Speaking in Tongues (17 page)

“She was here this week.”

“She comes here a lot?” Tate asked.

“Yeah, she, like, hangs here. Her and Donna and Amy. You know.”

“How about her boyfriend?”

“That black dude from Mason?” Sammy asked. “The one she broke up with? Naw, this wasn’t his scene. I only saw ’em together once, I think.”

“Was somebody—some man in a gray car—asking about her, following her around?”

Sammy gave a faint laugh. “Yeah, there was. Last week, Megan and me, we were here and she was like, ‘What’s he want? Him again.’ And I’m like, ‘You want me to go fuck him up?’ And she goes, ‘Sure.’ I go up to the car but the asshole takes off.”

“Did you get a look at him?”

“Not too close. White guy. Your age, maybe a little older.”

“You get the plate number?”

“No. Didn’t even see what state. But it was a Mercedes. I don’t know what model. All those fucking numbers. American cars have names. But German cars, just fucking numbers.”

“And you don’t have any idea who he was?”

“Well, yeah, I mean, I
knew
who he was. But Megan doesn’t like to talk about it. So I let it go.”

Tate shook his head. “Talk about what?”

“You know.”

“No, I
don’t
know,” Tate said. “What?”

“Well, just . . .” Sammy lifted his hands. “What she used to do. I figured he was looking for some more action and had tracked her down here.”

“Action? I don’t understand. What are you saying?”

“I figured him and Megan had . . . get it? And he wanted some more.”

“What are you talking about?” Tate persisted.

“What d’you think I’m talking about?” The kid was confused. “He fucked Megan and liked what he got.”

“Are you saying she had a boyfriend in his forties?”

“Boyfriend?” Sammy laughed. “No, man. I’m saying she had a
customer.”

“What?”

“Sure, she—”

The boy probably had twenty or thirty pounds on Tate but farmwork keeps you strong and in two seconds Sammy was flat on his back, the wind knocked out of him. Both hands were raised, protecting his face from Tate’s lifted fist.

“What the fuck’re you saying?” the lawyer raged.

Sammy shouting back, “No, man, no! I didn’t do anything. Hey . . .”

“Are you saying she had sex for money?”

“No, I’m not saying nothing! I’m not saying a fucking thing!”

The girl’s voice was close to his ear, the blonde he’d
first spoken to. “It’s, like, not a big deal. It was a couple years ago.”

“Couple years ago? She’s only seventeen
now,
for Christ’s sake.” Tate lowered his hand. He stood up, brushed the dust off. He looked at the people in front of the bar, staring at him. The huge, bearded bouncer was amused. Bett was half out of the car, looking at her ex-husband with alarm. He motioned her to stay where she was.

Sammy said, “Fuck, man, what’d you do that for? I didn’t fuck her. She gave it up a while ago. You asked me what I thought and I told you. I figured the guy liked what he had and wanted more. Jesus.”

The girl said, “Sorry, mister. She had a thing for older men. They were willing to pay. But it was okay, you know.”

“Okay?” Tate asked, numb.

“Sure. She always used rubbers.”

Tate stared at her for a moment then walked back to the car.

Sammy stood up, picked up his beeper, which had fallen off his belt in the struggle. “Fuck you, man.
Fuck
you! Who’re you anyway?”

Turning back, Tate snapped, “I’m her father.”

“Father?” the boy asked, frowning.

“Yeah. Her father.”

Sammy looked at the girl, who shrugged. The boy said, “Megan said she didn’t have a father.”

Tate frowned and Sammy continued, “She said he was a lawyer or something but he ran off and left her when she was six. She hasn’t heard from him since.”

•   •   •

In the car Tate asked angrily, “You didn’t know she went there?”

“I told you I didn’t. You think I’d
let
her go to a place like that?”

“I just think you might want to know where she was hanging out. From time to time.”

“You ‘just think.’ You know when people say that?”

“What are you—?” he began.

“They say that when they mean, you damn well
ought
to know where she was.”

“I didn’t mean that at all,” Tate snapped.

Though, of course, he had.

He sped out onto the highway, tires squealing, gravel flying from beneath the tires. Putting the Coffee Shop far behind them.

She finally asked, “What was that all about?”

He didn’t answer.

