"It's not an excuse for forgetting Hannah, but it was an emergency," Josie said, knowing she didn't have to convince Billy of anything.
"That's so foul. No way that's even remotely close to what Archer could have done," Billy whispered.
Josie's lips twitched with a wry smile. Her own sense of outrage hadn't even come close to Billy's eloquence. Indeed the day and the problem were foul.
"Thanks." She patted his shoulder and with a snap sent Max to his outside bed. "And thanks for looking after Hannah. Do you think you could see school through to the end of the day for the next few weeks? Maybe make sure Hannah gets home until I have a handle on this thing?"
"No doubt," he said solemnly. "If Hannah will come with me. I don't think she likes me a whole lot."
"Right this minute, I doubt Hannah likes anyone a whole lot," Josie muttered, sending him on his way with a nod. He would go back to the beach or to Burt's restaurant. Billy would hang out until he was sure he could sneak into his own bed without an angry word from his mother.
"Ms. B?"
Josie turned around before she opened the door.
"Yeah?"
"I'll keep this quiet. I mean I appreciate you thinking I'm worthy to know about Archer's trouble. I just want you to know I'll help any way I can because you always help me any way you can."
"Thanks, Billy. That means a lot. Just go to school. Keep an eye on Hannah. Go to class. That will help more than you know."
They had probably spoken more in the last five minutes than they had all through his troubles, but in those five minutes Billy Zuni meant more to Josie than he would ever know. Sometimes kids knew exactly the right thing to say to help and sometimes they knew exactly the right thing to say to hurt. Josie opened the door and stepped inside her house. She had a feeling that the hurt part was going to come at her like a tsunami.
Josie turned on the table lamp. The light was soft. It illuminated the corner of the room in which she stood and sent just enough light toward the dining room and kitchen that Josie could see nothing had changed since morning. The blueprints for the remodel were still on the dining room table. Hannah had not moved them to eat. There was no sign that she had used the kitchen. Josie listened. There was no sound. No music coming from Hannah's room. No sobs. Nothing. Josie called as she walked.
"Hannah?"
All was quiet.
"Hannah?"
Josie tried the knob on Hannah's bedroom door. It turned and she walked in. The bathroom light was on, there was a candle burning on Hannah's desk. It flickered and Josie's eyes went to it. Even though Hannah had been cleared of setting the fire that killed Fritz Rayburn, Josie was only human. The connection lingered.
In the corner was the draped easel. Hannah hadn't been painting. On the bed was Hannah's backpack. She hadn't been studying. In the middle of the room was Hannah, sitting on her little red lacquer stool, the only thing she had brought with her from the Malibu house where she had lived those last months with her mother. Hannah's knees were drawn up to her chest. She rocked back and forth, her arms wound tightly around her legs. That black hair of hers hung down; down almost to the ground. Josie couldn't see Hannah's face or the inside of her arms but she could see the little dish and the paring knife that lay across it, the apple on top of it. Not a speck of blood to be seen. She was getting better all the time. Pain in her heart didn't translate to inflicting it upon her body.
Josie's muscles unlocked. She hadn't realized how scared she had been for Hannah until she walked into the room and sat in front of her. Josie lotused her long legs and propped up her elbows on her knees. Her hands were clasped under her chin.
"I'm so sorry. So, so sorry." Josie's apology was warm and heartfelt. It was the kind she would accept if her own mother ever returned and ask forgiveness for deserting her teenager daughter. Josie waited to find out if it was enough.
Hannah's lashes fluttered. There was a quick tick at the corner of her mouth as if she had been suddenly stung. She raised her green eyes. They were shot through with anger and disenchantment and she was going to make Josie pay for her transgression with silence.
"Archer was in trouble. I had to help. It was an emergency," Josie explained patiently.
Hannah didn't cut her any slack. Still no words.
"Look, it's bad. They beat him up when they arrested him." Josie looked away. This was harder than she imagined. "Archer is accused of killing a young boy two years ago. It was his wife's son from a previous marriage. I had to help him and there were things that needed to be done right away and I forgot you."
