Drowning Barbie (8 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Leota Blevins had lived in Virginia Beach since her thirtieth birthday—after the breakup of a disastrous affair with an ex-Marine. The affair had invoked the disapproval of her cousins and grandmother, and the upshot had not been pleasant. She'd returned to Old Dominion University after a five-year lapse and received her Bachelor of Library Science degree. She moved to the shore and took her first—and so far only— job as an assistant librarian in Little Creek, a position she'd filled for almost two decades. Any chance of promotion was blocked because her immediate superior was eight years younger than she. And as Leota's inquiries about openings elsewhere evinced no interest from any other library, and because her boss did not seem interested in leaving, she'd settled in to making a career in eastern Virginia. After her fiftieth birthday she had abandoned all hope of an alternative venue and started to count the days until she had accumulated enough time and age to start drawing a modest pension. Social Security would come soon after—that is if the system didn't collapse from years of being raided by a Congress eager to spend other people's money.

She also had cousins in Picketsville—Flora and Arlene, who ran a diner. They rarely spoke and never exchanged Christmas or birthday cards or, indeed, correspondence of any sort. The coolness in their relationship stemmed from two unrelated occurrences that happened at about the same time. One had to do with a dispute over a set of Spode china each claimed their mutual grandmother had wanted them to have and a misunderstanding about funeral arrangements. Then, of course, there was the problem of the ex-Marine. They never spoke of that either. As all these events are intertwined in that part of their collective consciousness where emotion and often-rash decisions are made, there would be no resolution. Leota turned her back on her family and settled in the east, as far from them as she could manage.

On this particular Monday afternoon, Leota sat in her pickup, its motor idling, as she wondered if she had made the right decision about the girl and if she ought to retrace her route westward again. Perhaps she should have given Flora more of a heads-up. Dumping the girl on her without any warning would not sit well with the eldest of the cousins. Then, had she thought through what she'd done? Should she have taken her back to Picketsville at all? Of course, the child needed to be told about what happened to her, but in the end, what good could come from that? She had not bothered the caseworker, since that person had not been any help before.

The girl, Darla, had not come to live with Leota of her own free will, exactly. A representative of the commonwealth's Child Protective Services office had offered the child an either/or choice. Go to jail or be placed in one of the foster homes known to service incorrigible children. Leota knew the girl's history, and knew that she had been the victim for most of it, and therefore had done nothing to warrant the label incorrigible. But, like it or not, her checkered past landed her there. As luck would have it, Leota heard that the case was in process and knew the remanding official. She persuaded the official to place Darla with her, with the promise that Leota would provide both the care and the security the child required. So, Darla had not been sent to the stringently regulated home she was destined for, to join those like her with similar and nearly always misunderstood histories. In a very real way, Leota thought of the girl as the daughter she might have had.

Leota became distressed after she'd coerced a summer intern into hacking into the court's sealed records and discovered Ethyl Smut had petitioned the court to re-hear her custody claims. The thought of the girl falling back into that woman's hands was unthinkable. What kind of society would ever entertain that possibility for even a minute?

Well, Leota's promise to provide security had been breached. The girl was gone, so Leota dutifully reported her as missing to the caseworker. So sorry. Now what?

***

Ike did a double take at the entrance. Darcie Billingsly had settled into the dispatcher's desk. For years he had always glanced to his right, waved to Essie or Rita and walked to his office. Not Essie—Darcie. She had the headset on and was busy chatting with one of the patrolling deputies. If Ike had to guess who, it would be Chester Franklin. The year before, Chester's wife had emptied the joint bank account and run off, they said, with a twenty-five-year-old fitness guru. Chester was left alone with two teenagers, payments on a new Chevy Silverado which also went missing, and a mortgage. Darcie, on the other hand, had finally put the death of her husband, Whaite, behind her, and she and Chester had connected at the office Christmas party. Shortly thereafter, Chester had stopped making payments on the truck.

Romance.

Ike shook his head. Maybe he and Ruth could share whoever they could persuade to do the honors and have a double wedding. What had he and Ruth been thinking? They hadn't been thinking, that's what.

