The Murderer's Daughter Page 7

  “Hard to know for sure,” said Grace, grateful to be discussing anything but last night. “I suspect some of it has to do with what we call small sample size. There aren’t enough people to do the kind of studies that get grant money.”

  “Really?” said Andrew. “With all that goes on, you’d think there would be.”

  “I imagine most people in that situation wouldn’t be interested in being studied.”

  “Hmm. Yes, I can see that.”

  Oh, you have no idea, Andrew.

  Or maybe you do…you’re here.

  “Anyway,” he said. “That’s how I found you. Researching.”

  Grace pictured him clicking away at his computer, patient, methodical, like an engineer should be. If he was an engineer…whatever, he’d investigated because of his own situation, finally come across that article.

  The piece was six years old, tucked at the rear of an arcane British criminology journal now out of circulation. Because Malcolm had guessed, probably correctly, that psych journals might not go for it.

  An outlier, Grace’s only solo effort. Malcolm had been suggesting it for a while, finally she’d relented.

  He’d so enjoyed seeing it in print.

  Living with Evil: Emotional Aspects of Kinship with a Murderer

  What the journal referees hadn’t known—what no one but Grace and Malcolm and Sophie knew—was that Grace had done double duty.

  Author and subject.

  Referring to herself as Jane X and altering details so no one would ever detect autobiography masquerading as clinical case history.

  She’d placed the “precipitating event” in another state, transformed the father into the initial killer and suicide, the mother into a hapless victim—in addition to camouflaging the facts, that would play well with the feminist editor of the journal. And, let’s face it, Ardis had been a star player in the tawdry melodrama that ended with his neck slit open. All that stupid testosterone unleashed by booze and dope. All those backhand slaps.

  The stink of tension and fear when he entered the trailer.

  Across from her, Andrew sat there and Grace realized she’d drifted off. She wheeled back her desk chair, pressed her back into leather, wishing she could melt into oblivion.

  Was she showing discomfort? Andrew’s blue eyes were ripe with concern.

  Oh, just dandy. Not only had she failed him, she was burdening him with her personal shit.

  Wheeling forward, she recited the title of the article. Hoping the incantation would free her of subjectivity.

  Andrew nodded. Suddenly, Grace felt as if she was about to choke. Covering with a cough, she muttered, “ ’Scuse me,” placed her hand over her mouth and inhaled long and slow, exchanging air through her nose in order to conceal her craving for oxygen.

  A victim. No way, nono way—

  Andrew Toner continued to regard her with…tenderness?

  I’m okay, you softhearted bastard.

  Grace knew she had to regain control or…what?

  Distraction is the enemy. Stay focused.

  “So,” she said, in her best therapist voice, “what villain has been occupying your thoughts and dreams?”

  “I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about it.”

  “I understand.”

  “That’s part of what you wrote about, right? That woman—Jane—was never sure she was ready to deal with it. Had no way of knowing because who could provide a map?”

  Grace nodded. Going through the motions felt good. Shrinkyshrinkshrink.

  Andrew went on, “That I can absolutely relate to. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night thinking, This is the moment I need to…confront reality. Then the impulse passes and I convince myself I’m able to just forget about it.”

  Grace said, “Of course.” The warmth in her voice surprised her. Not having to think it out. Just being.

  Maybe Andrew picked up on her newfound confidence because his body relaxed a bit.

  But his eyes had grown moist.

  Grace guessed why: sudden onrush of memories.

  When he spoke next, she learned she was wrong.

  “It’s not about me. There’s a…moral parameter.”

  Grace waited.

  Andrew shook his head. “Not important.”

  “Important enough for you to come from San Antonio.”

  His eyes raced to the left. The Texas bit, a lie? What else wasn’t he telling her?

  Everything. Of course.

  She said, “Without getting into details, can you tell me about the villain?”

  He thought about that. “It’s not that simple.”

  “It never is.”

