Читать книгу Thread Of Deceit - Catherine Palmer - Страница 7

“‘Come, you who are blessed by the Father, inherit the Kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world.’ For…I was naked, and you gave me clothing.”

—Jesus Christ, Matt. 25:34,36

“ P aint? You’re kidding, right?” Anamaria Burns set one hand on her hip and the other on her editor’s desk. “Carl, you hired me because my investigative reporting took a first-place award from the Texas Press Association. I moved from Brownsville to St. Louis to cover hard news for the Post-Dispatch. So far, you’ve asked me to write about a neighborhood beautification project, an ice cream stand, a sports arena and a parade. Oh yeah, and sewage. Now you want me to do a story on paint?”

City editor Carl Webster leaned back in his chair, took off his glasses and rubbed his temples. With budget cuts, a glaring error on the Sunday edition’s front page and three new interns to break in, his Monday-morning staff meeting hadn’t gone well. A heavy smoker, who existed on a diet of black coffee and doughnuts, he looked tired.

“Not every article can be a prizewinner, Ana,” he said. “You know that.”

“But paint? ”

“Lead paint. It’s a problem here.” He took a moment to huff a breath onto each lens and rub with a white tissue. “St. Louis County just got a two-million-dollar grant—”

“You shouldn’t do that, you know,” she inserted. “Clean your glasses with a tissue. The paper fibers scratch the lenses. You should use a soft cotton cloth.”

Carl set the glasses back on his nose and scowled through them at his latest hire. “As I was saying, the Department of Housing and Urban Development awarded St. Louis County a two-million-dollar grant to seal or remove old lead-based paint. The county will add a half-million bucks. This is their third HUD grant, and the money always goes to owner-occupied single-family houses or to apartment buildings. So there’s your story.”

“I don’t see it. Maybe a couple of inches in the Metro section—HUD gave the grant, and now the county is going to paint houses.” She scooped up a scattered pile of press releases, tamped them on Carl’s desk and set them down again. “How is that news?”

“What draws readers to a story, Ana? Money, sex, power. And kids.” He lifted a corner of the paper stack with his thumb and riffled it like a deck of cards. “See, children are eating the paint chips that fall off the walls in these old buildings downtown. They’re breathing in dust from crumbling paint. And lead-based paint—which was used in every building constructed before 1978—can cause brain damage in children under six years of age.”

“Okay, that’s bad.”

“That’s not all.” He pushed around the papers she had just straightened until he found the one he was looking for. “‘Breathing lead dust and consuming lead paint chips,’” he read, “‘can cause nervous system and kidney damage. The affected child can exhibit learning disabilities, attention deficit disorder and decreased intelligence. There may be speech, language and behavior problems, poor muscle coordination, decreased bone growth, hearing damage, headaches, weight loss—’”

“I get it, Carl. I do.” She paused a moment, chewing on the nail of her index finger. Nail-biting was her worst habit, Ana admitted, evidence of the stress in her life. In a constant quest for perfection, order and control, she had nibbled her nails down to nubs. Not even pepper-laced polish had helped.

“But the county has the money now,” she said. “They’ll fix the problem.”

“In houses and apartments.”

“I’m sure they’ve already taken care of school buildings.”

“Is that the only place kids spend time?”

She lifted her head, feeling her news antennae start to tingle. “How about day cares?”

“Small, non-home-based day cares are slipping through the cracks.”

“Churches?”

“Basement Sunday school rooms. Vacation Bible School areas.”

She thought for a moment, tapping her lower lip. “Restaurants?”

“Mostly taken care of.”

“What about after-school clubs? We had several in Brownsville. Kids of all ages showed up. If their parents couldn’t afford day care, some little ones spent the whole day there. They had basketball courts and crafts programs, that kind of thing.”

“Now you’re with me.” Carl nodded. “I’d like three or four articles, maybe a sidebar or two. And put some heart into it, Ana.”

Wrong body part, Ana thought. She had made a name for herself with her nose.

Ana Burns could sniff news a mile away. Since coming to St. Louis five months before, she had left several strong story ideas on Carl’s desk. No doubt they were still there—lost in the clutter. Instead of letting Ana follow her nose, the editor had assigned a bunch of boring, fluff pieces and then buried them in the Metro section.

She didn’t want her work to show up in Section B. She was a page-one woman. P-I, that’s where her byline belonged. The other reporters kidded her about this quest for perfection—as had her colleagues at the Brownsville Herald. She was used to scoffers, and she paid no attention to them.

