Daddy's Girl (6 page)

U
p close, Angus’s face was a wreck. Under the gauze pad, his right eye puffed up, a rosy color. A nasty bruise blanketed his left cheek, and black stitches puckered his lip. Blood spattered the front of his workshirt. “How’s the patient?” he asked, his blue eyes concerned, nevertheless. “You all right?”

“Better than you, I think.”

“Oh, you mean this?” Angus pointed at his mouth with a puffy grin. “Only when I laugh. But we have a more pressing subject than my rugged good looks.” He leaned into the ambulance, his long arms braced on each door, effectively blocking two state troopers behind him. “Got the staties with me, since they don’t have local police out here.”

“No local police?” Nat didn’t understand.

“It’s common in rural areas. They can’t afford a local force, so they rely on state police. They interviewed me but they still want to talk to you, to support the charges against Buford. I told them this isn’t the place or the time.”

Nat shuddered. Buford. His breath. His hands.

“Tell me you don’t feel up to talking to them, and I’ll tell them to take a hike.”

“Mr. Holt, that’s not your call.” The trooper’s dark eyes flashed under his wide brim, though his voice remained under control. “You’re interfering with police business. It’s important that we interview her while her memory’s still fresh.”

“Show a little sensitivity, would you? She’s a crime victim, and you don’t need her statement. I’m an eyewitness. I gave you my statement.” Angus raised his voice, but the trooper ignored him and turned to Nat.

“Ms. Greco, we understand that this is difficult, and we’re prepared to make it as easy as possible. We’ll interview you here, rather than asking you to come down to the barracks.”

“It can wait until tomorrow or the next day,” Angus interjected, but Nat waved him off.

“I can give it now. Let’s get it over with.” Nat didn’t want a fight. She’d seen enough fighting for a lifetime.

“They’re being ridiculous.” Angus pursed his stitched lips. “You should be going to a hospital, not giving a statement to support a charge they can file right now.”

“It’s fine, thanks.” Nat wrapped the blankets closer around her. “Come in, please, everybody.”

Angus harrumphed under his breath and stepped into the ambulance ahead of the troopers, ducking his head to fit inside. His boots clomped on the corrugated-metal floor as he crossed to Nat. He sat heavily beside her on the gurney, which squeaked under his weight. He bristled with pique, but when he looked over at her, his eyes softened. “I’m so sorry, about all of this. I wouldn’t have brought you here if I had thought it was unsafe.”

“I know that.” Nat heard the guilt behind his words.

“I can’t apologize enough. I’m so sorry.”

“We’re both okay, and that’s what matters,” Nat said, meaning it.

“Take this, by the way.” Angus set an insulated black jacket onto her lap. “For the ride home. I got it from Tanisa. She wanted you to have it. I’m not sure when you’re getting your coat back.”

“Thanks.” Nat took the jacket, happy to learn that the C.O. was safe. In the meantime, the troopers were climbing into the ambulance and closing the doors behind them. They also ducked to walk inside, and the ambulance bounced at the additional weight. They seated themselves on the padded bench opposite Nat and Angus, like the double date from hell.

“I’m Trooper Bert Milroy, with the state police,” one trooper said. He was maybe forty years old, with a handsome face, cool blue eyes, and a long, bony nose, red at the tip from the cold. He gestured at the trooper next to him, who had thinner lips and looked younger with faint acne scars on his cheeks. “This is my partner, Trooper Russ Johnston. We’ll keep this short, because I know it isn’t easy for you.” The trooper leaned over, slid a steno pad from his back pocket, and flipped back the cardboard cover. “Do you feel well enough to speak with us? Did you want to go to the hospital or anything?”

“No, thanks.” Nat raised a hand, in the blanket. “First, can you tell me what happened in there? Is it really over?”

“Absolutely.” The trooper slid a Bic pen from his inside pocket. “The disturbance took only sixteen minutes to put down.”

“Sixteen minutes?” Nat almost laughed. “It seemed like a lot longer.”

“It was,” Angus interjected flatly.

“But what happened?” Nat asked. “There was a riot in the RHU, right?”

“Not a riot. A disturbance.”

Angus chuckled. “Let the spinning begin.”

The trooper paused, pointedly. “As I was saying, Ms. Greco, inmates in the RHU got into an altercation over a gang issue. Three were killed and four seriously injured.”

Tell my wife
. “A guard was killed, too.”

“Yes, and two others seriously injured.”

“What was his name, the C.O. who died?”

