When Joy Came to Stay Page 13

  He covered his head protectively with his hands. “What do you want?” He shouted the question, but there was no answer. He couldn’t move, couldn’t see clearly. He thought of Maggie and how if he bled to death here in the parking lot of this bar she would never know why, never realize that he was only here because he loved her. At that instant a second blow connected with his skull and one of his hands, and he felt the searing pain of his fingers breaking. “Stop! I’ll give you whatever you want…”

  Ben had considered bringing his handgun with him tonight but he figured John McFadden wouldn’t be antagonistic—certainly not to the point of harming him. Now as he lay there, two sets of feet walked past him. One foot kicked him in the head, and then the feet all walked toward the van and inside the warehouse.

  In the distance he heard another set of footsteps, this time growing closer. They’re going to kill me. Lord, take me quickly. And please, God, let Maggie know I love her. Whatever it was she did or lied about I love her.

  His head was pounding and he felt himself losing consciousness. How much blood had he lost anyway? And how much longer would it be?

  The steps were closer now, and he could make out the shoes. They stopped inches from his face. “Give me the hundred dollars.”

  Ben struggled to make sense of the words and realized they were coming from John McFadden. Apparently he had ordered the beating. Ben’s reflexes were slow, and pain seemed to assault him from every part of his body. But he managed to slip his good hand into his pocket and retrieve the hundred-dollar bill. There was almost no strength left in his arms, but he held it out for him anyway.

  “What…what do you want from me?”

  “I want you to leave me alone and never come back.” McFadden’s words were more of a hiss and they held a threat Ben knew was worth taking seriously. If he lived long enough to worry about it. “Are you getting this, Ben Stovall, attorney at law?”

  The man had Ben’s business card. Whatever McFadden’s staff was involved in, they communicated directly to the man leaning over Ben, and apparently he didn’t take kindly to curious lawyers. Ben struggled to stay conscious.

  “Now listen and listen good.” McFadden jerked Ben to his feet and walked him across the parking lot to his car. The pain came in white-hot waves, and Ben was sure he’d lose consciousness soon. “You will get in your car and drive yourself to the hospital. You will report the news that you took a bad fall and you will never, ever set foot on my property again. Is that understood?”

  Ben nodded. “Yes…let me go.” He was woozy and his eyesight alternated between blurred and double vision. Something dangerous and secretive was going on at Topper’s Pop Bar. Something much more secretive than whatever John McFadden knew about Maggie. Half expecting to be shot or beaten again, Ben pulled free of the man’s grip. Was it possible? Was McFadden going to let him drive off the lot with his body still functioning?

  Help me, God; get me to the hospital before I lose too much blood. I can’t die without seeing Maggie one more time, without telling her I love her no matter what she’s done…

  The man shoved Ben into his car and hunched down so that Ben could see him as he spoke. “Oh yeah. Your information…I almost forgot.” He smiled wickedly as if whatever he was about to tell Ben was going to bring him a great deal of satisfaction. “Maggie and I had a kid.” He chuckled. “But you probably already knew that.”

  Ben’s heart dropped, and his body was hit by a wave of pain far greater than any he’d received so far. His eyes grew wide and he stared at John McFadden in disbelief. “You…what?” It was impossible. Maggie was a virgin when they married…she couldn’t have slept with…with this man. There couldn’t have been a baby…not with his Maggie.

  The man tossed his head back and laughed. “You mean she didn’t tell you? Sweet little church girl like Maggie, and she didn’t tell you she gave a kid away? Imagine that.”

  Someone called McFadden’s name and he was suddenly on alert again. “Now get out of here. You come back, and I’ll finish you off myself.” He slammed the driver’s door and kicked it hard with the heel of his boot before turning and walking away.

  Ben did not hesitate. He started the engine, peeled out of the parking lot and headed immediately for Cleveland General. His head was still bleeding badly and his body was racked with pain. There were moments when he felt himself drifting, but still he drove on.

  In the depth of his heart, he wasn’t sure he was going to make it.