  “I know, I know—listen, I’m sorry.” His laugh was harsh. “Another obnoxious apology, I do it too much, it’s my problem.” Another laugh—an angry bark, really. “One of my problems…anyway I’m glad I made the trip because it gave me time to think but it’s just not going to work.”

  His hand sliced air horizontally. “Nothing to do with you, please believe that, no…regrets. I just…can’t. Still not ready, I guess.” He smiled. “No doubt you hear that all the time.”

  Trying to normalize the situation. For Grace as much as for himself. Someone who cares about others. That made it worse.

  He got to his feet, face flushed. Remembering her? Tongue, legs, everything?

  Grace said, “We’ve got time. You can take your time.”

  He shook his head violently. “Can’t, sorry—there I go again. Apologizing to the damn world, like I feel I’m…”

  “Different.”

  “No, no,” he said, with surprising ire. “That’s…” Impatient wave. “Everyone’s different, different is meaningless, what I feel is…polluted.”

  “Makes sense,” said Grace.

  “Does it? Did Jane X feel polluted? Because that doesn’t come out in your article, you just talk about her having to construct her own system of morality. All those steps she took to cope.”

  Grace said, “An article has limitations, Andrew. Why don’t you sit back down, give yourself some time?”

  Andrew’s eyes scanned the therapy room. “You mean well. I know that. Maybe you’re right and I should. But I can’t. Thanks for your time. I mean that.”

  He strode to the door. Wrong door, the one that led back into the front waiting room, rather than toward the side-street exit.

  No one around, no need to stand on ceremony. Grace got up.

  He said, “I can see myself out. Please.”

  She held back, watched him open the door gingerly, take two steps into the waiting room before half turning and offering a slice of his pleasant, handsome, tortured face.

  “Andrew?”

  “I’m—would it be possible—just say no if it’s not—would it be possible if tomorrow I felt that I could handle returning—would you be able to find some time? I understand that you’re probably extremely busy, so if it doesn’t work out—”

  First day of her intended vacation. She said, “Of course, I’ll make time for you, Andrew. As much time as you need.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “You’re…quite…I think you might be able to help me.”

  Blushing deeply, he escaped.

  —

  Relieved that he’d made no attempt to pay her, Grace returned to the therapy room and stood there for a long time. Hoping she’d finally return to normal but she didn’t and left, trudging out to the garage.

  Wondering if he would call.

  Aware of the multiple meanings that question could evoke.

  She hoped she’d see him again. Hoped she was being honest about why.

  As she backed the Aston into the street, a car, a squarish sedan parked several houses up, switched on its headlights and rolled toward her.

  Unusual on this quiet block, but it happened.

  Still, ever watchful, the way a single woman needed to be, Grace made sure the DB7’s doors were locked as she eased out and headed east.

  The car remained
behind her and she prepared to jackrabbit away if necessary. But then the sedan stopped for a moment, swung a three-point turn in a neighboring driveway, and reversed direction.

  Grace watched its taillights diminish then vanish. Maybe she’d just seen a cop’s allegedly undercover wheels, some sort of burglary stakeout, WeHo had its share of break-ins.

  Or just a car with a perfectly logical reason for being there and she was letting her thoughts ooze into irrational anxiety because today had been…different.

  New day, new dawn.

  Would he call?

  Grace’s eighth birthday went unnoticed. Since the red room, she’d lived in seven foster homes. All were business ventures operated by unremarkable people lured by government money and, occasionally, the chance to feel noble.

  She’d heard stories from other foster kids about disgusting men creeping into bedrooms in the middle of the night, disgusting women pretending to be unaware. One of her many roommates, an eleven-year-old girl named Brittany, lifted her blouse soon after showing up and showed Grace a lump of scar tissue she said was the result of being scalded on purpose by a foster mom.

  Grace had no trouble believing that; from what she’d seen, people were capable of anything. But Brittany liked to lie, including about stupid stuff, like what she’d had for snack at school, and she also stole Grace’s underwear, so Grace didn’t pay much attention to her.

