The Unbidden Truth (5 page)

“Were you ever in trouble in any of those cities? You know the district attorney will probe, just in case, and if you were there's a record of it.”

Carrie shook her head. “I was told to move on a few times, that's about it. No speeding tickets, nothing. I wasn't looking for trouble.”

“What were you looking for?”

She drained her coffee cup and set it down. “Nothing. I wasn't looking for anything.”

“Okay. Did you remember what Wenzel said to you that last night? You said he was talking crazy.”

“He called me a bitch and a slut, and said I'd find out it didn't pay to try to play games with him, to fuck him over.” She shrugged. “Crazy talk. I wasn't trying to play games with him. I was trying to keep out of his way.”

Soon after that Barbara stood up. “It's after twelve. I've kept you long enough. Thanks, Carrie.”

“Just one thing,” Carrie said. “You told me some people said they saw me going into his room. It's a lie. Why would they lie about it? What for?”

“I don't know. We're looking into them.”

Carrie got up then, but still hesitated. “It looks bad for me, doesn't it? I don't even have a character witness.”

“It usually looks bad at this stage,” Barbara said. “Remember, I haven't even started to poke around in Joe Wenzel's past. He might have had a hundred enemies. If he did, we'll find them and go on from there.”

As if she had not heard Barbara's words, Carrie said, “They charged me with murder to scare me, didn't they? They said it could be ten years to life. So I'd agree to something less, like self-defense or something. Is that how they play their game?”

“Maybe. You understand that you can plea bargain anytime, from now until it goes to trial? What you can't do is take off in your car for parts unknown. You understand that?”

“Sure. They'd really bag me then. But I won't say I did it, no matter what. Because I didn't. But I'm scared, Barbara. Real scared.”

She could go from street-smart tough to vulnerable and hurt to frightened, and each had an entirely different effect on her expression. Her eyes widened now and she blinked several times. Barbara wondered if she wept when she was alone.

After Carrie left, she turned to Maria. “And you go to lunch. Why do you always wait to be told?”

“I was busy,” Maria said. She smiled. “I'm afraid you'll have to go to Phoenix on Thursday to keep your date on Friday. I have the schedule here, and a map, plane reservations, room reservations, a car reserved. All set.”

“It's hard to hate you,” Barbara said, taking the folder Maria held out. “Thanks. Now beat it.”

“Shelley's on the track of an apartment,” Maria said, picking up her purse. “She said she'll check in this afternoon.”

 

At that moment Frank and Shelley were standing in the middle of an apartment over Darren's garage. It was unfurnished except for the usual kitchen appliances. Darren lounged in the doorway watching them.

“What do you think?” Frank asked Shelley.

“It's perfect. Do you want to help me pick out furniture?” she asked Darren.

“No way. I haven't even finished my own place yet. Get whatever you'd get if you were moving in.”

Frank cleared his throat. He suspected that Darren had no idea just how rich a young woman Shelley was. Her father built yachts, her mother was an heiress in her own right and Shelley had come into a big trust fund when she turned twenty-one. She probably never looked at a price tag. “Maybe you should keep things in the price range you think Barbara would go for. You understand. Pick out things that she might have chosen for herself.”

Shelley dimpled and nodded. “Gotcha. Why don't you both go on down and eat your sandwiches while I start a list?” She already had her notebook out, making a sketch of the apartment.

Frank had called Darren as soon as he entered his office that morning and made the date for lunch, with a business proposition, he had said. He had picked up deli sandwiches on the way to the clinic to collect Darren. In the car, he had explained what he had in mind. It was a simple deal. They would furnish the apartment for Carrie in lieu of rent for a couple of months, if that was agreeable.

“She'll blow her stack when she finds out,” Darren had warned, without defining whom he meant by “she.”

Frank had smiled and explained the difficulties Carrie would face trying to find a furnished apartment in her predicament. Then Darren had grinned and said it sounded like a great deal.

