Her Daughter's Father: Cedar Island Tales, #3

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Prologue

Six-year-old Gretchen Martindale couldn’t see her hand when she touched her nose. The closet was so dark, so hot, so smoky.

Mama, help me, she whispered then coughed. Heat seared her cheek as she scooted closer to the space under the door to see if her mother was coming. As much as she tried not to, she coughed again. She grasped her knees and pulled her legs closer to her chest. If she hid under her mother’s clothes, like in that magic wardrobe her mom had read in the Narnia book, maybe the fire and the bad man couldn’t find her. He had burst in the front door right after her mother had placed Gretchen’s favorite meal of spaghetti and meatballs on the table.

How long had it been since Gretchen had fled, spurred by her mother’s order to hide? The man had yelled her mother’s name, other words, too. Words that shouldn’t be said. Bitch, whore, slut, you stupid cunt. Words her mother said didn’t mean anything when he uttered them. But Gretchen knew those words meant her mother wasn’t like her friend’s mom who sometimes helped at school. The few times she was invited to Dinah’s house, no one used those words, not even Dinah’s dad. Maybe dads didn’t use those words, only other men.

The clothes in the closet smelled bad, but Gretchen detected hints of her mother’s perfume. When she plunged her face into the clothes, they made her feel safe, like when her mama hugged her. But then the man’s shouts escalated and she heard her mother scream. So many times. Then they stopped. Gretchen burrowed under the clothes and waited for her mama to tell her she could come out, that the man was gone.

But her mama didn’t call. Other sounds took over. A strange crackling noise, louder even as the closet where she hid grew warmer, almost too hot to bear. Mama, Gretchen murmured, trying not to cough. Is it safe now? Can I come out? She coughed and coughed.

No one answered.

Gretchen wasn’t sure how long she’d been in the closet before the door burst open and a huge paw grasped her ankle and hauled her out from under the clothes.

Muffled words that sounded like found her emerged from the monster’s head. Other words, too, that Gretchen didn’t understand. Her heart jumped in her chest. Had the bad man come? Is he a monster now, like Mama once said, when she was crying? I have to get away. Gretchen wanted to slap him, but she felt woozy, like when she’d just waked up from a nap. He held her tight to his chest. Only her legs were free. She kicked and kicked to make him let her go, like her mama had told her.

The monster was hard to see in the smoky darkness. The paws holding her were scratchy against her neck and the back of her legs. Gretchen couldn’t stop coughing. She wanted to tell him to let her go, but she was afraid to take another breath. She kicked at the monster again, desperate to get away. He gave a funny kind of oomph. But it just made him reach for her legs. His other arm clutched her tighter, pressing her face closer.

No! Let me go! She wanted to yell, but she couldn’t get a breath.

The monster mumbled something. She squinted at the shield that surrounded the monster’s face and neck. The heat from the nearest wall caused her to jerk when the flames reached out and touched her, burning her leg, singeing her hair. The monster’s big paw pressed her face into his shoulder as he worked his way past the wall that used to have a window. But the window wasn’t there anymore. It was a sheet of fire that curled up and over the wall, shooting along the ceiling. So hot. Then the monster lifted her to his shoulder. In the light from the hellish flames, she realized she was no longer in the house, her body still pressed against his scratchy coat, protected from the heat that was eating the house. Whooshing noises and crackling accompanied the collapse of the roof in a shower of sparks and smoke as she was carried away from the flames.

The monster removed his mask. He transformed into a man. It’s okay, honey. I’m not going to hurt you. His voice was kind, reminding her of Dinah’s dad. Gretchen squinted at him. No monster. A fireman. She coughed as he held her, the fiery heat from the house bathing everything in red. She watched as ugly black smoke swirled into the night sky. Where was Mama?

When the fireman set her down on the sidewalk, another man peered at her. Can you talk, little girl?

Gretchen tried, but her throat burned, as if the fire was inside her. She nodded, but no sound came out.

We’ll take her in, the new man announced before picking her up and carrying her to a white truck. He talked to another man who leaned over her. Severe burns on her left leg and right cheek. Probable smoke inhalation. Let’s get her on oxygen. I’ll start an IV. The man placed her on a bed inside the truck and covered her cheek and her leg with white squares. He pressed something against her chest and seemed to listen. You take it easy. We’re going to give you extra air and medicine so you don’t hurt. Your neighbor told us about you. Good thing, too. His voice trailed off and he gazed at her with eyes as blue as her mama’s favorite dishes. She remembered when the bad man had broken them, every single one. Her mama had moaned and cried. Not my Delft dishes! But he had just laughed and reached for another dish until they were nothing but tiny pieces on the floor.

