What Happened to Hannah (37 page)

But at the moment, in regard to Anna, he had complete faith in Hannah. And first thing tomorrow he’d take the petition papers over for her to sign. He would say he was sorry and tell her he wouldn’t stand in her way with Anna.

That was the best he could do. For now.

She moaned at the first faint scream, knowing even in sleep what was to come as the next one slashed and tore at her. She groaned and automatically turned away as the shrill cries came one after the other like a lunatic’s lullaby. Over and over, the shrieking
would not
stop. Her hands shook violently. She covered her ears with them.

“Oh, God,” she whimpered. “Please, please stop.”

Another squeal of pain ripped through the night and she started to cry. “Ruthie. Shhh. Ruthie, please. I can’t. Mama, I’m sorry. I can’t do it.”

Something wet on her face. She touched it with her hands. Blood. Sticky, dripping from her fingers. Everywhere she looked. So much blood.

She woke with a start, hyperventilating and wet with sweat. The room was unfamiliar at first but gradually the James’s second guestroom came into focus and the blood and the tormented cries began to fade.

A kind, gentle numbness settled through Hannah, releasing her body and soul from the pain . . . if only for a little while. A trick she’d learned in her youth and had all but forgotten in recent years. A trick that prevented her from stepping off the edge of madness time and time again. A trick that gave her time to pull herself together again—collect her physical strength, renew her spirit, assemble her thoughts . . .

Her eyes popped open and it was as if all the instructions had changed from Chinese to English. She knew what to do. She even knew why.

She scrambled into jeans and a sweater but her thoughts were already ten steps ahead of her. She was quite likely making the biggest mistake of her life, but it felt so completely right that she tried not to think about it too much.

Leaving a note on the refrigerator door for Anna, she carried her shoes out the front door, danced across the lawn wet with rain to her car, and got in—she was in a hurry. Fearing her resolve would slip away, she started the car and pulled away from the curb.

She was a coward at heart, most people were, and that was all right. If there were no cowards, heroes wouldn’t be a big deal. Not that she was expecting any sort of medal or trophy for what she was about to do, but there had to be some sort of satisfaction from doing the right thing that heroes could always point to and say “See? That was the right thing to do”—even if they were pointing from behind prison bars.

Her thoughts raced and her heart pounded; she felt like she was running down the street to The Sheriff’s Office.

It was all about Anna. The questions, the answers, all of it. Anna. The moment Grady told her,
“Ruth had a daughter. And she needs you,”
it became all about Anna. Hannah’s life spiraled inside out. Literally. Her feelings, her secrets, her memories, everything she’d kept inside for so long was now on the outside for everyone, for Anna, to see and feel . . . and judge. And the moment she met Anna, and experienced love at first sight, she knew she wasn’t playing solitaire anymore. Running away, fighting to stay alive and making a safe, productive life for herself all took on a new purpose; made it all more significant than simply surviving.

This was an Anna thing . . . which made it a mother thing. It had to be. It was the sort of sacrifice a mother would make for her child’s welfare. She was sure of it.

Parking in front of the County Sheriff’s Office she slipped her feet into her sneakers and got out of the car, propping one foot at a time on the bumper to tie them. Not wanting to appear crazed at all, she took several slow deep breaths, checked her hair in the side mirror, and gave herself an encouraging smile. “It’s the right thing to do.”

Inside the station was a small waiting area in front of a glassed-in counter. On the other side of the main desk there were a dozen smaller desks with computers and chairs and stacks of files; a hall that led further back in the building to the cells and private offices and interrogation rooms and to the rear entrance where the officers parked their cars and booked the people they arrested.

Two deputies sat at the desks, typing industriously while they talked about a baseball game. They both looked up when Hannah walked in but only one stepped forward to offer assistance.

“How can I help you tonight?” He gave her a pleasant smile.

Hannah took another deep breath. “Could you wake up Sheriff Steadman, please. I’d like to report a murder.”

Chapter Twenty

T
ruth be told, there weren’t that many murders committed in Turchen County.

An accident now and again, naturally, but murder? Not so much.

