Thread of Deceit, page 17
“Terell was right,” he said, turning her toward the door. “It was a setup.”
Chapter Eleven
As Sam raised his hand to press the buzzer on Ana’s apartment door, he realized he was sweating. He paused a moment to analyze that fact. In the course of a normal day, he perspired a lot. Haven’s air-conditioning system functioned poorly or not at all, and overseeing a basketball game, sorting out a spat, even racing up and down the stairs to check on groups of volunteers could call for a T-shirt change. Missouri summers, with their intense heat and cloying humidity, always made staying cool a challenge.
Sam tried to tell himself this was the root of the problem. He had parked some distance from the old brick house that had been converted into efficiency apartments, and strolling down the Sunday morning sidewalk had heated him. But the excuse wouldn’t hold water. It was the prospect of seeing Ana that dampened his palms and sent a rivulet of perspiration down his spine.
Crazy to stress out over it, he admonished himself. She was merely a woman without a car. She would need a ride to church, that’s all. And he had decided to show up at her door.
That was the problem. You didn’t just show up at Ana Burns’s door. She didn’t like surprises. She liked plans. Routines. Schedules. She wanted control and order in her life. She did not want a man she hardly trusted appearing out of the blue and butting into her life. He ought to head back downtown and go to his own church as he always did on Sundays. If Ana wanted to attend a worship service, she would phone a friend.
He should have given her a call earlier and set it up. He would have. But he knew what she would say. No. No, I don’t need a ride. No, I don’t need your help. No, I don’t want you.
So, he pressed the buzzer and waited. Her voice came on the intercom.
“Who is it?”
He rubbed a hand behind his neck. “Uh, Sam. Sam Hawke.”
Silence.
“What are you doing here?”
“I thought you might need a ride to church.” He studied the rows of windows overhead, wondering which ones were hers. “After that I could take you to pick up your car. You could talk to some of the kids at the center.”
“I’m not dressed for church. I wasn’t planning to go.”
“Is your arm too sore?”
“I don’t have a car, remember?”
Sarcasm—Ana Burns’s favorite dialect. The barred door hummed to indicate that he could enter.
“Come upstairs,” her voice said. “I’m in 2A.”
Sam stepped into the foyer of the old house, recalling that she hadn’t let him inside when he had dropped her off the night before. Now, the scent of lemon oil greeted him—freshly polished woodwork, gleaming oak floors, a shiny banister anchored by a large, carved newel post. A hallway lined with closed doors featured brass numbers neatly nailed to the wall. Each door had a knocker. He climbed the staircase, his shoes silent on the thick burgundy carpet. The first door to the left was hers. He knocked.
“You can sit over there.” She spoke as she opened the door and pointed to a couch slip-covered in creamy cotton fabric. Wearing a pair of gray running shorts and a pink tank top, she padded away in her bare feet. “I’m changing. Don’t move.”
“So, good morning,” he called after her.
“Not really,” she replied.
He sat gingerly, concerned that a wrinkle on her perfect couch would irk her. The living area had a softer feel than Ana herself conveyed. Lace curtains, downy pillows on the sofa, a tablecloth edged with thick twisted fringe. Everything in shades of white, cream, ivory and soft butter brought a cocoon to mind. This was Ana’s sanctuary, the quiet center of her world. Her haven.
On the table beside the couch sat three framed black-and-white photographs. In one, he recognized Ana as a little girl. Her large brown eyes gazed solemnly. She wasn’t smiling. In the second, her parents’ wedding portrait, the couple stood together inside an ornate chapel. Her mother, clearly Hispanic with the same brown eyes and angular figure as her daughter, carried a bouquet of white lilies. The father had broad shoulders and the radiant smile that Sam had seen only rarely on Ana’s face. The third picture featured two little girls, arms draped across each other’s shoulders, hair in pigtails, grinning at the camera. They must have been nearly the same age—about five or six, he guessed—and both were missing front teeth. One was Ana. The other must be the sister she had mentioned.
