The Kindness of Strangers (Skip Langdon Mystery #6) (The Skip Langdon Series) (19 page)

Her mother whacked her so hard she fell backwards, hit the countertop, and bruised her lower back. For the moment, the pain of that nearly obscured the excruciating sensation of what could only be a broken nose. She felt her face, and came up with a handful of glasses so badly twisted she couldn’t even wear them. There was a ridge on her nose, where the nosepiece had slammed into flesh and cartilage, but it hadn’t swelled yet.

“My nose is broken,” she cried, terrified, not merely in pain.

“I certainly hope so,” said Lise. “And I’ll tell you something. If it is, you’re going to live with it. My insurance would cover having it fixed, but we’re not going to do that. You’re going to go through life with a big, ugly bump on your nose, to remind you of what a perfect little bitch you are. I hope you’re satisfied.”

She walked out of the room, almost with dignity, as if she were the one who was satisfied, leaving Torian to find some ice for her injuries.

When she had made herself two ice packs from threadbare dish towels, Torian limped to bed, moving with difficulty only partly because of her back pain. Part of her inability to stand up straight, to regain spring in her step, had to do with her mental state, the now literal feeling of being beaten.

She lay in bed with her ice, not even bothering to turn the light off, not able to bear the lace pattern on the wall, not caring anyway if she went to sleep with every light in the house on and loud music blaring.

She had thought she would fall asleep instantly, had looked forward to it, to escape her misery. Instead, she found her mind wandering to possible ways out. She hadn’t thought of this before except as kind of a daydream—it had never occurred to her simply to bolt.

I could run away. But where would I go? I already live in the French Quarter. This is where people run to.

I could turn her in!

She sat upright. She knew that what Lise had done was beyond the pale; maybe she could go to jail for it.

What do I do? Just walk into the Eighth District?

Hey, wait a minute. Why not tell Dad? He’ll
come get me. He wouldn’t want me living with this. Or Noel! He’s five minutes away. He’ll come now. I’m going to call him.

She reached for the phone, but some inner brake clicked on and stopped her. In her heart of hearts, she knew she couldn’t do it. Shouldn’t do it. Noel had a wife and family, she had no right. Besides, he might kill her mother.

She took some deep breaths and calmed down a little. Her mother wouldn’t come back in tonight. Surely she’d go out and find Charles. It was okay to have a cigarette, no one would mess with her.

And if she does, I’ll get another bruise that I can show the cops. If she hits me again, that’s it. I’m reporting her.

She lit the cigarette, wondering if she possibly could. Lise wasn’t responsible, she drank too much, she probably didn’t deserve jail.

On the other hand, I could live with Dad.

In some ways, it seemed as if deliverance had been handed to her by Lise herself.

But she knew she wasn’t going to take the rope Lise had thrown, that she couldn’t betray her mother.

She jumped when the phone rang, thinking it was too late for calls. But when she looked at her watch, she saw it was just eight-thirty.

* * *

Boo had gone to her yoga class, and Noel was glad to be alone—that is, alone with Joy. What had happened that day had unnerved him, and his daughter was his anchor—a real, laughing, flesh-and-blood creature. So alive. So innocent.

He changed her diaper, something he thought he’d never do, but he found that he enjoyed it in a way. He was revolted on the surface, yet the sensation of being useful to his daughter, doing something she needed, something intimate, something vital, outweighed that.

Next he fed her, giving her food that Boo had left for her, playing little games to get her to eat. He’d pretend the spoon was a giant humming insect about to land in her mouth, and she’d laugh and finally open up.

This was something he loved, something he cherished, these all too few moments with Joy. Without Boo.

Moments when if he did something wrong no one would know, no one was there to correct him, to tell him that wasn’t the right way to hold the spoon, or the bite was too big or too little. It was amazing she’d leave him alone with the baby, knowing he was as hopeless as she obviously thought.

Boo wasn’t someone he could talk to. She was all too ready to solve his problems, to offer suggestions, to help him pull up his socks and get on with it. That had been appealing at first, until he realized it wasn’t what he wanted. There was at least a chance he could work out his problems, and he’d rather try it before asking advice. Besides, by the time he told something to Boo, he usually had thought of everything that would occur to a person of normal intelligence. It was insulting, the way she treated him as if he had a two-figure IQ.