Nooooo, Gretchen managed to gasp. But she could say no more when man held a thin tube close to her nose. It blew air against her skin and then into her nostrils. She closed her eyes and sucked it in, wishing she could stop tasting smoke.

~ ~ ~

Gretchen opened her eyes. She was in a bed in a strange room with pale green walls and a window, the curtain pulled across, dimming the light. A blank television screen sat across from her bed, hooked onto a shelf on the wall. She brought a hand up to her face and felt bandages on her right cheek and chin. Her hair felt greasy and thick.

A woman wearing a dark blue smock with bright-colored cartoon characters on it stood in the doorway, her back to Gretchen. I don’t know. Did they find her? Only person the firemen brought in was the girl. Any relatives we can call? If not, I guess we need to alert CPS. The woman’s words weren’t directed at Gretchen, but she sensed the woman was talking about her.

Mama? she said, her throat sore, her voice raspy.

The woman turned and approached the bed. You’re awake. Good. I’m your nurse. Can you tell me your name? The woman grasped Gretchen’s wrist and looked at the wall clock near the window.

Gretchen.

What’s your last name?

Martindale.

How old are you, Gretchen?

Six. My birthday was last week.

The woman nodded. What about your grandparents? What are their names?

Huh?

Parents of your mom and dad?

I don’t have a dad. Just my mama.

Do you know your mother’s mom and dad?

Gretchen shook her head.

Aunts or uncles, cousins?

We just moved here. She couldn’t remember how many times they’d moved since Christmas. Gretchen squirmed in the bed, and the nurse cranked up the head slightly.

Is that better?

Where’s my mama? Gretchen’s lids felt scratchy, like she had sand in her eyes.

The nurse’s eyes narrowed. Her slight smile flattened. I don’t know.

Gretchen pressed her head into the pillow and brought both hands up to her face. She covered her eyes, not wanting the woman to see her cry. "I need her. Really bad."

I’m sure you do, the nurse replied gently and patted her hand.

Gretchen shifted in the bed and buried her face into the pillow, unable to stop the tears that burned the backs of her lids and then ran in hot rivulets down her cheeks, soaking into the bandages on her face, stinging. I want my mama, she begged. I did what she said. I hided, just like she told me.

Chapter 1

Thirty Years Later

Twelve-year-old Laine Jessup pulled the curtain away from the bedroom window and looked outside at the full moon. A cat scampered across the lawn of the house where she now stayed. Under her pillow was the small calendar where she marked off the number of days she had been with the Jamesons. Sixty-one days. Nobody knew she did that. She liked that she wasn’t the only foster kid living here, that she was older than little Nettie, who hadn’t even started school. She was glad they were the only kids. No foster brothers to torment her.

She heard a noise in the hall and her door opened. Why aren’t you in bed? Mr. Jameson stared at her, his hairy chest bare, wearing only pajama bottoms. It’s near midnight. You should be asleep.

Laine walked two short steps to her bed and climbed in. I couldn’t sleep.

Do it anyway. You’ve got school tomorrow. The man shut the door and walked back down the hall. The muffled slam told Laine he’d gone back to bed, not to Nettie’s room.

Good. Laine didn’t trust him, refused to call him Uncle Buddy, like Nettie.

Minutes later, Mrs. Jameson opened the door and stood there in a flimsy nightgown, the outlines of her bosom clear in the moonlight. Laine didn’t call her Mom, even though she’d been told to do so. The woman pulled the curtain closed, cloaking the room in almost-darkness again.

Mrs. Jameson moved closer to the bed and leaned over Laine. Why aren’t you asleep?

Not tired, she murmured.

You’re not still thinking about your other family, are you?

Laine shook her head. She never wanted to see those people ever again. At least, not the man who’d called the cops. But she wondered about the other girls, how they were doing.

Mrs. Jameson must have guessed what Laine was thinking. She asked, Could you use a hug?

No. I’m okay. Laine rolled away from the woman. Hugs from foster mothers meant nothing.

Then I’ll see you in the morning. Waffles for breakfast tomorrow, she promised, as if that would make Laine feel better. When she was certain Mrs. Jameson had left the room, Laine climbed out of bed and went into her closet, retrieved the tiny flashlight she’d found in the garage, and flipped it on. For the next two hours, she lost herself in the book she was reading, no longer reliving the horrors of her last foster home or the uncertainty she felt in this one.

