The Price of Malice (26 page)

“That’s key,” Willy quickly added. “That’s not suicide.” He leaned forward and repeated the hand gesture, leaving it longer on her knee this time. “Your daughter was cutting herself, Karen. Huge difference.”

“What do you mean?” Karen’s voice had settled back down.

“It’s what a lot of girls are doing to make themselves feel more in control,” Sam contributed.

“That’s crazy.”

“It’s kind of an anger thing,” Willy told her. “We see it all the time. Most girls in middle and high school will try it at least once.”

“Cutting themselves with a razor?” Karen asked incredulously.

“It takes their minds off their troubles,” Sam explained. “Some say it’s like pulling the plug on their anxieties.”

“Like booze is for adults,” Willy added. “We do it to numb the pain; they do what they do to make the pain something they can see.”

Karen was shaking her head. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“Not to us,” Sammie agreed. “But it works for them.”

“You were totally unaware she was into this?” Willy asked.

“She’s not ‘into it,’ ” Karen protested.

“What do you think?” Sam suddenly asked Richard.

“She’s been sad.”

“Sadder than usual?”

“Yeah. We used to play more, and now we don’t.”

“Under the trailer?” Sam asked.

“Yeah.”

“What did you two used to do?”

“Stuff—you know. Legos and cards and some computer games.”

“But not lately?”

“She stopped coming down.”

“Richard,” Willy asked, “do you know if she ever cut herself before?”

He shook his head. “I never saw it.”

“She wear short sleeves when you played together?”

“Yeah, sure,” Richard answered, perplexed.

“What happened?” Karen asked her son.

Richard’s thin shoulders shrugged. “I don’t know. A few weeks ago, she just stopped, and after that, I saw she was really sad.”

“But she never told you why?”

“Nope.”

Willy twisted in his seat and addressed Nicky, who hadn’t stopped his circular tours of the room.

“Nick,” he said. “How ’bout you? You notice anything different about your sister lately?”

Nick ignored him.

“Nicky,” Karen ordered. “Answer the man.”

Still nothing.

“So,” Sam asked Karen as they turned away from Nicky. “Let’s go over this from the start—what happened tonight?”

“It was getting late,” she explained, “and it’s a school night, so I wanted to tell her to go to bed. I could see her light on under the door. I normally knock, ’cause she’s so big on her privacy, you know? But I hardly see her anymore, so I just walked in this time.”

Karen’s eyes were widening as she spoke. Richard held on to her arm to calm her down. She absentmindedly reached out and stroked his hair as she spoke.

“She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, like you said, with the weird music and funny lighting, just doing . . . it. She looked so angry when she saw me.”

Karen began weeping.

Sam murmured to Richard, “Did you see it, too?”

He nodded, hugging his mother.

This time, Sam reached out and rubbed his back once. “I’m sorry.”

She and Willy rose, and moved toward the door. “We’ll go talk with Becky now, along with someone from HC . . .”

“
She’s fine
,” Nick interrupted angrily, stopping at last, mere inches from Willy, his eyes riveted to the latter’s mid-chest.

“What makes you say that?” Willy asked, feeling crowded but not stepping back. “Do you know what’s been going on?”

Nicky shook his head, repeated, “She’s fine,” more calmly, and broke away to resume his circling.

Sam and Willy left the waiting room the way they’d entered, to find a woman waiting for them in the ER’s hallway.

She extended a hand to both of them and introduced herself, “Carolyn Taylor-Olson—HCRS.”

Sam shook hands, Willy merely said, “Hey,” still distracted by his nonconversation with Nicky.

“I understand we have a situation?”

Sam indicated the waiting-room door. “Mom said she walked in on daughter cutting herself. From what we gathered, it’s early onset, maybe the first time. The girl’s been walking around with short sleeves up till now.”

Taylor-Olson opened a file she’d been holding. “Becky Kerr?”

“Yeah. Mom’s Karen Putnam.”

“Oh, sure,” Taylor-Olson agreed. “We’ve dealt with them before. Nothing too outrageous, but they’ve made it onto the radar.”

She slapped the folder closed and smiled. “So, how do you want to proceed?”

That stopped Willy. He stared at her. “No ‘stand-aside-and-let-us-do-our-work’?”

