Presumption of Guilt

  She told him the name of the network she used, and he smiled. It was the same one they used at the home.

  “You’re not an Internet addict, are you?” she asked.

  “I just like to surf around and see what’s there.”

  “Okay. Sure. I’ll show you how to turn it on.”

  “No, I already know how,” he said.

  He went into the area of the great room where the computer sat, and turned it on. He found the icon for her network, registered himself as Lynda’s guest, and entered his own screen name from the home’s system. Quickly, he got on-line and clicked the “compose mail” button.

  He sat there a moment, trying to remember what Brad’s screen name was. It was something weird, some combination of letters from his name. Darb? Arbd? Drab? Yes, that was it. Drab and some numbers. His age. That was it. Drab11.

  He addressed the letter, under “Subject” put “Secret,” and then tabbed his cursor down to the body of the letter.

  Brad,

  It’s me, Jimmy. Don’t tell anybody you saw me here. I don’t know what Bill told you, but I’m okay and I’m staying with a friend. I got caught on my mission the other night, but they were nice and didn’t turn me in. If Bill finds me, he’ll kill me. You know he will.Please don’t tell.

  Get a message to Lisa. Tell her I’m okay, and I’m trying to get her out of there. Tell her to be ready. I don’t know how I’ll do it yet, but I will. She can write me back if she wants. I think I can get my e-mail here.

  Don’t touch any of my stuff, and don’t let anybody else get it. Especially my baseball cards. And if you tell, I’ll tell the police everything you’ve ever done. If you keep my secret, maybe I’ll try to get you out, too, and we can all find a boxcar to live in like the kids in that book and have fun from now on. Wouldn’t that be cool?

  Your friend, Jimmy

  He clicked the “send” button, and sat back. Please let him see it. Please let him see it.

  “So how’s it going?” Lynda asked.

  “ Good,” he said, clicking the network off-line, and cutting the computer off.

  “Hungry?”

  “Sure.”

  She led him into the kitchen where a huge breakfast waited.

  He wished Lisa was here to share it with him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Brad sat down at the computer, too tired to go outside where it was hot and muggy. Instead, he’d gotten permission to stay inside and play on the computer. It was one of the perks that the kids in Bill’s “inner circle” got.

  He turned on the network, got on-line, and B checked his e-mail for a message from one of his pen pals in another part of the country, a pen pal who didn’t know that he was an orphan, or that he lived in a children’s home, or that he was a thief.

  There was only one message from someone named JWMan. JWMan? It was familiar, but he couldn’t remember who used that name. He clicked “read mail,” and saw instantly that it was from Jimmy.

  He sat up straighter as he read.

  When he was finished, he looked out the window and saw Lisa sitting on a swing on the playground, leaning her head against the chains, as though she might fall asleep and come tumbling off. He went to the door and called out for her. “Lisa!”

  She looked up.

  “Come here. I have to show you something.”

  She looked like she didn’t want to, but she got up and shuffled to the door. “What?” she asked belligerently.

  “I’ve got a message for you from Jimmy,” he whispered, taking her hand and pulling her to the computer.

  Her eyebrows popped up. “Where?” “Here. Look.”

  Lisa sat down in front of the screen and began to slowly read the letter. She had made A’s in reading her first-grade year, but she still had to read slowly and concentrate very hard. Her finger followed the words, and she whispered them as she sounded them out, while Brad stood guard making sure no one came in.

  Her eyes widened as she got to the part about him seeing her soon. “He’s coming to get me!” she said. “We’re gonna live in a boxcar! I want to write him back.”

  “All right,” Brad said. “Hit ‘reply’ and type it in. It’ll be under my screen name, but that’s okay.”

  “Will you type it for me?” she asked.

  He glanced toward both doors, then sat back down and put his fingers on the keyboard. “Okay. Tell me what to say.”

  “Say, ‘Dear Jimmy, I miss you.’”

  “I’m not typing that,” Brad said. “That’s gross.”