Come to think of it, the last murder they had was what many people believed for years was a double homicide, out at the old Benson place.

Funny how Grady could get a call at four in the morning, hear something garbled about a woman and a murder, and wake up instantly thinking of her, isn’t it?

Funny how he regretted every ounce of pressure he’d put on her the last few weeks when he saw the pallor of her skin and the stress in the lines of her face as she sat wedged between a weary woman waiting to bail out her drunk husband and a furious father counting the seconds for his son, the sleeping huffer in back, to wake up enough for his ride back to rehab. Hannah’s posture was resigned; her eyes downcast for the few seconds it took her to sense him staring at her.

He saw resolve but no fire in the true-blue of her eyes. He tried to smile reassurance, but his lips barely curled and remained closed. He froze in place on the other side of the glass. If he moved he could start an avalanche of truth and emotion he might not like.

Unfortunately,
she
moved and the earth beneath his feet began to shift and slide. They took slow deliberate steps toward each other and met at the open gate at the end of the front desk.

“Hi.” She looked over his shoulder for a moment then back at his face. “Don’t expect me to apologize for waking you up. If I can’t sleep, you don’t get to either.”

“Fair enough.” He nodded and reached out to open the gate for her; stood to one side to let her pass. She looked back for directions. “Left and then left again— Mike?” His deputy looked up. “Could you round us up a couple cups of coffee, please?” He mouthed,
“fresh,”
indicating he knew what kind of crap coffee they drank all night to stay awake and he wanted what they all called “morning or daylight coffee,” which you could actually stir with a spoon if you wanted to.

He caught up with Hannah as she stood in the doorway of his office.

“Please, come in, get comfortable. I’ve got—”

“This isn’t an interrogation room. Shouldn’t I go in an interrogation room?”

“We don’t interrogate people who are voluntarily reporting a crime. I’ve got coffee coming so go ahead and sit and we’ll get started with some of the paperwork—”

“But I committed the crime. I don’t want you to be nice to me or treat me any differently than you would any other killer. I should be in an interrogation room.” She looked out his office window, at the wide-open view it had of Main Street and across the way at the park and gazebo. Her gaze met his and he knew her head was as full of memories as his was sometimes—of the two of them huddled close to stay warm at night in the gazebo; learning and practicing their kissing techniques in the gazebo; declaring their love for each other for the first time . . . in the gazebo. “Really. I should be in an interrogation room.”

He stared at her for a good long minute trying to wrap his brain around the words
crime
and
killer
and attach them to Hannah. They weren’t sticking.

“Sit.” He turned on the overhead light and immediately turned it off again. It glared. This wasn’t an interrogation. He turned on his desk lamp and filled his office with a soft, glowing ambiance more conducive to a confession. “I’ll be right back.”

By the time he came back with a small handheld tape recorder, the coffee had arrived and Deputy Martin asked if she wanted anything in hers. She shook her head no and held onto the cup like a lifeline. “I’m going to tape our conversation, Hannah, so Deputy Martin can get back to work.”

“Maybe he should stay. To keep you honest.”

“Me?”

“I don’t want any favors from you, Grady. I don’t want you doing anything that might jeopardize your future. You’re the sheriff. You have to put me in jail like you would anyone else. Promise me.”

He opened his mouth to tell her it wasn’t up to him who went to jail and who didn’t, but he knew that wasn’t what she wanted to hear.

“I promise . . . in front of Deputy Martin here, that if you’ve done something illegal I’ll put you in jail for it. How’s that?”

She nodded, leaned back in her chair, got as comfortable as she could, and took a sip of coffee. He tipped his head to Mike to leave the room and stepped behind his desk. Reaching out, he snapped on the recorder, announced the date, time, and their names and asked her, “Are you giving this confession of your own free will?”

“Yes.”

“Has anyone threatened you?”

She gave him a pointed look and pursed her lips, then muttered, “No.”

“Then start at the beginning, Hannah.”

He watched the quick intelligence in her eyes glaze over with recollection and caught himself holding his breath. After straightening the corners of three files on his desk he picked up a paper clip and tried to look calm and casual and patient when he was anything but. When she did speak it startled him.

