After driving the state highway bordering the northern edge of the White Sands Missile Range, Kerney picked up the interstate in the Rio Grande Valley and passed by the suburban communities that oozed along the interstate south of Albuquerque. On once-empty desert rangeland housing tracts now mushroomed, lining either side of the road. To Kerney’s eye it was uncontrolled sprawl that lacked any sense of scale, sensibility, or harmony with the land.
He grumbled about it, thinking the world needed fewer roads, fewer cars, and most important, fewer people.
Early in the evening he arrived at Bill Kendell’s adobe-style house in Corrales, a semirural community sandwiched between Albuquerque and the burgeoning city of Rio Rancho. Linda’s ex-husband, an affable man who seemed settled and comfortable with himself, introduced Kerney to his wife and son, and then took him into a small rear bedroom that had been turned into a home office. A glass door opened onto a covered backyard patio that provided an unobstructed view of the Rio Grande bosque and the distant Sandia Mountains.
“I don’t have much time,” Kendell said, easing his lanky frame into an overstuffed reading chair. “I’ve got a city league basketball game in about an hour.”
“Tell me about your ex-wife,” Kerney said.
The congenial look on Kendell’s face vanished. “Boy, that was a mistake.”
“In what way?”
Kendell struggled a moment to find the right words. “We were just incompatible.”
“I sense there was more to it than that.”
“How is knowing about my marriage to Linda going to help you find Vernon’s killer?”
“I think the killer knew the judge, and his murder is tied to something in his past, or to his family.”
“I’m not real comfortable talking about my problems with Linda.”
“What you tell me may help keep her safe. Both parents have been murdered, we have reason to believe the death of her older brother Arthur was a homicide, and Eric has committed suicide.”
“Jesus, what a mess,” Kendell said, shaking his head.
“I’ll keep whatever you tell me confidential.”
Kendell took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and nodded. “Nobody deserves that kind of grief, not even Linda.”
“I take it your relationship with her is less than cordial.”
Kendell adjusted his position. “You could say that. We parted on pretty harsh terms. I’m old-fashioned when it comes to marriage. My parents raised me that way.”
“And Linda wasn’t?” Kerney asked.
“I thought she was before we got married,” Kendell replied. “We messed around a lot before the wedding, if you know what I mean, but we never actually had intercourse. She didn’t want to before the wedding, and I respected her decision.”
“What went wrong?” Kerney asked, when Kendell stopped talking.
Kendell blushed. “This isn’t easy to talk about.”
“I understand.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
“I really need your candor, Mr. Kendell.”
“She said she wanted to make me happy—please me sexually—and she did.” Kendell shook his head as though warding off an unpleasant memory. “But looking back on it, it wasn’t right.”
“How so?”
“Well, she would . . .” Kendell stopped and smiled uneasily. “Shit. Okay. She’d give me hand jobs or oral sex. But it wasn’t reciprocal, if you know what I mean. I could touch her, but only above the waist. I thought things would change after the wedding. You know, the virgin thing. But she wouldn’t let me make love to her. She kept wanting to please me without any intercourse. At first, I just thought she was scared about it—some women are that way. But it never changed.”
“When did things start to go sour?” Kerney asked.
“When I told her I wanted children. She said we could adopt. I didn’t want that. I wanted a wife and a family in the full sense of the words.”
“Were you aware of Linda’s feelings before the wedding?”
“We never talked about having children. But I assumed we would. Otherwise, why get married? Looking back on it, I think she did it to prove something to herself.”
“Prove what?”
“That she was normal. But she wasn’t. The sex stuff she did was like an obsession. I wasn’t a person who mattered to her romantically. I don’t think she had a clue about what love is.”
“How long did the problem go on?”
“For months. When she realized she couldn’t seduce me out of having children of our own, she just walked out one day when I was at work and left everything behind. No discussion, no ‘I’m sorry’—nothing.”
“I heard a rumor that the marriage ended because Linda was having an affair.”
“That wasn’t it at all. I think Linda started that rumor herself.”
“Was there anything else in Linda’s behavior that you found strange or unusual?”
“You know, I never saw her naked—not once. She’d even lock the bathroom door when she brushed her teeth. I teased her about it one time and she almost went ballistic.”
“What did she say?”
“That she needed her privacy; didn’t like people spying on her—weird stuff. In a way, she was like two different people. Publicly she’d act all loving and affectionate toward me. But at home she would shut down when it came to snuggling or kissing, or anything romantic. She’d ask me if I needed a blow job maybe three or four times a week. That was the way she treated sex. After a while it made me feel vulgar and cheap.”
