Under normal circumstances, Sally’s first move upon wakening was to wash her face and brush her teeth. Her second was to head straight to the kitchen counter, fill the coffee grinder with Peet’s French Roast beans, and perform the ritual that transformed her from a lump of protoplasm into a thinking human being.
After what she’d seen and been through, she wasn’t sure she wanted the feelings that came along with thinking. Then again, she told herself as she lay in bed, loath to face the day, give a creature a big enough brain, and consciousness came with the territory. Get a grip on the feelings by focusing the thinking.
She didn’t wait for coffee. She hauled herself up, grabbed a notepad out of a kitchen drawer, pulled a pencil out of a jar on the counter, and sat down at the table to try to draw, from memory, the object she’d seen in the weeds in the alley the day before. She wasn’t the world’s best artist, but fortunately her subject was simple. It took three sketches to get the bend in the bar right, to get to the point where the socket seemed to her the right size. Eventually she was satisfied.
Turned out she was a step behind Hawk, who’d taken the more rational if perhaps less artistic tack. He’d been on the computer, searching the web for auto parts. He’d found scores of websites that offered lug wrenches of various kinds, half a dozen more that specialized in gear for Mazda Miatas. He’d printed out pictures of several possibilities, but only one matched both Hawk’s excellent memory and Sally’s imperfect drawing: the Nut-Buster extendable lug wrench.
“That thing isn’t only for Miatas, right?” Sally asked. Despite her automotive nickname, you could put in an eye-dropper everything Mustang Sally Alder knew about cars.
“No. It’s a pretty generic tool. But we do know that it works for Miatas, since I found this one on a Miata site. Most people would just use whatever lug wrench happened to come with their car. You’d buy something like this, maybe, if the original was gone, or as I told you yesterday, if you wanted a little extra leverage,” Hawk explained.
“That doesn’t mean it’s a girl tool,” said Sally.
“It could be, sure. But think about it, Hawk. Who actually wants to work harder than they have to? I can imagine some big giant former football hero whose knees have gone to sludge and bone chips, deciding that the Nut-Buster would save him the trouble of having to get down on, and back off of, the ground. Or some trucker who has to change tires a lot wanting an extendable jobbie that would cut down wear and tear on an arthritic elbow joint. Things that save anybody’s labor aren’t just for girls. That’s one of those myths that are meant to reinforce men’s images of themselves as manly and make women think they’re too weak to do stuff like be president of the United States.”
“Presidents probably don’t change a lot of tires,” Hawk replied dryly. “But I catch your drift. You know, all this serious thinking about gender roles won’t ultimately mean shit if they find Charlie Preston’s prints all over that Nut-Buster.”
“Or possibly her boyfriend’s prints. And given the fact that both kids have records, it wouldn’t take the cops any time at all to make a match. I really wish I could talk to Charlie before that happens. They’ll catch up with her eventually. The sooner she’s back here, telling her side of the story, the better.”
“If, in fact, she didn’t do it,” Hawk said.
Sallybit her lip, thought a minute. “Even if she did, which I can’t believe at this point. I think,” said Sally, “I’ll give a call to the Stark household. See if young Agatha’s around.”
Julie Stark answered. Aggie, she said, was at a track meet at the Laramie High stadium. She was running the 800-meter lap in a medley relay, running the mile, and doing a little pole vaulting.
“Pole vaulting?” Sally asked. “Aren’t you terrified she’ll impale herself?”
“Yes, I am,” said Julie. “But when I mention it, Aggie just says ‘Mother!’ in that disgusted way they do, and tells me not to get all girlie on her.”
“I’d like to talk to her about Charlie,” Sally said. “Have you heard what happened to Bradley Preston?”
“It was in the Boomerang this morning. Horrible. What’s this town coming to? You’ve heard, of course, about the blast at the doctor’s office. Maude’s calling it a bombing, but the newspaper said the police are calling it a prank—some kids hauled a derelict car into the parking lot and set off a bunch of firecrackers inside.”
“I was there,” said Sally. “I can’t believe firecrackers would do that much damage. But I guess the police are still sorting it all out. Meanwhile, I’m hoping Aggie might be able to tell me something that could help Charlie.”
“Hmm,” said Julie, considering the pros and cons. “I guess that’s okay.”
“Today would be good,” said Sally, pressing, but, she hoped, not too hard.
“I think she’s planning to go out with friends to get something to eat after the meet. Your best bet is probably to go down to the stadium and try to catch her between events. She’ll be there most of the day. The athletes are always up and down from the stands, getting water and snacks, and talking to people. Look for Mike. He took the dog down to cheer her on. Or if you don’t see him, look for a gaggle of kids wearing brown and gold sweats. She’ll be one of them.”
“Thanks,” said Sally. “Think I’ll do that.” She hung up the phone and turned to Hawk. “Feel like going to a high school track meet?”
