by Hill, Brenda
Tracy gripped the phone. “Is everything okay? Has there been any trouble?”
“No, no, nothing like that. Diana said Officer Cooper called.”
“Oh. I’m sure she’ll find out where I am, but I don’t want to talk to her.”
“Well, maybe I can keep you under wraps for a few days. We’ll see. But you should know Sergeant Sanders called. I had to tell him where you were.”
***
Reese hung up after talking to Suzy. So the sonofabitch was still in the area. What a stupid bastard.
Or did Wolfe, for some obscure reason, have a personal thing for Tracy?
She must be terrified. Reese wanted to rush to her, but it wasn’t to see the note like the professional he was supposed to be; it was to hold her and try to give her comfort.
Damn, he had to get his head out of his ass. How the hell could he function if he let his emotions rule? He couldn’t afford to forget that Tracy was his only witness, for Christ’s sake.
But he couldn’t bring himself to pounce on her, not after what she had been through. He’d allow her today to try and get back some feeling of safety.
Meantime, he’d make a little trip.
***
Tracy decided to take Ritchie into the back yard. He had been cooped up in the house, first at Diana’s, then here, and some sunshine would do him good. She’d just stay close to the back of the house.
Holding Ritchie close, she reached for the screen door latch, but couldn’t make herself lift it. It was such a simple thing. Grasp the handle and lift. That’s all. But the yard seemed so far away from the safety of the house. Ritchie squirmed and fussed, wanting down.
At the table, Amy rolled crushed apples and walnuts into a rectangle of dough.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “when you start to feel safe, things will be different.”
Tracy sighed and put Ritchie on the floor. “I wonder if I’ll ever feel truly safe again.”
“It just takes time.” Amy dipped her knife in cold water and sliced through the rolls, then put them into a large baking pan coated with melted butter. She slid it into the oven. “You’ve had a terrible experience, but you will get better.”
They were both silent as Amy adjusted the timer on the oven. Tracy hoped with all her heart that one day she would get over her terror and dread. This was no way to live, not with fear gripping her heart. Because of one man, her home and her way of life had been taken away from her, and she hated him for it. But more than hate, she was frightened. More frightened for Ritchie than she ever imagined. No matter what she lost, she had to make sure he was safe. She just prayed that one day, there would be an end to her fear.
“Looks like Ritchie’s restless.” Amy said, jarring Tracy from her thoughts. “There’s an alley in back of the house.” She washed dough from her hands. “It leads to a nice park just about three houses down. A lot of kids play there. I bet Ritchie would enjoy it.”
“If I can’t even make myself go into the back yard,” she said, a hopeless look on her face, “how can I possibly take him to the park?”
Chapter Thirty-Two
High-View Mobile Home Estates sat on the plains forty-five miles southeast of Denver. Most of the homes in the family community were older single-wides, all of them were skirted, and some had narrow front porches with metal awnings for shade. Reese drove the winding streets looking for number forty-eight, the residence of Mrs. Rose Wolfe, Karlton’s mother.
He found her home, an older, narrow one, the blue paint splotched and faded from the sun, the green outdoor carpeting on the porch ripped in several places. Reese stepped carefully to the open front door and knocked on the screen. From inside, a small dog barked, a high-pitched yapping.
“Quiet, Sam!” a woman’s gravelly voice commanded. “Be right there,” she called through the screen. When she shuffled to the door, she stood, silently appraising Reese. She appeared in her late sixties, dressed in a pink cotton duster. Faded pink slippers covered her varicose-veined feet. Behind her, the dog kept up a steady barking. “Shut the hell up, Sam!” she shouted.
“I’m Sergeant Sanders,” Reese said, pulling out his shield, “and I’d like to talk to you about your son, Karlton.”
“Step-son. Ain’t no kin of mine. What’s he done now?” She opened the door. “Might as well come in. No use giving the neighbors more to gossip about.”
Reese hesitantly entered the tiny living room, keeping an eye on the dog. The small ones were the yappers, excitable and fast moving. They rushed in, took a chunk out of your leg then darted off before you could react.
