The Word of a Child (2 page)

Simon exploded. "You want to take my wife and home and
child from me? You have no evidence and no right!"

The police officer rose to his feet, his bulk suddenly
menacing. "We have the word of the victim."

"Get out of my house now!"

"Daddy?" In her bright red overalls, her dark hair
ponytailed, her small face pinched, Zofie stood in the hall. "Mommy? Why
is Daddy yelling?"

Simon's head swung as if he were an angry bull. "Go
back to your room! Now!"

Her breath hitched and tears filled her eyes. With a muffled
sob, she ran.

Mariah sat rooted, unable to go after her.

Taking advantage of the interruption, Ms. Cooper said,
"Mr. Stavig, if you'd just answer some questions…"

"I will answer no questions! Get out."

"Mr. Stavig, you might be able to clear this up in half
an hour if you would cooperate," the social worker tried again.

"Simon," Mariah whispered. "Please."

He didn't even glance at her. "I've never been alone
with this girl, I hardly know who she is. Look elsewhere for your
monster."

"Monsters," Detective McLean said, "can take
many forms, Mr. Stavig. Even that of a man like you."

Face contorted with anger and, Mariah thought, an effort to
hide fear or even tears, Simon stalked to within a few inches of the police
officer. "Out," he snarled.

The detective inclined his head. "Certainly. But we
will be back, and you will answer questions." Those light, compelling eyes
turned to Mariah. "Mrs. Stavig, please try to persuade your husband to
help us instead of hindering. And consider taking your daughter and staying
elsewhere if you can't persuade him to leave the house for the new few weeks."

They walked out. Neither Mariah nor Simon followed. She sat
frozen, stunned, reluctant to look at her husband. She heard him breathing as
hard as if he'd been running, or fighting.

The front door closed quietly. From down the hall came the
sound of quiet sobs.

Mariah waited for Simon to say,
How can they think I would do such a thing?
Or,
Help me
remember. I've never even been alone with this girl, have I?"
She waited for him, to come to her, perhaps kneel in front
of her and take her hands and beg her to believe him incapable of being the
monster Detective Connor McLean had named him.

Instead he turned that furious face on her and said,
"You will take Zofie out of preschool so that no one else can accuse
us." And then he picked up the remote control and turned on the
television, as if nothing had happened.

Stiff and tired and feeling terribly afraid, Mariah stood
and went down the hall to her daughter's room.

"Martinez is rounding third," the commentator
crowed.

She wasn't sure Simon had even noticed she'd left the room.

If he had asked her,
Help me
remember,
she would have had to say,
Last Saturday, my students did a Sunday matinee of
The Diary of Anne Frank.
You agreed to watch both Zofie and her friend Lily Thalberg.
I know nothing happened, but you
were
alone with the girls.

But he had not asked that or anything else. He had not been
grieving for Lily, nor bewildered at such a terrible accusation. He had been in
a rage that anyone would believe the word of a three-year-old child.

A child the age of his own Zofie, who was just as pretty as
Lily Thalberg.

Chapter
1

«
^
»

"
M
s.
Stavig?
Can I talk
to you?"

Mariah looked up with a smile. "Tracy! Of course you
may. Come on in."

A seventh- and eighth-grade literature and drama teacher, she
kept her classroom door open during her planning period specifically so that
students would feel free to drop by. Most often it was the theater enthusiasts
who hung around her classroom during breaks, but she wanted to be available to
kids like Tracy Mitchell who were falling behind with their assignments, too.

Mariah had been grading papers in which her eighth-grade
advanced lit students were supposed to be analyzing
To Kill A Mockingbird.
Josh Renfield's opening sentence was a tangle with no
subject. He liked big words and multiple clauses, but basic grammatical
structure apparently eluded him. Mariah laid down her red pencil with relief.

"Are you here to talk about your missing
assignments?" she asked.

"No. Um…" Tracy fidgeted in front of the desk.
"Can I tell you something? I mean, something … well, that I'm not supposed
to?"

"Not supposed to?" Was Tracy mature enough to
realize that a friend was in over her head with drugs or boys, that some
secrets weren't meant to be kept?

"Mature" was not the word that leaped to mind with
Tracy Mitchell, who tended to spend classes passing notes and giggling.

"Yeah." Her blond hair swung down, a curtain
hiding her face. She spoke so softly, Mariah had to strain to hear. "This
guy made me do things. He said no one would believe me if I was stupid enough
to talk. I've been … I've been really scared."

"Scared," Mariah echoed, a chill hand closing on
her heart. "Somebody threatened you?"

"I didn't think anybody
would
believe
me." The girl looked up, her blue eyes full of hope. "But Lacy
Carlson says you will. That you
listen
to kids."

No. Please not me,
Mariah
begged silently.
Choose someone else to
tell.

