Kisscut

Chapter Twenty-One

Lena gritted her teeth, pounding her feet into the pavement. She could hear Hank's heavy footsteps behind her, his cheap Wal-Mart sneakers popping against the ground like a stick on an oil drum.

"That all you got?" he asked, pulling ahead of her. She let him take the lead for a while, watching him from behind. The sun did not agree with him, and rather than tanning, his pasty skin had taken on a reddish tone. The track mark s on his forearms stood in a burgundy relief against this, and the back of his neck was as red as fire.

His breathing was more like a wheeze, but he held his own against her as she sped up to run beside him. His yellowish-gray hair was pasted to his head with sweat, and the turkey giblet hanging down from his neck bounced with each step he took. Still, Lena couldn't help but think he wasn't in bad shape for an old man. She had certainly seen worse.

"This way," he said.

Lena followed him as he took a sharp turn off the road, and jogged along a path through the woods. The soft ground underfoot brought some relief to her aching knees, and her thighs started to feel like they might not ignite from the heat in her muscles as her second wind kicked in. Before, this was what she had lived for: the intense pain, then overcoming it. Pushing herself past the physical through sheer force of will, making herself finish the course. Her body felt strong and powerful, invincible, like she could do anything she wanted. Like she was the old Lena again.

She knew in the back of her mind where he was going, but she was still surprised when they reached the cemetery. They jogged through the rows of stones, both of them keeping their eyes straight ahead, not stopping until they got to Sibyl's marker.

Lena put her hand on top of the gravestone, using it to steady herself as she stretched her legs. The black marble stone was cool to the touch, and it felt good against her hand. Touching it was like touching part of Sibyl.

Hank stood beside her, lifting his T-shirt to wipe the sweat out of his eyes.

"Jesus, Hank," Lena said, shielding her eyes from the glare off his white belly. There were track marks there, too, but she did not comment on them.

"It's a warm day," Hank said. "I think the heat's about to break, though. Don't you?"

Lena took a minute to realize that he was talking to her and not Sibyl. "Yeah," she mumbled.

Hank continued to talk about the weather, and Lena stood there, trying not to show how awkward she felt.

She looked at Sibyl's gravestone. Hank had taken care of the arrangements, and chosen the words on the stone. Above the dates, chiseled into the stone, were the words SIBYL MARIE ADAMS, NIECE, SISTER, FRIEND. Lena was surprised he had not put "lover" for Nan 's benefit. That would have been just like him.

"Look at this," Hank mumbled, bending down in front of the stone. Someone had placed a small vase with a single white rose at the base, and it was starting to wilt in the morning heat. "Isn't this pretty?"

"Yeah," Lena said, but she could tell from the startled look Hank gave her that he had been talking to Sibyl.

He said, "I bet Nan left this for her. Sibby always liked roses."

Lena was silent. Nan had probably left the flower here that morning. She must have always done this early in the morning, because Lena had never run into her. Not that Lena made a habit out of visiting Sibyl's grave. At first, she had been incapable of making the trip because it was difficult to walk, let alone sit in the car for the ride from the house. Then, she had been embarrassed, thinking that Sibyl knew what had happened, that Lena had somehow been changed, compromised. Lately, it just felt eerie, visiting her dead sister. And the way Hank talked to Sibyl, as if she were still there, made Lena feel uncomfortable.

Hank said, "White looks pretty against the black, don't you think?"

"Yeah."

They both stood there, Lena with her arms crossed, Hank with his hands in his pockets, staring at the stone. The single rose did look pretty against the black marble. Lena had never understood people sending flowers to a funeral home, but she finally realized that the flowers were something for the living to enjoy, a reminder that there was still life in the world, that people could go on.

Hank turned to her, waiting for her attention. "I guess I'm going back to Reece," he said. "Maybe tomorrow."

Lena nodded, swallowing past the lump in her throat. "Yeah," she said, "that's probably a good idea." She had not told him that Jeffrey had given her an ultimatum: either take the time to get some help, or don't bother coming back at all. Partly, she had kept this secret because she did not want Hank to make the choice for her. He would easily take her back to Reece, give her a job in his bar, so that she could live her life under his watchful eye. That wouldn't really work, though, because one day Hank would be gone. He was an old man. He would not be there forever, and then what would Lena do?

