Hope and Honor

by Marilee Brothers

  When he grunts an affirmative, I pump a fist in the air, celebrating my small victory.

  Before my command performance on Tuesday, I think about what lies ahead. Maybe one of the appointments is with the ringer. If so, Hitchcock will already know the answers. It won’t affect my ability since I see what I see. But, I might see something truly awful, something that might put the person in harm’s way. Or, put other people in harm’s way. Since I won’t know who the ringer is, I’ll have to decide how much to share. Just thinking about all the permutations makes my brain tired. Bottom line, soul reading is a complicated, risky business.

  I’m still receiving sporadic texts and phone calls from Mick, but they’ve become fewer and farther between. Maybe he’s found a new girlfriend. The thought stings a little, but then I remind myself, What did you expect, dummy?

  When I arrive at New Dawn on Tuesday, Chad escorts me to the Hall of the Dead/Hitchcock’s office.

  He’s behind the desk and looks up when I enter. “You said we needed to talk before the next interview. Go ahead, I’m listening.”

  He doesn’t invite me to sit, so I grab a chair and pull it up nice and close next to his desk. He blinks rapidly like I’ve invaded his personal space, and it’s offensive. Good, I want to catch him off guard. “Here’s the deal, Ken,” I say. “Is it okay if I call you Ken?”

  He squints at me through bloodshot eyes. “Do you really care if it’s okay?”

  “Now who has the bad attitude?”

  He rubs his bristly chin and mumbles, “Sorry, I’ve been trying to sort out some problems and haven’t been sleeping well.”

  “Maybe you should consider delegating some of your authority.”

  I know it’s a ridiculous suggestion. Men like Hitchcock trust no one but themselves.

  “I’ll muddle through. Now, please continue. You mentioned you have limitations.”

  “The only way I can detect a lie is if I can look into the person’s eyes, preferably longer than a second or two. There are a number of reasons it might not be possible. For instance, if you want me to take notes, I’ll be looking at the paper, not the person. Also, some people are extremely uncomfortable making eye contact. It doesn’t always indicate guilt. He or she may be shy or scared.”

  “Okay, I get it. No eye contact, no soul reading. No note taking. Anything else?”

  His impatience tells me he’s uncomfortable with our conversation. He won’t be happy until I’m back under his thumb, where I belong.

  “You also have to consider the physical appearance of the eyes. The shape. The size. Are they hooded with heavy lids? Does the person’s gaze dart to and fro?”

  “Is that it?”

  “Pretty much. Rest assured, I’ll do my best. If the person is reluctant to look at me, I try to engage him somehow, but it doesn’t always work. Just so you know, I’m not a miracle worker.”

  He stands. “Are you ready?”

  “That depends. It would help if you’d share background information, so I can ask semi- intelligent questions.”

  He starts for the door. “We’ll be meeting with a married couple. The issue will become evident when I question them. Let’s go.”

  As I follow him to the conference room, I wonder if he’s heard a word I said.

  Once again, a couple is seated at the table, a much older couple than Conrad and Shirley. They both look up when we enter the room. The man is dressed in typical New Dawn garb, camo all the way. The woman wears jeans and a baggy sweatshirt adorned with daisies. Her hair is iron gray. Her eyes are black, suspicious, heavy-lidded and familiar. I know this woman. She’s Agnes the mail lady. Is this my test? If so, I have my work cut out for me, since the upper half of her eyes are covered by droopy lids. Great. Just great.

  Ken and I sit across from the two and I am introduced as his legal assistant. Apparently I’ve jumped up a pay grade.

  Agnes has no problem making eye contact. In fact, her black eyes spark with hostility. “I know who she is. I saw her with the Gunderson kids. Didn’t know she was a legal assistant.”

  I give her a big, friendly smile. “I remember you too, Agnes. Is this your husband?”

  The man yawns, stretches and then lumbers to his feet. He extends a hand. “Yep, she’s my better half. I’m George. Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

  We shake hands and I look into his bland, blue eyes. I’m surprised at what I see in his soul.

