The Murderer's Daughter (17 page)

F
ortified by a bottle of water, four caramel caffeine chews, and three sticks of turkey jerky, Grace arrayed the enemy's belongings atop a small desk across from her generous hotel bed.

Wallet, first. Cheap black leather, cracked at the edges, generic, packed chubby.

An up-to-date California driver's license for Beldrim Arthur Benn was stuck in an inner compartment—secreted but hardly hidden. The physical traits and age matched the man she'd shot. Longer hair and a grizzled mustache did nothing to blur the I.D., this was him.

Beldrim. Effete tag for a hit man.

Cut the bitch, Beldrim.

Had he gone by Bell? Drim? Bill?

Grace decided to think of him as Bill.

Bill Benn, man about town.

No longer.

Suddenly, she was seized by anger. When that peaked and flickered out, something else took its place—queasy vulnerability.

The steely resonance of narrowly missed death. The nasty little knife entering her, twisting, ravaging. For no good reason.

She felt cold. Her hands began to shake and a wave of vertigo washed from the top of her head to her now-frigid feet and she had to hold on to the arms of her chair, work at slow-breathing, easing her autonomic nervous system back to equilibrium.

The body initiates, the mind follows…here we go, feeling better…no, we're not.

Vomiting felt like the right thing to do but Grace suppressed the urge.

It took a while to feel almost normal.

A little improvised mantra repeated six times helped:

Bill Benn, man no longer about town.

Rot in hell.

The address on
the license was a P.O.B. in San Francisco.

No credit cards or anything personal in the wallet, cash had given it heft.

Grace counted out nine hundred forty dollars in twenties and fifties, added the bills to her own money stash—victor and spoils and all that—moved the now-thin wallet to the right side of the table.

Next, she turned to Beldrim Benn's cellphone, hopes for enlightenment dimming when she saw it was a cheap disposable, identical brand to the second one she'd bought, with no recent calls registered.

Not a single photo in the digital camera's memory.

Murderous Bill bringing virgin equipment to his assignment. For all Grace knew, the license was phony—a correct image paired with bogus information.

She Googled
beldrim arthur benn,
pulled up a single hit on a seventy-six-year-old man who'd died two years ago in Collinsville, Illinois. Brief obit in the
Collinsville Herald.
Dearly departed Beldrim had been a carpenter. Survivors included a daughter, Mona, and a son, Beldrim A. Junior.

The age fit.

No mention of a wife or a widow. So probably divorced from Junior's mom.

So maybe that is your real name. Or you stole some poor schmuck's I.D.

Adding
junior
to the keywords pulled up two hits, both references to Beldrim Benn Junior's position as director of operations for Alamo Adjustments in Berkeley, California. No indication what the company did.

Something hush-hush?

Alamo, as in remember…old grievances?

Then she realized the real monument was housed in San Antonio. Andrew plucking associations from his brain, or had he actually lived there?

She typed in
alamo adjustments,
expecting a website, social networking, a LinkedIn listing, anything.

Nothing.

But logging onto a website that offered pay-per-view access to older phone directories, Grace located a five-year-old address for the company on Center Street in Berkeley. So the company had once existed.

Alamo. Fortress. Good intentions, hopeless cause. Disaster.

Adjustments…for what? The only thing that word evoked for Grace was chiropractic and twenty minutes of pursuing that angle proved fruitless.

Back to Benn himself. Going all covert, so something secretive—high-tech—biotech? A toxic threat that Andrew had uncovered and threatened to expose?

Berkeley, the quintessential college town, was crammed with high-tech…but Grace couldn't shake the feeling that Andrew had come to her because of an issue with kin. A close relative.

For the time being, she'd stick with that.

Andrew, dead. Probably at Bill's hands. Or those of Bill's partner, the heavy guy who'd tailed her on PCH.

Bill, dead.

One good thing about the bastard traveling light and hush-hush: His weapons were more likely to be unregistered and hard to trace.

Grace inspected the keys on the short chain. Three Schlages in addition to the one that operated the Chrysler. No defining marks.

In the junk pile.

Now the envelope.

Thin packet. When
Grace opened it and shook, a piece of paper dropped out.