Rita, now officially off duty and on overtime, she hoped, plunked down in Ike's only other chair.

“Okay, what do you want to know about Ethyl Smut?”

“What do I need to know, Rita? The woman is dead. I have the impression she was disliked by any and all, and that no one who knew her is surprised or even cares that she's dead. There is also the daughter and her troubles. I don't know why I don't know either of their stories, but I don't.”

“You probably don't know because most of her sorry crap went down while you were away doing whatever it was that nobody around here talks about but everybody knows was for the government. And then she dropped out of sight for a while. Her daughter is a different story and one I can only guess at, on account of nobody talks about that either. So, we're dealing with rumors and outright lies.”

“Wow. Okay, start where you want. I need as much as I can get and for now I'll even take the lies with the truth.”

“Okay, let's start with the girl. Remember, a lot of this is hearsay. People don't like to talk about stuff like this.”

“What kind of stuff?'

“Child sexual abuse kind of stuff. Remember, Ike, this isn't the big city and we are not so calloused about things as those folk are. We still hold onto old values and standards—is that what I want to say? You know what I mean. We haven't caught up to Hollywood yet. Some things are just plain evil and that's that.”

“I hear you. So the ‘abuse' mentioned in the files wasn't just assault and battery of someone, the child?”

“Not even close. I'll get to that in a second. So, okay, Ethyl lived hard and fast even before she started doing drugs. Once she discovered methamphetamine the world changed for her and everyone around her. She got mixed up with that ex-Marine, Mark somebody, and the next thing you know, she had a baby, a daughter. That is when it really got bad. I mean it's one thing to sell yourself for a hit or two, another to pimp out your daughter.”

“She traded her daughter for smack?”

“Smack, glass, whatever you call it now and anything else that was moving down the highway from Baltimore and Washington or up from Norfolk. If it blew your mind, Ethyl smoked it, snorted it, shot it, or drank it. Back then I swear she'd shoot up with diesel fuel or talcum powder if she thought it would get her high. So, yeah, from the time the kid was seven or eight, Ethyl allowed as how the girl was available for the right price. Do you have any idea how many men lust after little girls?”

“Yes, and I wish I didn't.”

“Whatever number you may have heard it's probably on the low side. Hell, even one is too many. They say that the poor kid was raped for most of her young life just to keep Ethyl on a perpetual high.”

“What happened to the girl?”

“Darla? She up and disappeared a few years ago. Some say she got picked up by the children's bureau, some say she died. Some say she ran away to Chicago or D.C. I don't know. All I know is Ethyl was mad as hell that her meal ticket, you could say, had vanished.”

“So, nobody knows where the kid is?”

“If she's alive, somebody knows. If they're a friend of hers, they won't be telling, though. I sure wouldn't. She's been through bloody hell. And on the other hand, if they're one of the legions of abusers, rapists, and perverts who went after her, then she's probably dead. There is no way they would want her around to testify against them. As for the girl, there's a limit to how much of that crap a body can stand before it just shuts down.”

“Voice of experience?”

“I had to bury a second cousin last year, and her life before taking up residence in the cemetery, was a hayride compared to Darla Smut's, believe me.”

“I'm sorry. And the old lady…what's her story? The part not covered by the awfulness she perpetrated on her child.”

“Like I said, she got mixed up with drugs early on. Like most druggies, her brains were scrambled so you could argue she didn't really know what she was doing to the kid. I don't buy that, of course, but some lawyer in a thousand-dollar suit, like the one who sprung George LeBrun, might make a case for it. That's the other thing. Ethyl was one of his customers and paid for some of her drugs by being a distributor.”

“She hustled drugs?”

“She hustled drugs, her kid, and her own ass to stay afloat, pardon my French. George, they say, had a thing with her before her face fell apart, then he started raping the kid instead.”

“Lovely man. And he's out of the slammer.”

“With his taxpayer-supplied new teeth and waiting for a new trial, yep.”

