The Face of Death (23 page)

Only one way to find out.

Sarah’s Story

Part Two

24

So how do you like the story so far? Not bad for an almost-sixteen-year-old, huh? Like I said, I’m a sprinter more than a runner, and we sure sprinted through that first bit, didn’t we? A summary: Happy me, bad man comes, dead Buster, dead Mommy, dead Daddy, unhappy me. Now we’ll take a jump. A leap to the next starting line.

First, some backstory: I was hazy and crazy after everything that happened, and somehow both Doreen and I ended up in the backyard. Doreen, poor dummy, got thirsty or hungry or both and couldn’t rouse me (I was too busy lying on the back patio, drooling on the concrete) and she started howling. God, could she howl.

Anyway, so our next-door neighbors, John and Jamie Overman, called the cops because of all the racket and because I guess they peeked over the fence and saw me drooling and thought, Hey that’s kinda strange.

Two coppers showed up (cheezit!), a guy named Ricky Santos and a new rookie named Cathy Jones. Cathy becomes what we call an IMPORTANT CHARACTER in my story.

Over the years, unlike most other people, she actually gave a poopydoody.

More on her later. That’s the thirty-second recap. Now we’ll head back into third-person view.

Time for another trip to the watering hole. Ready?

1-2-3: GO!

Once Upon A Time, things were totally, totally screwed….

SARAH SIPPED WATER THROUGH A STRAW AND TRIED NOT TO

feel tired.

A whole week had gone by. A week of floating in marshmallows because of the drugs they gave her. A week of sly voices whispering in her head. A week of pain.

One day she’d woken up and hadn’t started to scream right away. That was the end of her visits to Marshmallow Land. She still had dreams, though. In those dreams, her parents were

(nothing they were nothings nothing at all)

And Buster was a

(puppyhead—puppyshead?)

(nothing nothings nothing)

She woke from these dreams shivering and denying, shivering and denying.

Right now she was wide awake, though. A lady-policeman was sitting in a chair next to the bed, asking Sarah questions. The lady’s name was Cathy Jones, and she seemed nice, but her questions were puzzling.

“Sarah,” she started, “do you know why your mommy hurt your daddy?”

Sarah frowned at Cathy.

“Because The Stranger made her,” Sarah answered.

Cathy frowned. “What Stranger, sweetheart?”

“The Stranger that killed Buster. That burned my hand. He made Mommy hurt Daddy and hurt herself too. He said he would hurt me if they didn’t.”

Cathy stared at Sarah, perplexed.

“Are you saying there was someone in your house, honey? Someone that forced your mommy to do the things she did?”

Sarah nodded.

Cathy leaned back, uneasy.

What the hell?

Cathy knew that forensics had been through the Langstroms’ home and that they hadn’t found anything to point away from a murder-suicide. There was a note from the mother that said:
I’m sorry, take care of Sarah.
There was the fact that Linda’s prints were found in a number of damning places, notably the hacksaw that beheaded the dog, her husband’s neck, and the gun she’d used to shoot herself.

There was also the matter of the antidepressants the mother appeared to have been taking, no sign of forced entry, Sarah being left alive—if it looked like a dog and barked like a dog…Cathy had been asked by the detectives in charge to get a statement from Sarah for corroboration. A loose end, nothing more.

So what do I do here?

Ricky’s voice came to her.

Just take the statement. That’s what you’re here for. Take it, give it to the detectives, and move on. The rest of it is not your problem.

“Tell me everything you remember, Sarah.”

Sarah watched the lady-policeman walk out of her room.

She doesn’t believe you.

It was something Sarah had become aware of about halfway through her story. Adults thought kids didn’t know anything. They were wrong. Sarah knew when she was being humored. Cathy was nice, but Cathy didn’t believe her about The Stranger. Sarah frowned to herself. No, that wasn’t quite right. It’s that she seemed…what? Sarah puzzled over the nuances for a moment.

It’s like she doesn’t think I’m lying—but she doesn’t think that what I’m saying is true.

Like I’m

(crazy).

Sarah leaned back in the hospital bed and closed her eyes. She felt the pain riding in like dark horses. The horses, they’d gallop into her soul and rear and scream, their hoofs sending black sparks flying off her heart.