  Not because of the beating he’d received, but because of the other blow. If John McFadden was telling the truth—and Ben had the unnerving sense he was—then Maggie truly had lied to him from the beginning.

  Determined to hang on, Ben raised his eyelids arid forced himself to remain conscious. As he drove, he changed his mind. It wasn’t possible. If Maggie had given a child up for adoption, certainly her mother would have known about it. The woman had said nothing about any of that. Ben felt himself growing calmer.

  It was a lie. Of course it was a lie. That creep McFadden knew Maggie was a Christian and a virgin. She had probably refused to sleep with him, and he was using this false information as a way of further punishing him for spying on whatever clandestine operation was taking place in the parking lot.

  He pulled into the hospital parking lot and veered his car toward the front door. Halfway to the emergency room entrance, he collapsed.

  “Maggie!” He shouted her name as loud as he could, and all around him he heard people responding, hurrying toward him, trying to help. Blood covered his face and hands now and he felt himself slipping away.

  “Sir, sir, what happened? Can you talk to us, sir?” Someone in a white jacket bent over him as he was placed onto a stretcher and hurried into the emergency room. But the sounds and sights were growing dimmer, and Ben couldn’t make his mouth work. Tell Maggie I love her. Please tell her. Oh, God, please.

  Then everything disappeared and there was nothing but darkness.

  Thirteen

  DESPITE THE CHILL IN THE AIR THAT LATE SEPTEMBER AFTERNOON, Amanda Joy walked home from the bus stop slower than usual. Things had gotten worse at the Graystone house; two of the foster kids had even talked about running away. It wasn’t that the old lady was always mean. But when chores weren’t done just so, Mrs. Graystone would change into…well, a monster.

  And then the beatings would begin.

  Amanda pushed the thought away. She didn’t want to think about that; she just knew she didn’t want to be anywhere near the woman. Chores had been assigned that morning—fold a load of laundry, make her bed, clean her windows, and wash the walls in her bedroom—but Amanda’s second-grade teacher had assigned a science project and much of her morning had gone toward finishing it.

  Surely Mrs. Graystone wanted her to get her homework done, didn’t she? She wouldn’t punish Amanda this time, would she?

  She slowed her pace even more, kicking up fallen leaves and stopping briefly to stare into the cloudy sky. Are You there, God? Isn’t there somewhere else I can live? She waited, but the only sound was the rustling of leaves in the trees overhead. I don’t really need a mother, God. I’d be happy to live with Kathy and her family. Or just someone who liked me a little.

  There were no booming answers, no voices from heaven, but Amanda had the distinct feeling someone had hugged her close. The only one who hugged her now was Kathy, and Kathy hadn’t seen her all week. So this hug, this feeling of being warm and safe in the arms of someone who loved her, must have come from God. She glanced once more toward the sky. Thanks, God. I know You’re working on it.

  By the time she walked through the door at the Graystone house, the other children were busy doing homework or cleaning. With her arrival, they stopped and stared at her, and the mixture of fear and warning she saw in their eyes made her heart pound.

  “Hi.” Amanda set her things down and heard heavy footsteps coming closer. Mrs. Graystone marched into the room and headed straight for her.

  “I�
��m sorry about my chores…” Amanda took two steps backward until she was up against the wall. Her eyes were wide; her breathing was fast; and her arms and legs began to shake.

  “You’re a good for nothing, brat!”

  “I’m s-s-sorry, I had to f-f-finish—”

  “Shut up! You sound like an idiot when you stutter.” Mrs. Graystone was upon her, yanking her by the hair and dragging her from the room. Amanda Joy knew better than to fight the old woman and she moved her feet in quick shuffling steps so the pain in her scalp would be less severe. Mrs. Graystone’s breath was strong, sickening…like it sometimes was late at night, when her words didn’t make sense. What was happening? Was Mrs. Graystone sick?

  In the background Amanda Joy heard one of her foster sisters begin to cry. Chores had gone undone before, but Mrs. Graystone had never acted like this. Why did the other kids look so scared?

