Fixing Perfect (6 page)

“I left early.” Robin shifted, trying to find a bit of warmth, but the fountain had leached all the heat from her bottom. “I was just thinking about heading home.”

“Not feeling good?” Sam stood and waited while she hauled herself to her feet.

“Just mad.” And now he'd ask why and what could she say?

“Who at? I hope you're not mad at me.”

“Never.” She grinned up into his handsome face. Maybe he didn't look like a model, but his face was more real, held a lot more honesty in it, and so was more attractive to Robin. She didn't want a man carved from marble, after all.

“OK, what's up? Come on, tell old Sammy.”

Robin laughed, though it held a hint of the bitter anger she still felt. “Grace just said a few things that set me off, so after she came back from her break I ditched her. The shop isn't that busy this afternoon anyway. And I'll be there on Friday night.”

“You're always there on Friday nights.”

“Yup.”

“She schedules you for date night because she figures you can't get a date?”

Robin sucked in a deep breath and mangled her crutches under her arms so she could heave herself to her feet. So humiliating to want to stomp away and have to take so much time over it.

Sam followed her easily. “That's it, isn't it? Grace said something to the effect that no guy is ever going to be interested in you, and you're mad.”

She spun on the tip of one crutch, glaring at him, and he jumped. “What is it with you? How do you do that?”

His eyes went wary. “What? Put my foot in my mouth?”

“No. Read my mind.”

“Is that what I was doing?” He drew level with her and looked at her sideways. His cautious expression would have made her laugh, and she'd have given into it if she weren't so close to tears. But she wouldn't cry in front of him. She'd stopped crying over her legs and their effect on her life years before. “Pretty much.”

“Well, it's just common sense. Grace tends to be—a little tactless. Kind of like me, on occasion. And talking about date night—” He stopped, apparently realizing that subject was better left unexplored. “Anyway, yeah, I just figured it out.”

“She thinks I should jump at the chance to go out with some guy I don't like—at least, not for a boyfriend—just because he's asked her a few things about me. She thinks if I don't, I'll waste my only chance at ever finding a guy willing to date a cripple.”

“You've had other dates. In fact, when I first met you, weren't you dating someone?”

“Not really.” Not that she'd ever tried to explain that to him—how she wanted so badly for Sam to think her worthy of his attention that she'd let him believe a casual acquaintance was more. “He was just a friend. I know you had the wrong impression, but I didn't think it would matter.” Hadn't believed it would matter, if she told the whole truth. But she so hoped Sam would care.

“Really?” He stopped, holding out his arm.

She took the opportunity to catch her breath. They might not have been going fast by his standards, but for her, the pace was close to a sprint.

“And all this time I could have asked you out, and you never told me?”

So much for trying to get her breath. When she could make her jaw close in a normal manner, she stammered, “You wanted to ask me out?”

“The thought crossed my mind.” He grinned. “But you got into all the therapy stuff with me—”

“I'm not a therapist.”

“No, but you did a lot better job for me than the guy the state appointed.”

“I know.” And even though her breathing slowed, her heart hadn't. He'd wanted to ask her out when they'd met. What was stopping him now?

She really needed to get home and indulge in a good, long cry.

“Look, I'm getting really tired. I'm going home, OK?” She swung toward her street, thankful that she had only a few blocks to go before she reached her haven.

“I'll walk you.”

“No, that's OK. You were on your way somewhere else. You go take care of business or whatever. I'll see you later.” She bent her head and dug into shoving her crutches in front of her as fast as she could manage.

 



 

Sam stared after Robin, his heart shattered. What was wrong? What had he done this time? Here he'd been set to finally ask her out, and she'd taken off like he'd shown her candy and asked her to climb into his car.

Like he was the villain.

Probably because he'd been so clueless about Grace. Why couldn't he just keep his mouth shut about those things? Robin probably thought he agreed with Grace, that no guy would want her because she needed crutches and leg braces to get around.

And what was with her calling herself a cripple? So she used those crutches. She didn't need to demean herself like that. He knew for a fact plenty of other people treated her like an imbecile, as though any disability translated into a mental one, but he'd never seen her give in to it.

He watched her until she turned a corner. Then he came to and looked at the tourists around him. Visitors had fallen off somewhat since the kidnappings, and he was glad to see so many people out today enjoying the sunshine and typical offshore southern California weather, even if most of them were not children. He had seen a few. It might be almost the end of October, but he'd seen some kids playing on the beach, dancing in and out of the waves.

His cell chirped and he grabbed it, hoping it was Robin, calling to ask him to come by after all, that she was sorry for having run off on him, that she wanted to make up.

It was his friend from the police department, Bricker.

“Just thought you should know. It's going to be all over pretty soon—another kid and her babysitter's gone missing.”

He closed his eyes, his heart crying out to God when he didn't know how to pray. “Who are they?”

“Cynthia Maxwell is the little one. She's two. The babysitter is a college student, home for a few weeks. Her name is...” Sam heard him fumbling with paper. “Kaitlyn George. I've got a picture on my cell. I'll forward it to you after we hang up.”

Sam held the phone against his ear and stared at the oblivious tourists. The sun had turned bitter. The wind that played with fallen leaves became a harbinger of fear.

“Are they putting together search parties?”

“Why I'm calling you. Come help us until you have to report for your shift.”

“I'm on my way.”

 



 

Becca stared while the little girl cried and cried and didn't stop. Becca tried to pat her head after Mr. Bird left, but the baby hit her arm and that made Becca want to cry, too. Except crying made Mr. Bird mad, and she never knew when he was going to come back and catch her. She sure didn't like to make him mad.