Sometimes the pain she felt had clarity. It wasn’t a dull ache, or a background noise. It was a ragged wound, nerve endings, and fire. It was a blackness that swept over her and made her think about dying. In those moments, she’d lie in her bed in the dark and would try to get her heart to stop beating. Mommy had told her a story about this once. About wise men in ancient China who could dig an open grave, sit next to it, and will themselves to die. Their hearts would stop and they’d topple forward into the waiting dirt.

Sarah tried to do this, but no matter how much she concentrated, how hard she wished, she couldn’t die. She kept on breathing and her heart kept on beating and—worst of all—she kept on
hurting.
It was a pain that wouldn’t go away, that wouldn’t lessen or subside.

She couldn’t die, so she’d curl up in her bed and cry without making noise. Cry and cry and cry, for hours. Cry because she understood now, understood that Mommy and Daddy and Buster were gone, and they weren’t coming back. Not ever.

After the grief came the anger and shame.

You’re six! Stop being such a crybaby!

She didn’t have an adult there to tell her that being six meant it was still okay to cry, so she curled up in the dark and tried to die and wept and berated herself for every tear.

Cathy not believing her, Cathy thinking she was a cuckoo-bird, brought a new kind of pain.

It made her sad and angry. Most of all, she felt alone.

Cathy sat in the patrol car and looked out the window. Her partner, Ricky Santos, was downing a milk shake as he gave her the once-over.

“Kid’s story bothering you?” he asked.

“Yeah. Any way you slice it, it’s bad news. If we’re right, she’s crazy. If we’re wrong, she’s in danger.”

Ricky sucked on his straw and contemplated the insides of his sunglasses.

“You gotta let it go, partner. That’s how it works for us uniforms. We don’t get to follow things through to the end, not very often. We parachute in, secure things, turn it over to detectives. In, out, clean. You carry things around when you’re not in a position to do anything about them, you’re gonna go crazy. Why cops end up drunks, or at the wrong end of their revolvers.”

Cathy turned to him.

“So you’re saying—what? Don’t give a shit?”

Santos smiled at her, a sad smile.

“Care while it’s your problem. That’s what I’m saying. You’re gonna see a hundred Sarahs. Maybe more. Do the right thing for them while it’s your job, and then let it go and move on to the next one. It’s a war of attrition, Jones. Not a single battle.”

“Maybe,” she said.

But I bet you have a case you could never let go of. I think Sarah’s going to be mine.

Saying it to herself made Cathy feel better.

Mine.

“I’ll be right back,” Cathy said.

Santos looked at her. He was inscrutable. A sphinx in shades.

“Okay,” he replied, and sucked on his straw.

They had parked at a Jack in the Box next to the hospital. Cathy exited the patrol car and walked across the street. She entered through the front doors and wound her way down the hallways to Sarah’s room.

Sarah was sitting up, looking out the window. The view was of the hospital parking lot.

How depressing. Way to promote healing, guys.

“Hey,” Cathy said.

Sarah turned toward her and smiled. Cathy was struck again by the beauty of the little girl.

She walked over to Sarah’s bed.

“I wanted to give you this.”

Cathy held a business card between her fingers.

“That’s got my name and number on it. My e-mail address too. If you ever need help with anything, you can get in touch with me.”

Sarah took the card and examined it before looking back up at Cathy.

“Cathy?”

“Yeah, honey?”

“What’s going to happen to me?”

The pain that Cathy had been keeping at arm’s length tried to crawl right up her throat. She fought it back down with a swallow.

What’s going to happen to you, kid?

Cathy knew that Sarah had no living relatives. Unusual, but it happened. It meant she was going to become a ward of the state.

“Someone’s going to come take care of you, Sarah.”

Sarah mulled this over.

“Will I like them?”

Cathy grimaced inside.

Maybe not.

“Sure you will. I don’t want you to worry, Sarah.”

Man, those eyes. I gotta get out of here.

“Hold on to that card, okay? And call me if you need to. Anytime.”

Sarah nodded. She even managed a smile and now Cathy didn’t just want to walk out of the room, she wanted to
run,
because that smile was heartbreaking.

(Gut-wrenching)

“Bye, honey,” she stammered as she turned and walked away.

“Bye, Cathy,” Sarah called after her.

Back in the car, Santos—now shake-less—regarded her.

