97 comments/ 88281 views/ 27 favorites The Blood Orange Moon By: Rehnquist Introduction: This happened in four steps, truth be told. The night before the final installment of The Lazy Lemon Sun was published--and about four days too late to do anything about it--I realized I didn't really give closure to Mommy Dearest. Then, it was posted, there were quite a few people who noted this and asked for some more. Next, Scouries posted a comment asking that I consider writing a story for the Halloween contest. Finally, I spent my half hour drive to the courthouse trying to figure out how to do all of these things. That's where this came from. Thus, if you really like it, please thank Scouries and those others who (rightfully) wanted me to end this properly and mikothebaby, who I've stolen from the Stangmeister to edit this and get rid of the (more than justified) complaints about my typos. ("Bear" hands? Are you fucking kidding me? How did I miss that one, for Chrissake!) On the other hand, if this sucks, just blame yours truly. Seeing as this is in the Halloween Contest, your votes and comments would be greatly appreciated. I ignored a lot of clients to get this out so quickly, so at least for them you can let me know if it was worth it. Oh, and it should go without saying, this isn't in the same vein as The Lazy Lemon Sun, but it'll sure help you keep up if you've already read that one. Thanks! CHAPTER ONE Amanda Thurgood wrapped her jacket tighter around her shoulders and hunched into the wind, the guard house at the entrance of the gated community now looming tall and imposing above her tiny figure. A tired old man, chunky, with only a small gray fringe of hair encircling a round, red face, stood and lumbered toward a small sliding window on the side of the building. His face flashed from annoyance to wonderment to sympathy, all in short order, as she drew nearer. Without a word, he jerked his finger to one side, pointing her toward a door near the back, then turned and waddled toward it. Amanda's teeth were chattering and her fingers numb with cold as she waited for a catch to slide before he opened the door. "What are you doing walking way out here in this . . . this . . . ," he stammered. Then his eyes looked at the gray clouds morphing and taking on eerie shapes as they raced over the whipping, twisted branches of the red-leaved maples lining the road. After a moment, his voice long gone in the screeching gusts, he seemed to remember her. With an impatient jerk of his arm, he motioned her inside. Amanda slid past, taking in the exterior. It was warm and she immediately felt pin pricks on her cheeks and hands as the blood returned to the surface. "Lord A'mighty, girl," the man said after pushing the door closed, "you're looking to get just plain blown away or somethin'?" She only hunched tighter into her jacket, willing the warmth to return and end the violent chattering of her teeth. Now looking flustered and uncomfortable, the old guard teetered back and forth on his hips toward a coffee maker sitting on a small, beat up table in the corner of the room. Yes, she thought, as she watched him poor a cup of coffee, he doesn't waddle. He teeters; teeters back and forth like his hips are all given out and need replacing. That just reminded her of her grandfather, though, and she fought to banish the thoughts from her mind. "Drink this," he said, thrusting a tall mug of steaming coffee in front of her. Unhuddling, she reached her hands out, wrapped them around the hot mug, and said, "Thanks, mister." He motioned her to a chair next to a small space heater. "What're you doing way out here in this weather? Dressed like that?" His eyes took in her thin, worn jacket and secondhand slacks with obvious disdain, but his features softened as he met her eyes. "Uh, I h-h-have an appointment," she stuttered through still chattering teeth. "M-M-Missus Roberts." His eyes narrowed. "Senator Roberts's missus?" She nodded. His lips trembled and his face took on a look that Amanda couldn't place. After a moment, though, he turned back to her and spoke in a softer voice, "Where you from, child?" "Nashville." "How'd you get all the way out here? It's gotta be a couple miles from Franklin, and I know you didn't take a cab or a bus." "Walked." He sagged. "What you need to see Missus Roberts for?" "A job," she said, looking down at her shoes and hoping the scuffed black leather wouldn't make a bad first impression. "What kinda job?" "Maid," she said. "The agency sent me out here. Say she needs a housekeeper." "And she knows you're coming?" "Yes." He reached over for his clipboard, picked it up, and scanned over the sheet of paper there. With a frown, he put the clipboard down and looked back at her. "You were supposed to be there nearly an hour ago." Fighting to control her frustration at the reasons for her tardiness, Amanda could only mumble, "I know." The guard didn't seem to know what to say or do. He fidgeted in his chair, looked at her, then over her shoulder with trepidation, then back to her again. "If you could just point out which house it is," she said. "I'm warm enough now." He sighed, then looked back at something over her shoulder and made his decision. "It's that one. The big stone house atop the hill over there." She turned and looked over her shoulder. It was maybe three hundred yards away, sitting tall and imposing atop the small rise at the end of the subdivision. Standing, she took a long gulp of the coffee, not bothered as it burned from her lips all the way into her belly. "Much obliged, mister," she said, then reached out to hand the mug to him. That seemed to jolt him from whatever thoughts were racing through his mind. He stood, fumbled with his hands, and finally took the mug from her, spilling some of the remaining contents onto the cement floor as he did so. "I expect I'll be back this way in short order," Amanda said, forcing a smile to her lips. The guard looked at her long and hard, his face getting serious. "You be careful up there, y'hear?" She gave him a quizzical look, and his features seemed to flicker. "Just be careful," he said again, teetering over to the door and opening it for her. She was barely back out into the angry weather, her eyes now focused on the tall, stone house when the door slammed behind her with a whoosh and slapping thud. Unnerved, she jumped. Pressing her lips together and again hunching into her tired jacket and leaning into the wind, she began the long march to Missus Barbara Roberts, praying the whole time she'd not be cast out at first glance. * * * * * From within the house, standing behind a window on the corner of the second floor, a figure stood watching as the girl stepped outside the shack and began the journey up the hill. An hour's worth of frustration and disappointment were washed away in an instant, replaced in short order by satisfaction, then anger at her tardiness. "About time," the voice behind her said, amused and eager at the same time. "Better late than never," Barbara replied, and then turned to make her way downstairs. * * * * * "David," Alan Cameron barked, making Roberts stiffen behind his desk. "Are you listening to a thing I'm saying here?" "Sorry, Alan. My mind's a million miles away lately." He turned his head from the window to face the tall, patrician figure of his esteemed colleague from the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. "Barbara again?" Cameron asked, his voice softening while his features remained the same. Roberts hesitated, then sighed and said, "Yeah." "Still not over your boy moving up to Illinois?" "Something like that." "When's the last time you saw her? Went home and just spent a quiet weekend around the house for a change?" Roberts fought to suppress the shudder rising as he pictured being alone with Barbara in their house. The very image almost made him nauseous. He'd been angry at first--furious even-- right after it had all come out about how she'd all but starved his grandson. The grandson he'd fought to forget, but at least tried to support, tried to do right by. She'd never backed down, though. "That little bitch is the reason Stevie's dead," she'd hissed at him. "Did you honestly think I'd go along with you in rewarding her for that?" "But it wasn't her fault," Roberts had pleaded with her, trying to get her to accept the reality she'd long before chosen to ignore. "Stevie brutalized that girl, Barbara. Don't you see that? And he's our grandson. Ours, mine and yours. How could you do that to him of all people? An innocent child?" She'd only glared at him, then gotten a wicked grin and laughed. "You pathetic bastard. You're just like Mark. You're just as weak and spineless and do-gooding as that . . . that little . . . ." Her anger was maniacal to the point that words couldn't come, and Roberts had just shaken his head and walked away. Reasoning with her was useless. He wasn't sure even then that he had any energy to even go through the motions. "She's changed, Alan," he finally said. "How so?" "Stevie. She just can't let him go." "But he's been dead for, what, eight, nine years? How could she just now be changing?" "I'm not sure it's just happening now," Roberts said, then leaned over and slid open his bottom drawer to pull out two heavy crystal tumblers and a bottle of bourbon. "Ice?" Cameron shook his head. Roberts poured them both a healthy dose and slid one across the desk. "You know what it's like," Roberts continued after the first sip washed through his throat. "We're here most of the time. When we're not, we're campaigning or taking investigatory junkets or meeting with lobbyists or attending fundraisers and parades and church suppers. When are we ever really home?" "Yeah, but you've been here now what? Going on twenty years, right?" Roberts nodded. "'Bout that. But the kids were always with her before. The first ten or eleven years she had them around and we were all pretty much together most weekends. Then they both went off to college. She still had Stevie pretty close by, and Mark was around during the summers. After Stevie died, though, Mark pretty much quit coming back during the summers. He stayed up there in Chicago playing in that band. Didn't come home much except Christmas. Not even Thanksgiving. And then, when Stevie died . . . well, I guess I just wasn't there as much as I should've been." "Why don't you move her here? To Washington?" Cameron suggested. "She'd probably love Alexandria. Hell, the countryside's almost exactly like your Tennessee home, isn't it?" "She'd never come," Roberts said, then turned his chair and looked back outside at the passersby on the Mall below. "Won't leave that house where Stevie grew up. Where his room's still just the way it was." "What about Mark? You think maybe he can help?" "They had a fallin' out. He won't speak to her. Hell, he barely speaks to me." He heard Senator Cameron twitch in his chair. "What happened?" "I guess I wasn't much of a father." "How so?" "Let's just leave it at that. Suffice it to say he has every right to stay away. I'd probably do the same thing in his shoes." "Sorry to hear that." "Yeah. Me, too." "But . . . can't you . . . have you thought about counseling? Getting her to see a therapist?" "Won't go. I tried, but she refuses." "So what is it?" "She won't leave the house anymore." "As in she won't come here?" "As in won't step out the front door, Alan. Or at least leave the property, but usually won't even go outside." "Have you tried getting someone to come in to see her? If she won't see them, maybe you can get them to go to her." "Won't work." "You've tried?" "Just trust me," Roberts said, defeat slumping his shoulders, "it'd be a disaster." "So what're you going to do?" "I don't know," he said. "I really just don't know anymore." Cameron fidgeted in his seat, and Roberts knew this was going to take a different direction. "Just say it," he urged. "The leadership sent me here, David," Cameron started. He gulped down the rest of his bourbon before continuing. "You haven't been back to Tennessee more than five times in the past year. They want to know if this is your last run." Roberts didn't hesitate. "Tell 