  Mrs. Graystone flung her into her bedroom and closed the door behind them. Amanda regained her balance and then stood still, head down, waiting for her punishment.

  “When I tell you to do something, I want you to do it, do you understand me?”

  Before the girl could raise her head, the woman yanked her hair so she could see her face. “Look at me when I talk to you!”

  Amanda winced. Mrs. Graystone seemed fine but her breath had that strong, funny smell. “Yes, m-m-ma’am.” Amanda shook from head to toe. Whatever was wrong, it scared her to death.

  “Oh, so you’re gonna play scaredy-cat around me, is that it, missy? Well, I’ll give you somethin’ to be scared about.”

  Before Amanda could think or cover her face, Mrs. Graystone’s palm hit her hard across the cheek.

  “Stop!” Amanda froze, terror seizing her. She knew the moment she’d let the scream out that her punishment would—

  A second slap hit her face so hard it knocked her to the ground. Mrs. Graystone looked furious—and crazy. She yanked Amanda’s hair and pulled her to her feet.

  “I will not have a brat under my roof who can’t carry her own weight, am I making myself clear?”

  Amanda felt dizzy, and her vision was fuzzy around the edges. She wanted to answer, but the words seemed stuck in her throat somewhere. Before she could make herself respond, she heard a hissing sound and felt a terrible burning sensation in her eyes. She screamed. “M-m-my eyes! Oh, my eyes…!”

  At the same moment she smelled the fumes and realized that Mrs. Graystone had sprayed cleaner at her face. “Help m-m-me!”

  The words came out loud and shrill, and Amanda prayed someone would come take her away before—

  “You’re a filthy excuse for a girl!” the woman shouted at her. “I’ll clean you up and maybe you’ll be worth something someday”

  “No, p-p-please! Stop!”

  Another cloud of cleaner came at Amanda; the liquid and fumes filled her nose and throat and made her gag. “I can’t b-b-breathe…”

  “Shut up!” Amanda heard the bottle hit the wall, but before she could be grateful the cleaner was gone. Mrs. Graystone slapped her across the face even harder than before. Amanda fell flat on the floor. There was something wet running from her nose and mouth, and she ran her fingers over it. Forcing her burning eyes open, she saw blood.

  God, help…I’m bleeding.

  “I hope you’re ready!” Mrs. Graystone jerked her up from the floor by her hair again, and Amanda’s entire head flamed in searing pain. She scrambled to her feet and realized she was crying. Big, gulping sobs. Her blood mixed with tears and bright red drops began to fall on the floor.

  “Please, s-s-stop!” She continued to shout, terrified now that the only way out of the room alive was if someone heard her. “Help me!”

  Mrs. Graystone’s face grew hard and hateful, and her eyes blazed with something scary and evil. Amanda closed her eyes. Her entire body hurt and she was sick from the cleaner, struggling for every breath. The blows just kept coming, making her feel dizzy.

  She was going to die.

  Mrs. Graystone paused and glared at Amanda where she was huddled on the floor now. This time her voice was barely more than a whisper. “You better be ready little girl, because it’s time for your punishment to begin.”

  Carol Jenson stared out her window to the house next door.

  Many times she had wondered about the goings-on there. Too many children under one roof for one thing. But she almost never saw them playing outside. She’d heard from other neighbors that the Graystones were foster parents. Well, what kind of parents kept their children indoors every day even when the sun was shining?

  And there was something else, a feeling or sense of some kind that she couldn’t put her finger on. The children were sometimes bruised and withdrawn…

  Carol was almost sure they’d been beaten, but she’d never said anything. After all, bruises could be caused by a fall on the playground, a fight at school.

  Still, whatever was happening at the Graystones, it had kept Carol up at nights on many occasions praying for the children who lived there.

  Sometimes she would bring Mrs. Graystone baked goods or stop by with a piece of misdirected mail, hoping to catch her in the act if there was indeed abuse going on. That way she could report the situation and rest assured that the children would be taken care of.

