“Would you like me to drive?” Gordon asked.
Linda blinked at the bright flare of California sun off the car window. “Oh, no, I’m…Well, yes—that would let me do a last polish on the talk.” Their paths crossed around the back of the car. Some husbands automatically assumed control of any car voyage: not Linda’s.
“I told you that Sergeant Mendez would be at school all day, didn’t I?” The other Career Day speakers would arrive in time for the school-wide assembly at 10:00.
“You did.” Gordon pushed the seat back and adjusted both mirrors before pulling out of the driveway. Linda got halfway down the first heavily amended page before letting the file drop to her lap.
“She’ll be in uniform. Sergeant Mendez. We thought it might be more interesting for the kids.” And a more visible presence of authority. Linda glanced sideways. “I said you’d be available, if she needs a hand with anything.”
“That’s fine.”
“She’s nice.”
“I’m sure she is.”
“I know you don’t—”
“Linda, it’s fine. I know Olivia. I’m happy to talk to her.”
“Sorry. Stupid to be so nervous.”
“Understandable. Big day, lots of pressure, you’d be a fool not to be nervous.”
Fool. “That reminds me, if you need to make conversation with the good Sergeant”—if you need to distract the cop—“ask her about her Fool.”
“Her Fool?”
“Yep. It’s a part of the Gloria Rivas story you may not have heard. Gordon, was I wrong to tell the Parents’ Club that I wouldn’t support a fund-raiser for a Threat Assessment and metal detectors?”
“No, it was the right decision. Your childhood imagination wasn’t entirely wrong—the threat you see may not be the one you should worry about. Anyway, metal detectors by themselves are useless, since anyone intending to bring a weapon onto school grounds won’t care about setting off alarms on the way in. Will the parents pay for an unscalable wall around the entire school? And for staff to man the gates?” Before Linda could voice her own objections to the plan—the emotional impact on the kids—he continued with just that. “And as we both know, that kind of overt paranoia only makes kids feel more unsafe. An hour of listening is worth a foot of wall, any day.”
Sometimes, Linda almost managed to forget that Gordon had worked for an organization that got its start enforcing the rules of Third World mining companies and grew into the dark category of private armies. Four years ago, when she’d been considering Gordon’s proposal, she began a search of the three TaylorCorp Security names—and then stopped. Trust—with a school or with a husband—worked both ways.
“Just try and explain to some of those fathers that having the kids love their school and feel invested in the community is worth a dozen metal detectors or armed guards.”
“After all,” he pointed out, “Bee Cuomo didn’t disappear from school. Although it’s probably better to stick to the price-tag argument. Any particular difficulties you’re anticipating today?”
“More than I can count. I decided in the end that I’d let the Clarion send its reporter to the assembly, and use her as a speaker for the following period, but she’s not allowed to interview anyone until school is over. And she has to stay off school grounds before and after.”
No need for Linda to add: So make sure you keep out of her sight.
“I’m surprised they agreed to that.”
“I got the feeling they’re just giving the young woman something to do to keep her away from the Taco Alvarez trial. Which is exactly why I said she has to be off the premises, since I’m pretty sure she’s aware we have one of Taco’s cousins here—you know Chaco Cabrera?—as well as the victim’s younger sister.”
“Mina’s tall friend.”
“Sofia does stand out. At least the kid who actually witnessed the killing isn’t around—Danny Escobedo. He’s living out of state until he has to testify.”
“Which I understand will be today or tomorrow.” Gordon signaled to turn left across the morning traffic.
“Did Mina tell you that?”
“She did.”
“Is she frightened?”
“For the boy? Because he’s testifying? I don’t think so.”
“I meant personally.” Linda had spent upwards of a hundred hours in meetings over the Taco Alvarez problem since last summer, everything from gang dynamics to witness protection. Gordon’s protégée, Mina Santos (Guadalupe’s designated Goth), was doubly involved, being both best friends with the dead girl’s sister and an unlikely but determined supporter of the young witness. “If I were Mina’s mother, I’d have pulled her out long ago.”
