Marcia Talley - Through the Darkness

I reached for the kettle and covered my limp tea bag with hot water. We discussed what might be the best course of action for Roger, and I asked her if he had an attorney. “He’s already called Dean James,” she said.

I’d heard good things about Dean James. “Whenever a midshipman gets in trouble, James is a top choice. Roger’s in good hands.” I told Eva what I’d heard about one of James’s cases, where a midshipman had been kicked out of the Academy because of his addiction to Internet porn. James had negotiated a medical discharge for the mid, rather than a disciplinary one. This was an important distinction because it meant that the mid, who was a first classman, wouldn’t be asked to reimburse the Navy for the money they’d spent on educating him for four years: a cool $100,000 by their calculations.

Whoever was ringing the doorbell refused to give up. By the time I’d dunked my tea bag up and down a few more times, the ringing had stopped and the knocking began.

Half rising from her chair, Eva pressed her palms to her ears. “That pounding’s driving me nuts, Hannah. It’s impossible to ignore.”

“Let me go,” I said.

The knocking seemed to intensify as I hustled through Eva’s tidy dining room, comfortable living room, and into the entrance hall. When I opened the door, I staggered back into the hallway in my attempt to avoid the microphone being thrust into my face. The microphone was at the end of the arm of a woman I recognized as an investigative reporter from WBJC-TV in Baltimore.

“If you’re looking for Roger Haberman,” I told the microphone, “he’s not here. Reverend Haberman doesn’t know where he is. If you have any questions, please refer them to Mr. Haberman’s lawyer, Mr. Dean James. Thank you.”

I shoved the door, and almost got it closed before the reporter shouted, “And who are you?”

“Nobody,” I replied, relieved that I’d kept such a low profile during the press conferences involving Timmy’s disappearance that I hadn’t been recognized. “Just a friend of the reverend.”

I’d pushed the door another millimeter toward the closed position when another reporter piped up, “Mrs. Ives! Mrs. Ives!”

Damn. I’d been busted .

“Mrs. Ives,” the reporter continued while my eyes shot shrapnel her way. “Doesn’t it concern you that Roger Haberman, a convicted pedophile and repeat offender, was seen in the vicinity of Spa Paradiso on the day your grandson was abducted?”

I wanted to punch the woman out, but I took two deep breaths, dug my fingernails into my palms and asked, “And you are?”

“Michele Pickett, one l , from the Sun.”

“Ms. Pickett…” I paused, as if committing her name to memory, with or without the extra l . “May I suggest that you ask the police about that.”

This time I managed to shove the door shut and lock it behind me.

I returned to the kitchen, where my tea had grown cold. “It’s the press,” I reported to my friend. “I think we better start planning escape routes.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you, Hannah?”

“Very.”

As if to punctuate my remarks, the pounding began again, even louder, if that was possible. Fearing for the paint on Eva’s front door, I headed back to the entrance hall, unlocked the door, threw it wide and opened my mouth to give the pesky reporters a sizable piece of my mind.

But it wasn’t a reporter standing there. The reporters had retreated to a pair of noisy, raggedy lines on both sides of the sidewalk. What greeted me now were two men in suits who might as well have had “cop” written all over their chests in bright, flashing neon letters. Behind the cops stood another man dressed in slacks and a windbreaker, carrying a tool kit.

“Mrs. Haberman?” the tall cop asked.

“No.”

“Is she here?”

“Who shall I say is calling?”

“I’m Officer Peter Cook with the Anne Arundel County police.” He produced a badge and showed it to me. “We have a search warrant.”

I waited until the two other officers had shown me their badges, too, then said, “I guess you’d better come in, then. Please wait here in the living room while I get Reverend Haberman.”

I had more experiences with search warrants than I cared to admit, or remember. When the FBI came to arrest me for murder, they’d torn my house apart looking for evidence, going so far as to empty my flour canister and dump out my silverware drawer, although it’s fair to say that they put everything back together afterward.

When I got back to the kitchen, Eva was standing next to the pantry door, using a kitchen knife to pry the top off a box of shortbread cookies.

“It’s the police this time, and they’ve come with a search warrant,” I told my friend.

She laid the box of cookies down on a nearby counter and glanced about the kitchen, waving the knife, eyes wide. “What should I do?”

“There’s really nothing you can do about it, Eva. It’s like emergency dental work. You just sit back and let it happen.”

She drooped. “They’ll be after his computer, I suppose.”

“Right.”

“And books, and magazines. Notebooks?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And weapons?” The furrow deepened between her eyes.

“What do you mean, weapons?”

“I’ve got to tell somebody. Roger kept a gun in his bedside table. Now it’s gone.”

My daughter screwed up her eyes. “How can youeven think about going back to work?”

Dante captured both of Emily’s hands in his and drew them to his chest. “I have to go back, Em, otherwise there won’t be any money to pay the mortgage, or put food on the table. The ladies from St. Catherine’s aren’t going to cook for us in perpetuity, you know.”

Emily jerked her hands away. “You should be ashamed of yourself for deserting Timmy.”

“I’m not deserting our son, Emily. I’m doing what has to be done to maintain the health of my family including my other two children, and if that means returning to work, so be it. All of our money is tied up in Paradiso, you know that. If Paradiso fails, we’re doomed.”

“He’s going back to work,” Emily said to me, ignoring her husband, using the same petulant tone of voice she’d often used with me at the dinner table after an argument with her father: “Please ask your husband to pass the potatoes.”

Dante turned to me, a can’t-live-with-her-can’t-live-without-her look on his face. “Phyllis says some of our investors have threatened to pull out if we don’t open by Monday.”

“I can’t go back to that day care center,” Emily pouted.

“You don’t have to, Em. For the time being I can move Alison over to Puddle Ducks-if you approve, of course. She’s actually a certified teacher.”

“You don’t understand what I’m saying, Dante. I can’t ever go back to it.”

A slight twitch along the jaw, a barely detectable narrowing of the eyes, were the only clues that this news bothered Dante. “Emily. I’ve told you all along. It’s okay for you to stay at home with the children. You don’t have to work your tail off at the spa.”

Emily began to weep quietly. “But I so wanted Paradiso to be a success.” She turned her devastated face to me. “It’s been our dream for so long. We’re so, so close, and now it’s all falling apart.”

I was worried, too. Now that Dante’s grandiose plans for Paradiso seemed to be unraveling, so was his marriage.

I grabbed my daughter’s hand and squeezed it tightly, surprising myself by saying, “Dante’s right, Emily. He’s the driving force behind the spa. You say you want it to succeed, right?”