'em to start finding the replacement." "How soon? I mean, are you gonna-- " "I know what you mean. And yes, it could be pretty soon." "Sorry to hear that," he said, his face inscrutable. "You think it'll be soon?" "Why?" "Truelson's second term's up next year," he said. "He'll replace you with one of our own. After that . . . well, we're getting pensive, to say the least." "I'll think it over and let you know, okay?" Cameron smiled. Roberts knew he appreciated the skullduggery involved. Roberts wanted to control his successor, and hanging his resignation date over everyone's head was the best way to do it. "Fair enough," he said, standing to leave. Roberts just turned back to the window, again lost in his thoughts. * * * * * Amanda had worried the whole long walk up that hill to the big house at the end. As she neared it, she could see the mottled blue grays of the stonework in stark contrast to the white shutters on the gables and the steep, slate gray roof. Even in this enclave of enormous, imposing dwellings, this house seemed to stand guardian over them all like a stern sergeant with a stern, glowering gaze. Amanda fought the dread rising within her, chilling her still more. She thought of a lyric from an old Nirvana song: I gazed a gazeless stare. That's what the mansion reminded her of. This gargantuan, gray building more resembled a mausoleum than a mansion. It seemed dead and foreboding. Climbing the stairs to the oaken front door, she lifted the brass knocker and gave three tentative raps, almost hoping she'd missed her appointment and no one would answer. The door opened quietly, though, and a tall, ramrod straight woman looked down her nose at Amanda. She was almost impossibly thin, dressed in a long black skirt and long-sleeved white blouse buttoned to her neck. Her shoulder length hair was colored a frosted blonde, the perfect compliment to her pale blue eyes. The most striking feature, though, was her skin. Her face seemed chiseled from flawless, unblemished milky white marble. Cold. "You're late." Amanda's teeth chattered as she tried to think of something to say. The impassive porcelain face, though, told her that no words would undo this inexcusable delay. After a slight pause, the woman stood aside and waved Amanda within. "You're the girl they've sent?" she snapped. "Yes, ma'am." "Your name, child," she demanded. "Amanda, ma'am. Amanda Thurgood." The woman's lips curled upward without smiling as she repeated, "Amanda Thurgood. A very pretty name." At that, she turned and strode down the wide, dim hallway toward the back of the house. Amanda followed, her eyes taking in the wide oak staircase leading upstairs and a formal dining room with tall, heavy chairs around an enormous table, large enough to seat at least twenty. Beyond that, Amanda entered the kitchen, her eyes taking a moment to adjust to the sudden burst of bright light. "Sit there, Amanda," the woman instructed. Amanda sat at a small table in the corner of the kitchen, and the woman sat opposite her. "I'm Barbara Roberts," the woman confirmed for Amanda. "You will call me Missus Roberts or ma'am, do you understand?" "Yes, ma'am," Amanda said. A smile played over Barbara's lips. "Very good. You learn quickly, my dear." "Thank you, ma'am." Her eyebrows went up on her high forehead, and she snapped, "But you mustn't speak unless spoken to, do you understand?" Amanda hesitated, then nodded and said, "Yes, ma'am." "My husband is David Roberts. You will address him as Senator or sir." Barbara looked at her, waiting for a response, but Amanda said nothing. After a moment, and with a smile of smug self-satisfaction, Barbara said, "Do you understand?" "Yes, ma'am." "Everyone else--our guests--you will simply address as sir or ma'am." Barbara stood, surveying the kitchen as if for the first time. "Can you cook?" "Yes, ma'am." "Good. The last one couldn't cook. That's why you've been hired." She turned and stared at Amanda. "I prefer simple food. Soup and salad. Maybe a piece of fruit after dinner. Can you handle that?" "Yes, ma'am." "The Senator prefers simple food, also, but he prefers steaks, chops, and roasts, usually with potatoes and vegetables. You can prepare these as well?" "Yes, ma'am." "Fine. Please come with me." Amanda was guided throughout the house, from room to room and cupboard to closet, the function, contents, and instructions for each rattled off in a nonstop litany of instructions and demands. Nearly done, she stopped outside the two far doors at the end of the hallway farthest from the master bedroom suite. "This will be your room," Barbara said. She flipped the lock below the old brass doorknob, swung the door open, and stepped back. "You may place your things in here for now." Looking at Amanda, though, the woman's eyes narrowed and her face got stern. "You've brought your things, didn't you?" "Yes, ma'am." "Well show them to me, child," she demanded, her impatience rising. Amanda pulled her hand from inside her coat and held up a small, white plastic shopping bag. Wal-Mart, it said in faded blue ink. "That's it?" "Yes, ma'am," Amanda said. "They said . . . well . . . ." Amanda looked to the ground, waiting to be corrected for speaking. "Out with it. Who said what?" "They said I'd only need . . . they said you'd be supplying uniforms?" "And that's the rest of it? That's all you've got?" The blood rose with Amanda's humiliation, the burning heat in her flushed skin driving the chill from her bones once and for all. "Give it here," Barbara said. Amanda began to hold the bag toward her, but Barbara's hand swooped in and snatched it before it had moved an inch. Looking inside, she frowned and muttered, "This won't do. Not at all. Not even . . . . This just won't do." Barbara's head turned to the side, and Amanda was afraid that this--her few pairs of old, graying underwear and three best sets of nylons along with basic toiletries--had somehow ruined her chance at a home and a job for the first time in months. Her stomach growled for the meal it would soon be missing, again, over something as simple as . . . as . . . as her underwear? Really? Amanda thought, watching Barbara stalk down the hall. Trotting to catch up, she heard Barbara muttering under her breath. "He'll never accept this. Never. This is first on the list." Amanda wasn't sure what, or who, the woman was talking about. As they turned to descend the stairway, Amanda said, "If you want me to get different ones I will. I can get them just as soon as I get paid. I promise." "Quiet," she snapped in response. "I'll take care of this myself." "Yes, ma'am." Following her into the kitchen, she watched as Barbara grabbed a phone and punched the keypad with such force she thought for a moment it would disintegrate in the woman's hand. "Yes, Charles, I need you to do me a favor, please," she said into the phone, her voice suddenly sickly sweet. "You remember a few months ago when I had you go out and purchase the ladies undergarments? Exactly. Yes, I know, this is the second one in four months. I don't know where they find them. You'll do that then?" She turned and looked at Amanda, then turned back and said into the phone. "Yes, dear. Definitely small. And definitely B cup. Thirty-four B cup. You'll do that for me? You're a darling. Of course we're still on for tomorrow night. Wouldn't miss it for the world. Yes, I'll see you tomorrow morning then." The Blood Orange Moon She hung up the phone, turned, and stepped on the foot pedal of the trash can. Holding the bag away from her as if it was contaminated, she dropped it into the garbage and then turned to Amanda. "All the toiletries you need are already in your bathroom. You'll find your uniforms hanging in your closet, and we'll have new undergarments delivered in the morning. Understood?" "Yes, ma'am," Amanda said, relief washing over her and pushing the confusion aside. "Thank you, ma'am." "You can thank me by going upstairs this instant and getting into the shower. Wash your hair long and hard, and scrub yourself thoroughly, understood?" "Understood, ma'am." "You may then relax the rest of the evening. Get settled in and make yourself familiar. I'll be dining out tonight, and there's food in the refrigerator. You may help yourself. You will, of course, clean up after yourself. There's a television in your room. You may borrow a book from the library if you wish. Just remember to put it back when you're done. And you may not read it in the library, either. When you're not working, you should restrict yourself to your room or the kitchen." Her eyes narrowed and she gave Amanda a long, hard look, her eyes sweeping over Amanda's body from head to toe. "Do you understand all of this?" "I do, yes ma'am." "Very well," she said, turning and picking up some mail on the countertop. "You may go." Amanda turned to leave, already looking forward to the long hot shower, when she was stopped by her new employer's icy cold tone. "Just one final thing, Amanda." Amanda turned and looked at her, the face in front of her now cold and menacing. Amanda cringed, feeling a chill race from her shoulders to her lower back. "The room across the hall from yours," Barbara Roberts said, her lips twisting as she spoke. "You will never, under any circumstances, go into that room. Is that understood? Never. It is strictly off limits, and I will know if you've been there. Am I making myself clear?" "Crystal clear, ma'am." With that, Barbara once again turned her back and flipped through her correspondence. Amanda was frozen for a moment. Then, fighting to keep herself from running, she made her way out of the kitchen and toward the stairs, seeking the comfort and quiet, soothing privacy of a long, hot shower. * * * * * "She's very pretty," he observed. "So you're pleased?" "Very pleased." "She's not too . . . too plain? I mean, she looked like a ragamuffin. Those clothes and that ...that underwear." Her nose pinched at the memory. He gave a light laugh. "The clothes don't matter much. She'll have uniforms when she's working and little else when she's not. Besides, Charles has great taste in women's undergarments. Really great taste." "So you're pleased," she said, enjoying the relish in his voice as he talked about her. "Good." "Know what's better?" he asked. "What's that, dear?" "She's flat ass broke. I mean, you see her? Not a penny to her name." He chuckled. "Hell, her underwear had to be what, four years old? From Wal-Mart? Hell, does their stuff even last four years?" "Do you suddenly have a taste for the other side of the tracks, dear?" she said, a genuine smile creasing her lips. "Doesn't matter where they come from," he said. "What matters is that this one won't be in any position to run off like the last two did. Not for a long time." "Maybe not ever," Barbara said. "Exactly," he concurred. "Still, you've got to make sure. Tonight." "Of course," she assured him. Then, against her wishes, an involuntary shiver went up Barbara Roberts's spine at the sadistic glee in his voice. She still didn't understand, but this was her only way to keep him near. The only way to keep him from abandoning her like all of the other men in her life had. CHAPTER TWO Amanda felt rejuvenated after her shower. Rather than putting on her raggedy old underwear, she looked through the closet and dresser in her room. There were several pairs of soft gray sweatpants and some baggy, hooded Northwestern Law sweatshirts. She pulled them on, then sat on her bed, and looked around. The knock on the door startled her, and she watched as it opened and Barbara Roberts entered. The look on her face seemed a tentative attempt at warmth. "Amanda dear," she said. "Yes, ma'am." "I forgot to tell you something today." She looked at Amanda waiting for a response, but Amanda remembered the tests earlier in the day and remained silent, her hands folded on her lap. A cloud passed over Barbara's face, but was then replaced with the same forced smile with the slightest hint of teeth, which reminded Amanda of a wolf's snarl. "I see you've found some clothes to wear." Before she could keep it in, Amanda blurted, "I'm sorry. I thought it was-- " "Of course it's okay, dear. You