The Night Visitors(17)

When I’ve got her settled I sit back in my own chair and see she’s studying me. “You’ve brought someone for me, haven’t you?”

I lift my chin toward the window behind her, which faces the river and the long hill that slopes down to its banks. Right now it also affords a view of children sledding and pummeling one another with snowballs, and a troop of nuns and pregnant teenagers snowshoeing. I spot Alice pulling Oren on the Flexible Flyer to the rim of the hill.

“The woman in the peacoat with the boy in red—Alice and Oren. They came in on the bus last night. He’s got bruises on his arms; she has marks on her throat.”

“They could go to Mulberry House in Kingston,” she says, smiling as Alice gives Oren a push and then jumps on the back of the sled. We can hear their high, excited whoops as they careen down the hill. “It’s a safe place.”

By “safe place” she means that the location is kept secret. Even most of our volunteers don’t know where it is.

“Men have found it before,” I say.

Sister Martine doesn’t argue with that. Over the years children have told their fathers where they are. Women have told their sisters-in-law, who have told their brothers. Men have come to the shelter and demanded to be let in. And because the men have come, the police have come too.

“Are you afraid that the man who hurt them will find them?” she asks.

I shake my head. Then I tell her about the knife, the blood, and the news of the dead man in Ridgewood. She listens to it all with no sign of shock or judgment. Doreen might be the best at talking people down, but Sister Martine is the best listener I’ve ever met. I’ve told her things I’ve never told anyone else.

“Do you believe it was the boy who stabbed his father?” she asks when I finish.

“I don’t know,” I say. “If I asked the boy I think he would tell me.”

“But you don’t want to ask the boy.” She looks back out the window where Oren is pulling his sled up the hill, laughing as Alice throws a snowball at him. “Because whichever one did it, the end result will be that one of them gets sent away. Still, I worry that if we hide them, they will have to live with that guilt between them forever.”

“The guilt of killing an abusive man?” I ask.

“The guilt of killing a parent,” she replies, turning now to me. “No one should have to live with that.”

I avoid her eyes and look out the window myself. “They’ll have each other. Isn’t that what matters most?”

When I look back at Sister Martine she holds my gaze for a long moment. It’s hard keeping my eyes level with that blue stare, as blinding as the light reflecting off the snow. But I do, and after a long pause she gives one curt nod. “I’ll make a few calls, set up a place up north. Bring them to me tomorrow.”

I’m about to tell her that they’ve got their stuff and can stay here tonight; she above anyone will understand why I can’t have the boy a second night. But before I can, I see something that freezes the words in my throat. A police car has pulled into the driveway.





Chapter Seven


Alice


OREN SEES THE policeman before I do. We’re climbing back up the hill, both of us soaked from our many falls in the snow (and the snowballs Oren has slipped down my collar). But I don’t feel cold. I would go up and down this hill with Oren forever to keep that open look on his face, one I haven’t seen in months.

But then he freezes. The blood drains from his face and his features go sharp the way they do when he’s scared, like he’s drawn into himself to make a smaller target. I follow his gaze up the hill and see a dark figure silhouetted against the sky. For a moment I think it’s Davis, come back from the dead to punish us for thinking we could get away from him. I’d follow you to the ends of the earth, he told me once. I’d thought it was romantic, until I recognized it for the threat it was.

But then the figure turns and I see the uniform and that the man is bulkier and fairer than Davis. He’s turning because someone has called his name. Frank. A figure in a purple poncho is wading across the snow, arms flapping like a big-ass bird trying to take off. It’s Mattie, hailing the policeman like he’s her best friend. She must have called him to turn us in.

Oren tugs at my sleeve. “Come on,” he says. “Mattie’s trying to distract him so we can get away.”

As if. It’s more likely she’s trying to save her own skin. But I don’t need to tell Oren that. We do need to get away.

Oren pulls me toward the hedge that borders the sledding hill. I’d barely noticed it before, but Oren leads us straight to an opening in the dense, prickly wall and through it into a path bordered by more tall hedges. “It’s a maze!” Oren shouts, the color back in his face. He loves mazes. After we read the story about Theseus and the Minotaur he begged for a puzzle book with mazes he could solve. This is like his daydream come to life. “This is the perfect place to hide! C’mon.” He drops the sled and my hand and takes the right-hand turn.

I follow, hissing at him, “Slow down!” I don’t want to shout in case the policeman and Mattie hear us. I especially don’t want to call Oren’s name.

Oren looks over his shoulder and laughs before rounding another corner. Shit. I run to catch up, stumbling through the shin-deep snow. He’s turning our flight into a game. And whose fault is that? For months I’ve done the same thing. Let’s pretend we’re planning a trip! I’d said when I got the bus schedules. Let’s make it a secret. And then the one I feel worst about now: Let’s be extra nice to your dad.