The Art of Deception

Silhouettes

A sense of relief washed through Matthews as she spotted Margaret across the cavernous basement room. The pregnant girl had returned to the same cot. These cots were as close as it got to something they could call home. She wanted to thank Sheila for paging her, but it would have to wait.

Margaret’s eyes had sunk deeper into their sockets, as if the skin on her face were shrinking. Her hair was both tangled and flattened and oily. She caught Matthews studying her.

“Rough day at the office,” the girl said, reacting to that stare.

“May I?” Matthews indicated the opposing bed.

“You’re wasting your time.”

“It’s mine to waste,” Matthews said.

Closing her eyes appeared difficult for Margaret, as if she might be in pain.

“Are you feeling okay?”

“Have you ever been pregnant?”

“No,” Matthews said. “But I’d like to be sometime.”

“Don’t be so sure. It sucks. I feel sick most of the time.

Unless I’m high. When I’m high, it’s not so bad.”

“When you’re high,” Matthews said, “your baby’s high, too.”

“Lucky her, him, whatever. You going to preach to me?

’Cause if you are, maybe we could do this another time.”

Sobriety was a requirement at the Shelter, but its definition remained unclear. Most of the girls arrived high. Anyone caught using while in residence was first counseled and consulted-usually involving Matthews-but was kicked out on the second offense. Repeated violation of the rules won a girl a thirty-day ban from the premises. As a rule the staff tried to limit the proselytizing. Some of the Christian centers suffered for their evangelizing-the girls didn’t want to hear that Jesus or anything else could save them. Nothing had saved them so far.

“No. Not going to preach,” Matthews said. She tried to sound relaxed as she thought about health problems for the mother and neurological and other damage to the fetus.

“I didn’t ask for this baby.”

“It’s beyond that now, like it or not.”

“I knew you were the preachy type. You got that look, you know? Sister Teresa.” She rolled her head, facing away on the pillow. “Please go away. I got a headache.”

“And I’ve got a hole in my stomach, Margaret. This isn’t about just you anymore. You can’t ignore that baby. What about your grandparents?”

“Forget them, would you? There’s a place south of Safeco.

Once I’ve got a place … it’s gonna work out.”

“I’d think twice about staying here in the city. You’re un-derage. There are people who prey on girls like you, Margaret.

They’ll have you dealing for them. You’ll get arrested. Call your grandparents-they’re your chance out of here.”

“You know them real good, do you?”

“The baby will be born addicted. How fair is that?”

“Fair?” She placed a hand on her swollen belly.

“Are you getting enough food? The baby needs nutrition.”

“Pizza crust. You might say I’m eating Italian.”

“What if we called them together? I’d be willing to do that.”

“You don’t get it, do you?”

“Maybe not.”

“They’ll tell her-my mother. She’s their daughter, after all.

They’re gonna tell her. And she’ll tell him because she’s a pathetic, weak woman, and that’s just what she does. And it’s his baby-you understand that, right? His baby, her boyfriend’s baby. And he’ll either kill me, or keep sleeping with me. Making me do things … you understand that, right? I am not going back there. Forget it.”

“So, we’ll think of something else.”

“Will we really?”

Matthews saw a possible solution-jail time. A women’s ju-vie facility would offer health care for mother and baby. The irony didn’t escape her; as a cop she couldn’t recommend to Margaret that she get herself arrested. “You’re good here for another few nights. It gives us time to think about this.”

“Just forget it, would you? I’m here for the food, the shower, and the bed. Not for you, not for counseling. I like it up there.

I have friends up there. They’re like family.”

“If you use, your baby ends up addicted.”

“I got that the first time.”

Matthews took the girl’s arm and turned it to make sure her own phone number was still inked there. She reminded the girl that cop or not, she would never be a cop if Margaret called.

Margaret said, “Yeah, yeah.”

Matthews crossed the room discouraged. She thanked Sheila for the heads-up, but didn’t get into particulars. For all her problems, Margaret was in relatively good shape by Shelter standards.

She fixed a weak cup of tea and sat alone in the corner trying to sort out options. The tea bag leaked onto the table once she removed it. She drew patterns with the discharge, stretching it like a river across the plastic veneer. She finished the tea still stuck on talking Margaret into getting herself arrested.

The rain had started and stopped again by the time she left.

She crossed the church’s fairly well lit parking lot, arrived at the Honda, key in hand, and climbed in. She couldn’t help reminding herself of her most recent visit, and her spotting the man up in the parking garage, and though she fought the urge to do so, she took a moment to check the garage again.

Seeing no one up there, she told herself to forget about it, but found it easier said than done. Rush-hour traffic jammed the downtown streets, and understanding that at best it was the lesser of two evils, she elected to try Aurora, willing to suffer the five o’clock creep for the lack of lights and the ability to circumvent downtown.

She left the church parking lot. Traffic flow was indeed like blood in a clogged artery. It took her ten minutes to make three lights. When she finally managed a left, she checked her side mirror for any cyclists or other yahoos trying to cut the corner on her, and she spotted a light rack that was at once both familiar and unfamiliar. It wasn’t an SPD patrol car; she knew that much.

It might have been SFD, except the fire guys used red, not blue, lights in their rooftop racks. The blue lights indicated police or Sheriff’s Office.

She blamed her reaction on the fact that they’d just been talking about Prair, less than an hour earlier, putting the man solidly in her thoughts. Sight of that light rack spiked both fear and anger in her. Was Nathan Prair following her around town?

Following her home? Watching her from parking garages? Had it been Prair outside of her mudroom window, and if so, how much of her had he seen?

It added up, now that it seemed so obvious to her: As a law enforcement officer, her home phone and address went unpublished, but it was well within the pale that a King County deputy sheriff could obtain that information. Walker was unlikely to know the location of her houseboat; Prair could get it with a phone call.

She waited at the intersection behind a flurry of angry horns and, as the light turned yellow, quickly took the left turn, trapping those behind her with the red light.

Asking LaMoia to come out into this mess of traffic at first seemed unthinkable, yet that’s just what she did. She would execute some evasive tactics and eventually find her way home-hopefully with LaMoia close behind, looking for anyone following her.

“Yo,” he answered.

“It’s me.”

“Hey, you.”

“Listen, it may be nothing, and I’m keeping my eyes peeled, but I have half a notion that Prair is with me in traffic, and I wondered if you could use your connections over there to see if he happens to be on duty at the moment, and if so, if they know his ten-twenty. Traffic’s bad. And it’s getting dark. I’m heading down toward Safeco. I thought I’d loop it once-give it four right turns in a row. You know.”

“Do it, and then put yourself in a holding pattern-make it a couple laps-I can be there in a matter of minutes.”

“Sweet of you, but it’s a mess out here. I’m going to go get some of my things at my place and then take Lou up on the offer of a hotel. He suggested the Paramount. If you want to meet me there, I wouldn’t complain.”

“I’d rather catch up to you now, catch Prair in the act.”

“There’s no law about driving around the city.”

“Listen, I can make these calls from the car. Keep orbiting Safeco. I’ll be there in five minutes.” He hung up.

She felt incredible relief. He’d done as she hoped, but not as she asked, proving that he was predictable in an unpredictable way.

A half mile later, the relief gave way to panic as she reached Safeco Field and the Honda unexpectedly sputtered and died.