  If Carol had been concerned before, she was doubly worried now after reading the series of “Maggie’s Mind” columns in the Gazette. Carol and her husband had one child, an infant, who at the moment was sleeping soundly in her crib. They were churchgoing folk, who lived a quiet, clean life and enjoyed the weekly wisdom in “Maggie’s Mind.” When Carol had caught the words “Children Sometimes Abused in Foster Homes” in a recent column headline, she had read it twice through. Foster homes, the article said, were often every bit as abusive as the homes children were taken from.

  It was for that reason Carol was particularly sensitive to noises or actions or anything out of the ordinary coming from the Graystone house of late. Earlier, just after putting her baby down, Carol noticed a sad little girl making her way slowly to the house next door. She was fairly new, but Carol had seen her before.

  This time something about the girl’s walk caught Carol’s eye. In that moment she’d had the desperate desire to intercept the sweet-faced little thing and ask her point-blank if there was someone hurting her or making her afraid of going home. But then Carol had to remind herself that it was none of her business—at least until she had more than suspicion to go on. Maybe the children didn’t like playing outside. Maybe they were little couch potatoes who preferred video games and television programs to outdoor play.

  With a sigh, Carol went to finish folding a load of laundry. But no sooner had she pulled a towel from the basket than she heard a sound that sent chills through her. It was a scream. She was sure of it. A muffled scream, coming from next door.

  She dropped the towel in her hands and hurried to the nearest window. Unlatching the lock, she raised the glass pane and listened.

  A woman was yelling, probably Mrs. Graystone. Carol couldn’t hear everything but she was able to understand key words. “Shut up!” and “brat” sounded loud and clear. And in between the angry words Carol was sure she could hear the faint screams of a child. As she listened, the exchange grew more heated, the child’s cries more desperate.

  Should I call, Lord? Is this really what I think it is?

  The response came with a sense of urgency unlike anything Carol had experienced.

  Call now, daughter. Call!

  Without hesitation or worrying about the ramifications if she were somehow mistaken, Carol grabbed her cordless telephone and dialed 911.

  Officer Willy Parsons and his partner arrived at the home less than five minutes later. He had been investigating a nearby breaking-and-entering when the call came in: Suspected child abuse.

  Parsons gritted his teeth, yelled to his partner, and ran for the patrol car. The idea that anyone would be deranged enough to harm a child was almost more than he could
stomach. When he’d joined the police force ten years earlier it had been because of an article he’d read in the paper stating that child abuse was on the rise.

  The two officers parked and ran to the front door. Parsons knocked sharply. “Police! Open up!”

  A woman answered the door looking disheveled and overexerted. “Whaddya want?” She ran her tongue nervously over her bottom lip, and Parsons noticed a layer of perspiration on her face and arms—and the strong smell of alcohol on her breath.

  “We have a report from one of your neighbors of domestic violence, ma’am. We’d like to come in and take a look around.”

  Anger flashed in the woman’s eyes, then faded as she laughed lightly. “It’s just me and the children.” She motioned to the dining room table, where four children sat quietly doing homework.

  “Ma’am, our records show this is a foster home, is that right?”

  The woman attempted a smile. “Why, yes. I like to help out whatever way I can. All my children are from the foster system.”

  Officer Parsons squeezed his way past her. “Then since you have wards of the state in your care, I’m sure you know the rules. We’re able to check out your home environment whenever any concerns arise.”

  “Well, yes, but…” Her voice faded. “The children are all here.”

  At that moment, from the back of the house, there was a strange noise. Parsons cocked his head. What was it? The sound was a moan or a cry, like something from an animal. One that was wounded…

  Or dying.

  Chills passed over him and took up residence deep in his soul. There it was again. The sound echoed through the hallway and suddenly Officer Parsons was propelled by a terrifying thought. He pushed past the woman and ran down the hallway shoving bedroom doors open until he saw her.

  “Dear God…”

  At first glance, it looked like a bundle of red-stained rags lying in a heap on the floor, but then the bundle moved. And moaned. In that instant it became horrifyingly clear that what the officer was looking at was a child…a small, frail child in torn, blood-covered clothes.