Privileged Witness

by Rebecca Forster

  He lifted his drink and downed it. Why was he silent? Because he had no answers; none that anyone would understand anyway. Exhausted, Matthew snapped off the television and let his head fall back. He tossed the remote to the end of the couch and rubbed his eyes with his free hand. His head lolled sideways and he surveyed all that he owned. It was a lot but it wasn't enough. He didn't want to run a company that belonged to his father. He wanted to be loved and honored and looked up to by lots of people. His eyes settled on the phone. He wanted Grace to call. He could save his career, if she would just . . .

  Matthew put the bottle to his lips and kept it there for a minute before he realized it was empty. Just as he thought about that, the phone rang. The bottle went into his lap and Matthew watched the phone as if he could see the rings and count them.

  One. Two. Three. .

  They were nuts if he thought he was going to answer his own phone and talk to a reporter.

  One more. There it was. Four.

  The machine picked up. For the tenth time Matthew listened to his own voice invite whoever it was to leave a message. His head fell back. The beep sounded. He waited. It was . . .

  Grace.

  It took Matthew a minute to realize that he wasn't hearing things. When it dawned on him that Grace was on the phone, Grace was leaving a message, Grace was telling him something important, Matthew lunged for the phone and grabbed it up, fumbling the receiver and finally getting it right. But by the time it was at his ear and he was yelling her name, promising everything, but the connection was broken. Matthew collapsed on the sofa with the phone on his chest, a pillow pulled tight and his knees pulled up. Everything was just falling apart. Just falling apart and it wasn't fair to him when he had always tried to do what was right.

  Matthew McCreary, drunk and alone, sobbed his self pitying tears. It was never, ever supposed to be like this.

  CHAPTER 37

  Archer, Josie and Tim stood between the car and an old stucco building that seemed to be held together with the glue of graffiti. A necklace of blown out windows wrapped around the place. The ground beneath their feet was a crazy quilt of asphalt and pebbles, stones and hard packed dirt. It crushed as they walked single file with Tim in front. Familiar with the lay of this land, he led them to a small metal door above which a naked bulb hung from wire strung from post to building. The face he turned toward them was etched with worry and sadness and resignation.

  ''She's in the caretaker's apartment. She's expecting me to come with food and fresh clothes but she's afraid so . . .''

  Tim didn't have to lay out the ground rules. He did not have to tell them that Grace was afraid to be in this deserted building, in this mean town so far from her accustomed comforts. Archer reached for the door handle. Tim beat him to it.

  ''She trusted me, you know.''

  ''Okay,'' Josie said and Archer acquiesced.

  Silently Tim opened the door and they were inside a factory filled with rusting machinery, degrading boxes and long tables where people used to work. Now abandoned, the place was oddly sterile. Despite the clement weather outside, cold from the concrete floor traveled up Josie's legs and settled in her belly. She touched nothing but saw everything: on the floor was a fast food bag, candy wrappers, shards of brown glass that had once been a beer bottle that glinted in a shaft of light that javelined through a hole in a high window. A comb had been left on one of the work tables. There was a lathe. A bench saw. Half a chair. Lumber was stacked on the west wall. More boxes were stacked neatly on the east wall, bigger boxes than the ones she had initially seen. Glass crunched underfoot.

  ''What did they make here?'' She drew close to the men to keep from calling out to Grace.

  ''Furniture,'' Tim whispered back. ''When my father died I got the property. I've been trying to sell it but haven't had much luck.''

  Tim ducked behind some boxes. Josie and Archer were on his heels, following through another door that led to a hallway. To the right was Josie could see an office with filing cabinets, a pen on the metal desk, an adding machine. Tim paused a moment and looked at it. Josie imagined he was seeing his father behind that desk, looking up, wondering what his son was doing with these rich folks. Tim pointed to another door.

  ''In there,'' he whispered. ''I'll go in first.''

  ''Maybe not.''

