Liberty or Death (21 page)

Hannon glared at me in irritation. I got the impression that he did his best work through intimidation and I was causing major-league frustration. It was hard to bully and intimidate a person who was already beaten down and expected to be mistreated. It was hard to interrogate someone whose responses alternated between lucid and ridiculous. It was hard to use force against a woman who'd just declared that she was pregnant and had lost her last child as a result of abuse.

"Stand up," he barked, setting down the pipe and coming around the desk. I stood up, head lowered. If he was going to hit me, I didn't want to see it coming. Not when I couldn't fight back. I waited, passive and trembling, as he came up to me. "Hold still." He ran his hand across my body from one pelvic bone to the other, then from my waist down, violating my privacy and that of Mason or Oliver or Claudine, his palm lingering over the growing bulge the way Andre's did. He managed, in the process, to let his hands wander well beyond the reasonable search area. I kept my head down and bit back fierce words of objection and the choking bile that rose in my throat at his violation.

Finally he dropped his hand and stepped back, his face, for a second, hesitant and uncertain, struggling to square his belief in women's incompetence with his notion that I was a cop, his theory that I was acting with the evidence that I was pregnant. Was it improbable or the ultimate trick to send a pregnant cop? "All right. Get out of here," he ordered, walking back behind the security of his desk. "Don't let me see you coming around here again. And believe me, young lady, don't think I've bought a word of your ridiculous story. We'll be keeping a close eye on you." He gestured toward the door with the piece of pipe, and suddenly I had a vision of him using that pipe, swinging it savagely against the body of someone helpless or defiant. Inwardly, I felt bleak and cold. And somewhere, in the back of my head, a more ambitious idiot wanted to get that pipe and take it to the crime lab.

"Kendall. Timmy. Take her home and get right back here. Understand?" They nodded. I got up stiffly and walked slowly out between them, limping on my sore feet, hoping their understanding didn't include some secret instructions that involved me and violence.

 

 

 

Chapter 14

 

I woke the next morning feeling more like myself than I had since Andre disappeared. Instead of waking in my normal, pathetic, Dora-the-waitress slump, I woke up mad. My body still ached and my feet still hurt. My head still felt like an ogre had come in the night and sucked out half my brain, but the part that remained was working, and what it was working on was a good old-fashioned snit. I couldn't understand why the people around here put up with the crap that the Reverend Hannon and his ilk were dishing out. Yes, I knew that a lot of people supported them, but what about basic rights—basic constitutional rights, not the rights of the Constitutional Militia—like the right to travel? Freedom of speech? Freedom of association? Freedom from harassment by assholes and their goons?

There had been other times in my life when I felt my liberties were being compromised. I'd been in situations where, when the cop asked if he could search my car, I knew the choices weren't between saying yes, having him search, and running the risk he'd find something I didn't want him to find, and saying no, and having the search not take place. I'd known that if I said no, my car would be searched anyway, and probably so would I, and probably I'd also have spent the night in jail. Plus the search would have been much more intrusive. The guy would have torn my car apart and left me to put it back together. But this was ongoing, this was pervasive, and this was much more menacing.

I ought to have woken up in a cold sweat, wondering what hassles and unpleasant encounters the day would throw at me, but I didn't. They had stolen my husband and they had stolen my life. Last night they'd compounded the matter by stealing my person and threatening me and my baby. It was finally enough, somehow, to break through the paralytic fear and tap into my impulse disorder. Why not? Half the population these days seems to suffer from some sort of impulse disorder. My impulse is to react with anger and a "come back at you" instinct when I'm cornered and threatened.

I woke up ready to break Jack's rule about staying a fly on the wall. As I dressed and combed my hair and brushed my teeth, I was wondering when, during the course of the day, I could get away to a pay phone to call Jack and tell him about the shirt stud. I wasn't supposed to use my cell phone except for emergencies. And I wouldn't use a cell phone around here for anything else. Too much risk of the conversation being overheard.

But I was thinking about worse things than calling Jack. I woke up wondering whether I'd gotten anything from my break into the civil-defense office, and when I might get a chance to look at those papers I'd stolen. Then, once I'd looked at the papers, I might want to start driving some back roads and have a look-see. These activities broke every other rule Jack had articulated and many that he hadn't. They even broke the rules of common sense. But I couldn't help myself. There was the missing brain problem. There was the missing Andre problem. And there was my long-standing other problem—that I was headstrong and rebellious and needed desperately to do something. The better part of a week had gone by and I had squat to show for it.

There was another reason I wanted to call Jack. Paulette Harding. I'd been assuming all along that Andre had been working on Gary Pelletier's murder. Had taken it as true when Kavanaugh told me Paulette Harding had left town. But now I was sure that wasn't true. Everyone around here, even if they wouldn't talk about it, knew that something had happened. I was pretty sure that the same was true for the state police. Roland Proffit had told me that. They thought she was dead. And perhaps her roommate, too. Dead because she'd tried to get in touch with the police. To tell them what?

I wanted to know what Jack knew. What Andre had known. What and where the connections were. I wanted to know who the players were and what roles they played. This was no time, and I was in no place, to be treated like a mushroom. I now knew that Jack had been right. I shouldn't have come here. It was a far more dangerous place than I ever could have imagined. But then I'd seen that I had no choice, and nothing since had changed that. I just wanted to know everything I could. For now, of course, that would have to wait. I had to go feed the masses.

News seems to spread through small towns by some form of osmosis. Half the customers in the restaurant had heard about me taking Lyle to visit his father, and every time I poured a cup of coffee, I also had to answer questions about Jed Harding. How he looked and how they were treating him. Whether he was being fed properly and did he appear to have been physically harmed. How the visit had gone. And whether there had been any talk about him being released. I stuck to the script Jed Harding had given me, and reported to each questioner that he hadn't been very talkative, but that he was fine and he'd had a good visit with his son. No one seemed satisfied but I had no more to give them except what was on the menu.

