The Light at the End of the Tunnel (14 page)

“‘
Baby Boy,’
huh? That’s a while back,
and I say good luck to those parents.” The woman did not smile,
“That’s probably the orneriest kid we’ve ever had.”

“What did he do?” Nicole asked.

“Well…he—how come he never got a name
anyway?” The woman glanced away, and looked like she wanted to
maybe hide something, “
’Baby Boy-Doe9’
—what the hell is
that, anyway? That’s a stupid name!”

“So you didn’t give him a name either…” the
chaplain offered, “How long was he here?”

“About two months…maybe three.”

“You aren’t sure?”

“Yes! It was two months—Three!” The woman
obviously was getting impatient.

The chaplain chided himself for asking that
last question, but on sight he had not liked the woman, and for
just a few seconds Baby Boy-Doe9 slash Les Paul seemed like just
another foster child getting kicked around in—sometimes
questionable—foster homes.

“What do you people want, anyway?” the woman
asked, “It’s at least two years since we returned that kid to
Family Services.”

“Actually, Ma’am,” Nicole cut in, “Family
Services says one of your children was raped by Baby Boy. Is that
true?”

“Yeah, when I got home that night and checked
on the kids, there he stood, gawking into the girls’ bedroom, and
then little Cassandra just screamed it out, ‘He raped me!’ Actually
she pronounced it as
‘reap’
but I’m sure she meant
‘rape.’
”

“The girl actually said the seven-year-old
did it?” the chaplain asked.

“Well, yes, he was the only one there.”

“But…Cassandra, didn’t actually name him,”
Nicole suggested

“No,” the woman finally admitted, “She only
pointed—it’s possible she just pointed toward the boys’ room—but I
grabbed that boy and took him into the kitchen where my husband
was, and we took him right back to Family Services that night.
Unfortunately, we soon lost the girl too.”

Not
‘Cassandra,’
just
‘the
girl.’

“So it is possible that one of the other boys
did the rape.” He said it as a statement.

“Yes! I suppose!” But a look crossed her
face.

“Thank you,” Nicole said, and took the
chaplain’s arm and turned him.

“There was something different about that
kid,” the woman said as she began closing the door, “Even if he
didn’t perform the rape he did other stuff, and that night I looked
into his eyes. Like I said, even if he didn’t do it I think he
wanted
to.”

“His eyes, Ma’am,” the chaplain said,
stopping and turning back, “Can you be more specific…about what you
saw in them?”

“I have never experienced true evil. I’ve
never seen it that I know of, before
that
kid arrived, but I
often saw something in his eyes that gave me the chills.” The woman
stepped back, “That kid
is
evil.”

The door closed. It didn’t slam but was close
to a slam.

As they walked away, the chaplain said, “You
saw her face change, Nicole. She now knows for sure that they
probably got rid of the wrong boy.”

“Yes, probably, Radford, but you almost
sounded like you were supporting Les Paul.”

“I suppose in a way I was. If he
didn’t
do the rape—“

“But you heard the woman,” Nicole
interrupted, “Even if he didn’t, well, it was probably just a
matter of time, and maybe all he needs is another older boy to show
him the ropes.”

“You’re probably right, but I think, right
now, the number one thing on our agenda is finding that girl.”

“I agree,” Nicole said, “I feel Cassandra can
tell us much more than that woman did. I also have to wonder how
much love and supervision those two give to any of their kids.
Strange about her pronunciation of
‘rape’
too.”

Chapter 27
Meeting With
Cassandra

As it turned out, the file that Family
Services had of the girl, Cassandra, put her far into the
neighboring state. Just one more detour the chaplain figured, but
two hundred miles, or so, at the price of gasoline, was nothing to
take lightly. He hoped Family Services in Kansas would be as
helpful as Nebraska.

“What if they won’t tell us?” Nicole asked as
they pulled into Earnestburg, Kansas.

“You have a point, my dear. Nebraska
presently is overwhelmed with foster children, so any help we could
give them was appreciated, even though they sometimes were
difficult with us. We’ll hope for the best here.”