need to wear something when you're not working, and you certainly didn't bring any clothes with you, now did you?" "No, ma'am," she mumbled. "And thanks." "Thank you," Barbara corrected. "Thanks is too common. You must say 'thank you.'" "Yes, ma'am," she said, her eyes on her lap. "Thank you." "That's better. Now, the reason I came here was to tell you something I forgot earlier. At night, before bed, I usually take a tea with brandy and lemon in the library. Eight o'clock. I ask that you join me for that so we can review the day and go over anything that will need to be done. Can you do that?" "Yes, ma'am." "Good. Then I'll see you tonight." "Eight o'clock," Amanda confirmed. She shut the door, and Amanda waited to hear her footsteps retreat down the hallway. Instead she heard a click as the door across the hallway was unlocked. Then she heard voices, but she couldn't make out the words. There seemed to be two of them, but Amanda couldn't tell. A few minutes later, the door across the hallway closed and Amanda heard the click as it was locked. Who else lives here, she thought. * * * * * Barbara was surprised, when at a quarter of eight, Amanda slipped into the kitchen. "You're early," she said. "I thought you wanted me to make the tea." "Do you know how to make tea, dear?" The girl flinched. "Not really." Barbara smiled. "Come here and I'll show you. I'll make the tea at night--I don't expect you to do that--but you'll be expected to prepare it during the day as the mood strikes me. You might as well learn to do it right." "Thank you, ma'am." Barbara went through the routine of making loose leaf tea. "Four minutes, Amanda. Not a second more nor a second less. Four minutes for the perfect tea. Understand?" "Yes, ma'am." "Good," she said. Once the tea was complete, she placed the cups and saucers on a tray with lemon and said, "Please bring the tray to the library." Amanda did as she was told. Once there, Barbara waved to a chair and, her back to Amanda, poured something--Amanda assumed brandy--into each. "Here you go, dear," Barbara said, passing a cup and saucer out to Amanda before settling herself into the deep leather chair opposite the girl. "You already know what needs to be done tomorrow, right?" "Yes, ma'am." She smiled. "Good. Then tonight I want you to tell me a little bit about yourself." "About myself?" the girl said. "Yes. You know: Your past, were you married, where were you raised, do you have a family? Things like that." Amanda hesitated, her face giving a fleeting look of fear before changing to hesitation and embarrassment. Her eyes dropped to stare at the cup of tea, and her words were so soft they could barely be heard. "Don't have no family," she started. "My folks were divorced, and Daddy ran off with another woman when I was little." Barbara fought the urge to correct the girl's grammar. A fight helped by the joy of what she was hearing. "Haven't seen him since I was ten or eleven," Amanda continued after a moment. "Mama died a couple years later, when I was thirteen. The cancer ate her away there toward the end." "Oh you poor child," Barbara said, masking her smile as she sipped her tea. Amanda sipped her tea also and made a small face. "Take the lemon peel and rub it around the edge," Barbara encouraged her. "It will make the tea taste far better." The girl did as she was told, then took another sip. She didn't make a face this time, but took another, deeper sip. "This is very good," she said. "You've never had it before?" "No, ma'am." Barbara was pleased. This was going to be easy. "Go on, child. Where did you go after your mother died?" "My brothers went to live with some cousins in Kansas. They couldn't take me though, so I stayed with my grandpa." "Where?" "Chattanooga." "And he took care of you?" She hesitated. "Mostly, but it was real hard sometimes. Grandma was gone by then, and he was all alone. There wasn't enough money, and he took to drinkin' sometimes when the black moods came over him. But he tried his best, I guess. I mean, there really wasn't much choice, was there? For either of us." "No, dear. There wasn't." Amanda gulped the rest of her tea and then looked at Barbara, shame washing over her face as she saw Barbara still had half a glass. "Sorry, ma'am, but it's real good." "Don't be embarrassed, dear," Barbara reassured her with glee. "You can have two per night. No more, though, or you won't sleep well and you'll be useless to me the next day." Amanda nodded in relief. She put the saucer and cup on the end table next to the chair. "So did you have any boyfriends? A husband? My goodness, how old are you?" "I'm twenty-four," she said. "And yes, there was a boy. Clint. We were engaged." Her eyes got a faraway look, and Barbara knew she was picturing him. "We were gonna get married. Then he joined the Army so he could get money for college. He was smart, but he came from the same kinda home I came from. They didn't have much money, so they couldn't help him." A tear started to trickle down Amanda's cheek, but she didn't seem to notice. Instead, her jaw clamped shut and trembled as her eyes glistened. "Was it one of the wars, dear?" She nodded, and her voice was scratchy when she spoke. "Iraq. A month before he was s'posed to come back home." Barbara felt a chink in her armor, her heart going out to the poor girl. Then, in a flash, she remembered the purpose of this, and she stood. "Let me make you another tea, dear," she said, picking up her cup and saucer. When Amanda started to rise to follow her, she said, "You just sit back down and take try to relax. I'll be right back." He was there when she got to the kitchen, his face a sinister smile. "She's perfect." Barbara's sympathy for the girl was forgotten, and she smiled back at him. "She sure seems to be." "Seems to be? Oh no, this is the best one yet. She'll have to stay. She's got nowhere else to go. No matter what happens, she's all alone. She can't run off because she's got nowhere to run off to." "You're pleased," Barbara observed. He rubbed his hands together. "Damn straight I'm pleased. We're gonna start tonight." "You don't think it's too soon?" "The key is starting slowly," he said, his eyes picturing it as he verbalized his plan. "Not too much, too soon. Still, it should start right away. Once we really get her there, she'll be used to it. Think it's expected of her." He flashed a broad grin of dripping teeth. "Look forward to it, even." Barbara was pleased with herself, but only in that he was pleased. Then her sympathy came back, as did her revulsion at his tastes and urges. Still, if this was the cost of keeping him near, she'd gladly help him as much as he demanded. * * * * * After Amanda settled down, she thought she heard voices coming from the kitchen. After a moment, her curiosity got the better of her, and she made her way slowly on stocking feet toward the bright entry. "Oh," Barbara said upon seeing her, the surprise causing her to nearly drop the saucer and tea cup in her hand. "Whatever are you doing, child?" Amanda bit her lip and said, "I wanted to help." Barbara's face relaxed, the tight smile replaced with a patronizing look. "No need. I told you I would get it." They walked back to the library, and once again, Barbara added brandy to the tea with her back to Amanda. This time took a moment longer than before, but Amanda's mind didn't process it as she waited for sounds from the kitchen. "What are you looking at, dear?" Barbara said, suddenly looming in front of her and holding out the fresh drink. "I'm sorry," she replied. "I was just thinking." "You are feeling better I hope." "Yes, ma'am. Thank you." "You're welcome," Barbara said, giving a furtive glance toward the kitchen before resuming her seat. Taking a sip, her eyes narrowed as she looked at Amanda. "This may be a bit forward, Amanda." "What?" "What I'm about to ask you, dear." She took another sip, placed the tea cup on the end table, and sat back in her chair. "You may not understand why I need to ask, so I'm going to explain it to you before I do." "All right," Amanda said, her eyes falling to the tea cup as she rubbed a lemon rind around and around the rim. "As you know, my husband is a very powerful man. With that power, comes responsibility, too. The responsibility to be above suspicion. Of anything. Do you understand?" "I think so." "I will make it clear. There can be no scandal even remotely associated with the Senator. None whatsoever, not in his life or in mine, and that includes this house and the people who live in and work for us. Now do you understand?" "Yes, ma'am," Amanda said. "Good, because I would never ask this of anyone unless it was so important." She took a sip of her tea, and Amanda used the brief respite to take a longer drink of her tea also. The cup still in her hand, Barbara said, "Are you still a virgin, dear?" Amanda choked as her tea went down the wrong pipe. Then fear, embarrassment, and shock all coursed through her veins at the same time, flushing her cheeks. "You can be honest," Barbara said. "No judgment will be made. This is, after all, the twenty-first century. But we need to know if any problems from your past will arise." Amanda relaxed, but then felt herself sag again at the thought. "No," she whispered. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I . . . well, we--me and Clint--we couldn't wait until we were married and all. We . . . well; we decided not to wait is all." "My goodness, child, how long has he been gone?" A faraway smile came over her face. "I last saw him just over three years ago. He died 'bout a year and a half back." "And there's been no one else?" "No, ma'am," she said, the smile trembling and her eyes dropping to her lap. "You must be so lonely." "I get by." "I'm sorry if this has been hard on you," Barbara said, her voice softening. Amanda hadn't heard this tone before from the woman. It was almost as if she was . . . as if she cared. "Would you like to call a friend tonight? Maybe your grandfather?" "He died, too," Amanda said. "Little over a year ago. His liver." Looking back up, she was confused to see Barbara's smile disappear to a look of concern. A smile? She'd seen it. The woman had been happy at the answers. But how? What kind of woman was she working for? And living with? * * * * * "Pat, this is David. David Roberts." "David!" he exclaimed. "Long time no see. How're you keepin' yourself?" "That's why I'm calling, actually." "Oh?" "Yeah. It's Barbara, Pat." "What about her?" "You or Debra seen her lately?" "We ain't seen hide nor hair of her in months, actually. Debra was just mentioning that the other night." "That's why I'm worried, Pat. I think she's really falling apart." "Haven't you seen her?" "Not in several months, I'm sorry to say." "Why not?" "It's been . . . difficult. Ever since last year, she's really taken a turn for the worse. And every time I come home, it just seems to get worse. She gets worse just by me bein' there." "How so?" "The anger, Pat. All the time. And she makes it clear as a bell. She can't wait for me to leave." "Maybe she should see someone." "She won't. I've tried, but she refuses." Truelson said nothing to that. After a moment, Roberts continued, "Listen, I know how busy y'all are down there. And I know I may be askin' a lot. Still, if you or Debra could find some time to maybe drop in on her and let me know how she's gettin' along, I'd really appreciate it." Truelson sighed through the phone and said, "Of course, David. You know we will. I'll do it myself, and I'll make sure Debra drops by, too." "Thanks, Pat." Roberts was about to hang up when Truelson stopped him. "You hear from them, David?" Roberts sighed, then said, "Not directly, no." "Debra's really hurtin' here." "We all are." "We gotta think of somethin' here." "Other than just give 'em more time, Pat, I'm not really sure what we can do. The ball's in their court." "I know it was wrong, David. Fine, I can see that now. But your boy got his revenge. Does he really have to take away our only daughter, too?" "I don't think it's about that, Pat." "Then why?" "I think he's afraid. Her, too, maybe. Definitely him." "Afraid of what?" "Of letting us back