The two men left Shelley to do her list, and went down to eat lunch. Frank knew “she” would blow her stack, but he also knew that as she became more and more involved in her case, Darren would be put on hold for a long time, and he did not intend for that to happen. “She” would be out of town Thursday, Friday and most of Saturday, and with any luck, Carrie would be settled in by then. Fait accompli.

T
he Arizona desert was the most desolate country Barbara had ever seen. White sand and rocks on both sides of the road glared heat waves, and the barrenness of the landscape made the Oregon desert seem lush in comparison. Here, only a few, widely spaced cactus plants were visible. Ahead, a water mirage on the road receded as she approached, formed farther away, only to vanish again. Frank had admonished her more than once to carry plenty of water, Shelley had warned her to make sure she had water, and even the agent at the car rental counter had told her to load up on water. She had bought a six-pack, and began to think she should have bought two of them. Two bottles were already empty, and she intended to pull over and open a third one. The temperature was 112 degrees; her eyes burned, her lips felt cracked and she was developing an itch from dry skin.

Here and there wind-blown sand covered the highway. She shuddered to think how it would abrade unprotected skin and flesh if one had to walk out there. She had gone fifty-eight miles, four to go before her turnoff onto a county road that apparently wound up into the mountains. It would get cooler, she consoled herself and slowed down, then pulled over and opened another bottle of water.

The county road was narrow and did wind up and around, and there were pine trees, scant at first, but soon almost a real forest. She slowed down more, watching for the Mercer Lake community, where the Colberts now lived. It was a retirement development, Shelley had written in her notes.

She began to pass driveways and caught glimpses of houses set back among the pine trees, then passed a large church and revised her first estimate of the size of the community, for the most part hidden on the surrounding hillsides. She came to a village with a few shops, a supermarket, a café…On the other side of it, she spotted the development sign: Mercer Lake Retirement Village.

She had seen such developments before: six basic house plans with cosmetic differences. The Colberts' house was ocher-colored with brick-red trim, a cactus garden out front, gravel spray-painted green in place of lawn. Low maintenance. The good life.

When she got out of the car, she nodded. It was cooler, all the way down to ninety-five, she thought derisively, and went to the door and rang the bell.

Adrienne Colbert admitted her. She was a tall angular woman with such a dark tan she looked scorched. The sun and aridity were taking a toll—her skin was leathery and deeply lined. She was wearing Bermuda shorts and a tank top, her
elbows and knees bony and sharp. Everything about her looked sharp, the bones of her face, her hands, her wrists. Her hair was dyed strawberry-blond.

Stuart Colbert was standing in the living room behind her, and he was twenty or twenty-five pounds overweight, nearly bald with a fringe of sparse gray hair, and red-faced. But where Adrienne's expression was one of built-in disapproval, he was smiling in a genial way.

“That's a long hot drive. How about an iced tea? Ms. Holloway? That's the name, isn't it?”

“Barbara Holloway,” she said. “I'd love a cold drink.”

The house was built on an open plan with the kitchen and dining space separated from the living room by a counter. Everything in it was white, beige, or black. A ceramic black-and-white cat was stationed at a sliding glass door to a patio with a tiny swimming pool. The good life, Barbara repeated to herself, and not even cat hair to clean up.

They sat in the living room, the Colberts on a black sofa, Barbara in a low-slung beige chair. A fluffy rug was snow-white. She was almost afraid to put her feet on it.

She thanked Stuart Colbert for the iced tea and then said, “And thanks for letting me barge in on you this way.”

“Couldn't very well say no to anyone willing to leave Oregon for this hellhole,” Stuart said. “All those trees up there. Never saw—”

“You said you had questions about Carol,” Adrienne said. “She's in trouble, isn't she? I knew she would be, it was just a matter of when. What's she done?”

Adrienne was leaning forward watching Barbara intently. Stuart had leaned back and was regarding the ceiling with a little smile on his face.

