The Snake Tattoo (26 page)

“I know, Valerie.”

“Sure.” She pressed her lips tightly shut as if the one bitter word had escaped without her permission.

“I read your notebook.”

“Shit,” she said. “I mean, did Geoff pass it around? I mean, the cops and that shrink … Does everybody know about me?”

“No,” I said. “No.”

“It's not my nose or my arm or my teeth,” she said. “If you read my stupid notebook, you know that. I wish to hell I'd never written it down, never passed it in—”

“Listen to me, Valerie. You didn't do anything wrong. Your father—” she winced when I said the word. I repeated it. “Your father did a terrible thing to you. But you didn't do anything wrong by telling.”

“You don't understand—” she began, her voice getting louder, her cheeks reddening.

“Not unless you tell me,” I agreed quietly.

She bit her lower lip with her teeth and closed her eyes. I waited until she opened them. “He was my dad,” she said, haltingly at first, then picking up speed. “And I loved him. You know. I wanted him to be happy—” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And what you ought to know about me, what everybody ought to know—is that sometimes I wanted it. I mean, I enjoyed it. It was like being better than my mom, and he depended on me—so it's not like I'm normal or anything—I
asked
for it, and it's my fault he's dead—”

“How old were you, Valerie? When it started?”

“I don't remember,” she murmured. “When I was real little he'd just, you know, just touch me. And he'd say how good I felt, and how much he loved me, and how special I was. And how Mommy was sick and I could help her by being the secret Mommy. But it had to be our special secret. I could never, never tell.”

“Valerie, you were a child. You had no choice—”

“Later, I didn't want to. I didn't want him to get on top. It hurt, and I knew it wasn't right, but he loved me so much—and now he's dead and it's my fault—”

“No,” I said firmly, trying to catch her eye, to hold it, to burn the words home. “Don't ever say that. Don't ever think that, Valerie.”

I put my hand over hers the way I had while we waited for the ambulance, and she cried, tears running unchecked down her face, sliding into the white pillows under her head.

“And then there's Geoff,” she said, gulping through her tears. “Geoff tried to help me and—” She was off on a fresh round of sobbing. I found a box of tissues and handed them to her.

When she'd composed herself a little I asked, “You want a glass of water or anything?”

“No,” she said. “I didn't mean to cry.”

“It's okay,” I said.

“It's like all I do.” She wadded used tissues in her hands. “All I do is cry.”

“It's okay,” I repeated. Then after a long pause, punctuated by her sniffles and gulps, I said, “If you want to, talk about Geoff, that's okay, too.”

“What about him?”

“Anything,” I said. “Anything you want to tell me.”

“Did you know him?”

“I met him,” I said.

“He was so handsome, wasn't he?” she said, staring at the television screen. “And he always wanted us to talk to him, to tell him stuff, to tell him secrets and stuff, things we wouldn't tell anybody else. He had a game we used to play in class, a truth game, where you'd have to tell something truthful about yourself, something you'd never told anybody before. He said it would build trust, you know.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“I liked him. He seemed so, you know, interested in me, like he could see something in me that nobody else could.”

How attractive that must have been, I thought. Being special to a man who looked like Geoffrey Reardon.

“I couldn't say anything about, you know,
anything
in class,” she said. “I wouldn't, but more and more, I'd think about telling him, and then I wrote it in my notebook. I wasn't gonna pass it in. I just wrote it. I don't know what I was thinking. And then he said I'd fail if I didn't hand it in right then, and I just did. It was like I couldn't stand it anymore. I needed him to know. But then I couldn't face him—”

“So you ran away.”

“Yeah.”

I said, “You ran away because of Jerry Toland, too, right? Because he kissed you?”

“I thought he was my friend, but—”

“He hired me to find you.”

“Not my—my, uh, dad?”

“No.”

“Oh,” she said.

“A lot of people care about you, Valerie,” I said.

“I got Geoff killed,” she said. “That's my fault, too.” Her words came out in a low flat whisper. She wasn't crying, but her chest shook. She probably didn't have any tears left.

