by Hayton, Lee
The photo of the sex offender who’d moved into the area was the same man standing in front of the school. He was standing in front of a school filled with vulnerable children. Her son Patrick the most important of them.
Martia jerked at the handle, bumping the key as she did so. The door beeped and locked, and she tugged in quick panic. A false nail pulled free. It lifted and tore the real nail hidden beneath. The quick shot of pain brought her back to herself like a slap across the face.
What am I scared of? I’m not a little kiddie.
Outrage swamped the fear. There was no way he should be here. In no world did that juxtaposition make any sense. Where was her phone?
Martia scampered around the car, high heels making her steps short when she wanted to sprint. This time she pressed the key to open it, and the door wrenched open the first try. Her bag was right there, the phone exactly where it should be. When Martia turned back to the school, the man had disappeared.
“Hey,” she called out. A mother dropping her daughter off to second period, looked around. Martia recognized her, but couldn’t think of her name. “Did you see where that man went?”
“What man?” the mother asked.
Martia started to run, then stopped to pull off her heels as her short steps became frustrating. She ran in her stockinged feet, to the last point she’d seen him.
The mother tagged along behind. “Are you okay?”
“There was a man. He was right here.” Martia pointed uselessly at the ground. Her voice rose with a trill of fear. “He’s a sex offender.”
“Mom, what’s going on?”
The woman shushed her daughter while Martia tried to think past the tightening grip of anxiety on her temples. Where would he have gone?
If I were a sex offender, where would I go next?
There was a white van inside the school grounds. The only tall vehicle. She ran to it and saw the man standing behind it, staring up at the windows still. He turned, startled, when she ran around the corner and for a minute they faced off. Terror flooded his face, making her feel confident and powerful. His gaze traveled to the phone in her pointing hand.
“Are you okay, Miss?”
The woman had followed her around the van. Her daughter was no longer in view.
“This man is a sexual offender. There’s no reason he should be hanging around a school.” Martia’s voice cracked on the last two words, and she swallowed to stop the tremor from spreading. “Keep an eye on him while I call the cops.”
“Listen, lady, there’s no need for that,” the man said in a panicked voice. He stepped forward, palms stretched out toward them. “I’m just meeting someone here to collect an auction purchase, okay. I’m not doing anything wrong.”
“You’re not allowed to be around schools. It’s the law.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know who you’ve got me mixed up with—”
“Do you have a child in school here?” The lady beside Martia stepped forward, flapping her hand behind her back. Dial.
“I—” His voice faltered, and he turned to look behind him. As Martia’s call connected through to 911, the lady reached out and grabbed his wrist. “Hey.” He pulled his arm away, but she dug her nails in.
“I asked you a question.”
“Look, I’m new in town. I didn’t know this was a school, it looks like an office building.”
“Police,” Martia whispered into the phone. Her chest was so constricted with anxiety she couldn’t force her voice box louder. “There’s a sex offender at the school.”
“I’m not doing anything—”
Martia turned away and put her finger in her ear to hear better. The operator connected her through to the police, and the phone rang and rang. Was Patrick safely inside? She’d dropped him off and left the car out front while she ran to the post office and then to the liquor store to place a complicated order. How long had that taken? Was the man hanging around then? Her thoughts dove into red pulsations of terrifying scenarios. Had she let Patrick off in front of a rapist?
“My name is Martia Halloway, and I’m at Jefferson High School. There is a man here who I recognize from a Megan’s Law flier. He shouldn’t be in the school, and he refuses to tell me what business he has here.”
She listened for a moment, then shook her head. “I don’t remember his name. Can you send someone? There’s a whole school of children in danger.”
“Hey, lady. Let go.”
Martia turned and saw the woman on her knees on the ground. The man pushed his hand into her face, making a wet smacking sound as he connected. She was knocked back even further. Ignoring her burning feet, Martia started to sprint before he’d got more than a step. “He’s making a run for it,” she yelled into the phone. “I’m making a citizen’s arrest.”