“Actually,” Barbara said, “I'm trying to fill in her past. You know she has amnesia for the early years of her life—”

“She's in trouble. Amnesia! Ha! She didn't want to talk about her mother and father, that's what that amounted to. She made up a fairy tale and pretended it was true.”

“Why do you say that?” Barbara asked.

“Her father was a no-good, out-of-work housepainter. They lived out of his truck most of the time, moving from place to place, probably one step ahead of the sheriff, scamming old people. Like gypsies. They were like gypsies. He probably molested her and her mother let him, and she wanted to pretend they didn't exist, just to get away from her past.”

“Do you know about them? Did the caseworker tell you their history, or give you documentation?”

“She hinted, that's all. Just hinted. They swallowed the story about amnesia. I had my name, our names, down for a regular little girl, eight to ten years old, no bed wetter, no alcohol syndrome, no mental case, just an ordinary little girl, and they brought me Carol. She was a liar and a sneak from the first day. She said she lived in a palace with a thousand rooms! And her father was going to bring home a king for the queen! I made her stop that nonsense, all right. I told her she was crazy, and crazy people belonged in the hospital. She was afraid of the hospital, afraid of loud noises, afraid of fire, just afraid. And scrawny, with her hair sticking out like spikes all over her head.”

“Mrs. Colbert, do you have the name of the caseworker, or the agency that handled the foster-care arrangements?”

“Just the children's service people. I don't remember their names. It was twenty-four years ago. But I remember that child sneaking around, prying into things, telling her lies.
Autism, that's what she had. I didn't have a name for it then, but now I know. She was autistic. I made her stop that, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“Slow. She was slow in school, slow to develop, slow to catch on to things. She missed only a couple of months of school. The accident happened in June and we got her in October, so she didn't miss much, but she didn't know anything other kids her age should know, and it took her years to catch up. She'd move her hands the way they say autistic kids do, in some kind of compulsive, repetitive action, over and over and over. I slapped her hands and made her stop that. You can cure them if you're firm. And she cried a lot. I could hear her at night, crying. For nothing. We gave her a good home. We couldn't help it if her parents had mistreated her. We gave her a good home.”

“What kind of motions did she make with her hands?” Barbara asked when Adrienne paused for breath.

She began to move her bony fingers as if on a keyboard.

“Was she evaluated psychologically?” Barbara asked. “Did you get any reports regarding her mental health?”

“No. Just the caseworker. She agreed that she was crazy, but she said she'd outgrow it. Childhood schizophrenia, she said. Caused by some kind of stress syndrome. She said she'd outgrow it, but she didn't. She just stopped talking. But she was still crazy, I could tell. It was in her eyes. I knew she'd be in trouble sooner or later. I was afraid of her when she got older. You don't know what crazy kids will do next. You read all the time about those shootings, things like that. I was glad when she packed up and left.”

“You bought her a car when she graduated from high school, didn't you?”

“We never did. The caseworker said there was insurance due when she turned eighteen. Enough for her to go to a technical school or something and get training to support herself. But she wouldn't do that. Not her. She had to have a car and take to the road, just like her father. Gypsies, that's what they were.”

Barbara asked her a few more questions and found the answers to be meaningless, filtered through a layer of hatred. “Mr. Colbert, was that your opinion of Carrie, also?”

His wife answered before he even had a chance to turn his gaze from the ceiling to Barbara. “He always said to give her time, she'd been through a lot for a little girl. He always took her side like that. He wasn't with her day in and day out like I was.”

When Barbara decided there was little point in listening to any more of this vitriolic blather, she stood up. “Well, I'll be on my way. Thanks again for talking to me.”

“You still haven't told us what kind of trouble she's in,” Adrienne said. “What has she done? I have a right to know.”

Barbara regarded her for a moment, then shook her head. “I don't think so, Mrs. Colbert.”

