He rubbed one eye. “I’m not exempting myself from critical judgment, Grace. I was part of it, did far too much by the book. The caseloads they saddled us with made it impossible to work properly. I suppose that’s as good an excuse as any.”
“Yet you managed to rise above it,” said Grace.
He was taken aback. Searched her face for sarcasm. She made sure to let him know she meant it.
He said, “You’re being kind but I didn’t rise nearly as often as I should have. In your case, it was easy. You made it easy. Because you were so darn precocious, I felt there was hope for...” He smiled. “I hoped. When I checked one last time with Ramona to see how you were doing — the day before I handed in my walking papers — she said you were fine but shy, keeping to yourself, totally bored with the curriculum. My mind was elsewhere, psychologically I’d quit a long time ago, so I told her there was nothing I could do. Ramona said fine, she’d handle it herself, and hung up. Obviously, she handled it well.” Another tremble of lip. “No doubt better than I could’ve.”
Grace said, “It was a job, not a life sentence, Wayne. The way you helped me says you probably helped a lot more kids than you’re admitting.”
His smile was broad, amused. “I can see you’re an excellent therapist, Dr. Blades — gawd, that sounds terrific. Doctor. Good for you!.. so what brings you here?”
Grace said, “You gave me your card, said if I needed anything to get in touch.”
He flinched. “Did I? You must’ve caught me in a weak moment. Trust me, by then I was effectively gone. Wondering how I was going to make ends meet. I had to start from scratch, ended up at Hastings, moved north, figuring to do family law. Work for change within the system and all that good stuff, right? By the first semester I felt so free being away from the system that I changed my orientation completely and went for the boring stuff.”
He laughed. “Boring lucrative amoral stuff. I drive a Jaguar now, Grace. Sometimes I’m cruising along and I laugh at myself.”
“I drive an Aston Martin.”
“Really.” He whistled. “Clinical psychology’s been good to you, has it? So what’s this about? A patient in a fix?”
“A therapist in a fix.”
He sat back and rested his hands on his paunch.
Grace told him only what he needed to know.
Three wild-haired children in homemade black uniforms, a probable child murder by the oldest brother, a second murder by extension.
Two decades later, reappearance by the younger brother, still burdened by terrible secrets and seeking expiation.
Likely dying because of his secrets.
She ended with two components that she hoped would evoke the feelings that had led him to treat her with kindness decades ago.
Her research leading to the Fortress Cult.
The intense personal danger she now found herself in.
No mention of the man in her garden, rolling a body into a ravine, tossing guns, a knife. Living like a fugitive.
Wayne Knutsen listened without interruption, took a moment to contemplate. “Well, Grace, this is quite... I don’t know what to say, it’s almost like something out of a movie.”
“Wish it was, Wayne. But it’s real, Wayne. And I’m scared.”
“I understand... twenty-three years ago...”
“And a few months.”
He looked at her the way a doctor examines a new patient. “We’re talking the majority of your life, Grace. A significant slice of mine... I’m rambling, this is so unexpected — you really think that older boy killed the sick one — Bobby?”
“I’m sure of it. He had all the early trappings of psychopathy and there’s no way that oxygen tube could’ve come free on its own.”
“What if Bobby experienced a seizure and yanked it hard enough — I’m just being lawyerly.”
“Bobby could barely walk, let alone muster the strength to rip loose his dressings. Ramona was careful, she taped the tube tight. I know because sometimes I was the one to untape him in the morning.”
“She used you as an aide?”
“I insisted on helping, it made me feel strong, in control. And I could tell her own strength was fading.”
“I see... this is going to be a terrible question, but I’m an attorney, I have to ask.” He shifted in his chair. “Given Ramona’s fading health, growing attached to this Bobby, is there the remotest possibility that she would have—”
“Euthanized a child?” said Grace. “No way. When she discovered Bobby dead, she was horrified. I’m certain the shock is what finished her off.”
“My God,” said Wayne Knutsen. “What a nightmare... poor Ramona. Poor child — and there was no one else who could’ve—”
“It was him, Wayne.”
“Yes, yes, you’d know. You say his name was Sam? That’s not much to go on. How old was he?”
“Thirteen, fourteen, give or take.”
“Old enough, I suppose,” he said. “What with all the crazy stuff one keeps hearing... all right, it’s a horrible thing to consider but I defer to your judgment. What happened to you after the ranch closed? Though I’m not sure I want to hear what I suspect.” His head shook; his jowls vibrated. One hand swiped clumsily at his eyes.
Grace leaned over and took his hand, comforted him the way she would any patient.
“Actually,” she said, “everything worked out fine.”
Chapter 29
Nancy the Detective drove fast to juvenile hall and Grace knew she couldn’t wait to get the job over with. Within moments of passing through a series of locked doors, she was gone and Grace was being escorted by a huge black woman who called her “honey,” and reassured her she’d be fine.
Saying nice words, but in a tired voice, like she’d swallowed a tape recorder and pressed the Play button.
Grace’s clothes were taken away and she was given bright-orange pants and a matching shirt. A plastic band with her name misspelled “Blande” was snapped tight around her scrawny wrist. The room she was placed in was tiny and smelled of pee and poop, with crude graffiti all over the walls and bars for one wall. The only window, set high up, was black because it looked out on the night. Furniture was a cot, a dresser, and a metal toilet without a lid.
The big black woman said, “Sorry we got to use a solitary cell for you tonight, honey, but it’s for your own good, there’s no sense placing you in a dorm, you didn’t do nothing to end up here. Not like some of the kids, they’re real bad, no need for you to know, just take it as fact, okay?”
“Okay.”
“That’s why I’m going to have to lock you in, honey. For your own good. Try to get a good night’s sleep and in the morning you can ask questions, the morning people gonna answer your morning questions, okay?”
“Okay.”
“I mean, honey, you won’t be in here long anyway, it’s just until your case gets adjudicated. That means fixed up.”
I know what it means. Press Stop on your tape machine.
“Honey?” the woman repeated.
Grace walked into her jail cell.
The following morning when another black woman came by with breakfast on a tray and said, “Rise and shine, what can I get you, missy?” Grace said, “Books.”
“Books...” As if Grace had requested moon rocks. “How old are you?”
“Eleven.”
“Hmm, see what I can do.”
“I read adult books.”