'He's paying for more than your shirt. And I don't need a license number. I know who it was.'
While Savannah went to retrieve the take-out bag from the sidewalk, I pulled out my cell phone, called the operator, and asked for the police.
'I'm not doubting it was Cary,' Willard said. 'I'm asking if you can prove it.'
Of the three East Falls deputies, Travis Willard was the one I'd hoped they'd send. The town's youngest deputy-a couple of years my senior-he was the nicest of the bunch. His wife, Janey, and I had served at several charity functions together, and she was one of the few townspeople who'd made me feel welcome. Now, though, I was questioning the wisdom of phoning the police at all.
Although Willard was considerate enough to sit in my car, instead of making us stand on the sidewalk, everyone who passed did a double-take. Only twelve hours ago the police had found a Satanic altar at my house, news of which I was sure had flown through the town before noon. Now, seeing me pulled over talking to a deputy, tongues would wag with fresh speculation. If that wasn't bad enough, I was quickly realizing that accusing a respected town member of intentional hit-and-run was no easy sell.
'Someone must have seen it,' Savannah said. 'There were people around.'
'None of whom stuck around to do their civic duty,' I said. 'But there's bound to be evidence. He didn't do a lot of damage, but the paint's scratched. Can't you check his truck?'
'I could,' Willard said. 'And if I find silver paint on his bumper I can ask Sheriff Fowler to requisition a lab test and he'll laugh in my face. I'm not trying to give you a hard time, Paige. I'm suggesting maybe this isn't the way you want to pursue this. I heard you had a run-in with Cary at the bakery yesterday.'
'You did?' Savannah said. 'What happened?'
Willard turned to the backseat and asked Savannah to step outside the car for a moment. When she was gone, he looked back at me.
'I know he hit on you. The guy's a-' Willard cut himself short and shook his head. 'He hits on every cute girl in town. Even made a pass at Janey once-after we were married. I could have-' Another head shake. 'But I didn't. I didn't do anything. Some things are more trouble than they're worth.'
'I understand that, but-'
'Don't worry about the car. I'll write it up for your insurance company as a hit-and-run. And maybe I'll pay Cary a visit, drop a hint that he should pay the deductible.'
'I don't care about the damage. It's a car. I'm upset because Savannah was inside. She could have gone through the windshield.'
'Do you think Cary knew she was there?'
I hesitated, then shook my head.
'That's what I figure, too,' Willard said. 'He wouldn't have seen her over the headrest. He was driving by, saw your car, and pulled in behind, thinking it was empty. When he saw you walking up, he slammed into the rear end. An asshole, like I said. But not a big enough asshole to intentionally hurt a kid.'
'So you won't do anything.'
'If you insist, then I have to make the report, but I'm warning you-'
'Fine. I get the idea.'
'I'm sorry, Paige.'
I fastened my seatbelt and waved Savannah into the car.
Next stop: 52 Spruce Lane. Home of Mr. and Mrs. Grantham Cary, Jr.
The Carys lived in one of East Falls's finest homes. It was one of five stops on the annual East Falls garden walk. Not that the gardens were spectacular. Quite mundane, in fact, tending to overpruned shrubbery and roses with fancy names and no scent. Yet each year the house made the tour and each year the people of East Falls paid their fee to troop through the house and gardens. Why? Because each year Lacey hired a top-notch decorator to redo one room in the house, which then set that season's standard for interior design in East Falls.
'Do you think this is a good idea?' Savannah said as I stalked up the front walkway.
'No one else is going to do it for us.'
'Hey, I'm all for putting the boots to the guy, but there are other ways, you know. Better ways. I could cast a spell that'll-'
'No spells. I don't want revenge. I want justice.'
'A good case of body lice would be justice.'
'I want him to know what he did.'
'So we'll send him a card. Cooties courtesy of Paige and Savannah.'
I tramped up the steps and whammed the cherub knocker against the wooden door. From inside came the scuffling of shoes. A curtain fluttered. Voices murmured. Then Lacey opened the door.
'I'd like to speak to Grantham, please,' I said, with as much courtesy as I could muster.
'He isn't here.'
'Oh? That's odd. I see his car in the lane. Looks like he scraped up the front bumper.'
Lacey's surgically tightened face didn't so much as ripple. 'I wouldn't know about that.'
'Look, could I please talk to him? This doesn't concern you, Lacey. I know he's in there. This is his problem. Let him handle it.'
'I'm going to have to ask you to leave.'
'He hit my car. On purpose. Savannah was inside.'
Not a flicker of reaction. 'I'm going to have to ask you to leave now.'
'Did you hear me? Grantham hit my car. He-'
'You're mistaken. If you're trying to get us to pay for damages-'
'I don't care about the car!' I said, pulling Savannah over and waving at her bloodied nose and shirt. 'This is the damage I care about! She's thirteen years old.'
'Children get bloody noses all the time. If you're hoping to sue-'
'I don't want to sue! I want him to come out here and see what he's done. That's it. Just bring him out here so I can speak to him.'
'I'm going to have to ask you to leave.'
'Stop covering for him, Lacey. He doesn't deserve it. The guy chases-'
I stopped there. My quarrel was with Grantham, not Lacey and, as good as it would have felt to tell Lacey what else her husband was doing, it wasn't fair. Besides, she probably already knew. I'd only be lowering myself to cheap shots.
'Tell him this isn't finished,' I said, then turned and stomped down the steps.
As I approached my car, I 'realized Savannah wasn't behind me. I turned to see her in front of the house. Inside the lights flickered on and off. A television soundtrack blared, then faded, then blared again.
'Savannah!' I hissed.
A main floor curtain drew back. Lacey peered out. Savannah looked up and waved her fingers. Then she jogged toward me.
'What do you think you're doing?' I said.
'Just a warning,' she said, grinning. 'A friendly warning.'
When we got home, the teens were filming my neighbor's black cat. I ignored them and pulled into the garage.
While Savannah reheated her dinner, I listened to my messages and returned calls to several Bostonian friends who'd seen my plight on the news. My Satanic altar made the Boston news? They each assured me it had been only a cursory mention on one channel, but that didn't make me feel better.
The teenagers left at nine forty-five, probably to make curfew. The older quartet stayed, taking turns sitting in the minivan and standing vigil on my lawn. I didn't phone the police. That would only call more attention to myself. If I didn't react, the Salvationists would tire soon enough and go home, wherever home was.
I went to bed at eleven. Yes, sad but true, I was young, single, and going to bed at eleven on a Saturday night, as I had almost every night for the past nine months. Since Savannah's arrival, I've had to struggle to maintain even friendships. Dating is out of the question. Savannah is very jealous of my time and attention. Or, perhaps more