  Hitchcock begins. “Agnes, you have an extremely important position at New Dawn, that of sorting and distributing the mail. I appointed you because you had my implicit trust. You have your instructions. Certain envelopes are to be opened by you and the contents put into my lockbox. Correct?’

  Agnes narrows her eyes (damn), grips the edge of the table, leans forward and snarls, “Yes.”

  Hitchcock says, “I have reason to believe some items are missing.”

  He lets his statement hang in the air, probably for my benefit. Agnes squints angrily at George who ignores her and gives me a pleasant smile.

  I’m pretty sure who the guilty party is.

  I reach across the table and gently pat the white knuckles of Agnes’s left hand. “How long have you and George been married? A long time, I bet.”

  Surprised by the question, her eyes widen. “Yes, a long time. Too long.”

  I pat her hand again and giggle in female solidarity. “I totally understand.” I turn my gaze on George. “So, George, exactly how many years has it been since the two of you were wed?’

  George ponders the question, his eyes rolling upward, sideways and back to center. Hitchcock gives me his, what the hell are you doing look. The man really needs to learn how to trust me.

  George says, “Oh, maybe close to forty years now.”

  Agnes rolls her beady eyes. “More like thirty-five.”

  “Seems like forty,” George says with a hearty chuckle.

  Hitchcock has had enough. “I’m still waiting for an answer, Agnes.”

  Agnes’ mouth opens and closes. She casts another look at her husband. As unlovable as Agnes is, I feel a wave of pity. I say, “I need to use the restroom. Will you excuse me for a minute?”

  To emphasize my point, I kick Hitchcock beneath the table. He jerks a little but gets the message.

  “Down the hall to your left,” he says.

  When I come back from the restroom, he’s waiting in the hall.

  Not one to waste words, he lifts his hands in question.

  “Whatever she did, he made her do it,” I say. “Somehow, he has the power. I don’t know what he’s holding over her, but she’s scared and sad, afraid she’s going to lose him. He may look like a big, lovable bubba, but don’t let him fool you. He’s one sharp cookie,’

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He reaches out and grips my shoulder. “Good job. It’s what I thought. I just needed to make sure.”

  I pull away. “Can I see the kids now?”

  He glances at his watch. “It’s a school day. Lunch is in fifteen minutes.”

  My time with the twins is short and uncomfortable. Anna stands on the front porch of the school and watches as I sit with the kids at the picnic table. Their lunch consists of mystery meat on coarse homemade bread and a bottle of water. To my credit, I don’t pass out the potato chips and candy bars until they’ve eaten every bite. Both the kids are still underweight, but not as shockingly thin as they were last time. Gunner is quiet and apathetic. Kimber, still holding Blossom Bunny tightly, clings to me like I’m a lifeline in a tossing sea. Each time I’m with the twins, it becomes harder to leave them.

  Anna rings the bell signaling the end of lunch. I watch the twins walk away and know I can’t go on like this. I need a plan. Unfortunately, it involves Hitchcock.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Hitchcock is still closeted with Agnes and George and, according to Chad, cannot be disturbed.

  “I’m supposed to take you home,” Chad adds.

 
Hands on hips, I narrow my eyes and snap, “Not going anywhere until I talk to him.”

  He flushes and backs away from me. “Whatever you say. So, are you going to wait here?”

  “It’s a nice day. I might take a walk. Or, is taking a walk against the rules at New Dawn?”

  He squelches a grin. “Damn, girl, you got a mouth on you. Go ahead and walk. Just stay on the main paths. We spotted a cougar not far from here. I bet you’d make a tasty meal.”

  Even though the idea of a giant cat lurking in the woods gives me pause, I’m determined to show no fear. “I’ll be careful.”

  Chad tells me he’ll be at the range if I change my mind.

  As I step outside, the weather takes a nasty turn. A black cloud floats across the sun, casting dark, misshapen shadows across the path I’ve chosen. An icy wind whistles through the pines like the shriek of a banshee. I shiver and raise the hood on my sweatshirt.