“You know, Mustang,” said Hawk, moving behind her and wrapping his arms around her, nuzzling her neck. “Yesterday was a bad, bad day. I could use a little comfort and care. I was just thinking to myself that it might be fun to try to talk you back into bed for an hour or so.”
The nuzzling was having the effect of liquefying her limbs, from the knees up and back down again. “I really ought to talk to Aggie Stark,” she said, undermining her position with a sigh that edged into a moan when he put his hands into action.
“I used to run track in high school,” Hawk told her. “I’m partial to the distance events.”
“I’ve always admired that about you,” Sally said, reflecting on the prospects.
“If you want to know the truth, a track meet is mostly a matter of standing around. Another hour,” he said, emphasizing the point with roving fingers, “won’t hurt.”
“No,” said Sally, turning around to put her arms around him, raising her face for a kiss. “I think, in fact, it’ll probably feel really good.”
“I’m compelled to warn you,” said Hawk, lips against her mouth. “If we dawdle around here, you might miss the pole vaulting.”
She made a semirude remark about doing some pole vaulting of her own.
By the time they got to the stadium, the sun was high in the sky. The field was full of fit teenagers in various combinations of brightly colored sweats and shorts and tank tops, stretching, high-stepping, striding, jogging, milling, and flirting with one another. Over a loudspeaker a voice so distorted as to be, to Sally’s ear, unintelligible announced the results of previous events and called athletes to line up for the next race. Out on the oval track, runners sauntered to staggered starting lines, shaking out their legs.
Up in the stands, clusters of uniformed team members mingled with parents and friends, forming islands of color all up and down the concrete steps, the metal benches. Sally spotted the group in brown and gold. The kids were chattering gaily, slugging water and Gatorade out of bottles, chomping on PowerBars and sandwiches and raw vegetables and an enormous assortment of junk food. One group of leggy girls clustered around Mike Stark, babbling baby talk to a miniature schnauzer they were passing hand to hand.
Could anything appear further removed from the brutal and bitter world of battered children?
“Hey, Sophie!” said a girl busily banding up masses of chin-length black hair into two stubbypigtails. “Don’t give him Goldfish! Last time we got Beanie home from a meet, you guys had been stuffing him full of junk and he yakked all over my mom’s Oriental carpet. Come here, Beanie boy,” she cooed, finishing confining her hair to reach out for her dog.
Beanie the schnauzer looked up at the sound of his name, an expression of utter innocence on his face. Sally wondered how any animal that looked that much like a photo negative of Groucho Marx could also appear the soul of guilelessness. All black, with white eyebrows, white whiskers, and fluffy white shins, he was, she had to admit, adorable. Very useful, Sally thought, if you were the kind of dog who thought being stuffed with Goldfish and Fritos and Cheez-Its was heaven enough to put up with a bit of barfing later on, if indeed you had a big enough brain to make the connection. Beanie looked intelligent enough, but he probably had a brain the size of a walnut.
Sally’d had a black Lab. They loved people as much as schnauzers, but theyhad a little more dignity, she thought. A spear of longing for that dog, struck down by a speeder on Hilgard Avenue in L.A., stabbed through her. She shook it off.
Mike Stark caught sight of them. “Hey, Sally, Hawk. Are you guys big track fans?” he asked.
“Actually,” Sally told him, “we were hoping to get a chance to talk with your daughter.”
The girl with the pigtails raised enormous brown eyes. The dog whimpered in her lap, wagged his stumpy tail, licked her hand. “I’m Aggie,” she said. “And you’re Sally Alder.”
“Wow!” said a freckle-faced girl with mile-long legs and a mouthful of braces. “You’re the one who got her hat shot off at the Wrangler Bar!”
Sally took a moment. It wasn’t the sort of thing one put on one’s résumé, but as claims to fame went, it wasn’t half bad. “Yep,” said Sally, “guess so.”
“She’s also the professor who lived in Miss Dunwoodie’s house and writes all those books, Jenny,” Aggie told her friend. “It’s not like people go around getting their hats shot off every day or anything.”
“You know about my books?” Sally asked.
“Duh!” said Aggie. “Like, my aunt Maude worked for Miss Dunwoodie for about a thousand years. And she’s your boss now, right? If you don’t write books, don’t they fire you or something?”
“Not hardly,” Aggie’s freckled friend retorted. “Once you’re a professor, you have to be a serial killer or something to get fired.”
“Julie just called me on my cell, saying you all were coming down here,” Mike interjected. “Ag, why don’t you give me the dog, and go over there and talk to Sally and Hawk for a few minutes. Your next event isn’t for half an hour anyhow.”
Sally gave him a grateful smile. “We won’t be long,” she said, as they walked up the steps and found a vacant bench.
Sally got right to the point. “Aggie, I just wanted to let you know that I’m really worried about Charlie Preston. She’s my student,” Sally explained. “She came to see me right before she left town. I gave her some money and a black wool coat.”