Carl leaned across stacks of files and unopened mail to hand her a sheet of paper. “Here are the names of some places to get you going. Start with Haven—it’s a recreation center not far from here. Our publisher’s on the board of directors, so they’ll cooperate.”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“Unflattering publicity. The Health Department is on their backs. Family Services, too, I imagine. Most of these small operations survive on a shoestring budget and can’t afford to fix the paint problem.”

Anticipating endless treks from one tedious interview to another, Ana shook her head. This was so far from her vision of big-city journalism she could scream. Instead of reporting breaking news, investigating political shenanigans and digging into the affairs of the city’s high and mighty, she had been reduced to covering issues a new journalist would cut her teeth on.

“Carl, can’t you give this story to one of the interns?” she asked. “Let me write something with meat on it. I heard the mayor is—”

“I’m giving the project to you, Ana. You’ve got two weeks.”

“An entire series in two weeks? But I’ve got assignments on my desk already.”

“This is life in the fast lane, Ana. You’re not in your sleepy little Texas border town anymore. Everyone on the city staff has to pull their own weight.”

“I want the fast lane,” she said hotly. “That’s why I left Brownsville. I crave excitement and challenge. But a story on lead paint doesn’t cut it.”

“Ana, if you’re unwilling to complete your assignment, I’ve got ten reporters lined up waiting to take your job.”

Carl turned away and began punching numbers into his phone. Shutting the door of his office, Ana gripped the list in her hand and tried to make herself breathe. Her sandals felt as if they’d been lined with lead as she made her way back to her desk.

Lose her job? Impossible. She would have no choice but to go home. Back to Brownsville and the house where she’d grown up. Back to her parents, whose phone calls and e-mails still were filled with grief. Their pain became her guilt, and it lay squarely on her own shoulders.

Sinking into her chair, she slid open her desk drawer and lifted out a small, porcelain-framed photograph of two little girls smiling from between their striking mother and their tall, strong father. That day at the beach had seemed so perfect. Ana and her younger sister had played in the sand, digging moats and building castles while their parents lounged beside them on red-and-yellow-striped towels.

Bending closer, she gazed into the face of the child she had been. How old? Maybe ten. An expression of calm, of outward confidence, of self-assurance on the girl’s face in the photo belied the haunted terror mirrored in the brown pools of her eyes. Ana’s sister was smiling for the camera, but she, too, had been filled with anxiety at that very moment. How frightened the two little girls had been during that year and the years that followed, how filled with confusion and despair. Helplessness filled both children even as loving arms surrounded them.

Her heart clenching, Ana slid the frame back into the drawer and set a file folder on top of it. She could not go home. Ever. Brownsville and all that had happened there was in the past. And she would do everything in her power to keep it there.

Two weeks—that was all the time she had. Two weeks to write the lead paint series, while keeping pace with the regular flow of daily assignments that landed on her desk. Fortunately, the short pieces could be handled on the phone. Determined to start on the new project without delay, she opened her purse and checked her supplies. Two notebooks, five pens, a small tape recorder, cassette tape. Cinnamon breath mints. Lipstick exactly three shades darker than her lips. Spare contact lenses and wetting solution. Cell phone. A can of pepper spray.

Feeling better, she snapped the bag shut and surveyed her desk. The assignments file lay in her top drawer. Her in-box held three letters, which she opened, skimmed and tossed into the wastebasket. Her out-box was empty, of course.

Ana always had liked order, structure, neat borders. At the University of Texas at Brownsville, she had turned in term papers early. She tried to do the same with her articles. In grade school, she kept a container of antibacterial wipes in her backpack so she could clean the top of her small desk. That habit had traveled all the way to St. Louis with her, and she never set foot out of the Post-Dispatch building at the end of each day without first giving her desk a good scrubbing. Clean, neat, orderly. As perfect as she could make it. Yes, that was her life.

Ana knew her first stop should be “the morgue”—the newspaper’s archives—which no doubt had a thick file on lead-based paint. But she wanted to get started with her interviews. She settled for e-mailing the newspaper’s librarian to request copies of pertinent articles.

Standing, she shouldered her purse and pushed her chair under the desk. Two sites on Carl’s contact list had addresses in the inner city. Following her editor’s suggestion, she would start at the recreation center and move on to the day care.

Avoiding the elevator, Ana headed down the windowless stairwell, her thoughts on how she could dig up enough information to fill out a series. She increased her speed, now racing down the steps, feeling the burn in her thighs, expanding her lungs to take in air. Earlier that morning she had run five miles from her apartment to the Gateway Arch and back. This was barely a skip, but the exercise filled her with confidence as she burst out into the parking garage and jogged toward her car.