into their lives. Afraid we'll meddle and manipulate them again." "But we won't." "Tell him that." "I've tried, but he just hangs up on me. And Sandy refuses to pass along messages. Refuses to even say anything other than they're doing fine and they're happy. Hell, she didn't even tell me about the pregnancy. You did, for Chrissake." "Yeah, it hurts. Trust me, I know." "But you'll keep trying?" Truelson begged. "You know I will," Roberts promised. "Thanks." "Yeah," Roberts said, and hung up the phone. * * * * * "You're back," Amanda said, watching as he hovered over her bed and ran his fingertips along her t-shirt. "I always promised I'd be back, didn't I?" "But I thought you were gone for good," she said. "Kilt over there in Iraq." "Amanda," he said, and she could see the white teeth in his smile beneath the shadows of his face, "I always told you we'd be together forever." "Mandy," she corrected. "Only Grandpa calls me Amanda, Clint. You know that, baby." "I know, honey." His fingertips brushed over the thin layer of fabric covering her nipples, twirling lazy circles. She felt her nipples enlarge with her arousal. "It's been so long, Clint." "Too long." "Yes. Way too long, baby." "But now I'm back." "You promise?" "You know I do." "I was so scared." "Don't be. I told you I'm back, and I'm never gonna leave you again." "What's that?" she said, her eyes trying to focus on the silvery glint in his left hand. "Remember when we always talked about shavin' you down there?" "No." "You don't remember? Don't remember promisin' you'd try it? See if you liked it?" "I don't remember, baby." "I remember," he said, anticipation in his voice. "Anything to make me happy. That's what you said. You sure you don't remember?" She bit her lip, her eyes trying to focus on his face but only seeing the gleaming white of his smile and the maroon jacket with white sleeves and lettering. "Where'd you get that coat?" she asked. "I've always had it." "I don't remember it." He pinched her nipples, and the jolt of pleasure made her forget what she was saying. "You're gonna like this," he said, his hands sliding down to her waist and pulling her panties down. "You gonna kiss me down there?" she said, raising her hips to help him along. "Not tonight, Mandy. Tonight we're just gonna do this, okay?" "And if I let you, then you'll kiss me down there?" "If you're a good little girl, then I'll kiss you down there." The Blood Orange Moon She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, the darkness again overtaking her. * * * * * The alarm went off like an explosion, the tiny clapper banging against the bells so loudly she feared the whole neighborhood would wake up. Sliding out of bed, she padded to the restroom to pee. Her eyes didn't register the sink as she passed, but her brain did. When she pulled her panties down to her knees, she gasped. She was bare, shaved totally bare down there, her pink lips exposed to her astonished eyes with nary a covering of hair. Her eyes shot back to the sink. It was her razor. The one she'd used in the shower yesterday to shave her legs. It was lying inside the sink bowl alongside a small bottle of skin lotion and all amidst the damp remains of her pubic hairs. Then she remembered her dream. She remembered Clint coming back to her again. Had she done this in her dream? She didn't remember it, that was for sure. Yet, she'd done strange things like this before. She remembered way back all those years before, way back when Mom died and she'd first moved in with Grandpa. She'd had strange dreams, haunting dreams, for weeks. One night, she'd even cleaned out Mister Wiggles's litter box and put the crusty nuggets on the kitchen table. Grandpa woke her up during that one, terrifying her into shrieks and screams until she'd realized it was all a dream. Then she'd seen the poop on the table and the scoop in her hand. She wouldn't have believed it if she hadn't seen it. Still, the next morning it all seemed like a dream all over again, and Grandpa had never brought it up. Not even once. But she knew it hadn't been a dream. Now she realized she'd done the same thing all over again. A whole mix of things had drawn her to it, the brandy, the new job, the strange, severe lady in this drafty old house, the conversation about Clint and sex and how long it had been since she had done it. Amanda felt a wave of relief pass over her skin and through her limbs. Sure, that's all it was, just a silly old dream and some sleepwalking. Then she looked back down at herself. With a tentative poke, she felt the smooth skin all around her nubbin. Looks kinda cute, she decided. Maybe I'll just stay with this for awhile longer. She sat on the toilet to relieve herself, smiling at the wicked little thoughts dancing in her head. CHAPTER THREE Barbara was sitting on the sun patio, sipping her tea while reading the paper. The tea was good, brewed to the perfect strength. "She's a fast learner," Barbara said to him, putting the tea cup down. "Maybe she'll be able to keep up with the household after all." He chuckled. "I'll have her whistling while she works. Guaranteed." "So there were no problems last night?" "Not a bit. 'Cept he called her Mandy. Only her dear old grandpa called her Amanda." "Well how was I supposed to find that out?" she said, perturbed at the tone in his voice. "Just remember," he said, his voice lightening again already, "it's all in the details." "But you enjoyed yourself?" "For sure." "And her?" "Fell asleep. Still, what there was, she definitely enjoyed." "Good." "Just like that other bitch," he snapped. "She enjoyed it, too." "Maybe I just didn't pay her enough. Maybe that's why she-- " "Not that one. You know who I mean. Her. The bitch." "Oh," Barbara said, sipping her coffee while he settled down. "She wanted it. All along, just teasing it all right out there in front of me." "I know." "I didn't rape her, Mom," Stevie said. "I know, dear," she purred. "She wanted it. Really she did." Barbara heard footsteps coming through the kitchen and shushed him. "Yes, dear?" she said. "There's a Mister Truelson here to see you, ma'am," Amanda said. "Governor Truelson," Barbara corrected. "My goodness, child, don't you read the papers? Keep up with the news?" She lowered her head. "Sorry, ma'am." "I hope you were polite." The girl said nothing, and Barbara stood and swept past her toward the foyer. "Why Governor Truelson," she said upon rounding the corner. "Barbara," he replied, holding his arms out toward her. "We go back way too far for you to be goin' all formal on me now." She leaned in and gave him a light peck on the cheek. "Of course, Pat. It's wonderful to see you again." He stammered, and then said, "David wanted me to call on you, Barb. See how you're holdin' up." She fought to suppress her emotions. "I'm just fine, Pat." She turned, spotting Amanda hovering in the kitchen door. "Dear, would you bring Governor Truelson a cup of coffee and some of those rolls?" The girl disappeared, and Barbara turned back to Truelson. "She wasn't frightfully rude I hope." He smiled. "No, of course not. She was just fine." Then his eyes went over her shoulder and his head tilted. "What is it, dear?" she asked, but he didn't reply. Instead, his eyes stayed on the doorway and, when Barbara heard footsteps, she saw his eyes widen. "My God," he said. "What?" He looked down at her as if for the first time, then his eyes cleared, and he gave a brief shake to his head. A wide smile split his face, the smile Barbara knew by heart. That politician's smile that said 'trust me' when it was really saying 'you poor, dumb sap.' "Really," Barbara insisted. "What is it?" "Just thought I recognized her is all," he said. "From where?" "Probably just a waitress or something at one of the hundreds of shindigs I'm constantly attending. You know how it is. We have to keep our memory for faces fresh and all. Politician's best friend." She knew he was lying, and she knew what he saw. She'd warned him before that this wasn't smart, but he'd insisted and she'd gone along. "Well, why don't you come out to the sun porch with me?" she said, hooking her arm in his. "Of course," he replied, walking with her. Twenty minutes--and two sweet rolls--later, Truelson was gone. Barbara stood on the front porch waving as he departed in his black, chauffeured limousine. She needed to restrict her visitors, but wasn't sure how to go about it. This one could be the one, she knew, and she needed the time to finish reeling Amanda in. Still, staying in her home and cutting off everyone else would only raise the red flags higher, and she couldn't afford that now, either. Not after he'd finally come back to her for good. * * * * * David Roberts made his way to the Avis counter, his mind in turmoil. As he waited in line, eager to get on the interstate and out to see his grandson, he activated his cell phone for the first time in four hours. He had two messages, both from Pat Truelson. Both were the same: Call him. Immediately, if not sooner. "Pat, it's David." "Jesus, David, where you been?" "Decided to take off a day early and fly out to visit my grandson." Truelson hesitated, and when he spoke his voice was softer, hesitant. "You think you'll get a chance to see her? Sandy? To talk to her like you said?" "I'm gonna try. Really, I promise." "Call when you do," Truelson said. "Either way, just call." "I will." Truelson was silent, and Roberts had to prompt him back. "You said to call." "Oh yeah," he said, snapping back and his voice getting edgy. "I visited her this morning like I said I would. Barbara. I dropped in unannounced and visited with her." "And?" "She's edgy, that's for sure. Like she couldn't wait to get rid of me." "Yeah. That's how she's been with me, too. Except she's been angry, too. Real angry." "I didn't get any of that. She was fine, all pleasant and what have you. But also in a hurry, like she couldn't wait for me to leave." "Was there someone else there?" "That's the weird part, David," he said. "The really weird part." "What?" "She's hired another girl. Another maid, a live in." "I think she wants that now. Someone to keep her company." "Weirder than that, man." "How so?" "I didn't really notice it with the first two, but with this one I noticed it big time. Then I remembered back to the other two that she's had in the past year and . . . well, it's definitely strange." "What did you notice?" David asked, drawing the words out and afraid to hear the answer. "They all bear more than just a passing resemblance to Sandy," he said. "Not exactly--not like sisters or anything--but they're all the same look, short, blonde, sort of perky looking in that high school cheerleader sorta way. And all right about the same age--or at least lookin' the same age--as Sandy was when Stevie died." David tried to process this, stepping out of line to do so. He made his way to a quiet corner of the terminal, trying to remember what the maid had looked like the last time he'd been home. He'd only met one of them, and he wasn't even aware Barbara was now on her third maid in the past year. Barbara had been apparently keeping everything from him, and he'd been more than happy to leave it at that. "You still there?" Truelson queried. "Still here," he said. "When did the second one leave?" "I'm not sure. I met the first one maybe six months ago, then the second one about four months ago, that time we dropped by and you were in town." "Have there been others?" "Not a clue. Still, you've gotta admit: It's pretty weird." "Yeah. To say the least, I think." "Anyway," Truelson said, and then let it hang there. Roberts sighed. "I'll call you as soon as I know something up here. I think it's more important now than ever that I sit down with Mark." "You think he'll talk to you?" "I can only pray." "Goes for both of us." Roberts said nothing, and Truelson just disconnected after a few seconds. * * * * * Barbara was pacing from room to room, her anxiety building. When the dull, brass knocker droned through the hallways, it was all she could do to keep from answering the door herself. Her body a bundle of nerves, she made her way to the sun room and sat, her hands gripping the