Кроха - Dedication

“I think we know this much,” Juana said, “the Bleaks—Gardners—began this marathon in Northern California, when son Herbert was first arrested on suspicion of molestation. As far as I can find, Gardner is their real name; they lived in Seattle for some years. Herbert was twenty-three when the first complaint was filed against him. Without sufficient evidence, Seattle held him only a short time, released him with a warning.” She looked across at Max. “There was plenty of evidence, no reason the district attorney shouldn’t have pursued the case. Would have saved everyone a lot of trouble—would have saved a life.”

“Too busy,” Dallas said, shrugging. “Docket too full.”

“From that point on,” Davis said, “I have twelve charges, all molestation. All insufficient evidence, or so the DA thought. Seattle, Tacoma, Spokane. Tekla and Sam had already distanced themselves from him. They moved to several cities in Southern California, then back up the coast to San Francisco. Herbert tracked them somehow. When he found them, he moved right in.

“Two weeks later he was arrested on a rape charge. A neighbor saw him attack the girl and identified him. Girl was hurt real bad, she filed charges, but then she dropped them, she was too scared. This time Tekla and Sam left the city in a hurry; they must have thought this one could turn really serious and didn’t want to be involved. They changed names as usual, closed bank accounts, ended all contact with Herbert. I think I’ve traced them to Denver under one of the names, but that was some time ago. There’s no new contact in Denver. I found where her father had left her a sizable amount of cash. She manipulated that very well, both legally and illegally, using a number of names.”

Max said, “There’s no indication they ever tried to put Herbert into treatment?”

“Not that I can find. As if they just wanted to get away from him.” Davis looked up at the chief. “How often does treatment help a rapist?”

“It doesn’t,” Max said. “But getting him off the street helps. Now that we have some ID on the car, let’s see what we can do. They’ve got Herbert locked down tight, but his murdering folks aren’t much better.” Max paused as Joe Grey strolled into the office, his ears up, his head high with tomcat bravado.

Leaping to the couch, Joe stretched out between Davis and Max. The chief looked mighty pleased, Joe thought. They all three did, and that made him hide a smile. The ferals had done all right, they’d found what the department needed. Now it was a matter of waiting for the enhanced BOL to pick up more reports—and a matter of Joe catching up on the conversation he’d missed. Rolling over closer to Juana, he leaned against her arm where he could see her notes.

Davis was saying, “After she filed charges, then dropped charges, as soon as she could travel she left the state. Scared, afraid Herbert would find her. Herbert did some jail time, then walked. Surprisingly, he stayed in the city. Found a job of sorts, as an assistant janitor, rented a cheap room.

“It was not until his next arrest, maybe three months later, that the charge stuck. He was found in the storeroom kneeling over the body of Marilain Candler. The head janitor walked in on him, hit him with a shovel. While he was down, janitor made the 911 call.

“Herbert’s indicted for rape and murder,” Davis said. “He chooses a jury trial. Tekla learns about it, in the papers or on TV, her son on trial for murder. And she has one of those emotional turnarounds. This is her son, charged with murder. Suddenly she’s as angry as a mother tiger. They can’t do this to her son. She hikes on out to San Francisco to be there for the trial. What did she think? That she could stand up for Herbert, could defend his character?”

Dallas smiled. “That could be the odd-looking woman in Ben’s notes, the woman he watched from the jurors’ box.”

Davis nodded. “The woman always in the back row. When Herbert’s convicted and gets the death sentence, that’s the real turning point. She goes hot with rage against the jurors that convicted her boy. Herbert is misunderstood, he’s been grossly wronged, and she vows that each and every juror will experience exactly what they dealt out to him.”

Dallas finished his coffee. “I’ve called the lab twice to hurry them up on the ballistics. Maybe, now that we have the license number—if the Bleaks don’t switch cars or change plates—someone will pick them up and ship them back to us.”

“Let’s hope,” Juana said. Beside her, Joe Grey tried not to look smug. The license number and make of car were a big plus; he was mighty proud of his feral friends. That timely information from those shy, reclusive cats was one more nail in Tekla’s coffin.

32

In her tree house Kit turned round and round among her pillows. She curled up and dozed for a little while. She fidgeted and paced, waiting for Lucinda and Pedric to get home. The morning sun rose high and higher, but still it was far too early, it was a long drive from the San Jose airport to Molena Point. Below her, no car came along the street, not even a neighbor going to grocery shop or drop the kids at school. She slept fitfully again and dreamed of her elderly couple surrounded by polar bears. She woke terrified for them, surprised there was no snow.

Crawling out from under the pillows, she climbed up the branches onto the high roof of the tree house. She sat in a patch of sun looking down at the empty street. Where were they now? Still on a plane somewhere in the sky? Or were they already leaving the plane, going with Kate to claim their luggage?

The sun was higher, they could already be on the highway heading home. They could already be turning off Highway One down into the village. She waited. No car appeared. At last she crawled among her pillows again, trying to quiet her restless nerves. This time when she fell asleep she and Pan were safe in the Harpy’s arms flying through the green-lit Netherworld over the craggy, dark lands . . .