~ ~ ~

Three days later, Laine picked up the hairbrush. Nettie. You have to stop crying. Mrs. Jameson will be back soon. Maybe she just went to the store again. Let me brush your hair. Make you pretty.

But, Nettie sniffed, that's not what Uncle Buddy said. He said they were going to take a ride in the car, that they’d be right back and it’s been hours and hours. And I’m hungry. The little girl wiggled on the stool. Ouch! You pulled.

So they took a ride. They’ll be back. If you'd just sit still. There. We're done. I'll make us a sandwich while we wait. She helped the little girl off the high stool in the kitchen and looked in the big drawer near the sink. The big drawer—what Mrs. Jameson called the pantry even though it wasn’t—mostly held half-filled boxes of cereal. But in the corner, lying on its side, was a jar of peanut butter, the creamy kind. The only kind Nettie would eat. Laine preferred the crunchy kind, but she wouldn’t ask again, not after Mr. Jameson had told she’d like what they used or do without her. Out of his wife’s hearing, he’d added, or I’ll you’ll be sorry. Maybe Mrs. Jameson had heard but pretended not to.

I have to get a knife again. She’d been moved after stabbing her last foster dad with a broken-off paring knife. He’d told the cops she had to leave, that she was incorrigible. She knew that word. It meant she hadn’t let him do what he wanted. She knew what he was really after when he checked the other girls at night. She’d heard a couple of the other girls crying after one of his visits. When he came into her room the first time, she pretended to be asleep until she felt his fingers slide under her nightgown, like a giant spider walking up her leg, sliding over her belly. That’s when she told him she would cut off his privates if he didn’t leave her alone. He’d reared away from her, acting surprised at her words.

Where’d you learn that, girly? At your last home? With those boys?

Don’t you touch me, she’d hissed at him, the paring knife in her hand, waiting for the right time to surprise him.

When he talked, he sounded like a growly bear, his voice was so low. That last time he came into her room, he lunged and placed one hand across her mouth so she couldn’t yell for help. With his other hand, he started his creepy crawly stuff again. That’s when she stuck him—right on his thigh. He’d screamed, grabbed his leg and slapped her hard. But she started screaming, even when he slapped her again and told her to shut up. Instead of obeying, she kept screaming until everyone in the house was awake, and his wife turned on the lights and told the other girls to go back to their rooms. While he was trying to stop the blood from dripping down his leg, Laine slid out of bed and ran for the window.

Thankful she had already checked out the nearby tree and knew where the hand holds were, she opened the window and shimmied down the tree’s smooth trunk, not caring that she only had on the nightgown her foster mother had given her the week before. She hid in the bushes most of the night, but the cops had a dog that found her. That’s when the cops brought her to the police station.

She told them what the man tried to do. Even told Gwen, the lady counselor they took her to the following day. She refused to talk to Aaron, the man counselor, but the woman seemed nice. Gwen was tall and skinny with really long hair. When Laine asked, Gwen unwound her braid and showed Laine how long—past her butt. Gwen seemed to believe Laine when she told her about the foster dad and how he used his fingers. Her mouth got real thin when Laine told her about the other girls, some of them younger than her.

Laine never went back to that foster home. Instead of being moved to another place in Seattle, they sent her to Cedar Island. The place sounded nice, but it was a long way from where she’d lived before and she’d had to change schools. In Seattle, she could ride the bus for hours after school so she didn’t have to go home right away. She’d started doing that every time any of her foster dads started looking at her funny. Or the boys, older than she, who were supposed to think of her as a sister. But they weren’t her brothers. On this little island, there probably wasn’t all that much space to run. Not that she wanted to now. She liked having a little sister. Except for Mr. Jameson, this place seemed okay. Especially the school.

Her homeroom teacher was nice, and Laine liked all her classes. Two weeks after she began school, Ms. Martindale invited her to join the journalism club. It met after school and was going to produce a book with collected stories from different classes. Mama Jameson had hesitated when the teacher asked if Laine could stay longer at school, but she finally agreed. Laine was happy about that. It meant less time at home with Mr. Jameson staring at her. But she worried about Nettie. Would he do bad things to that little kid?

