Speaking in Tongues (16 page)

Matthews’s face went still with uneasy alarm. He waited a judicious moment then stood quickly and walked past Eckhard. But as he did, the disposable camera fell from the folds of his newspaper. Matthews blinked then stepped forward suddenly to pick it up but his foot struck the yellow-and-black box. It went skidding along the sidewalk and stopped in front of Eckhard.

Matthews froze. The teacher, his eyes on Matthews’s, smiled again. He reached down and picked up the camera, looked at it. Turned it over.

“I—” Matthews began, horrified.

“It’s okay,” Eckhard said.

“Okay?” Matthews’s voice faltered. He looked up and down the sidewalk, uneasy.

“I mean, the camera’s okay,” Eckhard said, rattling it. “It doesn’t seem to be broken.”

Matthews began speaking breathlessly, over-explaining—as his script required. “See, what it was, I was going to D.C. later today. I was going to the zoo. Take some pictures of the animals.”

“The zoo.” Eckhard examined the camera.

Matthews again looked up and down the sidewalk.

“You like photography?” the teacher asked.

After a moment, Matthews said, “Yes, I do. A hobby.” Smiled awkwardly, summoning a blush. “Everybody should have a hobby. That’s what my father said.” He fell silent.

“It’s my hobby too.”

“Really?”

“Been doing it for about fifteen years,” Eckhard said.

“Me too. Little less, I guess.”

“You live around here?” the teacher asked.

“Fairfax.”

“Long time?”

“A couple of years.”

Silence grew between them. Eckhard still held the camera. Matthews crossed his arms, rocked on his feet. Looking out over the school yard. Finally he asked, “You do your own developing and printing?”

“Of course,” Eckhard said.

Of course.
The expected answer. Matthews’s eyes narrowed and he appeared to relax. “Harder with color,” he offered. “But they don’t make the throwaways in black and white.”

“I’m getting a digital camera,” Eckhard said. “I can just feed the pictures into my computer at home.”

“I’ve heard about those. They’re expensive, aren’t they?”

“They are . . . But you know hobbies. If they’re important to you you’re willing to spend the money.”

“That’s my philosophy,” Matthews admitted. He sat down next to Eckhard. They looked out on the playing field, at a cluster of girls, who were around ten or eleven years old. Eckhard looked through the eyepiece of the camera. “Lens isn’t telephoto.”

“No,” Matthews said. Then after a moment: “She’s cute. That brunette there.”

“Angela.”

“You know her?”

“I’m a teacher at the high school. I’m also a grade school counselor.”

Matthews’s eyes flashed enviously. “Teacher? I work
for an insurance company. Actuarial work. Boring. But summers I volunteer at Camp Henry. Maryland. Ages eight through fourteen. You know it?”

Eckhard shook his head. “I also coach girls’ sports.”

“That’s a good job too.” Matthews clicked his tongue.

“Sure is.” Eckhard looked out over the field. “I know most of these girls.”

“You do portraits?”

“Some.”

“You ever photograph her? That girl by the goalpost?”

But Eckhard wouldn’t answer. “So, you take pictures just around the area here?”

Matthews said, “Here, California. Europe some. I was in Amsterdam a little while ago.”

“Amsterdam. I was there a few years ago. Not as interesting as it used to be.”

“That’s what I found.”

“Bangkok’s nice, though,” Eckhard volunteered.

“I’m planning on going next year,” Matthews said in a whisper.

“Oh, you have to,” Eckhard encouraged, kneading the yellow box of the camera in his hands. “It’s quite a place.”

Matthews could practically see the synapses firing in Eckhard’s mind, wondering furiously if Matthews was a cop with the Child Welfare Unit of the Fairfax County Police or an FBI agent. Matthews had treated several pedophiles during his days as a practicing therapist. He recognized the classic characteristics
in Eckhard. He was intelligent—an organized offender—and he’d know all about the laws of child molestation and pornography. He could probably just keep the testosterone under control to avoid actually molesting a child but photographing young girls was a compulsion that ruled his life.

Matthews offered another conspiratorial smile then glanced at a girl bending down to pick up a ball. Gave a faint sigh. Eckhard followed his gaze and nodded.

The girl stood up. Eckhard said, “Nancy. She’s nine. Fifth grade.”

