"Is it the word that bothers you, Mr. Wood?" she said. "Maybe you'd prefer something like 'morally challenged'?"
"Unresponsive, Your Honor."
"Please answer the question, Ms. Danse," said Burke.
It hadn't worked. She'd have to scramble for some other way. She needed time.
Think.
"I'm sorry, Your Honor. What was the question again?"
"What is your position regarding Arthur Danse receiving free and unrestricted visitation rights, if that should be the decision of this court?" Wood said.
"That he absolutely shouldn't have them and that the court shouldn't order it. Not under any circumstances whatsoever."
"But if that should be the case, Ms. Danse."
"I don't believe it will be, Mr. Wood."
"But if it is."
"Mr. Wood is badgering the witness, Your Honor!" said Sansom.
"Overruled. The witness will please respond."
Get control, she thought. Tear it off him. Tear it away from him. One last time. Rage simmered hard in her just below the surface. Use it. But get control. Turn this around on the son of a bitch.
"You're asking me, Mr. Wood," she said, "if I could comply with an order that would give a child molester, a rapist, access to an eight-year-old boy who also happens to be my son. Is that right? I don't understand. Why would you want to do that?"
He smiled as though to say, pretty good, and then covered it immediately.
He sighed dramatically. "Ms. Danse, your ex-husband, my client, is not a rapist until this court finds him a rapist. Hasn't everyone made that clear to you from the beginning?"
"Yes. But your client's sexual proclivities ought to be clear to you by now too, shouldn't they?"
Wood turned to the bench, arms spread wide, imploring. "Your Honor ..."
Burke leaned down to her.
"Ms. Danse," he said, "the issue here is strictly a question of compliance with the law. Mr. Wood is attempting to determine your willingness to uphold the law as a citizen of this county and this state, as that law is handed down to you. We are not now addressing the question of what Mr. Danse may or may not have done to your son. We are not addressing his guilt or innocence. Only this single issue. So I am ordering you now to answer Mr. Wood's question with a simple yes or no. Could you comply with any judgment the court may arrive at in this matter, whatever that judgment might be?"
You're not going to scream, she thought—though she wanted to out of sheer frustration. And you're not going to cry. She looked at Owen Sansom. She thought she'd never seen a man look quite so tired, and certainly never a lawyer look quite so sad.
She looked at Andrea Stone. Her eyes seemed hard and angry and compassionate all at once—angry at the unfairness of this and compassionate with her in its inevitability.
She drew herself up.
If this failed because of her, if they lost this now, she would have to find other ways.
"Not if it hurt Robert," she said. Her voice was clear and unbroken.
"No, Your Honor. Not if it hurt my son."
Twenty-four
Criminals: Some Foiled, Some Not
It was 5:45 and Duggan was nursing a headache that aspirin wouldn't budge, wishing he were already home an hour ago with Alice lying on the sofa in the living room while Alice fussed around him, getting hot towels for his forehead and cups of tea. She wouldn't bother him about being behind on the mortgage. She wouldn't complain about the work hours. Alice was great when you were sick. The mother-mode kicked in and everything was all of a sudden you name it, you got it.
He sure could wish for that.
But this arrest he had in front of him here was a doozy.
The guy's name was Elmo Lincoln—his mama had named him after Tarzan, no less. He'd held up a convenience store out on route 3A. Emptied the cash register, pointed his .22 pistol at the owner and told him to hand over his car keys. At some point the owner—a scared old guy of sixty-five with glasses thick as hubcaps—had managed to hit the silent alarm. But Elmo didn't know that. He went outside and started up the car.
Then realized he couldn't drive it.
The car was a '63 Chevy. Fully and lovingly restored. Cherry-red and polished to perfection.
With a manual shift.
And Elmo couldn't drive manual.
Realizing that made him mad at the owner so he went back inside and started yelling at the guy, what the fuck was he doing with a car that was practically older than he was, and Elmo knew the owner had another car, a real car, sitting somewhere the fuck around so where was it? He pulled the owner outside to look.
Elmo badgered the old guy and shook his pistol at him for ten whole minutes.
When Duggan arrived Elmo took one look at the squad car and then just dropped the gun into the dirt and shrugged.
"I coulda got away," he said.
No shit, Duggan thought.
Duggan was doing the paperwork on this idiot and musing through the dull throbbing headache on the amazing clarity of the criminal mind—I coulda got away—when the phone rang.
"I got another one here," Whoorly said.
"Oh shit. Where?"
"Canaan. Dumped her off the side of the road this time, but the coroner says the MO's right on the money. Raped, anally and vaginally, nail holes in the palms of her hands, beaten, burned ..."
"And staked through the heart."
"You got it."
"This asshole's got women all fucked up with Dracula."
"What?"
"Nothing. He place the time of death yet?"
"Last night. Somewhere between three and four in the morning. You want the file?"
"I want the file."
He hung up the phone and wondered where Arthur Danse was last night.
He wondered how his custody hearing was going.
He wondered if it was maybe making him angry at somebody.
He filed away the great Elmo Lincoln auto-theft caper for tomorrow and got up to check it out.