  Archer shouldered him away and this time Tim let him. It was what it was. Archer turned the knob slowly. All of them held their breath, listening for the sound that would give them away, but Archer was smooth. He entered first, then Tim. Josie pulled up the rear. They found themselves in a small room that looked like a utility apartment: table, a metal sink, two chairs. Grace wasn't there. Tim shrugged, confused. He pointed to one of two small doors. Josie opened the one on the left.

  ''Bathroom,'' she whispered. The men faded away to explore while Josie lingered.

  There was moisture in the air. Grace's earrings were on the sink. Three cigarette butts floated in the toilette. A towel with make-up smudges hung on a nail in the wall. There were drops of water on the floor. Josie touched the towel. It was damp; the soap was wet. Grace had washed her face; Graced had washed her face off. Josie was thinking she wouldn't know Grace without make-up when something caught her eye. Hunkering down, she reached into the box near the sink and plucked Grace's emerald ring from the trash. Josie put it in the palm of her hand.

  Pocketing the ring, she retraced her steps and looked for Archer and Tim. The next room had a cot, a hot plate, another table. A small rectangular window cut high above the bed was open and that told Josie all she needed to know. Grace had seen them coming. She had washed up, was ready to settle in for the night, when she had heard the car drive up. But bringing Tim's car hadn't fooled her one bit, smart girl. Grace had listened to the sound of more than one door closing, heard their careful footsteps on the gravel, perhaps tiptoed on the cot, straining to see just enough to tell her that she had been betrayed. Perhaps the ring had fallen into the trash in her rush to get away and now Grace was out there in the dark wishing she had it for comfort.

  Josie looked at the back door. If Grace had run that way the men would find her. But what if Grace was playing them all? Instead of panicked, maybe Grace was buying time, forming a strategy. Quickly Josie retraced her steps back to the main factory. Standing alone in the dark Josie held her head high and listened. She heard nothing but sensed something.

  ''Grace?'' she called quietly.

  Josie took one step, then another. Her eyes darted to the stacked boxes, the lumber, the high tables under which someone could hide. She did double takes on shadows that seemed to move and dark spots that threatened to suck her through the floor. Grace was there. She was waiting. She was watching with those eyes, those eyes that would now seem smaller, meaner, odd and ugly without the definition of shadow and line.

  Josie turned in a slow circle trying to focus, knowing her task was made more difficult because Tim Douglas's father had been cautious man, worried about those who worked around wood and stain and there were more fire exits than she first imagined. The green lights that would lead people to safety were long dark. Squinting, Josie concentrated on each one in turn until she found what she was looking for: the one door that was ajar. Trotting toward it, her head moving side-to-side in case she was wrong, Josie pushed the door open. She was outside. Alone. There were other buildings. She would let the men search the nooks crannies while she kept her eye on the big picture.

  To her right were the half open gate and Tim's car; on her left was a wooden lean-to. The dirt and gravel were disturbed as if someone had pushed off in a hurry but Josie couldn't say if it had been a woman or the two men or vandals. It could have been a minute ago or another day long ago. Then it didn't matter what Josie was thinking because she heard Archer bellow and Tim holler and the roar of a car engine coming to life.

  Instinctively Josie started toward the ruckus only to stop, unable to pinpoint where it was coming from. The wide yard was like a canyon and the sounds e
choed off the concrete building only to be swallowed up by the wooden structures and empty spaces. Unable to get her bearings, Josie opened her mouth to call Archer but instead let out a howl of surprise and threw one arm up over her eyes to shield against the bright headlights of a big car as it careened around the corner of the lean-to. Its bald tires spun. The car fishtailed, righted itself and kicked up gravel as it fought for traction. Without thinking Josie sprinted toward it, holding out her arms, screaming for it to stop but suddenly the tires caught and the car barreled toward her.

  In that split second, in those flickering silent film moments between the car lurching out of control and righting itself again, Josie saw that it was Grace McCreary clutching the wheel of the monstrous car.

  ''Stop! Grace! Stop!'' Josie screamed, but it did no good. Grace didn't seem to care who stood in her way in the dirt, in the middle of the night, in a place where there was no one hear cries for help.

