Rage Factor (28 page)

Dixie shook her head. “I agree, but it can’t work like that. A lynch mob, no matter how just it may seem in the moment, is still a lynch mob. It doesn’t think, it doesn’t reason, it rides on a surge of hatred.”

“What’s that got to do with the Carrera boy?”

Dixie sighed. “Nothing, I hope. But Brenda gathered evidence against Carrera, trying to make a state case against her for child abuse. It fell apart when Paulie couldn’t testify, and the school nurse who turned it in hadn’t observed enough consistency or frequency in the boy’s injuries to build a case. Nevertheless, Brenda was convinced the mother was guilty. She steered the young attorney hired by the grandparents through the Open Records Act and copied him with everything in her files, certain the grandparents would win custody in a civil trial.”

“But they lost.”

“Right, and everybody knew Paulie would be showing up with bruises and burns as soon as Carrera had him in her hands again.”

“Then you think she didn’t send that letter and disappear willingly?”

Dixie shrugged. “It’s possible the trial woke the woman up. Abuse is complicated. It usually goes back generations in a family. Kids get caught in a love-fear relationship, protecting the parent—they’d rather endure more abuse than jeopardize the family. In some cases, abuse is the only attention a kid gets.”

“Maybe I can buy that in some backwoods burg, Dixie. But newspapers, magazines, television—hell, even the movies are filled with stories of abuse situations—usually followed by a hotline number to call for help.”

“The most abusive people rarely see themselves as abusers. They express frustration the way their parents did—with punishment that to us seems extreme, but to them is merely necessary discipline. They truly believe that terrible old adage, ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child.’”

“Then what the friggin hell do we have psychiatrists and psychologists for?”

“Hey! Yelling at me won’t change anything.”

“Sorry. It’s just damned frustrating. We live in a civilized world, with systems to help people in trouble. Yet this eight-year-old boy is terrified to admit his mother beats him up every night? Makes me want to find the woman, knock
her
around some, let her see how it feels.”

“I know.” Dixie was quiet, thinking about that for a moment. “Carrera refused to see a psychologist, except for the court-prescribed evaluation, and she continued to claim she never hurt Paulie.”

“If she believes she hasn’t done anything wrong, why would she suddenly decide to give the kid to his grandparents?”

“What if she didn’t? What if that wasn’t her signature on the letter?”

“They’ll check it out, won’t they?”

“Maybe not too carefully.”

“You have to admit, Dixie, the boy’s better off.”

“I’m sure he is. But what about whoever’s responsible for Carrera’s sudden change of heart?”

“They deserve a friggin medal.”

Part of Dixie had to agree. “But where does it stop?”
And how much does a certain ADA know about Carrera’s whereabouts?

The newscaster had segued to yet another story that triggered an alarm in Dixie’s mind.

“
Two suspects in the Ramirez liquor store robbery-assault case were released today when a witness failed to pick them out of a lineup. Fifty-year-old Raymond Ramirez died from blows to the head. His sixteen-year-old niece remains in critical condition. Charges against Gary Ingles and Sid Carlson have been dropped for insufficient evidence.”

The Ramirez case had raised the hackles of everyone who knew about it. The prosecution hadn’t fallen on Brenda’s desk, but Dixie recalled Brenda’s bitterness the morning Ramirez and his niece, Celeste, were found. Carlson and Ingles had been implicated in five other robbery-assault cases. No one died in those incidents, but a seventy-one-year-old man had been paralyzed. The fact that the two suspects had now been released in no way exonerated them; it only meant that fear of retribution had silenced the witnesses.

When Parker rose to clear away their tray, Dixie leaned across the pillows to the bedside phone and dialed Brenda’s number.

Gail answered, sounding rushed.

“Sorry, Dixie, Bren came in and then left. Said she’d be real late again.”

“Again?”

“She’s hardly been around the last couple nights—but aren’t you seeing her later?”

“Did she say she was seeing me tonight?”

“No, but … when she said she was going out with the guys for drinks, I naturally thought she meant ‘gals.’ Brenda never goes out with guys.”

“She didn’t say where?”

“No. Listen, my ride’s outside. We’re off to shop for hot dogs and baked beans for the weekend. Got to rally the forces, get them knocking on doors. Want to help?”

