“Come on, buddy,” she told him. “Let’s go see what they’ve got.”
He withdrew his ear buds and followed her inside. The cases were filled with éclairs and cookies, tarts and pies. A few people sat at the little tables, talking over coffee. They would take no notice of him until he started to speak. Then they would look at him, then her, and share a knowing glance with their companions. A mentally challenged adult. His soon-to-be-old mother. How sad. How noble. If Zack behaved, they would think no more about it. If Zack went off the rails, then the bakery would empty in a heartbeat. She’d gone through it too many times not to know what would happen.
She walked over to stand at Zack’s elbow. “What would you like, honey?”
“That.” He pointed to a bear claw, then a crème horn, then a cherry turnover.
“Choose two,” she said. “You can have one now, and another later.” She held her breath, waiting. If the drugs had kicked in, he’d be happy with two; if they hadn’t, he might want everything in the place.
He pointed to the cherry tarts and the crème horns. “I want one of those, please,” he told the girl behind the counter. “And one of those.”
Grace felt a wave of relief. Two was going to be enough.
She paid for the pastries, then they left the bakery through a back door. A sign for Ravenel & Crow pointed upstairs, so she started up a wide interior staircase. “Come on, Zack. Let’s go see a friend of mine.”
“Who?” he asked, his mouth already full of cherry tart.
“Mary Crow. She came to our house the other day. She’s nice.”
They walked into a small reception room. A diminutive woman in a pale blue business suit sat behind a desk decorated with a vase of fresh flowers and two miniature flags—Old Glory next to the Union Jack.
“Good morning,” she said, her accent sounding straight off the BBC. “May I help you?”
“We’re here to see Mary Crow,” Grace replied.
Smiling, the woman checked her schedule. “Mrs. Collier, then. And Zachary?”
Grace nodded.
“Wonderful. If you’ll take a seat, I’ll tell Mary you’re here.”
Grace was backing toward the sofa when Mary herself opened an office door on the other side of the room. “Thanks, Annette,” she told her secretary. “I’m ready.”
“Shall I bring tea?” asked Annette. “Or coffee?”
“Nothing for us, thank you.” Grace smiled.
“Then come on in.” Mary held her office door open. “Welcome, Zack,” she said softly as he lumbered into the room. “I’m Mary Crow.”
“Nicetomeetyou,” he mumbled.
They walked into a soft yellow office that overlooked Main Street. Law books lined the walls, interspersed with Cherokee baskets and a carved bear mask. Behind her desk hung an intricate tapestry woven in rich greens and deep, vibrant blues.
“Uwodu,” Grace said, admiring the tapestry.
“Thanks,” Mary replied. “From my agiji.”
“Your mother’s very talented,” Grace said. “Does she work locally?”
“No,” said Mary. “She passed away, some years ago.”
“Of course,” Grace said, noting the sadness in Mary’s eyes. “You mentioned her at the breakfast the other day. I had no idea she was such a gifted artist.”
“She had an amazing sense of color,” said Mary. She nodded at the two armchairs that faced her desk. “Please, sit down.”
Grace took one of the armchairs, but Zack remained standing. Finally he asked, “Mama, can I sit by the window?”
“That’s a good idea, Zack,” said Grace. “Mary and I need to talk.” She’d hoped he’d plug in to his cartoons. If he heard the words police or detective, things could get dicey. She relaxed a bit when he flopped down beneath the window and re-inserted his ear buds.
Mary came over and sat on the edge of her desk. “I know he doesn’t like loud talking. Is this okay?”
Grace nodded. “Perfect.”
“Okay. Here’s the deal—the police need Zack to give his sample in their lab to keep the chain of evidence clean. But Cochran’s willing to let him come through the back entrance, so it won’t seem like he’s going to jail. It’s only a cheek swab, so it won’t be nearly as traumatic as before.”
“Will Detective Whaley be there? He just sends Zack into a panic.”
“I can’t control who’s there. But Cochran promised to remind Whaley that he’s got a special needs suspect. Shall we ride over together?”