  Brave but not stupid, Josie would have run if she could but Grace was determined and Josie disoriented. She couldn't tell where Grace was going. Her only chance, her only choice, was to stand firm until she was forced to choose. She hated that Grace McCreary could take everything Josie held dear if she made the wrong choice. Hannah would be alone again. Archer alone again. Josie would die never knowing what had become of her mother because this crazy woman wanted to run from her life instead of facing it.

  The hell with that.

  Josie bent her knees. The time was upon her. Three more seconds. Two. One. . . But before she could take her best shot, Grace McCreary did what Josie least expected. She slammed on the brakes. But it was a minute past the last minute and the car skidded, spun and caught Josie straight on and hard on her hip. She doubled over the hood before spiraling over the right headlight. Her arms stretched out on the hood, her cheek met metal. There was one blazing instant when Josie stared at Grace's face. Ghostly white, it was awash with terror, shock, sympathy and determination. Just as Josie thought Grace was going to help, she let out a hellish wail. Grace bared her teeth and hit the gas.

  ''Stay out of my way. Stay away from Matthew. If you don't want me to hurt you, just stay away.''

  Grace screamed and screamed as Josie melted down the side of the car to her knees. The car sped past her, out the gate, into the night, with a crazy woman at the wheel. A killer at the wheel.

  CHAPTER 38

  Gingerly Tim raised Josie's feet while Archer took her shoulders. Together they laid her down on the watchman's cot. Archer touched her head and brushed the gravel out of her hair. He lifted her shirt. The bruise at her waist and hip would be big and painful. He moved her arms and touched her legs. Nothing was broken.

  ''We should have you checked out anyway?'' Tim fretted as Josie struggled to sit up.

  ''Don't worry, I'm not going to sue you,'' she assured him, wincing as she tried to stand. ''Damn that hurts.''

  ''I didn't mean it that way,'' Tim objected. Josie held up her hand before he could explain further.

  ''He's right, Jo,'' Archer agreed. ''We should get you to a doctor.''

  ''Maybe later. First, give me a minute.'' She touched her face. It was scraped, the knees of her pants were ripped and bloody. Her arm hurt like hell and there was no adjective to describe the pain in her side. ''Is there a cup around here for some water? There's a towel in the bathroom. Could someone wet it?''

  Tim got the water. Archer went to the bathroom for the towel then sat beside Josie and started to wipe the dirt off her face. Josie took the towel away. She would do it herself. Archer sat tight lipped and grim beside her, blaming himself for leaving her alone. Josie knew it had been her own stupidity that brought them here.

  ''I'm calling Babcock,'' Archer said.

  ''Not yet. Just let me think.''

  She wanted to give Babcock more than just an apology so Josie looked around the room for something that would help. The clothes Grace had worn to Helen Crane's home were folded neatly on the cot; the shoes were side-by-side under the cot. Her purse was still there. Tim came back and gave Josie the water.

  ''Tim, what was Grace wearing the last time you saw her?'' Josie asked.

  ''I'm not going to tell you. What she did was wrong but she should have a chance,'' Tim insisted.

  ''A chance to do what?'' Josie asked wearily. ''The cops will eventually find her and then I won't be able to help at all. At least after this I can argue mental impairment. You said you wanted to help her so tell me what she was wearing. Let's give Babcock something to work with. I'll tell him the state she's in. This time we have to do it right.''

  ''It looked like jeans and a sweater.'' Archer put in his two cents forcing Tim's hand.

  ''It was a sweatshirt. UCLA. I had it in the back of my car. I got her some tennis shoes at Payless near the freeway. I was bringing her own clothes tonight. I promised to bring food.''

  ''And the car?''

  ''One my dad kept here. We tried it earlier to see if it worked so she could go out if she needed something before I could get back to help her.''

  Josie nodded. She started to stand. Archer was there, arm around her waist as she tested her legs, her ankle, twisted her neck to work out the pain. None of it helped. She was going to be sore.

  ''We'll need the make and model,'' Archer said as he helped Josie toward the bathroom.

  ''Chevy,'' Tim called after them. ''I'll see if I can find the records in the office.''