Sam was one of those little brown Mexican things. He planted himself next to Mrs. Wolfe and growled, baring front teeth an inch long. His eyes were big and round in a skinny face.
“Just ignore him and he’ll quiet down,” Mrs. Wolfe advised, hobbling through the tiny living room filled with worn furniture to the kitchen. A flowered plastic cloth covered the table, and on top, a glass sat next to a can of beer. An orange ashtray held a lit cigarette, smoke sending a trail to the ceiling.
“Wanna beer?” She opened the yellow refrigerator and looked at him.
“No thanks. I could use some water, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“It’s free.” She ran water from the faucet into a glass, handed it to him and sat down. She picked up her beer, filled the glass and drained it.
While her kitchen was small, it was neat, with dishes washed and stacked into a wire drainer. A yellow throw rug with a red flower lay in front of the sink.
Sam ran for the sofa and pounced on the arm. He growled and showed his fangs.
Reese eyed the fangs. Ignore him, she said?
Sam jumped off the sofa to run behind Mrs. Wolfe, nails clicking on the linoleum. He pranced around Reese, growled, then nipped at his feet.
Reese jumped back.
“Sam! Knock if off!” Mrs. Wolfe grabbed a dishtowel and snapped him on the head. The dog whined, then slunk to the living room where he sprawled on his stomach, hind legs stretched out behind him, and kept his eyes on Reese.
“I keep him ‘cause it’s not safe for a woman alone, you know.”
Reese took in her dyed black hair tortured into one of those French rolls from years ago, her penciled black brows shaped into crescents, the heavy makeup over her pocked face. And he nodded. Politely.
“What’s he done?” she demanded, sinking heavily onto one of the two kitchen chairs. Her bottom teeth were missing.
“I’d like to talk to him. Routine questioning.”
“Yeah, I know about routine questioning from his daddy. You pick him up and I’ll never see him again. Karr helps me, you know. Not as much as he should, the ungrateful prick. I’m not able to work as much as I used to—”
“When was the last time you saw him?” Reese asked.
“Been a couple a weeks. He was supposed to take me to the store last Friday, but he never showed. I waited all day.”
“Has he called? Or contacted you in any way?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Say, what’s this about?”
“I need to talk to him about an assault in Denver. Do you know where I might find him?”
“If I knew, I’d be on the phone. I need some things.”
“Do you have any idea where he might be if he’s not at home?” Reese asked. “Does he have any favorite places to stay?”
“How the hell should I know? Ask that slut of a wife of his. He don’t tell me nothing, the ungrateful fucker. How the hell am I supposed to let him know I gotta go to the doctor.” Her mouth pulled down into a pout, and she ran her hand over her right leg. “I got this bum leg. It pains me awful and I can’t walk sometimes.”
“Do you have the name of anyone who might know him,” Reese persisted, “who he might get in touch—”
“Dirty little bastard never had no friends. Stayed in that room of his all the time. Embarrassing when I had my gentlemen friends over. His pa sneaked off years ago and left me holding the bag. I had to raise
that kid all by myself. Wasn’t even mine, either, but I did the best I could. I keep telling him he should be grateful. But no. You should hear the things he says to me. Make your hair curl.” She took another swallow of the beer. “And I raised him. Could of up and left him, but I didn’t. And now he acts like he’s doing me a favor, sending me a few dollars now and then.”
“How old was he when you married Mr. Wolfe?”
“Let’s see...he hadn’t started school yet. I had a time, let me tell you, him home all day. He must’ve been about five. His mama up and left with some guy and his daddy wanted to get him a new ma. Did the best I could, walloped the sass out of him. Fat lot of good that did.” She got up for another beer, popped the top and filled the glass.
“I just knew the dirty little bastard would wind up in jail,” she continued, her chin lifting in a righteous manner. “Told him so. Told him from the time I married into this lousy family. Told him he wouldn’t amount to nothing.”