For some reason, the thought that one day Hank would be dead brought tears to her eyes. She looked away from him, trying to gain her composure. Silently, he took his handkerchief out of his back pocket and handed it to her. The cloth was wet from his sweat, and hot, but she used it to blow her nose with anyway.

"I can postpone it," he offered.

"No," she said. "It's probably better."

"I'll sell the bar," he offered. "I can find a job here." He added, "You could come with me, back home."

She shook her head no, feeling the tears coming again. There was no way to tell Hank that she wasn't upset about his leaving so much as about knowing that one day he would be dead. It was all too morbid, and what she really wanted from him, needed from him, was to know that she could always pick up the phone and he would be there. That was all Lena had ever wanted from Hank. That was actually the one thing he had always given her.

Hank cleared his throat and said, "You've always been the strong one, Lee."

She laughed, because she had never felt so weak and helpless in her life.

"With Sibby, I knew I had to be there, had to hold her hand every step of the way." He paused, staring back at the tent from the recent funeral. "With you, it was harder. You didn't want me. Need me."

"I don't know if that's true."

"Hell, yes, it is," he countered. "You always did everything on your own. Skipped college, joined the police academy, moved here, didn't tell me about it until after it was all done."

Lena felt there was something she should say, but could not think what.

"Anyway," he said, taking back the handkerchief. She watched as he folded it. "I guess I'll take off tomorrow."

"Okay," she nodded, turning back to Sibyl's grave.

"They'll probably need you here for a while, anyway," Hank said. "What with that girl being found. I'm sure there's a lot more kids around here who went through the same thing. Those people don't tend to be as isolated as you'd think."

"No," Lena agreed. "They don't."

"Good that girl's back, though," Hank added. "That your chief found her."

"Yes," Lena said, but she wondered about that. What kind of things had been done to Lacey Patterson in that house? What memories would she carry with her for the rest of her life? Would she even be able to carry them, or would she take the easy way out, like her brother? Lena knew from her own experience that the lure of not having to think about the things that happened was seductive. Even after all she had been through, she was not sure that tomorrow she might decide that it wasn't worth it to keep on going.

Hank said, "I'm sorry about pushing Preacher Fine on you. I guess it's hard to see something like that."

Lena took the apology in stride. "Brad's a cop and he didn't see it either," she told him, though if Hank knew Brad, he would know that wasn't much of a consolation.

Hank tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket. He dropped his hands to his sides, the back of his hand brushing against hers for just a moment. Like Lena, he was sweaty, and she could feel the heat coming off his skin.

After a while, he said, "You know if you need me you can call me, right? You know I'll be there."

Lena smiled, and she really felt it this time. "Yeah, Hank," she said. "I know."

Lena walked through the hospice, trying to breathe through her mouth so that the smell didn't overwhelm her. The building had a certain odor that reminded her of piss and alcohol. It kind of reminded her of Hank's bar.

She jabbed at the button on the elevator, feeling claustrophobic as it slowly climbed to the third floor. Her neck felt gritty, and she used her hand to wipe it. After her run with Hank, she had taken a long shower, but she was already sweating again from the heat.

Lena sighed with relief as the doors opened and the smell of urine did not assault her nostrils. Most of the residents on Mark's floor were catheterized and somewhat sterile compared to their more active counterparts on the lower floors. The stench was controlled because of this.

She stepped into the hall, looking out the window across from the elevator. The clouds were dark and fluffy, filled with rain that seemed on the verge of falling. She was reminded of the morning Grace Patterson had died, and how she had stood behind Teddy Patterson while he slept, watching the sun come up and relishing the thought that the monster lying in the bed would never be able to feel the sun on her face again. Lena never questioned herself about making sure Grace did not go peacefully. She knew she had done the right thing. There was no doubt in her mind.

"Can I help you?" a woman asked as she walked in front of the nurses' station.

"I'm looking for Mark Patterson's room," Lena told her.

"Oh," the woman said, obviously surprised. "He hasn't had any visitors."

Lena could have guessed that Teddy Patterson would not want to see his son, but she still felt surprised.

Even though Lena knew the answer, she had to ask, "Has he regained consciousness?"

The woman shook her head, saying, "No," as she pointed down the hallway. "Three-ten," she told Lena. "Right, then left, across from the linen storage."