Trooper Milroy flipped through his notes. “Ray Saunders, I believe. No, Ron. First name’s Ron. His wife was just notified. As I was saying, the prison SWAT team put it down in record time, preventing further loss of life. We’ve arrested four individuals in connection with the murders. Charges will be brought against Mr. Buford as soon as possible”—at this, the trooper shifted his ice blue gaze to Angus—“but we dot our
i
’s.”

Nat tried to process it all. “There was fire. I saw smoke.”

“A few of the inmates set their mattresses on fire.”

“I heard explosions. What was that?”

“The SWAT team.”

“The SWAT team uses
bombs?
” Nat was confused.

“No, the explosions would be the stingers from the SWAT team,” the trooper answered.

“What’s a stinger?”

“A device that is fired at the floor and explodes in thousands of rubber pellets—”

“Not that many, Bert,” the other trooper said, and Trooper Milroy frowned, annoyed.

“Okay, not thousands, but a lot, and they sting. They stop a man in his tracks without lethal force. The SWAT team performed superbly.” Trooper Milroy raised his pen. “Now, please tell us, in your own words, exactly what happened from when you and Mr. Holt began your class this morning.”

Nat took a deep breath, and between sips of water, began a scary instant replay. She got to the part where Buford ripped her shirt and began to think that maybe Angus had been right, she wasn’t ready to tell this yet. Her mouth went dry, and she was strangely afraid, even surrounded by police. She felt an instant kinship with every woman who had ever been the victim of violent crime. Questions entered her mind, about what could have happened. How do you live through something like that? What would Hank say? Her father? What if it had happened in front of Angus? Would she have been able to look him in the eye at school, and vice versa? By the time she finished the story, she’d drained her water bottle.

“What happened after you ran from the classroom?” Trooper Milroy asked, scribbling.

“I ran to get help.”

“Did you find any?”

“Yes. I found a C.O. coming out of a room. I asked him to help, and he came.”

“Can you be more specific?”

Nat paused. She was thinking of the other C.O., who now had a name. Ron Saunders. The blood. His fixed stare. She went into a stall.

“Ms. Greco?” the trooper asked, and Angus turned to her, his gaze sympathetic.

“Natalie, you want to stop now?”

“I’m okay,” she said, but Angus was frowning.

“Wait a minute.” He turned to the troopers. “What difference does it make what happened after Buford attacked her? You just got her statement to support the charges against him. The ADA has plenty to make his case.”

Nat considered this, listening. He was right. They didn’t need the information, and she didn’t want to tell them what Ron Saunders had said, especially not in an official statement. His last words belonged to his wife.

Trooper Milroy said, “Mr. Holt, we need to have a complete statement if we want to avoid putting her through this twice. If our statement is complete, there’s no need for prison officials to speak with you, or the D.A.” He faced Nat. “Ms. Greco, it’s for your benefit.”

“I still don’t see the relevance, legally.” Angus shook his head, adamant. “She went and got help. She told the C.O. where I was. Buford was kicking the crap out of me until he got there. This woman saved my life.”

“I did?” Nat asked, surprised. She hadn’t thought of it like that. She hadn’t had the time to think of it at all. “You almost got killed trying to save mine. I was returning the favor.”

“Ms. Greco, we do need to finish here.” Trooper Milroy cleared his throat, testy.

“You’re finished!” Angus said, but Nat waved him off. She had made a decision.

“Trooper Milroy, ask away. Let’s get this done.”

“Okay, what happened after you found the C.O.?”

“I told him where Angus was, and he ran off. Then I saw that there was an inmate and another C.O. lying on the floor of this room. It was very bloody.”

“What room?” the trooper asked, his head down as he wrote. The wide brim obscured his features.

“I don’t know. I just hit doors until one opened. I noticed that the C.O. on the floor wasn’t dead. I know CPR, so I tried to save him but I couldn’t.”

“You administered CPR?” the trooper asked.

Angus looked at her in surprise. “You did that, Natalie? That’s amazing.”

“Not really. It didn’t work. I used my scarf to stop the flow of blood…but it didn’t work. Nothing I did worked.”
There was nothing you could have done
. “Then I left and went to see if Angus was okay. There was an explosion but the C.O. got us out. And that’s it, my statement.” Nat sipped from her water bottle, forgetting it was empty. She wasn’t a good liar, and Milroy eyed her hard.

“That’s all?”

“Yes,” Nat answered firmly, and the trooper nodded, closing his steno pad.

The Beetle’s engine thrummed and its tires rumbled against the frozen asphalt. Nat and Angus rode back through the countryside, with neither talking much. She didn’t tell Angus what Ron Saunders said before he died, because it wasn’t his business, either. She watched the Wyeth trees and bay horses whiz by. It seemed impossible that such beauty could exist fewer than five miles from such carnage. She couldn’t ever explain what had happened to anyone who hadn’t lived it, much less to Hank. She realized with a start that he didn’t know where she was. He’d gone out of town today, to a job site with Paul. She reached into her purse and retrieved her cell phone.

