Sawyer, Meryl (47 page)

Before she realized what was happening, he had her in bed, between
cool, clean sheets, and was smoothing her tangled hair away from her damp
temples. He murmured words of love, of their future in a hushed, affectionate
tone that was uncharacteristic for Mitch.

They were cradled in each other's arms, drifting off to sleep,
when a noise came from downstairs.

"Oliver," Mitch whispered against her cheek. "I
forgot to feed him. If I don't he'll keep us up all night."

"It wouldn't hurt the fat little beast to miss a meal,"
Royce insisted, but Mitch was already out of bed.

He'd been gone a few minutes when her portable phone rang. She
quickly checked the luminous dial of the clock-radio. Ten-thirty. It seemed a
lot later. Reluctantly, she trotted across the room and retrieved the phone
from her purse.

"Royce?"

"Uncle Wally—"

"I don't want you involved with Mitchell Durant."

She sighed; obviously her arrest hadn't made national headlines.
He didn't know what everyone in the Bay Area already knew. She'd better tell
Wally and hope he would understand why she loved Mitch.

Before she could break the news, Wally rushed on. "This is an
unbelievable story, Royce. Do you know where Mitch was before he came to St. Ignatius
Academy?"

Mitch walked into the bedroom and whispered, "Land lines,
Royce, if this has anything to do with the case."

She covered the receiver and whispered, "It's Wally."

"By God, Royce," Wally continued, oblivious to the side
conversation, "Mitch came to St. Ignatius from the Fair Acres Home for the
Criminally Insane."

Royce stood with Gerte at her side as a stream of passengers
scurried down the tarmac until the crowd thinned to a trickle. Where was Wally?
The vague sense of alarm she'd felt since Mitch asked her to meet her uncle's
plane intensified.

She was positive Wally would never do anything to hurt her.
But—there it was again, that shadow of a doubt. At least she could be certain
now that Val wasn't involved. That was some comfort, but it was eclipsed by her
concern about Wally. And Mitch.

Utter exhaustion had forced her to sleep last night. Still, she'd
been haunted by dreams. What had Mitch done to be sent to an institution for
the criminally insane?

"I
don't want you involved with Mitchell Durant."
Her
uncle's warning had sounded dishearteningly ominous.

Dammit, she didn't know what to think. The only thing she was
certain about was Mitch. She'd lived with him more intimately than she had with
any other person. She would have sensed a psychological quirk that would have
indicated he was a dangerous man.

But she hadn't. Granted, he was cynical, totally disillusioned
with the world. That didn't make him a menace to society.

How could she explain the scars on his face, and his being deaf in
one ear? Why did she think he might have—with cause—hurt one of his parents?
Then he would have been sent to an institution. If so, had they released him,
or had he escaped?

There had to be an explanation. One that would clear Mitch.
Despite all he was and what he'd done to her father, she knew—in her heart of
hearts—he wasn't a bad person. There had to be a reasonable explanation for his
having been in such an institution.

"Your uncle is not on this plane," Gerte stated as the
pilot walked off.

Acute disappointment and a nagging sense of suspicion kept Royce
silent. She turned to leave, catching something in her peripheral vision. She
spun around. "Wally?" Thank God, it was her uncle walking with a
flight attendant, his bag slung over his shoulder.

"Sorry," he apologized with a one-armed hug.
"Haven't slept much. I got on the plane and I was gone. I'd still be
asleep if this young lady hadn't woken me up."

Royce barely heard Wally say good-bye to the flight attendant. Weak
with relief, all Royce could think was that Mitch was wrong. Wally had been
down South.

"Wally, this is Gerte Strasser. Paul wants her to stay with
me at all times. Increased security. Ingeblatt's hovering around, using a
scanner to eavesdrop on phone conversations. That's why I couldn't talk last
night."