Fresh, white sheet, computer-typed. Neatly composed fact sheet on Grace: her name, office address, and phone numbers, professional qualifications, and a grainy black-and-white photo downloaded from the USC psych department faculty face-page.

Seven-year-old headshot, taken right after she'd graduated and was asked to stay on as a lecturer. The youngest person in the history of the department to reach that milestone, Malcolm had informed her.

The three of them—Malcolm, Sophie, her—had been celebrating with an extravagant dinner at Spago in Beverly Hills when he'd made the pronouncement. Sophie smiling in her quiet way, Malcolm downing his third Manhattan on the rocks and beaming.

Grace, nibbling shrimp cocktail and marveling at how she didn't feel any different, enjoyed seeing the two of them like that.

She deserved the job offer but academia held no attraction for her, she'd always been one for reality.

Still, Malcolm and Sophie were happy and that supplied a nice memory…don't veer off the track, girl. Grace's jaw clenched and her brain followed suit. A frisson of nausea returned and she got back to basics and examined the headshot Bill had used to I.D. her.

She'd worn her hair down to her butt back then, parted in the middle, naturally straight but for foolish little ruffles at the ends. Ponytailing at the photographer's request “to show us more of your pretty face, Doctor.”

Not much difference between the seven-year-old headshot and now; she'd aged well. Providing Bill Benn Junior an accurate likeness. Same for anyone who picked up after him.

Tearing the sheet into strips that she halved twice, she added the resulting confetti to the trash pile. Shaking the envelope a second time produced nothing but she peered inside, anyway. Spotted a small square of paper tucked deep in the bottom fold.

Jostling the envelope failed to dislodge it, so she reached in, curled her fingers and tweezed, extricated a roughly scissored square of newspaper pulp, about an inch and a half wide.

The paper was brown and brittle and as Grace held it, beer-colored flecks dropped onto the table. Laying it down, she had a good look.

Part of a black-and-white photo, obviously cropped from a larger image.

Blue-ink circle around the face of a boy about ten or eleven. Roundish face, handsomely symmetrical, dominated by wide pale eyes. A huge, unruly mane of blond hair sheathed his forehead and hid his eyebrows. Thick, curling strands trailed onto his chest.

A boy swallowed by hair.

He stared straight ahead, but not at the camera. Deep-set, sunken eyes that belonged on an old man had been stretched to their limits by fear.

The result was pitiful. Feral.

Familiar.

Now Grace knew where she'd first seen the man who called himself Atoner.

G
race's ninth and tenth birthdays were marked by light but tasteless angel food cake and delicious chocolate mint ice cream served on brightly colored paper plates in the ranch's kitchen.

She knew that Mrs. Stage tried to make a party out of the situation, but each year there were different kids living at the ranch, many too young to understand what was going on, others crying a lot and in no mood to celebrate.

The first time, a week before Grace's ninth, Ramona asked her what flavor cake she preferred.

She said, “Angel food, please,” because Ramona always baked angel food and even though it didn't taste like much, Grace knew she could pull it off easily.

“Well, sure, honey, I can do that. How about some special frosting? Chocolate, vanilla? Anything else that tickles your fancy—you tell me piña colada, I'll sure as heck try to find it.”

Flavors don't matter. Birthdays don't matter.

Grace said, “Chocolate is good.”

Fosters moved in
and out of the ranch like cars at a shopping center parking lot. Many were whisked away soon, still scared. When new kids asked Grace questions, she made sure to be helpful; when you had knowledge you were considered bigger than you actually were. She also made sure to feed and change the little kids when there were too many for Ramona to handle at one time and she learned how to hum and coo in a way that calmed babies down.

All that was just the job she'd taken on for herself. There was no point getting to know anyone; the more time she had to herself, the better.

Mostly, she read and walked. The desert turned all sorts of colors when the sun began to fade. Her favorite was a light purple that glowed. The color chart in her science curriculum said it was magenta.

The only constant was Bobby Canova. He couldn't eat cake or ice cream, so during what Mrs. Stage called the “birthday bashes” she propped his chair up against the table and belted him in and fixed one of his nutritional shakes. He'd give one of his hard-to-read smiles and roll his head and make his noises and Mrs. Stage would say, “He loves his parties.”