“Do you mind if I make a call?” she asked, and Angus shook his head.

“Not at all. Tell him I said hi.”

Nat smiled and pressed her speed dial for Hank’s cell, but she got his voicemail, so she said, “It’s me. Call when you get a chance, on my cell. But don’t worry, I’m fine.” She snapped the phone closed.

“Good move. Voicemail isn’t appropriate for major felonies.”

Nat half-smiled. “Agree.”

“I hope we’re not on the news. I didn’t give any interviews, and nobody asked me about you.” Angus shook his head. “I’m so sorry this happened.”

“It’s okay. At least it wasn’t a student.”

“Either way, it’s awful. I’ll figure out a way to make it up to you, but right now, I’ll just get you home. You’re not going back to school, are you?”

“No. I just want to go soak in a bathtub and get lost in a big, thick book.”

“You read in the tub?” Angus smiled. “My sister used to do that.”

“Sure, it’s the best place. All my favorite books have bumpy pages. A day like this calls for period fiction. Everybody wearing frills and all the talk over teacups.”

“Okay, then tell me where you live, and I’ll get you to your tub.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you guys live together?”

“Sort of.”

“What’s your boyfriend’s name, by the way?”

Nat told him, but all the time, she was thinking of a different name.

Ron Saunders.

N
at closed her apartment door and stepped into the cozy living room, never happier to be home than at this moment, even as a Major Homebody. She ran a loving eye over the cushy beige couch and matching chairs, which fit neatly on a square sisal rug. Soft, indirect light flooded the room from the window, which overlooked a scenic fraction of the Schuylkill River. Bookshelves surrounded the room like literary insulation. A pile of novels sat stacked on one teak end table, her Priority To-Be-Read pile, and the other end table held her Secondary To-Be-Read pile. A mug sat so often next to the stack that it had made a faint ring on the coaster, like a wedding band.

She dropped her purse at the door, kicked off her pumps, and padded down the hall to the tiled bathroom, large enough for only a downsized tub, toilet, pedestal sink, and two Emergency To-Be-Read piles. One pile sat atop the back of the toilet, and the other on the floor next to the tub, mostly paperbacks, which floated better.

She turned the bathwater on, letting it run while she took off Tanisa’s jacket. She made a mental note to return the jacket and tried not to think about blood or last words. She shed her ripped shirt and bra without dwelling on how they’d gotten that way, then slipped off her pants and underwear, eyeing the stack of paperbacks beside the tub. Josephine Tey, Wilkie Collins, Dorothy Sayers. It was a familiar crowd, but Nat needed a mood elevator. She reached for the new Janet Evanovich, then caught sight of her naked body in the mirror and dropped the book. Hideous scratches crisscrossed her breasts and stomach. Red raised welts swelled like fingernail rakes, leaving snakes of bruises.

Buford. His nails. His hands. On me.

Nat grabbed the bar of soap and a white washcloth, and began washing her chest. The water was cold but she wasn’t waiting for hot. The scratches stung, and she scrubbed harder, anywhere and everywhere his hands had been, the sting and the cold water a tonic. She didn’t stop until her chest had gone so red she couldn’t see the scratches anymore, then she grabbed a soft white towel and patted her chest dry, covering the sight, even from herself.

Nat needed a bubble bath and two great chapters to restore her to normal. She’d washed her hair gingerly because of the bump on the back of her skull, and her head had started throbbing again. She’d put Neosporin on her ugly scratches, changed into a soft white T-shirt, a blue J.Crew cashmere sweater, and jeans, then padded into the spare bedroom she used for a home office.

Books lined the room, a costly collection of first-edition mysteries, including her Erle Stanley Gardner. Nat loved to collect, getting a thrill from the penciled-in prices on the flyleaves or the occasional embossed stamp. She haunted library sales and loved when she scored the older books, from the day when people actually signed books out of the library in their own handwriting. She scanned with satisfaction her row of faded blue Nancy Drews. Today she was doing some amateur sleuthing of her own. She took a seat behind the computer and logged onto whitepages.com, selected Pennsylvania, and typed in “Ron Saunders.”

Twelve listings
, read blue letters in the bold boxes. She skimmed them and eliminated the addresses that were too far away. Two were from towns she didn’t recognize, but one was in Pocopson, at 524 Roselawn Lane. She remembered seeing the Pocopson Township sign on the way to the prison. This was probably the C.O.’s house. The listing supplied the home phone number, too.

