Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
Early Wednesday Morning
“You were rude to Mrs. Zenobia last night when you were helping her in the kitchen, Sara Turner,” the woman she knew as Mrs. Arthur scolded. “Being disrespectful to your elders is against the rules, so you must be punished.”
“She gave us deviled eggs for dinner,” Sara protested. “That’s nasty food. I hate deviled eggs and I told her so.”
“You are disobedient,” Mrs. Arthur intoned. “And have a haughty attitude as well. That’s also against the rules. You’ve been here long enough to know what they are.”
“I want to go home,” Sara whimpered, all her courage failing her. Pulling her legs up and pressing her back to the wall, she asked, “Why won’t you let me go home?”
“This is your home,” Mrs. Arthur reprimanded, wiping her hands on the apron she wore over her old-fashioned dress. “And your grandfather wants you to stay here.”
“He does not,” Sara sniffed, wiping at the tears sliding down her cheeks. Home was warm and clean and always smelled like Mrs. M’s cookies. It was kinda dark in here, with only a lamp mounted high on the wall near the door. It smelled bad in here too. Like when Trixie, her neighbor’s dog, tore the garbage bags open and got it all over the yard. That was a real stinky smell–old banana peels and dirty cat litter and spoiled egg salad.
But deviled eggs for dinner? Yuck.
No one had ever locked her in a room if she misbehaved either. Not even her grandfather when he was mad about something. He always seemed mad about something, so Sara made sure she never cried if he were around. He didn’t even seem to like having her live in his house. His house, not theirs.
And she never felt like crying when she was with Danni, who said it was always okay to cry if she needed to or just felt like it. Danni’s house was clean and warm too, even if her home-made cookies weren’t so good. Sara felt safe with Danni. Sara didn’t feel safe here. “I want to go home,” she repeated. “Where’s my grandfather?”
“He wants you to stay here,” Mrs. Arthur repeated. “This is your home now.”
“But Mister Joe said he was taking me to my grandfather’s office for a party,” Sara protested. Mr. Joe picked up her grandfather for work every day, but he wasn’t like a chauffeur. “When I saw him in that black Honda, that’s what he said, so I got in with him. Where’s my grandfather?”
“You ask too many questions, Sara.”
The words belonged to the very tall man coming through the half-open door, bringing some light with him. He was nearly bald with some fringy hair near his ears and little eyes that squinted like he couldn’t see too good. Behind his back the other girls called him “Hairy-with-an-i.”
But never to his face. They just called him “Sir.”
Sara wrapped her arms around her legs, hoping he wouldn’t see how hard she was shaking.
He came to stand over her, his hands on his hips. His eyes got even smaller, and his frown smashed his lips together in one straight line. He looked like a monster on that cartoon show Mrs. M. didn’t want her to watch.
But “Sir” was real. Terribly, terribly real.
“You are a wicked and disobedient child,” he intoned. “You will stay here until you remember that this is your home now and we are your family. Come, Mrs. Arthur.”
“No!” Sara screamed. “I want to go home!”
The door slammed behind them, but not before Mrs. Arthur turned off the light switch and Sara was alone in the dark.
Outside, in the hall, “Sir” said, “She has great spirit, that one. Even after twelve days, she still has spirit. Might take more time to break her.”
“Shall we leave her there all day, Sir?”
Sir noticed that Mrs. Arthur’s tone was deferential and respectful as it should be. “No,” he said. “Just until lunch. Some like a girl with spirit, just not too much of it. Leave her there until lunch. Then we’ll see.”
Later Wednesday morning
The soft click of a door opening worked its way through Danni’s sleep, followed by the incredible aroma of eggs, potatoes, cornbread and coffee. She rolled over, peered at the clock and jerked into a sitting position. Nine thirty!
They–Mac, Anne and Patrick–had spent several hours last night telling her about The Cadre, a crime group, who among other things, specialized in teen trafficking. Anne had written about them in the past but had never expected to be abducted by them just this past October after her “niece” was taken by them. That, Anne had said, was how she’d met Mac.
“I didn’t know you were abducted,” Danni had said. “It wasn’t in your article about the kids being found and rescued.”
“That’s because only a few people know,” Anne had answered. “And it needs to stay that way, for everyone’s safety, including yours.”
Now, considering everything she’d learned, Danni took the fastest shower of her life, pulled on the jeans and Oxford sweatshirt she’d laid out last night and quickly braided her hair. Recalling the carpet’s softness, she decided shoes and socks could wait.
“I’m sorry to have slept so late,” she announced, stepping into the kitchen. “I should have been up–”
Words failed her as Patrick Danton turned from the stove, his cobalt-hued gaze traveling over her. The morning sun coming in through the window over the sink added a shimmer to his dark blond hair.
And oh, what that apron was doing for his frame. While he wasn’t as tall as Mac, he was still tall enough and the apron hung just above his knees. His feet, she noted, like hers, were bare.
And she really liked the way the heavy sweater hugged his shoulders and chest. An athlete, she decided. Most definitely an athlete.