Grace knew that Zack got nervous when strangers were unexpectedly introduced into his equations. “How about we take two cars and meet you there?”
“That’s fine,” said Mary. “I’ll have Annette call Cochran’s secretary and let her know we’re on the way.”
Zack remained calm, at least until they pulled into the Justice Center parking lot. Grace had hoped he would keep watching cartoons until they parked, but he looked up as they passed the black-and-white squad cars in front of the building.
“No!” he cried. “I don’t want to go here!”
“Its okay, Zack,” she told him as he hurled the DVD player at the dashboard. “It’s not going to be like the last time.”
“No! I’m not going!”
He unbuckled his seat belt and started fumbling with the door handle as she sped to the back of the building. Careening sharply into a vacant parking space, she tried to get a grip on him. “Listen to me! We have to do this. We don’t have any choice!”
“Smackertalker! Smackertalker!” he bellowed, batting at her with his hands.
She fended off his blows, wanting to scream. She was afraid to give him another Abilify, but if he went inside the building like this, they would tase him or put him in jail. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed his chin and pulled his face toward hers.
“You remember Caillou? On TV? Remember how Caillou always trusts his teacher? Even when he’s scared?”
Zack just looked at her.
“Well, today you need to be like Caillou, and trust me. I know you’re scared. I know you hate those policemen. But this won’t be like it was before. They won’t hurt you. That lady Mary Crow promised me that.”
“I want to go home!” yelled Zack.
“I do too. And we will. But first they need to rub a Q-tip on the inside of your cheek. It won’t hurt.” Grace prayed she was right; prayed there wouldn’t be fingerprints and mug shots.
“How long will it take?”
“Five minutes.” Again, she lied. She had no idea how long this would take.
“That’s all?”
“Yes, honey. I promise.”
He sat forward in the seat crying, rubbing his forehead on the dashboard. She watched him, looking at the strong arms that might have, in a different life, thrown a football or escorted a girl to a prom or even held a baby of his own. She was reaching to touch his shoulder when someone tapped on her window. She turned. Mary Crow was standing there.
“Ready?” she asked.
Grace held up one finger and turned to Zack. “Come on, Zack. We need to go. Mary Crow is waiting.”
He lifted teary eyes toward Mary. For a moment Grace couldn’t tell what he was going to do, then he wiped his nose and said, “Okay.”
They got out of the car and followed Mary to the back entrance of the jail. Though Zack shuffled his feet like an old man, he came more or less willingly. When they got to the lab, Mary opened the door. Grace’s heart sank. Buck Whaley was sitting on a stool, chatting with a girl in a white coat.
“Well, look who’s here,” he boomed. “Ol’ Zack Collier and his mama. And Ms. Mary Crow, herself.”
“Put a lid on it, Whaley,” Mary warned.
Grinning, he rose from the stool and stepped toward Zack, putting a hand on his shoulder. By police brutality standards, it was nothing.
By Zack’s standards, it was horrific.
“Mama!” He shrugged off Whaley’s hand and turned to Grace, tears again streaming. “I want to go home!”
“What are you cryin’ about now?” asked Whaley. “I’m just trying to get you on that stool. Boy, I think you’re puttin’ on an act. I think you been puttin’ one on for years.”
“Detective!” Mary stepped between Zack and the beefy cop. “My client is a special needs case. You need to proceed accordingly.”
“Shut up shut up shut up!” Zack screamed. “Quit smackertalking!”
Suddenly Zack pushed away from them both. Mary went flying into Whaley, the top of her head banging into his face. The two of them stumbled, knocking over the stool. The lab technician yelped. As blood began to spurt from Whaley’s nose, he reached for his Taser. All at once a tall, skinny man appeared in the doorway. He wore jeans and a blue dress shirt, and his dark hair was curly and flecked with gray.
“You don’t need to Taser him!” The man stepped in front of Zack. “Just quit yelling. He’s got hypersensitive hearing.”
Whaley pushed Mary Crow to one side and pointed his Taser at the stranger. “Who the hell are you?”
“Next in line for a swab, Detective Whaley,” the man said calmly. “Name’s Adam Shaw.”