“‘
Difficult,’
Radford? Most of the
time it’s been like pulling teeth, the old way, with pliers!”

He laughed, “It sounds like you have
experience.”

“I do. I lost a back molar once, on the
bottom, and I went to my parents’ dentist. Some old guy from the
really old school. He came at me with a big pair of pliers—I don’t
know what else to call them—he told me to
‘relax’
—which just
made me stiffen up more, and then he practically climbed onto the
chair with me, and then I just got petrified—I was only seventeen!
He said
‘Open wide,’
and I don’t know how wide open I got
and he went right in there with that huge pair of pliers, clamped
on and started to pull! He even braced himself against me, but out
that tooth came. Then he climbed down, showed me my tooth, grinned,
and said,
‘Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?’”

She laughed and reached over and touched his
arm, “It really wasn’t, Rad, it’s just that he scared me.” She
withdrew her hand, and wondered about her sudden, reoccurring,
familiarity with her partner. After nine years she felt they should
at least be able to touch each other, and they did, but never—or
rarely
—in a really
familiar
way, and that was sad,
because after nine years, off and on, she was—without much
warning—beginning to accept her true feelings:
I like you,
Rad
.
But how to tell you?
Totally spontaneously she
again reached across the chasm and laid her hand fully on his arm,
and left it there for several seconds before withdrawing, which did
bring a response.

He did glance at her and send a smile. She
smiled back, then looked at the address for the local family
services, just as a small, one story building appeared. The
chaplain looked at his notes, too, then looked at the entrance, “I
guess this maybe is it.”

“Yep,” Nicole confirmed it.

They parked and walked to the building. At
the receptionist’s desk sat a very large and unfriendly-looking
woman with black hair. No smile appeared, “Can I help you?”

“Yes,” the chaplain answered, “We’re both
private detectives…” He gave her the rundown they told all official
people, and ended with, “Were looking for Cassandra.” He handed
over a paper that had a minimal amount of her Nebraska record.

The woman looked it over and handed it back,
and continued not smiling, “Why do you want to see her?”

“We want to ask her some questions about what
happened at another foster home with another foster child.

“She was raped.” The woman placed her elbows
on her desk and rested her mouth against her thumbs. It appeared
this receptionist was also the person with the information. She
continued not smiling, “Normally I wouldn’t share even that much
information, but you people evidently must know—that
is
why
you’re here, correct?”

“Yes,” Nicole answered.

“And that rape damaged that little girl. In
the last two years she’s been with four foster families. She simply
will not trust or bond with anyone!—“ For one second the woman’s
face changed. She still didn’t smile, but obviously she cared about
her foster children, especially the damaged ones, like Cassandra.
“And now you want to go and bother her with questions about the
very thing that has upset her so!”

The chaplain didn’t know what to say. He
almost wished the woman would have remained totally unfriendly…not
that she had changed much, but on sight he had expected her to not
feel any real emotion toward any of their foster children. How
wrong he was.

“We of course do not want to upset her,
ma’am,” Nicole offered, “We’re searching for the boy who hurt her,
and we think she might know something—“

“Of
his
whereabouts?” The woman
dropped her hands. Papers flew as her arms hit the desk, “You don’t
even know
that
?”

“That’s correct,” Nicole came back,
“According to the woman of the house where the rape occurred, the
two appeared to be friendly with each other, and spent a lot of
time playing together. The boy could very easily have shared
something with her that could help us find him.”

“But, unfortunately, the boy had to rape
her!” the woman said, not pleasantly, “That’s where Cassandra’s
friendliness got her.”

“Yes,” Nicole said, “That was very
unfortunate. I have worked with rape victims, especially little
girls, and, just maybe, talking about it, might help her. I doubt
she has had much counseling.”