When Reese made his escape, he felt slightly sick. He rolled down the windows and breathed the fresh air.
He could almost feel sorry for the guy.
Almost.
***
Later that afternoon Tracy stood at the back door, Ritchie on the floor playing with some spoons. The sun had chased the gray clouds away and the air smelled fresh and sweet.
Two women she hadn’t met were working in the vegetable garden.
Tracy thought how ridiculous it was to be afraid to go into the back yard. Was that how she was going to live the rest of her life? Then, before she could change her mind, she scooped Ritchie up and out they went.
She took him over to sit in the shade of a fifteen-foot Blue Spruce pine.
Sitting down with him on the grass, she watched the women working in the garden. It was huge, taking up most of the yard, the seedlings lined up in neat rows. Tracy inhaled the rich, earthy smell of fresh turned soil, more pleasing than expensive perfume after spending so much time indoors.
A sidewalk led from the kitchen door to the driveway and the detached two-car garage. She liked the idea of the fence crossing the driveway to surround the back yard and garage. One could come and go in complete privacy.
Ritchie laughed and squealed as he tried to grab a butterfly. When it flew away, he crawled over to the edge of the garden where a slim black woman stopped her weeding to talk to him.
Tracy could feel herself unwind. She’d had no idea just how tense she had been ever since that night, the night her nightmare started. Picking Ritchie up, she crossed the driveway to the other side of the garage. About two feet of tree-shaded lawn separated the garage from the fence. Honeysuckle vines almost covered the fence, but she found the small gate, towards the back of the garage. Sliding back the large bolt, she opened the gate into an alley where, stepping through, several willow trees partially concealed anyone in the alley. A perfect natural cover.
Well. She just might be able to take Ritchie to the park after all. Just later, when she could force herself to leave the house.
***
That night after dinner, the women gathered at the table to discuss their lives and possibilities for the future. Her mind preoccupied with Reese’s upcoming visit, Tracy didn’t join in. Had she done the right thing? She wanted Karr off the streets, but she was still convinced that she couldn’t take the risk of identifying him.
“Well, I don’t know about you guys,” Wendy said, “but with three kids, I can’t make it on my own. I’ll have to go back to him, at least until the kids are old enough to take care of themselves.”
“Yeah, uh huh,” Holly said, cracking her gum. “That is, if he doesn’t kill you first.” She told them how her father would beat her mother, then come sneaking into her room, scaring her with threats if she told. “God, why did I believe him? Anybody who beats up a helpless, old woman isn’t nothing but a coward. I should have threatened him. But I didn’t.” Angry tears glistened in her eyes, and she quickly ducked her head.
“Don’t blame yourself,” Amy said, “you were just a child.” She reached over to hug Holly, but Holly shrugged it off.
“That’s terrible,” Karen murmured, “I’m so sorry for you.”
“I don’t want nobody sorry for me,” Holly said. “I’ll take care of myself.” Brusquely, she dabbed at her eyes with her knuckle, then pulled a compact mirror and eyeliner from her jacket pocket. She reapplied the black liner heavier than before.
Wendy was silent, her eyes still on Holly. “But John wouldn’t do anything like that. He’s their natural father.”
“My natural father taught me about life a long time ago.” Holly looked her straight in the eye. “You think mixing sperm with an egg makes a man a father? You don’t know nothing.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
The coffee shop’s faded paint and limp shrubbery looked so tired that Reese thought he should fit right in. The dinner rush was over, and only three cars sat in the lot, so he could grab a quick bite before fighting the traffic on I-25. He desperately needed something, anything, to chase the foul taste in his mouth.
Karlton Wolfe’s mother was a piece of work.
Twenty minutes later, finished with his ham and eggs, Reese relaxed over hot coffee and glanced at a section of the Foothill News. And spotted a photo of Dr. Sandra Wilhouser, a prominent psychologist, on the front page. She was speaking at a downtown conference on aberrant behavior.
Damn, he wished he’d known. He’d read her books and had great respect for her knowledge of the deviant mind. Maybe she could give some insights on Karlton Wolfe.