She tossed it onto the concrete, hearing the screen crack with the impact. As she neared the man, she roared with anger. Animal instincts took her body over. Martia sprang at him, her shoulder digging like a quarterback’s into his side. The man groaned. He staggered and fell submissively to his knees.
The impact as she hit the ground beside him winded her for a second. Her hair fell into her eyes. Blindly, Martia stretched out a hand and grabbed. Her fingers clutched his shirt. Reaching forward again, she grasped a handful of his hair and pulled his head back. Exposing his vulnerable throat. She wanted to tear it out with her teeth.
A strangled cry issued from him. High. Feminine. Defeated. Martia shoved her knee into the small of his back and leaned all her weight into him. Anger blinded her to consequences as she thrust his head forward. She savored the soft wet thump as it hit the concrete. Like a tomato thrown at a brick wall. Pull. Thump. He squealed and wriggled with terror, twisting frantically to the side, so she fell off. Her hands let go as she reached out to protect herself.
There was a flash of movement in the corner of her eye.
Martia held her hands up in a shield and flinched against the expected contact. There was a cracking sound, but no pain. When Martia opened her eyes, she saw the man spread-eagled. His body limp beside her. A manicured hand was wavering near her face.
“Come on. Let me help you up.”
Martia grabbed the woman’s hand with gratitude, staggering as her balance shifted. Sunlight glinted and winked off the windows in playful colors, making her dizzy. She put a hand to her chest and felt her heart racing in a liberating dance.
The man didn’t move. Martia stepped closer, almost tripping over the wooden stake lying there. Pulled from beside the nearest parking lot sapling, dark earth was still clumped upon its base.
Someone was calling from far away. Martia didn’t turn. Instead, she bent forward, hands on knees. Trying to catch her frightened breath as it galloped and gamboled.
Where the man’s face had been pale and empty a minute before, blood now gushed forward. So much blood. Her first aid course had taught her head wounds bled a lot. It just meant he was alive, his heart was beating.
There was a siren in the distance. Martia straightened and ran her hands through her hair. Catching it back and securing it in place with a twist. She smoothed the sides of her face, wiping away the sick sheen of sweat. The soles of her feet were pinpointed with fire. A hundred grazes. Her tights were laddered to the knee.
“Are you okay?” A new voice, male. “I was in class, teaching. I saw everything. Do you want to sit down?”
Ingrained habit etched a smile on her face. “I’m fine. Is that the police?”
The teacher turned to look. “Ambulance. Are you sure you’re okay?”
Martia looked at the man sprawled at her feet. The blood had pooled and started to follow the slope of the ground. Creeping and winding along the dips and whorls of the asphalt, as dark as the bitumen holding the gravel in place. She kicked at his leg. Not to hurt him, just to check. It moved forward with her touch, then fell back. Boy, that lady must have hit him hard. The wood was only two inches’ square. Nowhere near the heft of a softball bat. S
he leaned over to check his wound, licking her lips as she saw the gash. Small, but still spouting blood.
She touched her toe to the wooden stake, pushing it to fall on a different side. Her face drenched with cold sweat as she saw the large-bore nail sticking out of its top. Sticky with blood.
#
Victoria watched Martia Halloway rock back and forth. Where her hands clutched at her upper arms she left bloodied prints on her cream jacket. Even dry-cleaning would find that a bitch to get out.
“I just need to go over your statement again. To clarify a few points.”
There wasn’t any response, the woman was lost in her own head. Victoria had already had a medic check her over, there was nothing physically wrong. Her heartbeat was elevated, a reaction to the stress, but she was otherwise fit and healthy. The same couldn’t be said of her mind. It appeared to have shattered apart.
The ambulance officers had pulled her off the body of Malcolm Carter. She’d had her hand pressed to the side of his head, repeating no over and over. Martia had been the one to point out the makeshift weapon on the ground, but that was the end of her usefulness. As Malcolm’s unconscious body was strapped and loaded into the ambulance, she’d gone into a state of shock that Victoria couldn’t pull her out of. Her statement so far consisted of shaking her head or vigorously shaking her head in response to questions that Victoria already had a good idea of the answer on. One more try, and she’d drive the poor woman home.