Again the woman’s face changed as she sighed
and glanced away, “We gave her some before she went to her next
foster home, and each time thereafter as she changed homes, and we
made appointments for her to continue…but she refused to talk
much.” The woman rose, went to a filing cabinet, opened a drawer,
and began digging through it. The chaplain and Nicole glanced at
each other.

The woman withdrew a file, returned to her
desk and sat down, then began paging through the file, “Four foster
homes.” She shook her head, and looked at four different areas in
the file, shaking her head each time, then she looked up, “I don’t
suppose you want to talk to any but the family she’s with now,
correct?”

“Correct,” Nicole answered.

“All right.” The woman wrote down an address
on notepaper and attached a business card, “You people appear to be
legitimate, so I’ll share this one address. Any further information
is out.” She handed over the paper, then pulled it back and laid it
on her desk, then reached under the desk and came up with a large
purse. She dug for a moment and finally withdrew with a different
business card, removed the first card and attached the second,
“This is my personal business card. Nothing to do with family
services. The number there is my cell phone. If I can be of any
further service to you—unofficially—please call.” Then her face
changed yet again. The chaplain was pretty sure it was a smile, but
he would never go to the bank on that assumption.

They left the building and while walking to
their vehicle, “You make a pretty good liar, Nicole.”

“I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell the truth,
and you know there is a very big difference. I said they
‘appeared to be friendly with each other.’
With that many
foster kids in the same household, they probably had to choose
sides, to a point, at least. Cassandra maybe just chose the wrong
side. Women, and girls, have been known before to make mistakes
choosing their men. Anyway, Cassandra and Baby Boy—I mean with a
name like that…well, most any girl would probably swoon, at least
until she discovered the truth. So, to end my tirade, yes, they
very easily could have been friendly with each other. And that lady
of the house, I wonder if she would have even noticed anything like
that. And I think had we asked her such a specific thing she would
have told us
‘Sure,’
which wouldn’t have committed her to
anything one way or the other. Anyway, we’re looking for Baby
Boy-Doe9 and I’m pretty sure little Cassandra can help us.”

“Whatever, Nicole, you pulled it off. What
about your
‘rape’
counseling?”

“A neighbor girl. A good friend. We talked
about her rape for several days—and I could see that you didn’t
like the receptionist, Rad, and that you were going to get nowhere
with her. Just like that lady at the fancy house.” They reached
their vehicle and Nicole turned to the chaplain, “You need to get
it together, my dear Chaplain Radford O’Hare. Just because you
maybe don’t like someone does not mean you can’t allow them to at
least
think
you are a civil man.”

“That’s what I have
you
for.”

“And you’re
lucky
to have me.” Nicole
finally looked at the paper the receptionist had given her, “Hmmm,
I don’t recognize the name of the town.”

“What is it?”

“Marble Falls.”

Once in the vehicle Nicole immediately looked
at the index to the Kansas map, “Here it is, about…,” She fingered
off three distances between towns, “About 70 miles. Marble Falls,
population 169.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard to find her.”

“Right. We can stop somewhere, spend the
night, and get to little Cassandra’s house about 10 A.M.”

She sent her smile that always lit up the
inside of her minivan the chaplain always thought, “You’re starting
to sound like this little girl means something to you.”

“Well, she does. She’s been hurt, and kicked
around. I just hope that our visit will…somehow, help her.”

“Okay. So which way, Sunshine?”

Nicole pointed straight ahead, “That way for
maybe three blocks, then left. We’ll get back on US#183 and, about
70 miles south.”

****

The next morning, about 10:30 they stopped on
a dusty street near the edge of town. A broken and slightly heaved
concrete sidewalk led to an older, one-story white house. Nicole
again looked at the address, “314. This is it.”

“Not such a nice house this time,” the
chaplain observed.

“No, but they could still be good people.”
Nicole opened her door and stepped out.

The chaplain followed. Halfway to the house
they stopped and Nicole pointed to a swing-set they hadn’t been
able to see from the minivan, “There she is.”

“Maybe a good thing,” he said, “She’s more
apt to open up if her foster parents aren’t around.