And she always jumped the gun on him. Tonight he didn’t want to come to any decisions, didn’t want to make any changes, just wanted to think about what had happened. Maybe get some tiny glimmer of understanding.

He heard Jacomine’s voice echoing in his mind:
a poisonous viper who will sting me unto death.

Preachers talked that way. A candidate under extreme stress—meaning any candidate for any office—might talk that way.

On the other hand, it was worth noting that it was pretty weird. And the whole outburst might conceivably be called paranoid if you didn’t blame it on stress.

Then there was Potter Menard, more robot than man. He was like some latter-day Green Beret, some commando run amok. His sangfroid, his chilly efficiency, gave Noel the creeps. But Menard had caught on that Noel wasn’t a spy for the other side.

Jacomine hadn’t seemed to. What disturbed Noel most was the way the man couldn’t seem to take in information, couldn’t let go of the notion of Noel as enemy. His parting threat was hostile and absolutely pointless.

You have to wonder if a person like that would really be a good mayor.

Maybe he’s a little nuts.

Or maybe it’s just the stress.

But being mayor’s a stressful job. He’s always going to be under stress
.

Wait it out, Noel. Wait it out. You don’t have enough information. Unless he’s absolutely psycho, he’s better than a machine cog or a racist.

Joy banged the table. Evidently, his mind had wandered for a moment.

“Okay, doll-baby, let’s read a book. Want to?” He lifted Joy out of her high chair. “How about one of your pop-ups?” These were her favorites—they were so much fun to tear apart.

He settled her comfortably in his lap and read her one of the books, which took about a minute and a half. She was sleeping soundly when he came to the end of it.

“Guess you weren’t up for a book tonight,” he said on the way down the hall.

He settled her in bed and was sure, in proper clichèd fashion, as all parents are, that an angel had landed on Earth.

How innocent she is. I’d kill anyone who tried to hurt her.

She was wearing a pink T-shirt and diaper. Her legs were open, as babies’ are most of the time and women’s are when they make love.

Because of that, perhaps, he took the thought further:
I’d kill anyone who tried to get into her pants.

And then:
What a crazy thing I’m doing. Torian’s someone’s daughter. What if Joy were fifteen and a man my age tried to get near her?

I’d kill him.

A married man with a child.

I’d torture him first.

But Torian’s an angel, too—how can I? Of course, it’s not like I’m having sex with her, but her dad probably wouldn’t stop to ask the particulars.

I’ve got to stop.

I can’t stop, I’m in love with her. I feel like her dad— I’d kill anyone who came near her.

He was seized suddenly with an overwhelming desire to talk to her, a frantic desire that was like a muscle contraction. He went back to the living room and waited for the cramp to subside.

But the pain, the desire, only became stronger.

Why not?
he thought.
She can’t call here, but I could call there. If Lise answers, I’ll just hang up.

Torian answered, and her voice sounded oddly thin.

“Babe? You okay?”

“Noel. You did call.”

“What do you mean? Torian, what do you mean?” There was some note in her voice he didn’t recognize, something like hysteria.

“I’m okay. It’s all right.”

If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought she was on drugs.

“What is it, honey? You sound so strange. Like you’re afraid of something.”

“I’m … sleepy. I’m … okay.” She was saying words that had nothing to do with her tone of voice. She sounded terrified, yet oddly withdrawn.

“Are you alone, Torian? Are you frightened of something?”

“Mom’s here.”

“Anyone else?”

“Just us.”

He was frantic. Something was badly wrong, he could feel it. “‘Torian, I’m coming over.”

“No!”

“I want to be with you.”

“You can’t. You’re with Boo.” He thought there was a note of desperation in her voice.

“I love you, Torian.”

She hung up, saying nothing, yet he heard a noise, perhr haps a sob, maybe a sigh.

Surely he couldn’t have caused this unhappiness. He was miserable, being in love with an adolescent while married to a therapist. But Torian had her whole life. He was a blip on her screen.

What if I just went over and got her?

