When She Flew (25 page)

“Mm-hmm, mm-hmm,” he said into the phone. “Okeydo key.”He hung up and looked at her. “Until you either A: tell us where they are, or B: bring them in, you’re on administrative leave. And if you do neither by noon, he’s pushing forward with an investigation. He’s pissed, and he’s not going to let you add yet another black mark against the department, not on his watch. They’ll haul you in to question you on the Wiggses’ whereabouts, Jess, under oath, and I wouldn’t be surprised if this turns into a criminal investigation. They’ll throw it all at you: kidnapping, endangerment. Trying to smooth things over this late in the game isn’t going to help a thing. It doesn’t matter where they’re living now. None of it matters because the game we’re playing here is political. I suggest you calm down, think straight, and consider this your last chance. Do the right thing.”

“That’s what I am doing,” she said. She wanted to argue how stupid it all was, to storm out at the very least, but she knew Everett had a soft spot; she’d just been wrong about how to find it.

She lowered her voice. “You were there last night, Sarge. You saw how they are together; you know they’re all each other has. They’re doing pretty good, don’t you think, under the circumstances? Don’t you see we could put a positive spin on this, finally get some good PR? ‘Columbia Police keep family together.’ Bringing Ray and Lindy in now, under all this public scrutiny, isn’t going to be the best thing, not for anyone.”

“Do I have to remind you who brought the goddamn public scrutiny on? The media is having a fucking field day.”

“What?”she said.“Come on, that’s not fair. You know it wasn’t me. It was that little prick Greiner and his huge ego. And I’m the one being skewered by the press. You think I’m enjoying it?”

Everett folded his arms across his chest. He was too far gone; there was no way to reach whatever humanity was left inside him.

“So, tell me this,” she snapped. “Who gave out my private cell phone number?”

He shrugged. “Could’ve been anyone. It’s on the roster.” He was the calm one now, believing he had her, believing he was the victor.

“Fine,” Jess said. “You know what? I welcome an investigation. Fucking subpoena me. And the chief isn’t the only one who can have a press conference.” She looked at her watch. It was a few minutes after eleven.

“Ah, Jesus, Villareal.” He looked weary. “Fine. If you don’t need anything from your locker, I’ll walk you to the exit.”

“And then get back to your golf game?”

“And I’ll need your badge and your weapon.”

“I don’t have them on me,” she lied.

“Officer.”

She drew a breath, then reached inside her purse for her badge, unholstered her weapon, and laid both on his desk.

Everett came around the desk and took her arm, cordially almost. They walked out into the hall, both silent, then down the stairs. Jess could feel eyes peering from doorways and cubicles, whispers shushing. They passed the female newbie as they exited the secured area; the young cop looked away.

Why won’t you just help me?
she wanted to ask the sergeant, surprised at the surge of sadness it brought on. What did she expect from him? He was doing his job, but he seemed a different person from who he’d been in the woods the night before. He’d tried to make sure their decision was fair; he’d treated Ray with respect when he could have just hauled him in like a common lowlife. He’d had fleeting moments of humanness that seemed to suggest he wasn’t all badge, but he was buckling under, caving to the chief ’s bluster, his vanity. The last thing Gleason wanted was bad press, and both he and Everett were willing to sacrifice a kid to avoid it.

Jess blinked back tears, hoping the sergeant wouldn’t notice.
I want one man in my life to not let me down,
she thought, then groaned at herself, at the cliché all this was. Why did it always come back to her dad, to wanting a man to be on her side? The sergeant looked at her and she turned her head, swallowing against the raw saltiness in her throat. It was worse than that: she wanted a man to protect her, to tell the world:
She’s right, goddamn it, so leave her alone
.

At the front door, Everett let go of her arm. “You’ve got an hour to think this over, Jess. You’re a good cop. We need you.”

“Yeah,” she said, “you’ve got that right.” She pulled the door open and walked into the blare of sun, ignoring the bustle of reporters and cameras around her. She rounded the side of the building, feeling like a beekeeper in the middle of a swarm, and headed toward the lone female reporter who leaned against the KORB satellite truck talking on her cell phone. She looked up, saw Jess approaching, and snapped her phone shut, called to her crew. The sidewalk became a hive, buzzing, regrouping, the drones all tightening the circle around the two women.

“Do you want to do this privately?” the woman asked.

You wish,
Jess thought, and shook her head. She’d just wanted a female face, a female presence to talk to. Her mouth went dry. Her vision blurred. Her purse vibrated against her side.

“Okay, listen up,” she said in her cop voice, surprising herself. “I’m only going to do this once, so you all better get it right.” She looked up; Everett watched from his window. She turned her attention back to the crowd, took a deep breath, and began.

27

I
sat alone in the apartment for a long time, staring at the dark television set and the reflection of me in it. The peacocks had gone silent. The breeze had stilled. It was bright outside, brittle with sun, and inside it was starting to get hot. I watched my head and shoulders and arms in the TV-set glass, moving my head one way, then the other, one shoulder up, then the other. I looked like a child in the big chair. I’d never known my head was so small, my hair so flat against it. I tried running my fingers through it to comb it and fluff it up, but it fell limp against my cheeks. I had sweat beneath my arms, down my back, and behind my knees. I never perspired this much in the forest, with its cool breezes and dark patches of shade.

I wasn’t sure what to do. Should I unpack as John said, or would we even be staying for very long? I wanted to hang up my new dress and look at it in the closet. I wished Pater would come tell me what was going on. I considered walking up to the big house to find him, but I didn’t know if I was supposed to. Was it okay if I went back outside? I didn’t know, so I just kept sitting there. I was getting tired of looking at myself.