  “You said you would. It’s my letter. I can say it if I want.”

  He moaned and typed the words. “What else?”

  “Please hurry to get me. Bill gave me your job, and I don’t like it.”

  “Not so fast,” Brad said, still hunting and pecking on the word h-u-r-r-y. He made his way through the rest of the sentence.

  “I guess that’s all,” she said, her lips beginning to quiver as tears filled her eyes. “I’m glad he’s okay. I thought he wasn’t coming back. I thought he left me here.”

  Brad didn’t tell her that he had believed Bill’s story about Jimmy being in jail. He might have known it was a lie. The boxcar thing sounded good—real good. They could get somewhere where Bill would never find them. They could get jobs—and until they did they could steal enough to get by. He hoped it would happen soon, before the police tried to arrest all of them.

  “Tell me if he writes back,” Lisa said.

  Typing his own note now, Brad nodded. “Yeah, don’t worry, I will.”

  In his secret room, Bill Brandon scanned the closed-circuit television monitors that kept him informed of everything that went on at SCCH. He watched with mild curiosity as Brad played in the computer room—then with suspicious puzzlement, watched as Brad called Lisa Westin in. They weren’t good friends—in fact,

  Brad could hardly tolerate the girl. So why the sudden camaraderie? He saw Lisa sit down and read something on the computer; Brad shuffled around the door, seeming to stand guard. Whatever was going on here, Bill didn’t like it.

  He waited, stiff, until the boy had turned off the computer and left the room. Then Bill headed across the campus to the computer room. A couple of kids had drifted in since Brad had left. Bill said loudly, “Outside, kids. It’s too pretty a day to be playing inside.”

  They quickly turned off the computers and headed outside, leaving him alone. He locked the doors, then sat down at the computer Brad had been using. He turned it on, opened the on-line network he allowed them to use, and typed in Brad’s screen name. His list of recent mail came up, but there were only three letters. One from some kid who was under the impression that Brad was the son of a congressman and lived in a mansion with a pool. Bill chuckled with disdain.

  He clicked the next message, saw that it was part of a stupid conversation that didn’t interest him.

  Then he clicked the third. It was from someone going by the name of JWMan. He read the first line and knew that JWMan was Jimmy Westin.

  His face reddened, and he clicked open the “Read Mail You’ve Sent” area, where outgoing messages were held. When Brad’s log of messages appeared, Bill clicked the most recent one.

  Lisa’s letter came up, along with Brad’s addition.

  After he’d read them, he sat staring at the screen, trying to decide what to do. There was no question that Lisa and Brad should be punished for communicating with Jimmy, but he had to do more. He had to put the fear in them, so that they wouldn’t tell the other kids what they’d learned. He hoped it wasn’t too late. He looked out the window, saw Brad and Lisa talking quietly together at the back of the playground. Lisa was more animated than he’d seen her in days.

  He looked back at the screen. Besides punishing the two of them, he had to find a way to make Jimmy come to him, so that he could put him out of commission. Too much was going wrong;

  there were too many people out there who knew too much. HRS people sniffing around, reporters try
ing to write exposes of his operation, cops trying to get warrants for his arrest . . . Bill’s whole world was in danger unless he could do some quick damage control, and Jimmy, little Jimmy, was right in the middle of it all. He had to lure Jimmy in somehow.

  He clicked “unsend” on the letter the two kids had sent Jimmy, and waited anxiously to see if it was too late. If Jimmy had already opened it, he couldn’t get it back. But if he hadn’t . . .

  The computer said that the letter had been unsent, and he grinned. He clicked “edit,” then made a few changes. He deleted Lisa’s portion, then on Brad’s typed in, “Lisa’s hurt real bad from the beating Bill gave her. Jimmy, you need to come get her before he kills her. I’ll leave Stella’s window unlocked so you can get in Please hurry!”

  He grinned as he sent the letter across cyberspace. Now all he had to do was be ready when Jimmy came.