He talked to the bailiff and then drove out to Arthur's place.
Arthur wasn't pleased to see him. He opened the door and rolled his eyes and said, "What, Ralph? I've had a long day."
"Not the days I'm interested in, Art. It's the nights."
"What?"
"Tell me how you spent last night, Art."
"Went to the restaurant, stayed until about ten and then came home, watched TV, and went to bed. Why?"
"All alone, I guess."
"I'm afraid so, yes."
Duggan peered in through the doorway. From what he could see the place was spotless, the furnishings practically Spartan.
"How 'bout inviting me in for a quick cup of coffee. I really could use one."
"Another time, Ralph. Like I said, it's been a hell of a day."
"Sure. How's the hearing going?"
"Fine."
"Must make you mad, doesn't it?"
"What?"
"I mean, mad at your wife. What's 'er name. Lydia. Hell, at women in general. I'd be mad."
"The important thing is winning."
"Think you will?"
"My lawyer says we will."
Duggan smiled. "Course, you know, her lawyer's telling her the same thing. Lawyers'll do that."
"Naturally. I have to go, Ralph. Really. I still have to get over to the restaurant yet tonight."
"I understand. G'night, Art. I'll stop by again sometime."
He shut the door and Duggan heard him throw the lock.
No alibi. But no way to bring him in either. And no good reason to search the place. He'd talk to some of the people over at The Caves tomorrow. Shake the tree. Maybe find out nothing. But maybe it would make Danse a little nervous, a little angry, help him slip somewhere. Right now he was a little too cocky for his own damn good.
He pointed the car back toward town and home and couch and Alice. The headache, he realized, was gone.
Maybe thinking about Danse behind bars had a tonic effect on him
.
One slip and I'm on you like flies on dogshit, he thought.
He lit a Newport Lite. I bet I could even quit smoking.
Lydia woke to the sounds of screaming.
Robert, she thought, and was out of bed and halfway across her room when she realized that the sounds were coming from outside, not in. She crossed to the window.
In the moonlight she could see them, gray and colorless against the spiky grass, a cat and two dogs, the dogs of no particular breed but big, heavy, dwarfing the cat, the cat stuck between them not far away from a big blue spruce tree, hissing and clawing at them and backing away and then screaming again, trying to angle his way toward the safety of the tree, the dogs lunging repeatedly, snapping, not even barking, deadly serious, they were concentrated on a kill here—so concentrated it was scary. She could see their eyes wide and glinting like polished stones.
She flung open the window, found a shoe on the floor and threw it at them yelling "get out of here!" at the top of her lungs, not feeling the slightest bit silly about the cliché shoe, wanting the cat to live. Her aim was lucky and the shoe hit the bigger of the dogs at the shoulder and for a moment everything stopped except the cat started backing away the way they did, almost in slow motion. It was as though the dogs were waiting to see if more and bigger was forthcoming. A shoe or a boot wasn't going to do it. So more and bigger it would have to be.
Beside her on the wall there was a framed English sampler, Remember Now Thy Creator In The Years Of Thy Youth, Hannah East, Aged 14, In The Year 1863. She had bought it back in Boston when she was married to Jim. She pulled it off the wall and leaned out the window screaming "Fuckers! Get! Out!" and hurled it at them, wincing as it almost hit the cat and then smashed in front of him, glass flying, the dogs startled and the cat taking his advantage and dashing for the tree. And then up the tree.
Perched on a branch. Calmly looking down.
"Mom? What's ..."
Robert was standing in the doorway, eyes almost as wide as the cat's had been.
Her heart was pounding.
She felt wonderful. Terrific.
She laughed. Wonderful, she realized, to finally find herself able to do something. Something positive.
Something that made a difference.
"It's all right," she said, smiling. "I just saved a kitty with somebody's old heirloom."
"What's an heirloom?"
"Come on. We'll go downstairs and get it off the lawn and I'll explain it to you over a glass of hot cocoa, okay?" She followed him down.
Twenty-five
Fourth Day: Justice
He knew almost instantly how it was going to be. So did she, the bitch. He could see it on her face. The courtroom was silent, not a sound but Judge Burke's deep flat voice and the stenographer's fingers on the keys.
Arthur listened, and felt the power rise.
"I cannot find with absolute certainty that there has indeed been sexual abuse in this case," he said, "despite Dr. Hessler's remarks as to its probability, Dr. Bromberg's suspicions, or Ms. Danse's own contentions. Nor do I find that Robert's 'maybes' constitute compelling testimony. It seems to me that a troubled boy, as it has been well established by all who have interviewed him that Robert is indeed troubled, may have inadvertently or even intentionally harmed himself in this fashion. And it would be ill-advised for me to assume differently until further proof is provided or until Robert himself says in a far more clear and straightforward manner that he has indeed been abused by his father.
"That said, I must also admit that I am distressed by the mother's actions here."
He looked at Lydia.
