The Second Lie (17 page)

Those big brown eyes stared up at him and he could hardly breathe. His mouth was dry and he forgot, for an instant, that he was the leader. The one they all relied on.

He had a job to do.

A strict set of rules.

He was a grown man with the responsibility that came with age.

"My friend, Glenna, just told me about a little boy with ADHD who was locked in a closet for five months because his parents couldn't keep him from hurting himself and couldn't afford medication to help him." She teared up again.

"Jimmy Williams."

"You know him, too?"

"We're going to help him, sweetie."

"We are?"

"Yes. We'll be delivering meds to his house, soon, just like we do with the other folks that need them but can't afford them. It's your help, yours and the others, that let us do this so cheaply. We don't have to pay doctors and pharmacists and distributors. We just pay you guys. That's why it's so important that you not open the packages," he added for good measure, not that he worried about her following the rules. "We can't take a chance on having any of the medications contaminated or we'd have to throw it away and then it would cost more money to replace."

It was the story he gave Maggie. That she was delivering meds to sick kids. Because she was different. The rest of them were just happy to make the money. They knew if they touched the packages, they'd lose their jobs. Ones that paid more than any minimum-wage job they could get.

Some of them might suspect, but they didn't care. As long as they were paid.

"Jimmy's already on our list, sweetie," he said, gazing down at the young woman in front of him.

As happy tears trickled down her face, he longed to kiss them away and satisfied himself with slowly wiping them instead.

"I have to talk to you about something." He'd had a scare. This time her tears had been for a young boy who was sick. Next time it could be an older boy, or man, who caught her interest. Her heart.

He couldn't take that chance.

Not with this one.

"What?" Her concerned and completely trusting look gave him strength.

"Your clothes. Your hair. The makeup."

Her expression fell. "You don't like them?"

So they had been for him.

"I do like them," he told her, careful of her fourteen-year-old budding ego. "Too much. And that's why they have to go."

"You don't want to like me." Her voice was as glum as her expression.

"Hey." He lifted her chin again, this time because she was hurting at his expense and that was something he could never allow. His fingers trailed softly along her neck. "It's not me I'm worried about.

"I love seeing this." He pointed to the young, firm breasts beneath the tight black sweater and fought the temptation to accidently brush against one of the rigid nipples. He was a good man. A decent man. "I don't want anyone else to have that same privilege. They'll use you. Take advantage. You'll get hurt."

And when she continued to stand there, looking at him, he pointed lower to the curve of crotch that was outlined in the low-cut jeans. "This is too much temptation. You're perfect. Gorgeous. And I can't send you out like this in front of other people. I don't trust them not to touch."

And, just in time, he remembered himself.

"If you get hurt, you won't be able to help anymore," he said, stepping back.

"I'll tone it down," she said. And then smiled at him.

A burst of unexpected sunshine.

And because she was a good girl who'd understood him, because she was having an emotional day, because the project needed her...he broke one small rule. He pulled her into his arms and hugged her.

He did it for good reasons. Logical ones. Compassionate ones. He did not do it for himself.

15

A
fter a phone conversation with MaryLee Hatch, facilitated by Sam's old schoolmate Roberta Gainey, who was MaryLee's younger sister, Sam picked up Nicole Hatch in the cruiser on her way home from school Thursday afternoon and took her to the county sheriff's office, which also housed the administration offices and county jail. The complex was in Chandler and not far from the high school.

Samantha had decided not to charge the child the night she'd been brought in almost two weeks before and had released her to her mother's care, but Nicole had not yet been told that she wasn't going to be charged. As far as the girl knew, she was waiting to hear what was going to happen to her next.

Sam and the sheriff and Nicole's mother had all decided to give the girl a couple of weeks to be afraid for herself and her future. Two weeks to think about what she'd done.

MaryLee wanted her daughter scared. Really scared. Since the motorcycle crash that had killed her husband, the woman was trying to hold on to a full-time job and raise four kids single-handedly. She couldn't afford to go lightly on her second youngest. Not for a moment.

