Maybe the stories weren’t important. Maybe the places and dates were. I ran to the kitchen and rummaged through the junk drawer that used to hold our school supplies.
Way at the back, I found what I wanted, an old but extra-large map of the United States, last used for a weekend-killing geography project assigned by Mrs. Stateler, known less affectionately in the halls of Ponder Middle as Mrs. Hate-her.
I grabbed the newspaper articles from the desk, along with a black marker, and spread the map on the kitchen table. I attached a number, 1 through 7, to each of the articles, organizing them chronologically by date. Then I wrote the corresponding number for each town and city on the map. With an unsteady hand, I drew a crooked line on the map, connecting them.
1. Norman, Okla. (Oct. 7, 1986)
2. Idabel, Okla. (June 22, 1987)
3. Austin, Tex. (August 1, 1987)
4. Boone, N.C. (Dec. 24, 1989)
5. Boulder, Colo. (March 25, 1990)
6. Sioux Falls, S.D. (Sept. 7, 1992)
7. Rochester, N.Y. (Jan. 17, 1996)
Could this be the path of a serial killer? If so, why wasn’t every story about a murder? Was it another of Mama’s clues, the answer encrypted in the words? Or in the numbers? I stared at the map, trying different approaches, before total frustration kicked in.
Then I piled the newspaper articles onto the map and carried the whole mess back to the utility room. With random tacks from Mama’s drawer, I stuck the map to the wall above the desk and tacked the newspaper articles near their cities of origin.
I still couldn’t see a pattern.
I turned to my laptop with the idea of researching the newspaper stories further, but the internet refused to connect despite the twenty-year-old technician who assured me this morning that it was up and running like a jackrabbit.
What the hell.
Was someone messing with that, too?
Lyle’s T-shirt read: “My Kid’s an Honor Roll Student at CHHS.”
Lyle didn’t have any kids at CHHS. He didn’t have any kids.
“Jack Smith seems to check out,” he said, without preamble, as soon as I opened the door. “The switchboard operator at the magazine did direct me to a voicemail box for a Jack Smith. I’d feel better if I’d been able to talk to my friend who works at Texas Monthly, but he’s out of town.”
I pointed to a gray Buick sedan speeding up the road. “Let’s wait here. It will take him one minute and twenty seconds to reach the driveway.”
Lyle raised an eyebrow.
“Daddy exacted a curfew. In high school, Sadie and I put a stopwatch to almost every route we traveled.” Seconds mattered. Another of Daddy’s life lessons.
I was wrong. Jack made it in half my time, kicking up a long tsunami of dust. He slammed the car door, striding up to the house with one hand empty and the other still encased in a sling.
“Damn GPS,” he grumbled. Then, rudely, “Who’s this?”
“Lyle, an old friend of the family’s,” I answered. “A journalist, just like you. An editor at the Fort Worth newspaper. Where are the files you promised me?”
Of course he wouldn’t live up to his word, I realized furiously. What was I thinking?
“Nice to meet you, Lyle.” Jack stuck out his hand, surprising me.
He stared at Lyle’s manic hair, the T-shirt that advertised him as a proud papa. “What’s your kid’s GPA?”
Lyle grunted something unintelligible.
We settled into three chairs near the fireplace in the living room. I didn’t offer the standard glass of iced tea, a requisite for any guest in the McCloud household when it was under Granny’s thumb, even those guests we harbored ill feelings toward. Love your enemy and all that. Offer extra lumps of sugar.
“No files,” Jack said. “My source started to freak out.” Before I could protest, he added, “However, I want to share what I can. Do you remember someone named Angel Martinez?”
I shook my head.
“He was one of the federal marshals on the case when you were a kid. Your grandfather trained him in one of his recruiting classes and then handpicked him years ago to protect your family one summer.”
“I don’t know an Angel Martinez,” I insisted. But apparently my grandfather did. How many other people had lied to me? His days as a federal marshal were well behind him by the time we played the horsey game on his knee.
“Angel spent three months here at your place when you were little. It was the last time your mother accepted official witness protection.”
“You mean Martin?” I asked, numbly. Martin, the beautiful Mexican migrant worker, the beneficiary of my first crush. The dark stranger who showed up, just like Granny promised after she read my cards, with the word deceit attached to him.
In my mind, I was right back there at the kitchen table, wearing my best demure nightgown after a cool shower, twisting my wet hair into a long braid while Mama and Martin played chess by a dim lamp. At night, Mama always liked the lights low and the shades drawn. The radio blared tinny Tijuana brass, Spanish radio’s Saturday night special.
Martin stayed by Mama’s side for three months. Somewhere in the back of my brain I always wondered why it didn’t make Daddy jealous, even though she called Martin mi hermano pequeño-my little brother. After all, I was jealous. Martin drove Mama everywhere-to the grocery store, to the Dallas symphony, even to church choir practice.
“She told me she was teaching him English,” I said softly. “And he taught her Spanish. That’s why he didn’t work as much in the fields.”
“Angel was born in America. He has a criminal justice degree from Berkeley. He wrote one of the old reports my source gave me. I’m trying to reach him. Where’s the stuff from the bank?”
“You aren’t exactly living up to your part of the bargain. Is this all you have for me?”
“What do you want to hear? I don’t know why your mother needed the services of WITSEC. I’m sorry. It’s completely blacked out in the documents.”
I stared at him, exasperated. Angry.
“Give him the contents of the box,” Lyle said calmly.
“I was beginning to think you were some kind of mute,” Jack said to Lyle, “but it turns out you’re a very smart guy.”
“Mute does not mean you are stupid,” I spat at him, seething. “Children can go mute at a young age after a trauma. Sometimes for life. But they are still in there. You can reach them.”
Lyle whispered in my ear, “Trust me. Give him the stuff.”
I stalked to Daddy’s office and retrieved the manila envelope with Jack’s name on it. I tossed it at him like a Frisbee despite his sling, hoping for at least a paper cut.
Jack caught it easily. I had to comfort myself that he still had a small purple spot under his left eye from the pacifier bandit.
“This is it?” he asked, feeling the envelope. “All of it?”
“Yes.”
He pulled out the contents and laid them in his lap, disappointed. “Newspaper articles. Weird. And checks. From the Shur Foundation. That’s an old sham company the government set up to provide monthly allowances to witnesses. This kind of financial aid usually ends after two to five years.”
“In that case, there would be no reason to keep the checks,” I said. “Especially since she didn’t cash them.”
“Maybe it was a very mundane reason. My uncle stored ten boxes of canceled checks in the attic in case we were ever audited. People don’t trust the government.”
This wasn’t going anywhere helpful.
“Would you guys like a drink?” I moved toward the kitchen, both of them trailing after me. I popped open the refrigerator, sticking my head inside.
I heard Jack mutter, “What the hell is this?” and I banged my head on the top shelf in my hurry to get out.