The Lights of Tenth Street (24 page)

“Three and a half or four.”

The doorbell buzzed long and loud, and Marco stood up, looking down at Brian. “We can’t wait that long.”

Outside Washington, D.C., a satellite engineer received a good-bye kiss and was shooed out the door. He climbed into his new car and gave his girlfriend a little wave before he backed down the driveway.

His heart pounded as he watched her blow him a kiss, saw her eyes darken with a smoky promise for their next encounter. That very evening, if he was successful in his task. Oh, he was a lucky man.

He drove the few miles to his office, his mind turning over the job set before him. He shouldn’t do it … but he couldn’t help himself. And what harm would it really do, anyway? The lazy financial sharks of the world made hundreds of times what he did for working so hard, day after day, without complaint. Why shouldn’t someone settle the score a little, skim off some of their profits? He didn’t mind receiving some of the windfall.

Especially—a little shudder passed through him—when it came via her. And she really loved him, too; she had told him so. She couldn’t imagine her life without him.

He was proud that he had gotten her out of the club, convinced her to stop stripping. It was worth it, this business proposition, since it helped her, too. And it was so easy for him. She had made it clear how admired his skills were in certain circles.

Even on a weekend, the security checkpoints were busy—no rest for low-paid, overworked government contractors these days—but soon he was in his office, the door closed behind him. His colleagues knew he needed to rework the satellite code again, and would leave him alone with his boring, arduous task.

His breath came faster as the minutes stretched on, his fingers busy on the keyboard. He was skilled at writing programs that took up little space and ran invisibly in the background. He also knew a thing or two about erasing his tracks. There was no way anything but the most direct search would find the changes he had made.

He queued up the program, tested it to ensure it would run properly, and relaxed back in his chair, smiling. Two hundred thousand dollars for creating a simple electronic “back door.” One afternoons work. Not bad.

By the time he left the office that evening, he had already been fantasizing for hours about his planned rendezvous, and was impatient with the usual exit-security procedures.

He waited in a short line, watching the guard scan the woman in front of him. Both faces were serious, intent. What went on in that building was too important to national security to take lightly.

When it was his turn, he submitted to the same process, his conscience prickling. Thank goodness the scan couldn’t read his mind. They had assured him—
she
had assured him—that it was purely a moneymaking venture, that they needed access to the communications satellite network for bank wire transfers and the like. It was just by chance that
his
satellites were used for homeland security purposes as well. She had been offended at his “allegations,” his nervous questions, and had pulled away.

He never brought them up again.

T
he sun sent long beams through the tall glass walls as Ronnie sank into the bubbling Jacuzzi. Thirty minutes of swimming laps and she was ready for a little pampering.

For once, she was glad for the amenities that upped the rent in Tiffany’s complex. A heated indoor pool and Jacuzzi were almost enough to make her forget the craziness of the last few weeks. She had a new car, was working constant double shifts to pay for it, and was almost finished with her GED. And if she didn’t hear soon about her early admissions application to Georgia State, she would keel over and die.

Last week, she’d taken a chance and called Mr. Woodward’s office. He hadn’t been available, but his secretary told her that although they couldn’t commit to anything yet, things were “looking positive.”

Looking positive? What does that mean? That you can’t find any reason to reject me yet?

Under “employment history,” Ronnie had not mentioned her current job. She’d listed the pizza place and included a glowing recommendation from her former boss, but nothing from her current one. Maybe they wouldn’t notice.

She sank down into the bubbling water, buried up to her nose. Why was she so ashamed of her job? Her coworkers were nice people, and even though Marco was pushy he was a good boss. She didn’t know the strippers very well yet, but Tiffany said they were a nice group. They were former schoolteachers, real estate agents, stay-at-home moms, students, high school dropouts … people just like her. The club treated her well, and she made a better wage than she would flipping burgers. So why the hang-up? Did she think she was somehow better than everybody else?

She saw a gleam of blue and red through the wall of glass. She watched as the little truck pulled up at the mail pavilion, and the mailman began slotting his load into the boxes.