"Why am I here?" Nicole's face was white. Sam had her in a private consultation room. There was a table. Some chairs. And little else. Fort County couldn't afford extravagances.

The beat-up desk Sam shared with a couple of other deputies was located down a separate hallway.

"You're here because I want to talk to you," she said, dead serious. "Your mom tells me you're thirteen." MaryLee had given Nicole's vital information on the night she'd come to collect her daughter after she'd been brought in for the drug exchange. MaryLee also asked for police help in disciplining her daughter.

Nicole nodded.

"In eighth grade?"

"Yes."

The drug epidemic wasn't just in high school anymore. It had spread to blue-eyed, blond-haired innocents in junior high.

And maybe even younger kids.

"Do you have any idea what can happen to you now that you've broken the law?"

The girl's lower lip started to tremble. Sam wasn't going to be moved by tears.

"Nooo." Nicole drew the word out on a soft wail. "Wendy says I could go to jail until I'm eighteen and not get to finish school or anything. But Daniel says that's not true. He thinks I can't go to jail since I've never been in trouble before."

"Who are Wendy and Daniel?"

"Wendy's my best friend. Daniel's my brother. He's in high school."

"Does Daniel do drugs, too?"

Eyes wide, the girl shook her head. "He runs track. He says drugs'll kill you. He wanted Mom to ground me for the rest of the school year."

"Did she?"

"I don't know. She hasn't said yet. I just can't go anywhere or do anything until she says so."

"Well, just so you know, Wendy's partly right. You could go into detention for drug possession. But she's wrong that you couldn't finish school. They have school in juvenile detention and every inmate is required to attend. Juvenile offenders here in Fort County generally range in age from eight to seventeen. All the girls are housed together. You'd have to sleep in a cell...."

Nicole started to cry.

"On a cot. You can't wear shoes, only slippers made out of paper that the guards give you. They give you clothes to wear, too. You have to eat when you're told. And only what they give you. You have to go to bed and get up exactly when you're told. You have to shower out in the open. No privacy. You can't go outside unless it's a sanctioned function with a guard present at all times, and you can only have visitors a couple of times a week for a short period. No unauthorized phone calls are allowed and no e-mail." The girl was sobbing, staring at Sam through her tears.

Sam had considered taking Nicole through juvenile detention, to show the girl what her fate could be as a result of drug use, but after seeing the girl's raw fear, she changed her mind. She wanted to scare Nicole, not give her psychological issues for the rest of her life.

"And then, depending on your sentence, if you get out before you're eighteen, you'll have a criminal record. Do you know what that means?" Sam handed the skinny kid a tissue from a pile she'd stashed in her back pocket.

Nicole shook her head.

"For one thing, it means that if you get in any more trouble, any little thing at all, they'll throw the book at you."

Thank you, television.

"Have you ever heard of an aggravator, Nicole?"

Another shake of the head.

"Hey." Sam touched the teenager's forearm. "Look at me."

Nicole did as she was told. Her face was blotchy and tears continued to pour down her cheeks.

"Aggravators are things that happen that make a crime a more serious offense. Do you know what an aggravator for drug possession is?"

Nicole's head shake was barely discernable through her sobs. Sam concentrated on the girl's trembling chin, not the eyes that stared at her with naked fear.

"Buying or selling drugs near a school is an aggravator," she said, hoping her voice was as firm as it had been when they'd begun this conversation and did not, in any way, reflect her compassion for the child's obvious suffering.

A day's misery for the girl was one hundred percent better than a life ruined by methamphetamine.

"That means you're in extra trouble and the sentence the judge gives is more harsh."

Sheriff Hale, Sam's elected boss, passed by and glanced in the window, brow raised. Sam shook her head and he moved on.

He'd offered to up the pressure if Nicole gave her any attitude.

