Crown's Law (26 page)

He whipped off the freeway and turned left on
Doheny Park Road, which merged into Pacific Coast Highway.

“Don’t the cops ever catch you?” gasped Bo as
soon as she could be heard over the rush of the wind and the roar
of the engine.

“They don’t bother anymore. If they see
me—they know my car—they just make a note. Sometimes I get a ticket
in the mail,” he chuckled.

As the guard stepped out of the Beach
Road guardhouse and waved Sam through, the guard thought,
How does he do it? Must be the car!

When Sam punched the garage door opener, the
left double door rolled up and revealed a new, white VW bug parked
in it.

“Ah, good!” exclaimed Sam as he drove into
the garage. “That’s Becky’s wheels. She’s home.”

As the garage door closed behind them, he
retrieved Bo’s bag and led her through the door from the garage
into the kitchen.

“Hey, Beck! I’m home!” he yelled as they
entered the large living room. Bo walked over to the open sliding
glass doors and watched the slow breakers washing up on the
sand.

“This is heavenly!” she exclaimed. “And that
sound! So refreshing! Soothing!”

Becky sauntered in from the deck via the side
door and yelled, “Sam! Hey! You’re here!”

They both stared at her. She was dressed in
the skimpiest bikini Bo had ever seen!

“Oops! Didn’t know you brought company,
Sam!”

She dashed out and came back in wearing a
cover-up.

“Becky! I’ve told you not to wear that suit!”
chided Sam.

“Shit, Sam! Nobody was here! I was working on
my tan. You never called and said you were coming home!” snapped
Becky.

“Christ! Watch your language, Beck!”

“Why? Nana’s not here. I need to let it all
out now and then! It gets all bottled up inside! Shit! Shit! Shit!”
Becky yelled. Sam knew she was pissed at him for leaving her alone
for four days.

Bo watched the exchange with a small smile on
her lips, remembering her own teenaged years. Then, Becky went to
Sam and hugged him, kissed his cheek while standing on tiptoes.

“There! I feel better. When I’m left alone, I
get all this pent-up crap. Next time, call and warn me. I’m sorry I
embarrassed you in front of your guest,” said Becky as she
approached Bo and extended her hand.

“Hi, I’m Becky Rogers. The teenager from
Hell!” Becky laughed as she shook Bo’s hand.

“Hi, I’m Rainbow Trout. Sam calls me Bo.”

“Rainbow Trout? For real? Cool!” exclaimed
Becky as she spotted the traveling bag. “You spending the
night?”

“If you don’t think I’m intruding.”

“Intruding? Hell no! I’ve been bouncing off
the walls all week!” laughed Becky. “It’s not my say so
anyway.”

Sam interjected, “Becky, we’ll put Ms. Trout
in the room across from yours. She’s spending the weekend.”

“Not your room?”

“Becky! Ms. Trout is an FBI agent out here
from D.C. We’re working a case together. Please mind your
manners!”

“I’m sorry. I remind you, you didn’t call and
explain anything! Nikki was here today to clean. She also changed
the sheets in Nana’s room. Why not put her there? That room has an
ocean view. Puts her further from the train.”

“Good thinking, Beck! Why don’t you take her
up and get her settled? Bo, put on a bathing suit if you brought
one. We still have some sun left, and we can take a swim. Watch the
sunset. And you, Beck, put on a decent suit!” said Sam.

“Yes, sir,” she replied with a salute as she
grabbed Bo’s bag and started for the staircase. “Come on, Ms.
Trout. Let’s get you settled.”

As they trudged up the stairs, Bo remarked,
“Why don’t you call me Bo?”

“I’m supposed to respect my elders. But
that’s fine with me, Bo.”

“You call Sam by his first name,” observed
Bo.

“Well, ‘Uncle Sam’ doesn’t really work, does
it?” chuckled Becky. “I would call him ‘Dad’ if he’d let me, but
he’ll have none of it. Sometimes I think he is more insecure than I
am!”

They entered a large bedroom with windows
along the beach side. The view was breathtaking! Bo opened the
sliding glass door and the sliding screen and stepped out onto the
redwood deck. There were two loungers out there—each with a round,
wooden table next to it. Becky joined her.

Becky said, “Pretty cool, eh? Everything
about this place is cool!”

“Stupendous! I take it that Sam brings women
here often?” opined Bo, prying a bit.