  Curious about the industrial looking building, I meander down the path while constantly checking the trees and bushes for the aforementioned cougar. I hate to admit it, but Chad has me spooked. My frame of reference is Thunder Paws. He has wicked claws, sharp fangs and the ability to leap to ridiculous heights. I multiply his physical attributes by twenty. Yikes!

  I’m also worried about the kids. If I would make a tasty meal, Kimber and Gunner would be snack food. I should cut Anna some slack. Maybe it wasn’t me she was concerned about earlier, as she kept watch from the porch.

  The path winds around the community building and then forks off in two different directions. One leads to the shooting range, the other to the building at the base of the hill. The sound of gunfire from the range reverberates through the forest. I meet nobody on the path. After a few more twisty turns, I’m looking at the building in question.

  Several women stand outside the door, puffing on cigarettes. Somehow this shocks me. I associate New Dawn with a healthy lifestyle, hearty folk living off the land with venison steaks, organic veggies picked at their peak and preserved in a giant kettle of boiling water. Cigarettes? Not so much.

  Since I’m encroaching on forbidden territory, I duck behind a copse of pine trees, ever mindful of the big cat. The women drop their cigarette butts into a container and head back to the building. One of them swipes a card into the reader and pulls the door open. The brisk wind catches the door and rips it from the woman’s hand. It crashes back against the building. She grabs it and they all file in. The last woman in line places a something in the crack between the door and the threshold. She turns and calls out to a woman who is still puffing away.

  I really, really want to see what’s going on inside, so I wait until the lone woman looks away. I dart closer, pressing my body against the side of the building away from her view. I peek around the building and check her out. She looks younger than the others. After she finishes her cigarette, she goes to the door. When she opens it, the wind catches it again. It slips from her hand. I round the corner of the building, dash up behind her and grab the door before it bangs against the wall.

  She turns, her eyes wide with surprise. “Oh my God, that wind is awful. I haven’t seen you before. You must be new.”

  “Yep,” I say with a winsome smile. “Brand-new.”

  I follow her through the door. We’re in a foyer with vending machines and bathrooms. I spot the sign for ladies and say, “Be right with you. Don’t work too hard.”

  She giggles. “No worries.”

  I wait inside the bathroom for a couple of minutes, and then slip back into the foyer to see if there’s a hiding place should I need one. A plastic trash container with wheels rests against one wall next to a broom and dustpan. A quick peek in the trashcan reveals nothing of interest. Coats of every size and shape hang from of hooks in the wall next to the main door.

  I peer into a large room lined with cubicles and hear the sound of female voices rising and falling. Kimber said this building is where females talk on the phone. For sure they’re selling something, though I doubt it’s window blinds. I need to get close enough to hear an actual conversation.

  Feeling exposed, I duck back into the foyer and weigh my options. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Mel. I pull my hood forward until it covers my hair and stroll into the main room, carrying the broom and dustpan. I’m almost to the first cubicle when a woman’s voice booms over the intercom. Startled, I leap in the air, legs churning, not unlike the roadrunner fleeing from Wile E. Coyote.

  She exclaims, “Let’s hear it for Carolyn. She just nailed down her tenth client today. She makes the rest of us look like slackers, so get busy, gals.”

  A smattering of applause follows her announcement.

  I walk purposefully down the corridor dividing the cubicles as if I’m on a mission. At first the jumble of voices confuses me. Close to the end of the corridor, I luck out. One woman—maybe the infamous Carolyn—has a high-pitched distinctive voice and a deaf client.

  She says, “Mr. Kincaid? Mr. Harold Kincaid? Yes, I can speak up. Can you hear me now?”

  I slow down and listen to her pitch. “I’m calling from International Children’s Fund. Yes, I know you are a current sponsor and we thank you so very much.”

  A long silence follows. I go to the end of the row, make a U-turn and walk slowly by the loud talker’s cubicle.

  She continues, “I’m more than happy to take care of this for you, Mr. Kincaid. And again, many thanks.”