Josie couldn't be plainer than that. Still Hannah didn't speak.
"You know I didn't intentionally forget about you. I've never had a kid. This is new to me and I'm doing my best."
Josie's jaw set as the silence continued. She was angry, not just with herself any longer, but also at the girl who was demanding a perfection Josie couldn't provide.
"Do you understand the magnitude of what I just told you?" Josie insisted, her patience wearing thin.
"Yes. The man comes first," Hannah shot back viciously. "So, I guess you're no different than my mother after all."
Before she even knew what had happened Josie was on her knees grabbing for Hannah's shoulders. Their faces came together: the woman and the girl: one square-jawed and handsome, the other exotic, dark and delicate.
"I am not like your mother at all," Josie said through clenched teeth, "and we should get that straight right now, Hannah. I was helping someone I love. The same way Billy Zuni tried to help you because he cares about me. Everyone in Hermosa Beach will come to Archer's defense when they find out about this and that's the way it's supposed to be. I don't have to choose one person over the other; I just have to make sure I don't throw one away for the other. Get it?"
Hannah pulled back and Josie let her go. She sank back on her heels, hardly believing Hannah had riled her like this or that she felt the need to explain herself. She had answered to no one for so long that Josie resented the position Hannah was putting her in. She resented it like any parent who. . .Josie abandoned that train of thought. She would not go there fearing, perhaps, that she had been like Hannah all those years ago and sent her own mother packing because of her attitude.
"These are the people I love, Hannah, and I will help any of them whenever they need me. You can either be a part of this family, or not. Your choice."
Josie got up, gave Hannah one last chance to speak and, when she didn't, Josie walked out of Hannah's room and into her own. She felt drained, a shell of a person, and there seemed to be nothing in the room to comfort her: not the giant bed with the down comforter, not the leather chair in the corner where she could sit and look at the small garden dug into the patio, not the books on architecture. Slowly she unbuttoned her shirt and tossed it on the bed before she dropped her trousers and left them on the floor. The morning hearing had been missed, and the new client blown off. The day was lost. Josie sat down on the bed, using the toe of one shoe to dislodge the heel of the other. She planted her bare feet on the floor, leaned over and closed her eyes. Suddenly she felt exhausted. When she finally opened her eyes, Josie found herself staring at a rough spot on the hardwood floor missed during the renovation. Funny she hadn't noticed it before. But, then, there hadn't been too much amiss in her house or her life before this.
Josie closed her eyes again but not because she was tired. She only wanted to soak up the tears that were coming. Crying never did any good. Not when her father died, not when her mother took off, not when she had seen Hannah lying near death in that hospital room. Tears wouldn't make Archer's problems go away and they sure as hell wouldn't make Josie stronger.
Startled by the sound of a door, Josie's eyes flew open. Her shoulders pulled back, her hands were on the mattress, her senses alert. It was a reflex learned after Linda Rayburn, Hannah's mother, had attacked Josie here in her own home. But there was no danger; it was only Hannah coming out of her
room. She stalked by Josie's room without a second glance. She carried the plate and the knife and the half eaten apple. From where she sat Josie couldn't see Hannah once she turned from the hall, but the sounds of Hannah's deliberate housekeeping were like nails on a chalkboard. The water in the kitchen was run full blast, the door of the dishwasher was yanked open, the dish was thrown in and the dishwasher door banged shut. The knife was tossed in the sink like a javelin. Teenage angst manifested itself brilliantly: anger at being forgotten, being alone, not being the first thing Josie attended to. Josie was sorry. She didn't know how to be perfect for Hannah and still do what needed to be done for Archer. She would try harder. Hannah would have to let her feel her way through this strange black box of a child's dependency.
In the quiet that followed, Josie thought about apologizing again. Maybe she would take Hannah to dinner. Maybe she should just get up and do that. Yet Josie did nothing. A fog had settled over her mind. Her strength was gone; the course was unclear. All she could think about was Archer and the information he had kept from her. Lies by omission. Josie didn't have a clue what to do next but Hannah did. She stood in the doorway and announced:
"I have homework. If you go to Archer's place it will be quieter. I can study better."
