Crusader (39 page)

I knew why, and I told him, "He didn't care. He didn't care about any of that stuff you just said. He just didn't want to be here anymore."

Griffin didn't believe me. "What? He'd rather be dead?"

I didn't say anything else, which made him get agitated again. He hopped up and started pacing as before, shaking his head vehemently. "I didn't do this to him. He did it to himself. I didn't kill him."

I assured him, "Of course you didn't."

My response seemed to make him feel a little better, or calmer at least. He sat back down and opened that black briefcase. "Anyway, Roberta, I know you tried to help."

I interrupted him, "You asked me to help."

"Yes, I did. And you wound up doing a better surveillance
than I did. I appreciate that, and I'm real sorry about what happened." He reached into the briefcase and pulled out a big brown envelope.

"I know what happened to your mother. I've heard your uncle and your cousin talk about it. I called down to a buddy of mine at the administrative offices. Sure enough, he was holding some stuff from that case that you're entitled to."

I stared at the envelope. It had the word
EVIDENCE
stamped on it in big red letters. I asked him, "What is that?"

"It's, uh, your property. Your family's property. Once your case is classified as inactive, any property that we seized as evidence gets returned to you. Provided, of course, that it's not forensic evidence. You never know. We might get a break in this case someday, and we'll need the forensic evidence."

I began to feel frightened. I asked, "What is forensic evidence?"

Griffin shifted on the couch uncomfortably. "It's, uh, stuff we would have to produce in a court of law. A weapon, or an article of clothing with, uh, blood on it."

I stared hard at the envelope, wishing I had X-ray vision. "So what's in there?"

"It's personal effects of your mother's. Her wallet. Her checkbook. Some children's books. A watch. Some papers."

I reached out for the envelope, and he handed it to me. I weighed it in my hand. "And where did this come from?"

"The sheriff's administrative office, down at the County Services building."

"So how did you get it?"

"That buddy of mine back-doored it. I told him you were good for this signature." Griffin held out a paper to me. "You just get your dad to sign it, and I'll get it notarized." He stopped to explain, "Another buddy does that. Then I turn it in tomorrow. Okay?"

I felt stunned, but I said, "Okay." I breathed deeply a few times. Then I asked him, "Griffin ... could I have gotten this package myself?"

"No. Only your dad could have."

"So why didn't he?"

He answered me very kindly. "A lot of people don't. There's nothing on this earth worse than the murder of a loved one. People want to close the door on that as soon as they can. I never would have opened this one up if I didn't know you, if I didn't think you would value these things. Am I right?"

I told him, "Oh yes. Yes."

I bent back the brad and opened the envelope. I reached in and pulled out two blue vinyl smocks—a small and a medium. I remembered them well. One was mine, and one was my mother's. Then I pulled out a wallet, a watch, a booklet for a prepaid college plan, and
How the Grinch Stole Christmas.

Griffin pointed to it. "Tell me about the book."

I answered flatly, like I had told the story too many times, "Some days my mother would pick me up at the sitter or at extended-day. She'd always have a book with her. I'd hold the book on the way home. We'd read it when we got there."

"Was it always Dr. Seuss?"

"Between Mom and me it was. On my own I read older stuff. I started reading chapter books when I was five."

Griffin stared down at the floor for a moment. Then he clapped his hands on his knees and stood up. He said, "Well, I wanted you to have these things because you're entitled to them, but now I'd better get back to work." He walked through the kitchen and straight out. I hurried to lock the door behind him. Then I gathered up all the evidence, carried it into my room, and spread it out on the bed.

Mom had two pictures of me in her wallet, but no money. She had an old American Express card, an Atlantic County
library card, and a Florida driver's license. The picture on the license resembled me a little. I read the information about the Florida Prepaid College Plan. I saw that Mom had circled the "lump-sum payment plan" description.