Wally smiled good-naturedly at Gerte, who merely grunted and fell
into step behind them as they left the airport. Naturally, Wally didn't mention
Mitch. By the time they'd reached Gerte's BMW, Royce knew Wally had read about
Caroline's murder, but he didn't discuss her alibi. When her uncle spoke, he
concentrated on the question of who would possibly want to kill Caroline.

It was a question Royce had asked herself countless times. If they
could determine the motive, they would find the killer. Right now, though, the
murder wasn't Royce's top priority. Mitch was. The drive into the city seemed
three times longer than usual. She couldn't question Wally until they were
alone.

Inside Wally's apartment Gerte was content to plunk herself down
on the sofa and watch soap operas while Royce and Wally went into the kitchen
on the pretext of making coffee.

"What were you trying to tell me about Mitch last
night?" Royce asked the second they were out of Gerte's range of hearing.

Wally pulled two cassette tapes out of his jacket pocket. "I
swear, this is Pulitzer material."

He was smiling with such glee that she was tempted to whack him.
"Remember, Wally, we promised. A reporter's word is his bond. You taught
me that." He reluctantly nodded and she continued, "Tell me why Mitch
was in that institution."

"Listen to these tapes and hear for yourself." He pulled
his tape recorder out of his duffel bag. "The nun, Sister Mary Agnes, told
me about Mitch, so I went to the Fair Acres Home." He inserted the first
tape. "The home is cruder than most state run facilities. It's set up in a
rural area surrounded by farms. The home is a farm too. The inmates who aren't
dangerous work in the fields."

Royce waited, trying to picture Mitch hoeing a row of corn, as
Wally turned on the tape. Did she really want to hear this? What if it
destroyed her image of the man she loved?

"This is my interview with Emma Crowley, who worked at Fair
Acres when Mitch was there." The whir of the tape became Wally's voice,
which was slightly higher pitched than he sounded in person. "Do you
remember a boy whose last name was Jenkins?"

"You a reporter?" The female accent was southern; the
tone hostile.

"Yes. I'm with the
San Francisco Examiner. "

"I don't have nothin' to say."

"I swear none of this will appear in print."

"I ain't saying nothin' bad about the Jenkinses." A long
silence, then, "Is the boy in trouble?"

"Hardly, he's a very successful attorney. People come to him
when they're in trouble. He's defending my niece. That's why I'm here. I'm
worried about her."

"That so? A lawyer, huh? Always was a fast talker."

"Tell me about him." Wally's tone was soothing, and
Royce could just imagine the other woman responding to his comforting smile.

"His ma, Lolly Jenkins, lived down yonder in the hollow with
her cousins. Pert' near everybody knows everybody else in these parts. Lolly
was two years older 'n me. She always was a little tetched. Not loony like the
people in this joint, but dreamy-like. Everyone said it was cuz she was from
New York City, but Pa claimed it was cuz she'd been in the car when her parents
were killed in the accident.

"One night when Lolly was about sixteen, she up'n
disappeared. Two days later the sheriff found her wandering on a back country
road. Nearest anyone could tell—Lolly couldn't talk—a buncha college boys had
raped her. They beat her up real bad, don'tcha' know."

Royce put her hand over her eyes, blocking out the bright sunlight
streaming in the kitchen window. The shock of this discovery hit her full
force. Now she knew why Mitch refused to defend any man accused of rape.

"The sheriff took Lolly back to her cousins' farm. The minute
the sheriff let her out of the car she hightailed it for the barn and hid. Poor
thang was terrified. 'Course, everyone thought she'd come out of it. But three
days later she was still in the barn."

Royce stared at the recorder, imagining Lolly's terror with
heartwrenching compassion. She'd had nowhere to turn; no one to understand. She'd
done the only thing she could to protect herself. She'd hidden, taking refuge
in the comforting darkness of a barn. She'd needed a doctor. Counseling.
Someone who loved her.

"Lolly's cousin went in to get her. She upp'n killed him with
a pitchfork. At the hearing it was plain enough why. They had to keep her in a
straitjacket. If she saw a man 'bout college age, she'd try to kill him."