Becky peered at her, wondering what her
interest in Sam was. “Now and then. Not often. He’s sort of a bed
and breakfast kind of guy.”

Bo got a quizzical look on her face and
asked, “Bed and breakfast?”

“You know. He takes them to bed, feeds them
breakfast, and that’s usually the last you see of them,” she
explained as she turned and went back inside. Bo followed her.

Still wondering about Sam’s habits with
women, Bo queried, “Doesn’t that bother you?”

Becky stopped rattling clothes hangers and
peered sharply at Bo. After a couple of beats, she replied, “Excuse
me for being rude again, Ms. Trout, but you’ve only just met Sam.
You have no right to start judging him based on one of my flippant
remarks. Whatever life-style Sam chooses is perfectly OK with me,
and really none of your business. If it weren’t for his help and
compassion, I would probably be a street hooker now—or, more
likely, dead. Like my sister. Are you worried about my morals being
corrupted because he brings women here occasionally? Don’t be. I’m
old beyond my years.”

Bo felt her face turning hot, and felt
ashamed of herself. Her casual prying had caused Becky to jump to
Sam’s defense immediately. Before she could speak and apologize,
Becky smiled wryly and continued.

“If what you meant is do I approve of his
choice of women, the answer is not usually. From my point of view,
he could be a lot more discerning and selective. But, of course,
I’m being selfish. I keep hoping he’ll find me a mother, but I
think he avoids that type of women on purpose. Emotional commitment
isn’t his long suit. He’s a confirmed bachelor, I guess. I should
be ashamed for even thinking such things. I am so lucky just having
him! I only thank God that he decided to keep me—look after me. He
certainly didn’t need a teenaged daughter to complicate his life.
Especially one as complicated as I am. Fortunately, I have the rest
of my life to pay him back—if I can.”

Bo found her voice and said, “I am so sorry,
Becky! I didn’t mean to offend you!”

She could not believe how mature
Becky’s statement had been. No teenage slang or curse words. Just a
profound respect and love for Sam Crown. She didn’t know how to
extricate herself from this major
faux
pas
.

“Becky, I . . .”

Becky saved her from stammering out more
apologetic drivel by interrupting.

“Your apology is accepted. Please accept my
apology, too. You are Sam’s guest and my elder. I shouldn’t have
spoken to you that way, or the way I spoke downstairs. I just
wanted to set the record straight. Please don’t tell Sam that I was
so rude. Take a look at the pictures on the wall and you’ll get a
better feeling for who Sam really is.”

“Thanks. I won’t mention this discussion to
anyone, if you won’t. And I deserved that dressing down you gave
me. I was out of line.”

“And you were curious about Sam. He’s
probably been flirting with you and you’re trying to find out what
to expect,” laughed Becky, breaking the tension.

This girl is phenomenally
bright and perceptive! I hope I can change this bad first
impression I just made. I really would like to get to know her
better
.

Bo observed that one entire wall of the
bedroom was covered with framed photographs—mostly family ones she
assumed. She pointed to one—Becky with an older couple at
Disneyland.

“This picture, Becky? Are they Sam’s
parents?” she asked.

“Yeah. They’re like my grandparents now. The
photo next to it is Sam when he was in Vietnam in 1973. Just before
he got shot up real bad and got the Medal of Honor,” replied Becky
proudly.

Bo examined the photo: two men dressed in
camos, one kneeling, the other standing. Both were unshaven, and
the one standing held an automatic rifle in the crook of his left
arm; ammo bandoliers crossed his chest; and he wore a pistol on his
right hip like an Old West gunfighter—in a holster attached to a
cartridge belt. He wore a black cowboy hat with a feather in the
band, and a cigarette drooped from the left side of his mouth. A
large knife was sheathed on his left hip. Even with dark sunglasses
covering his eyes, Bo was certain that it was a young version of
Sam Crown. He certainly did not look like a clean-cut U.S.
Marine—but then, she had heard that Vietnam was not a clean-cut
kind of a war—as if any war was. She would not want to mess with
the guy in that picture! He looked very deadly!

Two pictures over to the right was a framed
document: it was the piece of paper that awarded Sam the Medal of
Honor.

Shit! This shameless flirt
was once that fierce-looking guy! He’s a very rare species! A Medal
of Honor recipient who’s still alive! Maybe I’ve misjudged
him
.