Lena thanked her and followed the directions. She traced her fingers along the railing lining the hall as she walked, purposely taking her time. There was no reason for Lena to see Mark. She wasn't working the case. Hell, she wasn't even sure if she was a cop anymore.

Even though Mark was not about to tell her to come in, Lena knocked on the door marked 310. She waited outside, then pushed the door open. The lights were out, and no one had opened the blinds to let the sun in. Mark lay in bed, tubes running in and out of him, looking paler than she had ever seen him. Machines beat softly in the background, and a bag filled with urine hung off the railing around the bed. The room was stark and institutional. There were no flowers on the bed table, and the single chair pushed against the wall had not been used. The television was off, the dark screen looking almost sinister.

"Let's let some light in," Lena said, not knowing what else to do. She twisted the wand on the blinds and the slats opened, pouring in light. She turned back to Mark, and adjusted the blinds so that he wasn't getting the full force of the sun.

There was a tube in his mouth helping him breathe, and saliva had built up around it. Lena went into the bathroom and wet a washcloth with warm water. At the bed, she wiped Mark's mouth. Then, because she had appreciated this when she was in the hospital, she folded the cloth and ran it along his face and neck, then along his arms. Next, she got some lotion out of the unopened patient-care kit in the stand beside the bed. She warmed it in her hands before rubbing it on his arms and neck, then patting some on his face. Lena wasn't sure, but his skin seemed to have more color to it when she was finished.

"Looks like they're treating you okay here," Lena said, though she didn't think that was necessarily true. "I, uh…" Lena began, then stopped. She looked at the door, feeling foolish for talking to Mark when he obviously could not hear her, thinking this was about as stupid as Hank talking to Sibyl's grave.

Despite this, she took his hand. "Lacey's okay," she told him. "Well, she's back. They found her over in Macon and she's…"

Lena looked around the room not knowing how to do this.

"They're watching the post office," she told him. "The chief thinks Dottie will show up soon." Lena took a deep breath and held it awhile before exhaling. "We'll catch her, Mark. She won't get away with this."

She was silent, listening to the in and out of his breath as the machine pushed air into his lungs. Of course Mark did not respond to her, and again she felt foolish. Why did Hank do this with Sibyl? What did it accomplish, telling her things? It was like talking to the wind. It was really just talking to yourself.

Lena laughed, realizing that of course this was why Hank did it. Talking to someone who could not answer you, who could not voice concern or disapproval or anger or hatred, was the ultimate freedom. You could say anything you wanted without fear of repercussion.

"I'm not sure I'm going to be a cop anymore," she told Mark, feeling a little giddy as she spoke the words aloud. Her mind had been playing around with this thought for a while, like a marble spinning through a maze in a child's game, but she had not let herself accept the possibility until just this moment.

"I've got to talk to my boss in a couple of days." She paused, looking at the tattoo on Mark's hand. She wondered briefly what she could do to have the tattoo removed. There were procedures that could take them off. She had seen them advertised on television.

"I don't know what I'm going to tell Jeffrey," Lena said, still feeling silly. "I talked to Hank, and I know I could move back to Reece with him." She stopped. "I don't know, though. I don't know if I can go back."

Lena noticed that his blanket had come undone, and she walked around the bed to tuck it back in. She smoothed the material with her hand, saying, "Anyway, I don't want to leave Sibyl here alone. I know she's got Nan to look after her, but, still…"

Lena walked around the room, trying to think of what to say. The sound of her voice in the room was making her self-conscious, but it felt better to say these things, to speak the words that had been jumbled up in her head for so long.

The chair screeched across the floor as she moved it to the bed. She sat, and took Mark's hand again. "I wanted to say," she began, but could not go on. She finally forced herself to speak. "I wanted to say that I'm sorry for the way I reacted when you told me what happened…" She paused, as if waiting for a response, then clarified, "About you and your mom."

Lena looked at his face, wondering if he could hear any of this.

She said, "I wanted to let you know that I understand. I mean, I understand as much as I can." She shook her head. "I mean…" she began, then stopped again. "I know what it took, Mark. I know what it took for you to tell me your secret." She paused, trying to remember to breathe. "You were right when you said I'd been through the same thing, that I knew what you were talking about."