By the end of this year, she planned to run her first marathon. Within five years, she had to claim a Pulitzer. But first she needed to pull three great stories off a wall of crumbling lead paint. She had two weeks. No problem.

“Please sign your name on this list, ma’am.” The teenage boy standing under a tattered green canvas awning held out a clipboard. “And write down your reason for visiting Haven.”

Despite her best intentions, Ana felt a jolt of trepidation as he took a step toward her. Tall and brawny, with deep chocolate skin and shoulder-length dreadlocks, he wore a plain white T-shirt, baggy denim shorts and new Nike high-tops with the laces hanging loose. She often saw such apparel on young men loitering near the Post-Dispatch building or playing basketball in the parks. Tattoos, graffiti, even the color of a baseball cap could be signs of gang affiliation. Though she had taught herself to walk the streets of downtown St. Louis without constantly looking over her shoulder, Ana knew enough to be careful.

As she handed back the clipboard, the youth smiled broadly. Amid a row of straight white teeth, a single gold one glinted in the July sun.

“Thank you, Miss Burns. My name is Raydell Watson. Welcome to Haven. You can walk through now. If you got anything metal in your bag, hand it to me.”

Masking her surprise, Ana glanced at the club’s door. A metal detector blocked the entrance. “Tape recorder?”

He nodded, and she handed him the device, stepped through into the cool building and blinked in the dim light. Laughter, balls bouncing, a referee’s shrill whistle, the smells of perspiration and popcorn assailed her.

“Good afternoon, ma’am.” A girl’s voice drifted up from the gloom. She handed Ana the tape recorder. Petite, with elaborate braids swirling around her scalp, the teen flashed a bright smile. “This is Duke. He won’t bite.”

A German shepherd padded forward from the darkness. Ana gave an involuntary gasp as the animal circled her. She went rigid, elbows high, shoulders scrunched, clutching her bag to her chest.

The girl giggled. “He sniffs for drugs, but you clean. C’mon, Duke. Heel, boy!” The dog trotted to her side and sat down, tail swishing the floor. “You gotta put on this T-shirt, Miss…um…” She glanced at the clipboard, which had somehow materialized in her hands. “Miss Burns. You got on a red blouse, and we don’t allow no gang colors at Haven. Here you go. And don’t roll up the sleeves. That’s a gang sign, too.”

Unaccustomed to taking orders from teenagers, Ana couldn’t summon the will to protest. She set down her bag, glad her khaki skirt had passed muster, and tugged the T-shirt over her blouse.

A drug-sniffing dog. A metal detector. What was going on here?

“I’ve come to see—”

“You gotta talk to Mr. Hawke or Mr. Roberts,” the girl cut in. “That’s the rule.” She spotted another teen dribbling a ball in their direction. “Hey, Antwone, go get Uncle Sam or T-Rex!”

The boy swung around and headed off toward a group of youngsters shooting basketballs at a backboard that hung from the ceiling of the large room. Ana eyed the dog and let out a breath. “This is quite a place. Haven. Wow.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m on Duke today.” The girl’s chin rose with pride. “You only get to be on Duke after you earn fifty points. And you get trained at the police station.”

“So Duke is the…uh…dog. Well, I’m sure that’s quite a responsibility. How did you earn fifty points?”

“Volunteered for stuff like latrine or KP or laundry. And good behavior. You gotta have that or you get your name put on the list, and then you can’t come back.” She straightened as someone signaled to her from a distance. “Okay, you can go over to the offices, Miss Burns. See that door right there with the glass window?”

“With the duct tape?”

“Yes, ma’am. Go on inside and sit down. Somebody be there in a little bit.”

“Thanks.” Ana took her time crossing the room. The building must have been a warehouse at one time. Or maybe a department store. The ceiling wasn’t high enough for regulation basketball, but the kids seemed to have devised a new set of rules to deal with that. They played hard, shouting, scuffling, pressing, forming and reforming as the ball slammed against the concrete floor. Athletic shoes squealed. A whistle pierced the air. The smell of sweat hung like a heavy cloud over the players.

Ana reached the office and noted the silver tape holding the glass together in a broken windowpane. Poor lighting, bare floors and walls, inadequate ventilation. How had this place met municipal codes and been permitted to open in the first place? She could hardly blame the health department for seeking a reason to shut it down.

Stepping into the office, she noticed a boy with brown curly hair and the requisite white T-shirt. He sat hunched over a computer.