Josie blinked and Hannah disappeared. The door of her room slammed shut, not with the force of unadulterated fury but rather with the ring of reticent understanding.
Fine. Josie would accept that. She got off the bed, pulled on a sweatshirt and zipped it halfway up. Sweatpants and her clogs were next. Max's old neon pink leash was in her hands but the dog slept peacefully on the patio where he'd been left. He didn't raise his head as she opened the gate. Josie put the leash on the wall and let sleeping dogs lie.
She crossed the wide walking street in front of her house, jogged to the Strand and crossed over to the beach. She stuck to the shore not wanting to see anyone she knew. The low tide rolled toward her with a gentle whoosh and pulled back with a skitter. The sun set away from her. Archer's building loomed ahead: pink and old and in need of some fixing up after an especially hot summer. It used to be the best building on the beach. Now it was just an old broad standing in the midst of the new babes. But those new places just passed as homes. In reality they were merely buildings.
Josie trudged the last few yards, crossed the bike path again and walked up the three flights to Archer's place. The door opened easily which was odd. Archer was usually so careful. Josie stepped in and locked the door behind her.
"Archer?"
Inside there was a sense of sedation, as if living had been suspended until further notice. She maneuvered through the living room, glancing at the huge rooftop deck. Archer's bicycle was there. The bar-b-que. The tripod. No camera. They had brought it back from the police station. Archer had it when she dropped him off right after they checked the high school for Hannah. Then she saw it in the corner. Either the damage was bad, he had lost interest in what he was doing or his injuries were worse than she knew His pride and joy, the camera that was now his livelihood, lay in pieces on the end table.
"Archer?"
She called louder, wandering toward the bedroom only to find him in the bath. His head was back; his eyes were closed. She stood in the doorway.
"You didn't answer."
"No." He didn't open his eyes.
"Want me to go?"
He moved his head slightly. That was a negative.
Josie knelt beside the claw-footed tub. It was long and it was deep: the perfect tub for a man like Archer when he invited a woman like Josie to join him. But now, alone, he didn't seem to fill it the way he usually did. Josie let her eyes roam over the body she knew so well. His right side was black and blue and purple and red, the bruise had spread like an oil slick. Archer's hair was wet but his face was dry. Josie pushed the sleeves of her sweatshirt up, reached into the water and retrieved a washcloth.
"Why'd they come after you so hard, Archer?"
Josie dabbed at the red wound on the side of his face. He winced. She adjusted. She feathered the strokes patiently, working every last bit of dirt and asphalt out of his skin.
"It's about a kid. Nobody likes perps who pick on kids," he mumbled. "They don't like bad cops either. That's what they think I am. Jesus."
"Okay, babe," she whispered, knowing he was right and knowing it pained him to speak and to imagine that he was accused of crimes he, himself, despised.
Seeing there was no help for the lip and little for the eye, Josie kissed the bruised flesh and spent some time on the cut above his brow. There would be no more questions tonight so she finished up. Josie searched the medicine cabinet for what she wanted and bent down again. Dabbing at him with a dry towel, Josie then worked a salve into his cuts and scrapes.
"Come on. Time to get out," she said.
Josie steadied Archer and he leaned on her. Gently she dried him, taking a moment to put her cheek against his broad back. She reached for his robe and covered him before leading him into the bedroom.
"Are you hungry?" she asked as he eased onto the bed and lay on his back.
"No, Jo. Tired. So damn tired. It's like a bad dream. . .all of it coming back. . .thought it was done. . ."
When Archer stopped talking he held out his hand and Josie crawled in beside him. Her long, athletic body stretched out against his. Her arm went around him. Archer was a big man, not unmanageable. Josie had always felt safe, as if the world could fall in and Archer would protect her. It should have been like that now. So much was familiar. Lying together. Listening to the sounds of people below and the white noise of the low tide. So much was different. There was a catch in Archer's voice. He didn't hold her as much as let her lie beside him. This new Archer was as shocking as the hidden jolt of an undertow that dragged you silently out to sea. And, like an undertow, the more you struggled against it, the more frightening it became.