chair. A moment later, Amanda appeared and said, "A Mister Truscott to see you, ma'am." Barbara's body sagged in relief, but she raised herself stiff again. "You may show him here." The girl disappeared and a moment later reappeared with Charles Truscott in tow. "Charles," she said, standing and craning her neck. He gave a broad, too wide smile, kissed her cheek a moment longer than was tasteful, and said, "Barbara, my dear. Sorry I'm so late." She put on a fake pout to hide her anger and impatience, and then said, "And I thought you'd forgotten your promise." "Never," he said, holding two shopping bags toward her with a raised eyebrow. As Barbara took the packages from him, she saw his head turn and follow Amanda as she left the room. When he turned back, the leer was only beginning to disappear. "She's very beautiful," he observed. "Oh," said Barbara, looking through the apparel in the bags, "I hadn't noticed." "Really." She could hear the amusement in his voice and gave him a stern stare. "I have no idea what thoughts are racing through that mind of yours Charles, but I can assure you I only want the young lady to be properly attired and comfortable." "Of course," he agreed. Yet, his face made it clear he was intrigued by the prospects of his little trips for her. "Excuse me a moment," she said, walking past him toward the main hall. "Amanda, come here please." The girl appeared seconds later. "Yes, ma'am." "Here," she said, holding the bags out toward Amanda. "Take these and put them into your room. And change into a pair while you're up there. They're all matching sets." Amanda looked confused as she took the bags and gave a tentative look inside. When she saw what she was holding, her eyes got large. She looked back to Barbara and stammered, "Y-y-yes, ma'am." "But first," Barbara commanded, "you need to go to the sun room and thank Mister Truscott for picking them up for you." The girl's cheeks blushed a deep red at that. Unable to find words, she nodded and walked toward the sun room to do as she was told. * * * * * Amanda had the undergarments spread out before her on the bed. There were eight pairs in all colors, all matching, and all silky and skimpy and lacy and like nothing Amanda had ever worn before. Running her fingers over a bright red bra and panties, she tried to figure out what this was about. Sure, her underwear had been old and worn, but this was . . . it was . . . kinky. Strange. Completely unforeseen. She unbuttoned her blouse and undid her graying bra, sliding it off her shoulders and putting on the yellow bra. It felt nice, exquisite even. Like nothing she'd ever felt before except maybe for Clint's soft licks and feather kisses there. She tried to banish these thoughts from her mind as her nipples enlarged. Quickly shucking her pants, she replaced her underwear with the matching yellow silk bikini. Walking to the mirror, she looked at her image. Her eyes went wide at the sight of her tiny bottom now clad in the sexy underwear, at her breasts encased in the deliciously lewd bra. If only Clint could see me now, she thought. He'd be so turned on. Without thinking, her fingertips brushed over her mound. Her bare skin below rubbed against the silk panties and felt so . . . so . . . . The sharp rap on the door brought her back to the present and she scrambled to step away from the mirror and button her blouse as Barbara Roberts walked in. By the look on her face--the arched eyebrows and slight sly smile--Amanda knew her employer had seen through her. "So you like them," she said. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you." "I'm glad." Amanda said nothing, just looked down for her gray slacks to put them back on. "Charles noted that you are a very beautiful young lady, Amanda," Barbara said. "I agree with him." Amanda hazarded a look at the woman as she pulled on her slacks. Barbara's expression was inscrutable; it could have been read so many different ways. Yet, there was a hunger there that Amanda had seen before, and she shivered at what the woman was thinking. "Anyway," Barbara continued, the sly smile returning, "Charles has insisted that I have dinner with him this evening. The price I have to pay for him to pick these up for you." "Yes, ma'am," Amanda managed. "Still, I will be home by eight so we can have our tea in the library." "Yes, ma'am." "And this should give you plenty of time to get the rest of the furniture polished, as well." "I will." "I know you will," Barbara said, her face softening for a moment before it again froze in a mask. Without another word, she turned and left. Amanda paused, watching her go. After a moment, she zipped up her slacks and went back to her duties, her thoughts a maelstrom of conflicting emotions and questions. Three hours later, she had still found no answers. * * * * * Clarice Talbott answered her door, surprised. "I didn't expect you this weekend." "I know. Sorry. It was kind of a spur of the moment thing." She gave a wan smile before stepping aside. "He's over at a friend's house," she said. "Suspected as much." She tilted her head, her eyes questioning, then said, "It's her, isn't it. Your . . . Barbara." The nod was barely perceptible. "I think she's having a total breakdown. If she hasn't had one already, that is." "When's the last time you saw her?" "Couple months back." "You can't keep hiding from her. You know that, right? You've got to deal with this sooner or later, and it's only going to get worse." "I think I've made some decisions," he said. She waved him to the chair. At first, he fidgeted. Then he sat. "You can talk to me," she said, settling into the love seat across from him. "I don't really want to get you involved in this any more. You don't need this." She smiled. A warm smile; a smile that put him at ease. "I'm doing a lot better now, Senator. Thanks to you. And to Mark and Sandy, too. None of this was your fault--what Stevie did to me--but you've all stepped to the plate in a pretty big way. It means a lot to Schuyler. He's a whole lot happier now than he's ever been, and I've been . . . well, that counselor you got me into has helped a lot. So if you need someone to talk to--and I'm pretty sure you do--then I want to help, okay?" He nodded and then sagged with the burden of it all. "It's all pretty much pop psychology on my part. Mostly guesses and suppositions." "So what do you think is going on?" He looked at her, hesitated as he thought about how to put this softly, then just went ahead and said it. "I think she's regressing back to when Ste-- " he started, then caught himself and went on, "back to when our son was killed. I think she snapped and can't admit it ever really happened. That's why she did everything she could to get back at you. I'm sorry, but I think she blamed you at first, and then did everything to put you out of her thoughts because it was just a reminder that he was gone." Clarice's lips tightened in anger when he mentioned Barbara blaming Stevie's death on her, and he could see her struggling to maintain her calm. "I didn't say it was logical," Roberts said. "It's not. None of it. I'm just saying that I think that's what's going on here." Then his eyes narrowed as he noticed Clarice, as if for the first time. After speaking with Truelson, it all suddenly made sense, and none of it made sense. "Your hair," he said. She looked perplexed. "It's . . . I've started letting it grow out. Robbie, my counselor, says I need to move on and get my life back." "And you've put on a few pounds." She smiled. "It's not polite to discuss my weight." He shook his head. "It's not that. Yeah, you needed it. To put on a few pounds, that is. No, it's what you look like now." "And what's that?" "Sandy," he said. Then he spent the next ten minutes telling her in detail about his conversation with Truelson and his recent history with his wife. When he was finished, Clarice could only say, "She's fucking nuts. Totally. Fucking. Nuts." Roberts flinched, having never heard such words pass Clarice's lips. Then he could only nod, agreeing with her, but pondering the new thoughts now tumbling into his brain. Was Barbara hiring maids who reminded her of Sandy, so she could pretend it had all never happened and Sandy was still a part of their lives? Worse, the one that made him shudder in fear, he wondered if Barbara was hiring girls who looked like Clarice and was thus using them as surrogates to punish in place of Clarice, the poor girl on whom she laid all of the blame for Stevie's death? "I've got to talk to Mark," he said, his lips tight. Clarice's lips tightened. "I'm still not too sure he's ready to have any meaningful contact, David." "You've got to try," he begged her. "Please." She bit her lip, then stood and disappeared into the kitchen. He heard her talking on the phone, but couldn't make out the words. When she came back into the room, her face betrayed nothing. "He's not home yet. Sandy said she'd try to get back to me." "Will she talk to me? Sandy?" Clarice shook her head. "She doesn't want to do anything that will betray Mark. Not even remotely." Seeing the look of panic on his face, she came over and kneeled next to him, putting her hand on his forearm. "You need to understand how tough it's been on them," she said, her eyes begging with him to understand. "Both of them. It hasn't been all sunshine and roses. They've had some real rocky patches since she came up here. They're settling down now, especially since she got pregnant, but there are still times when it's difficult." "How so?" She looked at him, her face full of conflict on how much to say. "I can only say that there are still some real issues there. Sandy has to tread real carefully or Mark can fly off the handle." The Blood Orange Moon "How so?" "There can't be the slightest hint of manipulation in anything she does. It was real bad early on, but I think they're both dealing with it better." "I'm sorry," he said, putting his hand atop hers, "I know you're probably already saying more than you should. Still, I'm not really sure what you mean." "The little things," she explained. "All those things that would seem innocent enough in a normal marriage? They're all questionable now. If she offers something out of the blue, he wonders what she wants in return. At first, she could barely do his laundry without him asking her what she wanted for it." "Aw Jesus," he said, sinking back into the chair. "We never--I never--none of us ever thought about what would happen." "I know," she said. "I think Mark knows, too. And Sandy. But it's still a problem sometimes." Roberts took a breath and then tried to set his face in steely determination. "You need to call her back. Please. Call Sandy and tell her I think that little girl working for Barbara may be in real danger." Clarice's eyes widened. "Then why don't you call the police?" "And tell them what? Tell them my wife's hiring maids that look like her daughter or like you? They'll laugh at me." "Then why don't you just go back there and stay?" He shook his head. "Because, I need someone else there with me, someone who won't tell anyone else, either. My friends--our friends--they're not like normal friends. They'll sell me out in a heartbeat if they think there's something in it for 'em. Mark's the only one I've got." "But he hates her. He'll never go back just to help her." "Then he has to go back to make sure nothing happens to this poor girl living there now." Clarice just stared at him, her mind working through his logic. Then, without another word, she went back into the kitchen and phoned Sandy again. Returning a few moments later, she said, "Seven o'clock. Sandy can't promise he'll see you. Says he may slam the door in your face. But she says to be there at seven and she'll try to prepare him for seeing you." Roberts's chin went to his chest as he said a silent prayer for the first time since Mark had disappeared. Please, God, let him see me. * * * * * Sandy was pensive when Mark walked in the door at ten past six. Her lips were pressed tightly together, and her eyes seemed skittish and afraid to look him in the face. "What is it?" he said, his body tensing. "Your dad wants to see