“And Essie is in hiding. Anything else I should know about any of the players in this sordid drama?”

“I'll let you know if I think of anything…and sordid don't cover the half of it.”

“Are there any pictures of the girl?”

“I don't have any, but I can ask around. There should be one or two somewhere. Check your mug shots. The girl had to come across the desk here once or twice. You could also check with the child welfare folks. If she wandered into their system, they might know where she landed. Oh, and check with Flora Blevins at the diner. She used to be tight with Smuts. She might have a snap or two.”

“She told me she's the girl's godmother.”

“There you go.”

“She's not talking.”

“That's Flora.”

Ike thanked Rita and waved her out the door. What an awful story. Could a mother really do such a thing to her child? He knew of a few fathers who might, but a mother? He needed to talk to Flora again.

A quick check in the files failed to produce a picture of any sort. Curious, that. Did someone just fail to file them, fail to take them, or were they removed for some reason, perhaps because she was a juvenile? Ike shook his head. Things were not getting easier.

Chapter Seventeen

“We're going to Picketsville. Pack for a couple of days and don't forget to lock up your piece.”

Samantha Hedrick looked up from her real estate brochures and stared at her husband. The baby slept in her lap having pretty well drained both sides, so to speak. “Picketsville? Piece? What on earth are you talking about, Karl?”

“I'll explain later. Let's just say I stepped into a pile of organic fertilizer left for me a decade ago by a couple of hot-shot agents with more ambition than patience.”

“I guess that makes sense in some language. Next time could you try English?”

“A body found in the woods outside Picketsville should have been in the Atlantic Ocean and is causing a major case of the vapors for some of my senior colleagues. I am tasked to make it all better.”

“Well, okay, I think. Where will we stay?”

“Stay?”

“Um…yeah, stay. We are travelling to the Shenandoah Valley and you did say I should pack. So where will we sleep, eat, bathe, you know live temporarily?”

“I guess we could find a motel.”

“Karl, you guess we could find a…You want me and the baby to hole up in a motel for, what did you say, a couple of days? And you will be doing something which sounds like a major clusterfudge and then all will be fine? Sorry, but as my dad used to say, ‘That dog don't hunt.' How about this? Martin and I stay in here D.C. while you travel south to Picketsville for a few days and do whatever it is you're going to do. Say hello to all the gang for me while you're there.”

“I thought you'd want to see Essie and Ike and the rest.”

“I would, I do, but not operating out of a motel room that you guess we might find. We have a baby to manage here, Karl. Diapers, baby food, and bags of things that he needs plus all the stuff you and I will need. Unless there is a meteorite headed this way, and this is an emergency evacuation from the D.C. area, we can do better than guessing we might find a motel room.”

Karl had a suitcase open on the living room couch and was staring at it the way a kitten will stare at its own image the first time it encounters a mirror—not quite sure what to do next. Sam watched as she imagined he made a mental list of items that should go into the case. At least that is what she hoped he had in mind. With Karl, you could never be sure.

“What? Karl, you pack a suitcase in the bedroom. That's where the clothes are.”

“I know, I know, it's just that I thought that you would…”

“I would what? Want to visit our friends in Picketsville? Of course I do. But Karl…oh, never mind.” Sam picked up her smartphone and scrolled through her directory. She punched the call icon and waited. “No answer at Billy and Essie's. They must be at work. I'll try Dorothy.”

“Dorothy?”

“Yes, Dorothy. Dorothy Sutherlin…Billy's mom. We could stay with her if she'll have us. She has a huge house and she'll want to see the baby anyway.”

“Dorothy Sutherlin?”

“Men!”

***

Dorothy Sutherlin's next-to-youngest, Billy, picked up Ike's call on his way to the drugstore. Ike told him what he already knew: that George LeBrun had somehow finagled a new trial and had made bond. He also knew that Essie had more than likely lit out, and he told Ike that he would either join her or bring her back. He also said he had a pretty good idea where she might be holed up. But he needed to stop at a drugstore first.