This little girl didn't seem to have a microfiber of attitude. She was a sweet, frightened child who'd somehow been convinced to buy a dangerous drug.

MaryLee Hatch was going to be relieved to find out that she did know her daughter, after all.

And Sam was going to find out whatever she could from Nicole.

It was up to all of them, working together, to keep Nicole, and children like her, safe in a dangerous world.

Chandler, Ohio
Thursday, September 16, 2010

Lori Winston, I was finding, was a hard woman to get ahold of. Without a home phone, she could be reached only by cell, and didn't pick that up much. At least, not when I dialed the number--which I'd done multiple times since my Tuesday afternoon meeting with Maggie. I needed Lori to confirm that she knew about Maggie's visits to the park.

Thankfully Sam hadn't been so hard to reach. Since dinnertime Tuesday, the deputy had been on a "Mac" hunt and city-park detail. I'd told her that I believed Maggie had met the man in the park originally and that she'd only seen him once.

My high school buddy hadn't sounded good. She still wasn't sleeping. I wished she'd let me help her and was now determined that if she didn't come to me soon, I was going to have to get pushy.

With a pen between my teeth, I dropped my office phone in its cradle and pushed the intercom button. "Deb, you busy?"

I had half an hour before my last appointment of the day.

"Of course."

Which could mean anything from bookkeeping or licking envelopes to filing her nails. I didn't much care.

Deb got the work done.

I asked her to come to my office.

"What's going on?"

She was dressed up today. Wearing a red sweater and red boots with her jeans. Her short black hair, longer in front than back, curled around her face, giving her an elfin look.

"Just wanted a minute. Everything okay with you?"

"How do you mean? Did I screw up something?"

"No. Of course not. Do you ever?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Not that I'm aware of, either." I'd had a couple of secretary/receptionist/bookkeepers. Professional ones. And probably more respectful ones. But none of their work equaled Deb's for accuracy and precision. And none of them were as loyal. "But you seem edgy. Is something wrong?"

"I'm not sure."

She came in and sat on my old couch. I joined her, pad in hand. I didn't have to worry about doodling in front of Deb. She knew me. Heck, she'd be more uncomfortable if I didn't write something now and then.

"I'm worried about Cole."

Deb's husband of four years worked for the state as a road engineer.

"Why?"

"He just doesn't seem as interested in me all of a sudden. He used to insist on holding my hand everywhere we go. Now half the time he doesn't--and doesn't seem to notice that he's not. We used to make love at least four times a week. Now I'm lucky if it's once..."

It was nice to talk to a friend who didn't have to be coaxed to open up to me.

But I didn't want to hear this. Not from Deb. She and Cole had been so clearly devoted to each other. They seemed a perfect example of the true love that I still believed in, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary that I saw in my practice.

"Is he spending more time away from home?" I asked, expecting an affirmative answer. I knew which signs to look for. It just remained to be seen whether a who or a what had replaced Deb in Cole's affections.

"No."

"More time on the computer?"

"Nope."

"How about a new hobby? Or sport?"

"Uh-uh. Unless you count the cooking lessons we're taking at the Y."

"You're taking them together? In the same class at the same time?"

"Yeah."

"You guys still spend all your free time together?"

"Yep."

Oh. Well, then. Life could still surprise me.

Too sure of yourself.
I jotted. And followed the words up with two more.
Jaded. Ineffective.

Which was what I would be if I handled all my patients like I'd just handled this situation.

"How are your finances?" I said aloud. Not a usual boss-to-employee question, but this was a counseling office. We did things differently.

"Okay. But I don't think they are at Cole's work. There've been a lot of cutbacks. He says that with all the layoffs he's been given a lot more to do. He's valuable because he knows how to do most of the different jobs so they can just move him around."

"Have you asked him what's wrong?"

Should have been my second question. After "how are you?"

Deb nodded. "He just tells me not to worry about it. And I wouldn't. I mean, I'm not needy or anything, it's just that...with the physical stuff..."