I thought the envelope was empty then, but I stuck my hand inside to make sure. It wasn't. I pulled out a small piece of paper, about the size of a dollar bill. It was very thin paper with a perforated edge, and it had the word
RECEIPT
printed across the top. Below that, seven years ago, a clerk had typed in:
Surveillance videotape—Family Arcade, October 31, Mary Ann Ritter, homicide investigation.
It was a receipt for a videotape. There was a receipt but no videotape. Griffin hadn't mentioned this.

I then turned my attention to the smocks. I tried my old one on, but it was nowhere near large enough. I couldn't fit both arms in at the same time. I tried my mom's on, and it fit perfectly.

I took it off and laid it down on the bed with the other long-lost possessions. I turned off the light and curled myself around them to sleep. But I had another dream: In the dream, I was in my room, in this room, asleep. I woke up when I heard the sound of the TV in the living room. It was blaring, impossibly loud, like the volume had been turned up all the way. There were no words to the noise, just static, like the sound from the void.

But I knew that if I went out to turn it off, I would be killed. I knew that there was a killer sitting in the living room, watching the blank screen, with the volume turned all the way up.

The dream was so real that I woke up still inside it. I found myself sitting bolt upright, listening for the TV sound. But there was only silence. Still, I was terrified, trapped between reality and the dream. I cowered in my bed, desperate for help. I tried calling out in a timid voice, "Dad." Then I tried it in a louder voice—"Dad"—never really expecting him to be there.
But to my surprise, I heard a short knock on the door, and then Dad opened it.

"What is it, honey? What's wrong?"

"I—I had a dream. A nightmare."

"Oh. Oh no. Well, it's okay now. It wasn't real. Can I get you a drink of water? Or a soda?"

"No. No." I saw his eyes flicker to the evidence on my bed, but there was no sign of recognition. He didn't say anything about it. Instead he asked, "Do you want me to sit with you for a little bit?"

"No. No, I know you're here. So I'll be okay."

"That's right. I'm here. Don't you be afraid."

"Okay."

After he left I bound up all the evidence inside the two smocks. I stashed it all in the back of my closet, with my Dr. Seuss books.

But I put the videotape receipt in my wallet.

Dad came out while I was eating breakfast. He had on a bathing suit and a Marlins cap. He looked like he might be going out on a boat.

He said, "Good morning, Roberta."

I held out Griffin's form to him. I said, "Dad? Can you sign this before you go?"

"Sure. What is it?"

"It's for a field trip. We're going down to the County Services building."

He signed the evidence request form. "That should be an interesting trip. I'll see you at work, then."

My first stop after breakfast was Isabel's Hallmark. I told
Mrs. Roman the same story I had told Dad—that I was going to the County Services building on a field trip. That much was true. Then I told her I needed to get the field-trip form notarized.

At that point Mrs. Weiss would have asked me, "Since when do you need to get a field-trip form notarized?" But Mrs. Roman didn't know any better. She dug out the box and put the raised seal on the form, just like I showed her. I took a pen and filled in the signature part while she returned the seal to the drawer.

She did ask me, "So why aren't you in school?"

I said, "I'm on my way. I just forgot to get this done last night."

Mrs. Roman was distracted, of course, since she was worried about running the store alone. She muttered, "Okay. I'll see you later," and walked off to straighten a display.

The County Services building was a sprawling red brick structure stuck in the middle of a gigantic traffic circle. I got off the bus in front of its main entrance.

I walked inside and over to a ceiling-high, glass-encased directory. There must have been a hundred office names in it, all spelled out in white rubber letters against a black background. I found a listing for the Atlantic County Sheriff's Department administrative office. It was in Room 102.1 set out walking and did almost a complete lap around the first floor until I came to it.

Room 102 was big—as big as Crescent Electronics. A lot of people were sitting in different-colored plastic chairs. Most were busy writing on clipboards. I figured they were filling out job applications.

I saw a guy who looked familiar. It didn't hit me for a moment, but then it did. He was Hawg's Juvenile Justice guy. Maybe he'd had enough of that and was applying for a new job.

Beyond the rows of chairs was a high white counter. An older woman was working behind it with six people lined up in front of her. I got in line behind them and inched forward.