  ''Give me a minute,'' Josie asked.

  Archer backed off and she closed the bathroom door, leaning on it for a minute before she washed her hands and face and berated herself for this mess. Judge Belote would have her brought up before the BAR, Matthew would never forgive her and Babcock would have every right to be royally ticked off. Josie had asked him for a courtesy and she wasn't willing to reciprocate. How could she have imagined herself above the law?

  Josie opened the door. Archer was waiting.

  ''Let's get out of here,'' she said tersely. ''But first I want her stuff.''

  Josie gathered up Grace's clothes, snatching at the navy blue pants and knocking the white shirt to the ground. Angrily she swept it up but as she did something fluttered to the ground.

  ''I'll get it,'' Archer said.

  ''No, I will. Why don't you go get my phone and check for messages?''

  Knowing it was useless to argue, Archer disappeared without a word. When he was gone Josie sucked up the pain as she groped under the cot. Her reward was the pictures she had first seen in Grace McCreary's dresser. Slowly lowering herself to the floor, Josie sat with her back against the bed. She smiled ruefully. There was one thing that bound Josie to Grace McCreary and that was the way they clung to the idea of a loving family. It was thin thread but it was one of undeniable strength. Thoughtfully, Josie looked at the old photos and turned them over only to pause and find herself stunned by what she saw on the back of one. A name. A phone number. A connection to Grace that had nothing to do with Matthew. Yet, before Josie could get herself off the floor or call out that she had found something important, Archer was back, offering one hand to help her up while he held her cell phone in the other.

  ''We gotta go, babe,'' he said. ''It's the cops. It's Hannah.''

  CHAPTER 39

  Susan O'Connel was dead.

  Kevin O'Connel, it was alleged, had killed her.

  Hannah and Billy Zuni had found her.

  Josie Bates blamed herself for everything: for Susan's death, for Kevin O'Connel's freedom to do the deed, for Hannah and Billy being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Josie knew she deserved every pound of that guilt and shame. She had assumed Susan was safe, been impatient with Susan's fears and all because Grace was Josie's new priority.

  Now, standing in the middle of Susan's dingy apartment, a place so far away from Wisconsin that it might as well have been the center of the earth, Josie Bates wished she could turn back the clock. She wished she could have remembered her appointment with Susan and leave Grace to the police. She was responsibl
e for Susan O'Connel's death and Josie would never forget that Susan had died terrified.

  The furniture was tossed. Kevin O'Connel's fist or foot had made holes in the wall. The window overlooking the street was streaked with Susan's blood where she had tried to open it to call for help before being pulled away. The wall next to that window was marked with an arc of blood where Susan had probably hit it and slid down to the ground. The spatter followed her as she ran – or crawled – making it only as far as the kitchen. There drawers had been pulled out, the few things Susan owned were smashed before Kevin found what he wanted: a knife. He had pulled the blade across Susan's throat once again and this time he did the job right. He left Susan in the corner on the old linoleum, one arm thrown above her head, the other resting across her waist and, on her face, a look of utter disbelief. She was porcelain pale and cold, lying dead for hours before Hannah and Billy arrived. In fact, according to the cops, Susan had died soon after her last phone call to Josie. Now it was Hannah, taking the same blame when all of it belonged to Josie.

  ''I'm sorry.'' She sobbed into Josie's shoulder. ''I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left without telling you . I tried to call. . .''

  Josie held Hannah tighter. She felt her shirt crumpling in the girl's fist and that fist knocking rhythmically at her shoulder.

  ''It's okay. It's okay. You did a good thing. It was my fault, Hannah. My fault completely. I'm so sorry for everything.''

  Josie spoke quietly and quickly, as naturally as if she had spoken to this child her whole life. Her arm wrapped around Hannah's shoulders and that hand stroked the girl's long, long hair. It wasn't until she laid her cheek against Hannah's hair and found herself looking into Archer's eyes that she became aware of what she was doing. The closeness felt awkward because he was watching, but Josie didn't let go. They both had children to attend to.