“Patrick!” Martia looked up suddenly, her wide eyes focusing on Victoria. “Patrick’s still in school.”
A hand on her knee calmed her slightly. Victoria tried to hold her gaze, but it was diffusing away. “School’s still in session. It’s only just gone one o’clock.” Not that it mattered. There was no way Martia would be collecting her son today.
“Another witness said you recognized Malcolm Carter from a flier? Is that a recent thing?”
The rocking continued, and Victoria was glad when Edwards tapped her on the shoulder to intervene. “Haggerty says to just take her home. We can make an appointment for her to come in tomorrow.”
She nodded and put her hand on Martia’s knee. “Did you hear that, Mrs. Halloway? We’ll take you home now.” Turning back to Edwards, Victoria gestured at him to walk with her out of Martia’s hearing distance. “Have you got hold of her husband yet?”
“I’ve left a message at his office. Told him he’ll need to pick up his son and give us a call.” Edward checked his watch. “They said he’d be in a meeting till two, so I’ll try again then.”
“How’s Mrs. Vendala doing?”
Victoria would bet that Emilie Vendala would be held at the station a bit longer. Whacking someone on the side of the head with a piece of wood was overly aggressive for simple restraint. Even if she insisted she hadn’t noticed the metal nail poking from the end.
“She’s cooperating. Her lawyer’s in there with her making gestures, but she’s happy to answer for the most part. She definitely doesn’t believe she did anything wrong.”
“What the fuck was Malcolm Carter doing there anyway?” The stupidity of the decision made Victoria irritable. She clasped her hands into tight balls until the dig of her short nails into the soft flesh of her palms made her release.
Edwards flipped back through his notebook. “She said he told her he was picking up an auction purchase and that he hadn’t known it was a school.”
“Yeah, because the pedestrian crossing outside and the signage on every corner make identification hard.”
He smiled and held out his hands, warding her off. “I’m only the messenger, Grandma. Spare me your wrath.”
Victoria moved back to Mrs. Halloway. “Come on, Martia.” When the woman didn’t move, Victoria gently pulled under her elbow, guiding her to stand. “Once you get home you can have a nice long shower. Get yourself cleaned up.”
“My phone,” Martia said. “I dropped it in the parking lot. And my bag’s missing.”
“Your bag is down at reception.” Victoria raised her eyebrows at Edwards, but he shook his head. “I’m not sure what’s happened to your phone. We can check and see if someone handed it in at the desk.”
“I scratched the screen,’ Martia said abruptly. “With my car keys. On accident.” She laughed, and a tear fell from her lashes at the same time. “I thought that was the worst thing that would happen today.”
Victoria gave her a small squeeze of her shoulder. Simulating a hug. “I hate it when my phone screen gets scratched. Ruins the look of the whole thing.” It reminded her that she still hadn’t replaced her mobile phone. Just tossed it into the trash in a mess of melted metal and plastic, then never gave it another thought. Grace would be horrified. Even eating cereal, she still managed to fire off half a dozen texts at breakfast. Living with another generation was eye-opening.
The front desk didn’t have the phone. When the bag was handed across, Martia took it silently. Not even bothering to check its contents. Taking a seat in the back of the car, she leaned forward and put her face into her hands.
From the gathered wrinkles, Victoria guessed her eyes were screwed up tight. She reached out her hand to pat Martia’s shoulder again, then withdrew before touching. The woman may not have skewered the side of Malcolm’s head, but according to the teacher who witnessed the assault, she’d mashed his face into the concrete a couple of times. Mr. Atkinson lost sight of the action as he ran outside to stop them, but said he thought the blows would kill. Pitiful, yes. Pitiable, no.