“Excuse me?”

He didn’t look up.

“I’m from the Post-Dispatch. I’d like to speak to the director of Haven.”

“Sec,” the youth muttered, peering into the screen as if he could see through it to the inner workings. Ana gingerly took a place on an old red vinyl restaurant booth that served as seating.

The office was a wreck—motivational posters peeling off the walls like dried onion skins, balls of every type scattered on the floor, damp white towels piled high in a corner, a desk covered with broken trophies. Bowling? Archery? The old statuettes had names and dates engraved on the front, and several bore the ignominy of missing arms or broken tennis racquets. What good was a beat-up tennis trophy in a place like this?

“Rats!” the boy said suddenly, slamming his palms down on the card table and pushing away his chair. He rolled backward five feet, his fingers knotted in his curls. “Rats and double rats! This computer is a piece of junk!”

“What kind is it?” Ana asked. She had taken out her reporter’s notebook and was testing her pen.

“An old geezer. Take a look at the size of that screen. Have you ever seen one so small?”

Ana stood and leaned toward the grimy tan computer. “Were you even born when this thing came out?”

“No way. But I can fix it. It’s just going to take some time.”

“You have a lot of confidence. I guess that’s par around here.”

He looked at her for the first time. “Oh, I’m not from here. I’m a summer volunteer. My church sent seven of us from our youth group to work in the inner city for two months. I’m setting up Haven’s computer system.”

“With that old thing?”

He shrugged. “You use what gets donated. My name is Caleb.”

She shook his hand. “Ana Burns. Nice to meet you, Caleb. Any idea where I can find the club’s director?”

“They’re both out with the kids. Uncle Sam and T-Rex—that’s who you need.” He glanced up at a clock with a cracked face cover. “It’s almost time for activity change. One or the other should be in soon.”

“Activity change?”

“Yeah, the place runs like a military camp. Organization, discipline, respect, all that. Everything on the minute. Spit and polish. It’s awesome.”

Ana nodded, unconvinced. “So, are there a lot of volunteers?”

“Not enough locals. Our group came all the way from New Mexico. My friend Billy is working construction upstairs with another guy who knows wiring. They run groups of kids through the rooms they’re rehabbing and teach them about electricity, plumbing, patching cracks and stuff like that. You couldn’t spend more than a couple weeks at Haven without learning something new. Sam’s goal is to give everybody a job skill by the time they’re an adult.”

“Uncle Sam?”

“Better not use that name in vain.”

The voice behind her drew Ana’s attention. She turned to find a broad-shouldered man silhouetted in the doorway. Well over six feet tall, he wore the usual white T-shirt—this one transparent with sweat. As he stepped under the fluorescent light, she noted that he had short brown hair, deep-set blue eyes and a grin that carved a pair of parentheses into the corners of his mouth.

“Sam Hawke.” He stuck out his hand. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

Ana stepped forward and met his hard grip with one of her own. “Ana Burns with the Post-Dispatch. I understand the health department has contacted you about a problem with lead paint.”

The grin vanished. “We’re working on it.”

“Would you mind if I asked you a few questions, Mr. Hawke?”

“I just told you everything you need to know.” He stepped around her, his damp shoulder brushing against hers. “How’s the computer, Caleb?”

“The motherboard may be fried.”

“You’ll fix it.” He opened a narrow door Ana hadn’t noticed, stepped through it and shut it firmly behind him.

Caleb’s dark brows lifted. “I guess that’s all he has to say about lead paint.”

“I don’t think so.” She tried the door handle and found it locked. This was getting a little more interesting. Was the guy hiding something? She knocked.

“That’s…uh…the bathroom,” Caleb told her.

Blushing, Ana stepped back. “It ought to have a sign.”

“Well, it’s private, you know. For staff and volunteers. Sam’s office is down that short hall, if you want to wait for him there. He usually stops in and checks the schedule during activity changes.”

Ana folded her arms. “I’ll wait right here.”

Caleb shrugged. “You might not want to mess with Sam. Maybe you could get something out of Terell.”

“I’ll mess with Sam first.”

He gave a low whistle and rolled back to his computer. The bathroom door opened and Sam emerged, ducking his head to avoid the top of the frame.

“Still here?” he mumbled, shouldering past her again. He walked to a row of gray lockers that must have come from an old high school gym, jerked one open, stripped off his T-shirt and grabbed a towel. After blotting his face and chest and applying stick deodorant, he tugged a dry T-shirt over his head. Finally, he tossed his dirty laundry onto the massive pile in the corner and turned those blue eyes on Ana.

