Becoming Ellen (17 page)

Ellen waited a minute to give Seth a lead, and then she headed for home, her head heavy with thought, and the craving for sleep.

B
ut sleep, Ellen could see when she arrived in the alley, was going to have to wait a while.

Taking her usual precaution, Ellen paused before she turned the corner, to scan the alley. The first thing she saw was Seth, he was looking all around, checking to see that he was unobserved before he went into his hidden den.

The second thing Ellen saw was the man. The wind was biting, and the man had taken shelter beside the dumpster, out of Seth's view, but he was clearly interested in the boy. When Seth started for the grating, Ellen looked around desperately for some way to distract or warn him, but there was nothing nearby but the empty street. The man was tall and slim, his skin was dark, and even though his collar was pulled up over his chin and his hat was pulled down to his eyebrows, something about him struck Ellen as familiar. With a last glance behind him, Seth moved toward the grate. At that moment the man emerged from the shadows and started toward the boy.

And Ellen recognized him. “Detective Barclay!” she called out in a croak. The detective, distracted by hearing his name, especially as, from the clothes he was wearing, he was obviously still undercover, stopped and looked up the alley in surprise.

Fighting her flee impulse, and feeling as though the wind had bit through her unprotected self, Ellen waved one hand to keep his attention while Seth disappeared through the grate, pulling it closed behind him. When the detective looked back, his eyes rested on the grate for a second before he started toward Ellen. “Ms. Homes, I'm glad to catch you.”

Unable to run away, she forced herself to walk toward him. “Why?” she asked, terrified that he would say she needed to come with him, to speak up, to face others.

But he said, “I really wanted to thank you personally. It turns out that we won't need you to testify. The prosecutor has such a strong case, and the perpetrator was dealing the drugs he was using, so he's plea-bargaining. The case won't even go to court, so . . .” He hesitated, searching for a polite way to say the next bit, Ellen assumed. “After talking to your friend, Justice, who told me you'd prefer to stay out of it, I wanted to stop by and let you know you're off the hook.” He smiled apologetically.

“Oh, okay, thanks.” Ellen would have felt relieved if she hadn't been in a state of panic.

“I also thought you'd like to know that the bus driver is fine. Back to work, in fact. And the little girl you were so kind to, Lydia? Has been placed in a great home.”

Ellen knew she should have feigned surprise. But once again she was reduced to single syllables. “Oh. Well. Good.”

They had reached each other now, and were standing almost directly in front of the loft door. The detective looked at it pointedly. “Are you just coming home?” he asked. “I understand you work nights.” He nodded ruefully. “Me too.”

Wondering if the detective could see her face flushing and realize that all she wanted to do was evaporate, Ellen said, “Yes.”

A brief pause and then, “Would it be all right if I came up for a minute?”

“Why?” Ellen asked, drawing back without being able to stop herself.

“Because I have something to give you,” he said. “They wanted to have a ceremony, but your friend convinced me that that would be unwelcome, so I asked if I could just drop it off.”

“Uh, I guess,” Ellen said. She unlocked the door and went up the stairs, hyperconscious of the detective's footfalls behind her. The echoes grew more exaggerated with each flight, multiplying in her alarm until Ellen felt she was being followed not by a single person, but by an army of pursuers. When she reached the fourth-floor landing and heard voices on the other side of the door over Runt's frantic scratching and barking, Ellen was flooded with relief. With any luck, Barclay would be distracted by Temerity or Justice and she could fade away.

When she opened the door, Runt jumped up, celebrating her return with his usual abandon, then stopped, sniffed the air fearfully, and began to bark a steady rush at the detective, repeatedly looking back at his people to make sure they were paying attention.

Justice called out, “Hey, Ellen! You're late. Did you stop for some—” His words cut off as the detective stepped in behind her and in a friendly, confident voice ordered Runt to sit. Runt sat. Justice switched gears. “Well, Detective! Good morning.”

Temerity, who was sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and toast, snapped her head up and around. “
Who
is it?” she asked.

“Temerity, this is Detective Barclay. He's the gentleman who helped Ellen on the bus.”