“That make you feel better?”

“Not really, Ricky.”

He regarded her for another moment. He seemed to be mulling something over.

“You’re gonna make a good cop, Cathy.”

He turned the key in the ignition and put the car in reverse as Cathy stared at him in surprise.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me, Santos.”

He smiled at her as he put the car in drive and headed out of the parking lot.

“Then you need new friends, Jones. But you’re welcome anyway.”

25

SARAH SAT IN THE CAR AND WATCHED THE LADY CHANGE.

Karen Watson had shown up in the hospital room and explained to Sarah that she was there from Social Services, and that she was going to take care of her. Karen had seemed really nice and had smiled a lot. Sarah had felt hopeful.

Once they were out of the hospital, Karen had changed. She’d begun walking faster, yanking Sarah forward.

“Get in, kid,” she’d said, when they reached the car.

Her voice sounded
mean.

Sarah puzzled over the change, trying to make sense of it.

“Are you mad at me?” she asked Karen.

Karen looked at her once before starting up the car. Sarah took in the dull eyes, the carelessly coiffed brown hair, the heavy face. The woman looked tired. Sarah thought she probably always looked tired.

“I don’t really care about you one way or the other, princess, if you want to know the truth. My job is to get a roof over your head, not to love you or be your friend or anything like that. Understand?”

“Yes,” Sarah replied, her voice small.

They drove off.

The Parkers lived in a worn-out house in Canoga Park, which was located in the San Fernando Valley. It resembled its owners: in need of work that would never be done.

Dennis Parker was a mechanic. His father had been a good man, had loved fixing cars, and had taught Dennis the trade. Dennis hated the work—hated all work, really—and he made sure that everyone knew it.

He was a big man, just over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and beefy arms. He had scraggly dark hair, ever-present stubble, and muddy-colored, mean-looking eyes.

Dennis would tell friends that he liked three things above all others: “Cigarettes, whisky, and pussy.”

Rebecca Parker was a stereotypical California blonde with too many sharp edges to be truly attractive. She’d been beautiful for about four years, from sixteen to twenty. She made up for her deteriorating looks in the bedroom—not that it took much skill to please Dennis. He was usually full of booze by the time he was trying to get into her pants. She had a pair of heavy breasts, a waist that had stayed slim, and what Dennis liked to call “a tight little panty-hamster.”

(Note from Sarah: This is true. Theresa told me he actually said that once. Charming, yes? Oh, who is Theresa? Read on and find out.)

Rebecca’s job was simple: managing the care of three foster children, the maximum number they could legally take in. They were paid for each kid, and it was a fair part of their income.

Rebecca’s duties included feeding the kids, telling them to go to school, and making sure that neither she nor Dennis left any visible marks on the kids when they delivered a beating. The trick was to pay just enough attention to the children to keep Social Services from getting pissed off, but not so much that it ate into her own free time or—most important—their bottom line.

Karen knocked on the door of the Parkers’ house as Sarah stood next to her. She heard footsteps coming, and then the door opened. Rebecca Parker peered through the screen door. She was wearing a tank top and shorts, and had a cigarette in her hand.

“Hey, Karen,” she said, opening the screen door. “Come on in.” She smiled. “You must be Sarah.”

“Hi,” Sarah replied.

Sarah thought that the lady looked and sounded nice, but she was beginning to understand that looks could be deceiving. Plus the lady smoked—yuck!

Karen and Sarah walked inside the Parkers’ home. It was clean, sort of. It smelled like stale cigarettes.

“Jesse and Theresa are at school?” Karen asked.

“Yep,” Rebecca replied. She guided them into the living room, and gestured for them to take a seat on the couch.

“How are they doing?” Karen asked.

Rebecca shrugged. “They’re not failing anything. They’re eating. Neither of them is doing any drugs.”

“Sounds fine, then.” Karen indicated Sarah with a nod of her head. “As I told you over the phone, Sarah is six. I need to place her quickly, and I thought of you and Dennis. I know you are looking for a third.”

“Since Angela ran away, yes.”

Angela had been a pretty fourteen-year-old girl whose mother had died of a heroin overdose. She was already a hard case and Karen had placed her with the Parkers because she knew they could deal with her. Angela had run away two months ago. Karen figured she was probably heading down the same path as her whore mother.