“Not my thing. But leave a note for Brenda to call me—no matter how late she gets in.”

When Dixie cradled the phone, she found Parker studying her again.

“You have a look about you, Dixie. A look I’ve come to associate with those times you leave here hell-bent on a quest and come home injured.”

“I’m not going anywhere tonight. I’m staying right here.”

He continued eyeing her. “You aren’t planning to get mixed up with these Avenging Angels, are you?”

“Join up with them? You think I’m nuts?”

“Or go after them. Let the police handle it.”

“Brenda’s a friend. You don’t turn away from friends when you’re needed.”

“And you can’t help a friend if she doesn’t want to be helped. What if you learn something that makes you an accessory? Something you’re better off not knowing?”

“I’m not in any danger here, Parker. I only want Brenda to know she has a friend when she needs one.” It wouldn’t be the first time Dixie had turned suddenly deaf and dumb when confronted with information she didn’t want to pass along.

He smiled thinly. “Dixie, your absolute loyalty is one of the qualities that makes you special. I admire that.” Taking her hand, he coaxed her to her feet. “I’ve been holding out on you. Come on.”

“Where?”

“Never mind, just come in the kitchen with me.”

“If it’s something to eat—”

“Nope.” He led her to the table, to the roses, gorgeous and
fragrant. The pink balloon had worked itself free and bobbed near the ceiling. “Take a look at this.”

He handed her a snapshot that had been propped against the vase.

“It’s beautiful.” She didn’t really know much about boats, but this sailboat was midget-size, compared to the Berinsons’ yacht.

“A real sweetheart. Thirty-six feet on deck, twenty-nine-foot waterline, eleven-and-a-half-foot beam. Suitable for both bluewater sailing and sailing around the bay.”

“Are you planning to buy this?” Dixie pictured them sailing to Belle’s Caribbean condo—what a terrific time that could be, just her, Parker, Mud, and a remote Caribbean island.

“Maybe. The owner only took it out twice before getting transferred to Denver. Now he’s into skiing. He’s willing to drop the price to turn a quick sale. Thought we could try it out tomorrow night—after you drop your teenage anchor back at the hotel. Moonlight sail, just the two of us.”

Sounded romantic. “I’d love that. But wouldn’t Friday night be even better—when we can sleep late the next day?” Sarina would be okay with another bodyguard for a couple of hours.

“I’m already holding off two buyers who want to see this honey. And I don’t want it unless you like it.”

“Really?”

“Of course,
really.
Who else would I want sailing beside me?”

Dixie tried not to envision the blonde aboard the Berinsons’ yacht. Tried, unsuccessfully. “I’m not much of a sailor….”

“We’ll have fun teaching you.”

Lawrence Coombs watched the lights wink out in Dixie Flannigan’s house and sneered to himself in the darkness.

So the sexy little cunt had a boyfriend, did she? So hot for each other they hadn’t even noticed the bedroom shade was up. Not expecting anyone would be watching, out here in the boondocking country.

But Lawrence had followed the red Porsche, thinking he might have some fun tonight. He touched his lip where her teeth had bitten through, leaving two ugly red scars. The monster dog that came sniffing around her on the porch, big as half a horse, squelched that idea fast.

He started the Jaguar’s engine and, without turning on the lights, backed quietly out to the road. He’d looked forward to sharing tonight’s adventures with Marianne when he visited the nursing home tomorrow. Never mind. Plenty of time, no need to rush. He knew other women who’d do for tonight. Couldn’t disappoint his dear mother.

Without warning, the nauseating scent of her overwhelmed
him. Imaginary, of course, she was eighty miles east, tucked up in her high-railed bed. Paralyzed fully on one side, partially on the other, she still managed to scoot around and fall to the tile floor when the aides failed to put the rails up. After his visits, though, she always quieted right down.

Lawrence reached a particularly dark patch of highway and realized he’d forgotten to turn his lights on. Rather interesting, riding along in the darkness. Spying a sedan twenty yards ahead of him, he speeded up until he was on its bumper, then flicked his headlights on bright, just before passing. As the sedan swerved toward the shoulder, Lawrence chuckled. One major cleaning job would be needed on that car seat tomorrow.