“Ma’am, Haven is all about respect, and I’d be glad to talk to you if I had anything to say.” He glanced at his watch, then looked around her to check the clock in the gym. “I told you all there is. We’re working on the paint.”

“Mr. Hawke, I have only two weeks to complete this story, and my editor assured me you’d cooperate. In fact, Haven is at the top of my list of sources. I believe our publisher serves on your board of directors.”

He paused a moment. “Davidson’s a good man. We appreciate his dedication.”

“So, are you planning to remove the lead paint or seal it?” she asked.

“Whatever it takes.”

“Exactly where is the paint?”

“It’s around.”

She flipped open her notebook. “How many rooms at Haven have lead paint?”

“A few.” He reached out and pinched the notebook between his thumb and forefinger, slid it from her hand and folded it shut. “We’re dealing with it. That’s all. No story.”

Returning the notebook to her, he smiled. The parentheses were absent. “Thanks for dropping by Haven, ma’am. Now if you’ll excuse me, we’re in the middle of activity change, and I need to check on my crocheters.”

“Did you say crochet?”

She followed him out of the office, scrambling to reopen her notebook and get the cap off her blue ink pen. He lifted a hand as a new group of youngsters took to the makeshift basketball court. Several waved back, some shouting, “Hey, Uncle Sam!”

He strode toward a row of doors that Ana suspected had once led to offices. Stopping at the first in line, he peered inside the small room. “Hey, Terell, how’s finger painting?”

“Good. We got six today.” A large man looked up from a table spread with newspapers. Like Sam, he had a military haircut and arms sculpted with muscle. His long legs, bare and ebony hued, ended in white socks and a pair of the largest sneakers Ana had ever seen. A half-dozen children clustered around him, their fingers and faces smeared with blue, red and yellow tempera paint.

“You showing around a new volunteer?” Terell asked.

Sam glanced over his shoulder at Ana. “Didn’t know you were still here.”

“I’m taking the tour.”

He turned away, the big shoulder in her face, and addressed the children. “She’s a newspaper reporter. Her name is Miss Burg.”

“Burns.”

“Terell Roberts is my partner,” Sam told her. “T-Rex, who’ve you got there?”

Ana shifted her focus to the little girl on Terell’s lap. Fairy-tale princess golden curls crowned her head, but there the image ended. Thin and dirty, the child wore a small white T-shirt and a pair of badly stained purple shorts. Her feet were jammed into sandals at least two sizes too small, crowding her tiny pink toes. Nestled close to Terell, she leaned her head against his broad chest. His arm circled her as she turned sad blue eyes on Ana. Noting that one cheek appeared swollen and tinged with hot pink, Ana’s instinctive alarm system went off. Someone had slapped the child—and not long ago.

“This is Brandy,” Terell said. He bounced her on his knee. “She’s not feeling too happy today. But we’re gonna fix that, huh, sugar-pie? Do some painting, maybe eat a bowl of popcorn.”

The child stretched up and planted a kiss on the man’s cheek. Ana felt queasy.

“Who hit her?” she demanded.

Terell’s head shot up, his eyes suddenly hooded. “Ma’am, I’m taking care of that,” he said in a low voice. “You all get on with your tour now.”

“See you at the next activity change,” Sam told his partner as he shut the door. Before Ana could speak again, he marched on to another room.

“Hey, Lulu,” he said, leaning through the open door. “What are we up to this afternoon?”

Ana peered around his shoulder. A woman with light brown skin perched on a green plastic chair that sagged precariously under her weight. Eight children sat cross-legged at her feet on the concrete floor. “We’re reading Peter and the Wolf, ” she announced, holding up a large book. “Then we’ll listen to the music.”

“You kids be good for Lulu,” Sam said, stepping away from the room.

“Hey, did you see that child’s face—back in the other room?” Ana demanded, hurrying to keep pace with him. “The little girl named Brandy? Someone had slapped her.”

“Listen, Miss Burns.” He swung on her. “I appreciate your interest in Haven and our children. If you want to write an article about lead paint, I can’t stop you. But I have nothing more to say.”

Ana pursed her lips as she followed him to another room. She knew she had not imagined that bruise on Brandy’s face. And the way Terell Roberts had been holding the child unsettled her. Vulnerable children hidden away with grown men inside small rooms did not paint a pretty picture in her mind.

Her heart hammering, Ana paused at the third in the line of classrooms. A young man sat with a group of older children at a round table littered with hammers, nails, blocks of wood screwdrivers and various lengths of wire. Spotting Sam, he shrugged and threw up his hands.