All this parental anger, drawn straight out of ignorant fear. Malcolm Carter’s crime was published on the register, available publicly. Illegally accessing photographs of young children. Possessing said photographs on his hard drive. Martia’s sixteen-year-old son had been perfectly safe. Emilie Vendala’s daughter wasn’t even the right gender. There was so much opportunity for knowledge these days, almost nothing was hidden away. Yet misinformation and ignorance were still the potent fuels of public hysteria.
Malcolm Carter could die from his injuries; a clear case of manslaughter. The DA wouldn’t even bring assault charges. You can’t win a case flowing against the tide of empathy. As they pulled into the driveway of Martia’s colonial house, Victoria felt swamped with shades of despair.
#
“Just kick the door in,” Arbeck said. “The guy was violating his parole.”
“I think he’s been punished enough for that.” Stanton was on tip-toe running his hand along the top of the door frame, trying to locate a key. He’d already tried under the mat. “What about the pots over there? Check those, will you?”
Arbeck muttered under his breath as he moved across. He lifted one clay pot to display a skeletal root system of a long dead plant. Another had a bunch of earwigs wriggling their fat bodies and pincering the air.
“For fuck’s sake. Just knock out a pane of glass.”
“Here we go.” Stanton held a green frog aloft. “It’s plastic, and it rattles.”
Arbeck wiped his hands against his trousers as he walked back. The whole place gave him the creeps. Already, he’d been around the rear of the house to test the back door. Seeing KILLER in letters a foot high made him want to throw up. That, or punch something. They’d had this guy in their sights, had him in the station for Christ’s sake. If he was the killer, then Collins wild-goose chase had cost two girls their lives.
“Show some respect,” Stanton barked at him as he walked in. There were muddy patches on his shoes, and now on the carpet. Arbeck snorted and wiped his feet slowly, mugging at his partner. “The guys had a spike whacked in the side of his head. Until we know better, he’s the victim, okay?”
“Parole violation,” Arbeck repeated. “Look it up. S’why we have Megan’s Law, to begin with. Or did you miss out on that in training?”
There was a pile of unopened mail on the table inside the door, and Arbeck fanned them out to look. Water, electric. A mail order catalog for giant rabbit costumes. “He was one sick fuck.”
<
br /> “Still is.” Stanton was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, his nose wrinkled in revulsion.
“What?”
Stanton turned. “He still is one sick fuck, until we hear back from the hospital.”
Arbeck shook his head. “I meant, what’s the problem. You look like someone stuck a rotted fish up your nose.”
His partner took a small sniff, then scrunched his face. “That, or similar. The guy certainly ain’t house-proud.”
Arbeck nodded and gave him a wink. “You wait. By the time we’re out of here, you’ll have come over to my side.”
“Maybe. Check the rooms up that end.” Stanton jerked his head to the right, then headed left. Toward whatever the disturbingly unpleasant odor was. Arbeck could smell it now, and he was still standing in the hallway.
Jesus, didn’t Carter own a can of air freshener? Or the balls to just open his doors and windows to air the place out of its sad, lonely reek.
Even though it seemed empty, Arbeck wasn’t taking any chances. He’d been through innocuous homes disguising booby traps before, and it had taught him one thing. The more terrifying the crime, the more innocent the setting. Until you got into it with a meth lab, then all bets were off.
Gun drawn, he pushed open the door nearest him. His anxiety began to relax as he fell into the familiarity of routine. Start in the room closest to his partner, check it was all clear, then move on. That way there wouldn’t be an ambush sitting between him and his back-up.
The first room was a bedroom. Rank with the stench of night sweats. A single bed was in disarray, the sheets pushed into a pile at the bottom. Carter hadn’t even bothered to toss the duvet on top to simulate it being made, and that was a trick Arbeck had mastered young.
The room was clear. Arbeck even checked the wardrobe to make sure no one was hidden in there like a nasty secret. Inside it, he found neat rows of check shirts, tags still attached. He checked the one nearest him and saw the price tag was dated 1996. Was Carter waiting for them to come back in fashion? It’d be a long wait.