“It’ll be the usual routine. You need to get her in school, make sure her shots are up to date, and so on.”

“We know.”

Karen nodded in approval. “Then I’m going to leave her with you. I brought her bag, she has plenty of clothes and underwear and shoes, so you won’t have to worry about that.”

“Sounds good.”

Karen stood up, shook Rebecca’s hand, and headed toward the front door. Sarah went to follow her.

“You’re staying here, kid.” She turned to Rebecca. “I’ll be in touch.”

And then she was gone.

“Let me show you where your room is, honey,” Rebecca said.

Sarah followed the woman in a daze.

What was happening? Why was she staying here? And where was Doreen? What had they done with her puppyhead?

“Here it is.”

Sarah looked through the door into the room. It was small, about ten feet by ten feet. There was a single dresser and two small beds. The walls were bare.

“Why are there two beds?” she asked.

“You’re sharing the room with Theresa.” Rebecca pointed toward the dresser. “You can put your clothes in the bottom drawer. Why don’t you go ahead and unpack your stuff, and then come meet me in the kitchen?”

Sarah had managed to cram all of her clothes into the bottom drawer of the small dresser. She’d arranged her shoes under her bed. As she’d unpacked, she’d caught a whiff of a familiar scent, the smell of the fabric softener her mother used. It had caught her by surprise, a punch in the stomach. She’d had to bury her face in a shirt to cover up her crying.

Her tears had subsided by the time she’d finished emptying out the small bag Karen had left. She sat down on the edge of her bed, filled with bewilderment and a dull ache.

Why am I here? Why can’t I sleep in my own room?

She didn’t understand any of this.

Maybe the Rebecca lady knew.

“There you are,” Rebecca said as Sarah showed up in the kitchen. “Did you get all your stuff packed away?”

“Yes.”

“Come have a seat at the table. I made you a bologna sandwich, and I got you some milk—you do like milk, right? You’re not lactose intolerant or anything?”

“I like milk.” Sarah sat down in the chair and picked up the sandwich. She
was
hungry. “Thank you,” she said to Rebecca.

“No problem, sweetie.”

Rebecca sat down at the other end of the table and lit up a cigarette. She smoked and watched Sarah as the little girl ate.

Sad and pale and small. That’s too bad. But everybody learns the same thing sooner or later: It’s a tough old world.

“I’m going to explain some of the rules of the house to you, Sarah. Things you need to know while you’re living here with us, okay?”

“Okay.”

“First of all, we’re not here to entertain you, understand? We’re here to give you a roof over your head, to feed and clothe you, make sure you get to school and all of that—but you’re going to have to keep yourself occupied. Dennis and I have our own lives, and our own things to do. We don’t have time to be your playmates. Understand?”

Sarah nodded.

“Okay. Next thing, you’ll have chores around the house. Get them done and you won’t get in trouble. Don’t get them done and you will. Bedtime is at ten. No exceptions. That means lights out and under the covers. The last rule is simple, but it’s important: Don’t talk back. Do what we say. We’re the grown-ups, and we know what’s best. We’re giving you a place to live and we expect to be treated with respect. Understand?”

Another nod.

“Good. Do you have any questions for me?”

Sarah looked down at her plate. “Why am I living here? Why can’t I go back home?”

Rebecca frowned, puzzled.

“Because your mom and dad are
dead,
honey, and there’s no one else that wants you. That’s what Dennis and I do. We take in kids that don’t have anywhere else to go. Didn’t Karen explain that to you?”

Sarah shook her head, still staring at her plate. She looked numb.

“Thank you very much for the sandwich,” she said, her voice small. “Can I go to my room now?”

“Go ahead, honey,” Rebecca said, stubbing out her cigarette and lighting another. “You new ones usually cry for the first few days, and that’s okay. But you’ll need to learn to toughen up fast. Life goes on, you know?”

Sarah stared at Rebecca for a moment, taking this in. The little girl’s face crumpled and she fled the table.

Rebecca watched her go. The blonde took a long drag on her cigarette.

Pretty girl. It’s a shame what happened to her.

Rebecca waved her hand in dismissal, though she was alone. Her eyes were angry and miserable and surrounded by too much mascara.

Well, that’s too bad. It’s a tough old world.