The thought of a urine-saturated seat reminded him again of the nursing home. On his last visit, they’d talked about Regan Salles—or rather, he’d talked. Marianne had only rolled her eyes frantically when he described the many ways he’d penetrated Regan.

“It’s not as if the cunt was a virgin, Marianne,” he’d explained. “Like you, she’s had more dicks sticking in her than a porcupine has quills.”

Marianne hadn’t smiled at his jab of humor. But then she never smiled anymore. He wasn’t sure she could.

Once, that smile had been all he could think about. Growing up, he’d liked nothing better than to crawl on his mother’s lap, snuggle between her big soft breasts, and smell the warm skin of her neck. He watched her smile when his father kissed her there, just beneath her ear, and Lawrence began doing the same, when he was too big to sit on her lap.

But the smile that emblazoned itself on his brain was the one he’d seen through a crack in his closet wall. His parents’ clothes closet had once backed up to his own, then had been replaced with shelves to hold books, television, stereo. Marianne had sent him to clean his room after school that day, when baseball practice was canceled, told him not to show his face until every corner was spotless—which meant cramming as much stuff as he could into his closet. Standing on a
chair, he pushed some sweaters aside on a high shelf and noticed a sliver of an opening that angled right into his parents’ bedroom. He hadn’t meant to spy. He just leaned without thinking, looked through the hole, and saw his mother’s radiant smile. She was naked. Lying on the bed, head thrown back against a pile of pillows, eyes closed, a look on her face that Lawrence had never seen. And the man with his hand between her legs, causing that smile, that
look
, was not his father.

Between his own legs, Lawrence had felt a throbbing heat … not the first time his penis had grown hard—he was almost fourteen—but this was different. His face felt hot, his mouth had filled with saliva, like at the dinner table when his favorite dishes were served. His penis wanted to pop right through his jeans. Unable to pull himself away from the intoxicating scene, he watched his mother arch against the pillows, her mouth falling open, her big soft breasts flattened slightly, each with a stiff brown nipple pointing outward. When the man leaned forward and slipped his mouth over one of those nipples, Lawrence’s balance had teetered on the chair. Bracing himself with one hand on the closet shelf, he quietly unzipped his jeans and slid his other hand around the throbbing flesh, where every nerve in his body suddenly seemed to have gathered. There was no thought, no reality, except the delicious sensations raging through him. And then it was over.

He stood with a handful of slime, stretched precariously on a wobbly chair, spying on his mother. He felt so disgusted that at first the awfulness of what he’d seen didn’t register. His eyes had been only on her. But realization settled in his mind like a canker sore. His mother was having sex with a strange man—in the very bed his father would sleep in that night.

Wiping his hand down the side of his jeans, he wanted to run, to get as far as possible from the embarrassment beyond his closet—

No! The man would have to come out of that room, into the hall….A weapon!

Lawrence searched hurriedly for something, anything! He yanked open bureau drawers and rifled his desk, before finally reopening the closet door and snatching his baseball bat, leaning in a corner behind his shirts. He swung it, remembering the
thup!
of a ball hitting the wood, and aching to feel that
thup!
as it hit the man’s head. He swung the bat again, then stormed into the hall to wait.

As he crouched in the hallway’s afternoon shadows, he saw the whole episode again, dark lashes fluttering against her flushed cheeks, nostrils flaring with each breath, red lips parting as she arched. Sweat beaded Lawrence’s lip, and he wiped it with a hand that still smelled of his own semen.

His parents’ bedroom door opened. The man came out and turned silently down the hall, his mother watching him go, a filmy robe failing to conceal the patch of dark hair that drew Lawrence’s gaze. His fingers flinched around the bat’s neck, but he couldn’t move. Then the man was gone. His mother shut the bedroom door, never noticing her son watching from the shadows.

After a long while, he put the bat away in the closet, not even glancing at the evil sliver of light above the top shelf. In the bathroom, he washed his hands and scrubbed his face with cold water. He spent the rest of the afternoon waiting on the front steps for his father’s car to drive up, practicing the words in his head to tell what he’d seen. But when the long gray Lincoln turned into the drive, the words stuck in his throat. They never became unstuck, not that night nor the next time the man—and all the other men—visited his parents’ bedroom.