“Same bunch,” he said. “Granny didn’t send hers over at activity change, so I kept these I already had. It’s no big deal, sir.”

“That’s a great attitude, Abdul, but everybody gets a turn at crocheting, just like everybody gets a turn at tools.” Sam gave a thumbs-up. “Let me check on Granny for you.”

“Thanks, sir.”

Sam walked to the last room and poked his head through the open doorway. “Well, hello there, Granny. Looks like your crew is busy.”

An elderly woman with snowy curls and a black velvet pillbox hat peered at him through oversize glasses. “What’s that you say, Mr. Hawke?” she asked loudly.

“I said you look busy here.” He raised his voice. “Nice work!”

Ana studied the center’s director as he stepped into the room and crouched down with the children. On first analysis, Sam Hawke seemed like a decent enough man. She appreciated the stringent rules and the emphasis on respect at the center. The volunteers clearly enjoyed their work, and most of the kids who dropped in appeared happy.

But her introduction to Terell Roberts still bothered her. What had been going on in that small room? Sam Hawke’s presence in such a place also raised questions. What had motivated an educated male in the prime of his life to take on the job of managing a run-down inner-city operation constantly threatened with closing? If the man enjoyed sports, he ought to be coaching a team, or working at a country club somewhere. It didn’t make sense.

What kind of future could Sam Hawke or Terell Roberts have here at Haven? If the recreation center had a large budget and generous donors, the lead paint might not be a problem. But Carl had called Haven a shoestring operation, and the place obviously didn’t generate enough financial support to pay two adults a decent salary. Sam and Terell would be living hand to mouth…unless they were using the building as a front to make money another way.

Ana’s blood raced at the possibility that she might uncover a real story at Haven. Oblivious to her thoughts, Sam hunkered down on the floor and picked up a length of pale blue yarn and a crochet hook. A girl—about ten, Ana guessed—leaned against his shoulder as she tried to show him how to loop the yarn onto the hook. He gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw rippling as he thumbed the delicate yarn.

Why this fascination with children? Prickles of alarm shot through Ana like thin, sharp needles at the memory of the way Terell’s hand had rested on little Brandy’s leg. The unhappiness in the girl’s blue eyes was palpable. She had kissed him, but had he slapped her only moments before?

“Tenisha, you’ve got me beat on this one,” Sam said, handing her the crochet hook and a tangle of yarn.

“Aw, you can do it, Uncle Sam.” She looked up at him. “You just have to try.”

“Tell you what, young lady. You play some basketball with me this afternoon—”

“No, I—”

“Now, don’t interrupt, Tenisha.” He held up a big index finger. “Remember the rules? Here’s a proposal for you. Try basketball this afternoon, and tomorrow I’ll come back and let you and Granny help me get started on crochet.”

“But I can’t play basketball, Uncle Sam. I can’t run hardly at all, y’know.”

“Well, how would I know that? I haven’t seen you ever try.”

She gazed down in her lap for a moment, her face glum.

“Do we have a deal?” he asked.

“Okay,” she said in a tiny voice.

“Great.” He gave her a solid pat on the back, and she brightened. Then he raised his voice to the other adult in the room. “Now, Granny, it’s time for activity change. These kids need to go try the tools.”

“What you talkin’ ’bout, boy?” The elderly woman squinted at him over the top of her glasses. “Fry the rules?”

“Tools!” he shouted, then muttered, “We’ve got to get you a hearing aid, Granny.”

As the youngsters scampered to their feet, Ana watched Tenisha lose her balance and stumble into a boy’s path. He barked in anger and gave her a shove. At that, Sam reached down and lifted the boy off his feet.

“Ladies first, Gerald,” he said as he held the youth high, giving Tenisha time to pick her way toward the door. Her unsteady gait revealed cerebral palsy, Ana surmised. So why had Sam Hawke urged the girl to attempt a sport that would only cause further embarrassment? Again, she felt the twinge of alarm and distrust.

Waiting for the group to file toward the toolroom, Ana noticed a figure seated in a shadowy corner at the end of the row of doors. She took a couple of steps closer and discerned a pair of skinny legs emerging from a green skirt. The girl wore the requisite white T-shirt and a pair of pink plastic sandals. Her hair, pulled back into a long braid, gleamed like black silk. She blinked at Ana, her large brown eyes wide.

“Hi.” Ana tried giving a little wave. She’d never been much good with children.

The girl looked away.

