Coast Road (36 page)

"No, " she said, trying to slip out from under him the way she had at the truck earlier, but she was on her back with her legs wide, and his weight pinned her this time. His hips were moving rhythmically, allowing only enough room for his hand, which rubbed and opened.

"I'll do it with my finger first, " he said, breathing hard, and she started to squirm. It wasn't fun anymore. She pushed at his shoulders for leverage, but his finger followed. He was hurting her.

She tried to scramble back. "Let me go! " "I'll get you ready�" "I feel sick, " she cried, and it was true. Through the nausea and the dizziness, she found his hair and pulled.

"What the�" Kick him in the groin, her mother had always said, and Samantha did it.

It didn't matter that she couldn't do it very hard, but it moved him enough for her to wriggle free, tug at the truck door, and fall out.

"What the hell'd you do that for? " Teague yelled through the open door.

But she'd had enough of music and dancing and beer, and more than enough of Teague Runyan. Tugging her clothing back into place, she ran.

She stumbled when her heels caught in the grass, caught herself, and barreled on. She ran through a small wooded stretch, ran until she couldn't breathe, then stopped and was violently ill in someone's pitch black backyard. Holding her stomach, she backed up to the dark house, slid down to the ground, turned sideways against the wood, and drew her knees close. When more threatened to erupt from her stomach, she swallowed it down. She took shallow breaths, listening hard in between.

She couldn't hear Teague, couldn't see Teague, but there was a noise in her head and her eyes wouldn't stay in one place long enough for her mind to figure out what she saw.

She lost the battle with her stomach and threw up again. As soon as she was done, she pushed up and away from the house. When she searched the street from behind a tree and saw no sign of the truck, she ran in what she hoped was the opposite direction. She turned a corner and sat on the edge of the road to regain strength in her legs, then forced herself up and ran until she rounded another corner. She retched again and sank to the ground, praying that no one would see her. She was in a residential area. She had no idea which one. Her head was starting to hurt. If she'd been able to dig a hole, she would have climbed in and pulled the dirt in over her. She felt sick and embarrassed and scared.

She started off again, clutching her shoes to her chest and walking in her stocking feet, trying to recognize the names on street signs and failing. She turned one corner just as a pickup approached, and ducked behind a shrub, but it wasn't Teague's truck. She walked on, feeling sick in deeper ways now. She turned another corner and another pickup passed. She didn't duck away this time, just kept walking as though she knew exactly where she was headed, all the time wondering where she was headed and what she was going to do. When the same truck passed a third time, more slowly, she was uneasy.

"Hey, baby, " said a voice that sounded older and more dangerous than Teague's, and suddenly she'd had enough of being alone. Terrified, she turned in at the nearest walk and fumbled in her purse as though for the house keys. When the truck drove off, she stole away.

She ran the length of several blocks through people's backyards, and emerged desperate to find a phone. She felt sick enough to vomit again, and wanted to lie down, just lie down and sleep while her mother kept watch, only her mother was in the hospital in a coma, and she couldn't call Lydia, after what she'd done, and she didn't have a phone!

She listened, trying to separate out traffic sounds from the other ones in her head. She walked another block and listened again, then headed in the direction she thought would be right. Her head hurt, her breasts hurt, her stomach hurt, her feet hurt. Looking behind her when she thought she heard another truck, she missed a break in the sidewalk and fell on her wrist, and that hurt, too.

She imagined what might happen if those men found her, or if Teague did. She imagined wandering around all night, freezing in the night air, making it to morning and not knowing what to do then.

More frightened by the minute, wanting only to be home, she began to cry softly. She was nearly frantic by the time she reached the end of another block and recogruzed the name on the street sign. Thank God thank God thank God, she murmured and started running again. It wasn't more than five minutes before she found her phone. She lifted the receiver, dialed the number, and waited for her father to answer.

chapter seventeen.

JACK WAS PAINTING when the phone rang, and felt an instant jolt. He didn't have to look at the clock to know that something was wrong. He had sent Hope to bed at midnight, more than an hour before. Either Rachel was in trouble or Sam was.

Dropping palette and brush, he grabbed up the phone. "Hello? " There was a pause, then a broken "Daddy? Come pick me up." He swallowed hard. Not Rachel. Relief. Fear. "Where are you? What happened? " "I don't feel good."

"Too much to drink? " It was the least of the evils.

"I feel sick. Can you come? " He was already wiping his hands.

"Right now. Tell me where you are." When she gave him a set of cross streets, he asked for the house address.

"It's a pay phone, " she cried. "Can you come soon? " He could do the drive in thirty-five minutes if he pushed it, but a pay phone? "Are you alone? " Where in the hell was her date? And what had he done?

"Hurry, Daddy."

"Samantha, do I need to call an ambulance? Or the police? Is there trouble�" "I just want to come home! " "Okay, sweetheart, okay�I'm on my way�just stay there�don't move�and if anyone stops, call the cops, okay? " She said a shaky "Okay." He had a thought. "Give me five minutes, then call me in the car." He wasn't sure what all had happened, but he didn't want to hang up and imagine her alone and sick for the length of his drive. Better to talk her through the time.

That way, if she passed out or ran into another kind of trouble, he could call an ambulance himself.

"I don't know the number, " she wailed.

He told her and made her repeat it. "Five minutes, okay? " "Okay. " He hung up the phone to find a wide-awake Hope inches behind him. "Can I come? " He didn't answer, just took her hand and, snatching up his wallet in the kitchen, ran with her out to the car.

FIVE MINUTES passed, then ten, and the car phone didn't ring. He gripped the wheel and pushed the car as fast as he could through a shifting fog, praying she would still be there when he arrived.

"Okay, " he said to Hope. "What do you know that I don't? " "Nothing.