Laine shivered at the thought, remembering the girls in that other home. She hoped Gwen had been successful getting those girls out of that house. When Laine asked at their last counseling session, Gwen had said that information was confidential, and then began talking about ways Laine could protect herself, without having to resort to a stolen paring knife.

Laine looked out the kitchen window. The limbs on the nearby trees were moving wildly, signs a storm was coming in. She turned and squinted at the calendar on the wall, the one with a naked lady in the picture. Mr. Jameson’s calendar. She was supposed to call him Uncle Buddy when he came into their room. He’s no buddy. Laine was certain of that. And he wasn’t Nettie’s dad, either. Maybe the little girl didn’t remember her real parents. She was only five. Laine hadn’t been in the home long enough to figure everything out. Except for a couple of times, Mama Jameson was always at home, so Laine couldn’t snoop in drawers and find out things. One thing she knew for sure. Mr. Jameson couldn’t be trusted. The way he looked at her. The way he was so smarmy nice to Nettie. Laine had seen that look before. In her last foster home.

~ ~ ~

The next morning, Mrs. Jameson waved Laine off to school like it was a normal day, but then she said, I want you to watch Nettie after you get home from school. I’m going for a ride with Isaac this afternoon.

Laine nodded. Okay.

The way Mr. Jameson smirked at her that evening when Mrs. Jameson still wasn’t home, the black hole showing where his two front teeth should have been, made Laine think that something was wrong. If Mrs. Jameson wasn’t coming home until real late, would Mr. Jameson act like that other nasty man? But after dinner, Uncle Buddy just clumped downstairs into the basement and turned on the TV, loud enough to make it hard for Laine to study. She tucked Nettie into bed and read a story to her until she fell asleep.

The next morning, Mr. Jameson left early. He yelled at Laine to make breakfast for Nettie before Laine went to school. With Mrs. Jameson still not home, Laine took Nettie over to the neighbor, Gloria, before going to school. When she returned after school, Mr. Jameson wasn’t home and neither was Mrs. Jameson.

~ ~ ~

Five days later, Laine and Nettie had been alone all weekend as well as two days of school.

Gloria kept asking Laine about Mrs. Jameson, and Laine didn’t know what to tell her. She knew she and Nettie weren’t supposed to be home alone without an adult, so she told Gloria Mama Jameson was sick. Gloria asked if she couldn’t come over and help her, but Laine reminded her that Mr. Jameson didn’t like people coming over. Especially black people.

Gloria frowned and slammed her door.

Nettie wiggled off the kitchen stool after eating a snack. I want to go outside and play.

It’s too windy, but if you want, I’ll play dolls with you, Laine offered. Nettie’s blond hair, so shiny in the light, made Laine think they could almost be sisters. She had blue eyes, just like Nettie. Maybe she would tell Mama Jameson she wanted to let her hair grow, long enough to reach her shoulders. Then she and Nettie really would look like sisters.

She made Nettie’s favorite mac-and-cheese dinner and they played dolls until Nettie got tired and went to bed. Laine pulled out her books and finished her homework, eager to show Ms. Martindale the story she had written, one she hoped was good enough for the book the journalism club was putting together. It was past ten when she finally went to bed.

A noise woke her. Unsure at first what she had heard, Laine lay quietly. Then she heard Nettie talking, almost crying. Mr. Jameson was back, in Nettie’s room, his voice low like always, and harsh.

Laine climbed out of bed and tiptoed down the hall. The door to Nettie’s room was open. In the spare light from the living room, Mr. Jameson was leaning over Nettie.

Ssh! You’re not s’posed to cry. Don’t you love Uncle Buddy? he asked. Don’t you want to show Uncle Buddy how much you love him, let him touch you in your special place? Then he kneeled close to the bed and slid his hands under the covers.

Laine knew what he was going to do, how it would feel, how frightened and confused Nettie would be. Laine had to do something to stop Mr. Jameson from hurting Nettie. The small table and chair Nettie used when doing her finger painting was near the door. Laine grabbed the chair and brought it down on Mr. Jameson’s head and shoulders as hard as she could.

He made a funny noise and fell on top of Nettie, who began screaming.

Help! Lainie! I can’t breathe. He’s so heavy.

Laine grabbed Nettie’s outstretched hands and pulled her from beneath the man’s still form.

Laine’s heart jumped. I killed him. Come on. We have to get out of here!

On their way to the front door, Laine shoved her feet into shoes—no time for socks—and pulled her winter coat from the closet. She grabbed Nettie’s coat, wrapped her in it and lifted the child into her arms, muffling her cries as she did so.