Sam could see the small round oak table where Ana ate her meals. Not big enough to entertain guests. Only two chairs. And the kitchen area beyond. Tidy, of course. Spotless white marble countertops. Large glass jars filled with flour, sugar and rice stood in a perfect row. Like the hallway outside, her apartment smelled of lemons and bleach and maybe a trace of ammonia. No floral potpourris or scented candles for Ana.
She stepped out of her bedroom wearing a sleeveless beige dress and low pumps. She carried a matching purse on her uninjured arm. Her brown hair hung long and loose, softer than Sam had seen it.
She paused, one hip thrust out and her bare leg angled toward him, lean, tanned and perfectly muscled. “Man, you’re hot,” Sam said, coming to his feet.
“What?” Straightening, she crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. “Hot?”
“Sorry, but it’s true. Caleb said it. Billy confirmed it. And you’re stuck with it. You are one hot chick.”
A grin twitched the corners of her mouth. “Well, for once, Samuel Nathan Hawke, you’ve left me speechless.”
He gestured toward the door. “Mind if I accompany you to your service this morning?”
“Do I have any choice?”
“You always have a choice.”
“Not always.” Her brown gaze touched his, then swept away as she stepped out into the hall. “Don’t make it sound so easy, Sam. Fixing the world. It’s hard, and you will never succeed.”
She continued speaking as they descended the stairs. “People don’t always have choices, especially children. Even if they might have a choice, sometimes they don’t realize it.”
“That’s why I’m there. To show them a different way.”
“You’re teaching them to play basketball and crochet hot pads.”
“That’s harsh.”
“Sorry, but kids like Tenisha and Gerald—and certainly Flora—need a lot more than that.”
“What do you suggest?” He followed her out of the old house and down the sidewalk toward his car. “You must have some ideas.”
“I know what might help, but it’s beyond what you could offer at Haven. The children need physical, psychological and spiritual healing. Even if they get that, it still might not be enough to alter the course of their lives.”
“Are you always this optimistic, Ana?” he asked, opening her car door.
“Just on the mornings after I’ve been attacked with a knife.”
Well, Sam observed as he rounded the car toward the driver’s side, this was going to be a fun little outing. He wondered if Ana ever really enjoyed herself. She took life so seriously—her job, her running, even her housekeeping. Though Sam knew he had the same obsessive perfectionist tendencies, the identical need for order and control, he also enjoyed each day he spent at Haven. He loved the kids, he admired and appreciated the volunteers, and he had a longstanding friendship with Terell. Peace flowed through him, and with it came a sense of hope and joy.
As he stepped into the car, Sam saw that Ana had leaned against the headrest and closed her eyes. Like a lean lioness, the woman radiated physical beauty. But something inside her was raw and painful, and he suspected that it arose from more than just the incident the night before. Ana needed to be healed in the same way the children at Haven did. Only she didn’t seem to realize it.
“You can’t truly change these kids’ lives, Sam,” she repeated softly. “But you’re trying to do some good things for them. If I can get my interviews and put the series together in time, I’ll show St. Louis what Haven is all about.”
“The power of the pen.” He started the engine and pulled the car out into the street.
“You’d be surprised what it can accomplish,” she said. “Last night, Gerald wrote a limerick.”
“No kidding?”
“It’s actually pretty good. And Sam, I spoke to Flora again. I found out something about her. That name she said—La Ceiba—it didn’t have anything to do with witchcraft. It’s her hometown. In Honduras.”
“Honduras?” His amazement that the child could have traveled such a distance was followed by the realization of an unsettling coincidence. “Jim Slater brought those two little orphan girls from Honduras.”
“I know. Odd, isn’t it? If I see him today at church, I think I’ll ask about the country’s immigration laws. Flora must have become separated from her parents. I imagine Jim could help us look for them.”
“Us?”
“You know you want to help her as much as I do, Sam.” Her focus slid across to meet his glance. “Flora gave me a poem.”
“You got a lot out of those kids despite all your protests. What did she write about?”
