Web of Angels (32 page)

“I want Mrs. Lewis to stay.” Her voice was small, scared.

“We can do it that way. Whatever makes you the most comfortable,” the social worker said.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Alec said, still beside her, his feet planted square on the floor.

“Just tell us the truth about what you remember, Cathy, as best you can. If you don’t know the answer to a question, that’s fine,” the social worker said. “Don’t feel that you need to say something to please us, just say you don’t know. I’m here to ensure your welfare and your niece’s, so I might have some different questions than Maggie,” she referred to Detective Ellison by her first name.

“I thought police officers were all tall and beefy,” the girl drawled, the wolfish smile back. “Aren’t you, like, kind of small to deal with criminals?”

“I work out.” Detective Ellison didn’t add that she was also armed. “Do you understand the difference between truth and lies, Cathy?” she asked.

“Well, duh.”

“So if I say I’m wearing a tie—is that true?”

“No.”

“And do I have anything blue on me?”

“Yes.”

“What?” The detective’s voice was surprised. It made the girl grin, then frown to wipe it away, for she was there to be a blank screen. Nothing would get out past her.

“Your eyes are blue,” she said.

“Right. Good one. Are my shoes purple?”

“Yes. Partly. Also yellow. Should I describe you, too?” She turned to the social worker.

“That won’t be necessary,” Frances Grafstein said. Small of waist, broad in the hips, she wore a skirt and favoured long earrings, though babies liked to grab them. She thought the child should have been brought to the hospital. She had talked to the police administration about this before. They ought to conduct the interview in the hospital, and then take her for the exam right after. Now there would be another interruption to drive her to a different location while her anxiety was building. “Are there any drugs or drinking in the home?” she asked. Her bangles clinked as she wrote down the question.

“I sneak wine sometimes. Don’t tell my parents, okay?”

“Okay.”

A fourteen-year-old could run away. A four-month-old couldn’t. The baby would have to be her biggest concern today. Like her supervisor said, keep your mind on what you can prevent, not what’s been done; you’ll feel better. “How do your parents discipline you when you’ve done something wrong?”

“It’s pretty awful.” She paused, waiting for a reaction.
When none came, she said, “I get grounded for a week. But you know what?”

“What?”

She smirked. “They don’t take away my computer privileges.”

“How did your niece come to be living with you?”

The smirk disappeared. “My sister shot herself a couple of weeks before she was due. The police came. Don’t you have a record of that?”

“We can get it. But I’d like to hear your version.”

“I was asleep when she did it. The shot woke me up, and I saw my mom do an emergency C-section.”

The social worker looked at the detective, wordlessly passing the baton. Maggie Ellison stretched and cracked her knuckles. So this was a pissy kid. A smart, pissy kid who was mouthy without using any four letter words or gestures to match. Taking a coin from her pocket, she placed it on the opposite elbow, arm bent so that her fingers brushed the shoulder. Whipping her arm forward, she flipped the coin and caught it in her hand.

“How do you do that?” The words slipped out of the girl before her mouth tightened regretfully.

“Practice. You want to try? No? Suit yourself.” Detective Ellison crossed her t’s, she dotted her i’s—but sometimes she flipped a coin. Sometimes she threw peanuts in the air and caught them in her mouth. Anything to get a kid’s mind off her fear: she knew that behind that smartass attitude was terror. “You spoke to Mrs. Lewis about something that’s bothering you. Can you tell me about that, Cathy?”

“What’s to tell? My parents get on my case, but don’t everybody’s?”

“We’re not talking about everybody’s, we’re talking about yours. I know this is a hard conversation, Cathy. And believe it or not, I appreciate your being here.”

“This is exciting. Aren’t you excited?” Her voice had gotten quiet, her eyes glinting as she got a rise out of the cop. Nothing more than a change of position and crossing her legs. But she’d got to her. “Do you dye your hair? Mine is naturally blonde. I think I’d like it black, like Detective Chan’s.”

“My hair is naturally skunk striped. I’ve got a streak of white right here if I don’t colour it,” she said, pointing to her temple. “But let’s talk about this.” Ellison held up a sheet of paper. Cathy glanced from the paper to the camera that was recording it. “You drew this for Detective Chan this afternoon. And you wrote the name of a URL on it: www.angelsoftranquility.com.”