She laughed. “Gotcha. Give me a break, Kunkle. If you don’t think we haven’t heard about you, you really are living in outer space.” She tapped him on the chest with her finger, grinning at him devilishly. “We’re not here to screw you over, despite your fantasies. It ain’t about you.”

He stared at her, openmouthed, while Sammie, off to the side, prepared to control the damage.

But he broke into a broad smile as he glanced at his partner and told her, “They’re still a pain in the ass, but I like this one.”

Taylor-Olson rolled her eyes. “Spare me.”

Willy patted her shoulder—a rare gesture for him. “Carolyn, right? You can play this one with Sam, here. It’s not my thing. But nice job. I hope we meet again.”

This time, he did shake hands, muttered to Sam, “I’ll see you outside,” and left the ER.

The women waited until the glass doors had eased shut before Sam asked the HCRS worker, “Did you set that up?”

Taylor-Olson tilted her head equivocally. “I didn’t even know who’d be here.”

“Well, you’re a rare bird, to still be alive after that.”

The other woman looked at her. “You seem to stand your own ground, and I hear you two are an item.”

Sam laughed. “Right—a regular science experiment. It wasn’t always so cozy. You want to meet the young lady in question?”

Taylor-Olson nodded. “Yeah, good idea. If all goes well, I might still be able to get a few hours’ sleep.”

They found Becky in the treatment room farthest from the front doors, sitting in a chair in the corner, her knees up and her arms wrapping her shins. Her left forearm was bandaged with gauze.

Sam studied her carefully, given the connection she suspected the girl had to Wayne Castine. Becky was big for her age, more overweight than developed, and remarkably plain. But she was dressed in the teasing, pubescent style that was all the fad at the moment—permed hair, makeup, tight, spaghetti-strapped crop top, short shorts. Over the tops of her knees, enough of her shirt was visible to reveal
the word “Gorgeous” stenciled across the front. Her fingernails were lavishly painted and decorated, complete with fake diamonds, although now peeling and in need of a remake. She struck Sam as a girl caught out in the open—the only guest at a costume ball to have dressed the wrong way. Sam put her chronologically and psychologically between childhood and adolescence, with a firm foothold in neither.

Taylor-Olson started out, her voice supportive and upbeat, without a tinge of the cynical savvy she’d shown Willy. “Hi, Becky. I’m Carolyn and this is Sam. Not that you care, but I’m from HCRS and Sam’s a police officer, and we’re just here to find out if you’re all right.”

“I’m fine.” The voice was flat and sullen.

“Your mom says you were cutting yourself, is that right?”

There was no response. Becky merely watched them over the tops of her knees.

Taylor-Olson perched on the edge of the nearby bed. “Things been a little rough lately?” she asked quietly.

No answer.

“I’d never pretend to know what it’s like to be you, Becky,” she continued, “but I can tell you that you’re not alone—I and people like me are ready and available to help, at the drop of a hat. It’s nice to know that sometimes, when you’re feeling like you’re all alone.”

Becky continued watching them.

Sam began mentally reviewing what she knew of the family’s dynamics.

“How have things been going at home?” Taylor-Olson continued.

Sam was caught by Becky’s fingernails. She’d never had her own done—no surprise—but she knew it wasn’t cheap. And these were top of the line—positively ornate. Way more than this kid could afford.

“I love your nails,” she said suddenly.

Her companion glanced at her unhappily. Becky looked surprised.

Sam dropped to one knee, to not appear threatening. “Could I see?”

Becky’s first response was to make fists of her hands.

“I hate my nails,” Sam said, holding them out. “I’m always trying new stuff, but they always end up the same way, and everybody just laughs at me anyhow, so I don’t know why I bother. But yours are really cool. I get mine made up that way, it might work.” She wiggled her fingers at the girl. “What d’you think?”

“Maybe,” she said.

Sam was wracking her brain, trying to remember what she knew of this teenage world, feeling hopelessly old.

“The shiny chips make all the difference—that and extensions, of course.”

That did the trick. Becky’s fingers shot out straight. “They’re diamonds,” she said forcefully. “Not chips—that’s why they cost so much.”

Sam didn’t hesitate. In one smooth movement, she brought the open cell phone she’d secreted in her other hand and took a picture of the flashy nails, before Becky could react.