She looked at him again, and still he was mute. His chest rose and fell with the pump that forced him to breathe. The heart monitor beeped with his heart.

"I didn't think this would be so hard," she whispered. "I thought I was being strong…" She stopped again. "You were right, though. I was a coward, lama coward."

Lena took a deep breath, holding it in until she thought her lungs might burst. She felt the room closing in on her, and suddenly, she was back in that dark place, splayed to the floor, with him somewhere in the house, ignoring her. The worst part was when the drugs started to wear off, and she realized where she was and what was being done to her, and that she was powerless. She would feel a pressure in her chest, as if someone had carved her out and filled her with a liquid-black loneliness. When she got to this place, this stripped-down, empty place, the light under the door became her salvation, and she would find herself wanting to see him, wanting to hear his voice, no matter what the cost.

"I was so scared," she told Mark. "I didn't know where I was, or how much time had passed, or what was going on."

She felt her throat tighten as the memory overwhelmed her. "He nailed me down to the floor," she told him, though surely Mark knew this. "He nailed me down, and I couldn't move away. I didn't have a choice. There was nothing I could do except wait, and let him do to me what he did."

Lena 's breath came in pants, and she could feel herself going back to that room again, feeling trapped and helpless. "The drugs…" she said, then stopped herself. Mark had obviously used drugs to dull his pain, too. Only, Lena had not been given a choice about what she would take, or when.

"He gave me these drugs," she said. "They made me feel…" She tried to find words. "Free," she said. "Like I was floating, like I was above everything. And Greg, my boyfriend-ex-boyfriend-was there." She stopped again, thinking about the Greg from her drugged dreams, not the Greg she had actually known. In her dreams, Greg was much more sure of himself, more in control of their love-making. He pushed her in her dreams, pushed her to the edge where she did not know the difference between pain and pleasure, and did not want to know. All she wanted when she was in this state was to have him inside of her, to have him touching her, and filling her up from the inside, pushing deeper into her, until she thought she might explode. Then, when he took her to this point, the release was almost ethereal. She had never known such pleasure in her life as her body opened up to him completely.

She told Mark, "Greg was never like that. I knew that. I knew that in my mind." She squeezed Mark's hand. "I knew it somewhere, and I didn't care. I just wanted to be with him. I wanted to feel him."

She put her hand to her mouth, but there was no turning back now. "Then, the drugs would wear off," she said, feeling like she was describing something that had happened to someone else. "And I would start to feel things. I would start to realize what was going on, who I really was." She swallowed hard. "What I had done with him." Lena felt her stomach turn in disgust. "The noises I had made," she whispered, remembering them now, how she had talked back to him, how she had pleaded with him the way she would plead with a lover.

Her hand dropped to her chest, and she could feel her heart pounding. "And then I would cry," she said, tears streaming down her face. "I would cry, because I was so disgusted with myself, and then I would cry because I felt so alone." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I would cry because I didn't want to be alone, didn't want to know what had happened."

"And when he came to me…" she whispered. "When he came back into the room, and I wasn't alone anymore…"

Lena had to stop, because she was going to hyperventilate if she did not get her breathing under control. She looked at Mark's hand, rubbing her fingers across the tattoo.

Mark's confession came back to Lena in a flood, and she could hear now what she could not let herself hear in that trailer. He had talked about the crime against him like a lover recalling a particularly passionate moment. As Lena played his words in her head over and over again, she finally knew why he had branded himself with the tattoo. She knew the guilt Mark carried around with him like an anvil tied to his heart. Part of him would always be his mother's son. Part of him would always be back in that trailer, listening to a CD, when his mother came into his room and raped him. Part of him would always remember how good it felt, if only for the moment, to be inside of her, to fuck her. No matter where he went or what he did, Mark would carry that brand inside of him. The tattoo only made it so that other people could see. The tattoo was Mark's way of telling people that he did not belong to them, that he would always belong to his mother. What she had done had marked him inside the way no needle and ink could ever mark his skin.

For the rest of his life, maybe even right now, trapped in his body as he was, Mark would carry with him the knowledge that he had enjoyed it. Just for that moment in time, he had been his mother's favorite, he had experienced what he thought of as love for maybe the first time in his life. In her sick, twisted way, Grace Patterson had made her son feel wanted, and he had loved her back for it, even as he had hated her for doing something so wrong.