Even as she had the pitiful thoughts, Mariah knew she was
being selfish. Tracy had come to her because she had developed a reputation
among students as trustworthy. She should be glad that the teenager felt she
could
safely
tell her story. She should even be flattered that the girl had chosen her. It
meant she had done something right as a teacher.

But, oh, she didn't want to hear it. Not if the hearing
meant she had to report the story to authorities and loose them on some man and
his family.

Showing none of her inner turmoil on her face, she rose to
her feet and closed the door to the hall. Coming back to the girl, Mariah
placed a gentle hand on her arm.

"Why don't we sit down." She pulled a student desk
to face the one Tracy chose. "Okay. Whoever 'he' is, it sounds like he
doesn't want you to think anybody will believe you. Which doesn't mean they
won't."

Tracy
thought about that. "Maybe. Except—" she blushed "—I'm not a
very good student. And I dress kind of…"

Like a slut, Mariah filled in. Aloud she said,
"Provocatively?"

Tracy
knew
that word. She nodded.

"It's against the law for a man to rape a prostitute,
you know."

"You mean, a whore?"

"That's right. In other words, your clothing or even,
in the case of a prostitute, your profession do not constitute an invitation.
No one can touch you without your permission." She paused a beat. "Is
that what happened?"

Tracy
's blue
eyes filled with tears. After a moment, she gave a jerky nod.

"Will you tell me about it?" Mariah asked gently.

"The first time, he, um, just touched me."

"Where?" She kept her voice patient.

"My … well, my breasts. And, um, he kissed me."

"Did you mind? Or did you like it?"

"I guess I kind of… I mean, he's older and
everything," the thirteen-year-old mumbled to the desk.

"You were flattered."

Tracy
squirmed. "Kind of."

"Okay. Any of us might be."

"Only then, um, the next time he unzipped his pants and
he made me touch his … you know." She was crying in earnest now, and her
nose began to run.

Mariah stood long enough to grab a box of tissues and hand
her several.

Tracy
blew
her nose.

"He made you fondle him."

"And … and put my mouth on him. He tasted … it was
really gross. Especially when he…" Mariah hid her shudder.

"Did anything more happen?" she asked quietly.

"Last time he…" She stole a look up. "He made
me have sex. It hurt so bad! And I'm afraid I'll be pregnant!" With her
face puffy and wet, she looked like a frightened eight-year-old, not the teen
she was.

Mariah took her hands and squeezed them. "How long ago
did you have sex?"

Tracy
snuffled. "It was … it was the day before yesterday."

"There are morning-after drugs to keep you from being
pregnant. That's the first thing we'll have to see to."

Her voice lightened. "You mean, I don't have to be
pregnant?"

"No, you don't have to be pregnant." Mariah
hesitated. "Tracy, is this man related to you?"

Her head ducked immediately, but she shook it no.

Actually, to the best of Mariah's knowledge, Tracy's biological father wasn't in the picture. On the two occasions when Mariah had
called the mother in for a conference, she had left a different
unsavory-looking boyfriend lurking in the hall. Mariah wasn't as surprised as
she wished she could be that one of them, or another just like them, had
molested the pretty young girl who dressed in tiny miniskirts and baby Ts that
showed rapidly ripening breasts to superb advantage.

"Will you tell me who he is?"

"Will he have to know?" she whispered.

"If he's an adult, he should be punished. In the eyes
of the law, you're a child. He cannot force you, or even persuade you, to have
sexual relations. You did say he's older?"

Fresh tears flowed. "He's a teacher."

Mariah's heart sank even as her mouth made an
O
of
surprise. Not one of the boyfriends.

A teacher. This was going to be ugly, and she wanted no part
in it. Teachers were so vulnerable to these accusations. Look at her now: alone
in the room with Tracy, the door closed. A student could say anything happened,
and how would it be disproved?

"Oh dear," she said weakly.

"He … he told me he'd give me a good grade if I … you
know. And if I didn't, he'd flunk me."

"I wish you'd reported him then and asked to be
transferred from the class." She immediately regretted saying even that;
she didn't want poor Tracy to feel as if what happened—assuming it had
happened—was her fault in any way.

Tracy
's head
went down again. In a choked mumble, she said, "I thought it was kind of
cool that he liked me. Even though he's
old.'"

Mariah squeezed her hands again. "Who is it, Tracy?"

The seventh-grader murmured something. "I'm sorry. I
couldn't hear you."

"Mr. Tanner."

Mariah couldn't suppress an, "Oh, no."

Tracy
's chin shot up. "Do you think I'm lying?"

"Did I say that?"

She yanked her hands away. "You sound like it!"

"No. I'm only … sorry. I thought he was a well-liked
teacher."

"You mean, well-liked by
you,
"
the girl said spitefully.

"Tracy, I know him only as a colleague. We aren't
personal friends. I'm on your side. I won't abuse your trust, I promise."