“Esperanza. Hope.” Ana raked her hair back from her face, unaware of the effect her striking profile and long neck had on Sam. “Flora saw me run into the building last night, and she asked what had happened. She had strange questions. She kept warning me—told me I shouldn’t come back to the center because it wasn’t safe.”
“No way,” Sam said, his ire rising. “The kid sits there every day, and nobody bothers her. Haven is a lot safer than the streets.”
“Flora thought she knew who had attacked me. She spoke of two men. One named Segundo had blond hair. She called the other man Primero.”
“But you said a couple of kids did it.”
“That’s right, two teenagers in do-rags and—” She caught her breath and then grabbed Sam’s wrist. “I know who attacked me! I remember them now. The do-rags. One afternoon on my way into Haven, I saw them sitting outside under the awning with Raydell.”
“Raydell doesn’t hang with thugs.”
“They weren’t with him. Not like friends. They were sitting out there because he wouldn’t let them inside. They had refused to take off their headgear.”
“We’ve got a gang problem,” Sam said.
“They razzed me—‘Hey, pretty lady’—that kind of thing. I didn’t like it, but it wasn’t menacing. They were coming on to me the way men do sometimes. I didn’t think much of it at the time. Sam, I’m sure they were the same two guys who attacked me.”
“Then Raydell will know their names. He’ll be able to tell us who they are and where they live.” Sam gripped the steering wheel, hoping the thought that had just popped into his head was wrong. “I’ll talk to him this afternoon. Could be he knows more about the attack than he’s letting on.”
Ana glanced at him. “Do you think Raydell might have played a part in it? He wasn’t there, Sam. He was guarding the door. He even came to my writing class.”
“Yeah, to keep an eye on you. That’s what he told me, remember? He knew I was unhappy that you’d been coming to Haven and poking around in our business.”
“Raydell has always been polite to me. Last night he even wrote a rap.” She twisted the handle of her purse. “Although…the lyrics were pretty hostile, now that I think about it.”
“Ever heard a rap that wasn’t hostile?”
She smiled. “You’ve got a point there. But I don’t think Raydell would do something like that. You know he wants nothing more than to please you.”
“Exactly.” He frowned as he pulled into the church parking lot. “The first time Raydell stepped through the doors of Haven, he had just gotten out of juvie—juvenile detention—doing shock time for misdemeanor drug possession. He was tough and street-smart, and his mouth was filthy. But something clicked between us, and he’s been stuck like glue to me ever since. He’s the one who told me about the metal detector they were replacing at the city workhouse, and he helped us negotiate to buy the thing and install it at Haven. He loves his job guarding the door, but sometimes I worry about letting him stay there all day.”
“Door duty allows him to keep walking the line,” Ana said. “He can keep one foot in Haven’s world of regulations, discipline and security, and the other foot out in the old hood.”
Sam nodded in agreement as he climbed out of the car. “Right on target. I trust Raydell, and we rarely have an incident that he could have prevented. No guns and only one knife have made it past him. No drugs ever come in, as far as I’ve been able to tell. But he hangs out on the street most of the day, and people talk to him. Kids do sit under that awning sometimes. For all I know, Raydell could be keeping Haven clean with one hand and doing dirty deals with the other. If he wanted to scare you away, he’d have no trouble setting that up.”
Ana accompanied Sam in silence as they climbed the steps to the church sanctuary. He had always admired the old structure, home to one of the earliest denominations to settle and build in St. Louis. With its long stained-glass windows and quaint wooden pews, it reminded him of churches he had seen in Europe.
Ana greeted several people as she made her way down the aisle, and they knew her by name. It seemed like a friendly enough place, yet it was nothing like the bustle and noise that filled his own church every Sunday morning—people setting up microphones, eating doughnuts, drinking coffee, banging on a drum set, tuning guitars, herding children off to Sunday school. Many different racial groups populated the early service Sam attended. Later in the day, a Korean group met to worship, followed by a Spanish-speaking congregation. During the worship hour, a praise band led singing, drama groups acted out skits, the pastor gave a sermon. It was a veritable three-ring circus.