Birthday girl or not, Grace took charge and fed him through a straw. Because the birthday thing was really for Mrs. Stage, not her.

There was another reason she wanted to help, something she'd noticed between her ninth and tenth birthdays: Mrs. Stage was walking and talking slower, standing kind of bent over and also sleeping more. Some mornings, Grace would come down and find the kitchen empty. Get to sit by herself and enjoy the quiet, drinking milk and juice and waiting.

It was as if Ramona had gotten much older, all of a sudden. Grace hoped if she could stop her from wearing out completely, like a rusty machine, the ranch could stay like it was for a while. She began cleaning rooms other than her own, started helping with laundry. Even calling the new pest man, Jorge, when she saw too many big spiders or beetles or white ants.

Ramona said, “Grace, you don't need to be such a worker bee. You're growing up too fast.”

But she never stopped Grace from pitching in.

As her eleventh
birthday approached, Grace noticed that her work didn't seem to be helping as much; Mrs. Stage was slowing even more and sometimes she placed her hand on her chest as if it hurt to breathe.

That made Grace stop thinking of the ranch as her home and more like just another foster.

One day, she knew, some caseworker would show up and tell her to pack her things.

In the meantime, she'd walk and read and learn as much as she could.

During bashes, Ramona
made a big show of bringing the cake to the table, studded with blazing candles, announcing that Grace should stand up while everyone sang her “Happy Birthday” because Grace was the “honoree.”

Fosters who were old enough were asked to join in on Ramona's screechy “Happy Birthday” followed by her call for “Many more!” Mostly there were humming and uncomfortable looks around the table, no meaningful supplement to Ramona's tone-deaf delivery.

A few days before Grace's eleventh birthday, Ramona said, “How about lemon frosting instead of chocolate?”

Grace pretended to consider that. “Sure. Thank you.”

Opening a drawer, Ramona held up a box of frosting mix she'd already bought. Mediterranean Lemon. “This year, he might be able to make it—Professor Bluestone. That'd be nice, huh?”

“Yes.”

“He thinks you're a genius.”

Grace nodded.

“He told you he thought you were smart?” said Ramona.

Many times. “Kind of.”

“Well…I invited him, if he can show up, he will.”

He couldn't. Didn't.

Once in a
while the caseworker bringing or taking a foster was Wayne Knutsen. When he saw Grace, he'd look away, embarrassed, and Grace wondered why. Then she figured it out: He'd told her he was quitting social services to become a lawyer, hadn't kept his word, and didn't want to be reminded of his failure.

That was the thing about knowing people's secrets: It could make them not like you.

But one evening, after settling in a terrified little black-Asian girl named Saraquina, Wayne headed straight for Grace, who was looking at the desert and pretending not to know he was there.

“Hey, there. Remember me?”

“You brought me.”

“There you go,” he said, smiling. “Wayne. They tell me you're plowing your way through advanced educational materials. So everything's working out?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You get a kick out of hitting the books—out of studying, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then,” he said, fooling with his ponytail. “Gonna have to start calling you Amazing Grace.” His eyes fluttered and he reached out a hand, as if to pat her head, drew it back quickly. “Well, that's great. The fact that you love to study, I mean. I could probably use your help.”

“With what?”

Wayne laughed. “Just kidding.”

Grace said, “Law school?”

He faced the desert, turned serious, finally shrugged. “You are a sharp one…yup, law school, getting through is a challenge. I work all day, go to classes at night, the books aren't interesting like the stuff you're learning.”

He sighed. “At your age, I was just like you. Got a kick out of gaining new knowledge. But now? I'm forty-seven, Grace. If I could devote full time to my studies, I could probably do better. But being as it's only part-time, I'm stuck with an unaccredited school. That means not the best school, Grace, so good luck passing the bar—the lawyer's exam.”

He kept looking at magenta sand. “It's going to take me a while to finish.
If
I finish.”

“You will,” said Grace.

He scratched his nose, turned, and gave Grace a long, thoughtful look. “That's your prediction, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It's what you want.”

