Silent, Terri absorbed this. Whatever the other reasons for all that Eddie Fleet had done, the sexual abuse of this child was a last act of reprisal. 'And you told no one.'
'No.'
Terri turned to Lacy. 'Will you? Will you go to the police?'
Wearily, Sims gazed at her daughter.
'Yes,' the girl told Terri. 'Let Mama's boyfriend be afraid of me.'
* * *
'We need to file a third petition,' Terri urged Chris by telephone. 'Not only is Fleet a pedophile but turning in the brothers was more than just an act of survival. Taking Payton down felt extra good to him.'
Chris was silent. 'Of course,' he said at last, 'Pell will say that Betty has it in for Fleet, and that stories of childhood abuse are notoriously unreliable. He may even claim that Lacy's trying to save the uncle she never knew she had.'
In her excitement and exhaustion, the warped logic of such an argument had not occurred to Terri. 'Rennell's an uncle,' she said softly, unable to define the sadness this made her feel.
'Anyhow, Terri, come home soon. We've got a new petition to work on, and Johnny Moore's got something else for you. For whatever finding Tasha Bramwell turns out to be worth.'
Before calling Johnny, Terri tracked down Charles Monk, to tell him what had happened to Lacy Sims. Still no one knew where Fleet might be.
* * *
At last, after staring for sleepless hours at the red-illuminated numbers of a hotel room clock radio, Terri drifted off to sleep. The dream which came to her was Elena's, except that Terri had taken her daughter's place.
She was alone in a darkened bedroom, and there was banging on the door.
Elena's father was coming.
The door opened. Terri hugged herself, and saw his shadow coming toward her. She prayed it was her mother, and then a man's face came into the light.
'Both of you,' Eddie Fleet said in her husband's perfect English. 'First your mother, and then you.'
Terri woke up sobbing.
SEVENTEEN
IN THE MORNING, HAVING SLEPT LITTLE, TERRI FLEW TO BIRMINGHAM, Alabama, where Tasha Bramwell Harding, a mother of two preschoolers, worked as an accountant for a health care company.
Unlike her approach to Betty Sims, Terri did not attempt surprise—other than to place a call which, from Tasha's first reaction, was deeply unsettling. But her voice recovered its businesslike reserve, and with a note of resignation, Tasha agreed to meet Terri after work on the patio of a local restaurant.
From the plane, Birmingham had not been what Terri had expected. Though squat steel mills jutted from the valley which contained the center city, they were dwarfed by the sleek glass towers of a city on the rise, their windows glinting in the afternoon sun. The summer air was hot and moist, and a lush garden surrounded the patio where Tasha—still the slender, pretty woman of Monk's description—awaited with a look of unease.
She was in her mid-thirties now, with straightened hair, a lineless face whose oldest features were her dark, watchful eyes, and the well-tailored veneer of a professional woman. Her husband, Johnny Moore had told Terri, was a buyer for the region's largest sporting goods store, and they had found a life for themselves in a city which, while bounded by white suburbs, was controlled by a black electorate led by a thriving middle class. The place, and the woman, seemed far away from the Bayview.
Terri extended her hand. 'Teresa Paget,' she said.
The woman's gaze, like her hand, was cool. 'Tasha Harding.'
Terri detected an emphasis on the surname, as if to signal that Tasha Bramwell had existed in some other life. They ordered two glasses of iced tea, saying little, Tasha clearly sizing up the woman who had dropped into her new life, dragging the past with her. When the waitress left, Terri said bluntly, 'I guess you know Payton's dead.'
'Yes.' Tasha's voice quivered briefly, then became toneless. 'I also know he confessed.'
Terri could feel a wall drop, sealing off Tasha Harding from the woman who had loved, and lied for, Payton Price. 'According to Payton,' Terri said, 'the second man was Eddie Fleet.'
A look of disquiet, its cause indecipherable, flashed in Tasha's eyes. 'And you're wondering if I know what really happened. Maybe something Payton told me.'
'Maybe. But not just that. Anything—anything at all—which suggests that Fleet might have been guilty, and lied to save himself.'
Tasha appraised her. 'Well,' she said, 'I'd know about lying, wouldn't I.'
'That was then, Tasha. Now Rennell's scheduled to die.'
Tasha was silent. Eyes hooded, she took a long sip of tea. 'I don't know what happened,' she said at last. 'Rennell was slow, Payton's shadow. I didn't see any meanness in him. But get him on crack, and Payton wanting to do something, and who knows. Rennell might have been dumb, but he came with a man's equipment.'
This stark assessment, etched with sexual disdain, brought Terri up short. 'You told Monk you'd never known Rennell to have sex with anyone. And according to Flora Lewis, it was the other man she saw—not Payton—who pulled Thuy Sen off the street. Does that sound like Rennell to you?'
Tasha weighed her answer—less, Terri sensed, out of uncertainty than out of doubt as to whether she should answer at all. 'No,' she said tersely. 'I still have a hard time seeing him do that.'