  I continue walking back toward the foyer, picking up snatches of conversation along the way. In addition to the Children’s Fund, I hear references to a Crippled Veterans Organization, Society for the Prevention of Lung Disease, Fund for Homeless Animals, Parents Against Drunk Drivers and others.

  I know all these organizations are legit. Is it possible the women have been hired as telemarketers? If so, why the locked doors and secrecy? Somehow, it doesn’t make sense. Color me confused.

  I’ve heard enough and skedaddle back to the foyer. I’m reaching for the door when I hear heavy footsteps and male voices just outside. I calculate the distance to the bathroom and realize I can’t make it before they enter. Instead, I dive into the coat rack and slither behind a long raincoat. As I flatten myself against the wall, I hear the men come through the door. I look down. Damn, my toes are clearly visible beneath the coat. I don’t dare move them. I can only hope it appears somebody parked a pair of shoes beneath the coat.

  Just my luck, instead of going into the main room, they talk in the foyer. Hitchcock and Chad.

  Frozen in fear, I hear Hitchcock say, “Go check with Donna. See if anybody’s been in the building. I’ll check the bathrooms.”

  I hold my breath as Hitchcock walks down the hall toward the bathrooms. Is it my imagination, or does he slow down a bit as he walks by my hiding place? In my terrified state, I’m afraid the sound of my heart banging like a kettledrum will reverberate through the coats. I let out a long, tremulous sigh when he walks on.

  When I hear the bathroom door open. I slide toward the outside door on shaky legs. A peek into the main room tells me Chad is chatting up one of the women. I open the door, slip out and dash down the path like a pack of hungry wolves are after me. Maybe they are. I may not have learned much from my scouting trip, but of one thing I’m sure. Hitchcock doesn’t want me in that building. Translation: he has something to hide. All I have to do is figure out what it is.

  By the time Hitchcock and Chad return, I’m sitting on the bench in front of the community hall, hopefully the picture of innocence.

  Chad says, “I’ll go get the truck.”

  Hitchcock folds his arms across his chest and stares down at me. “Where were you?”

  I know he’s going for intimidation, so I cop an attitude. “What do you mean, where was I? I told Chad I was going for a walk.”

  “We checked all the paths.”

  “Apparently you didn’t.”

  He pinches his lips together in disgust. “Too bad I can’t look into your soul to see if you’re lyin
g.”

  I shrug. “Why would I lie?”

  He studies my face. “You look pale.”

  “The cougar thing freaked me out a little.”

  With a snort of frustration, he changes the subject. “Chad said you wanted to talk to me.”

  He’s towering over me and I don’t like it. I stand and take a step closer, looking deep into his eyes. It works. He takes a step back and lowers his gaze.

  “I’m concerned about Kimber and Gunner. They’re living at the school with their teacher who isn’t exactly the affectionate type. They deserve better.”

  “Define better,” he says.

  “I love those kids. I’d take good care of them.”

  He smirks. “Right. What are you, twenty-two, twenty-three years old? You’re just a kid. You work in a bar. From the looks of your car, I doubt you have a big bank account. How could you possibly care for two kids?”

  This isn’t going well. I try to hang on to my dignity and temper, even though he’s pushing all my buttons. When I speak, I hear desperation in my voice. “I have resources, a wide circle of family and friends who support me.”

  “You’re right. The children deserve better. I’m working on placing them with a family.”

  I have no words.

  “Anything else?” he says.

  “I’ll be back Friday.”

  With a sinking heart, I wheel around and head for Chad’s truck.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  When I get home, I stretch out on the couch, close my eyes and attempt to fit pieces of the puzzle together. The call center. The so-called mini-blinds factory. The thieving mail lady. I try not to think about the twins, knowing what Hitchcock said is true. I’m young. I work at a bar. I don’t have a lot of money. The truth hurts and I fight tears.

  The furnace clicks on forcing air through the floor vents. Hope’s red balloon, delivered days ago by Billy, bumps and bounces along the ceiling until it settles directly overhead. Bio dad Steve’s words resonate in my fractured and despondent mind. The balloon is a reminder to let your sister into your life.