I thought about Geoff Reardon, urging his students' confidences, expecting nothing he couldn't handle. I wondered how he justified his prying. Once he got his students to tell their stories, to own up to their truths, what did he expect? If a kid fell apart under the weight of all that knowledge, did he know how to put her back together again? Or was he practicing psychiatry without a license?

Like me.

“Your father killed Geoff Reardon,” I said. “You had no control over what your father did.”

“I got my father killed.”

“But it was never your fault. Not for the tiniest moment. Not for one second. You did the right thing. You had to tell somebody.” I wished that Reardon had handled her confidence differently, gone straight to some school psychologist.…

“Valerie,” I went on when she didn't say a thing, “let me use a real cornball word here. You know what you are? You're a hero.”

“Heroine,” she said.

“Nah,” I said. “It always sounds watered down that way. You went back to that house to rescue your little sister. You protected her from your father. You're a hero. A secret hero if that's the way you want it to be, but a hero.”

“I don't want to be a stupid hero.”

“I know,” I said. “But sometimes you don't get a choice.”

A nurse came in with orange juice and a hypo, and asked me what I thought I was doing. Visiting hours had not yet begun and I would have to leave immediately. She was of the old school, immaculately white-clad, her cap rigged at battle tilt. Not a woman to trifle with.

“I'll be back, Valerie,” I promised, squeezing her good right hand.

Tears were running down her cheeks and I'm not sure she heard me. I hoped they were cleansing tears, but I knew she needed more help than I could give her, help for the rest of her life.

CHAPTER 35

Mooney dropped by about eight that evening, in time to catch the Twin Brothers on their way out. I was actually shaking their hands, congratulating them on a job well done—uttering words of praise I thought would never pass from my lips to their ears. Roz, her hair a strange new shade of orange, was beaming.

“Great job,” I said to Rodney. “Really.”

“Sorry about the, uh, water damage—” George said.

“Yeah, well,” I said, “no sweat. Get your truck fixed.”

That's when Mooney pounded up the walk and rang the bell and put an end to our fond farewells. He was wearing full-dress uniform and it took Roz and the boys by surprise.

“Hi,” he said. “You busy?”

Roz went out to the truck with the Brothers, who suddenly remembered an urgent need to depart. Cop uniforms affect a lot of people that way. Roz was murmuring something about throwing an “opening” for the bathroom. I'd already vetoed the idea.

“Come on in,” I said to Mooney. “How'd the hearing go?”

“Not bad,” he said.

“Yeah?” I smiled with real pleasure. Mooney's voice was back to its normal growl, the tightness gone. He looked as if he'd lost ten pounds and five years.

“That Janine was some witness,” he said.

“Talkative?”

Mooney said, “Seems like Manelli and Janine had a thing going. She knew he was on the outs with me, because of the bar scam and all, and when she saw the fight, she thought of a way to make Manelli happy. Thought he'd be grateful.”

“And he was,” I said.

“Yeah. He was protecting the Blue Note so he didn't have any trouble shutting up the regulars there. But Janine figured she'd done enough. She didn't want to stay incommunicado for months while the cops searched for her. She wanted to work. Manelli wouldn't let her and she was pissed. And an angry witness—”

“Is a good witness,” I finished. “Want to sit down?”

“Sure,” he said. “You had dinner?”

“I think so,” I said. “Tell the truth, I'm not sure.”

I sank into Aunt Bea's rocker for the second time in a week. Maybe I was getting used to the fact that she wasn't going to need it again. Mooney tried the couch and T.C. came over and sniffed his well-polished shoe with some disdain. T.C. is not crazy about Mooney. It's that competitive thing he has with other males.

“How's the girl doing?” Mooney asked.

I shrugged.

“Does she know about Reardon?” he asked.