Well, that’s that.

Turning back, Ana nibbled a fingernail as she waited for Sam to complete the activity change. If Haven was as positive a place as it proclaimed, an article on the center’s activities might make a good feature for the Everyday section. She would suggest it to the editor.

Her own focus had to be the lead paint problem. Carl had wanted her to use Haven in the story, and she couldn’t very well turn it in without a single decent quote or even a pertinent fact or two about the place. She had to find out which parts of the building still contained the old paint, whether these children were at risk, how Sam intended to fix the problem, and where he would get the money to pay for it.

If the other sources on her list proved as uncooperative as this one, she would be hard-pressed to finish the series in two weeks. The memory of her editor’s promised reaction to such a failure chilled her. She tried to put it out of her mind. Why think the unthinkable?

As Sam stood at the door watching the new bunch of children settle in with Granny and her crocheting, Ana ventured another glance at the girl in the corner. Gazing back at the tall visitor, the child wore an expression of such emptiness, such sad hollowness, that Ana caught her breath. At the look on the girl’s face, a painful ache stirred to life inside Ana, and despite her best effort, she couldn’t immediately suppress it.

“Don’t you want to crochet?” Ana blurted out. She pointed to Granny’s room. “They’ve started a new group.”

The girl turned away in silence, her profile lovely and delicately haunting. Ana swallowed, wanting to go to the girl, to touch her somehow.

“Got the room switch taken care of.” Sam Hawke’s voice at her ear startled Ana. “Miss Burns, I need to ask you to leave now. We don’t allow anyone but volunteers and kids in the building unless they have a good reason.”

“I have a great reason,” she replied. “I want to interview you about your lead paint problem.”

His blue eyes fastened on her, and she knew exactly how an ant must feel as someone’s heel bore down on it.

“I’m not giving you an interview on Haven’s lead paint problem.” He enunciated each word as though she had as great a hearing loss as Granny. “Not today, not tomorrow, not ever.”

“I’ve been assigned this story,” she said as he turned his back on her and started toward the offices. She strode after him. “Haven will benefit from it. It’s obvious you serve needy kids here. Like that girl in the corner—”

“What girl?” He swung around.

“Tut-tut. No interrupting, sir.” She gave him a mock salute, then gestured behind her. “Back there. In the shadows. Who is she?”

He peered over Ana’s shoulder. “I haven’t been able to get her name. She showed up here a couple of weeks ago, but we can’t coax her out of the corner. She doesn’t speak English.”

“Now see? If Haven had to shut down because of the lead paint, that child might not have a place to go.”

“Haven is not going to shut down.”

“How are you planning to fix the problem?”

His face darkened. As a boy ran past with a basketball, Hawke snagged him. “Hey, Ramone, see Miss Burns to the door, would you?”

“Yes, sir.” The young man smiled. “C’mon with me, ma’am. You got to check out before you can go. And we need your T-shirt, too.”

Ana glared at Hawke’s broad-shouldered back as he headed toward his office. He thought he’d gotten rid of her. But he didn’t know Anamaria Burns.

No, sir.

He was staring through the window, thinking about what had happened in Springfield. Since the phone call from his associate three nights before, an acute pain had settled behind his eyes, and he had not slept well. Nothing could be resolved, of course, until he had more information.

What exactly had occurred that night? Who had done it? How much was known?

Despite the lack of details, he had begun working out his own answers to questions that might arise. He shouldn’t give the issue much weight, he reminded himself, because he really hadn’t been involved. The incident had occurred in another state, and he wasn’t responsible for it. If people didn’t take proper precautions, trouble usually found them, and they had no one but themselves to blame. Long ago, he had learned that he could not depend on anyone but himself to take care of things. No one had ever looked out for him, yet see how far he had come.

People counted on him now, and this gave him tremendous power. People feared him. They needed him. And he could demand their silence. Even if this particular situation blew up, he knew his colleagues would remain loyal. They would have no other choice.

As for himself, he would do just as he always had. Things would turn out well. He had organized everything so carefully, putting the building blocks in perfect order, setting each of the safeguards in place. He was cautious at all times, so that nothing could catch him by surprise.

Still, he jumped when his cell phone rang. Turning from the window, he put the phone to his ear as he dropped to the edge of a chair. “Yes?” Keeping his voice low, he spoke into the receiver.

“Hey, this is Sam Hawke over at Haven. How are you today, sir?”

The light tone jangled his nerves. He frowned. Not the call he’d been hoping for.

“Fine, and you?” he responded, forcing civility.