Sam gave her a huge smile, just as quickly pocketing the phone. “Cool. I’ll show those to my nail person and see if she can do the same thing. I really appreciate it. Where did you have yours done?”

But the girl was suspicious. The nails disappeared into fists again, and she tucked her chin in defensively.

“I don’t remember.”

Sam backed away. “That’s okay. It won’t matter. Even if they don’t look exactly right, I’ll be better off than I was. How much did they cost, just so I can be prepared?”

Becky shrugged.

“That’s all right, Becky,” Taylor-Olson said softly, giving Sam a sharp look. “And they are very pretty.”

Unrepentant, Sam stepped outside the examination room. Becky’s problems were her own, in the long run. For her part, Sammie had a job to do, and right now that didn’t include counseling and comfort.

Willy was back walking the corridor. He showed his surprise as she closed the door behind her. “That was fast.”

“That was useless,” she said. “The kid’s a clam and I don’t have the time. HCRS can have her.” She pulled out the phone and opened it up to check her photographic skills. “I got this, though.”

He sidled up next to her and peered at the small screen. “What the hell?”

“Her fingernails,” Sam explained. “Very over-the-top. A little ratty now, but primo when they were new.”

He stepped back to study her. “And your point is?”

Sam looked at him pityingly. “They cost a fortune, Sherlock. So who paid for them? I’ll guarantee it wasn’t her or Karen.”

His face cleared. “No shit. Nice work.”

R
andy Coffin led the way up the gangplank to the deck of an older, sturdy ocean trawler, rigged with enough lights to make it look like a Broadway stage, albeit one where each bare bulb fairly hummed with a swarm of nocturnal bugs. Once aboard, however, she and Joe didn’t encounter either thespians or sailors, but a massive confusion of piled-up netting, with a single rough-hewn man sitting in its midst. To Gunther’s untrained eye, he seemed to be repairing the net, although how on earth he knew where to find what needed attention was beyond Joe’s comprehension.

“Neil,” Randy called out upon clearing the rail.

The man looked up and smiled broadly. “It’s Ranger Randy. How’re you doin’?”

“Old joke,” Randy murmured over her shoulder to Joe as she picked her way across the deck to where their host was perched on an upended milk crate.

There was no shaking of hands or introductions, apparently stemming from an understanding that such gestures were frivolous and unnecessary.

“How’s life been keeping you?” Randy asked him.

“Can’t complain,” Neil admitted, his hands smoothly at work, weaving in and out of the net’s meshing.

“Finding fish out there?”

“Enough to keep me fed.”

“Seen anything I’d like to hear about?”

Neil didn’t miss a beat, nor did he take his eyes off his task. “Funny you should ask. You might want to check what George Mullins maybe could be keeping in that shed out back of his equipment barn.”

“Oh?” Randy smiled at Joe over the top of Neil’s bowed head. “Any idea what that could be?”

“Damned if I know for sure, but there’s a possibility that gear you were asking about last month found its way out of the weather.”

“No kidding?”

This time, he glanced up quickly, fast enough to flash her a grin. “No kidding.”

“That’s good to know,” she told him. “How ’bout Wellman Beale? You seen him around lately?”

That stopped him. His hands suddenly froze in midmotion and he straightened, taking in Joe carefully for the first time.

“Beale?”

“Yup.”

He considered the question, as if how best to approach a dangerous animal.

“I guess so,” he finally conceded.

“Tonight?”

Neil cocked his head and shifted his gaze to her. “Maybe.”

“So you did.”

“Don’t guess I actually said that.”

Randy nodded deliberately. “No. You didn’t. That’s true.”

“Someone else might’ve, though.”

“Assuming Beale had been around to be seen, you mean?” she asked.

“Right—assuming.”

Joe joined in. “Along those same lines,” he suggested, “might someone have seen a young woman with him—slim, good-looking, light brown hair?”

Neil studied him again and smiled. “You catch on fast. Yeah—I’d say that was right. Somebody might’ve said she didn’t look real happy about it, too.”

“Where did they go, Neil?” Randy asked directly.

But the old fisherman shook his head. “Can’t tell you. Got on his boat and went out.”

“Anyone else with them?”

“Pretty sure it was just the two of them.”

“How long ago?” Joe asked.

“Maybe four hours,” Neil suggested.

Randy patted him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Neil. You done good.”