“Did you have some place to be this morning?” he asked, moving a large skillet from one burner to another.
“Actually, no,” she said, sniffing the air. “I usually get up at half-past five. Is that cornbread I smell?”
“Corn sticks,” he said, sliding a frittata onto a plate on the counter. “Those, this frittata, potatoes, fruit salad and coffee. Unless you would prefer tea?”
“Coffee for breakfast, tea later,” she said. Looking back into the dining area, she said, “You’ve set the table too.”
“Would you prefer to eat standing up?” he asked, wiping his hands on a dishtowel.
“Actually, no,” she repeated, trying to remember exactly what Anne had told her about Patrick Danton.
“Well, then. If you can get the fruit salad from the ‘fridge, and put it on the sideboard, I’ll bring the rest of the stuff. Coffee is already there.”
“I can do that,” she said as she took out the bowl and realized how hungry she was. Except for the amazing dinner he had prepared last night, she probably hadn’t had a decent meal since Sara vanished. “It smells wonderful.”
She carried the bowl to the sideboard, and he followed her, hands full. After filling their plates, they poured coffee, sat and ate in companionable silence.
“This is incredible,” she praised after several bites.
“Do you cook?” His study of her over the rim of his cup was thoughtful.
“Not a lot,” she said ruefully. “Sometimes it seems a lot of trouble to cook a full meal for one.”
“All the more reason,” he said. “Why have a lousy meal when you can a good one in the same amount of time?”
“You’re right,” Danni said. “I was always giving Leo a hard time about not eating well and drinking too much coffee.”
“I’m sorry about your friend.” He refilled her cup. “You and Lieutenant Anderson were close?”
“Yeah,” Danni said after minute. “He and my dad often worked together. Leo loved being in Major Crimes, while my dad worked Vice. Hard work, either way.”
“I would think so.” He propped an elbow on the table and rested his chin in his palm. “Tell me about your goddaughter.”
Danni’s heart turned over. “Sara Louise Turner,” she said softly. “Spunky, stubborn, smart.”
“A triple threat,” he pronounced solemnly but Danni couldn’t mistake the twinkle in his eyes.
“Sara is that, alright,” she agreed. “Really smart, testing two grades higher than most of her fifth-grade classmates. But sometimes it works against her, because she thinks because she’s so smart, she understands things better than she does, and that frustrates her.”
“Like what?”
“Life experiences,” Danni said. “Ones she doesn’t know anything about but always has an answer for why it happened.”
“What does she like to do for fun?”
Over the next half hour, Danni described Sara’s love for reading, dogs, and pizza. Her automatic acceptance of anyone, no matter how they looked or what they had-or didn’t-and her willingness to stand up to any bully, no matter who they were.
“She took on a popular girl after that girl started making fun of a classmate named Claire who’d lost her hair to chemo,” Danni shared. “No one else would stand up to Ms-oh-so-popular, but Sara called her a coward and a bully. That was when she was in the third grade.”
“What happened? Or do I want to know?” Patrick’s mouth twitched in a clear attempt to remain serious.
Danni grinned. “I told my editor Stanley Harris about it, and he called Claire’s favorite Lady Vol basketball player. A day or two later, the young woman came to the school to have lunch with Claire and Sara. Their teacher said the look on the bully’s face was one of shock and pure jealousy.”
“So, Sara is like her godmother?”
“I don’t understand.”
Patrick Danton’s slow smile was a toe-curler. “Speaking up for people who need a little help.”
Heat scorched Danni’s cheeks and she hoped the blush that happened too often for her liking wasn’t reddening her face too much. “Yeah, well,” she said. “I think that ability will help Sara when she grows up. You know what she wants to be when she grows up? A lawyer.”
“Always good to have one of those in the family.” Patrick pushed his plate back and reached for his coffee. “And what about you?”
“What do you mean?” She cocked her head and her braid fell over to her back. He didn’t know too many women who braided their hair, and as attractive as it was, Patrick would have liked to have seen her hair’s autumnal hues falling around her shoulders this morning.
“I mean how are you holding up?”
Rather than answer his question, she stood and said, “I need to check my e-mail,” and left the table.
Patrick stared after her, then at the food cluttered table. After a moment, and against his home training, he picked up his napkin and left the filled table to head for the office.
Mac had assured him yesterday Danni had familiarized herself with the Safehouse computer system. But instead of the massive unit, he found her seated at a smaller desk, her laptop open, unbraiding her hair and combing it with her fingers. Taking a chair from the bigger desk, he pulled it forward to staddle it and sit beside her. “What ‘cha doing?”
“Checking Sara’s website.” She pointed at the large school type photo on the screen, showing a young, blonde girl with enormous green eyes and a gap-toothed smile. “See that box in the corner? If someone has information and called the police, a star will appear with the date that they called.”
Patrick looked at Sara’s data–age, height, the clothing she was wearing when she vanished, eye color and blood type and the date of her disappearance listed in another box– to keep from staring at the three lone stars. “Who designed this for you?”