If this baby kept crying, and he came back…

Becca sat on the edge of the mattress and cooed, just like her mommy did when she was scared. The baby stopped making noise for a minute, even though her face was still wet, and big fat tears still rolled down her red cheeks. After a minute, she crawled over to where Becca sat, and laid down next to her, with her head in Becca's lap.

That wasn't so nice because her bottom smelled bad, but it was a lot better than all the noise she was making before. Becca laid down, too, and put her thumb in her mouth.

For the first time, she didn't scrape at the hole. Maybe this baby was God's way of making her behave.

But when she woke up later, the baby and her fat tears and stinky bottom were gone.

Mr. Bird came back a long time later.

“Where's the baby?” Becca asked. “I bet she got to go home to her mommy.” She felt her lower lip push out, and Mr. Bird didn't like her to pout. She covered her face.

He sat next to her and handed her a sandwich. Peanut butter again. Never with jam. She had to hide another pout.

“She was going to help me, just like you, but it didn't work out. She didn't smell very good, anyway.”

The trash didn't smell good, either. Maybe Mr. Bird didn't care about trash smell, though.

Becca opened the sandwich, just to check to see if there might be some jam hidden inside. There wasn't. “She cried a lot, too. You don't like crying.”

He gave her the kind of look her kindergarten teacher used whenever she remembered the name of a letter. “That's right. I don't. You're very smart.”

That made her feel better. She took a bite of sandwich and, sucking hard so the peanut butter didn't make her mumble her words, said, “When do I get to help you?”

“Not for a while. I'm telling a story. Your part is way at the end.”

“What's the story?”

“It's about my little bird. My sweet, baby-blue-eyed bird.”

“Tell me.”

He frowned and shook his head. “Not right now. I need to work some of it out, still. Maybe later. When it's your turn to help, I'll tell you everything.”

She finished her sandwich and went to the bathroom to run water into her hand, to drink. When she came out, Mr. Bird had gone again. She didn't like how he did that, how he left when she wasn't looking.

She lay down, and right away one thumb went into her mouth and the other hand went to the hole.

If God wanted her to be good, He'd send her another baby to take care of. He couldn't expect her to be good all on her own.

 

 

 

 

5

 

Bricker stopped next to Sam, his hands on his hips, as Sam surveyed the old warehouse. Bricker had taken to wearing his uniform, weapon included, every time they searched. It gave the two of them added authority, although the armband the volunteers wore, proclaiming them official searchers, was enough for Sam.

“It's crossed off the list,” Bricker said.

“I don't know.” Sam stared at the row of windows so dirty they appeared gray.

“We did. In fact, two teams went through, remember?”

“Yeah, I do. But I've got a feeling.” He didn't explain it.

“So you want to go in again? Fine, you go. I'm not wasting my time.” Bricker turned away, skirting the building and kicking aside boxes and debris in the alley that ran between the warehouse and the service area of a hotel.

Sam pried open the crooked door enough to slip inside. The windows allowed very little light, and he thumbed his flashlight on, sweeping the beam across the gritty floor.

Both he and Bricker, as well as the other team, had been thorough in their searches.
God, am I crazy? Am I wasting time?

The killer had left Lehanie out in the open. He'd wanted people to find her. He'd wanted to show off his work. So why did Sam have such a strong urge to look again among the hidden, and the trash?
Guide me, Father.

A rat scuttled from a pile of boxes, and Sam directed the light toward the corner. Something had shifted them. Not the other team. They'd gone through before Sam. But something—something that interested a rat.

A lot of rats. Three more fled before his light. He heard much scurrying, and several boxes fell as he watched.

Oh, dear God, please.

He crept forward, shoving empty cartons out of his way with his foot, making sure nothing he wanted to find could be hiding in them. After all, Cynthia was only two.

The smell hit him with sudden intensity. Not a dead body, but feces. He stared down at the diaper ripped from the back, chewed by rats, and the chubby leg protruding, and jerked out his phone. “Bricker, get in here. I found the baby.”

Setting the flashlight on the edge of a box, so the child could see him as well as he could her, he squatted next to her. “Hey, Cynthia.”

“Mommy!” she wailed.

“I know. We're gonna take you to your mommy right now.”

She held out her arms, and he reached for her. No matter how disgusting her condition, he could not deny her the comfort of loving arms, hands that wouldn't hurt, hands that didn't want to paint her or kill her.

And he could only thank God that he found her before the rats finished with the diaper.

 



 

He watched Sam carry the kid out. Fair enough. It'd be a wasted death if they hadn't found her. For half a minute, he wished her back. He could do her hair and eyes just like he'd done Lehanie's and put her in one of the sky blue outfits he loved and set her up with some stuffed mermaids.

But he couldn't have done that yet. It would give too much away. Better to let this one go and find another little girl for later. There were plenty of babies on the island.

And there was always Becca.

He nodded sharply, once, and headed for home. Becca was at home.

He almost forgot the kid had been found, until he heard the celebrating. He ran toward the crowd, whooping and hollering with the rest of them. He felt someone staring at him, but the best way to avoid suspicion, he'd found, was to ignore it.

He clapped Sam on the back, congratulated him, and let everyone there assume he was as surprised as they were.

No problem. There were plenty of other kids wandering around.

 



 

Clouds dimmed the day but not the players' faces the next Saturday. Robin looked at each team member in turn as they gathered around Coach Danny for the opening prayer. Robin reached out for Kerry's hand on one side, and Sam covered her fingers, clutched on her crutch, on the other. She bent her head, and a sharp, chill breeze tugged at the hair already clasped in a barrette at the back of her head.

Sam's grip tightened and relaxed, and she glanced at him. His lips tipped up at the corners, more reassurance than actual happiness. But then, she could tell he was worried.