’s fair,” she told him.

  Scotty ignored the remark, pressed on. “We will also find out who killed Brad Preston. And if it should turn out that the girl is involved in the father’s murder, you’re going to have to figure out a way to deal with that.”

  Was that a glimmer of compassion on his hard face? Impossible. “I can deal with it. I just can’t believe it,” she insisted.

  “Doesn’t matter whether you do or not,” he said. Nope. Not compassion.

  “Hey, look at this,” Hawk called from the living room. They went to look at his screen, along with the deputy. “A bunch of messages from addresses I don’t recognize. Some God Squad stuff in the title lines, and this one headed ‘Family Photos,’ with a series of attachments.”

  “Did you get that message?” Scotty asked Sally.

  She thought a moment. “No. I’d remember. But it could have been sent after my computer crashed.”

  “Don’t open it,” said the IT deputy. “Forward it to this address, with all the attachments, and then delete the whole thing. I’ll check it out. Dr. Alder, you’d better give me your password, so I can access your account and see if more funny stuff has showed up.” She put a business card on Hawk’s desk.

  “Family photos?” said Sally. “Wonder what that’s about.”

  “Maybe just the hook to get you to open another bad attachment. We’ll find out,” said Scotty.

  “If they really are photos,” Hawk told him, “and either of us are in them, that’d be pretty weird. We’ll hear from you, right?”

  Scotty pressed his lips together. “If they’re photos of you or your families,” he said, “you can bet you’ll hear from us.”

  Chapter 9

  Crosses to Bear

  By the time Scotty and the IT deputy left, it was cocktail hour. Maybe half past cocktail hour. She requested a Jim Beam. Hawk complied.

  She took her first sip. “Bea Preston,” she said. “I need to go talk to Bea.”

  “I’m sure she’ll welcome you with open arms,” Hawk told her.

  “She’ll have to see me,” said Sally, “because I’m going to tell everyone I know that I’m going to see her. To make peace. We may be far apart on many issues, but we’re both women who want the best for her daughter and for the community. I’m sure we can find some common ground.”

  The Preston residence was listed in the Laramie phone book. Sally took a deep breath and dialed the number. She’d probably get voice mail, but she could at least leave a message and start the ball rolling.

  Bea Preston answered on the first ring. “Professor Alder?” she said, when Sally identified herself. “Oh yes, of course I know who you are. Charlotte’s teacher.” Bea’s beautiful voice was as cool and creamy and all-American as banana pudding. Not welcoming, but at least she didn’t hang up on Sally.

  “Yes, Mrs. Preston. I’m very concerned about Charlotte. I wanted to talk to you about that. But I also want to offer my condolences. I know how hard a time this must be for you,” Sally said, taking a surreptitious sip of her Jim Beam. Kentucky courage.

  A pause. “Yes. It’s very hard. The sheriff told me you’d been the one to...find Brad. It must have been a terrible shock for you. I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you,” said Sally, hearing a hint of compassion creep into Bea Preston’s voice, and going with the connection. “I’m certain the police are doing everything they can. And I wanted you to know that I attended the memorial service yesterday. I don’t want to impose, at this very difficult time, and I know you’re distraught, but I think there are things we should discuss. Matters of mutual concern. Mrs. Preston, we differ on many things, but we at least have a desire for Charlotte’s well-being in common.”

  Another pause. Sally began to think the idea of calling had been insane. Then Bea spoke. “Professor Alder, many people would be appalled that I’m even speaking to you. If you were at the service, you understand my feelings about your work, your ideas, and the influence of people like you on impressionable young people like my daughter. I can’t imagine why you’d think I’d want to talk with you.”

  Yep. Insane. “I understand, Mrs. Preston. I’m sorry you feel that way. I won’t bother you again,” Sally said, preparing to hang up, finish her bourbon, and chalk the whole thing up to a crazy impulse. And what would be gained by letting it be known she’d made the call?

  “Just a moment, Professor,” said Bea. “You must admit yourself, this is a very strange conversation.”

  Sally found herself almost smiling. “Yes. Pretty strange.”

  “The Lord works in mysterious ways. I think we should meet, and talk. Why don’t you come to my house tomorrow afternoon at five?” She gave an address on Tenth Street, south and west of the university, in a neighborhood Sally recognized as high-end. Big old houses, some historic Victorians, beautifully kept. It wasn’t Laramie’s richest—that honor was reserved for the sprawling brick and glass tract houses with four-car garages, springing up like weeds in the new developments on the edges of town. Still, it took some bucks to live where the Prestons did, and some taste to choose a historic house instead of a McMansion.