you." "Is that all," he said, tossing his briefcase on the chair beside the door and walking past her toward the bedroom to change. He called back over his shoulder as he neared the bedroom. "Tell him the answer's no." A moment later, she stood in the doorway, her eyes on the floor, and said, "I think you need to see him, Mark." He took a deep breath, then turned his back to her and reached into the closet for a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. I don't need this now, he thought. Just when everything's getting better; just when we're almost back to normal. I just don't-- "He says a girl may be in danger," Sandy said, still from the doorway, her voice still soft and afraid of him. "A girl your mom's got working there as a live-in maid." Mark snorted. "Anyone living within fifty miles of that fuckin' bitch is in danger, Sandy. Everyone. She's toxic." He turned and saw tears on Sandy's face, and his whole mood softened. He walked to her and took her in his arms. "These people aren't our problem anymore, babe. They're just not, okay?" "I'm sorry, Mark," she said. "Really, I'm so . . . I just . . . ." He lifted her chin with his fingertips and kissed her, her lips wet and salty with her tears. Seeing the hesitation and fear in her eyes, he softened completely. "Say it." She shook her head, and he pulled her into a hug and whispered into her ear. "I won't be mad, Sandy. Really I won't. We need to get past this. Both of us." She pulled him tighter, but still said nothing. Stroking her hair and holding her there, he waited for her to settle down. Just as her muscles were almost totally relaxed, she spoke in a voice so small that Mark didn't hear her at first. When he made out what she said, he was dizzy. "The girl," Sandy said. "Your mom's hiring girls to live with her that look just like me. Like me 'n Clarice." When his mind processed this, he broke the hug and held Sandy by the shoulders, then looked at the fear written all over her face and her glistening, pleading eyes. * * * * * The three of them sat around the tiny kitchen table, Mark opposite him and Sandy to his left. The anger and disgust was still on Mark's face all these months later, just as it had been the first time he'd confronted David and Barbara with his knowledge of their betrayal. Taking a breath, David said, "I know I've said it before-- " "Good," Mark snapped, "then don't waste my time saying it again. Just tell me what you know, how you know it, and what you think I can do about it." Roberts hesitated, looking from his son to Sandy, then back again. "Fair enough," he said. He spent the next fifteen minutes bringing Mark up to speed on everything that had happened since last they'd spoken eleven months before. "That's it?" Mark said when he finished. His face was a mixture of thought, revulsion, and curiosity. Roberts shook his head. "I've spent the afternoon tracking down one of the girls. One of them is placed somewhere else, still working for the same agency that's gotten us these other two. A Belinda Wasserstein. When I tried to call her, she screamed at me and hung up. Won't take any calls now." "And?" He laughed and then continued, "Maybe Mom was just a bitch to her. God knows I couldn't work for her. She's driven away the help for years. Now you're making it out to be something sinister." "There was fear there, Mark. I know fear when I hear it, and that girl was afraid." Mark's face said he didn't believe it, but he was unsure, too. He walked to the counter, retrieved a cell phone, handed it to Sandy, and said to Roberts, "Give her the number. Sandy, you call her and see what you can find out. Start right off by telling her someone may be in danger. Get her to talk to you so we can straighten this mess out and you and I can get on with our lives." Sandy nodded at him, uncertainty all over her face. Roberts pulled out his cell phone and read Sandy the number, which she dutifully punched in. Roberts watched as her eyes shot to Mark, seeking some kind of answer. He nodded, and she took a deep breath before pressing Talk. A moment later, her voice even and kind, Sandy said, "Miss Wasserstein, whatever you do, don't hang up. I think a young girl's life may be in danger." Sandy's lips pressed together, waiting for a response. After what seemed hours, but was probably only ten seconds or so, Roberts heard a tiny voice on the other end speak. Sandy's whole body relaxed in relief as she continued, "My name's Sandy Roberts. Barbara Roberts is my mother, and we're worried she's hurtin' girls like you. We need you to tell us what happened while you worked for her. Can you do that?" After another agonizing wait, the voice spoke, and Sandy said, "Can I put you on speaker phone so my husband can hear you? My husband and Senator Roberts, Belinda. Can I do that?" Almost immediately, Sandy smiled, pressed another button on the cell phone, and placed it in the middle of the table. All three of them hunched in close and Sandy said, "Can you hear me okay?" "Yes," the voice said, tiny and faraway. "I can hear y'all fine." "Belinda, can you just tell us what happened while you worked for Missus Roberts? Why you left?" "I don't know. It was . . . I just don't know, really." "Don't be afraid," Sandy said. David was amazed watching her. Her voice was so soothing, but her body was a taut bundle of frayed nerves, her left hand spastically twitching. "Even if it's weird or strange or you don't think we'll believe you, you still need to tell us. There's another girl working there now, and we think she may be in danger." "The dreams," Belinda started and then regrouped. "It started with the underwear, I guess." "The underwear?" "Some man--Charlie, I think his name was--he brought underwear over the third or fourth day I was there. It was . . . I don't wear that type of underwear. It's not proper." "So why did he bring it?" "I think because Missus Roberts told him to bring it. Told me I had to wear it. I had to throw away what I had--it was all fine, nothing wrong with it--she told me it had to go and I had to wear this." "Did she say why?" "I don't really remember. Something like I was workin' for her now, and I had to dress appropriately." She paused, giving word to Roberts's thoughts. "I mean, what does my underwear have to do with cleanin' and such?" "I don't know, Belinda," Sandy said. "What else happened?" "Like I said," she answered, her voice getting smaller, "it was them dreams." "What type of dreams?" "I can't . . . I . . . can you go back to just me 'n you again?" Sandy snapped up the phone, hit a button, and stepped away from the table. "It's just us," she said, walking toward the living room. "Can you tell the difference? Good. Yeah, you can just tell me. No, don't be. Of course, dear." Sandy disappeared down the hallway, and Roberts turned to look at his son. Mark's face was now full of pensive thought, his chin in his hands as he stared at the wall and waited for Sandy to return. Roberts almost reached across the table to comfort him, but Mark was shut in on himself. Frozen, rigid. Roberts sat back in the chair and stared at the clock, trying to force time to pass before his fears drove him insane. Though it seemed like hours, the clock told him it had been only fourteen minutes when Sandy stepped back into the dining room, the cell phone in the hand hanging limp at her side. Mark turned to face her and said, "Well?" She walked to the table and slid into the chair, her face looking shell shocked. "She was only there for two weeks. The dreams . . . she started having them on the second or third night there, and they got progressively worse." "What type of dreams," Mark said, his voice soft and face full of concern for Sandy. "She said they started out slowly. Vivid dreams full of gentle caresses." "What type of caresses?" "Touching and . . . sexual caresses. On her breasts, at first. Then . . . ." She looked at Roberts, then to her husband. Mark gave her a gentle smile and said, "Go ahead. They were down there, weren't they? Between her legs?" Sandy nodded before continuing. "She said the dreams got more vivid every night. And more . . . more was done to her." "More?" Roberts said, not recognizing his own voice. Sandy looked down at the table, her voice barely audible. "Toward the end, she'd wake up and touch herself down there. Look at herself in the mirror. She'd be puffy. Not so's you'd know for sure someone . . . something had been in her. She thought she was just having racy dreams, y'know? Like real good dreams so vivid . . . so alive . . . dreams of past lovers she was experiencing again." "What happened," Mark said, reaching out and putting his hand on hers. She snatched her hand away from his touch, though, and looked at him in fury. Mark froze. "She was swollen and bruised the last morning when she woke up," she hissed at him. "The morning she ran away and never went back, she woke up and she was aching and sore. And her... she was torn and bleeding." Roberts was stunned by her reaction, but a look at Mark caused a wave of agony to wash over the Senator's body. Mark looked aghast and ready to cry. And ashamed. Sandy gave a tiny yelp, her hand going to her face to cover her mouth, and she ran off and disappeared toward the bedroom. Mark just slumped. * * * * * Amanda was having the dream again, only this time it was so much more. Clint was eager and hungry, licking her in ways she'd forgotten about. "This is so much better," he said at one point, leaning up and looking down the length of her body. She could still only see the gleaming whites of his teeth and the shoulders of that maroon and white jacket. "I've missed this, baby," she said to him. Her words were slow and sluggish, as if in slow motion. All of this was as if in slow motion, including the insatiable hunger building deep within her as he slowly pressed a finger into her. "You always liked this," he said, his finger beginning to wiggle inside of her. "You know I did," she agreed. "You've missed it." "I never thought I'd feel this again, honey." "You can feel it forever now," he promised, his lips lowering back to her naked mound. His tongue was like red hot fire as it flickered and danced, his finger impossibly big and long as it drove her to release. "Please," she pleaded as the sensations built. "Please say you'll never leave me again." CHAPTER FOUR She was on her side, so far on the edge of the bed Mark was afraid she'd fall if he touched her. She was awake, too. Just as he'd been much of the night, he knew that she, too, was wide awake. "I've got to go back down there," he said. "I don't know what I can do, but I think I have to go." She was still, and he was about to say more when she turned to face him. "I didn't mean to react like that, Mark. I don't want you to do it because you think I . . . ." He placed his fingertip on her lips. "That's not why I'm doing it. I still hate myself for ever . . . I was . . . ." They stared at each other for a moment, and then her face softened. "We need to just keep putting all that behind us, dear. Not forget, but learn to start living with it better." "I thought we were doing pretty good." She reached over and stroked the stubble on his face. "We are doing pretty good. Real good. And we'll keep getting better." "I was just so ashamed all over again. For ever hurtin' you like that." "I know," she said. She reached under the covers. he knew she was stroking her pregnant belly. The content smile on her face told him she was feeling for the baby. "It was a long time ago, back when things were still new. Still too raw, I guess." He started to say something, but it was her turn to silence him with her gentle touch to his lips. "Both of us knew it wouldn't be easy, and it really hasn't been, okay? Just hearing that girl--hearing what she went through--that made it all come back to me, okay? I didn't do it to throw it back in your face. Really I didn't. I just...the way she said it. I knew what she'd been through, and I kinda went through a little bit of it all over again." "I'm sorry," he said, trying to make her see how much he meant it. She smiled, her eyes twinkling. "I don't want you to be sorry anymore, Mark. Not