  In three years, Grace had never been physically or sexually abused. Mostly, she was ignored and left to do what she wanted if she didn’t bother anyone, because having a foster meant serious income for foster-folk and they tried to crowd as many kids as they could into their homes for as long as possible.

  That didn’t explain why the caseworkers kept moving Grace from house to house, but she didn’t ask because she didn’t care. One place was the same as another, long as they gave her time to be by herself and read.

  One day a caseworker named Wayne Knutsen who’d moved her from House Six to Seven showed up and smiled uneasily.

  “Guess what? Yup, sorry, kiddo.”

  A ponytailed, potbellied man, Wayne was always accompanied by the smell of spearmint and, sometimes, stale body odor. He wore thick glasses that made his eyes look huge and fishy. Even when he smiled, he looked nervous, and today was no exception.

  Grace got ready to pack up her stuff but Wayne said, “Sit down for a sec,” and when she did, he offered her a Tootsie Roll.

  Grace pocketed the candy.

  “Saving up for your retirement, huh?”

  Grace had learned that some questions weren’t meant to be answered so she just kept her mouth shut. Wayne sighed and looked sad.

  “Those big old kid-eyes of yours, Ms. Grace Blades. It’s like you’re saying it’s my fault…I know it’s only been four months with this one—you been okay?”

  Grace nodded.

  “Damn. I have to tell you, moving you again, I’m feeling like a week-old pile of dog-do.”

  Grace didn’t answer. It wasn’t her job to make anyone feel better.

  “Anyway, I checked your records, this’ll be eight damn times. Man.”

  Grace sat there.

  “Anyway,” Wayne said again. “Well, I figure you’re old enough, you might as well know how the system works. How it sucks. Are you? Old enough?”

  Grace nodded.

  “God, you’re a quiet one…okay, here’s how it is, kiddo: The geniuses in the state legislature—that’s a place where stupid people meet and pass stupid laws because special interests pay them to do that.”

  Grace said, “Politicians.”

  Wayne said, “Yeah, you’re a sharp one. So you know what I’m talking about?”

  “Rich people pay other people to listen to them.”

  “Hey!” Wayne slapped Grace’s back a bit too hard. “You really are a genius. Yeah, that’s right, kiddo. So anyway, one of the laws the idiots passed gives more money to people who take in special-needs children. Know what that is?”

  “Sick kids?”

  “Sometimes but not necessarily. Could be sick, could be anything…different. I mean it makes sense on a certain level, kids can need extra help. But special needs is a tricky deal, Ms. Grace Blades. It could be something really bad—a one-legged kid, a one-eyed kid, you can see how that would be justified, they’d need special help. But the way the law’s written, it gets corrupted—gets used the wrong way. Know the right doctor and you can get a kid certified as SN for anything—clumsy, just plain stupid, you name it. The point is, there’s bigger bucks to be made with special needs than with regular kids and unfortunately for you, you’re a regular kid.”

  He winked at her. “Or so I’ve been told. That true? You regular?”

  Grace nodded.

  “Quiet,” he said. “Still waters…anyway, that’s the situation, Ms. G. Blades. You’re being displaced because Mr. and Mrs. Samah can up their income significantly by taking in a new available kid with a seizure disorder—know what this is? Nah, forget it, you don’t need to know all this crap.”

  “Okay,” said Grace.

  “Okay?”

  “I’m leaving. It’s okay.” She didn’t like the Samahs anyway. Two boring people who kept a pair of nervous, smelly dogs, bland food and not that much of it, a bed as hard as wood. Sometimes Mrs. Samah took the time to smile but it was hard to figure out what she was smiling about.

  “Indeed,” said Wayne. “So let’s pack up and move on.”

  “Where am I going?”