Around 10:30, just as I was about to sit down with a plate of bacon and eggs and wheat toast and jam, Theresa came through the door, looking angry, and jerked her chin toward the dining room. "Couple of guys out there saying no one can wait on 'em but you." She shook her head and hurried into the pantry, but not before she exchanged looks with Clyde that I didn't understand.

I half-expected to find a couple cops in the dining room, but instead I found my strolling companions from the previous evening, Kendall Barker and the man called Timmy. Didn't these guys have jobs? When I approached their table, Barker stood up. "Got something to say to you. Outside." Across the room, I saw Kalyn hesitate, then pick up a tray and hurry into the kitchen.

Wrong girl. Wrong move. Maybe I was out of character, but I'd had enough of being bossed around by these guys. I stood my ground, lowered my eyes, and said in a soft voice designed to be heard by many, "I'm working now, Mr. Barker. Anything you've got to say to me, you can say right here."

He looked at his companion, as though Timmy might have a suggestion, but Timmy only shrugged—I'd never yet heard him say a word—so Barker grabbed my arm and shoved me toward the door. Evidently, these guys didn't know about alternative conflict resolution.

I hunched my shoulders forward and dropped my head but I stood my ground. "Please, Mr. Barker, don't push me around like this in front of all my customers. It's embarrassing. Besides, you know I can't leave. Theresa's gonna think I'm in some kind of trouble and then I'll lose my job." I looked around at the staring faces, noting how they looked away to avoid meeting my eyes. Theater in the round, except this was more like a Roman amphitheater and I was being thrown to the lions. Customers were aware that something was happening but no one looked like they were going to intervene.

Most of the time, when you talk to people, even angry people, and you handle things right, you can make some kind of human connection. That wasn't happening here. These guys were like robots. Except as the object of their mission, they didn't seem to recognize that I existed. The tables closest to the door were empty. "How about over here," I said, walking toward the empty area, "where no one can hear us?"

Barker grunted but seemed willing to accept the compromise. He and Timmy closed in around me, backing me up against the wall, standing close enough so our bodies were touching. I hated having my personal space invaded. I wanted to shove them away. Instead, I concentrated on my breathing. On controlling my temper. On not noticing how their bodies were touching me. They smelled of cigarettes and coffee and something flinty and metallic. Their hands weren't clean. Timmy needed a shave. Kendall Barker moved his T-shirt up so I could see the gun in his waistband. I was having trouble breathing, couldn't seem to remember how.

At least Barker didn't seem to be enjoying the encounter any more than I was. Physically we might be up close and personal but the agenda was professional. "Reverend Hannon asked us to stop by this morning and remind you that he meant what he said last night. You may think you've got us fooled but we're not a bunch of dumb yokels. Keep away from Jed Harding and his kid. Stay away from the church. Just know your place and mind your own business or you'll find that things will get very unpleasant."

Shielded by Timmy's body, he raised his hand, grabbed my breast, and squeezed, hard and then harder. Hard enough to leave a bruise. Hard enough to make me want to gasp with pain. It wasn't lust. It was menace and humiliation. A gross personal invasion. Filthy, rotten bastards. I stared at the pine knots on the wall as I blinked away tears. I wasn't going to let them make me cry or give them the satisfaction of a moan or a plea. I bit my lip and waited for him to stop. Maybe that's what Dora would have done. She was used to this. But men who abuse their wives want a response. Kendall Barker just wanted my attention.

"People will be watching you. All the time. And you won't even know who they are. So watch yourself, bitch. Understand?" He dropped his hand and they both stepped back, away from me, then turned together, a clumsy attempt at a military maneuver, and left the restaurant. I stared after them, hurt, scared, and furious, wondering what aberrant god had made these men.

The room was still crowded, but during the entire encounter, neither Kalyn nor Theresa had ever appeared. I assumed that meant they knew what was happening and had decided to stay out of it. I looked around at the sea of curious faces, choking rage rising in my throat. Cowards. Lily-livered chicken hearts.

Didn't they know they weren't special? That they weren't exempt? Sit on your hands and let one person be abused, and next time, it might be your turn and no one would help you, either. Let people begin to control how you can think and act, and you've begun to abdicate your freedom. I wanted to cradle my poor aching breast as I crossed the room, but I'd been humiliated enough.

I picked up the coffeepot, which I'd left sitting on Barker's table, walked through the kitchen, out the back door, and down the steps. Then, with a violent heave, I smashed it against the Dumpster, muttering every curse word I'd ever learned. If he ever came near me again, I'd take my cute little Barbie gun and blow his head off.

I must have been as close to hysteria as I was to tears because my next thought, and one that nearly made me laugh aloud, was that maybe this was why Jack had wanted me to wear that bulletproof vest. It would have protected me. And blown any chance I had of sticking to my story. And it was the absurdity of it, and my own confused helplessness, that finally brought the tears. I stood next to my ratty car, next to the smelly Dumpster, and sobbed, and Theresa stood on the porch and yelled, "Dora, step on it. You've got people waiting."

I'll step on you, you dye-haired old witch,
I thought.
May you rot in hell for eternity.
I finished my shift with gritted teeth and lowered eyes, wincing every time I accidentally bumped myself with a tray. As soon as I could, I took off my apron and went upstairs. I hated them all. Clyde and Kalyn and Theresa for not helping me. The customers for being a bunch of selfish cowards. And the Reverend Stuart Hannon and his minions for believing that people don't matter. Jack wanted me out of here; Hannon wanted me out of here. How ironic that the idea of my departure should be so pleasing to both sides.