Fifteen minutes later, Ronnie pulled on a comfy pair of sweats and headed for her mailbox. She took one look at the large envelope from Georgia State, and breathed out a sigh of relief.

Inside her apartment, she read through the cover letter.

“
We are pleased to inform you
 …”

A month ago, she would have been jumping around the room. But admittance seemed a minor hurdle now. She flipped through the pages, and there it was.

“
An advance tuition payment of $750 is due by …
”

Ronnie shook her head and shuffled through the papers, looking for a financial aid application. Was there
any
chance that Seth would share the family’s lousy financial information so she could get that scholarship? If not, how could she come up with seven hundred and fifty dollars so soon?

It would only take one weekend onstage
 …

Ronnie started to bat the intruding thought away, and then stilled. She knew she could probably make that much in just a few nights as a stripper. But she had protested the idea so much and so publicly that it had become a point of pride. She couldn’t change her mind now; everyone would rag on her for weeks.

Shouldn’t your college dream be worth a few weeks of teasing!

For the first time, Ronnie allowed the thought to take shape in her mind. But as soon as she pictured herself onstage in front of her panting, hooting customers, she felt sick to her stomach. And she’d also have to entertain them at their tables, endure their intent eyes searching every inch of …

No way
.

The ring of the phone startled her.

“Hello.”

“Ronnie! I wasn’t sure you’d be around. You’ve been working so much.”

She sat up in surprise. It had been so long since she’d heard her mother’s voice. “Yes, I have been.”

“Is it going like you’d hoped? I—I’m worried about you, you know.”

You’ve got a funny way of showing it
.

“It’s going okay. Work is keeping me busy. I bought a car.”

“Really? What kind? Can you afford it?”

“It’s a great car. You’d love it.”

She gushed about the deal she got, and what the car looked like. She described the excursion with Brian, playing up her amusement at the salespeople falling all over themselves to help him only to regret the hard bargain. She talked about Tiffany’s great apartment, the gym, pool, and Jacuzzi.

“Wow, sweetheart, it sounds like you’re really thriving up there.”

“Well, it’s a lot of work—but I have the best news of all.” Ronnie paused. “I got into Georgia State!”

There was a gasp on the line. “You got in?”

“I got in, Mom! I’m going to college!” She hesitated, then plowed ahead. “But there’s just this one issue …”

For the next five minutes, Ronnie explained the financial aid application process. She could get loans and maybe even scholarships, but the family would need to disclose their financial statements. Her mother grew quiet.

“Please, Mom. Please don’t say no. I don’t think I can do it otherwise. I’d need to pay cash, and there’s no way I can make that much.”

“You know how much I want to support you, sweetheart.”

“Don’t say that! Either you support me, or you don’t. Either you tell Seth you have to give the school our financial statements, or you don’t care about me and my dreams. There’s no middle ground.”

“Ronnie, that’s unfair.”

“What’s unfair is for you to say you want to help, but to never actually do it.” Tears prickled Ronnie’s eyes. “I can’t believe you care more about what Seth thinks than about my life. Especially after all that’s happened.”

There was a long pause, then Ronnie heard a defeated sigh. “I’ll ask him. He’s just in the next room. I’ll ask him.”

An image filled Ronnie’s mind. The year before, she had walked in on a furious fight, with Seth holding her mother against a wall. She could still hear the slaps, the pitiful cries, all because her mother had asked Seth if they could advance Ronnie two hundred dollars for a cheerleading competition.

A year later, Ronnie heard the fear. “Mom, I don’t want you to ask him if—”

“No, I’ll ask him. I owe you that.” Her voice grew stronger. “I love you, Ronnie. I’ll ask him.”

“Mom, I—”

“I love you, sweetheart. I’ll call you back.”

There was a click and she was gone.

Ronnie sat frozen, clutching the phone until the tinny error message came on. She set the receiver down and dialed the number. There was no answer.