“A friend.” Danni set aside the mouse, propped her elbows on the table and put her chin in her hands. “He thought if I could see someone had called the police, it would make me less crazy–”
Her voice broke and her hands moved to cover her eyes as she began to silently weep. Patrick stood to turn around his chair so he could sit close enough to put his arm around her shoulders.
And then she was in his arms, wrapping hers around his neck as she continued to cry, soaking his sweater. He rested his chin on her head while breathing in a scent that conjured up images of springtime, fresh and full of flowers.
After a while she sat back and wiped her face with the back of hand. “Sorry,” she muttered, shoving back a strand of hair.
“Crying helps,” Patrick said, handing her the napkin. “Letting out is better than having it blow up later.”
“Yeah,” she agreed, blotting her face. “That’s what I tell Sara.”
“You see?” Patrick spread his hands. “Great minds think alike,” and she rewarded him with a smile.
A trilling sound came from her pocket, and she took out her phone. “It’s Father Ryan,” she said, looking at the screen.
“From St. Nicholas?”
“Do you know him?”
“Let’s say we’ve met,” Patrick said, his fingers straying to touch the old injury. “Please don’t tell me there has been another shooting?” The day he and Elaine Prescott were attacked at St. Nicholas last month, Father Daniel Ryan had been more than helpful in keeping order after a local pimp’s crazy girlfriend started shooting up the church while the pimp’s thug snatched Elaine. The crazy girlfriend was later caught but not before her wild west style shooting grazed Patrick’s shoulder.
“No.” Eyes widening in realization, she asked, “Were you involved in that shooting? It was in all the papers.”
“Yes, but let’s talk about that one later,” Patrick suggested. “What does Father Ryan want?”
“He says he has a parishioner who wants to talk to me about Sara but will only do so if I promise not to call or bring the police.” Danni looked at the message again and back at him. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Neither do I,” Patrick announced. “Are you a parishioner there?”
“No,” she said. “But Sara is, and I’ve been going to Noon Masses since she vanished to say a prayer for her. They have a great choir. Her housekeeper takes her there several times a month. Ed doesn’t bother with what he calls ‘such foolishness.’ Are you sure you don’t mind going to the place you were shot?”
“The church didn’t shoot me, Danni,” he said. “Some poor crazy woman did. Don’t worry about it. So, we’re off to St. Nicholas after we put away the breakfast stuff ‘cause never leave a dirty kitchen. But first we’re going to practice dropping and rolling.”
Her eyes widened again, this time with curiosity. “Dropping and rolling?”
“Yep. Stand up and go over there, please.” Patrick pointed at the center of the room, then went to stand several feet away from it. “Now, depending on where we park and how far it is from the church, we might have to walk several hundred feet to get there.”
“I don’t–”
“Just listen,” Patrick insisted, trying to keep the urgency from his voice. “You were nearly attacked on a city street in broad daylight two days ago. That dart could have been intended for you.”
“Okay,” she whispered, and he watched the color drain from her face. Damn, he hated scaring her, or reminding her of what happened to Leo Anderson, but they couldn’t take any chances. And she needed to be scared, especially if it did turn out to be The Cadre.
“If you hear me yell, ‘drop and roll’, do it,” he continued. “Just like they taught us to do in school if we were on fire. You know, drop to your feet and roll away as fast as you can.”
Her lips pulled together in thought as if tasting the idea. “You don’t think someone would try to do that, do you? Set us on fire?”
“Lord, I hope not.” Patrick withheld his sigh of impatience. “But we need to have a safety plan for when we’re in public. So, let’s practice. Danni! Drop and roll!”
She fell to the carpeted floor and looked up at him. “Which direction do I roll?”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Patrick groaned.
“You’re the one telling me to roll!” she shouted.
“Okay, okay!” Patrick released his sigh this time. “Roll away from whomever is trying to hurt you but try not to roll into the street. We don’t need for you to get run over.”
She frowned. “I don’t think there will be that much traffic at the church at this time of day, so–”
“Danni!”
“Okay,” she grumbled, getting to her feet. “Let’s do it again.”
“No sidebar comments!” Patrick ordered.
“Yes sir!” She gave him a cocky salute that would have landed her at least a week in an Army brig.
“Alright. Danni! Drop and roll!”
She dropped to the carpet again and rolled until he yelled, “Stop!”
She threw her arms over her head and glared up at him when he came to stand over her. “Will that do?”
“It better.” He reached down to pull her to her feet. She shook her head, sending her magnificent hair flowing around her shoulders and Patrick had to fight to keep from running his hands through it. “Do you always do that? Unbraid your hair when you’re upset or nervous?”
A dark blush painted her face, but her gaze stayed focused on him. “Yeah,” she admitted. “My hands shake when I’m upset, so braiding or unbraiding keeps them steady. Sort of.”
“Okay,” he said. “Just curious.”
“Okay, then.” She shoved her hands into her pockets. “Now what?”
“We clean the kitchen and then brush our teeth,” Partick told her, and was oddly pleased by her soft huff of laughter. “Because we always brush our teeth before we go to church.” Looking down at her bare feet, he added, “And don’t forget to put on your shoes.”