Nat eyed the information and imagined what was going on there, right now. Saunders had a wife, maybe children. Family and friends would be coming over to mourn. It would be a house of pain. She had a message to deliver, and for consolation, she could offer only an explanation as to why she couldn’t save the man. She eyed the phone next to her computer, then picked up the receiver.

Don’t pretty it up.

She set it back down again.

"Honey? You okay?” Hank burst through the door, his long topcoat flying and Paul right on his heels. He had returned her call at the end of the day, and she had filled him in about the riot, so he’d skipped a business dinner and come straight home. He threw open his arms when he saw her. “A
prison riot?
”

“Hey, babe.” Nat set down her book, rose from the couch, and met him in the middle of the living room, where he put his arms around her and pressed her against his chest, his wool coat reassuringly scratchy, retaining a wintry cold. She sank into the security of his embrace and breathed in the night air, mixed with cigar smoke.

“What were you doing at a prison? Is this a joke?”

“I was teaching, and a riot broke out.”

“YOU MEAN THE PRISON RIOT ON THE NEWS?” Paul planted his hands on his hips, his camelhair coat spread open. He was wearing an Italian suit, a silk print tie, and his most outraged expression, usually reserved for missed pass-interference calls.

“Since when do you teach in a prison?” Hank held her off and eyed her cheek wound, horrified. She’d unbandaged it as per directions, to let it breathe. “Baby, who
hit
you? One of the criminals?”

“It’s a long story.” Nat wasn’t going to tell him about Buford in front of her brother. She released him and tucked her hair behind her ear, so it wouldn’t get stuck in the Neosporin, like lip gloss. “I was going to tell you last night I was going, but I didn’t get a chance.”

“WHO SENT YOU TO A PRISON, NAT? ARE THEY NUTS?”

“It’s part of a clinic program. I went with the clinic director, and can you ever lower your voice?”

“I HAVE A COLD. MY EARS ARE STUFFED.”

“You always talk loud, Paul.”

“THAT’S HOW I ROLL. WHAT’S A CLINIC? ISN’T THAT FOR POOR PEOPLE?”

Nat gave up. “It’s an externship program at school, run by my colleague Angus Holt.”

“SO WHERE THE HELL WAS HE WHEN MY SISTER WAS GETTING HER HEADLIGHTS PUNCHED OUT? I SHOULD KICK HIS ASS! WHAT KINDA NAME IS
ANGUS
, ANYWAY?”

Nat’s head started to throb again. She knew it would go like this if Paul came home with Hank. Her brothers had always been insanely overprotective, evidently saving for themselves the right to beat her up.

Hank brushed her hair back gently. “Where were the prison guards, babe?”

There weren’t any?
“They were busy. It’s no one’s fault.”

“OF COURSE IT IS!” Paul waved a finger. “IT’S THIS CLINIC GUY’S FAULT OR WHOEVER RUNS THE PRISON. WE SHOULD SUE THE SCHOOL!”

Nat suppressed an eye roll. “Good idea, in my tenureship year.”

“THEY DON’T DESERVE YOU IF THEY SEND YOU THERE. WE DON’T PLAY THAT.” Paul flipped open his cell phone, and Nat read his mind.

“Don’t call Dad.”

“WHY NOT?” Paul pressed speed dial. “HE’LL CALL SOMEBODY IN LEGAL.”

“I
am
somebody in Legal, and I’m not suing anybody. Please, Paul, hang up.”

“TOO LATE. HE’S ALREADY FREAKED. HE WANTS YOU HOME.”

“I am home. I live here now, having reached the age of majority.”

“Honey, talk to your parents,” Hank said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “They’re worried. I spoke to them before I called you back.”

“Who worried them?” Nat blurted out, anger flaring in her chest. She had been hoping for a quiet dinner at home and a good talk, but that idea was circling down the drain. “I didn’t call them. I called you. And why’d you call them before me?”

“Don’t be silly.” Hank pressed the phone into her palm. “Please. Talk. It’ll only take a minute.”

“TELL HIM YOU’RE FINE. HE’S CONCERNED. HE LOVES YOU.”

“I told them I’d call as soon as we got in.” Hank looked apologetic, but Nat was upset all over again. She’d need another bubble bath to recover from everybody’s love and concern.

“Dad?” she said into the cell phone.

“What the hell happened?” Her father’s voice echoed Paul’s, or maybe it was the other way around. “They said there was a riot in a prison. Were you caught in that? What were you doing there in the first place?”

“I’m fine. I just have a cut on my cheek.”

“A
cut!
How many stitches did it take? You got a good plastic surgeon, I hope.”