"Didn't the sheriff try to find the boys who'd gang raped
her?" Wally interrupted.

"Tried, but don'tcha' know they could have been from State or
Tech. Someone saw a car of college kids the night Lolly disappeared. But Lolly
was too far gone to help the sheriff."

"She didn't try to attack the sheriff?" This from Wally.

"Nah, T-Tommy Pickett was real old. Lolly wasn't afraid of
young boys or old men. The judge said this was the saddest case he'd ever seen,
but Lolly had murdered one man and was likely to kill again. So, insteada
sentencing her to life in prison, he sent her here."

"My God," Royce cried out, then quickly lowered her
voice, remembering Gerte was in the next room. "Mitch must have been the
result of that rape."

The thought froze in her mind, numbing her. When had Mitch
realized the horrible truth? For years Mitch had lived with the fact that he'd
ruined his mother's life.

Emma continued, "When we found out Lolly was carrying a baby,
it was way too late to do anything about it. We thought she'd try to kill it,
but don'tcha know, when he was born, she loved him. She didn't seem to make the
connection between the rape and the baby."

"I take it she got better," Wally commented.

"Nah, she was in the female wing, so she didn't see many men.
Her plot in the garden was just outside the building. She spent most days out
there tendin' her veggies. The attendants made sure no men strayed into the
area. But Lolly never got better. Maybe her condition has improved now. 'Bout
ten years back her boy had her transferred to some fancy private
hospital."

That's it, Royce thought. His mother's in the home. But why would
he runnel support money through the Caymans? It didn't matter. She blessed him
for obtaining the best care he could for a mother whose life had been so
tragic.

"Miz Raymond was director of Fair Acres back when the baby
was born. She felt sorry for Lolly. She said, 'What's the harm?' and let her
keep the baby for a little while. The years, you know how they go by, and Miz
Raymond couldn't bring herself to break Lolly's heart by taking Bobby."

Bobby? Probably short for Robert. Mitch's real name was Robert
Jenkins. It didn't seem to fit him, she thought. Robert was too ordinary a name
for a man as distinctive as Mitch.

"What about school?" Wally asked.

"Bobby went to the one-room school right here on the grounds.
It's set up for the employees' children. 'T'ain't much—now or then. Everything
might have worked out if it weren't for that ole coon dog that wandered in one
hot afternoon in late August. Named him Harley after those motorcycles.

"More'n anything Bobby loved that old hound. Lolly spent most
of her time in the garden. There weren't any kids Bobby's age."

Her heart went out to Mitch, experiencing the loneliness of a
young child trapped in such a place. No wonder he'd treasured Harley. She
barely heard Emma's account of how Mitch was forced to shoot the dog he loved.
His only friend. A gift from God.

"If'n you're askin' me, I say the farmer got what he
deserved. Bobby clobbered him with the butt of the shotgun. Whacked him a good
one too. Took six stitches to close the wound. The farmer filed charges and Bobby
was arrested."

"An eight-year-old?" Wally questioned.

"T-Tommy had retired and we had a hotshot young sheriff who
thought Lolly was crazy and so was her kid. They put Bobby in jail until a
judge could come down from Tylerville."

"That's positively barbaric," Royce cried with a
shuddering breath, putting herself in Mitch's place.

Something inside her died. Innocence. A child's trusting view of
the world. Shattered. She experienced the shock of innocence being ripped away
from Mitch just as if it were happening to her. How well she remembered her own
fear at spending time in jail. How would a young boy have felt? Especially
after he'd just destroyed the dog he adored.

"Well, don'tcha' know, Bobby did go crazy. Least'n, that's
what they said when he began screaming and banging his head against the wall. I
went to see him myself to see if I could help. I can tell you it's a sight I
won't forget.

"They had him in a straitjacket. He was babbling something
fierce, saying someone was in his head talking to him. Poor little thang. He
was just a mite of a boy. Who knew he'd grow to be so big?