“Did she ever talk to you about her family?”
“That subject was pretty much off-limits, and when she did say anything, it always had a double edge to it.”
“Can you give me an example?” Kerney asked.
“It was always a mixed message kind of thing. She’d call Eric a sick little sneak and then say something about how it wasn’t really his fault. Or she would chastise her father for not loving her mother and then blame her mother for being frigid. Frankly, I think Linda was frigid herself.”
Kendell checked his wristwatch and stood up. “I’ve really got to go.”
“Do you take your family to your ball games?” Kerney asked as he got to his feet.
Kendell’s expression warmed. “They never miss one. They’re my biggest fans.”
After repeating his promise not to reveal the particulars of Kendell’s failed marriage, Kerney left and checked into a high-rise hotel near the Albuquerque airport.
He opened the window drapes in his room and watched the lights of the city wink on as the last bit of dusk vanished in the western sky.
Bill Kendell seemed like a good man, happy with his life and his family, and the thought made Kerney long for similar circumstances. Having Sara in his life was a delight, but maintaining a long-distance marriage wasn’t getting any easier. And Sara’s interest in starting a family while continuing to serve on active duty made Kerney wonder how they could pull it off. He had no desire to be a military dependent following Sara from post to post.
He turned away from the window thinking he had to keep his priorities straight. He was married to a woman he loved deeply, and he was about to come into a sizable chunk of money that would give them more options. He needed to start thinking more creatively, but he didn’t know where to begin.
His thoughts turned to the Langsford case. He decided to spend the evening piecing together what he knew about the family, to see what kind of profile developed.
In the morning, Kerney waited for Sara’s flight to arrive. When it did, she was the first one out the jetway, and he started grinning the moment she appeared. Each time he saw her again he couldn’t contain a feeling of elation.
She dropped her overnight bag, pressed up against him, and planted a long wet kiss on his lips while the other passengers flowed around them.
She pulled back and gave him a lascivious smile. “Do you have a room?”
“Nearby, milady.”
“You’re one smart man, Kerney. I may not have to divorce you after all.” She grabbed her bag and folded her arm in his. “Let’s go.”
An hour or so later, after very little talking, Sara found the spot on Kerney’s shoulder where she liked to rest her head. She reached over and started gently scratching his chest.
“I haven’t heard from you much this week, Grandpa,” she said.
Kerney groaned in response.
“Not funny, huh?”
“Unsettling.”
“Tell me about it.”
Kerney brought her up to date on Clayton, including the surprise introduction to his family at the Roswell motel.
“It sounds like an overture to me,” Sara said.
“A small one, perhaps. We’ll see where it goes.”
“And the case?”
Kerney put the week’s events into a series of highlights, concentrating on Eric Langsford’s suicide, the disappearance of Danny Hobeck and his sister, and his difficulties dealing with Kay Murray, Penelope Gibben, and Linda Langsford.
“Murder, suicide, drugs, missing persons, sexual deviants, harlots, pushy women, family secrets,” Sara said, when he finished. “What have you gotten yourself into?”
“The sex angle intrigues me. Vernon’s bizarre need to have Murray dress up and act like a provocative schoolgirl, Eric’s twisted voyeurism, Linda’s aversion to intercourse, statements that Vernon’s wife was passive and frigid. I’ve even wondered if Penelope Gibben may have groomed her niece, Kay Murray, to become Vernon’s mistress.”
“At Vernon’s urging?” Sara asked.
“Perhaps. And why did Kay Murray tell me a useless lie about continuing to be Vernon’s lover up until the time of his death, if the sexual relationship had ended?”
“Sex and secrets,” Sara said. “A potent combination.”
“Murray offered to give me a blow job if I left her alone.”
Sara raised an eyebrow. “Really? Did you take her up on it?”
“No, it wasn’t the type of bribe I usually accept.”
Sara punched him on the arm in response.
Kerney shook off the love tap and tickled Sara’s tummy. “What do you make of it?”
Sara pushed his hand away. “Stop it. I think you’re right to follow the sex angle. Something has been going on in the Langsford family for a long time that everyone wants kept secret, and it’s connected to the judge.”
“That much I know. But what is it?”
“You’ll figure it out. But not this weekend, if I have anything to say about it. I hope you haven’t made any plans.”