about anything. Or us, either. We've both been sorry enough, and I think maybe that's why we . . . . We need to remember and learn, not dwell on it all and beat ourselves up, okay?" "Remember and learn," he repeated, stroking her naked shoulder. "I love you." He leaned in to hug her, feeling the heat from her protruding belly pushing into him. "I love you, too." She stroked his hair, and he sighed into her bare flesh. Remember and learn, he kept saying to himself. * * * * * There was no greeting when David Roberts picked up the phone. "Three o'clock," Mark said, his voice firm. "Outside the law school at three o'clock. You pick me up." "Are we . . .?" he started, letting it linger. "We're gonna go back down to Tennessee and deal with this once and for all," Mark said. He hung up the phone before Roberts could respond. Roberts sprawled back on the hotel room bed and stared at the ceiling. His fears that Mark would turn him down were now replaced with fears of what they'd find once they got there. And how they'd deal with it. * * * * * Amanda kept replaying the dreams in her mind as she went about vacuuming and sweeping. Her body was loose and languid, relaxed with a satisfying glow she'd not felt since Clint had gone off. "Someone seems cheery this morning," Barbara said from behind her. Amanda froze, wondering again if the woman could read her mind. She turned and said, "May I do something for you, ma'am?" Her smile was puzzling, made all the more confusing as the woman's eyes traveled up and down her body. "Are you wearing what was bought for you?" Amanda felt the shame burn her face. She had to force herself to look at the imperious woman when she said, "Yes, ma'am." Barbara's smile got brighter, almost realistic even. "Good." With that, she turned and left the room. Later, as she washed the dishes from lunch, she thought she could hear voices speaking in the dining room. She shivered, unable to make out the words or clearly hear the voices, but sure that she and her employer were alone in the house. Must be the television, she told herself, knowing full well there was no television set within forty feet of the dining room. * * * * * "This is way ahead of schedule," he said, his smile broad and genuine, the dimples in his cheeks deep and adorable. "How so, dear?" "She wants it," he said, leaning back in the chair and putting his feet on the table. She gave him a disapproving stare, but he ignored her. "She's not like the other ones. She was begging for more. Begging for it, Mama." "But you didn't go too fast with her, did you?" He chuckled. "Not possible. I'm tellin' you, she ain't had none in years. She's just aching for it. Both nights, tellin' me to just keep right on at it." "But she still thinks you're him, right? This Clint fellow of hers?" "For now," he said, his smile turning to a leer. "For now she does." "You've got to take it slowly," she said. "Make sure she yearns for it every night." Anger flashed across his face and he took on the look of a petulant child. "I know what I'm doing here." "I'm just saying," she started, but he cut her off. "Well don't. I'll set the timetable this go around. You set them last time, and look what happened." She wanted to disagree with him, but knew it would be useless. Nothing was ever his fault. Nothing had ever been his fault since he was a little boy. She'd never been able to say no to him, and deep inside she knew she'd been responsible for the way it had all turned out. "What're you thinking?" he asked. "That you're so much like the rest of them," she said. "The rest of who?" He laughed. "Daddy? Mark?" She chuckled along with him at the absurdity of it. "Mark? You've got to be kidding me. He's weak. No, dear, the politicians. The king makers. The rulers." "How's that?" he said, tilting the chair forward and leaning so close she just wanted to each out and touch him. But she couldn't. She knew that now. She'd tried before, but her hands had only passed right through, which caused her to shrink back in the remembrance that he was dead now. "You gonna answer me?" he prodded, jolting her from her thoughts. "You take what you want, Stevie. You always did. And that's what men like that--that's what powerful men do. They take what they want because they're not governed by the same rules. They bend the rules to suit their own needs, their own tastes and desires." He liked that answer. She could see his face pondering her answer and working through the permutations. "My own tastes and desires," he said after a moment, perking up in glee. "That's right, Mama. I'm makin' the rules now, and I need to just keep focused on my own tastes and desires." For a flickering moment, Barbara was taken aback and again afraid for the poor girl living across the hallway from Stevie. If only she knew what lay behind that door she was forbidden to enter. The Blood Orange Moon Then she looked back at Stevie and those thoughts and fears were banished. She'd missed him so much. She couldn't bear to again have him taken away. She only hoped he was right. She only hoped this was the one girl that would stay with him forever. The girl that would be with him forever. The girl that would visit her when he did so she could know he was happy wherever he was when he wasn't by her side. * * * * * David Roberts picked up his son at three on the button. Actually, he'd been waiting down the street, illegally double parked for almost fifteen minutes. He only nosed the car forward at one minute to three when Mark walked out the front doors amidst a throng of students and placed a duffel bag on the curb. He didn't bother looking around for Roberts and, when Roberts pulled to the curb seconds later. Without any recognition, he walked around the passenger side, tossed the duffel bag in, threw his jacket in the back seat, and slid in, staring straight forward. "Let's go," he said. They were the last words he'd speak for almost two hours. Roberts was afraid to say anything for fear Mark would back out. Instead, he concentrated on getting them out of Chicago and Gary and getting them to Indianapolis in one piece. The traffic was horrendous this Friday night, and he was glad to have that to concentrate on. An hour north of Indianapolis, Mark spoke for the first time. "No sit down dinner." "What?" "Just go to a drive through. We can switch over there." "I can drive for awhile longer," Roberts said. "We'll switch over there," Mark repeated, his head turned to watch the passing scenery. "Okay," Roberts agreed, biting his tongue. Mark surprised him a moment later when, in a soft, even voice, he said, "You really have no idea what you people have done to us. To me." "I'm sorry. Really, Mark, I can't begin to tell-- " "Sorry doesn't cut it, Dad." He wasn't angry. His tone was sad and worn out. "You used to mock me--probably still do--but you said I was naive. A boy scout. But you know what?" Roberts could feel his son's eyes now on him, and he said, "What?" "I never saw it that way. I saw it as giving people the benefit of the doubt. I believed people were good, Dad. That they basically wanted to do good and that they wouldn't screw you. I knew it was wrong. I always knew there were people out there who would screw me over without a second thought. But you know what?" "I . . . you're-- " "I didn't care," Mark continued as if talking to himself. "I never cared if someone screwed me over because . . . well, if they weren't family or a really close friend, how bad could they really screw me over? A couple of bucks? So what. Take it." "And now it was family," Roberts concluded. "And it was more than a couple of bucks, Dad. Way more. It was everything." "I know." "Last night," Mark said, turning back to the window and pausing, gathering himself. "Last time you saw us together back then--almost a year ago--you probably saw me and Sandy happy again and figured at least everything would be fine now." "Yeah," Roberts admitted. "I was at least relieved about that." "We were all a bit quick to jump to that conclusion. It wasn't fine. Maybe a month later, it all started. Sandy wanted a nicer place, but I didn't want to move. I was comfortable and I just wanted to relax for awhile. You know, just keep settling down. Then I got to thinkin' she was manipulating me again. Anything she did, it was to get me to go along with her, Dad. You know what's so bad about that? Do you?" "You'd never thought about her manipulating you before." Mark laughed. "Give me a break. Everyone manipulates everyone else, Sandy included. Me included, for that matter. But before, when I really thought ours was the fairy tale romance, I never gave a shit. If she wanted it and it wasn't a big deal or if I thought it would really make her happy, I just went ahead and did it. Made me feel better knowing I could make her happy. No, Dad, what's so bad about it was now I just saw it as evil. I saw it as my wife going back to manipulating me to get what she wanted. Instead of saying, 'Sure. No big deal. We really could use a nicer place,' I told her to fuck off. In those exact words. If she didn't like it, she could leave." "Must've been . . . difficult." "Yeah, difficult. Try impossible. She just nodded and dropped it. But when she'd do something--hell, if she made my fucking dinner--I thought she was trying to butter me up again. Tryin' to get me back to getting her a new place. A nicer place I knew we both wanted and could easily afford. But it didn't matter, because she was the only one that wanted it at the time, and I didn't want to back down." "Pretty shitty thing to do." "Now you're getting it," he said, his voice rising for the first time. "It was an incredibly shitty thing to do. I became something I'd never been before, a complete, total, class "A" bastard. Just like you and Mom always wanted." "I never-- " "Yes you did. And when I wasn't, you took it for weakness." Roberts frantically tried to steer the conversation back to civility. "How did you get past it?" "I hurt her, that's how. Just like she described last night happening to that maid? That's what I did. My anger was so all consuming that one night when she came to me to . . . ." His voice cracked, and he struggled to regain his composure. Roberts said nothing, waiting for Mark to settle down. When Mark spoke again, his voice was husky. "I figured if she's gonna use sex to manipulate me, I was damned sure gonna make her pay a stiff price. And I hurt her." Roberts sensed Mark wanted to talk this out now, to share this with someone other than Sandy. To somehow expiate his guilt at what he'd become. In a whisper, Roberts said, "What happened after?" "She was sobbing; wouldn't come near me. Locked herself in the bathroom and stayed there, just crying for hours. And I sat on the bed wondering what the hell I'd become, wondering if maybe this wasn't just a huge mistake." "And then?" "I apologized, but she wouldn't look at me. She was afraid of me, cringing if I reached out to touch her, walking way around me if I was in the room. She stayed in the same bed, but she'd freeze up if I rolled over in the middle of the night and touched her. Like she was afraid I'd hurt her again." Roberts felt a tears rolling down his cheeks, and the road was becoming blurry. He rubbed his eyes and tried to stop crying. He didn't want to trigger Mark's rage or run off the road. Mark didn't seem to notice, though. "A couple weeks, maybe a month later, I sat down with her. I told her I'd get counseling--we'd get counseling--and we'd try to get back to where we were. She refused, told me she wasn't sure she wanted to stay anymore. She said I wasn't the Mark she'd fallen in love with. I'd become someone else; someone who was just angry all the time and paranoid and upset. And she was so sad and frightened when she said it, like she was at the end of her rope and was just ready to give up. Not an ounce of manipulation there. Just pain." "So what happened?" "I made an offer on the house she wanted." "And that settled it?" He laughed and shook his head. "She refused to move there. Said I'd always think she tricked me into it." "Would you have? Is that what you thought?" "Yeah, probably." "Then?" "At least I made