Thread Of Deceit. Catherine Palmer

eventually the bathrooms. In sad shape, they spoke of hard times in the city. Cracked white wall tiles, missing mirrors, vulgar graffiti scrawled across toilet stalls. Ana gazed at the dank room, thinking of those who had passed through before her, doing their damage, uncaring that others would follow.

      How could Sam Hawke and Terell Roberts possibly pull together enough money to redeem this place? It would take gallons of paint to cover the crude messages. Repairing the floors would cost a fortune. Did the plumbing even work? She hoped so.

      She turned a faucet and let the cool water trickle over her hands. Hope. This was all any of them had. A thin stream of water. A dusty glint of sunlight. A stranger’s hand in the darkness.

      Ana dried her fingers on a tissue from her purse and shouldered her bag. If she hurried, she could get back to the newspaper building before Carl left. She would tell the editor about her interviews and fill him in on her plans for each of the articles. And she would mention the child—the many lost children—who straggled into Haven, put on their white T-shirts and found a place to play or rest for a few hours each day.

      Pausing, she studied herself in the cracked mirror over the sink. Her heart told her to follow these children and learn their stories. Her gut told her to investigate Terell Roberts and find out what was going on behind closed doors at Haven. She could ask Carl for more time, but would he give it?

      She thought of her editor, dipping a doughnut into his coffee and then chewing as his stubby index fingers punched out a memo on his computer keyboard. Carl was an old-school journalist who focused primarily on putting out the paper each day. He hadn’t responded to any of the story ideas she’d left on his desk, so why would he give her time to follow a hunch now?

      But how could she let it go—the invisible child and the too-friendly man and the certainty that not all at Haven was as it seemed? Ana fretted as she climbed the stairs back to the main floor. She couldn’t let it go. She wouldn’t.

      As she passed the office, she spotted Sam Hawke, once again stripping off a sweat-soaked shirt. Unconscious as a lion in the bush, he stretched his long arms. Muscles flexed and rippled. He scratched his chest and gave a careless yawn. Then he reached into his locker for a dry T-shirt and tugged it over his head.

      Ana poked her head through the door. “Hey, Sam.”

      He swung around, recognized her, flashed a look of surprise followed quickly by annoyance. “Are you still here?”

      “It’s Flora.”

      “Huh?”

      “The little girl in the corner. Flora.” Giving him a wave of fingernails, she turned away.

       He pressed the phone to his ear and tried to keep his voice light. “So, Stu, what’s going on up there? Any more news on our friend?”

       “It’s what we thought. Busted. They caught him. All the papers have the story. TV, too. It’s everywhere.”

       Swirling his martini, he watched the olive rotate at the bottom of his glass. “Do they have any idea if anyone else is involved?”

       “No leads. At least that’s what they’re saying.” The silence on the other end broke as Stu cleared his throat. “Uh, the Feds…they’ve taken his computer. And his file cabinets.”

       “But there won’t be any trouble with that. You set things up the way I told you, right?”

       “I did what you said.” Heavy breathing. “Look, I’m getting nervous. I can’t have anyone poking around here. My wife…she wouldn’t understand at all. She’d leave me, and I couldn’t handle that. She’d take the house and the car. I’d have nothing left. I mean…I just wouldn’t want to go on, you know?”

       “You want me to have a pity party for you, Stu? If you did what I told you to do, you don’t have to worry. Everything will be fine. You’re not lying to me, are you?”

       “No, no.”

       He took a sip of his drink, savoring the burn as it traveled down his throat. Of course he shouldn’t have relied on Stu to do things right. He ought to have set up the whole thing himself instead of trusting someone else to help out. This was exactly what happened every time he counted on people to keep their end of a bargain. They let him down. They lied to him.

       “Look, Stu, I’ve been thinking about moving the operation,” he said. “I might even retire. I could use a break.”

       “Retire?”

       “This whole thing is beginning to bore me. Besides, I don’t need the stress.” He took another swallow of the martini and wondered when the alcohol would kick in. His head was killing him, and he’d had stomach problems the past couple of days. Of course, he’d hardly been able to eat, so it wasn’t surprising.

       “What about the clients?” Stu asked. “We’ve got six on the waiting list.”

       “I don’t care about the clients,” he snapped. “I care about clearing out my house, because I don’t believe a word you said about setting up the safeguards in Springfield.”

       “I did! I swear it.”

       “Good. Then you won’t have any problem taking the product that’s in storage here. Drive down tonight, and I’ll meet you at—”

       “I can’t do that! What if someone’s tailing me? What if they’re watching my house? They could follow me.”

       “You idiot. You didn’t set it up, did you?”

       “I tried, but—”

       “You’d better be here tonight to take these things off my hands, Stu.”

       “Don’t talk to me that way. Please. I can’t handle your threats. Ever since this started, I’ve been really down, okay? I mean today…this afternoon…I got out my gun. If things get too hot, I don’t think I can take it.”

       “Look, Stu, can you get here tonight or not?”

       He heard a sniffle on the other end. “I’ll check with the client. I have to make sure I can work the transfer. I’ll do my best.”

       “You owe me, Stu. You owe me everything.”

       “Okay, okay. I’ll call you later.”

       Fool! He dropped the phone into his pocket and slammed his fists on the arms of the chair. This was so typical. Stu was just like all the others—clients and colleagues—thinking only of themselves and what they could get out of him. If trouble erupted, it would be Stu’s fault, that pathetic liar.

       No one understood how hard it had been to set everything up. The whole process functioned like clockwork, and all because of his careful planning. He had figured it out, he had put it in place and he ought to reap the benefits.

       Instead, he was spending every waking moment watching his back. If the Feds tracked him down, it would all be over. They would make an example out of him, as they had before. Holding him up like some kind of monkey on display. As though what he did was wrong. They had no idea the service he provided. The good that came of his efforts. It wasn’t only his clients who benefited. Certainly not, but you couldn’t explain that.

       It was an economy, and he played the role of the middleman. The producer reaped a huge harvest. And the client gained immeasurably. He was only doing his part to facilitate the process.

       He downed the final mouthful of his drink. Time for another trip to his special closet. It was the only way he would get any peace.

      Sam stepped out of his office and glanced at the small child nestled in the far corner of the recreation center. Flora. Somehow Ana Burns had gotten the little girl to speak. To give her name. How many times had Sam looked at the child, one of so many he couldn’t reach? Across the room, her dark eyes studied him, pinned him.

      Accused him.