After he checked the time and location of the lecture, he called the hotel on his cell phone. The conference was almost over, he was told, and the doctor was scheduled to leave immediately after. Reese asked to leave word that he had to see her urgently and that he was on his way.
He dropped a twenty on the table and grabbed his jacket and keys, hoping she would get the message before she left. He needed to talk to her, needed some idea of how to stop Wolfe.
Siren screaming, Reese sped for the hotel, reaching it just in time to see a woman about to get into a taxi while the driver piled luggage in the trunk.
“Dr. Wilhouser?” he asked. When she nodded, he pulled out his shield. “I’m Sergeant Sanders from the Denver PD.” At her quick intake of breath, he explained. “I want to ask you some questions about the profile of a rapist.”
“Oh, thank God,” she said. “When you rushed up, I thought it was about my daughter. She’s having surgery tomorrow. I’d like to help you, but as you can imagine, I’m in a hurry.”
“Mind if I ride with you then?” Without waiting for a reply, he got in beside her.
While they were making their way to Denver International, Reese told her about the case. And Mrs. Wolfe. Dr. Wilhouser shook her head and glanced out the black window. They had left the city and were now on the outlying stretch of Pena Boulevard leading to the airport.
“It’s so sad,” she told Reese. “I’ve devoted my entire professional life to research, trying to find why a human being, born with an intellect comparable to the majority of the population, even at times superior, would turn criminal.”
“And?”
“It’s convoluted, but study after study points to disassociation. Parental neglect. Abandonment of the child is a primary factor. Your Mrs. Wolfe is a classic example.”
“That’s a cop-out,” Reese protested. “Most of us feel we’ve been neglected in some form or another, but we don’t take it out on innocent people.”
“You’re absolutely correct, but I’m talking about repeated neglect, far beyond the occasional instances where a parent or guardian is busy and ignores a child’s demands for attention. I’m referring to physical and emotional neglect so immeasurable that the child never bonds with another human being. It’s my belief that the bonding experience leads to development of ‘self’, which in turn, leads to conscience. When it’s missing, the child never learns to feel beyond the basic needs for
survival. They are to be pitied.”
Jesus Christ, Reese thought, a bleeding-heart. He should’ve known. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t feel any sympathy.”
“Of course, Sergeant,” Dr. Wihouser said. “If I were in your position, I would probably feel the same. However, I want to understand how society produces a sociopath. I do not believe in the Bad Seed theory, so until we learn how and why a sociopath is formed, we can’t prevent it.”
Christ Almighty. Reese didn’t want theories spouted at him, he wanted to know how to get inside Wolfe’s mind.
“You’ve heard the term, Miasma?” the doctor continued.
Reese would have hoofed it back to town if they hadn’t been in the middle of nowhere. Through the windshield, he could see the airport lights in the distance, twinkling against the black horizon. He sighed. It was going to be a long night. And, he had bullied his way into her cab. He supposed he could at least be civil. “I’ve heard it somewhere,” he grudgingly answered.
“The medical profession uses it to describe infants who fail to thrive when vital nurturing is missing. That’s why nurses and parents now reach into incubators to touch and stroke the babies. Yet society continues to ignore that mere neglect is harmful.
“A child’s spirit cannot thrive without physical affection. Even an infant needs love and acknowledgement of their Spirit’s worth. Our Spirit holds the blueprints of our destiny.”
“Pardon my vernacular, Doctor, but that’s all crap.”
Dr. Wilhouser sighed. “Let me put it another way. When a child has had to numb their feelings in order to survive, it becomes easier until it becomes a way of life. They simply do not feel what you or I feel. Except perhaps an underlying rage. Judging from your experience with Mrs. Wolfe, I can almost understand. Sounds like your guy never had a chance.”
“Sorry, Doctor, but I can’t afford to sympathize. This sick sonofabitch has raped and terrorized women. Right now he’s stalking a young mother he’s already put into the hospital, and threatening her baby. She believes he’ll do it. So do I.”