The other children delighted in this-the one topic guaranteed to make little kids laugh is flatulence. But Allison was not amused. "I'll tell my daddy what you said!"
"By all means," said Step. "He'll be proud to know that his little girl thinks she can boss around grown men.
He's doing a fine job of raising you."
Allison was young enough not to realize she was not being complimented. "Well, thank you," she said. "I forgive you and I won't tell. Now come on, Robbie."
"You missed the point, little girl," said Step. "Robbie is not going on the raft. This is because I love Robbie and don't want him to fall into the lake and drown. But I can't wait for you to go on the raft. So please, hurry up, the lake is waiting for you."
Allison looked confused for a moment, and then stuck her tongue out at Robbie and led her little troop of friends off toward the water.
"She stuck her tongue out at me, Daddy," said Robbie.
"And it made her look really ugly and stupid, didn't it?" said Step.
When he turned back to DeAnne and Mrs. Keene, however, he was chagrined to realize that they had apparently been listening to the whole exchange. Mrs. Keene at once put him at ease by winking and saying,
"She's got so much of her father in her, wouldn't you say?"
"I wouldn't know," said Step. "I haven't seen Ray in months."
"Well, you haven't missed much," said Mrs. Keene. "You must be independently wealthy or something, because it's plain that you don't give a rat's ass whether you keep your job. I like that in a man." Then she grinned at DeAnne. "I'm flirting with your husband, Mrs. Fletcher, but don't pay any attention to it, because I'm just a little bit drunk. My rule is no more than one martini-per hour." She laughed in delight. "Not really, of course," she said. "What I'm drunk on is the fact that I can look around this whole group of people, more than a hundred of them now, and I can be absolutely certain deep in my soul that every single one of them hates Ray Keene. You don't mind my telling you this, do you?"
"Actually" said DeAnne, "we really need to be going."
"Oh, I'm not surprised," said Mrs. Keene. "I need to be going myself."
"Where's Stevie?" asked DeAnne.
"Right over there," said Step, pointing to the tree where Stevie was leaning, watching the activities on the water. "Where's Betsy?"
"Oh, that young fellow who used to drive you home a lot is taking her for a walk."
"Glass?" he asked. "Gallowglass?"
"No, he said his name was Roland McIntyre."
"That's Glass," said Step. He cursed himself for not having warned DeAnne, not having told her that she must not let Betsy out of her sight for a moment, and she must be especially certain not to let Roland McIntyre, alias Saladin Gallowglass, so much as touch a hair of Betsy's head. "Where did he take her? How long ago
"Oh, while I was talking to Mrs. Keene here. He took her off that way, up that hill."
Vaguely in the direction of the parking lot. Or the woods just to the left of the cars. In any event, the very area where nobody else was gathered.
"Is something wrong?" said Mrs. Keene.
"I hope not," said Step. "Here's Robbie." He put Robbie's hand in DeAnne's. "Don't let anybody take him or Stevie for a walk, please."
DeAnne clearly caught from Step's air of urgency the fact that she had done something very wrong by letting Glass take Betsy. "Step, I'm sorry, I figured he was a friend, I saw him drop you off so often..."
He didn't stay for the rest of her apology. He wasn't much of a runner, and he was badly out of shape, but he still had breath enough when he got up by the parking lot to call out Betsy's name, then Glass's.
"Over here, Step!" called Glass.
Now Step could see him, standing behind a car at the far edge of the lot, beside an overgrown pasture. "Do you have Betsy with you?"
"Of course," said Glass. "Your wife said I could take her for a walk."
Step was halfway across the parking lot. Now his run up the hill was catching up with him- he was panting, and he hadn't enough breath for speech.
"I think she might be wet," said Glass. "I was just checking. I didn't know which car was yours, though."
At last Step was around behind the car and there was Betsy, holding hands with Glass. Her diaper was still on and she was waving a dandelion fuzzball, trying to get the last of the seeds to fall off. Step finally had breath to speak. "DeAnne said you could take her on a walk, not fiddle with her diaper, Glass."
"Well, I didn't think you'd want your daughter walking around getting diaper rash," said Glass.
Step scooped Betsy up into his arms and stood there looking Glass in the eye. "I don't know how to put this delicately, Glass, so I won't try. I like you, as a programmer, as a friend. But don't you ever, ever touch any of my children as long as you live. Because if I ever catch you alone with one of my kids again, then that will be as long as you live."
Glass looked him right in the eye, and for a moment it seemed that he was going to answer-angrily? With a joke? Step could not begin to guess. Finally Glass just shut his mouth tight and turned his head to look out toward the entrance to the park.
OK, so I've made an enemy, thought Step as he carried Betsy back down toward DeAnne. But I'm not making this up. Glass had Betsy for no more than a couple of minutes before he had her off behind a car, where nobody could see, and if I hadn't come up there he would have added her to his list of treasured stories of times he has cleaned the private parts of little girls. Until now Step had begun to think that Glass had never actually molested a child, that perhaps what he had said to Step in the hotel room in San Francisco had been nothing worse than a weird fantasy of his, an obsession that was still only in his imagination. Now Step knew better.
Call it "checking her diaper" or "helping her wash," it was still sexual molestation and he had come this close to doing it to Betsy.
When Step got back to DeAnne, Mrs. Keene was still there--and she was frankly curious. "What was all that about?" she said.
"Just time for us to go home, I think," said Step.
"You certainly seemed upset when you heard that Bubba McIntyre was taking her for a walk. I can assure you, Bubba's the sweetest boy and he's very good with children."
Step remembered Allison Keene and had to ask. "Did Bubba ever babysit for you, Mrs. Keene?"
"He used to, back when Allison was just a toddler. He used to come around and ask if he could babysit, he was such a dear. That's how he got started programming on our old Commodore Pet-that's where he first wrote Scribe, you know-only when he started really working for Ray, Ray told me never to ask Bubba to babysit for us again. It wouldn't be right to have his best programmer also tending his children, I suppose!" But there was still a quizzical expression on her face.
"Is Betsy all right?" asked DeAnne.
"He was about to check her diaper," said Step. "To see if it was wet."
"Of course it isn't," said DeAnne. "I just changed her. I told him so."
"You told him?"
"He asked if she needed changing, and I told him I'd just changed her."
Mrs. Keene was not stupid. "Good God," she said. "You're not saying that Bubba-but that's-"
"No, I'm not saying anything about Bubba," said Step. "Except that if I ever catch him alone with my little girl again, a jury will be deciding between life imprisonment and capital punishment for me."
Mrs. Keene looked sick. "But he tended Allison all the time when she was your little Betsy's age."
"At least he doesn't tend her anymore," said Step.
"No, because Ray ..." Mrs. Keene's expression darkened. "I knew he was a son-of-a-bitch, but even he wouldn't hire a ... a ... person that he knew was ..." She shook her head firmly. "I'm not going to believe malicious gossip." She turned her back and stalked away.