the effort. I killed the contract right away, lost the earnest money, but she saw I was really trying again. I think that's why she didn't leave. After awhile--after I fought really hard for a couple of months to just keep my anger in check--things started to settle down. We were touching again. You know. Kissing, holding hands. It just got easier." "And then she got pregnant," Roberts said. "No. And then I asked her if we were good enough to have a baby. She said no, we weren't." Mark cleared his throat, turning to his father. "That was my last test, Dad. I don't think she knew it, but I tested her on having a baby." "How so?" "If she'd said yes, I knew she'd be figuring that would tie me to her forever. Give her the upper hand again." "And when she said no, you knew she still wanted the marriage to really get back on track again," Roberts concluded. "Exactly." "Pretty shitty thing to do." Mark sighed. "I know. If she gives in to what I knew had been her dream before, I hold it against her as somehow being a sign she's betrayin' me. How fucked up is that, huh?" "Can I say something?" "Yeah." "I know what I said before, son. And I felt that way, too. But I want you to know that I was wrong. Way wrong. I really liked the old Mark a lot better." "Yeah," he whispered, looking back out the window. "Me too." * * * * * Amanda was in her room, changing out of her uniform and into a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. She heard the click from the lock across the hallway. She heard Barbara slip into the room, closing the door behind her. There were whispers, then some chuckling. A moment later, she heard the door close, but no click as the lock was again set. "Amanda," Barbara said, rapping on her door before stepping in. "Yes, ma'am," Amanda said, jerking the sweat pants the rest of the way up. Her employer smiled at the glimpse of silk panties, then looked her in the eye and said, "I'll be going shortly. Charles is taking me to dinner at the club." "Yes, ma'am." "You enjoy your free time, and I'll be back in time for us to have our tea." Amanda nodded, and Barbara slipped out the door, closing it behind her. Fifteen minutes later, she heard the front door close as the matron of the house left for dinner with a man not her husband. Slowly, her feet not making a sound, she slipped out her door and put her ear to the door across the hallway. Hearing nothing, she knocked on the door, standing back and ready to flee. There was no response. She knocked again and said, "Hello? Sir?" Still, no response. Slowly, her hand trembling, she turned the brass doorknob. Pushing the door open inch by inch, every muscle taut and ready to sprint back to the safety of her room, she got the door open enough to look inside. It was dark, and her hands slid over the wall, looking for the light switch. Finding it, she flipped it on and stepped back out of the doorway, praying no one was inside. Hearing no movement, she looked back inside the room again. It was a boy's room; that much was obvious. The bed was neatly made, the dresser topped with trophies from various sporting events, and posters of basketball and football players covered the walls. Stepping inside, she walked to the dresser, picking up a framed picture. It was a young man, tall and well built. He was in a tuxedo, his hand holding that of a young, blonde woman dressed in a long, pale yellow dress. The boy's handsome was face topped by a mass of curly brown hair, his broad smile a touch lecherous and creating deep dimples in his cheeks. The giveaway was his eyes, though. He'd have been handsome--every girl's dream--if not for those eyes. They were sparkling and cruel, showing disdain and contempt. With a shudder, Amanda put the picture back down, being careful to place it in its exact spot. Turning to leave the room, she froze, her mouth agape. Terror swept through her torso to the ends of her limbs, and her eyes went wide and stayed there, staring. Staring at the jacket draped over the chair in the corner of the room. At the maroon jacket with white leather sleeves and white lettering. "Stevie," was embroidered across the left chest. It was a high school letterman's jacket. It was the jacket from her dreams. * * * * * They stopped at a drive through just south of Indianapolis. Roberts got a burger, fries, and a Diet Coke. Mark made do with fries and bottled water. He also took over the driving, and they started making better time. Dusk was turning the eastern sky black. Mark was glad for the lighter traffic. He set the cruise at seventy-two and just ate up the miles to home. To the place he swore time and again he'd never again go. To the place where he was, even now, wondering why he was now headed. His father crumpled the half-eaten hamburger and pushed it back into the paper bag, placing it on the floor of the car. A couple of times, he started to say something, but he managed to choke back his statements. "What," Mark finally demanded. "You wanna say it, now's the time to say it. You've got me captive for the next four hours, so you might as well say it." He sighed, girding himself for the backlash. "Does Sandy ever talk about her parents?" Mark said nothing for a moment, his eyes narrowing and focusing on the ribbon of interstate. "She misses her mom," he finally conceded. "She doesn't say anything, but I can tell. Not her dad so much. Hell, maybe not at all. But she misses her mom." "Has she called?" "Dunno. Don't think so, but I don't check up on her." "You think she's afraid to, though? Afraid you'll find out and get mad?" "Yeah. Probably." "Have you told her it's okay?" "Is it?" Mark said, his knuckles turning white as he squeezed the steering wheel. "Is it okay to bring them all--you included--back into our lives?" His father was silent for a moment. "Her daddy's paid a pretty big price already, you know." Mark snorted. "How's that? Last I checked, he was still Governor." "He had a real shot at the White House." "Then why didn't he just go ahead and run?" "Because of Sandy's threat. At first, he couldn't announce because you'd run off. He didn't know why--none of us knew why--and he couldn't take the chance the press would find you and he'd be sunk or worse. After we all found you, though, and Sandy confronted him?" He chuckled. "He was just plain screwed and tattooed. He knew for a fact the press would be camping on your doorsteps within days of announcing and he'd still be sunk." "Like to say I feel for him, but I don't. Not after what he did and why he did it." "He's retiring when this term's up," Roberts continued. "Term limits." "Then he'll go back to the State House." Roberts shook his head. "Can't go backwards or you're a goner. Was a time he'd have been a fine Federal judge--Sixth Circuit was the talk--but he'll never get the appointment with a Democrat in the White House. By the time he's gone, no one'll remember Pat." "Good," Mark insisted. "I just want you to think about something, Mark. Tell me to go to hell, that's fine, but think it over." Mark hesitated, his eyes on the road. After a moment, he willed himself to exhale and relax. "What," he said. Not a question; just resignation. "This new Mark? The one that's tearin' you up inside? He'd tell Pat and Debra to go to hell. But not the old Mark, son. Not the old Mark. He'd give 'em a second chance." "So you sayin' I should give you and Mom a second chance, too?" "I'd like to think so, at least for me. Your Mom? She's not sorry, so I'm not sure how you should play that one. I'm not even sure how the old Mark would've played that one. He'd probably still have told her to go to hell." Mark chuckled, pondering it. The old Mark--or at least the dying remnants of what he used to be--had done just that. He'd told them all to go to hell, and he'd meant every last word of it. Now, after all of the strife and anguish of trying to rebuild his marriage, it seemed even more farfetched to ask this of him. "If you don't do it for them," his dad said after a moment, "then do it for you and Sandy. Don't let us all--what we did to you--don't let it keep all that hatred festering inside of you. If only for you and Sandy, don't give any of us the satisfaction, okay?" Mark shot a glance at his father. He was looking down in his lap, too hang dog to look his son in the eye. His father was now ashamed to ask his son to not become what he'd always wrongfully wanted him to become. But he was right, Mark thought. They'd all wanted to create Frankenstein's monster. They'd wanted Mark to become what he'd never been. Then, once he'd become that, they'd seen the price of getting their wish. They had, in fact, created a monster. Yet, Mark didn't like the monster he'd become, either. Couldn't someone just wave a goddamned magic wand and make all of this good again? Why was it falling on him again? "Out of all of us," his father mumbled, as if reading Mark's mind, "you're the only one strong enough--the only one good enough--to make this right again." Mark said nothing in return. He drove on in silence, thinking. * * * * * At five to eight, Barbara Roberts came to a sudden halt outside Amanda's room. Looking at Stevie's door, she saw that the lock was not set. She thought back to a few hours before. Had she locked it when she'd left? She always did. Always. Granted, it wouldn't keep anyone out. They could unlock it just as easily as she could. Still, she'd always locked it. Ever since Stevie had been killed all those years before, she'd kept it locked off as her own private shrine to what could have been. She rapped on Amanda's door, trying to maintain her composure and not just walking right in like she usually did. After a few seconds, the door opened and Amanda poked her head out. "Is it eight already?" She forced a smile in place and said, "Yes, dear." The girl hesitated, fidgety, her eyes avoiding Barbara. "Yessum," she said. Barbara stood back and Amanda stepped out, her eyes turning to look at Stevie's door before shooting back straight down the hallway. While Amanda was in the kitchen brewing the tea, Barbara pondered how to play this. "She knows, Mama," Stevie said, his displeasure evident. "She went in there. Saw the jacket." "I realize that, dear," Barbara said. "So what're you gonna do about it?" Barbara smiled. "She'll be nervous. Afraid. Maybe even suspect what we're doing here, having our little tea times together and all." "So how're you gonna get her to drink it?" "I'll pour the bourbon in plain sight is how." "And the stuff?" She turned the palm of her hand over and showed him the tiny capsule pinched in there. "She'll never see it. I'll do it right in front of her, and she'll never see a thing." "You think it'll-- " he started, then froze and turned at the sound of Amanda's footsteps drawing near. In a flash, he was gone. "There you go, dear," Barbara said, walking toward her to take the tray away and toward the table with the brandy decanter. Amanda sat down in her usual chair, her eyes locked on Barbara. Barbara only smiled, still facing the girl as she poured the brandy into both cups in full view of her. Amanda's relief was evident, and Barbara just gave a broader smile as she wiped the powdery residue still clinging to her palm against the side of her dress. Barbara decided to go forward with business as usual. No tricks or blustering, no mention of Amanda's entry into the forbidden room. Just play it all out with a run down of the next day's cleaning tasks. Once they'd both finished their first cup of tea, Barbara stood and said, "I hope you don't mind, dear, but dinner has worn me out. Charles can be so energetic when he has a mind to be. I won't be taking a second cup this evening." Amanda stood, looking from her empty tea cup to Barbara's and back again. "You're more than welcome to have another cup if you wish," Barbara continued. "You do seem to have taken a fancy to it." Amanda's eyes showed gratitude. "No thank you, ma'am," she said, the trace of a smile on her lips. "Good night then," Barbara said, walking past her and toward her bedroom. "Good night, ma'am," the girl replied. Amanda never saw the smile of triumph on Barbara's face as she ascended the stairway. * * * * *