Just before I reached the front of the line, a younger woman walked up, said something to the first lady, and then took her place. By now I had told so many lies that new ones were coming to me on their own. Like the Grinch in
How the Grinch Stole Christmas,
I thought up a lie, and I thought it up quick. As soon as the younger woman looked up at me, I said, "I was here before. That other lady told me to go get this form notarized and she would give me this package."

The lady took the receipt and the form and read them. "What kind of package is it?"

"It's personal belongings. It should be a small package with this number on it."

The lady read the ID number. "Okay. Somebody's going to have to go back and find this." She looked around but didn't see anyone who might be inclined to help her. Seeing that there was no one in line behind me, she said, "I think I know where they keep these. Let me take a quick look."

She was gone for about five minutes. One of the job applicants got in line behind me. The lady came walking out of the back section of the big room. As soon as I saw the package, I knew what was in it. So did she. She squeezed it as she handed it to me and said, "It feels like a videotape. Is that right?"

My heart started to pound wildly. All I could do was nod vigorously. I practically snatched it away from her, muttering a low, "Thank you." Then I walked quickly out of the sheriff's department administrative office, like I had just robbed the place.

I couldn't read on the bus ride home; I couldn't even think. I stashed the evidence package in my backpack and stared out the blue windows.

A storm was gathering in the west. As soon as I got to my
stop, it began thundering and lightning and pouring. I had to jump off the bus and run. By the time I reached the carport, I was soaked to the skin. I unlocked the door and squished through the kitchen and living room. Then I peeled off all my clothes and wrapped myself in a towel.

I put on a pair of long pajamas, went out to the kitchen, and made some hot cocoa. The red light on the answering machine was blinking. I waited until the cocoa was ready. Then I clutched it in my shivering fingers as I listened to the message.

It was actually a prerecorded announcement from Mrs. Biddulph. "This is Linda Biddulph at Memorial High School. I am calling to inform you that your child is not in school today. Please furnish your child with a note explaining this absence so that it will not be marked as unexcused."

I drank the hot cocoa down as fast as I could. It made me shiver. Then I spotted my wet backpack, and I remembered what was inside it.

I zippered it open and pulled out the videotape. I carried it into the living room and set it on the coffee table. But I didn't put the tape into the VCR. I couldn't. I just sat on the couch and stared at it.

I was still sitting there at noon when the phone rang. This time it was Dad. "Roberta! You're home. Are you okay?"

"Yes."

"I got paged today by a Mrs. Biddulph from your high school. She said you weren't in school."

"No. I'm not, Dad. I cut."

"You what?"

"I cut school. I ditched. I didn't go."

Dad seemed confused. "Oh?"

"You used to do that. Right, Dad?"

"Well, yeah, actually. The truth is, I did, honey. But I never knew that you did."

"Well, I do."

"So where did you go?"

"The beach."

"Yeah? That's where I used to go. So, uh, I guess I'll see you at work?"

"No, I think I'm going to cut that, too. Okay?" He didn't answer. I added, "You won't tell Uncle Frank, will you?"

"No. No, of course not."

"Okay, then, maybe I'll see you later."

"Okay." Dad hung up.

I continued to stare at the videotape for about another hour. Then I carried it into the bedroom and stuck it in the back of my closet, next to the rest of the evidence.

I have now possessed the videotape for five days. For five days it has been in the back corner of my closet, radiating at me like a chunk of plutonium. At times I had the opportunity to watch it but not the courage. Other times I had the courage but not the opportunity.

Dad came out and had breakfast with me this morning. I took the opportunity to inform him, "I've been moving my things into Mrs. Weiss's condo, over in Century Towers."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I don't like being here alone. I've been feeling creepy."

Dad nodded knowingly. "Have you had more nightmares?" He shook his head in regret. "Roberta, I'm sorry. I know I've been away too much. It's just that Suzie and me, you know, we're moving into a new phase of our lives. And you're moving with us. We all just need to hang in there until the first of the month. That's when we'll be at our new place."