“Hmm. Well, sometimes I'm not sure about that—anyway, continue to amaze us, Ms. Grace. You've sure got the raw material—brains, I mean. That gives you an advantage in this crazy world even though…” He shook his head. “Bottom line, you're in good shape, kid.”

Grace said nothing.

Wayne said, “That was what we call a compliment.”

“Thank you.”

“Yeah, well…so you really do like it here?”

“Yes.”

“She's a good person, Ramona. Can't say no to a kid in need, not many like her. That's why I thought she'd be good for you.”

“Thank you.”

“I felt you deserved it,” he said. “After everything you went through.”

No such thing as deserve.

Grace said “Thank you” again.

“Anyway,” said Wayne, “I'm glad we could chat…listen, here's my card, if you ever need something. Not that you're likely to, Ramona tells me you're pretty darn self-sufficient—know how to take care of yourself.”

He kept translating phrases Grace already understood like most grown-ups did. The only one who didn't think she was stupid was Malcolm Bluestone. Except in the beginning, when he also explained too much. But somehow he figured out what Grace understood.

Wayne's pudgy fingers dangled the card. Grace took it and thanked him a fourth time, hoping that would end the conversation and she could go inside and get back to a book on butterflies and moths.

Danaus plexippus. The monarch.
Seeing pictures of them swarming a rooftop, a cloud of orange and black, made Grace look up “monarch” in her dictionary.

A sovereign ruler. A king or queen.

Grace couldn't see anything kingy or queeny about the butterflies. She'd have called them pumpkin fliers. Or flame bugs, something like that. Maybe the scientist who named them was feeling like a big shot when he—

Wayne was saying, “No need to thank me, just doing my job.”

But he was smiling and looking relaxed.

Make people happy about themselves, they won't bother you.

Grace smiled back. Winking at her, Wayne turned and trudged to his car.

After he drove away, Grace looked at the card.

Wayne J. Knutsen, B.A.

Social Service Coordinator

The first wastebasket she found was in the corner of the living room and that's where the card ended up.

Malcolm Bluestone's appearances
were irregular events that Grace looked forward to because he always brought her something interesting: new curriculum materials, books, and best of all, old magazines. Grace found the advertisements the most intriguing features, all those photos and paintings that taught her about the way things used to be.

There were all kinds of magazines. Malcolm was a big reader, too, maybe that's why he understood her.

Réalités
seemed to be for people who wanted to live in France and had a lot of money and ate strange things.

House and Garden
was about making your house fancy so people would like you.

Popular Mechanics
and
Popular Science
showed you how to build things you probably wouldn't use and talked about fantastic things that were supposed to happen but so far hadn't, like flying cars and movies with smells coming out of holes in the wall of the theater.

Once, after reading four copies of
Popular Science
cover to cover, Grace had a night of nice dreams imagining herself flying in a car above the desert.

The Saturday Evening Post
had bright, colorful paintings of smiling people with shiny hair, and big families, and birthday and Christmas and Thanksgiving parties so crowded you could barely fit into the room. Turkey, too, there was always a huge roast turkey about to be cut up by a clean-looking man with a big knife. Sometimes a ham, with black things sticking out of it and pineapple slices on top.

The smiling people seemed like space aliens. Grace enjoyed the paintings the same way she liked reading about astronomy.

Time
and
Newsweek
wrote about sad, angry, and boring things and gave opinions about books and movies. Grace couldn't see any difference between the two of them and she couldn't understand why anyone would use someone else's opinion rather than their own.

The most interesting magazine was
Psychology Today.
Malcolm began bringing those when Grace turned ten, as if she'd finally earned something. Right away she got interested in experiments you could do with people, things that made them act smart or stupid, hate or like or ignore each other.

She especially enjoyed the ones where people acted differently when they were alone or in groups.

Also, experiments that showed how you could lead people the way you wanted if you made them feel really good or really bad.

Once, after Malcolm hadn't shown up in a long time, he asked if he could give Grace a few more tests—“nothing time consuming, just more stories about pictures.” She said, “Sure,” but also waved a copy of
Psychology Today.
“Do you have more of these?”