The room was silent but for the machines and the blood pounding in Lena 's ears. She heard a high-pitched whining noise, but knew it was only in her head. She wanted to stand up, to let go of Mark, to leave him in this bed to die because he would do that with or without her.

Still, she had come this far. There was no one stopping her, no one questioning the insanity of her revelations. There was just Lena in the room, and if Mark was there, if he was really there with her, hearing what she was saying, then he was probably the only other person in the world who could understand what she was saying.

"I was so lonely when he left me there," Lena began, her voice a hoarse whisper as she made herself go back to that horrible place. She clenched her teeth, not sure she could go on. It was this part that killed her every time, the reason she would never go into therapy or tell anyone what had really happened in that room four months ago.

"When he came back-back into the room-and I wasn't alone anymore…" Lena stopped, choking on a sob. She could not say this. She could not make herself admit this to anyone, not even Mark, not even this lifeless shell who wasn't even Mark anymore. She was not strong enough. She could not overcome this.

"Shit," Lena cried, trying to keep herself from breaking down. Her body shook, and soon she was wracked with sobbing. If Mark could still feel things, he would be able to feel her hands shaking, sense the fear that held her body like a steel trap. He would understand the pain that touched her deep inside the way no one ever would be able to again. No pills would take this away. Even a bullet passing through her brain would not push out the knowledge, and Lena knew that even if she did manage to do it, to pull that trigger or take all of those pills, her last thoughts would still be of him.

"No," Lena said, shaking her head violently side to side. "No, no, no," she insisted, thinking about what Nan had said, knowing what Sibyl would say if she were here.

"Be strong," Lena said, speaking for Sibyl. "Be stronger than this."

Lena thought of Hank, too, sitting on the floor in her bathroom, weeping openly, just as she wept now.

"When he came back into the room with me," Lena began, forcing herself to speak, pushing herself to say his name. "When he came back to me," she repeated, "part of me was relieved." She stopped, knowing that was still not right. She could tell Mark this, because Mark understood. He knew what it was like to be so empty that you took whatever people gave you. She knew the loneliness of being locked in a pitch-black room with nothing to do but wait. She knew that there came a point when your mind told you everything was wrong, but your body betrayed you anyway, reaching out for whatever comfort was offered.

She swallowed, starting again. "When he came back into the room," she began, "part of me was… happy."

Chapter Twenty-Two

Sara sat on the floor across from Lacey Patterson in the back room of the children's clinic. Just a few days ago, Lacey had come here seeking help. Now she was back, having gone through unspeakable things, and all Sara could do was wait for the girl to talk.

"Dottie just left you at Wayne 's house?" Sara asked.

"Yeah," Lacey said, looking down at her shoes. She had asked to sit on the floor for some reason, and Sara had obliged, wanting to make the girl as comfortable as possible. She did not want Sara close, and so they had decided Sara would sit a foot away with her back against the closed door. Lacey sat in the middle of the room.

Lacey said, "The pills made me sleepy."

"And you don't remember anything that went on until you woke up in the hospital?"

She nodded, then started to bite her fingernails. Time passed, and the little girl was down to the cuticle on her thumb, and working on her pinky finger when Sara reached out and stopped her.

"You'll hurt yourself," Sara said, then realized from Lacey's expression how silly the warning was.

Lacey chewed at her cuticle, asking, "Is Mark going to be okay?"

"I don't know, sweetie."

Lacey teared up, but she did not cry. "I didn't mean to hurt him," she said.

"How did you hurt him?"

"He was coming after me again, and I just grabbed the knife."

"You're the one who cut him?"

She nodded, chewing another nail. "They were at Dot-tie's, taking things out of the house and painting. I was hiding, but Mark found me. I kicked him in the head with my foot." She took her fingers out of her mouth. "Mark didn't want me to come here to see you. I wanted to say goodbye, and then I was so scared I got sick. I'm sorry."

"That's okay," Sara assured her. "So you came here and then Mark showed up? And then you ran and Dottie picked you up in the black car?"

Lacey nodded, but she still would not say who had been driving the car. She asked, "You don't think that's why he tried to kill himself, do you? Because I hit him?"

"No," Sara assured her. "I think that Mark had a lot of other problems that led him to think that was his only choice."