“Well,” I said, “yes and no. She knows he's dead. She knows her dad probably killed him. The Lincoln police sent some fibers and hairs and stuff to the State Lab, evidence that proves Haslam was in Reardon's car. She doesn't know that Reardon tried to help her by blackmailing her dad. I mean, she may have to know someday, but not now. As far as I'm concerned, she needs to believe that somebody stood up for her—”

“Yeah,” Mooney said. “The truth will set you free.”

“How free?” I said.

“Speaking of free.” He reached over and scratched behind T.C.'s ears. “I'll bet you didn't deposit my check.”

“Ah, Mooney,” I said. “Do we have to start this again?”

T.C. rumbled, his version of a purr.

“Look,” Mooney said, “you found her. I owe you.”

“Forget it, Mooney.”

“Did you get paid for finding Valerie?”

“Two checks in the mail this morning,” I said. “And guess who wrote one?”

“The father?”

“Nope. No hands from the grave on this one. The mother. Mathilde Haslam.”

“Good for her,” Mooney said. “At least she did something. She send a note or anything?”

“Nope,” I said. “I mean, what could she say?”

“Yeah,” Mooney said. “Well, money talks.”

“Agreed.”

“She pay well?”

“Very, and then I got a check from Jerry, the kid who hired me in the first place. His family's taking care of Valerie's little sister. Just when I think I've got it straight—all people are rotten—somebody comes along and proves me wrong.”

“Keeps you off balance,” Mooney said.

“Yeah, well, between the two checks, I ought to be able to add a little to Paolina's college fund. And since I found Janine while I was looking for Valerie, consider me paid.”

“It doesn't feel right,” he said. “But thanks.”

“You're welcome,” I said, and I tried to get him to join me in a smile.

“The Vietnamese guy?” I guessed when he didn't respond.

“Yeah,” he said. “I was just over there, at the hospital.”

“And?”

“The wife doesn't blame me. Poor kid. She blames herself.”

“And the doctors?”

“Doctors,” Mooney said, the way he might say “bookies” or “thieves.” “What the hell do they really know?”

“The guy's alive, Mooney,” I said. “Alive is a good sign.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I guess.” He loosened his regulation tie, yanked the knot down about five inches, and opened the top button of his uniform shirt.

“Beer?” I asked.

“In a minute.”

“Thought much about staying on the force?” I asked.

“It's all I think about,” he said.

“Give it a chance, Moon,” I said. “Who knows? You might like it.”

“And besides,” he said, poker-faced, “I have so many other marketable skills.”

“Mooney,” I said after a while. “You ever shoot anybody and not feel bad about it?”

“I haven't shot a lot of people,” he said. “Thank God.”

“I keep thinking about Haslam. The man was sick, to do that to his own child, but—”

“Yeah,” Mooney said, “but.”

“I hate thinking I killed some guy who couldn't help doing what he did. But dammit, what he did was so wrong—and Valerie was so goddamned defenseless—”

“Carlotta,” Mooney said. “At least for the girl's sake, it's probably better he's dead.”

“You think so?”

“Think about the trial,” he said. “Shit.”

“Yeah.” I hadn't told Mooney about firing Haslam's gun. The Lincoln cops hadn't questioned the shootout story.

“Hey,” I said. “You want that drink now?”

“Sure,” he said, tailing me into the kitchen.

“What the hell happened?” he said, as soon as he looked around.

“Oh, you mean the ceiling?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“The plumbers,” I said.

“The guys who left when I came in?”

“Yeah.”

“They looked familiar.”

“Friends of Roz,” I said.

“Looks pretty bad.” He stared up at the peeling paint.

“Well, yes and no,” I said. “It's all fixed. I've just gotta scrape it and paint it. Roz volunteered to do it, except I'm afraid she'll paint the ceiling black or something. I was pretty upset when it happened, but they did an absolutely terrific job upstairs. New tub, new sink. Roz designed it, and damn if it isn't gorgeous.”

“This I have to see,” Mooney said.

“Okay,” I said. “Bring your beer.”

Mooney's never been upstairs in my house before. I wasn't sure if it was a good precedent, but, really, I was so damned pleased about the bathroom I only gave it a passing thought.