Kerney cocked an eye. “What have you cooked up?”
Sara pushed herself into a sitting position. “We’re weekend guests at Dale and Barbara’s.”
“Don’t you have to be back at the post tomorrow night in time for Monday classes?”
“Classes don’t resume until Tuesday morning. I’ve rented a car to drive down to the ranch.”
“Are we in a hurry?”
Sara lifted the bedsheets, looked at Kerney’s crotch, and smiled. “Not necessarily. What have we here?”
“Has all this sex talk turned you on?”
“No more so than you, it would appear,” Sara said. “Did I mention that I’m fertile this weekend?”
“Thanks for the late warning.”
Sara laughed as she swung a leg over Kerney’s torso. “Matrimony usually brings with it the promise of children, Kerney. That’s a given, unless negotiated otherwise.”
“So I’ve heard,” Kerney said, thinking back to his conversation with Bill Kendell.
The Rocking J, Dale and Barbara’s ranch on the western slope of the San Andres Mountains, bordered White Sands Missile Range and spread down to the Jornada del Muerto—the journey of death—a waterless, desolate savanna of cactus, creosote, and mesquite. Once part of El Camino Real that ran from Mexico City to Santa Fe, the Jornada earned its name because of the scores of lives it claimed during the early days of Spanish settlement.
The remote ranch headquarters stood on a ridgeline overlooking a deep canyon, with views of the basin below and the red-tinged forested mountains inside the missile range. Only the soothing sound of the wind in the trees and the call of Mexican blue jays broke the silence.
On arriving at the ranch, Kerney became pensive and somewhat quiet, and although he hid it well, his moodiness remained just below the surface.
Sara didn’t press him about it, thinking that perhaps staying in the old foreman’s quarters, where Kerney and his parents had lived after losing their ranch to the army, brought back sad memories, including the harsh reminder of the tragic death of his parents, who had died in an auto accident on the day of Kerney’s return from Vietnam.
Kerney had buried them in a small family cemetery under a grove of old pine trees on the Rocking J. After greeting Dale, Barbara, and the girls and chatting for a while, he paid a solo visit to the grave site for the better part of an hour.
When he came back, Dale got him to help with some chores, and the routine of ranch life seemed to lift his spirits somewhat. Sara watched the two men for a while and then worked on supper with Barbara and the girls, all of them talking up a storm as they prepared the evening meal.
The two girls, Candace and Meaghen, were lovely, wholesome, spirited teenagers who made Sara yearn for a daughter. As she flattened bread dough with the heels of her hands, she wondered if her lovemaking with Kerney had turned that longing into reality. The possibility brought a smile to her face that made Barbara raise an eyebrow as she passed by on her way to the kitchen sink with a bag of potatoes that needed peeling.
Working with Barbara and the girls reminded Sara of her own family’s Montana sheep ranch and her mother, who had taught her to work as hard as a man and cook as lovingly as a woman. There was something to be said for the country life, Sara thought, as she molded the dough, covered it with a towel, and set it on the top of the kitchen windowsill to rise. If nothing else, it was a welcome break from the spit-and-polish routine of the military.
She looked at her three busy companions, took in the delicious smells of the roast in the oven, the handmade welcome wreath hung over the kitchen door, and the neat row of hand-painted antique food canisters on the shelf next to the stove. Barbara was still peeling potatoes, Meaghen was putting final touches on an apple cobbler, and Candace was busy snapping string beans.
“Why the big grin?” Barbara asked.
“This is just a lot of fun,” Sara replied, as she found a paring knife and joined Barbara at the sink.
The remainder of the weekend went wonderfully well, and after an early Sunday supper, Barbara left the dishes for Candace and Meaghen and invited Sara on a walk. They followed the ranch road into the canyon, the creaking sounds of the lovely old wooden windmill next to the corral wafting along behind them on a slight breeze, before Barbara led her off on a game trail that wandered down to a distant stock tank on the flats.
The breeze had pushed away a light haze and the Jornada sparkled under a harvest-yellow sun. Barbara pointed out the bleak Fra Cristobal Mountains, named for a friar who’d died on his return journey to Mexico four hundred years earlier. The peaks cut into the sky like sharp incisors, blunted only by the towering expanse of the Black Range that filled a hundred miles of the horizon to the west. Sunlight bounced off the metal roof of a distant wine-processing shed near the railroad tracks that cut through the Jornada, past the remnants of Engle, once a thriving railroad and ranching community.