"Can I see him?" she asked in a small voice.

"If you want to."

"I want to."

Sara sat back, watching the girl chew her fingers. Lacey's hair had been cut almost in a buzz cut. Dottie had probably planned to disguise her as a boy until she could sell her off to the highest bidder.

"Is my daddy coming back soon?" Lacey asked.

"Do you want to see him?"

"He didn't know," she said, as if she could read Sara's mind. "I knew about Mark and Mama, but Daddy didn't know."

"Are you sure?"

She nodded. "If he found out, he would've killed Mark."

"How about you, honey?" Sara asked. "Did Mark ever touch you?"

She looked away.

"Lacey?"

She shook her head vehemently, but Sara did not believe her. She was still torn on the subject of Mark Patterson. On the one hand, he had been a victim, and on the other, he had obviously been an abuser.

Lacey said, "Mark was nice to me."

Sara let this pass. "Did Dottie ever make you sit for pictures?"

"No," she said. "Mark and Jenny did, though. They got their pictures taken, and sometimes they were in movies. I saw them doing it."

"But you never did?"

Lacey put her hand back in her mouth. "Mark said if he ever caught me doing any of that he would tell Daddy."

"Mark didn't want you to do it?"

"I wanted to," she countered, taking on a petulant child's tone. "Jenny was doing it, and she went to a party and did it with lots of boys."

"Do you think Jenny enjoyed doing that?"

"I tried it once, and Mark found out." She dropped her hand into her lap. "That's when he hit me."

Sara let this sink in. She had never even dreamed that Mark was trying to protect his sister.

"This was when Mark got arrested, right?"

Lacey seemed surprised that Sara knew this. "Yeah."

"But, he didn't tell your father?"

"I told him if he did that I would tell about him and Mama."

She said "him and Mama" in a singsong way, as if the phrase had been practiced over and over. Sara imagined that Lacey had used this as a threat on more than one occasion. She was still a child at heart, and most children would do anything they could to get their way.

"I didn't like it anyway," Lacey said. "I told him I wouldn't do it anymore. I didn't like it." She frowned. "Dottie was mean when she was like that. Not like she was when we were playing."

"You played with her?"

"She would baby-sit us sometimes." Lacey smiled. "She had this game we would play, where we would get all dressed up, and she would take us to the movies and let us stay dressed up."

"That sounds nice."

"She wasn't like that all the time, though." Lacey started to pick at a scab on her leg. "She was mean sometimes. I didn't like her then."

"I don't blame you," Sara told her. "Was she the one who talked about purity?"

Lacey jerked her head up. "Where did you hear that?"

Sara decided to lie. "Mark told me."

Lacey shook her head. "He wouldn't have told you about that."

"Are you sure?"

She shrugged, but Sara could see that she wasn't. "Dot-tie got mad at Jenny because she said she was obsessed with it."

"Obsessed with what?"

"What they do to little girls over there," she mumbled. "Jenny had this report in school last year about Africa, and different tribes. She said that the women were lucky because they belonged to people. To their daddies, or then-husbands, and as long as they did right they were safe."

"Do you believe that, Lacey?"

She ignored Sara's question. "Dottie was mad. Jenny wouldn't drop it. Even when Mama came over and told her to stop." She turned her head to the side. "Mama can usually make people do things that maybe they don't want to do. She's good at that."

Sara took a deep breath, trying to get her head around what the child was revealing. She asked, "So your mom and Dottie told Jenny to stop talking about the mutilation?"

"They were worried she'd get in trouble at school. They had to move before because of it. A guidance counselor came to the house. Dottie said he was gonna call the police because of what Jenny said."

"About girls being cut like that?" Sara asked, wondering at a girl obsessed with self-mutilation.

"Jenny said women over there didn't have to worry about stuff…" She paused, then, "Like, sex stuff. And like what Dottie was doing. They don't have that over there, because children are sacred. Girls are protected."

"Why would Dottie cut her, Lacey?"

"She didn't," Lacey said. "After the Christmas trip, Jenny decided to do it to herself."

Sara shook her head, not accepting this. "There's no way she could have done that to herself, sweetie."

"But, she did," Lacey insisted. "She used a razor, only she started screaming, and Dottie ran upstairs and started screaming, too."

"You were in the house?"

"I was downstairs with Mama because it was payday."