“Yeah, whatever, Billy, but—”

“Not to worry, Ike. I know the drill. I'm on it.”

“Okay. Do you want TAK to run a check on Essie's credit cards to see where she might be headed?”

“She won't be using them. As far as she's concerned, LeBrun can track them too. It ain't true, but where it comes to that guy, Essie is, like, super paranoid. No, she won't touch them.”

“How will you find her?”

“She has a friend who runs a place outside of Bristol. That's where she's going.”

“You're sure?”

“Back before we were married, you know, when she was, you could say, more of a free spirit, and things with her old lady were sometimes not so hot—or maybe just to get away from whatever was eating at her—she always went to ground down there.”

“Okay, you're the boss on this one, but you know she's better off up here where we can all keep an eye out rather than tucked away someplace where we can't possibly get help to her in time. I can tell you, and this is from personal experience, that hiding where no one can find you—including your friends—while bad guys are looking for you is definitely not a good idea.”

“Ike, I'll bring her back if I can, but it'll take some doing. I reckon she's pretty well spooked. Actually I reckon I am too.” Billy hung up and went into the drugstore.

There were simple survival things the two of them needed no matter where they rode out the storm that the release of George LeBrun had roiled up. And the drugstore was next door to the hardware store and the hardware store sold shotgun shells.

The sun had set by the time he knocked on the door of unit fourteen of the Wayside Motel, a stopover favored by truckers and salesmen traveling on per diem
and short of cash, or with tapped out credit cards. He heard a stirring inside.

“Essie, honey, it's me. Open up.”

Essie's voice was muffled but he heard her ask if he was alone. The window curtain twitched and he caught a glimpse of the blue-gray barrel of his old service revolver flick it back.

“It's just me, Babe, open up.”

The door opened a crack and one large blue eye peered out.

“See, it's just me. No gun on my back. No George LeBrun fixing to kill us both. Not anymore.”

Essie swung the door open just wide enough to grab his shirtfront and pull him in. She slammed it shut and locked it in one continuous motion.

“What are we going to do?” The panic in Essie's voice could have etched glass.

“We're going back to Picketsville. We are not going to let that sumbitch LeBrun run our lives. Get your things, Babe. We're bigger than this.”

“He wants to kill us, Billy. He said if he ever had the chance, he would find me and kill me.”

“Well, in the first place, he ain't found you. In the second place there is going to be so much security around you he won't get within ten miles 'fore he's looking down the barrel of Ike's .357 Magnum. So, we will be just fine.”

“He has people.”

“And we have more. Listen, who do you think is the scariest dude in a situation like this, Ike or LeBrun? If I'm LeBrun, I don't get in Ike's crosshairs ever. And don't forget, Danny is home on a two-week pass. He's even worse news for LeBrun than Ike. He's family.”

“Danny is a SEAL. He could be off on a mission inside five minutes of getting to the house.”

“Until our bad guy is back in the jailhouse, he ain't going nowhere.”

“You don't know that.”

“Essie, nobody, not LeBrun or any of his brain-dead friends, is going to get within shouting distance of you or me. He'll be back on death row before the week is out.”

Billy took her by the shoulder. “Look at me, Essie. Everybody thinks we're hiding out down here, shaking in our boots. It ain't true, but that's what they think. Hell, back awhile, maybe they'd be right. I thought about it all the way down here. But not now. Nobody's going to make me live like a rat in a hole. You neither. The way it sits now, you're covered.”

“You promise?”

“Cross my heart.”

Essie stared wide-eyed at her husband. She blinked twice, grabbed her as-yet-unpacked bag, and took his arm.

“Let's go, then. I feel safe here only when I am sure nobody knows I'm here. I mean Cindy didn't even register me, you know. But the thought of days without you, and then things like how do I shop for the baby had me in a bind. You're sure we're okay back home?”

“Between me, Danny, Frank, Ike, and Henry—”

“Henry?”

“Well, maybe not Henry. He's more of a lover than a fighter. But you'd be surprised at that boy and what he'd do in a pinch.”