“Actually,” said Barclay, his white teeth gleaming, “it was the other way around. That's why I'm here.” Ellen crossed quickly to put the kitchen counter between her and the unfamiliar presence.

“And you
saw
Ellen downstairs?” Temerity asked incredulously.

“No. She saw me.” Barclay's face sobered. “Speaking of. Have any of you noticed a young man who might be homeless outside your building?”

Ellen looked at her friends. Both of them were pictures of innocence. “Well, there are certainly homeless people around,” Justice said, not committing.

“I miss a lot of details,” Temerity said evasively, but honestly.

“This is a boy, eleven maybe twelve, I think he might be living somewhere in your alleyway. I've seen him twice now. If he's a runaway, he needs to get back home.”

Temerity rose. “You never know these days,” she said. “Depends what he ran away from. Can I get you some coffee, Detective?”

“Oh, no thanks. I'm headed home to sleep after this. So, without further ado.” Reaching into his black leather jacket, Detective Barclay produced a large envelope. “I hope I didn't crush it,” he muttered, and pulled from it an official-looking document, thick parchment with colorful designs. With a grin, he held it out to Ellen. “I'd read it, but since it's just us, I'll let you.”

Ellen took it between two fingers, almost afraid it would be hot to the touch. She was still distrustful that it was a summons of some kind, and she stared at the fancy wording. Justice came to stand at her shoulder.

“What does it say?” Temerity asked impatiently.

“It's an accommodation from the city, thanking Ellen for exemplary bravery and assistance to law enforcement in a time of need,” he told his sister. “Well, isn't that something.”

Ellen thought it was something, too, but she wished it would go away. This was why she didn't get involved. She only wanted the detective to go away. It wasn't that she didn't like him, or thought that he meant her any harm. It was only that she didn't want anyone to look at her. She had talked to three people in the last couple of days. That was more than in the last six months combined, and she felt besieged.

“Well, that's great!” Temerity said. “Congratulations, Ellen. See? I told you that you were brave. Now you have it in writing, so that proves it!”

Barclay cleared his throat and looked slightly abashed. “On a personal note, I'd like to add that I owe you. If you ever need a favor, please ask.”

Justice was watching Ellen, she could feel his eyes on her from the side, and though she had learned not to mind Justice's regard, it was one more set of eyes now than she could bear. She shuddered involuntarily, and Justice, turning briskly to the detective, stepped sideways to shield Ellen from his view. “So, how about some toast, or juice? Sit down, sit down. What can you tell us about the rest of the people on the bus? What about the woman who was injured?”

Barclay went to the table and took a seat. Ellen gratefully shifted over to the seating area and sank into the winged armchair, out of view. She pulled Mouse onto her lap and curled over him, making herself as small as possible.

“I was just telling Ms. Homes. The driver is back at work and the little girl has been placed in an excellent foster home.”

“So that means that her mother . . . ?” Justice asked.

“Is not doing well. I can't say much, except that she's in a coma, and it's not looking like she'll come out of it.” He sighed. “So unfair.”

“What will happen to the guy on the bus? Will he get off by plea-bargaining?” Temerity asked, incredulous.

“Oh, no. Too many previous arrests and, of course, he's responsible for the bus crash. His sentence will be shortened a bit because he was on a certain kind of methamphetamine we've been trying to track down and he offered to turn in his source.”

“So much for honor among thieves,” Justice said.

The detective smiled grimly. “Or drug addicts. We keep getting close to the ring producing this stuff, but it's been tricky. The street meth they're producing is particularly toxic, we've had nine related deaths so far. Evil stuff. Usually meth is produced in small batches and it's hard to track, but this stuff has been cut with animal tranquilizer. It makes people jump-off-buildings crazy.” He shook his head. “And it's being mass-produced.” He leaned back. “Get this: our friend from the bus told us that it was delivered packaged as ‘gourmet food.'”

Ellen's head jerked up.
Gourmet food?
But before she could muster a voice, Temerity was back on track, allowing Ellen to dismiss the coincidence.

“So . . .” Ellen could hear the purpose in Temerity's voice, but she doubted that anyone else would. “What does the fact that her mom is in a coma mean for Lydia?”