Sara knew she should not have been surprised that these women had a regular payday, but it made sense that they ran their sick little publication like a business. They had been doing this for at least thirteen years, and knew what they were doing.

"Jenny yelled so loud, like she was dying," Lacey said. "And then Mama came back downstairs and told me what Jenny had done to herself."

Sara nodded for her to continue, because that was all she could do.

"They couldn't take her to the hospital, so Mama said the best thing they could do was finish what she started…" Lacey paused. "So, they did."

"Did they anesthetize her?" Sara asked.

"Mama gave her some of her pills so she wouldn't get an infection."

"That's not what I meant," Sara told her. "Did they knock her out before they finished cutting her? Or make her go to sleep so she wouldn't feel it?"

"I think she fell asleep on her own when they started," Lacey provided. "At least, she stopped screaming after a while."

Sara chewed her bottom lip, trying to think of a response. She asked, "What made Jenny do that to herself?"

"Carson and Rory were making fun of her when we went skiing, like she would go with them, and she wouldn't."

"Go with them, meaning sex?"

She nodded. "She said she wouldn't, that they weren't clean, and they got mad at her and called her a whore, and she didn't know why, but when Cooper told her that she had before, this time she went over to their house with Mark." She shrugged. "Mark put something in her drink to make her act funny and not remember."

"Do you know what it was?"

"Something that makes you feel really bad the next day," Lacey answered. "She got sick to her stomach and had to stay home from school for two days, and Dottie said she had the flu."

Rohypnol, Sara thought. The date rape drug.

Lacey continued, "She did what she did, you know. Mark says that drugs just make you do the things you want to do anyway."

"That's not true," Sara told her. "Especially with the drug he probably gave her."

Lacey shrugged as if it didn't matter. "She liked Cooper Barrett anyway."

"Was he on the ski retreat?" Sara asked.

"Him and Rory and Carson," she said. "They slipped notes under the door at the hotel, and when we got up one morning, there was a sign over the room number that said some mean things." She looked up at Sara. "I guess they were the ones who stole stuff out of her locker at school."

"What kinds of stuff?"

"Pictures and things. They tore them up, so she had to stop keeping stuff in there except for books."

"I guess that upset her a lot."

Lacey shrugged, but Sara could tell it had bothered her.

"Why did Mark do that to her, do you think?" Sara asked. "Did Dottie ask him to take her to the party?"

Lacey nodded, and Sara put her hand to her stomach, thinking about Mark pimping out Jenny Weaver to recruit more kids for Dottie.

"Jenny was upset about them bothering her," Lacey said.

"And Dottie told Jenny just to go with them again and that would make them stop, but Jenny didn't want to. She said she wanted to be pure."

"So, that's what made her cut herself between the legs?" Sara asked.

Lacey said, "She started it, but Dottie had to finish it."

Lacey returned to the scab, and Sara watched as she picked it until it started to bleed.

Sara took a tissue out of her pocket and dabbed the blood off the girl's leg. She asked, "Did you ever see what Dottie did to Jenny that night?"

Again, she shook her head. "I wasn't allowed to talk to her anymore."

"Why?"

"Because Mama told me not to," she said, looking back down at the scab as she picked it. "Mama told me if I talked to Jenny, then she would let Dottie do me the same way." She indicated her lap. "Down there."

"Was your mother mad at Jenny, too?"

With her head down, Lacey's voice was muffled. Sara had to strain to hear her say, "Mama said Mark had been with Jenny, and that wasn't right. It made Jenny crazy, and that's why she did that to herself." She paused. "Children should only be with adults, because adults know what they're doing, and kids don't."

"Are you sure your daddy didn't know about this?"

She shook her head again, her lips pressed together in a straight line. "He would've killed Mark."

"Don't you think he would have been mad at your mother, too?" Sara decided to push her a little further. "Don't you think he would have been upset that your mother was pregnant?"

Lacey's head jerked up. "How did you know?"

"I know a lot of things," Sara told the girl.

"It was Mark's fault she got pregnant," Lacey said, and again, Sara was struck by the practiced tone. Obviously, this was something the child had been taught. "Mama told Daddy she couldn't be with him when she got sick again. That's how she knew it was Mark's."

Again, Sara took a deep breath. She doubted very seriously whether or not they would ever know who the real father of that baby was.