She woke, startled.

A car was coming up the street. She wished it were Lucinda and Pedric and knew it couldn’t be because the sun still wasn’t high enough.

But the sound was Kate’s car. She leaped up to peer over, watched the SUV pull into the drive. Yes, Kate’s Lexus, curved bars on top where the Greenlaws’ luggage was tied. Kit fled down the oak tree, dropped the last six feet as Lucinda opened the passenger door. She flew into Lucinda’s arms. Lucinda’s wrinkled cheeks were sunburned; she was dressed in safari pants and a khaki jacket. Pedric stepped out from the backseat dressed in khakis, too. They held her between them, hugging and loving her so hard they nearly squeezed her breath out. Lucinda was crying. Pedric’s wrinkled cheeks were wet—but then they were all laughing and Kit thought she’d burst with happiness and they couldn’t talk here in the front yard for fear of the neighbors, though they saw no one about. They hurried in the house, leaving the luggage on the car. Inside there was more hugging and Kit scrambled from one to the other and all of them talking at once. They were home, her dear family was home, they were safe, they were all together and safe.

In the living room Kate turned on the gas logs, made sure the tired couple was settled comfortably in their own soft chairs—as if Lucinda and Pedric were guests in their own house—then, in the kitchen, she put the kettle on for tea. As bright flames danced on the hearth, Kate went to bring in the luggage. The Greenlaws had traveled light, just their three canvas duffels. Why had they been tied on top when there was plenty of room in the big Lexus? But then Kit caught a whiff of salmon as Pedric went to help Kate carryin an oversize Styrofoam cooler; she sniffed a stronger scent as they headed for the laundry where the big freezer stood.

In the living room again, Kate told Kit, “At the last minute they changed their flights, decided to all come home together. I dropped Mike and Lindsey off first, so they could get their own salmon in the freezer.

“Lovely salmon,” Lucinda said, leaning back in her soft chair. “A lovely trip,” she said as Kit leaped into her lap. “But a tiring flight home, we didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Tired and hungry,” Pedric said. The couple stayed awake long enough to enjoy the hot tea and the quick lunch Kate had put together. Gathered before the fire, they shared a favorite, grilled cream cheese and salami sandwiches on rye; then Lucinda and Pedric headed for the bedroom, yawning. They didn’t unpack, but pulled on nightclothes and crawled into bed, where Kit snuggled between them purring a sleepy song. She could hear Kate in the kitchen rinsing the dishes; soon she heard Kate leave, locking the front door behind her, heard her car back out. And Kit snuggled deeper, safe between Lucinda and Pedric—an unaccustomed midday nap for her two humans. Contentedly Kit dozed, drifting on a cloud of happiness that only a little loved cat could truly know.

It was nearly a week before Lucinda and Pedric felt up to a party for their homecoming, a simple gathering of friends to celebrate their safe return. It would be two weeks more before MPPD would celebrate the end of another journey: the end of the Bleaks’ cross-country escape, the moment when neither of the Bleaks could any longer dodge the law. Much would happen, between.

While Lucinda and Pedric rested at home with Kit, exchanging tales of their adventures, while Dulcie languished in her own house feeling heavy and nervous, Joe Grey prowled the offices of MPPD scanning computers, listening to phone calls, waiting, as Max and the detectives waited, for a positive response to the BOL. A few calls came in where a citizen thought he’d spotted the car speeding by, tried to follow it, lost it, and didn’t get the license number. It was raining across several states, and the Bleaks, taking advantage of stormy night travel, managed to slip through. Meanwhile MPPD was busy with the usual shoplifting, car break-ins, and domestic violence cases that, these days, plagued even the tamest of small towns. There were, as well, daily inquiries from concerned citizens asking if there was any line yet on the attacker. The next report on a brown SUV, again with only a partial license number, put the couple somewhere in Alabama, still heading east. Alabama HP put patrols out, but in the heavy storm that had hit the state, the Bleaks had the advantage.

Sam could drive only short distances because of his left leg. In Molena Point, he hadn’t driven the van at all. Best to let people think he was more crippled than he was, to garner sympathy, make folks feel sorry for him. Now, moving across the country, he did drive, though it made his leg hurt. His increasing crankiness continued to irritate Tekla.

They didn’t stop in Atlanta; she wanted to move on through, head north into Georgia’s less populated backcountry. Freeway drivers were fast and brutal, so even she got nervous. They gassed up outside Canton, moved away on a narrower road into low hills, thick pine woods, and tacky mom-and-pop farms. “Home places,” the gas attendant called them when they asked for directions, home places, with an accent that made Arnold smirk. The rain had stopped, the weather hot and humid, further souring Sam’s mood.

With a local map they checked out a couple of shabby motels back in the hills at the edge of small manmade lakes. The only motels available in that backcountry, where people went to fish. Following the crooked roads they passed truck gardens and commercial chicken farms, long rows of rusted metal buildings that stunk of burned feathers and burned, dead chickens.