“Adam!” Zack flung his arms around the man’s shoulders. “You came back!”
“I sure did, buddy,” said Adam Shaw, still keeping his eyes on Whaley. “Just to see you.”
For a long moment, nobody moved. Then Whaley turned to Mary Crow, one great paw trying to staunch the blood streaming from his nose. “Can you control your client, Ms. Crow?”
“I can control him,” said Grace, “if you’ll just speak softly and not touch him. He’s terrified of you.”
“As well he should be.” Whaley reholstered the Taser and glared at Adam Shaw. “Since you two have this little bromance going on, I’ll just watch while you work this out. But I need DNA from both of you.”
Grace took Zack’s hand. “Come on … ”
“Wait.” Adam turned to her. “Let me go first. Zack can watch. We’ll show Detective Whaley we’re not afraid of him.”
“Yeah,” said Zack, thrilled to have an ally against the cop.
The lab tech handed Whaley a box of tissues, then filled out a new sheet of paperwork. As Adam took a seat on the stool, she donned a pair of latex gloves and pulled a long swab from a paper wrapper. She stepped over to Adam, but spoke to Zack in a soft voice. “Okay, Big Guy. You watch what I’m going to do. Your buddy’s going to open his mouth and I’m going to rub the inside of his cheek with this. After that, it’ll be your turn.”
Adam opened his mouth as Zack watched the procedure. After the lab tech sealed up the swab in a sleeve, Adam grinned. “Piece of cake, Zack. You won’t even feel it.” He hopped off the stool. “Now you sit here and I’ll keep an eye on Detective Whaley.”
To Grace’s amazement, Zack complied. He got on the stool and opened his mouth wide, as if he were at the dentist’s office. The lab tech saw her chance and quickly swabbed the inside of his cheek. Thirty seconds later, she was finished.
“Good job, buddy!” Adam gave Zack a high five, then turned to Whaley. “We should be done here, according to my attorney.”
“You are done here,” said Mary. “I am an attorney.”
“Then come on.” Adam grabbed Zack around the shoulders. “Let’s go.”
The pair walked out the door. They brushed against Whaley, who was standing there holding a tissue to his nose. He started to say something, but Mary pointedly cleared her throat, her eyes hard on his. Aware of her presence, he said no more, but closed his mouth in a thin, angry line. Grace and Mary walked past him. When they got out into the hall, Whaley slammed the lab door shut behind them.
Grace leaned back against the wall, weak with relief. “Dear Lord,” she whispered to Mary. “Are you alright?”
“Just disgusted. I’ve never been that close to Buck Whaley before.”
“I’m so sorry,” she apologized. “Zack didn’t mean to hurt you. Whaley just scares him so.”
“He scares me too.” Mary rubbed the spot where her head had connected with Whaley’s nose.
“Zack panics when he’s scared. Or frustrated. Or just doesn’t understand what’s going on. Thank God for Adam Shaw.”
Mary watched the man who’d saved the day, now laughing with Zack. “He’s one of the old neighborhood kids, isn’t he?”
Grace nodded. “His parents sent him away after they found Teresa. I don’t think he’s set foot in this county since. I was flabbergasted when he walked in.”
“Zack seems pretty glad to see him.”
“Zack adored Adam. Devin and Butch could be mean to him, but never Adam.”
“Well, like you said, thank God for Adam,” said Mary.
Grace pulled her car keys from her purse. “I’d better get Zack home. I can’t thank you enough for this, Mary. If you hadn’t been here, I know Whaley would have put Zack in jail.”
“I was glad to help, Grace. I’ll call you when they get the results of this test.”
“How long do you think it will it take?”
“It’s hard to say. Newer, more solvable cases take precedence.”
Grace gave a little shudder. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
“I know it’s hard to wait,” said Mary. “Unfortunately, that’s just the way the system works.”
“It’s not the system I’m afraid of,” Grace replied. “It’s all the
people out there who still think Zack killed that little girl.”
Thirteen
Adam Shaw watched as Grace Collier’s battered SUV drove pulled out of the parking lot, Zack waving wildly from the passenger seat. “Bye, Adam!” he yelled so loudly that a couple of people turned to look. “I’ll call you!”