A
shining figure surveyed the dusky streets below, tracking with a small battered car as it made its way across town. He intervened when necessary, ensuring its progress. The timing would have to be perfect.

A sudden rustling caught his attention and he looked over his shoulder. Half a troop was following his route, eager to see the long-awaited meeting unfold. If he hadn’t been so troubled by the events of the day, he would have grinned at them. As it was, he was sorely looking forward to this appointment. It had been ordained since before the foundations of the world.

Mr. Dugan pulled the new grille down over the door of the grocery store, and locked it with a snap. What a shame that the town had declined so much. Forty years ago, he didn’t even have to lock the
door
at night.

He hurried across the parking lot to his truck and drove to the new drugstore, one of the few gleaming chain stores that had been added in this town.

The door chimed when he entered, and a bored-looking teenage boy eyed him from behind the counter.

“Yeah?”

“I need to get a refill. The last name is Dugan.”

The teenager took his time walking to the computer and tapping a few keys. “It’ll take ten minutes to get this filled.” He disappeared into the back to find the pharmacist.

Mr. Dugan sighed, frustration near the surface. He’d called it in earlier in the day just so he wouldn’t be late to his men’s Bible study. He needed to say something!

Peace. They can wait
.

He gave a rueful smile as he turned away from the counter. He wanted to get to know the drugstore staff, wanted to invite them to church. It would be ironic if he turned them off for the sake of a Bible study.

He wandered the cluttered aisles and stopped with knee braces and bandages on one side, baby toys on the other. Maybe he could buy a cute trinket for his grandson.

The door chimed as someone entered, trailing a cloud of cigarette smoke. He wrinkled his nose, annoyed. The woman wore a face-obscuring hat and sunglasses. She stopped in front of the ice packs and knee supports, and turned her back to him.

She took a long drag on the cigarette, and Mr. Dugan gave a pointed cough. Maybe she would get the picture.

The teenage clerk meandered over with an ashtray. “Uh, ma’am? You’re not allowed to smoke in the store. Sorry.”

The woman turned and awkwardly jabbed her cigarette out. Mr. Dugan looked over, and his satisfied smile died on his lips.

Her hands were shaking.

When the teenager walked away, Mr. Dugan spoke to the woman, startling her.

“Thank you for being willing to put your cigarette out. I sometimes have asthma, and it’s hard to be around smoke.”

“Sorry.” She turned away again. For the first time, he noticed that she was cradling her left arm against her body.

“Excuse me. Are you okay? What’s your name?”

A pause. “Linda.”

In an instant, he knew. He touched her on the shoulder and turned her to face him. She tried to keep her head down, but it didn’t matter. Under the glasses, her cheeks were puffy and red. A small welt laced her neck.

He lifted her chin, and she didn’t resist when he pulled her sunglasses off. His breath caught in his throat as he saw the reddened eyes, the bruised cheekbone, the lines of pain on her forehead.

“Linda Hanover. I thought I recognized your voice.” He sighed and shook his head. “Who did this to you?”

“I had an accident—”

“No, you didn’t, Linda. Who did this?”

He waited through a long pause and realized he already knew the answer.

“Linda, can I pray for you?”

Tears sprang to her eyes. She pressed a shaking hand to her mouth and her voice was very small. “Yes.”

“My church is only a couple blocks away. Why don’t we go there? It’s a better place to talk, and I’ll pray for you, okay?”

Linda closed her eyes and nodded.

He reached to lay a hand on her arm. She gave a gasping cry and jerked away.

Mr. Dugan held up his hands. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize. Let me take you to the hospital—”

“No!” She gave him an alarmed look.

He kept his hands up. “Okay. Okay. I just thought you might: want it looked at. Let’s go to the church and—”

The pharmacist called his name. He was going to ignore it, but Linda gestured for him to answer the call.

“Go get your medicine. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Can I get you anything?”

With her good arm, she reached down to the display in front of her and picked up a small sling. She handed it over, wincing, not looking at him.