Turn up on the doorstep with Joy?
I don’t think so.

But what if she’s in some kind of trouble?

He knew she couldn’t be. Her mother was there.

He poured himself a drink of single malt scotch, something he rarely drank—it was too hot in New Orleans. He saved it for times of deep melancholy.

Chapter Thirteen

IT WAS NEARLY midnight when Lise left Charles’s. She had cried for about three hours solid, occasionally throwing things and once or twice beating on poor, dear Charles, who was about the only person she could stand right now.

Even after investing three hours, she couldn’t make him understand. He thought if he went out and “beat the shit out of Wilson,” that would solve everything. It hadn’t been that easy to keep him from doing it.

Wilson didn’t need to be beaten, but he did need to be talked to. Things couldn’t go on. Lise was a mess, and Torian was out of control.

She would never have hit Torian, never never never, if she weren’t so stressed out. It was Wilson’s fault that she was, and probably her fault that Torian was. A domino effect.

A car nearly sideswiped her.

“Motherfucker!” she shouted, putting her whole heart and soul into it, but the windows were shut tight for the AC.

Wilson’s house was dark when she arrived. She leaned on the horn as she turned into the driveway, ran to the door, and leaned just as heavily on the doorbell.

Wilson answered, belting his robe, followed by his bimbo trophy wife doing the same. She looked bewildered, he furious.

“Is Torian with you?”

“‘Torian? Forget Torian. This is between us.”

He sighed. “What is, Lise? It’s the middle of the night.”

“I need to come in. We can’t talk out here.”

He looked at the trophy as if he had to ask her damn permission. She nodded and he stepped aside for Lise.

Anger raced up her spine like a flame. He had never asked her permission for anything—they hadn’t communicated at all. And there was another thing. She could see that both Wilson and the trophy were naked under their robes. The last year or so of their marriage—Wilson and Lise’s—he had pointedly worn pajamas.

She walked into their beige-on-beige living room with its Hurwitz-Mintz furniture and felt herself consumed by the flame inside her. It metastasized in the space of a millisecond from her spine to every cell in her body. Her tongue was a lightning bolt.

“Goddamn you, Wilson Gernhard.
Goddamn
you! Look at this place! Do you know what kind of squalor your only daughter is living in?”

The trophy—Carol, wasn’t it?—looked as if she were about to wet her pants, and as if on cue, a baby wailed somewhere in the bowels in the house. Carol left, but not before shooting Lise a look—a very different look from the hateful one she expected. Carol looked terrified.

Wimp, she thought. If she stays married to Wilson long enough, she’ll end up this way too.

“Torian isn’t my only daughter, Lise.” He spoke in a perfectly modulated voice, the voice of someone trying to calm a mental patient. It made Lise want to rip his liver out.

“No wonder you don’t care about her anymore. No wonder . ..”

“You’re not making sense.”

Lise heard noises in the kitchen, as if Carol were cooking.

“I’m sick and goddamn tired of your stinginess, your utter abdication of responsibility, the way you can never quite come up with our little bitty checks, paltry as they obviously are compared to any others you might be writing. Now that I see the way you live, I understand why you never have any money for us.

“Do you have any idea what I have to do for the few bucks a month I get from the goddamn insurance company? I have to sell my soul to some power-hungry supervisor the minute I get to work, and then five minutes later I have to turn around and sell it again to some numb-nuts who’s mad at the world because he didn’t have any better sense than to get drunk out of his skull and total his car. Half the time I have to work ten hours a day without overtime. And I still don’t make enough to keep decent clothes on your daughter’s back.”

“Lise…”

But she wouldn’t let him talk. “Wilson, I can’t take this anymore. My life is the pits, do you understand that? I’m going nuts. This is driving me stark raving crazy.”

“Something obviously is.”

“Go ahead. Be fucking sarcastic; go ahead. I have no money, Wilson. Do you know what it’s like to have no money? Not to know if you can afford to park your goddamn car? Or go to the movies? Hell, rent a video! My life is so awful I really think I’m going crazy. I swear to God I do.” She put her face in her hands, trying to hold back what she had almost said. She must not tell him what she had done. She must not, no matter what.