Sam enjoyed it immensely, and his spiritual life had deepened in the months he’d been there. But he was eager to partake of the more solemn and reverent atmosphere in Ana’s church. He believed God accepted worship in many forms, as long as it was sincere.
They took a pew, and Sam tried to arrange his long legs in the cramped space. Ana folded her hands and stared down at her purse. He wondered if she was praying. In a moment, the service began, and he was gratified to hear the soaring old hymns he had learned as a boy.
When their mother abandoned them, Sam and his younger brothers had turned to their paternal grandmother for affection. She didn’t have much love to give the scrappy little fellows, but she did haul them to church every Sunday. Afterward they always stopped at the local mom-and-pop diner for lunch. Sam could hardly sing the familiar hymns without envisioning a plate of steaming fried chicken, a mound of creamy mashed potatoes drowning in brown gravy, gleaming ears of corn on the cob, green beans swimming in bacon grease and hot rolls dripping butter.
His stomach growling, Sam tried to concentrate on the message. He dug a pen out of his pocket and jotted a few notes on the back of the bulletin, but he was grateful when the pastor closed his sermon notes and stepped away from the pulpit. Ana rubbed her bandaged arm while the choir sang a chorus. Someone went to the pulpit and led in a final prayer, then Ana accompanied Sam down the aisle.
“Oh, look,” she said, hurrying forward. “There’s Jim Slater.”
Jim smiled as he greeted Ana. At the sight of Sam, his eyebrows rose, but he said nothing. “May I introduce a friend of mine?” he asked.
A stocky man with a dark crew cut stepped up and stuck out a hand. He wore a pair of khaki trousers and a blue oxford shirt with a small brown stain near the pocket.
“Jack Smith works with me,” Jim explained. “He’s visiting from our Arkansas office. Jack, this is Ana Burns and Sam Hawke.”
“Ana, Sam,” the man repeated. “Good to know you.”
“Arkansas?” Ana appeared surprised. “I didn’t realize your agency had offices in more than one state.”
As was Sam’s custom, he assessed Jim while the man gave Ana a brief answer. Though dressed in a gray suit, black shoes, starched white shirt and blue-striped tie, Jim clearly had been ill over the weekend. His skin wore an ashen cast, and dark circles weighed under his eyes. His grin appeared artificial, like the smiling mouth of a doll. But here he was, shaking Ana’s hand, and asking after her well-being. He mentioned the bandage on her arm, and she gave a detailed account of the incident.
“I must say I’m surprised to see you here, Sam.” Jim turned his focus from the woman. “When did you start attending our church?”
“Today,” Sam answered.
“Listen, Jim, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.” Ana cut in before Sam could continue. “Maybe you would have some thoughts on this, too, Mr. Smith. It’s about a little girl who’s been coming to Haven. We’d like to help her.”
And she was off to the races, Sam realized, amazed at how doggedly Ana pursued everything. He had seen her frustrated, angry and sad, but never tired enough to quit. Discouraged but never defeated.
“Honduras?” Jim asked, cocking his head to one side as his smile faded. “My goodness, I can’t imagine that. Are you sure that’s what she said?”
“Yes. The town is called La Ceiba.” Ana accompanied the two men outside the church into the bright noonday sun. Sam lagged behind, listening and watching. “It’s on the coast. Have you been there?”
“Actually, I always fly into the capital. The government offices are there, and that’s where I do most of our business. Filling out forms and such.”
“Then you would know about Honduran immigration law?” she asked. “And you, too, Mr. Smith?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” the stocky man said.
“I know a good deal about immigration law,” Jim spoke up. “Unfortunately, there are loopholes and small details in each country. Her parents must have found a way to get to the States. I’m sure they leave her at Haven while they work. I’ve seen many children in the same situation. Right, Sam?”
“Only not from Honduras.” Sam leaned against the handrail that led down the church steps. No telling how long Ana would interrogate Jim and his colleague. Sam had been hoping she might agree to go to lunch. Maybe some fried chicken.