Water for the acres of adjacent vineyards on the tableland was piped across the desert from Elephant Butte Lake, the largest water impoundment reservoir in the state, which ate up forty miles of land along the Rio Grande.
“Is Kerney’s heart still set on ranching once he leaves the state police?” Barbara asked, as they stood looking at the view.
“He hasn’t been talking about it quite as much as he used to.”
“I would never say this to Dale, but I wish there was a way for him to slow down and not work so hard. Except for our trip to Montana for your wedding, we haven’t been anywhere as a family for the last five years.”
Sara nodded, her thoughts turning to her father and brother on the Montana sheep ranch. “The work takes its toll.”
“And you can’t tell these kind of men that they might not be twenty years old anymore,” Barbara said, turning to look at Sara. “And what about you? Do you want this kind of life?”
“I grew up with it,” Sara said.
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“I want Kerney to be happy.”
“He’s going to have a lot of options open to him,” Barbara said. “Maybe he hasn’t considered all of them.”
“Do you think he’s holding on to an unrealistic dream?”
“You two fit together like a hand and glove, Sara. If both of you were going to build a ranch together, I’d say go for it. Ranching may be hard, but it’s a wonderful way to live.”
“I know it is,” Sara said.
Barbara smiled. “Want some advice?”
“I thrive on it,” Sara said playfully.
“Help Kerney learn how to enjoy all that money he stands to gain from the sale of Erma’s land. I don’t think it’s sunk in that he’s going to be a rich man.”
“Convince him to give up the dream?”
Barbara shook her head. “Heavens, no. But he could ranch in a small way, for the fun of it, and enjoy life without worrying about the price of beef on the open market, or the next drought, or the cost of doing business.”
Sara bit her lip and thought about it. “I don’t think he could stand the idea of being anything but a dirty-shirt cowboy.”
Barbara patted Sara’s arm. “Encourage him to change his attitude. Believe me, I’d be on Dale in a flash if we had the financial wherewithal to ease up a bit.”
“That might take some doing.”
Wind blew Barbara’s hair into her face. She pushed it away and settled down on a large boulder. “Do you really want to see Kerney sink everything into something so risky? His dream could turn into a disaster real fast.”
“I’ve thought about that,” Sara said, joining her.
“Would you be willing to give up your career to help him make a go of it?”
The sky lost color as mare’s tail clouds masked the sun. Sara twisted her West Point class ring with her thumb. “No.”
“Neither would I, if I had a profession I’d worked hard to achieve and was good at,” Barbara said.
“Kerney doesn’t change his mind easily.”
Barbara giggled.
“What?”
“You have an advantage. He’s desperately, completely in love with you.”
Sara’s sparkling eyes smiled. “He does seem to adore me.”
“Enough said,” Barbara replied. She stood and started back up the trail. “You get no more sisterly advice from this gal.”
“That’s it?” Sara asked jokingly.
“For now. Let’s get back and serve up some of that chocolate cake you made, if it hasn’t already been devoured.”
Kerney gave Sara a kiss, watched her enter the jetway, and left the airport wondering if he’d married a mind reader. They had stayed up half the night in the hotel room talking about the future, with Sara raising questions that had been bouncing around in Kerney’s mind, giving him a voice to talk about his apprehensions about starting a ranch and leaving law enforcement for good.
Nothing had been resolved, but Kerney felt a weight had been lifted. Sara had suggested a range of options to be considered, all of them centered around the notion of more time together, establishing a permanent home, sharing responsibility—if indeed she was pregnant—for raising a child, and allowing Kerney to pursue his aspirations. She’d driven the point home by noting that the army might be willing to send her to law school, which was something she’d planned to do anyway sometime in the future. That would mean three years of detached duty and the chance for them to be together over an extended period of time.
The idea excited Kerney, especially when Sara made it clear she would apply to the University of New Mexico, which had an excellent program, as her first choice.
He drove out of the airport parking garage toying with ideas he hadn’t considered before. For years, in different ways and for different reasons, both of them had been nomads. Marriage hadn’t changed that. But now there was a possibility it could change, at least for a very large chunk of time.
Caught up in a delightful daydream, he barely heard his call sign on the unit’s radio. He keyed the microphone and responded.
“Hobeck just pulled up at his residence, Chief,” the agent on stakeout said.
“Is his sister with him?”