“Pretty. You wouldn’t happen to have any pictures of her, would you?”

“I do.” Eckhard paused. “In a nice skirt and blouse, I seem to recall.”

Matthews wrinkled his nose. Shrugged.

He wondered if the man would take the bait.

Snap.

Eckhard whispered, “Well, not the blouse in all of them.”

Matthews exhaled hard. “You wouldn’t happen to have any with you?”

“No. You have any of yours?”

Matthews said, “I keep all of mine on my computer.”

One of Matthews’s patients had seven thousand images of child pornography on a computer. He’d traded them with other pedophiles while he’d been serving time for a molestation charge; the computer they resided on was the warden’s at Hammond Falls State Penitentiary in Maryland. The prisoner had written an encryption program to keep the files secret.
The FBI cracked it anyway and, despite his willingness to go through therapy, the offense earned him another ten years in prison.

Matthews said, “I don’t have too many in my collection. Only about four thousand.”

Eckhard’s eyes turned to Matthews and they were vacuums. He whispered a long, envious “Well . . .”

Matthews added, “I’ve got some videos too. But only about a hundred of them.”

“A
hundred?”

Eckhard shifted on the bench. Matthews knew the teacher was lost. Completely. He’d be thinking: At worst, it’s entrapment and I can beat it in court. At worst, I can talk my way out of it. At worst, I’ll flee the country and move to Thailand . . . As a therapist Matthews was continually astonished at how easily people won completely unwinnable arguments with themselves.

Still, you land a fish with as much care as you hook it.

“You seem worried . . .” Matthews started. “And I have to say, I don’t know you, and I’m a little nervous myself. But I’ve just got a feeling about you. Maybe we could help each other out . . . Let me show you a couple of samples of what I’ve got.”

The teacher’s eyes flickered with lust.

Always the eyes.

“That’d be fine. That’d be good. Please.” Eckhard cleared his excited throat.

Oh, you pathetic thing . . .

“I could give you a computer disk,” Matthews suggested.

“Sure. That’d be great.”

“I only live about three blocks from here. Let me run up to my house and get some samples.”

“Good.”

“Oh,” Matthews said, pausing. A frown. “I only have girls.”

“Yes, yes. That’s fine,” Eckhard said breathlessly. A bead of spit rested in the corner of the mouth. Desperately he asked, “Can you go now?”

“Sure. Be right back.” Matthews started up the street.

He turned and saw the teacher, a stupid smile on his face, grinning from ear to ear, looking out over the field of his sad desire, rubbing his thumb over the disposable camera.

In the drugstore once again, Matthews walked up to the pay phone and called 911.

When dispatch answered he said urgently, “Oh, you need somebody down to Markus Avenue right away! The sports field behind Jefferson School.” He described Eckhard and said, “He took a little girl into the alley and pulled his, you know, penis out. Then took some pictures. And I heard him ask her to his house. He said he’s got lots of pictures of little girls like her on his computer. Pictures of little girls, you know . . . doing it. Oh, it’s disgusting. Hurry up! I’m going back and watch him to make sure he doesn’t get away.”

He hung up before the dispatcher could ask for his identity.

Matthews didn’t know if snapshots of a fully dressed little girl in a school yard next to frames of a man’s erect dick (Matthews’s own penis, taken in the
drugstore rest room twenty minutes ago) were an offense, but once the cops got a search warrant for the man’s house Eckhard would be out of commission—and a completely unreliable witness about a gray Mercedes or anything else—for a long, long time.

By the time he was back on the street, walking toward his car, Matthews heard the sirens.

Fairfax County apparently took children’s wellbeing very seriously.

•   •   •

Tate and Bett arrived at the school yard, taking care to avoid the main building, just in case the clean-cut young fascist of a security guard had happened to glance inside the Bust-er Book after Tate and Bett had left and found twenty pages missing.

But volleyball practice had been canceled for today, it seemed. Nobody quite knew why.

In fact the yard was almost deserted, despite the clear skies.

They found two students and asked if they’d seen Eckhard. They said they hadn’t. One teenage girl said, “We were coming here for the practice.”

“Volleyball?”

“Right. And what it was was somebody said it’s been canceled and we should all go home. And stay away from here. Totally weird.”

“And you haven’t seen Mr. Eckhard?”