“We had the nicest, warmest Indian summer that year, remember? That’s why you and Mark and your friend Billy wanted to go camping that weekend—you weren’t sure when you’d get another chance to go. And . . . and you were torn because you knew I’d be alone after work that Friday night, so I practically had to beg you to go, remember?”

“I do.”

“And we said goodbye at school. You gave me a quick kiss before I got on the bus, then ran off. That might have been my last memory of you . . . your back as you jogged away from me.” She smiled. “But you turned before you got to your truck and threw me a big kiss.” She swept her arm out wide then settled it back at her side. “That was the last time I saw you. That’s what I’ve always remembered about you . . . that kiss, and your . . . stupid smile and the way you looked so happy that day.”

“I was happy. I had you and—”

She held up her hand to stop him. “A friend of my daddy, a drinking buddy, Buzz Weims, was parked in the parking lot waiting for his daughter. I didn’t see him but . . . he saw us. I’ve always wondered if it was the first or second or third thing he told my daddy at the bar that night: ‘I had to pick my daughter up at the high school today and take her over to the dentist. Oh, by the way, I saw your girl, Hannah, kissing Grady Steadman in the parking lot. My little sweetie didn’t have one single cavity.’ ” She shook her head. “By the time he came around the corner to pick me up, he couldn’t see straight. He almost hit me with the truck. He drove up on the sidewalk and stopped three inches from the bench.” She glanced out the window but the bench she referred to was further up the street. “I . . . I still don’t think he was trying to kill me then; he never would have done it so quickly, for one thing, and for another it was a Friday night, a payday. He’d want his money first.” She started to shake her head slowly. “And I never would have gotten into that truck with him if I’d known that he knew about us. Oh, I knew he was angry. Immediately. I could feel it pouring off him like the heat from Mama’s oven, so I didn’t say anything. I tried to be very quiet and very small so maybe he’d forget about me. But when we got home and I started to get out he told me to stay. He . . . he relieved himself, there beside the truck, then came around to my side and opened the door. He grabbed my braid and pulled me out of the truck, threw me to the ground and called me a ‘whoring slut’.”

“Jesus.” Grady felt nauseous and numb at once; certain he didn’t want to listen to any more and equally as certain he was obligated to—and not because he was sheriff. He was responsible for what happened at the Benson house all those years ago. If he’d left Hannah alone . . . If he hadn’t won her trust or kissed her in the parking lot or gone off and left her alone with that animal . . . If . . .

“He said if I wanted to act like a bitch in heat he’d help me, and then he used my hair like a leash and dragged me into the house. I kept asking him what he was talking about, what was wrong . . . deep down I already knew, I think, but it wasn’t until he explained it all to Mama, saying it was a ‘like mother, like daughter’ thing that I realized how much he knew. I was afraid for you, so when he wanted me to admit I’d been kissing you I said no, Mr. Weims was wrong, I’d been kissing someone else, but he didn’t believe me. I . . . I told him I was in love. He wanted me to promise to stop seeing you but I wouldn’t. I told him no. Again and again, I told him no. He knocked me out.

“When I came around he was gone—after you, Mama said. I completely forgot about your camping trip, that you weren’t home. He . . . We didn’t think he’d put his hands on you—not his style. Not in public. Mama was unusually optimistic that night. I think she thought we’d seen the worst of it, but I knew better. She sent me to the attic hoping that out of sight out of mind would somehow work on him. But I knew he was going to beat me to death.”

She swallowed, her mouth dry enough to distract her thoughts and remind her of the coffee in her hands. Barely lukewarm now, she drank several big gulps and set the half-empty cup on her side of his desk.

“He gave it a good try when he finally got home.” She went silent for a moment. “Eventually I woke up in the dark. Alone.”

He watched in silence, his chest tight and his stomach in a painful knot. He’d arrested a few men who thought it was okay to pound on their wives, even a woman who “accidentally” stabbed her husband three times in the leg, but he’d always been grateful he hadn’t had to deal with any child abusers. The mentality of someone who could hurt a kid was beyond him. He couldn’t understand it so all it did was make him angry.