“Tate? What were you fighting with that boy about?”

“You don’t want to know,” he said darkly.

“Tell me!”

He hesitated but then he had to say it. “He said he thought the guy in the gray car might’ve been a customer.”

“Customer?”

“Of Megan’s.”

“What? . . . Oh, God. You don’t mean . . . ?”

“That’s exactly what I mean. That’s what the boy said. And that girl too.”

“Vile. You’re disgusting . . .”

“Me?
I’m
just telling you what he said.”

Tears coming down her face. “She wouldn’t! There’s no way. It’s impossible.”

“They
didn’t seem to think it was impossible. They seemed to think she did it pretty often.”

“Tate! How can you say that?”

“And he said it was a couple years ago. When she was
fifteen.”

“She didn’t. I’m certain.”

A wave of fury consumed him. His hands cramped on the steering wheel. “How could you not know? What were you so busy doing that you didn’t notice any condoms in your daughter’s purse? Didn’t you check who called her? Didn’t you notice what time she got home? Maybe at midnight? At one? Two?”

“Stop it!” Bett cried. “Don’t attack me. It’s not true! It’s a misunderstanding. We’ll find her and she’ll explain it.”

“They seemed to think—”

She screamed, “It’s a lie! It’s just gossip. That’s all it is! Gossip. Or they’re talking about somebody else. Not Megan.”

“Yes, Megan. And you should have—”

“Oh, you’re blaming me? It isn’t my fault! You know, you
might
have been more involved with her life.”

“Me?” he snapped.

“Okay—sure, your happy family didn’t turn out the way you wanted. Well, I’m sorry about that, Tate. But you could have checked on her once in a while.”

“I did. I paid support every month—”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, I don’t mean money. You know how often she’d ask me, Why doesn’t Daddy like me? And I’d say, He does, he’s just busy with all his cases. And I’d say, It’s hard to be a real daddy when he and Mommy are divorced. And I’d say—”

“I spent Easters with her. And the Fourth of July.”

“Yeah, and you should’ve heard the debriefings on
those
joyous holidays.” Bett laughed coldly.

“What do you mean? She never complained.”

“You have to
know
somebody before you complain to them.”

“I took her shopping,” he said. “I always asked her about school. I—”

“You could’ve done more. We might’ve made some accommodation. Might’ve been a little more of a family.”

“Like hell,” he spat out.

“People’ve done it. In worse situations.”

“What was I supposed to do? Take up your slack?”

“This isn’t about me,” she snapped.

“Well, apparently it is. You’re her mother. You want somebody else to fix what you’ve done? Or haven’t done?”

“I’ve done the best I could!” Bett sobbed. “By myself.”

“But it wasn’t you yourself. It was you and the boyfriends.”

“Oh, I was supposed to be celibate?”

“No, but you were supposed to be a mother first. You should’ve noticed that she had problems.”

Tate couldn’t help but think of Bett’s sister, Susan. The woman had desperately wanted children, while Bett had always been indifferent to the idea. After her husband, Harris’s, death Susan had moved in with a man very briefly—he was abusive and, from what Tate heard, half crazy. But he was a single man—divorced or widowed—with a child. And Susan put up with a lot
of crap from him just to have the young boy around; she desperately wanted someone to mother. After they’d broken up, the lover had turned dangerous and stalked her but even at the worst moments Susan still seemed to regret the loss of that child in her life. Tate now wished Bett had shown some of that desire for Megan.

“I saw she was unhappy,” Bett said. “But who the hell isn’t? What was I supposed to do? Wave a magic wand?”

His anger wouldn’t release the death grip it had on his heart. “Hell, that’s probably exactly your idea of mothering. Sure. Or cast a spell, look up something in the
I Ching.
Read her tarot.”

“Oh, stop it! I gave up all that shit years ago . . . I tried to be a good mother. I tried.”

“Did you?” he was astonished to find himself saying. “You sure you weren’t out looking for your King Arthur? Easier than changing diapers or helping her with homework or making sure when she was home after school. Making sure she wasn’t fucking—”

“I tried . . . I tried . . .” Bett was sobbing, shaking.

Tate realized the car was nudging eighty. He slowed. A deep breath. Another.

Long, long silence. His eyes, too, welled up with tears. “Listen, I’m sorry.”