“Good.” There was a brief pause. “Listen, I thought I’d better let you know that someone from the Post-Dispatch dropped by today.”

“A reporter?” His nostrils flared as he took in air. “Why? What did he want?”

“It was a woman. She’s doing an article on our lead paint problem. I think Davidson may have put her up to it.”

“Davidson? Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know, sir. I can’t see how that kind of publicity can be good for us.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Maybe Davidson doesn’t see this situation the way I do, but I chose not to cooperate with the lady. We’re having enough trouble raising money without the newspaper dragging our name through the mud.”

“What did you tell this reporter?”

“That we’re aware of the problem and plan to fix it.”

“Good.” He dug a handkerchief from his pocket and blotted his forehead. The pain behind his eyes was intense. “I affirm your decision completely, Sam. You don’t need reporters nosing around there, that’s for sure.”

“I agree. I thought I’d better let you know in case Davidson mentions it.”

“Certainly. I’ll make sure he understands our point of view. I may give him a call right now, in fact. We need to be on the same page.”

“Great. Thanks, sir.”

“Listen, Sam…if she comes around again, let me know.”

“I doubt she’ll be back. I made my position clear.”

“Excellent. And again, thank you for the call. You were right to bring me up to speed. Anything like this…don’t hesitate to phone.”

“Will do. Better run.”

As the phone went dead, he let out a hot breath. Lovely. A reporter. He should have gotten a name. Clenching his fist around the phone, he turned back to the window.

He stood, stretched his stiff muscles and crossed toward the door. He needed to make some phone calls, but they could wait. Right now, he was going to have to do something about this headache. He hadn’t visited his special closet in many months, and he preferred to keep it that way. But commonplace antidotes didn’t work for him as they did for others. He was unique in so many ways. As usual, he would have to take care of himself. He always had.

Again I see the lightbulb, and I am glad. I close my eyes. Maybe if I close them, I can hide. I want to hide, because I am afraid. Afraid of the room. The terrible room. And the man. The good mean kind cruel love-me hurt-me man.

I say a prayer now. Thank you, God, for the lightbulb.

This is not a prayer I learned in church. My mother used to take me to church, but now we do not go. I have forgotten all those prayers.

I have not forgotten God. Has He forgotten me?

No. I know He is with me, because He gave me the lightbulb. When the pain begins, I open my eyes and look up at the ceiling. The white ceiling. Swirls and patterns, like a white river. Like snow on a river.

I see that lightbulb, and I am not afraid. It glows, shining into my eyes, and I stare at it. I stare and stare until my head hurts. I stare until the blackness comes. I command my eyes to travel into the light, into the whiteness of the bulb, the roundness, the glass, the ceiling, the swirls…

…and it is the sun, the bright sun, and I am running up the hill with my little sister. Come, Aurelia! Hurry up! Mama is calling. Can’t you hear her? We will be late for supper! We will miss our beans and tamales.

Green grass cools our bare feet as we run. Our wet skirts slap against our thighs. We played in the stream near our house today, looking for treasures. We found a tire and a shoe. We found a plastic bottle. We found a battery. Oh, such treasures!

Hurry, Aurelia! I hear her laughing behind me, and I tug on her small hand.

We reach the lane, warm brown stones under our feet. Hot dust swirling around our ankles. Broken glass—be careful, Aurelia! Watch where you are stepping! Don’t hurt yourself!

I take care of Aurelia, and she is safe with me. She laughs and laughs, as though missing our supper is part of the great adventure of this wonderful day. She knows I will get food for her, even if we miss the supper. Even if Mama puts everything away, I will find something for us to eat.

My feet bounce and skip and sing up the path, past the houses, past the wide porches and the children and the mamas and papas and the grandmas. I feel the sun shining on my face, warming my cheeks, kissing me with love. Oh, God, thank you for the sun! For the bright light. For Aurelia and the dusty path and the tamales waiting for us in our home.

Do I hear my mother’s voice? She calls! The smell of roses curls around me, and I am nearly home. Nearly there. I am coming, Mama! I am bringing Aurelia! She’s safe with me.

We run through the light, the heat, the brightness. We run up to our front door, out of breath, laughing, too silly to worry about tamales. I throw my head back, and my hair tumbles down behind me in a waterfall. The sun dances across my cheeks. I open my eyes and look into the sun, the bright white shining sun, the glowing glaring gleaming sun…

…and now I see that the sun is a round, white glass. It is small, and it hangs from the sky by a single black cord. It is the lightbulb. It has saved me again.

Thank you, God.