"Um," I said. "Maybe we should move on. Do you and your husband discuss with one another the kinds of television shows your daughter is allowed to watch?"
"No," Mrs. Herzberg said shortly. "And I don't let her watch junk, like that Rugrats."
"But, Mommy," Keely said, her eyes filled with tears, "I love them."
"That's it," Mrs. Herzberg said. She pointed with her cigarette toward the back of the house. "Outside. Now."
"But, Mommy—"
"No," Mrs. Herzberg said. "That's it. I told you once. Now go outside and play, and let Mommy talk to these people."
Keely, letting out a hiccuppy little sob, disappeared. I heard a screen door slam somewhere in the house.
"Go on," Mrs. Herzberg said to me. Then her eyebrows knit. "Shouldn't you be writing my answers down?"
I reached up to smack myself on the forehead. "The clipboard!" I said to Rob. "I forgot the clipboard!"
"Well," Rob says. "Then I guess that's the end of that. Sorry to trouble you, ma'am—"
"No," I said, grabbing him by the arm and steering him closer to the screen door. "That's okay. It's in the car. I'll just go get it. You keep asking questions while I go and get the clipboard."
Rob's pale blue eyes, as he looked down at me, definitely had ice chips in them, but what was I supposed to do? I went, "Ask her about the kind of programming she likes, Nate. And don't forget the ten bucks," and then I bounded down the steps, through the overgrown yard, out the gate …
And then, when I was sure Rob had Mrs. Herzberg distracted, I darted down the alley alongside her house, until I came to a high wooden fence that separated her backyard from the street.
It only took me a minute to climb up onto a Dumpster that was sitting there, and then look over that fence into the backyard.
Keely was there. She was sitting in one of those green plastic turtles people fill with sand. In her hand was a very dirty, very naked Barbie doll. She was singing softly to it.
Perfect, I thought. If Rob could just keep Mrs. Herzberg busy for a few minutes …
I clambered over the fence, then dropped over the other side into Keely's yard. Somehow, in spite of my gymnast-like grace and James Bondian stealthiness, Keely heard me, and squinted at me through the strong sunlight.
"Hey," I said as I ambled over to her sandbox. "What's up?"
Keely stared at me with those enormous brown eyes. "You aren't supposed to be back here," she informed me gravely.
"Yeah," I said, sitting down on the edge of the sandbox beside her. I'd have sat in the grass, but like in the front yard, it was long and straggly-looking, and after my recent tick experience, I wasn't too anxious to encounter any more bloodsucking parasites.
"I know I'm not supposed to be back here," I said to Keely. "But I wanted to ask you a couple of questions. Is that okay?"
Keely shrugged and looked down at her doll. "I guess," she said.
I looked down at the doll, too. "What happened to Barbie's clothes?"
"She lost them," Keely said.
"Whoa," I said. "Too bad. Think your mom will buy her some more?"
Keely shrugged again, and began dipping Barbie's head into the sandbox, stirring the sand like it was cake batter, and Barbie was a mixer. The sand in the sandbox didn't smell too fresh, if you know what I mean. I had a feeling some of the neighborhood cats had been there a few times.
"What about your dad?" I asked her. "Could your dad buy you some more Barbie clothes?"
Keely said, lifting Barbie from the sand and then smoothing her hair back, "My daddy's in heaven."
Well. That settled that, didn't it?
"Who told you that your daddy is in heaven, Keely?" I asked her.
Keely shrugged, her gaze riveted to the plastic doll in her hands. "My mommy," she said. Then she added, "I have a new daddy now." She wrenched her gaze from the Barbie and looked up at me, her dark eyes huge. "But I don't like him as much as my old daddy."
My mouth had gone dry … as dry as the sand beneath our feet. Somehow I managed to croak, "Really? Why not?"
Keely shrugged and looked away from me again. "He throws things," she said. "He threw a bottle, and it hit my mommy in the head, and blood came out, and she started crying."
I thought about the crescent-shaped scab on Mrs. Herzberg's forehead. It was exactly the size and shape a bottle, flying at a high velocity, would make.
And that, I knew, was that.
I guess I could have gotten out of there, called the cops, and let them handle it. But did I really want to put the poor kid through all that? Armed men knocking her mother's door down, guns drawn, and all of that? Who knew what the mother's bottle-throwing boyfriend was like? Maybe he'd try to shoot it out with the cops. Innocent people might get hurt. You don't know. You can't predict these things. I know I can't, and I'm the one with the psychic powers.
And yeah, Keely's mother seemed like kind of a freak, protesting that her kid only watches public television while standing there filling that same kid's lungs with carcinogens. But hey, there are worse things a parent could do. That didn't make her an unfit mother. I mean, it wasn't like she was taking that cigarette and putting it out on Keely's arm, like some parents I've seen on the news.
But telling the kid her father was dead? And shacking up with a guy who throws bottles?
Not so nice.
So even though I felt like a complete jerk about it, I knew what I had to do.
I think you'd have done the same thing, too, in my place. I mean, really, what else could anybody have done?
I stood up and said, "Keely, your dad's not in heaven. If you come with me right now, I'll take you to him."
Keely had to crane her neck to look up at me. The sun was so bright, she had to do some pretty serious squinting, too.
"My daddy's not in heaven?" she asked. "Where is he, then?"
That was when I heard it: the sound of Rob's motorcycle engine. I could tell the sound of that bike's engine from every single other motorcycle in my entire town.
I know it's stupid. It's more than stupid. It's pathetic, is what it is. But can you really blame me? I mean, I really did harbor this hope that Rob was pining for me, and satisfied his carnal longing for me by riding by my house late at night.
He never actually did this, but my ears had become so accustomed to straining for the sound of his bike's engine, I could have picked it out in a traffic jam.
The real question, of course, was why Rob had left Mrs. Herzberg's front porch when he had to know I wasn't finished with my business in her backyard.
Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
Which was why I didn't suffer too much twinging of my conscience when I looked down at Keely and said, "Your daddy's at McDonald's. If we hurry, we can catch him there, and he'll buy you a Happy Meal."
Did I feel bad, invoking the M word in order to lure a kid out of her own backyard? Sure. I felt like a worm. Worse than a worm. I felt like I was Karen Sue Hanky, or someone equally as creepy.
But I also felt like I had no other choice. Rob's bike roaring to life just then meant one thing, and one thing only:
We had to get going. And now.
It worked. Thank God, it worked. Because Keely Herzberg, bless her five-year-old heart, stood up and, looking up into my face, shrugged and said, "Okay."
It was at that moment I realized why Rob had taken off. The screen door that led to the backyard burst open, and a man in a pair of fairly tight-fitting jeans and some heavy-looking work boots—and who was clutching a beer bottle—came out onto the back porch and roared, "Who the hell are you?"
I grabbed Keely by the hand. I knew, of course, who this was. And I could only pray that his aim, when it came to moving targets, left something to be desired.
The sound of Rob's motorcycle engine had been getting closer. I knew now what he was doing.
"Come on," I said to Keely.