“Negative, but a visitor has been waiting. I ran the plate on his car. It’s registered to Pomeroy and Associates. I checked the phone book. It’s a law firm. This guy’s a suit, fifty-five years old or thereabouts, chunky, with thinning hair.”
“Give me your location and stand by,” Kerney said, wondering what prompted Hobeck to seek legal counsel, hoping it had something to do with Margie.
Hobeck’s house was in an upscale neighborhood in the foothills overlooking Albuquerque. The subdivision had been started during the brief time Kerney had been married to his first wife and attending graduate school in the city. Back then, the original developer had scarred the foothills with roads, clear-cut the vegetation, and built houses overlooking the city that sat like exposed Monopoly pieces on a life-size game board. It was now a hidden residential oasis for the well-off. Mature trees sheltered the homes, neat rows of decorative shrubs were carefully pruned, emerald green grass bordered brick walkways, and trimmed vines climbed thick stone walls.
Hobeck’s residence sat on two lots at the end of a cul-de-sac. Surrounded by carefully arranged groves of evergreen trees, it presented a vaulted cathedral-style glassed entry to the street.
Kerney walked up the semicircular driveway and rang the bell. Hobeck answered with a look of dismay. In the daylight, Kerney could see the signs of years of heavy drinking etched on his face.
“You have no business coming here,” Hobeck said.
“Where’s Margie, Mr. Hobeck?”
“My family matters aren’t your concern.”
“I would think you’d want your best friend’s murder solved.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong,” Hobeck caught his blunder and tried to adjust. “Of course I want the killer caught.”
Kerney pressed the issue. “But you have done something wrong, Mr. Hobeck. Failing to reveal the whereabouts of a material witness constitutes obstruction.”
“Margie had nothing to do with Vernon’s murder.”
“That’s not my point. Talk to your lawyer.”
“Have you been watching my house?” Hobeck asked.
“I’ll wait here while you speak to him,” Kerney said.
Hobeck closed the door. When it opened again, a middle-aged portly man in an expensive suit greeted Kerney with a quick, hard look.
“May I see some credentials?” the man asked.
Kerney held up his badge case. “Who are you?”
“Ronald Pomeroy. Hobeck’s attorney.”
“Is your client willing to cooperate with me?”
“We’ll see,” Pomeroy said, swinging the door open so Kerney could enter. He led the way into the living room, where a wall of glass mirrored the front entrance to the house, providing a view of a flagstone patio and a bubbling stone fountain.
Hobeck paced nervously in front of a tan leather couch positioned in front of a built-in bookcase that held a treasure-trove of antique African folk art, mostly of male and female fertility symbols with enlarged sex organs.
“How is Margie Hobeck a material witness in your case?” Pomeroy asked.
“Do you represent Margie?” Kerney replied.
“At her brother’s request, I represent her best interests.”
“In what way?”
“Margie isn’t well. She has emotional problems. Mr. Hobeck doesn’t think now is a good time for you to bother her.”
“You’re playing word games, counselor,” Kerney said. “Does your client have any legal authority over his sister’s affairs?”
“Margie is in a very fragile state, and Mr. Hobeck wishes to protect her from any additional trauma.”
“Are you planning to file for guardianship?”
“Mr. Hobeck’s reasons for meeting with me are privileged.”
“Of course,” Kerney said. “But whatever civil action you may take doesn’t shield Margie as a material witness in a criminal investigation. Let me ask you again: Do you represent Margie Hobeck?”
“I do not.”
Kerney looked at Hobeck. “Where’s Margie?”
Hobeck glanced from Kerney to Pomeroy. “Do I have to answer?”
Kerney held up a hand. “Before you respond, counselor, let me make it clear that Mr. Hobeck acted intentionally when he took his sister out of town to avoid any further contact with the police. He lied to his employee and to Margie’s neighbor about what he was doing and where he was going.”
“Is that true?” Pomeroy asked.
Hobeck hung his head. “Can’t you do anything?” he pleaded to Pomeroy.
“After I arrest you for obstruction of justice, he can,” Kerney said, turning back to Pomeroy. “What will it be?”
Pomeroy nodded curtly. “I suggest you tell Chief Kerney where Margie is, Daniel.”
With haunted eyes, Hobeck gave Kerney the name of a chemical dependency treatment program outside of Tucson. “She’s addicted to tranquilizers,” he added. “Has been for most of her life. You can’t count on her to tell the truth.”
“Perhaps you’d like that to be so,” Kerney countered. “What does Margie know about Vernon Langsford?”
“I can’t talk about that.”