  “Well,” said Wayne, “maybe this will work out, I’m sure aiming at that—something long term. ’Cause I’ve had my eye on you since I had to move you from the Kennedys after they scored a special-needs baby. A Level Five baby, which is the highest, meaning the most dough. Kid had some sort of birth defect, the Kennedys get paid to use oxygen tanks and all sorts of drugs. I mean that’s okay, a baby who can’t breathe needs extra attention. But I still think it sucks, why should you be penalized for being normal? And hell, even being smart doesn’t help, if it did, I’d file papers for you, myself. Special needs because you’re a sharp one, right?”

  Grace nodded.

  “But no go, that’s what’s crazy, kid. If you were retarded, you’d be in good shape, but there’s no law benefiting smart kids, doesn’t that suck? Isn’t the world a suck place? Which is why you’re my last case, after I move you out of here, I’m quitting and going to law school. Know why?”

  Grace shook her head.

  “ ’Course not, how could you?” Wayne winked again. Gave her another Tootsie Roll that she stashed with the first one, you never knew when you were going to be hungry.

  Wayne Knutsen said, “That candy’s what we call a guilt offering, kid. Anyway, I’d like to tell you I’m going to be a lawyer so I can change the system and turn water into grape juice, but I’m no better than the rest, I intend to make some serious money suing rich people and try not to think about the time I spent in the system. It was supposed to be a temporary job, anyway.”

  “Okay,” said Grace.

  “You keep saying that.”

  “I feel okay.”

  “The system’s okay by you?”

  “It’s like animals,” said Grace. “The jungle. Everyone takes care of themselves.”

  Wayne stared at her, emitted a low whistle. “You know there’re some Level One things I was thinking of tagging you with—mostly psych stuff—emotional—whatever. Excessive dependence. But that’s not you. I could’ve also tried excessively irritable, but that’s not you, either. Then I figured why saddle you with stuff on your record, you’ve done this well so far, you’ve got a decent chance. ’Mi right?”

  Grace, not sure what he was talking about, nodded, yet again.

  “Good self-esteem,” said Wayne. “Thought so. Anyway, even if I Level One’d you, it wouldn’t have helped because this new kid, the seizures, is a Five, no way you could compete. Anyway, let’s go pack your stuff. This time maybe I got a good place for you. I think. If not, sorry, I trie
d.”

  Andrew Toner didn’t call and by nightfall, back at home, Grace felt like jumping out of her skin. Mindless TV didn’t help. Neither did music, exercise, wine, or the stack of journals. Finally, she slipped under the covers shortly after one a.m., stretching her body and relaxing her limbs, hoping her brain waves would conform to her posture.

  She awoke at 2:15, 3:19, 4:37, 6:09 a.m.

  Interrupted sleep wasn’t foreign to Grace. Because of the way she’d grown up—a variety of rooms, beds, and roommates, including a fair share of kids who screamed in terror—her adult slumber often broke into two patterns. Most of the time, she’d sack out for eight refreshing hours, but every so often she was in and out, like a newborn. She’d come to terms with her episodic nights, as they didn’t seem to connect to daytime events, nor did they pose a problem. She’d always found it easy to slip back into the void.

  But the night after meeting Andrew Toner—the second time—was a sheet-twisting, pillow-contorting ordeal filled with taunts of drowsiness followed by stretches of wide-eyed arousal. No bad dreams, no residue of foul images. Just up.

  By the time the sun rose, she’d long given up on REM.

  Welcome to the first day of vacation.

  Or maybe not, there was still time for Andrew to ask for a retry, maybe he just needed time.

  To deal with moral parameters. Whatever that meant.

  Unable to hold down much breakfast, Grace phoned her service at nine a.m. Not a single message. She was astonished at her disappointment.

  Feeling as if she’d been stood up.

  Dressing in sweats, she went out on the deck and checked out the beach. Plenty of dry sand, so she took an hour run up and down the entire stretch of La Costa. Returning no more settled, she made coffee, tried the service again.

  Nothing, Dr. Blades.

  You don’t write, you don’t call.

  She resolved to forget the whole unfortunate episode because guilt wasn’t a big part of her makeup.