“I tried. I wanted . . . I wanted . . .”

“Bett, please. I’m sorry.”

“I wanted a family too, you know,” she whispered, wiping her face on the sleeve of her blouse. “I saw the Judge and his wife and you and the rest of the Colliers.
I didn’t talk about it the way you did but I wanted a family too. But then things happened . . . You know.”

“I lost my temper. I don’t . . . You’re right. Those kids back there . . . it was probably just gossip.”

But his words were flaccid. And, of course, they came far too late. The damage had been done. He wondered if they’d separate now and never speak to each other again. He supposed that would happen. He supposed that it would
have
to.

And oddly, he realized how much the idea upset him. No, it
terrified
him; he had no idea why.

A long moment passed.

Bett spoke first. He was surprised to hear her say, in a calm, reasoned voice, “Maybe it’s true, Tate—what you heard about her. Maybe it is. And maybe part of it’s my fault. But you know, people change. They can. They really can.”

They continued on in silence. Bett closed her eyes and leaned her head back on the headrest.

What a man hears, he may doubt.

What he sees, he may possibly doubt.

“Bett? I am sorry.”

What he does . . .

“Bett?”

But she didn’t answer.

She decided she was safest here, in her cell.

If the father—Aaron Matthews—had wanted to kill her he could have done so easily. He didn’t have to stash her away here, he didn’t have to buy all the food. No, no, she had this funny sense that though he kidnapped her he didn’t want to hurt her.

But the son . . .
He
was the threat. She needed protection from him. She’d stay here locked in Crazy Megan’s padded cell until she figured out how to escape.

She opened one of the files she’d taken from Peter’s room. In the dim light she scanned the pages, trying to find something that might help her. Maybe the hospital was near a town. Were there photos or brochures of the hospital and grounds? Maybe she could find a map. If she started a fire, people might see the smoke. Or maybe she’d find ventilation shafts or emergency exits.

She remembered a padlocked door marked
Basement
down one of the corridors nearby. If she could break the lock on the door, were there exits down there she might get through? She flipped through the documents, looking for a picture or photo of the
hospital—trying to find basement windows or doors she might climb out of.

Damn, that’s smart,
says an impressed Crazy Megan.

Shhhh . . .

Megan happened to glance at the papers on the top of the pile.

. . . patient Victoria Skelling, 37, paranoid schizophrenic, was found dead in her room at 0620 hours, April 23. COD was asphyxia, from inhalation of mattress fibers. County police (see annexed report) investigated and declared the death suicide. It appeared patient Skelling gnawed through the canvas ducking of her mattress and pulled out wads of stuffing. She inhaled approximately ten ounces of this material, which lodged in her throat. The patient had been on Thorazine and Haldol, delusions were minimal. Orderlies described her in “good spirits” for much of the morning of her death but after spending the day on the grounds with a group of other patients she grew increasingly depressed and agitated. She complained that rats were coming to get her. They were going to chew her breasts off (earlier delusions and certain dreams centered around poisoned breast milk and suckling). She calmed again at dinnertime and spent the evening in the TV room. She was extremely upset when she went to bed and orderlies considered using restraints. She was given an extra dose of Haldol and locked into her
room at 2200 hours. She said. “It’s time to take care of the rats. They win, they win.” She was found the next morning dead . . .

Gross, both Megan and C.M. think simultaneously.

She flipped through more pages.

. . . Patient Matthews (No. 97–4335) was the last person to see her alive and he reported that she seemed “all spooky.”

So Aaron Matthews’s son, Peter, had been hospitalized here. And after the hospital was closed his father brought him back. Why, she couldn’t guess. Maybe he felt at home here. Maybe his father broke him out of the hospital for the criminally insane to have him nearby.

She flipped through another report and learned that someone else had committed suicide.

. . . The body of Patient Garber (No. 78–7547) was found behind the main building. The police and coroner had determined that he had swallowed a garden hose and turned the water on full force. The pressure from the water ruptured his stomach and several feet of intestine. He died from internal hemorrhaging and shock. Although several patients were nearby when this happened (Matthews, No. 97–4335, and Ketter, No. 91–3212), they could offer no further information. The death was ruled suicide by the medical examiner.