  So it was a date. Beatrice Preston had been nicer than Sally had expected. A hell of a lot nicer, when you considered that less than twenty-four hours previously, Bea had been pretty much damning Sally and all her ilk to hell, five ways.

  But there were some possible explanations. Even while she publicly celebrated Brad’s life, Bea could not have been oblivious to what he’d been doing to his own flesh and blood. Maybe he’d abused Bea too. Now that he was gone, no longer a threat, maybe she was looking for a push to come out of shame and denia
l, and confront what had really been happening behind closed doors. All that rage and righteousness might really be a fierce disguise for guilt and regret. Maybe Bea was reaching out.

  Or maybe she figured she could get something out of Sally that she could use later. Sally had no illusion that she was dealing with a lightweight.

  Sally dressed carefully for her meeting with Beatrice Preston. Nothing too foofy or pandering, nothing that would identify her as a fanged feminista. No pink angora, but no black tunics or big ethnic jewelry either. On an April day like this, the wind could cut you to pieces, so she chose gray wool slacks and a soft orange sweater. Professional, but cheerful.

  The house was three stories tall, brick painted gray with maroon, cream, and black wood trim, with a turret at one end and a deep front porch furnished with wicker chairs and a couch. The high windows gleamed. The front door was painted the same maroon that appeared on the trim.

  Bea Preston answered the door wearing gray wool slacks and a melon-colored sweater only slightly paler than Sally’s orange. They looked at each other and laughed.

  Sally spread her hands. “Common ground,” she said, still smiling.

  “Maybe we should call each other in the morning and do a wardrobe check,” said Bea.

  It took a deft touch to keep Victorian furnishings under control. Enough generally shaded over into too much, into over-doilied, antimacassared parody. Whoever had done the Preston house had managed the trick. There was a crystal chandelier, fringed tassels on the tie-backs for the drapes, the obligatory piecrust table. But not too much. Sally felt as if she’d stepped back in time, into the nineteenth century, into a slower, more gracious time.

  Bea led her to a settee upholstered in deep-rose watered silk, poured tea from a silver pot into gold-rimmed, pink-and-white Limoges cups. A matching plate held thin lemon cookies. The teapot, silver creamer, sugar bowl, and spoons were all the same pattern, something heavy and ornate, a lot like the Chantilly pattern Sally had inherited from her grandmother. Pink linen napkins. Even a small cranberry glass vase, with a delicate little array of pink and white flowers. Bea was a detail woman. And though she probably hated Sally’s guts on principle, she was showing a lot of class.

  Sally tasted the tea: Earl Grey. A safe, nice choice. “Mrs. Preston,” she said, “Let’s start out by agreeing that we both want what’s best for your stepdaughter.” A safe, nice statement, right?

  Bea stirred milk into her own tea. “I’m sure we do,” she responded, aiming her enormous blue eyes at Sally. “But I doubt you have any real understanding of the depth of Charlotte’s problems. How much do you know about mental illness?”

  Sally gave it a moment. “I’m no expert. From time to time I’ve had to deal with students who’ve had problems of one kind or another. I’ve done what I can to understand what they’re up against.”

  “I would be surprised,” said Bea, “if you have any idea of the seriousness of Charlotte’s disorder. She first began exhibiting signs of behavioral problems when she was only six years old.”

  “Behavioral problems?” Sally asked, setting down her teacup.

  Bea nodded. “She’d be completely withdrawn, or fly into uncontrollable rages. She did destructive things: tearing up the garden, setting little fires. That was also when she first began hurting herself.”

  “How?” Sally asked.

  “Scissors. Matches. We had to lock up anything we thought she could use. But she was endlessly creative. Once she threw herself down the stairs. We tried doctors. They put her on medication. It would help for a while, then not.”

  Proceeding carefully, Sally said, “What do you think caused her to act that way?”

  Bea shook her head. “Some might say the cause was spiritual. The doctors, of course, had their ideas. They suggested that there might be a genetic predisposition toward psychiatric problems. Since there was no history of such things on Brad’s side, we assumed that the affliction must have come from her mother’s family.”

  A convenient explanation, thought Sally. Another plausible cause would have been the beginning of a pattern of abuse. Would it be possible, Sally wondered, to get a look at Charlie’s medical records? “That must have been hard on you, as her stepmother,” she said.

  “The woman who gave birth to Charlotte saw fit to abandon her. I married her father when she was five. I’ve always called myself her mother, Professor. And yes, it was hard on both Brad and me. We prayed for guidance. We told ourselves that everything that is, exists as part of the Lord’s plan. God had sent Charlotte’s suffering to strengthen our faith. She was our cross to bear.”