"Why would anyone say I did this? Why would they?" His voice spiked then trailed off.
Having no answer, not wanting to see Archer's anguish, Josie did what women do when their men are afraid. She soothed him, she pretended that all would be well, she ignored and appeased and turned a blind eye to this horrible thing that had happened.
"Rest, Archer. Just go to sleep. Tomorrow we'll figure it out. Not now. Don't worry. Don't worry. Don't. . ."
She petted the side of his face that didn't hurt. Her other arm was crooked under her own head. When she was sure that he wouldn't cry or ask the unanswerable question, Josie opened her own eyes. In this dark familiar place, in this bed where they had made love a hundred times, Josie was scared. They weren't alone anymore. Someone she'd never met was between them – a boy named Tim. Someone she thought was long gone watched them – a wife named Lexi.
Turning on her side, Josie looked toward the place where Lexi's picture used to stand like a blessing beside the bed. It was still there but now Josie saw a different woman: one whose eyes were slightly narrowed, whose mouth didn't quite smile, whose head was cocked as if in question. Did she question Archer's innocence or Josie's ability to help him? Maybe she was trying to tell Josie something. Beside her Archer slept. Josie shuddered and rolled off the bed. She didn't belong there. She didn't want to know what Lexi knew. The spirits of Archer's dead family were too oppressive for her to rest and Hannah's needy spirit called her home.
Quietly she let herself out and walked slowly down the stairs. On the bike path Josie paused. She looked back. No light had gone on. Archer didn't know she was gone. At her place Hannah wouldn't sleep until Josie was safely home. There was no bed that would feel comfortable tonight. For Josie Baylor-Bates there were two people who needed her and no one she could turn to for help.
***
"It's a good night."
Isaac Hawkins shrugged into his overcoat. He did this more from habit than necessity as he surveyed his park. It wasn't exactly overrun with thrill seekers but it wasn't a bad weeknight for Pacific Park either.
Roger McEntyre stood beside the old man, his hands clasped behind his back as he stood at his ease. Isaac Hawkins was properly turned out as usual; his overcoat was on, his tie knotted just so, his shirt buttoned up. He'd lost his wife and his son to diseases that were usually reserved for the very old, but Isaac never lost his old world style. Roger admired that because it came with old world values: hard work, loyalty, determination, ritual.
They stood as they did at the end of every workday. Isaac would look around and say 'it's a good night in the park'. Roger would agree. There had only been two exceptions. The days those boys died Isaac hadn't said it was a good night. But tonight no one had died, the problem of Timothy Wren was on the district attorney's desk and the gate was good.
Isaac's faded eyes looked at every young face that passed by as if waiting for one of them to notice him, say something nice about his park. When they didn't, his gaze wandered to the line at the concession stand before he squinted toward the rollercoaster. It sparkled, outlined by ten thousand new red and blue lights. Roger looked, too, but his gaze was sweeping and he looked for different things: the wrong hand in the wrong pocket, the teenager with the sharp edge of a troublemaker, the middle aged man alone in the park eyeing the little girls. When the silence stretched and Isaac didn't offer his usual goodnights, Roger knew there was something on his mind.
"We did the right thing, Roger."
It was a question disguised as a statement, so Roger answered it.
"Of course, Isaac," Roger said quietly. "The district attorney said so."
"It is a man's life we are talking about, you see." Isaac's right hand drifted up like a teacher trying to ascertain whether the pupil truly understood the deeper meaning of a critical equation.
"Questions were raised. We couldn't make the call, Isaac. It wasn't up to us."
"So we did the right thing?" This time Isaac asked outright.
Roger put his hand on the old man's arm and made no further move. The connection was enough. They both understood it was a sign of affection.
The Witness Series Bundle Page 36