Aggie nodded, saying nothing.
“Any chance you already knew that?” Hawk prompted.
Aggie cocked one eyebrow, then nodded again.
“Feel free to use your words,” Hawk said.
Aggie laughed. “Sorry. I don’t like to talk to adults about Charlie. I mean, my mom and dad are cool and all, but Charlie has enough problems without me ratting her out to some grown-up who comes on all well-meaning, but who’ll just get her busted and sent back to her dad...oh.”
Aggie looked down at the ground, shook herself. “I guess she won’t be getting sent back to him anymore.”
“Aggie,” Sally said, putting a hand on the girl’s arm. “Charlie could be in danger. At the very least, she’s in a lot of trouble. Somebody beat her up before she left.”
Aggie looked up now, her face fierce. “For a change! Do you know how many times they did it to her? She told me it used to be a weekly thing. She didn’t say much more than that. But I figured some of it out. Her shoulders were all scarred from where they’d used a belt on her, buckle end out.”
Sally closed her eyes, took a slow breath.
“If somebody did that to me, I’d get as far away as possible, and cover my tracks,” Hawk said quietly.
“If they did it to me, I’d bust a cap in ’em,” said sweet little Aggie.
Sally swallowed an inappropriate laugh, composed herself for a serious question. “Aggie, do you think somebody did?”
“You mean,” she asked, “do I think that Charlie killed her dad? No! Well... I don’t know . . . it’s pretty hard to believe. I mean, with everything he did to her and all, you’d think she’d want to. But mostly she just seemed sad and scared all the time. Like she thought everything bad that happened to her was her own fault.”
“It’s like that a lot with people who’ve been hurt the way Charlie’s been hurt,” Sally told the girl. “Get beaten on and belittled enough, you start to believe you deserve what you get.”
Aggie pressed her lips together, scratched at a scab on her knee.
“But you didn’t think she deserved it, did you, Aggie? You’re her friend,” Hawk said.
Aggie nodded again, eyes intent on her knee. Then she looked up. “Nobody deserves it. That’s what Billy kept telling her.”
“Billy?” Hawk said.
“Billy Reno,” Aggie told them. “He’s Charlie’s boyfriend. He’s got this really sick tattoo of a dragon that winds from his wrist up across his shoulders and around his neck.”
“That does sound sick,” Sally said.
“ ‘Sick,’ ” Hawk told her, “means ‘cool.’ Try to keep up, Sal.”
Sally leaned in. “Aggie,” she said, “I don’t want to keep you. I know you’ve got to get ready for your race. But is there the slightest chance you know where Charlie is?”
Aggie’s face went blank. “No,” she said.
“But you’ve heard from her?” Hawk pushed.
“Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I know where she is. That’s her business.”
This was one tough fourteen-year-old; there was a lot of Maude in her. And there was no point pushing so hard that she’d clam up permanently. Better to hope for more, another day. “Okay. Fair enough. How about this? Do you have any idea where we might find Billy Reno?”
Aggie considered. “The police probably know already, since he’s on probation. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to tell you. My aunt Maude is the sickest person I know, for somebody who’s like a hundred years old, and she thinks you’re okay.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Sally. “I think Maude’s the best, myself.”
“Okay,” said Aggie. “I gotta go.” She stood, shaking out her long legs. “You can probably find Billy at this apartment he shares with some roommates. It’s up on North Fourth.” She gave the address, started to head down the steps, and turned. “Actually, you might be able to leave a message for Charlie with Billy. I think she might be in touch with him.”
“Can I maybe leave a message for her with you, in case I don’t connect with Billy?” Sally asked, following Aggie as she strode down the steep stadium steps, already putting on her game face.
Aggie turned. Frowned. Shook her shoulders. The pigtails bobbed.
“Come on, Aggie!” yelled one of the long-legged girls, now jogging in place on the grass inside the oval, down on the field. “We need to warm up!”
“What’s the message?” Aggie asked, getting her own legs going.
“Tell her I’ll do anything I can to help. Here.” Sally dug in her pocket, produced a business card. “That’s got my work phone and email on it. I wrote my home and cell phone numbers and my home address down too. Anywhere, any time. Charlie knows they’re looking for her. And I’m not just talking about the cops. It’s possible that she could be in danger from whoever killed her father.”
“And if she’s driving that Miata, she’ll be pretty easy to spot. It’s not like they’re everywhere in Wyoming,” said Hawk.
“Tell her she needs to come back. I can’t protect her, but I’ll do everything in my power to help her out. If she stays out of sight, nobody can do a damn thing for her.”
“Nobody you know,” Aggie said, thrusting the card in the rear pocket of her shorts, impatient to get going.
“You think anybody’s protecting her now?” Hawk asked.
“Do you think,” said Aggie, “anybody ever has?” and took off at a dead run down the hard concrete steps.