" "Loyalty changes sometimes, you know. Showing loyalty to your sister right now means helping get her home safe and sound."

"She knew I didn't like what she was doing, so she didn't tell me. You were the one who was supposed to ask where she was going."

"I did and it didn't get me very far." So he was trying to blame Hope, but that wasn't fair. Hope was right. It was his job, and he had bungled it.

At least Samantha had had the sense to call.

IT WAS AFTER two in the morning when he reached Carmel. The streets were deserted. He found the intersection Samantha had named, spotted the phone booth, pulled up fast, and saw nothing. He left the car, looking in every direction, thinking she might have been standing, waiting, somewhere else, when he heard her call.

"Daddy? " For all her maturity and bravado, she was a wisp of a girl, huddled on the floor of the phone booth, her tear-streaked face looking green in the night light. "I messed up the number, " she cried, "couldn't remember. It wouldn't go through. I tried everything." He knelt, lifted her up and into his arms. Hope ran beside him and helped him fit her into the front seat and strap her in, then ran around the car and snaked behind the driver's seat into the back. He slipped off his jacket and covered Samantha up, because she was trembling, bare armed and bare shouldered in the nippy night air. Then he put a hand on the top of her head.

"Do we need a hospital? " he asked softly. He hadn't seen bruises or blood, but he wasn't looking at the places that scared him most.

She shook her head. "I just drank too much."

"Where's your date? " She began to cry. "He wanted�to do things�I didn't." Jack's heart ached. "Good girl, " he said, softly still.

Leaning over, he pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, then turned the car for home.

HE DROVE to Big Sur slowly and sensibly, despite the hour The car seemed a safe place between wherever it was that Samantha had been and whatever Jack was going to have to face when they got home. For most of the drive, Samantha huddled under his jacket and slept, and it seemed a natural thing to do with the fog rolling in. He touched her head every few minutes. He told her to tell him if she felt sick and wanted to stop. But her eyes remained closed and her breathing even.

She didn't look drunk. She wasn't convulsing, and the way she stirred every so often suggested sleep, not unconsciousness. He could tell that she had thrown up, and assumed she had lost whatever hadn't already made it into her bloodstream. He guessed that whatever manner of sick she was had to do with heart as well as body.

He wanted to do things I didn't, she had said, and it haunted Jack, ate at his stomach, what those things might be. But he didn't ask. He remembered being grilled by his father when he was Samantha's age �worse, remembered his sister being grilled by his father, guilty until proven innocent. Jack wouldn't do that to Samantha.

So, was the alternative silence? Jack had been taught silence by a father who needed to place blame and a mother who loathe dissension.

Rachel had been taught it by a mother who knew everything about everything. When Jack met Rachel, they had been like souls freed from confinement, talking at length and with substance. Then time passed and old habits returned. Yes, that was what had happened. He saw. He understood. But silence wasn't the answer in dealing with Samantha.

They couldn't sweep what had happened under the rug. There had to be talk.

WHEN THEY got home, he carried her to her room. While she showered, he stared out at the forest through the living room glass, wondering whether she was washing evidence away. She claimed she didn't need a hospital. If he insisted, he would be saying he didn't believe her, didn't trust her. It was a no-win situation.

The water went off. He gave her enough time to get into bed, then went to her room to make sure she was all right. He didn't turn on the light.

After a minute, he adjusted to the dark and made his way to her bed.

The window was hand-high open. The smell of moist earth, leaves, and bark drifted in. It was a cool, familiar comfort.

Samantha had the quilt up to her chin. If she had been sleeping he would have left, but her eyes were open and wet. He hunkered down by her face.

"What I need to know most, " he said gently, "is whether he. . .

touched you in ways he shouldn't have." He wasn't sure how else to ask. The truth was that he didn't know for sure whether Samantha had been a virgin to begin with.

She didn't answer at first. So he said, "If it was rape�" "No. " "Date rape."

"No." He waited for her to say more. When she didn't, he said, "Talk to me, Sam. I'm worried. I'm scared. You're upset. I want to help."

After another minute, he said, "If your mother was here, she'd be doing what I am. She'd be sitting right here talking to you. It's not prying. It's not accusing or finding fault. It's trying to make sure that you don't need medical care, or that we don't need legal help.

But I have to tell you, " he added with a small laugh, "I'll strangle the guy if he raped you."

"He didn't, " she whispered.

"But you ended up alone in a phone booth in the middle of town." He tried to tease her into talking. "Want to tell me what happened� I mean, as much as you think my sensitive ears can take? " She closed her eyes. One tear, then another slid out of the downward corners. He felt the pain of each. When she covered her face with a hand and broke into long, deep sobs, he felt that, too�felt it in helplessness, inadequacy, and fear.

He wished Rachel was there. He didn't know how to talk to a fifteen-year-old girl. This was woman stuff.

But Rachel wasn't there and might not be for a while. He didn't like that thought, but it was a reality he had to face. Besides, Samantha wasn't telling him to leave. That seemed significant.

Sitting back on his heels, he continued to stroke her head until her crying slowed. Then he blew out a breath. "I wouldn't want to be your age for all the tea in China." She sniffled. "Why not? " "It's in between nowhere." How well he remembered. "You aren't a child anymore, so you can't just play and be cute and play dumb when things go wrong. Your body is doing weird things. You feel grown-up, but you're not that either. You can't drive a car, or make the kind of money you want to spend, and you can't do what you want when you want it, even though that's just what you want to do. You're expected to do a lot of grown-up stuff because you need the experience, only you don't have the experience, so half the time you don't know what in the hell you're doing. No. I'd like to be twenty seven again. But fifteen?

Not on your life." V't V U't 44 [ [ rDA JGVb' "What was so great about twenty-seven? " He thought about that. "Your mom." Samantha started to cry again.