“Okay,” Adam called softly, saluting Zack with one hand.
So that’s Zack, he thought as the Dodge disappeared in traffic. Fifty pounds heavier, but not a day older inside his head. What must that be like? he wondered. To have your mother drive you everywhere, to still get caught up in cartoons. It was bizarre, yet there was an innocence about Zack that touched him. As ardently as his mother had hugged him, Zack’s embrace had somehow been more freely given. The big boy/man had been truly glad to see him.
“Wow,” Adam whispered. “All these years, and for him, nothing’s changed.”
After that, he headed back inside, looking for Detective Whaley. He found him, still in the lab, trying to staunch his bloody nose with a wad of cotton.
“What do you want?” asked Whaley, his voice both muffled and nasal.
“I figure you guys are going to want a statement, so I’d like to give it now. I’m helping my folks move and may not be in town much longer.”
Whaley looked at him as if he were joking, but then decided he must be serious. Adam followed him to an interview room and sat down to yet again tell what happened that afternoon, to the best of his recollection. They’d played, then Devin brought out a deck of marked cards that he’d stolen from his brother. They’d tried to get the girls to play Bottom Up, but they’d gotten mad and gone home. Soon everybody went home.
“This doesn’t shed any new light on things,” Whaley grumbled when he’d finished.
“I have no new light to shed, detective.”
“Okay.” Whaley shrugged. “We’ll be in touch if we need to talk again.”
After that, Adam left, threading his way through the crowded Justice Center parking lot. He’d parked at the end of one row, where a man was leaning against his mother’s Toyota, writing something on a long pad.
“Hey!” he shouted. “You can’t give me a ticket! I’m here on police business!”
The guy looked up but kept on writing. Adam ran toward his car, angry. As he nea
red the guy, he saw that he wasn’t a cop at all—just some dude wearing blue trousers and a light blue shirt. Still, he had his foot planted on the back bumper of his rental, making notes about something.
“What’s the problem?” Adam asked the man. He looked to be in his late twenties, with sandy hair and glasses.
“No problem.” He looked up from his writing. “Are you Adam Shaw?”
“I am.”
“Then you’re the guy I’ve been waiting for.”
“Waiting for? Why?”
He pulled an ID from his shirt pocket. “John Cooksey, Hartsville Herald.”
Adam stepped back, feeling like an idiot. He should have seen this coming. The Hartsville Herald was always hungry for news about Teresa Ewing.
“I’ve got nothing to say.”
“Really? Don’t you want to give your side of the story? You’re the only one who ran way.”
“No comment.” He brushed past the guy, key fob in hand.
“You sure? You might come off as less of a coward if you, like, said something.”
He unlocked the car, angry but also mindful of his father’s sternest maxim. Say nothing. Not to anyone. Not the cops, not the press, not to anybody. Ever. He got in the car and lowered the window. “Here’s my comment,” he said.
The guy moved closer, ready to write. “What?”
“Get the fuck out of my face, asswipe.”
The reporter looked surprised. Hurt, even. “Seriously? That’s it?”
“You got it.”
“Okay, Shaw. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Adam put the car in reverse and backed up so fast that Cooksey had to jump to keep from getting run over. He tore out of the parking lot angry, wondering if everybody did think he was a coward. Maybe it was time to go visit his old pals and find out. Turning left, he headed back toward town. All he had to do was cross his back yard to see Butch Russell, but Devin McConnell was a little different. He remembered his mother saying that Devin had taken over his dad’s used car lot. He drove past their old school, farther past a new crop of fast-food places, then he saw it—Tote-A-Note Used Cars. The same manic-looking leprechaun was perched on the roof, the same shamrock-green balloons bobbed in the air. Adam had to smile. Once they were watching TV on Saturday morning, and Big Jim McConnell had come on in a car commercial, wearing a little green hat and pummeling car price tags with a huge plastic shillelagh. Mortified, Devin had immediately re-named his father’s business Tote-A-Turd, and called his father the biggest shit of all.
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