“I made that up. Like it?” There was a small click from one of the cameras, or maybe it was the glass in the window frame shifting an iota. The sound was enough to make Alec start and so did the girl, shifting, not a total switch, but for a moment her eyes pleaded with his.

In the observation room, Detective Armstrong leaned forward, bulky muscles aching with tension. “I know that website,” he said, unbuttoning his suit jacket.

Detective Ellison was watching Cathy, but the girl’s face was guarded again. “And how about this? I see an arrow pointing to one of the figures and the word
Dad.”

“I guess I was trying to shock you. I can do better though. How about a two-year-old getting fucked? Shocked, yet?”

“I was shocked the first time I saw it online.”

The girl’s eyes registered surprise, and she glanced at Alec. He was surprised, too. These folks knew more than he’d expected.

“The Internet is a good venue for criminals, but it also provides an opportunity for us to discover what they’re doing and catch them. When we do …” Ellison allowed a hint of feeling in her voice, “that is an awesome day.”

“How can you catch someone?” The girl leaned back as if she could care less, but her fingers were drumming on her knees.

“We look for an item in the photograph or movie to identify the location.” The detective’s voice was matter-of-fact. Alec wondered how she managed such control without being multiple. “You’d be surprised at the small things that show up when we enlarge the pictures.”

The girl looked away and out the window. “Like what? A picture frame?” she asked.

“Sure. Something like that.”

Alec had been warned not to say or do anything at all, so he couldn’t be construed as leading Cathy. But he reached into his bag, took out the handful of flash drives he’d removed from the music box on Cathy’s bookshelf before they’d left, and set them on the coffee table. They were labelled: backup 1, backup 2, and on up to 6.

“Those are mine,” Cathy said. Her fingers flexed, clenched, flexed again as she pushed a stick over to the detective. “I … I …” she stammered, her voice going high. “I … I …” She repeated the single word over and over, unable to move past
it. Surely someone would stop her. “I’m on … I’m on …” The two words repeated. For a minute. And another. Why wouldn’t anyone interrupt? It must be driving them crazy. It was driving her crazy. She looked at her boyfriend’s mom, begging for release.

“Can they come home with me?” Alec asked the social worker. “We’ve got space.”

“Yes, if we determine that the home is unsafe for both children,” she said, “and if …”

But she didn’t finish her sentence because the girl’s stammering gave way to a burst of speech. “I’m on there. I worked for Daddy’s camera.” Her voice was squeaky as if a child had come forward. “They’re going to kill me,” she wept. “They’ll kill me for telling.”

“We won’t let anyone hurt you. It’s okay,” the detective said. “You’ve been very brave to speak, Cathy. I want you to know that. You should be proud of yourself for protecting your niece and keeping other kids from being hurt.”

The girl looked up, her hair hiding her face. “I worked in the basement,” she croaked. “My mom gave me a shot so I wouldn’t make a fuss. She gave the other kids shots, too.”

“Where does she get the needles and medication?”

“She’s a kid doctor.”

“I see. And has she or your father done anything inappropriate to you?” Behind the two-way mirror, Detective Armstrong made a note to call the College of Physicians and Surgeons.

“What’s inappropriate?” the girl asked in her small high voice.

“Let’s say anything that makes you feel uncomfortable,” the social worker said, responding instinctively to the child alter before her.

“No. I’m comfortable when they do things.” She peeked through her hair. “I like your earrings. They’re sparkly.”

“What kind of things?” Grafstein asked as gently as possible.

“Like this.” She demonstrated with her mouth. “And …” She moved her hips.

“Do you know the words for that?” When the girl nodded, Grafstein asked, “Could you write down the words for me, and who does them to you?”

The list was long. After she read it, the social worker said thank you to the girl and then stepped out for a moment to wipe her eyes and call her supervisor. When she’d regained control, she returned to the interview room with the authority to apprehend the children into her care. “We’ll ensure that you’re at a place of safety,” she explained as she sat down across from Cathy again. It was hard to leave home, even a bad home, but she said that Cathy could go to family—grandparents or an auntie would be ideal, someone close, familiar, providing continuity. “Is there a relative you’d like me to call?”