“I suppose people who have faced true militant thuggery find it hard to take mere gangs seriously.”
Linda shook her head. “Ironic, to come to San Felipe thinking it was a safe haven.”
“Isn’t it, though?” His tone made her glance over, but he was studying the road.
“Well, I guess for them, it was safe. A town this size is not exactly a prime target for international terrorists.”
Linda had first met Mina’s parents the previous summer, when she’d asked them to come in for a talk about possible threats to their daughter because of the Alvarez case. To her surprise, the tiny, nervous-looking mother had listened with a patient expression—and then gone on to explain her own family situation in such daunting detail, Linda might have suspected clinical paranoia were it not for the newspaper articles she put in Linda’s hand. One of them talked about some recent testimony Mrs. Santos had given to a war crimes and reparations tribunal in Brussels. Another had to do with a killing in London.
At the end of it, Mrs. Santos had turned Linda’s question around on her: Perhaps Linda would prefer not to have Mina’s dangers brought to Guadalupe’s door?
It wasn’t that Linda didn’t believe her. It was just that the problems Mrs. Santos envisioned seemed so very…distant. International assassinations, in a quiet farming community? Not what she’d call an immediate concern when compared to the very real Taco Alvarez—but then, the communities of Boston and Oklahoma City and Littleton hadn’t expected to see themselves in three-inch headlines, either.
However, whether the danger was faraway or close to home, it was blazingly apparent that the small, nervous Iranian woman had a core of steel, and refused to back down from any threat. Which Linda considered little short of awesome. It was one thing to risk your own skin, but another entirely to do so with your only child.
At any rate, Mina Santos was still in school.
“How are her lessons going?”
Gordon smiled. “Her Pidgin English is better than mine. That child is seriously bright.”
And gorgeous, under all that makeup and baggy clothing. “Even without the trial, I’m not sure how much longer her parents will keep her in the public system.”
“I rather doubt Mina will permit them to make that decision. Any other problems I should know about?”
“Something more exciting than gang warfare, you mean? I had a call from Bee Cuomo’s father yesterday. Ten in the morning, and he sounded drunk. On the edge of abusive, although he stopped clear of actual threats. He thinks our kids are spreading rumors on social media, suggesting he killed his daughter.”
“Which kids?”
“Mostly Nick Clarkson. The boy who had the nervous breakdown last month?”
“I remember.”
“It surprised me, since the boy seems to be doing well. He sees our psychologist every week.”
“Is it possible Cuomo actually is responsible for the child’s disappearance?”
“Olivia says he’s not an official suspect, and has no history of violence or abuse, other than being picked up once or twice for being drunk and disorderly. Although that in itself is a little worrying.”
“So, add an irate Mr. Cuomo and nervy Nick Clarkson to Iranian terrorists and police sergeants.”
“Along with the usual illicit drugs, budget cuts, leaky roofs, kids in divorces, the upcoming school assessment, and general adolescent hormones. Oh, and twenty-three guest speakers. One of whom—the weaver—is nearly blind from glaucoma and absolutely reeks of dope. I know it’s legal, but I told her she’d have to lay off it before coming here.”
“Isn’t a blind weaver rather like a deaf musician?”
“Hey, it worked for Beethoven. And she’s famous.”
“Still, I wouldn’t have thought weaving a career you’d encourage students to pursue.”
“I wanted an artist. Besides, with her among the speakers, I get to use that analogy of ‘woven threads of community’ in my speech.” Linda caught his quick grin at the admission, then lifted one of the pages from her lap. “What do you think of ‘the warp of hopes woven on the weft of reality’? A bit much?”
“Might be.” He smiled as her pencil drew an obedient question mark in the margin. “So: drugs, death threats, and bureaucratic nonsense. Business as usual, at Guadalupe Middle School.”
Linda laughed at Gordon’s laconic understatement. She’d probably never know why he came back into her life, four years ago. Or even why she’d decided to let him. But there was no doubt: despite everything he was and had done, this man made her feel as if the world made some kind of sense.