"Last Saturday," Sara began. "What happened?"

"Mama went up to Skatie's to find Mark, and she got sick."

"Sick how?" Sara asked.

Lacey looked back down at her leg. "She drove us up there, looking for Mark, and she got real sick and had to go to the bathroom."

Sara tried to remember how tall Grace Patterson was. She was a small woman, and Tessa could have easily mistaken her for a teenage girl.

Sara asked, "Did you go with her into the bathroom?"

Lacey nodded.

"And then did Jenny come?"

"She saw us go in."

"What happened then?"

Lacey gave a long sigh. "The baby came out from between her legs, and there was a lot of blood…" She paused, still not looking up at Sara. "Mama said it was sick from the cancer medicine she took, and they had to take care of it."

Sara swallowed hard.

"She told me to go wait in the car while she and Jenny took care of it."

"Why did she make Jenny stay?"

"To punish her. It was Jenny's fault all of this happened. If she hadn't been with Mark to begin with, then Mama wouldn't have had to do what she did."

Sara leaned her head against the door, trying to think of something to say. She was amazed at the power Grace Patterson and Dottie Weaver had over these children. That Sara had been in their presence and not noticed how horrible they were was something for which she would never forgive herself.

Lacey made sure she had Sara's attention, then told her, "Mama told Jenny if she didn't stay and help, then she'd tell you what Jenny had been doing."

"Me?" Sara asked, unable to hide her shock.

"Jenny wanted to be a doctor for kids like you are," the girl said. "She didn't think you'd help her if you knew she was having sex with all those people." The practiced tone came back to her voice as she said, " 'If you don't do this, I'm gonna tell Dr. Linton what a whore you are.'"

Sara felt horrified her name had been used to threaten a child. "That's not true," Sara told her vehemently. "That's not true at all."

Lacey shrugged as if it didn't matter.

Sara wanted to shake her. "I would have done everything I could to help her, Lacey. Just like I'll do whatever I can to help you."

"I don't need help now," Lacey said, her tone implying that it was too late.

Sara was so angry that tears welled into her eyes. She had autopsied the baby. She knew exactly what Grace and Jenny had done to the poor creature. To think Jenny complied in the mutilation for fear of being exposed to Sara made bile rise into her throat.

"Mama said that a lot," Lacey told her. "Jenny wanted you to think she was a good person."

Sara put her hand to her throat. "She was a good person."

Lacey looked down at the floor. "Whatever."

"What happened to Jenny was horrible. It wasn't her fault."

Again, Lacey shrugged.

"Sweetheart," Sara said, trying to sound reassuring. She reached for Lacey's hand, but the girl pulled away.

Sara let a minute pass before asking, "Why do you think Jenny threatened to kill Mark?"

Lacey shrugged, but Sara could tell she knew the answer.

"Do you think she wanted it to stop?"

She shrugged.

"Do you think this was the only way she thought she could stop it, by pointing that gun at Mark? By ending up in…" Sara stopped, feeling a heavy weight settle on her chest. Jenny had known that she would end up on a table in the morgue. Making Jeffrey pull that trigger was her way of forcing Sara to see what was happening to her.

Lacey looked up, her face completely devoid of emotion. "Jenny knew better than that," she said. "She knew it could never be stopped."

Sara reached for a response, more afraid than anything that what the girl said was true. "We'll catch Dottie before she does this again, Lacey. I promise we'll do everything we can to stop her."

"Yeah, well…" She shrugged, as if Sara had just told her an impossible fantasy. She asked, "Is my daddy gonna be here soon? I wanna go home."

"Lacey," Sara began, not knowing what else to say.

The girl looked up, tears in her eyes. The past few days had aged her. She no longer looked like a carefree little girl with nothing more to worry about than whether or not she would make the cheerleading squad. The people who had abused her were gone, but she would always carry around what they did to her in her heart. Looking at her, Sara had never felt so helpless in her life. She wanted to do something, to help, but she knew it was much too late for that. She also knew that there were more kids like Lacey out there, more children who had fallen victim to Dottie Weaver-and many more who still could.

Lacey wiped her nose with the back of her hand, sniffing loudly. She managed a smile for Sara, repeating, "Is my daddy gonna be here soon? I wanna go home."