  He cut off the computer, then went to the back door and called for Brad and Lisa. Reluctantly, apprehensively, they both came in.

  He locked the door behind them, then turned around to Brad. His arm swung and he backhanded the boy with a fist across the chest, knocking him down. Then he kicked him twice, once in each side, until the child was balled up in fetal position, moaning and crying and begging Bill to stop.

  When he was satisfied that he’d done enough damage, he turned to Lisa. She shrank back against the wall, tears in her eyes and her face as red as the shirt she wore. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “You’ve been communicating with your brother, and so has Brad,” he said in a surprisingly gentle voice. “And I can’t have that.”

  He grabbed her shoulders, shook her violently, then flung her across the room. But he didn’t kick her, like he had Brad. Nick or someone else might come around asking about her, and she’d better not have a mark on her. He left Brad lying on the floor, and grabbed Lisa up. Marching her out of the computer room, he dragged her across the campus to another specially built room near his office. This one had been designed for discipline. It had no windows, no lights, and no furniture. Just a bare floor and darkness. He flung her in there as she screamed in protest, and he locked the door behind her, blocking out the sound of her cries.

  Then he sat down behind his desk and tried to catch his breath. No, there wouldn’t be a mark on her—at least not on her body. Just on her mind. And if anyone came asking about either of the Westin kids . . . he could get her out of his “special room” quickly and no one would be the wiser.

  As for Brad—no one cared about Brad anyway, so he didn’t expect anyone to ask. He only hoped the beating had taught the kid a lesson.

  He couldn’t wait for Jimmy to get his message and show up at the home. With a grin, Bill jumped up and hurried across campus to Cottage B, where he unlocked Stella’s window.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Afew minutes after he got up that morning, Nick saw the news reports about the burning of the newspaper building, and quickly phoned Lynda’s house to see if Beth had heard. When he didn’t catch her there or at her own house, he decided to drive to the newspaper building itself. Just as he’d suspected, she stood there in the parking lot, leaning on the fender of her car, staring, stunned, at the smoldering ruins.

  He pulled up beside her and got out of the car. “Beth, are you all right?”

  She shrugged, then said in a dull monotone, “He stopped us. I knew he would.”

  “You really think Bill Brandon did this?”

  She sighed. “They just found footprints of children’s sneakers. They came in that window.” She pointed to the part of the building that had not burned to the ground. “There was a ladder left behind, and children’s fingerprints all over it.”

  “But I thought Brandon was arrested last night.”

  “The stupid judge refused to give them a warrant.” Her voice was so flat, so calm, that he could hear the defeat there. “Now two people are dead, and those poor kids have this guilt on their heads.”

  He looked around. “Have Larry and Tony been out here?”

  “Yeah, but they’ve gone back to try again to get a warrant.” She looked up at him. “Nick, I’m worried about the kids. What if one of them was burned in the fire? What if they got too close?”

  “I’ll go back to SCCH today,” he said.

  “What good can you do there? They already know you’re onto them.”

  “So I’ve got nothing to lose. If I’m there, he can’t do anything to foil the police’s arrest attempts.”

  “All right,” she said. “Do it. Do whatever you have to.”

  “And you go back to Lynda’s.”

  “No, I can’t. I’ve still got the article on computer. I’m going to take it to the St. Petersburg Times today. Somehow, I’ll convince them to print it.”

  “But you can’t go to your house, now that Bill knows where it is. It’s not safe.”

  “Nick, I have to. I have to get the disks that the story is on.”

  “Then I’ll go with you.”

  She sighed. “All right. Follow me. It’ll just take a minute.”

  She climbed into her car, took a moment to greet Dodger, who had been asleep on the front seat, and cranked her engine. Nick followed her closely all the way home.

  “It’s almost over, Dodger,” she said to the puppy. “The article will still come out, regardless of the fire, and Bill will still get arrested, and Jimmy and Lisa and the other kids will be put in safe homes . . .” She tried to believe what she said as she reached the dirt road leading through the trees to her house—but the truth was, Bill had beaten them all. As, deep down, she had known he would.

