Linwood Barclay: Stone Rain

“Trixie,” I said. “Look, you’re my friend. I’d help you any way I can. But you can’t ask me to do this. I can’t, as a reporter for one paper, try to talk a reporter for another paper out of doing his job. I can’t begin to count the number of ethical violations. There’s just no way, I can’t, I’m sorry, I really am.”

She looked into my eyes. “I thought you’d be willing to help me.”

“I don’t want you to be in trouble, but what you’re asking me to do could get me in trouble at the Metropolitan, where, evidently, the boss already has it in for me. Imagine if he heard I was trying to persuade some community newspaper columnist not to write about a dominatrix.”

Trixie said nothing. Something caught her eye, and she looked to the front of the Starbucks. A leather-jacketed guy with a heavy beard and sunglasses strolled in. Outside, I could see a big motorcycle, a Harley-Davidson or something like that with raised handlebars, parked up close to the door.

Trixie shrunk back into the chair, turned and looked away.

“What?” I said. “What is it? You know that guy.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Then what’s the problem? It’s just some biker or biker wannabe. He’s not bothering anyone.”

“It’s nothing. You know what, Zack, don’t worry about anything.” Her voice had turned snippy. “I’ll just handle my own problems myself.”

She was trying to make me feel guilty, so I decided to repeat what I thought was sound advice.

“Really, just lay low,” I said. “This Martin Benson guy will finally go on to something else, and then you can get back to doing what it is that you do.”

Trixie, her shoulder still turned to the front of the coffee shop, folded up the clipping and shoved it down into her purse. The biker already had his coffee in hand and was heading out the front door. “There, he’s gone,” I said.

Trixie relaxed, but only slightly. She slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder.

“You do not understand, Zack. I cannot have my picture in the newspaper. Not any newspaper. Not even a piece of asswipe like the Suburban. They may be small, but they still have an online edition too, you know. They run my picture and it’s all over the Internet.”

“I can’t imagine anyone outside of Oakwood is reading the Suburban online,” I said, trying to calm her.

“I can’t take that chance. I can’t have my mug shot showing up anyplace.”

“Mug shot?” I said. “Why do you call your own picture a mug shot?”

Trixie blinked. “Figure of speech,” she said.

He would come in to see her at night, supposedly to tuck her in.

But Miranda, with some tips from her older sister, Claire, figured out a way to deal with this. She would tuck the covers in as tightly as possible on both sides, then crawl atop the bed and slide under the sheet and bedspread from the top.

Once she was there, she felt trapped, like a leftover sandwich Saran-Wrapped to a plate, but secure as well, because any attempts her father might make to touch his fifteen-year-old girl could not be disguised as inadvertent. He was very good at accidentally brushing his hand across her private places when getting her ready for bed. But those supposedly innocent touches weren’t possible when she had herself so tightly cocooned. That, and pretending to already be asleep, tended to thwart his efforts, most of the time.

Sometimes Miranda almost wished he’d be more blatant. She wished he could be as direct with his perversions as he was with his violence. He made no attempt at excuses when he took out his belt to punish her or her sister for some perceived misbehavior. At those moments, she could scream back, run out of the house.

But when he slunk into her room at night, he would hide behind pitiful slyness. He’d camouflage baser motives with apologies about losing his temper. But she knew he felt no regrets over that. If only he’d just admit that he’d come in to check on her progress at turning into a woman, that he wanted a form of intimacy he knew to be inappropriate. Then maybe she could react, holler at him to leave her alone. But his feigned innocence always gave him an excuse. “You’re just sensitive,” he’d say. “What, a father can’t give his little girl a hug?”

And there was no use trying to talk to her mother about this. She numbed herself with scotch, cigarettes, and television, but mostly scotch. What chance was there that she would come to the defense of her daughters when she wouldn’t defend herself against her husband’s bursts of outrage and backhanded slaps?

It was older sister Claire she turned to. It was Claire with whom she shared her secrets. It was Claire who told her how to cope.

And it was Claire who begged her to leave with her. But Miranda said, “You’re eighteen. If you go, they can’t make you come back. I’m just fifteen. He’d call the police. They’d bring me back.”

“I wouldn’t let them,” Claire said.

But as much as Miranda admired, worshipped, her sister, she didn’t believe she had those powers. She wasn’t strong enough to protect her against her father and the authorities.

One night, it was Claire who came in to see her. Miranda pulled the sheets about her tightly, but when she heard her sister whisper her name, she relaxed.

“I’m going.” Claire said.

“Where? What do you mean?” Miranda asked.

“I’m leaving. Now. I’m not coming back.”

Miranda felt her heart in her throat. “Don’t go,” she whispered.

“I can’t stay here another night.” There were tears in Claire’s eyes. “Come with us.”

“I have a math test tomorrow,” Miranda said. Math was probably the only thing that gave her any sense of accomplishment, the only thing she was really good at. Her father was good at telling her she was pretty much useless, and it rankled him when she came home with perfect math marks, proving him wrong. “It’s worth fifteen percent,” she protested.

“Jesus, forget your math test. I’m talking about getting out of here!”

“Shhh!” Miranda said. She didn’t want her father coming in, taking the belt to the both of them.

“They’re asleep,” Claire said. “He’s passed out, they’re both passed out.”

“Where’s your stuff? How can you just leave?”

Claire’s bags-and that’s what they were, bags-were all packed. They were already at the end of the drive. Her boyfriend, Don, was going to pick her up.

“Where will you go?” Miranda asked.

“Anywhere. Any place that’s not here,” Claire said. “If I stay here any longer, I’ll kill him. Please come. Don says it’s okay.”

Miranda liked Don. He was a nice boy. Not like most of the others. Claire was lucky to have found someone like that.

Miranda sat up in bed. She looked at her dresser, wondered what she would use to carry her clothes. She didn’t even have a suitcase. They had never gone on a vacation. They’d never been anywhere. She could put some clothes in some paper bags. Two or three would probably do it. A couple pairs of jeans, a couple of tops, some underwear. She could get a job, make money, and buy some other clothes, maybe from a secondhand shop, maybe-

No, she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t run away. She was only fifteen. As horrible as home was, it was still a haven. She knew bad things happened here, but she knew what the bad things were. If she ran off with Claire, what different bad things might happen? Would they be worse than the things she had to deal with now?

“I can’t do it,” Miranda said.

“I can’t just leave you here,” Claire said. Her eyes were moist with tears.

“Just go.”

Outside, they could hear a car coming to a stop. Claire glanced out the window, and the tears running down her cheeks glistened in the moonlight. It was Don. He was putting Claire’s paper bags of belongings into the trunk.