“I didn’t need stitches.”

“Which hospital they take you to? Don’t tell me one of those butchers in Philly. They only know from gunshots.”

“I didn’t go to a hospital. I don’t need stitches. It’s just a little cut.”

“On your face, no cut is little. You don’t want a scar. You’re not one of the boys.”

Oh please.
“Dad, it won’t scar.”

“I’m calling your mother’s skin doctor. Dr. Steingard, from the club. She’s the best. Leave now, you can be at her office in an hour. It’s in Paoli on Lancaster Avenue, the same building as the dentist. We’ll meet you there.”

“Dad, I’m fine. Please, don’t call the doctor.”

“Your mother’s worried sick, between you and Paul. Go to the doctor, so she can sleep tonight. We’ll meet you there, then you and Hank can come home and have a nice dinner.”

“Dad, listen, I have to go. I don’t need to see the doctor. Love to you both.” Nat handed the phone back to her brother. “I’m not driving out to the suburbs.”

Paul said into the phone, “DON’T WORRY, DAD. WE’LL MAKE SURE SHE GOES. SEE YA SOON.”

“Why’d you say that?” Nat exploded. “I’m not going!”

“DON’T YOU THINK SHE SHOULD GO?” Paul looked at Hank, who turned to Nat in appeal.

“Honey, what’s the harm? You’ll get a specialist to look at it. If you don’t need stitches, you don’t have to get them.”

“It’s not the stitches.” Nat felt like screaming. “It’s that I’m fine.”

“THEY’RE ON THEIR WAY ALREADY. SO WILL THE DOCTOR BE. YOU CAN’T NOT SHOW UP.”

“Babe?” Hank said, cocking his head. “Make your parents happy. It’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“TRUE THAT,” Paul added.

Nat sighed inwardly. Sometimes she loved that Hank got along so well with her family, and sometimes she hated it. On the days she got caught in a prison riot, she hated it.

“Okay,” she said, going to get her coat.

They got back to the apartment from The Greco Show around midnight, overfed and exhausted. Hank had gone to bed already, and Nat lingered in the bathroom. She needed time alone. The lightbulb panel flooded the small room, and she examined her infamous cut in the mirror. It looked the same as it had four hours ago, having survived the poking and prodding of the Main Line’s best plastic surgeon, who ultimately decided that it required no stitches and reapplied a veil of Neosporin.

Nat felt a knot of resentment tighten within her chest. She reached for the electric toothbrush Hank had bought them for Christmas and pressed the green On button, starting the frantic motion of the brush and its generally menacing bzzzz. She buzzed her teeth, pining for her old low-tech toothbrush. She needed silence after all the Greco noise.

At dinner, she had told them the sanitized version of what happened at the prison, or at least the first few lines of it, which proved more than enough for the family attention span. She had also prevented litigation against the University of Pennsylvania Law School, the Department of Corrections, the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, and two United States congressmen, to be named later. She switched off the electric toothbrush and shoved it back into its holder, which was already collecting white Colgate crust, and then she couldn’t delay any longer. She slipped off her cashmere sweater and T-shirt, down to a lacy white bra, and eyed anew the scratches on her chest.

The shock value had gone, but not completely. Red welts still strafed her chest, and droplets of dried blood dotted her bra, across her breast to the nipple. She took off her bra, put on the soft Penn sweatshirt hanging on the back of the door, and left the bathroom, trying to figure out a way to tell Hank about Buford. Sooner or later he’d have to see her chest again, and she wasn’t exactly sure how he’d react, or even how she would, the next time they made love. She didn’t think she’d be unduly traumatized, but then again, she felt relieved that his birthday had been yesterday.

She entered the bedroom, lit only by the circle of halogen on Hank’s night table. He lay with his back to her, naked to the waist, and his silhouette emphasized the round, muscular cap of his shoulders, the curve of his bicep, and the sexy way his torso tapered to his trim waist. He’d dated a lot before they’d met, so much so that Nat sensed her father’s mild surprise when Hank went for her. She slipped into bed behind him and shifted over for a toe-hello.

“Babe?” she asked, then heard a soft snoring sound. She propped herself up and peeked over at him. His eyes were closed, and he breathed into the down pillow. She didn’t have the heart to wake him and didn’t relish telling him anyway. It had been a long day, and she’d forgive herself the conflict avoidance. She rolled back over, pulled up the covers, and checked the glowing bedside clock. 12:23. Twelve hours ago, she’d been sitting in an ambulance, talking to a paramedic.

Goofy
,
isn’t it?

Nat pushed the thought away. It was too late to call the Saunders house.

She reached uneasily for a book.