  The house looked undisturbed as she pulled up to it and parked. She got out, put Dodger on the ground, and waited as Nick pulled to a halt beside her car.

  Nick insisted on going in first, but Dodger beat him to it. The puppy sniffed around, wagging his tail, and headed for the chew toy lying on the floor. As though he’d never ceased to work on it, he began to chew with his little tail stub wagging.

  “It looks all right,” Nick said. “Then again, somebody could be hiding in your attic and we’d never know. Is your computer upstairs?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I’ll just go up and get the disk . . .”

  “I’ll go first.” He went up the stairs, checked around the corner, then motioned for her to follow. He stood with her as she found the disk and her briefcase, in which she had put a hard copy of the article. “Here it is.”

  “All right, let’s go.”

  She followed him down. “I’ll leave Dodger here, I guess. We can come back for him later.” She checked the puppy’s food supply and water, then locked the door and followed Nick back to her car.

  He leaned over and dropped a kiss on her lips. “I’ll head over to the home, and you call me when you get back from St. Pete. Go to Lynda’s first—not home, okay?”

  “All right. Be careful, Nick.”

  “You too.”

  With Beth’s car in the lead, they headed down the dirt road leading to the street. They were almost to the end of the road when a postal truck turned in. Since the mailman always left Beth’s mail in her box out by the street, she assumed he must have a package for her, so she did a quick U-turn and rolled her window down as she came next to Nick. “It’s a package. I’d better get it.”

  He turned his car around and followed her back.

  She got out just as the postman began to knock on her door.

  “Hi,” she called up to the house. “Is that for me?”

  “Beth Wright?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s an overnight delivery.” He stepped down the porch steps and handed her his clipboard. “Sign here.”

  She could hear Dodger inside, whimpering and scratching to get out. He didn’t like being left any more than she did. She signed the clipboard, then took the package, surprised at the weight of it.

  “Thanks,” the postman said. “You have a nice day.”

  “You too.”


  Dodger began to howl and whine, and rolling her eyes, she shoved the package under one arm. Nick had rolled his window down so he could hear the exchange, and she called back to him, “I have to get Dodger, Nick. He’s having a fit in there.”

  Before he could respond, she stuck the key back into the door and opened it. Dodger panted and jumped up on her calves, as if he hadn’t seen her in weeks. “I was coming back, you silly little thing,”

  she said, bending down to pet him. “I wasn’t leaving you forever.

  Come on, let’s put your leash back on and you can go with me.”

  She headed for the kitchen to get the leash. Dodger took the opportunity to dash outside, and she heard Nick’s car door slam.

  “I’ll get him!” After a second, he brought the squirming puppy back to the door. “Throw me the leash and I’ll walk him. Who’s the package from?”

  “I’m trying to see.” In the kitchen, she took the leash off its hanger and tossed it to Nick. Nick stooped in the doorway and tried to clip it to Dodger’s collar, but he slipped free and bolted into the kitchen, his feet sliding on the hardwood floor.

  She knelt down to make him quit jumping on her, still looking for the return address. She froze as her eyes located the “From” square. “It can’t be.”

  “What?” Nick asked, leaning against the doorjamb to block it if the dog decided to make a break for it again.

  “It’s from Marlene Brandon. The woman who was murdered after she talked to me. But it’s postmarked in St. Clair.” Quickly, she got a knife and began to tear open the wrapping paper as she walked back into the living room. She tore off a strip of it, but the package was heavily taped. The dog frolicked beside her, trying to reach the torn strip hanging down.

  “But this was an overnight package,” Beth said, puzzled. “How could Marlene have mailed it yesterday? She was dead the night before.”

  “Maybe she mailed it before you talked. Maybe the post office just took longer than they should have.”

  She sat down on the couch, and Dodger tried to jump up onto it. She helped him, then slid the box halfway out of the envelope. Had Marlene sent her more documents? Photographs? Tapes?