“No!” The girl switched again, glaring at the social worker. They were going to sell her down the river. They were going to pass her back to people further in the darkness, who’d call her out to do what she’d always done, only harder, only worse. “You tricked me.” She’d run like her sister and like her sister if anyone stopped her, she would take herself out the one way they couldn’t follow.

“It’s not a trick. Ms. Grafstein has no idea. Just tell her,” Alec said, his voice blunt and hard to get through the girl’s panicked shaking. “Nobody knows unless you explain.” It was risky to use her name, revealing it when she was mistrusting everyone, but he had to make her hear him. “Ceecee, just tell them.”

The shaking abruptly stopped. Nobody spoke as the girl looked first at the detective, then at the social worker. “Ms. Grafstein, do you think that my parents are aliens or something and everyone else is hunky-dory? They’re all in it. You see the name Mitch on that sheet of paper? That’s my dad’s cousin. He’s a shrink. He takes care of kids who get upset. Neil—that’s my uncle. He handles the money. They’ve got good friends, too. Like my mom says, everybody does their job and people who do well, do well.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. And I’m sorry. We can put you with a foster family or you can stay with Mrs. Lewis if that’s what you’d prefer. But please understand, I have to ask these questions.”

“Okay.” Ceecee nodded. Outside the window, rain slanted down on the lake, water meeting water. “I’ll answer.”

“Do you have any concerns about your niece?”

“They’re getting her ready.”

“Who and how?”

And so, while her niece slept in the infant seat, Ceecee told everything she knew, even though she still wasn’t a 100 percent certain nobody was going to haul her into a locked and soundproof room. She told them about the equipment
in the basement, the training that was done up at the cottage and the renovation that would expand it into a bigger facility. She figured they could do whatever they wanted with her, if talking would save her sister’s child from it. And only when she was sure, completely sure, that nobody was going to make her pay for the chips and the Coke with her body, did she lean against Mrs. Lewis, gripping the freckled hand as she told the final thing she had to tell.

T
he last night of Heather’s life had started out like all the other nights for the past month. She had pushed her desk in front of the door between her room and the office. Mom had yelled, “Heather Dawson-Edwards, this is a fire hazard, and it is too late in your pregnancy to be moving furniture.”

In her own room Cathy sat on the bed, legs crossed, watching her mother smack Heather’s door with the flat of her hand. This was how it went every night. Yelling. Bang on the door. More yelling. Then Mom would pick up the phone in the office and call Cousin Mitch. She’d complain about the prescription and ask if he couldn’t give Heather something newer, stronger, and Mitch would talk for a while, Mom saying,
Yes, possibly, all right
.

Only this time was different. Heather shouted back,
Don’t bother calling anybody. I haven’t been taking your pills. I’m leaving with my baby as soon as she’s born and I’m never coming back
.

You will not
, Mom said.
You aren’t responsible enough to be a mother. I’ll get custody. That is my baby
.

You’ll never get her. I’ll jump first
, Heather screamed. Mom
just stood there with her hand on the door.
I’m done
, she said.
I’ve had it. Your father can talk to you
. Then she turned around and stalked downstairs.

Cathy thought,
Uh oh
. Uh oh, for she couldn’t find another word anywhere. She wanted to shut her door, put earbuds in her ears, and turn up her iPod as loud as it would go, but instead she crept into the office, staying near the door to the bathroom. There was something in there, something she could grab if need be.

Dad didn’t run upstairs. He walked slowly and deliberately, his footsteps softened by his leather slippers. When he got to Heather’s room, he put his shoulder to her door and pushed, the desk squeaking as it slid across the floor. Then he stood in the doorway to talk to Heather, ignoring his other daughter, knowing he didn’t have to worry about her. “What’s going on here?” he asked.

Get away. If you don’t leave me alone, I’ll jump. That was what Heather said, but her voice was getting quieter, too.

You wouldn’t dare
, he said, but not like he was mad. His voice was quiet and his voice was pleasant and the sound of it made Cathy’s skin crawl.
I brought you into this world and you have no right to leave it without my permission
, he said.
Without me you would be a common tramp. You can’t even keep your legs together for two minutes outside this house. Look at your belly. It says everything. You like it, don’t you? You want it. You know I’m right
.