“The little girl?” The detective grimaced and thanked Justice for the glass of juice he handed him. “It depends. The way the law works, she will stay in foster care until her mother, or some other relative, can care for her again.”

“And what if they can't?” Temerity asked pointedly.

“Then, hopefully, she will be adopted.”

Ellen couldn't help it, in spite of the burning in her cheeks heating to the point of spontaneous combustion, she said, “That didn't work for
me
. They never found my mother, or anyone else to sign off on custody, so I
couldn't
be adopted.” She didn't mention that no one had wanted to adopt her—that wasn't the point. Lydia was the point. Just putting herself out there enough to make the comment leeched energy from Ellen, and despite the tension in every muscle, she felt the exhaustion of her stressful interactions over the last few days weaken her bones.

“Yes, that can happen,” the detective said.

“But what if Lydia's mom dies?” Temerity plowed on.

Justice exclaimed, “Tem, please, how awful!”

“Well,” Temerity said, crossing her arms. “What if?”

“Then she would be an orphan,” Detective Barclay said. “And that's a very different circumstance.”

Temerity drummed her fingers against her upper arm. “Is there any other way? I mean, let's say that Lydia's mom, or anyone in that condition, doesn't wake up, but doesn't die, is there some other way? I mean, it doesn't sound like it's fair to the kid in that situation.”

The detective took a long sip of juice as he studied Temerity over the top of the glass, taking her in. “Well,” he said, “a judge can have the mother declared physically incompetent, but it has to be extreme. It can't just be that she's, say, in a wheelchair. I'm talking legally brain-dead.”

“And who would be in charge of that?” Temerity asked.

The detective pursed his mouth and thought. “Well, her doctors, of course, but someone would have to instigate the investigation, then there would be a hearing for competency . . . but that would be at least a year off,” the detective said firmly. “That's the minimum time to wait and see if family steps forward. Or if we can flush them out, more likely,” he ended grimly.

Ellen thought about the letter she'd received, with its mysterious copy to Frank Homes, and hoped Temerity wasn't having the same thought. Wasted wishing of course, because, much to Ellen's distress, her friend asked, “And what if a relative did show up? I mean, months, or even years later?”

The detective set down his glass and addressed Temerity a bit more severely. “You have quite a few questions. Are you interested in this topic for some specific reason?”

Please don't say it,
Ellen was thinking desperately.

“Well,” Temerity said, and Ellen's fingers on Mouse's head jerked. He twisted and bit her lightly. “I didn't know anything about the foster care system—I expect most people don't—until I met Ellen. She was raised in foster care and it wasn't exactly a warm and fuzzy experience for her.” Temerity gestured in Ellen's general direction. “But let's just say, for the sake of argument, purely hypothetically, that Ellen found out she had a relative she never knew about.” Ellen's heart stopped as though it had been flash frozen and broken into little, icy marbles, like a plastic bag of peas in a freezer. Temerity went on. “How could she find them?”

“I'm going to bed,” Ellen half shouted at the same time, unable to take even one more reference to herself or one more second of the pressure of notice without ending up compressed into a small, petrified lump of organic matter. “Really tired. Night.” She loped for the door to the hallway. Once it was safely closed behind her, she stopped and pressed her ear against it, but all she could hear were the low murmurs of polite conversation.

Ellen hurried up the stairs and into her room, and sat on the edge of her bed, trying to catch her breath and calm herself. It was too much, she couldn't do it. She counted four new people,
four
, whom she had willfully interacted with in the last two days. The scrutiny and the involvement were like subjecting herself to lethal, airborne chemicals or mercury contamination or . . . something, she didn't know, but it was poisoning her.

Sliding off the bed, she went into the bathroom, locked the door, drew a warm bath, turned off the light, and felt her way into the water. The waves of displacement rocked her quietly as she let herself float. She stayed there, in the warm, gently swaying blackness, feeling as little as possible, and listened to the thrum of the hot-water heater on the other side of the wall. It was a constant but fluctuating sound, not unlike a heartbeat heard from deep inside the womb.