"Ms. Danse, I'm sorry to tell you that I believe you've acted against Robert's interests in some very serious ways here. There is evidence of a kind of hysteria in your behavior. A tendency toward which you displayed, I believe, by marching into your ex-husband's bar and accusing him loudly in front of anyone who cared to listen. But more to the point, you have continued to insist on his guilt despite the lack of credible evidence against him. And in order to further those beliefs, in the course of a single day you paraded a troubled boy to a lawyer's office, a proctologist's office, a psychologist's office, and then encouraged yet another interview by Ms. Stone—all in the possibly paranoid suspicion that Mr. Danse had done something to your son that Robert wouldn't affirm he'd done nor that you'd had any concrete proof he'd done.
"If this is your notion of helping Robert, I don't share it. And I fear a recurrence of this kind of unstable behavior.
"Finally, I am deeply distressed and saddened at your stated unwillingness to adhere to the guidelines of law in this matter. Frankly, I have to wonder how you plan to bring up the boy, with this kind of an attitude. I see far too many youngsters in here as it is who couldn't care less about the law. It is and has always been part of the function of our court system in this country to promote respect for and compliance with the laws of society whatever they may be, and I would not be doing my duty as an officer of the court if I didn't take this into consideration here.
"Consequently, given your own stated recalcitrance in the matter of continuing unrestricted visitation by Mr. Danse, and given the absence of proof of the allegations against him, I am transferring custody of the child, Robert Danse, to Mr. Danse. I expect the three attorneys to work out a plan for visitation rights for the mother and submit that plan to me. And I expect, Ms. Danse, that you will proceed expeditiously to comply with this order of custodial transfer or else I will hold you in contempt of court, that I promise you. Dismissed."
The gavel rang in his ears like a sudden clap of thunder.
He was the storm. Unstoppable. The wind that blew them all away and out of here like autumn leaves. It was better than he'd ever expected. He shook his lawyer's cool smooth hand and smiled.
His son was his again.
Twenty-six
Change of Heart
"I won't do it. I'm running. That's all there is to it. His school's two blocks away. I'm taking him out of there right now and we're getting out of here."
They were walking through the parking lot, Lydia flanked by Sansom and Andrea Stone. The day was warm and sunny. Her hands felt like ice.
"You don't want to do that, Lydia," Sansom said, "believe me. For God's sake, they'll arrest you. You'll go to jail. You think the courts are going to look at you any more favorably as a custodian for Robert with a jail sentence hanging over your head? You'd risk never seeing him again."
"Listen," said Andrea Stone, "I can buy us some time. Let me appeal the judge's decision as Robert's attorney and guardian ad litem. I can get him into a foster home within a day or two at most, and in the meantime ..."
"A foster home?"
"... and in the meantime I can go over Arthur's house with a fine-tooth comb, find reasons—make reasons if I have to—why Robert shouldn't stay there. You can hire an investigator, see what you can dig up on him. We can draw this out for a long time, believe me."
"She's right, Lydia. Do it our way. Do it through the system."
"The system stinks," she said.
She got to the car and fumbled the keys into the door, aware that they were watching her, as though they were afraid for her. Well, she was afraid for herself. And Robert.
She'd run if she had to.
She'd whore the streets.
For all their good intentions, fuck them. They were the system and the system was shit. The system was nothing but betrayal.
There was one more card to play.
"You sure you don't want me to drive you?" said Andrea Stone.
"I'm fine," she said and started the car. "I'm going to Robert's school. I'll call you."
When she saw him at his desk through the window of the schoolroom door she almost cried, almost lost it. The class was silent. Taking a quiz. The shifting in seats. The scuffle of shoes. And that was all. She took a deep breath and walked on in.
He glanced up and saw her and she managed to smile at him and then whispere
d her intentions to Mrs. Youngjohn, who nodded—trying, she knew, not to show concern and not to pry. Mrs. Youngjohn walked over to Robert and spoke to him and pointed to his mother. He collected his books and quietly got up and she put a hand on his shoulder as she walked him out the door.
She knew he wanted to ask her what was going on, but he didn't dare—not here. There was something about the quiet of the empty hall which was denying him permission with each echoing footfall, urging him outside where it was possible to speak in the open air.
She led him to the car.
The air felt even warmer to her now. She was sweating. She felt empty inside, as though being with Robert had calmed her but somehow at the same time had blocked off all emotions but the simple feeling of being alive and in his presence.
She was aware of him staring at her.
She started the car and began to pull away.
"You going to tell me, or what?" he said. His voice was a little angry with her—and frightened.
She braked and turned to him and then turned off the ignition.
"The judge said that you have to go and stay with your father, Robert," she said.
She could think of no other way to do this than to say to him directly.
She was trying not to cry and she could see that so was he. She could feel the tension running through him electric with fear and uncertainty.
"When? For how long?"
He didn't understand. She had never hated anything more than this.
"Robert, the court said you have to go and live with him."
It was as though she'd slapped him. He flung himself back against the car door, he was halfway up on his knees. He looked like something trapped there.
"No!"
"Robert ..."
"I won't! They can't make me! Why won't you help me?"
And now she was crying. Because it was true. She hadn't helped him. Not enough. Not nearly.