Thread Of Deceit. Catherine Palmer

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