She made a mental note to run a background
check on him. She wanted to know more about Sam Crown.

She spotted another photo that interested
her. It appeared to be a younger version of Sam’s father standing
next to President Ronald Reagan. It was signed by Reagan and dated
1984.

“Hey, Becky. Is this Sam’s father with
President Reagan?”

Becky was moving things in the closet to make
some room for Bo to use.

“Yeah. Grandpa was a big honcho of some sort
in the CIA. Like, a spy, or something. Nobody talks about it much.
Not about Sam’s medal either. Grandpa is supposed to be retired
now, but there is a lot of weird equipment around here—scrambled
phone for sure. I know he talks on it a lot.”

Bo spotted another interesting one with
Becky, Sam, and a gray-haired, mustachioed man.

“What’s this one?”

Becky walked over to the picture wall and
stood next to Bo, shoulders nearly touching. “That’s me and Sam
with Dr. Phillip Royce. Dr. Royce is one of the world’s leading
physicists. That shot was taken in Washington D.C. where I was
presenting a paper,” replied Becky with a shrug. “Sam wouldn’t let
me go back there alone. He was my bodyguard.”

“A paper?”

“Yeah. You know. At a meeting of
the
National Academy of
Sciences
. I was drumming up support for my theory of
post-Einsteinian physics.”

Bo glanced at her and observed, “You’re not a
typical teenager, are you?”

“I’m still trying to learn how to be
one—like, what is one? My senior prom is tomorrow and I’m scared
shitless! They’ve sent me to charm school, but I still have a lot
to learn about feelings and interpersonal actions. How to act. How
to feel. Why can’t life be rational and predictable, like
mathematics?”

“Sam told me you were . . . quite
brilliant.”

“Oh, yeah! I’m a freakin’ phenom! I’ve also
read dozens of books on psychology, psychiatry, teen behavior—all
that shit! I know stuff, but turning the knowledge into
behavior—you know, feelings and proper action—is tough for me! Sam
says I’ll get better with age and practice. How were you when you
were a teenager?” asked Becky as she went back to the closet and
moved some hangers. “You can use this space and these hangers to
hang your clothes.”

Bo absorbed Becky’s dissertation, then
thought back to her teenage years—and her senior prom. Bo had been
somewhat of a tomboy growing up, but in spite of being extremely
competitive with boys, she had finally given up her virginity to
one that night. It hadn’t been as pleasurable as she had
expected.

Is that what’s bothering
her?
thought Bo.
The
possibility of losing her virginity? Poor kid! I doubt that I’m the
person to give her advice. My sexual history isn’t very
stellar!

As Bo began unpacking, she answered, “Well, I
certainly wasn’t burdened with brilliancy! My teenage years were
pretty ordinary, I guess. I was pretty much a tomboy—played a lot
of sports. Competed with boys, but still managed to get dates with
them. I went to dances, movies, skiing, water rafting, horseback
riding—that sort of thing. I was raised in the mountains of
Colorado. But I don’t know if I can help you. What are you afraid
of . . . exactly?”

Becky sat on the bed and frowned. “I don’t
know. Most of the other kids think I’m a prep—a freak. And, of
course, I am! I understand that people like me are very rare. I can
quote the statistics, if you’re interested. People feel
uncomfortable around a person like me, especially boys. They like
dumb, blonde cheerleaders, not blonde Einsteins!”

“What about the boy taking you to the prom?
Do you make him uncomfortable?”

“Billy Spears? He’s 17, a senior.
Good-looking enough. I met him in charm school. His rich parents
made him go. We’ve been buddies a couple of years. He’s used to me.
I help him with his homework, but I think I frustrate him. I can
tell by the way he looks at me that he wants more from me than help
with homework,” replied Becky as Bo finished her unpacking. She
laid a Navy Blue two-piece swimsuit on the bed, along with a short,
white cover-up.

“Is that it? You’re afraid he’ll go after
your virginity?”

Becky let out a pitiful laugh. “No! My
stepfather took care of that years ago! I know I won’t let Billy go
all the way—I’m not ready for that yet—but if I let him kiss me and
feel me up, he’ll want more. How do you handle that?”

Bo was caught completely off guard! How
should she answer that question? And Becky’s matter-of-fact
boldness—and the fact that she had been sexually abused—shocked
her.