Stuart Colbert roused and got to his feet. Adrienne's face had turned to a shade of purple-brown. “I'll see you out, Ms. Holloway,” Stuart Colbert said, and walked to the door with her. He stood on the stoop and said in a low voice, “If you go down to the café and have another iced tea or something, I'll join you in a few minutes and try to fill in a few more details.” He didn't wait for her response as he turned and reentered the house.

If she had left a chicken on the seat it would have been done to a crisp, she thought when she got into her car again. She opened windows and turned on the air conditioner full blast, but it had not been effective yet when she stopped at the café
in the village, and by then she felt roasted to medium rare. The café was cool and dim, with blinds on the windows against the glare. She drew in a breath of relief. Fifteen minutes later Stuart Colbert joined her.

He sat opposite her in the booth, ordered a draft beer and wiped his face with the napkin. “I won't apologize for Adrienne,” he said. “Pointless for one adult to apologize for another one. She's what she is. Life didn't turn out the way she expected, and our retirement isn't what she expected. We lost a lot of money these last two years, and there went our plans to travel, see more of the world. Anyway, she's what she is.”

The waitress brought his draft beer and replenished Barbara's tea. After she left, Stuart Colbert took a long drink, then said, “We were on lists for over two years before they called and said they had a child for us. Adrienne had a room ready, all pink and frills. I guess she had an idealized child in her mind, and when Carol was brought, it was a letdown. I doubt that any human child would have measured up, and Carol was pale and thin, scarred from surgeries, and fearful. Whatever they had told her she had interpreted as going home, and instead she ended up at our place, and she let out a howl like a wounded cat. She wanted her mommy and daddy.” He drank again, then shook his head. “Not a good beginning. We explained that she would live with us now, and she clung to the social worker, yelling that she wanted to go home.”

After Carol settled down, he said, the social worker had told them about the amnesia, that it often happened to trauma victims, and very often involved a loss of memory. Post-traumatic stress syndrome, she said. She might recover her memories, or possibly never would. In any event she had made up a past to account for the first eight years of her life, and it was
more real to her than any reality, but she would drop that as she matured. Think of it as something like schizophrenia, she had said, where the person could not distinguish reality from fantasy. Children often invented playmates, other realities that they believed in absolutely, but they gave them up eventually, and she would also.

“She never said the child was schizophrenic, only that her condition resembled it. A huge blank had to be filled in, and she had done the best she could in filling it.

“She had beautiful table manners,” he said, “and she was well-spoken, polite. Someone had taught her well. Her father really was a housepainter, apparently, who followed the work south in the winter, north in the summer. They had nothing against him or the mother. No sign of any abuse on the child, no old bruises or broken bones, no sexual abuse. They were just poor people getting along as best they could. He had been working in Virginia, on his way to the Boston area when he crashed the truck.”

He finished his beer and wiped his mouth. “Carol began baby-sitting when she was twelve, and she saved almost every cent she made. Then, all through high school, she had an after-school job at a diner, and she saved that money, too. I think she had already decided she had to hit the road as soon as she got out of school and collected the insurance. She knew it was coming, or I imagine she would have taken off sooner. I took her to buy the car, and gave her the rest of the money in traveler's checks. Four thousand, plus whatever she had saved. I thought then, and I guess I still think she was trying to track down her family.” He shook his head. “And there wasn't any family to track. Dead, no relatives. I felt sorry for her. That poor kid had been through hell and was coping one way or another.”

“She stopped talking about her imaginary family, her aunt and uncle?”

He nodded. “She stopped talking altogether for a long time, and never said anything meaningful after that. Adrienne scared her with talk of sending her back to the hospital. She had a real phobia about hospitals, explosions, sudden loud noises, fires. She talked about frying once, when she was coming out of a nightmare, babbling. She had been terribly burned, and they tell me physical therapy for burn cases is excruciating. She was terrified of going back there.”