  Wow. With parents like that, a kid would be carrying a heavy load herself, Sally thought.

  “We did the best we could,” Bea continued. “But then, when she was nine, she started running away from home. She got as far as West Laramie, that time. She was incoherent, and she fought us all the way home. We were forced to put her in a psychiatric clinic. We simply couldn’t give her the care she needed.”

  Nine years old, and sent to a psych ward. Jesus. “What a terrible ordeal for such a little kid,” said Sally.

  “It absolutely tore her father apart. But he could never bring himself to do what the doctors told us we should.”

  “Which was?” Sally asked.

  “Permanent institutionalization. Charlotte was a very sick child, who has grown into a desperately ill young woman. Brad kept hoping that medication and counseling, and firm parental guidance, would help her to stop the self-destruction, the violent outbursts, the pathological lying. Nothing helped.

  “What you need to understand, Professor Alder, is that my daughter has no understanding of the concept of right and wrong, or even of how to live in the world. She sees conspiracies against her everywhere, and seems to trust only the worst kinds of people, people she knows will hurt her. Everyone else, she manipulates with lies and guilt, with the appearance of repentance and affection. Time after time, she’d wreak havoc on us, disappear, and reappear as the penitent prodigal. We would rejoice, reconcile, believe we were on the road to being a real family. And then she’d do something horrible and run away again.”

  “It must be hard to believe your own child would do such things,” Sally said.

  “You have no idea how devious she can be. She’s not above finding a way to injure herself physically to make a point.”

  Could it be? Sally had seen Charlie’s cuts and bruises— could the girl be crazy enough to have somehow done that to herself? The cops and the state had been involved in Charlie Preston’s life a long time. Somewhere in her police files or case records, there had to be some answers.

  Bea continued. “I know that you feminists believe that women have never had freedom of choice. As I’m sure you’ve gathered, I believe that God has ordained that men will protect and provide, and women be helpmeets to their husbands. There’s a divine plan for us all, and our happiness and our salvation come from knowing what God has in mind for us. You may think you’re helping young women seek independence and fulfillment, but are you asking them to deny and defy their nature? Are you simply sowing discontent and discord?”

  “I believe I’m offering them the opportunity to use their brains, their hearts, and their talents to the utmost, Mrs. Preston. I don’t think anyone has the right to withhold those possibilities from any human being. Yes, you and I do disagree, and I suspect that we’ll go right on disagreeing on general principles. I hope you understand, however, that your daughter’s well-being is important to me,” Sally answered.

  “Professor Alder,” said Bea, controlling whatever emotions threatened to break loose, “you may find this hard to believe, but I pray for your soul. The Bible tells us to hate the sin, but love the sinner. All of us are capable of finding redemption in the Lord, no matter what our delusions and our transgressions. Seek God’s love, and He will find you.”

  Sally said nothing. So Bea continued. “If nothing else, please understand one thing. Charlotte is the last person
on earth who needs choice. The doctors told us: To function even minimally, she requires a strictly controlled environment, very definite discipline. The last thing on earth she needs is the kind of moral relativism, of boundless license, that people like you advocate. And with all that medical advice, still, I could never convince Brad to do the hard thing, the thing that was best for the child. He kept thinking he could buy her sanity with lavish gifts and endless acceptance. The more he gave her freedom, the worse it was. The drugs, the horrid boyfriends, the vile abuse she heaped on us, the lies she’s told about us. That was the thanks we got.” Bea’s lovely eyes at last filled, and spilled tears. “And now Brad’s paid the price.”

  “Mrs. Preston,” said Sally, leaning toward the woman. “Are you suggesting that Charlie had something to do with what happened to her father?”

  Bea reached into a pocket of her trousers, withdrew a handkerchief, wiped her eyes, composed herself before speaking. “Professor Alder, do you have any idea how many times that child threatened to kill us both?”

  If Charlie had been treated half as badly as Aggie Stark had suggested, Sally could understand the threats. Angry words would have been the least of the conflict in the Preston household. But if Bea was telling the truth, and Charlie was half as crazy as she implied, such threats would have been scary, even without what had happened to Brad. Sally took a minute to think. “From what you’ve just told me, the person she’s most likely to harm is herself.”

  “Possibly. Charlotte may well have gone into yet another phase of self-destruction. She has a history of drug abuse, and of involvement with criminals. She may well have persuaded that boyfriend of hers to do a deed she couldn’t quite bring herself to do,” said Bea.

  Sally had to admit, Bea had a point. And if any of what she was saying was true, Bea had reason to be worried about what Charlie might do next. “One way or another, it’s really important that she come back here. Do you have any inkling where she might have gone?” Sally asked.