My stomach gurgled; I was hungry. It seemed like the food was for us, but without Pater saying so, I couldn’t be sure, so I tried to think about something else.

I tried not to think about what they said on the television. I put my hand in my front pocket, felt Officer Villareal’s card safe in there. She’d written her home number on it, and her cell phone number, and her address at home, and told me to call her anytime, for whatever reason, even if it was only to say hello. She said she didn’t think we’d be seeing each other again, but if I ever needed anything . . . She didn’t say the rest, but I knew what she meant. Reverend Rosetta had told me the same thing, and I guessed they both meant if something ever happened to Pater.

I’d never thought before about what would happen if he weren’t with me anymore. What if he’d been arrested? What if he disappeared one day, or (and I knew it was burn-in-hell bad to think this) what if he died? I’d never believed anything bad could happen to him, or to me when I was with him. He wore Uncle Robbie’s war medal on a chain inside his shirt, and it kept us safe from bad things. But just like with the svastika, I was starting to realize you couldn’t count on such things to keep you safe. Seemed to me you had to do that for yourself, somehow.

I got up and looked out the window toward the house. Reverend Rosetta’s minivan was gone now, and the big motorcycle. Where was Pater? Surely he wasn’t in that big house alone with the two men. He would never be comfortable having to talk to them alone. I guessed that he was walking the property, checking the boundaries, like he did every day up in the forest, trying to make sure we were safe.

I went into the kitchen to look at the clock on the stove. It wasn’t even eleven. Lunch wouldn’t be for an hour yet. I opened the refrigerator door and looked at all the food. I was so hungry. I looked behind me, then reached inside for the bag of bread. If I took a piece from the middle, maybe no one would notice. I untwisted the tie, reached down inside to pull out a piece. It was soft and spongy, not like the dry, rough bread we always got from behind the natural food co-op, the stuff that was too old to sell. I pressed the sweet softness to my face, inhaled. It was such a heavenly smell, I almost ate the whole thing standing right there, but I wanted to make it last, so I took it with me back to the living room and sat down again.

I picked up the television channel changer. This time I really would try to find cartoons. I would avoid any news, just keep changing the channel until I found
SpongeBob SquarePants
or
Pinky and the Brain
, if they were even on anymore. It had been five years since I’d last watched a cartoon. The moment I clicked on the TV, though, I knew I was lying to myself. Something bad lurked inside me, wanting to see the pictures they were showing of us, wanting to hear the things they were saying.

The picture was of an old brick building surrounded by trees—the police station where they had taken us last night. I gasped as I realized it was the back of Officer Villareal they were showing, at first from far away, then up close, as she tried to open the door, then turned to walk away when all the people crowded around her. The pictured bumped around, then focused on the side of her face. She looked straight ahead and didn’t say anything, even though people were asking her all kinds of questions, yelling them and repeating them but I couldn’t understand the words; it was too chaotic. The camera stayed on her until she came to another door and acted like she was going inside, then turned around. She looked mad. “I’m a police officer, for god’s sake,” she said, “not hiding flies. Back off.” I didn’t know what she meant about hiding flies—did that mean us?

When she disappeared inside the building, I remembered to breathe again. She was safe; she’d gotten away. But then they showed the exact same thing, this time with a man’s voice talking over the top of it, saying, “And that was the scene just thirty minutes ago, when Officer Jessica Villareal arrived at the Columbia Police Department’s North Station House, whether to turn herself in or report for duty, we don’t know yet, but we hope to learn more at the press conference, coming up very soon. Bill? Back to you.”

Then it was the man from before, the one at the desk, nodding, looking grim. “Thanks, Dan. We’ll cover that press conference live at noon. Stay tuned for your ten-day Accu-Point forecast, and all today’s news, right here on KEAN News Seven.”

A commercial came on for cars, and the scenery was a lot like our forest, so I watched it, and then some others about diamond rings, which were pretty; a casino where people have lots of fun; and then one about how to stop your legs from being restless by calling your doctor. I was waiting to see if cartoons actually might come on, but then the picture changed back to the newsman, who looked excited now. “We’re taking you back live to the North Station House, where Officer Jessica Villareal has just emerged from behind closed doors, and is about to make a statement. Dan?”

“Yeah, Bill, we’re live now, with this surprise appearance by the woman everyone in Columbia is talking about today, Officer Jess—Wait, she’s started to speak, Bill. Let’s go directly to her.”

And then they showed her, standing on the sidewalk with people crowded all around her again, but this time they left space in front of her, empty enough that they could reach their arms forward with microphones and little tape recorders.

She looked tired, like she might have been crying. But she looked strong, and in charge, the way she had last night in her uniform, before I got to know her and found out she was also a nice person.

“My name is Officer Jess Villareal,” she said, loud and kind of bossy, “and I was on the search team yesterday for a juvenile girl spotted in Joseph Woods. After a difficult four-hour search, we did indeed find said juvenile and her father living in a clean, well-stocked encampment, both healthy, in no distress other than that there were a lot of police officers trying to track them down.”

“Can you verify their—”

“My terms,” she said. “Shall I continue?”

She waited, then started again. “The girl has received a complete physical, which found her to be in excellent health and with no evidence of any kind of abuse whatsoever. Her father homeschools her and she appears quite bright and articulate—”

I felt myself blush.

“—and if I had to take a guess, I’d say she probably reads and writes at a far higher level than most thirteen-year-olds. She and her father attend church regularly and lead simple, quiet lives. The only crime here is that they don’t live inside four walls, due to the father’s injuries acquired while serving as a United States Marine in Iraq. They can’t afford housing, which is the story you should be chasing, and thank god her father didn’t choose to raise her on the streets.”