Then she opened the door and ran for her life.

~ ~ ~

Wayne Stiefel rubbed two fingers against the perpetual crease between his eyes. What makes you think something's wrong?

Gretchen forced herself to remain quietly in her seat. This girl loves school, wouldn’t miss the journalism club. She isn’t someone who wouldn’t want to be here. She recalled a word exercise she’d used with the journalism club. She was certain Laine had described school as safe, though the cards holding the words had been handed in without names. "Laine has done fine work since she joined the class. Always comes in with her homework completed. A+ quality, too. She loves school." Laine Jessup had begun opening up to Gretchen, offering little hints about her life. A foster kid like Gretchen had been. Living with a family, but not really part of it.

And she’s missed the last eight school days. Almost two weeks! Something's happened. I have a bad feeling about this. What do you know about her family?

Not much. The mother registered her late. She seemed a bit frazzled when she came in with the girl, another child tagging along. I think about five. She said the little kid wasn’t quite ready for kindergarten when I asked. Said she was going to hold the smaller girl out for another year. But she didn’t have much to say about Laine. Just that she needed to be in school. He grinned. The little kid wanted to start, too—told me she could read already.

Did Laine talk to you?

The middle school principal’s always-busy hands stilled on the desk before resuming their random tapping of a Morse code-like message. She barely made eye contact.

Did you send someone out to check on the family the first day she was absent? The district required that absentees be investigated. Or did you just write her off as a runaway? Gretchen’s gut churned. So many foster kids ran when things got tough. But Laine had seemed to settle in quickly, hadn’t missed a day or an assignment in the several weeks since she’d joined Gretchen’s homeroom. Until now.

Never got a report. I’ll call the counselor, Craig Dunne. Maybe he has more information. Or, if he doesn’t, the cops. He stopped his Morse coding and settled his dark eyes on Gretchen. You worry too much. Concentrate on the rest of your class and let me deal with this kid. When he stood up and walked to the door, Gretchen knew she was dismissed.

~ ~ ~

Craig Dunne slammed down the phone.

Another foster kid has run off? He shoved himself upright, brushed one hand along his nape, his hair curling along his neck, a sign he needed a haircut. Maybe later. He grabbed his Stetson, strode out of his office and headed for his car.

Why do I have to be the one to deal with another juvie runaway just when I was getting ready to leave for a much-needed vacation? Oh, yeah. Because it’s your job, doofus. He grimaced as he pulled out of the parking lot.

He’d arranged to pick up two teens from the group home where he volunteered alternate weekends. These two were making good progress with their anger management issues and Craig had promised them a chance to go fishing if they kept their noses clean. They had and he always made good on his promises to kids. He had figured the Veteran’s Day holiday was the perfect time to introduce the boys to his favorite fishing hole, maybe even teach them the rudiments of fly fishing. The rented tents were already in his truck, along with the rest of his gear. If the principal had called ten minutes later, he’d have already been on his way to pick up the boys. He could imagine them jumping up and down at the prospect of a real camping trip. He didn’t want to cancel on them. Even calling in that he was going to be late was something he preferred to avoid. Too many adults had already let those kids down. They didn’t need him giving excuses about being late or not showing up.

This new juvie the principal had named didn’t ring a bell, and he had no file on her. Which meant she wasn’t among the fifty or so kids he’d seen this year in one-on-one’s. Was this another foster kid badly placed? Might as well talk to the principal first. Maybe this wouldn’t take long. If he had to delay his departure, he’d call the group home and tell them he’d be there right after dinner. And apologize to the boys when he picked them up.

He swung the car into the nearly-empty parking lot at the back of the middle school building. He hoped this kid was one of the younger ones, easier to deal with than the teens he’d seen in counseling last week. Perhaps it was just a misunderstanding between the parents and the kid. They occurred almost as often as the fights between divorcing parents, the kids caught in the middle. He'd seen enough of that in the last fifteen months since he’d begun working for the East Shore School District.

He entered the main hall, noting that the door clanged shut behind him and locked with a loud snick, another recently-installed security system put in place since Newtown. Not that Cedar Island was likely to see a similar tragedy. But those Connecticut kids hadn’t been expecting it, either. Thousands of miles away and that tragedy had forced the hands of the principals in each of the local schools, administrators who had argued with the police department for years against installing such security. No more arguing this time. They'd found the money somewhere.

Craig checked his watch. Twelve minutes after three. The doors