“Somebody said he had to go someplace. But they didn’t tell us where. I don’t know. He was here earlier. I don’t get it. He’s
always
here. I mean, always.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“Fairfax someplace. I think.”

“What’s his first name?”

“Robert.”

Tate called directory assistance and got his number then called. There was no answer. He left a message. He looked out over the school yard for a moment and had a thought. Tate asked his ex-wife, “Where did she hang out?”

“Hang out?” Bett asked absently. He saw her looking into her purse, eyes on the letter containing her daughter’s searing words.

“Yeah, with her friends. After school.”

She looked up. “Just around. You know.”

“But where? We’ll go there, ask if anybody’s seen her.”

There was a long hesitation. Finally she said, “I’m not sure.”

“You’re not?” Tate asked, surprised. “You don’t know where she goes?”

“No,” Bett answered testily. “Not all the time. She’s a seventeen-year-old girl with a driver’s license.”

“Oh. So you don’t know where she’d spend her afternoons.”

“Not always, no.” She glanced at him angrily. “It is not like she hangs out in southeast D.C., Tate.”

“I just—”

“Megan’s a responsible girl. She knows where to go and where not to go. I trust her.”

They walked in silence back to the car. Bett grabbed her phone again and her address book. She began making calls—to Megan’s friends, he gathered. At least she had
their
numbers, if not Megan’s boyfriend’s. Still, it irked him that she didn’t seem to know much basic information—important information—about the girl.

When they arrived at the car she folded up the phone. “Her favorite place was called the Coffee Shop. Up near Route fifty.” Bett sounded victorious. “Like Starbucks. All right? Happy?”

She dropped into the seat and crossed her arms. They drove in silence north along the parkway.

Braking to five miles an hour, Tate surveyed the crowded parking lot.

He found a space between a chopped Harley-Davidson and a pickup bumper-stickered with the Reb stars ’n’ bars. He navigated the glistening Lexus into this narrow spot.

He and Bett surveyed the cycles, the tough young men and women, all in denim, defiantly holding open bottles, the tattoos, the boots. At the other end of the parking lot was a very different crowd, younger—boys with long hair, girls with crew cuts, layers of baggy clothes, plenty of body piercing. Bleary eyes.

Welcome to the Coffee Shop.

“Here?” Bett asked. “She came
here?”

Starbucks? Tate thought. I don’t think so.

She glanced at the notes she’d jotted. “Off fifty near Walney. This’s it. Oh my.”

Tate glanced at his ex-wife. Her horrified expression didn’t diminish his anger. How could she have let Megan come to a place like this? Didn’t she check up on her?

Her own daughter, for Christ’s sake . . .

Tate pushed the door open and started to get out.
Bett popped her seat belt but he said abruptly, “Wait here.”

He walked up to the closest cluster—the bikers; they seemed less comatose than the slacker gang at the other end of the lot.

But no one he queried had heard of Megan. He was vastly relieved. Maybe it was a misunderstanding. Maybe her friend meant a generic coffee shop someplace.

At the far end of the lot he waded into a grungy sea of plaid shirts, Doc Marten boots, JNCO jeans and bell-bottom Levi’s. The girls wore tight tank tops over bras in contrasting colors. Their hair was long, parted in the middle, like Megan’s. Peace symbols bounced on breasts and there was a lot of tie-dyed couture. The images reminded Tate of his own coming-of-age era, the early seventies.

“Megan? Sure, like I know her,” said a slim girl, smoking a cigarette she was too young to buy.

“Have you seen her lately?”

“She’s here a lotta nights. But not in the last week, you know. Like, who’re you?”

“I’m her father. She’s missing.”

“Wow. That sucks.”

“How’d she get in? She was seventeen.”

“Uhm. I don’t know.”

Meaning: a fake ID.

He asked, “Do you know if anybody’s been asking about her? Or been following her?”

“I dunno. But her and me, we weren’t, like, real close. Hey, ask him. Sammy! Hey, Sammy.” To Tate she added, “They’d hang out some.”

A large boy glanced their way, eyed Tate uneasily. He set a paper cup behind a garbage can and walked up to him. He was about the lawyer’s height, with a pimply face, and wore a baseball cap backward. He wore a pager and a cell phone.

“I’m looking for Megan McCall. You know her?”

“Sure.”

“Have you seen her lately?”