“Nor do you have to at this point,” Pomeroy advised.
“Don’t let your client contact Margie until after I speak with her,” Kerney said.
Hobeck switched his gaze to Kerney. “You can’t keep me from doing that. This is America, not some dictatorship, for chrissake.”
“I suggest we follow Chief Kerney’s advice,” Pomeroy replied.
Defeated, Hobeck dropped heavily to the couch as though his legs had been knocked out from under him.
Kerney handed Pomeroy his business card. “You may want to hold off on any court petition until after my visit.”
“I’m way ahead of you on that one,” Pomeroy replied, giving Hobeck an inquisitive look.
The cramped seat on the plane ride to Tucson made Kerney’s bum knee lock up. He hobbled through the terminal like an old man, signed for his rental car, and, using the map supplied with the keys to the vehicle, found his way to the treatment center where Hobeck had stashed his sister.
A drying-out resort and spa for affluent addicts and drunks, the center had once been a dude ranch, and the Western theme was continued in newly built clusters of rustic-looking private guest cottages and low-slung buildings with wide verandas, where a range of treatment options, from aroma and massage therapy to group and individual counseling, was available to speed the recovery process.
If the patrons didn’t leave cured of their addictions, they would at least check out feeling pampered.
On the green in front of the administration building, a group of matrons in mix-and-match sizes were exercising under the guidance of a tanned, fit-looking young man who wore a body-hugging tee shirt that accentuated his toned upper torso. The young woman inside at a reception desk was equally toned, tanned, and dressed in a tee shirt of her own that emphasized a pair of remarkably different features from those of her male counterpart on the lawn.
The receptionist was busy on the telephone, so Kerney stood in front of the desk and fanned through an advertising brochure for the center that listed the levels of services available, optional packages, and the weekly rates. Even if Hobeck had selected the least expensive course of treatment for his sister, the cost was exorbitant.
“May I help you?” the woman asked, as she hung up the phone and gave Kerney a well-practiced welcoming smile.
“Margie Hobeck, please,” Kerney replied, showing his shield.
The smile vanished and Kerney got directions to the Paloverde Cottages, which, according to the brochure, were the low-end accommodations. Before he left, he verified that Margie had voluntarily signed herself in for treatment.
She answered his knock at her cabin door immediately. Agitation showed on her face; perhaps withdrawal symptoms, Kerney speculated.
Hobeck had paid for a makeover; Margie’s hair had been tinted and set, her nails were perfectly done, and her eyebrows and lashes had been dyed.
“I remember you,” Margie said. “You’re that policeman. Why did you ask my brother all those questions about me?” The question came out as a whine.
“I’m sorry if it caused you trouble.”
“He took me away from my home and brought me here. I don’t like it here. I need to be home with my cats.”
“Would you like me to take you home?”
“Danny wouldn’t like that. He wants me to stay. He said if I talked to you, he would sell my house. He said a judge would give him control of my affairs because I’m not responsible.”
“I won’t let that happen,” Kerney said.
“You can stop him?”
“Yes, if you help me.”
A hopeful look broke through Margie’s uneasiness. “My cats liked you. They don’t usually like men.”
“They’re lovely animals, and I’m sure they miss you.”
“Take me home.”
“Will you talk to me about Vernon Langsford?” Kerney asked.
“Danny said he told you everything.”
“I need to hear your side of the story,” Kerney replied, “in order for it to be official.”
Margie nodded.
“Tell me about Vernon.”
“He was a bad boy.”
“What did he do?”
Margie’s eyes closed. “He made me play with his lollipop—that’s what he called it. I had to let him put it everywhere.”
“How old were you when this happened?”
“Very young. It went on for years.” Margie’s fingers touched her chest and she smiled ruefully. “Until I got breasts. They never did get very big.”
“Did you tell anybody?”
“I told Danny what Vernon was doing to me the summer I turned ten and he turned fifteen. He said it was my fault.”
“You told no one else?”
“I was scared to. But I think my daddy knew. He went to work for Vernon’s father that same summer and stayed with the company until he retired.”
Kerney thought about Margie’s years of pain and shame. “Vernon can’t hurt you anymore.”
Margie smiled bitterly. “I always thought Vernon’s death would be a remedy. But it’s not.”
“Why don’t you get packed,” Kerney said gently, resisting the impulse to reach out and comfort Margie. Based on what he’d just heard, he doubted that a man’s touch would soothe away any of her hurts.