The Night Visitors(20)

“So if I check Sanctuary’s log for last night I won’t find a record of a call from a woman on the run?”

“You’ll need a warrant to see those logs,” I say, bristling. Frank knows full well that he needs a warrant, but he enjoys piquing me on this point. “Unless we believe a caller presents a danger to himself or others, those calls are confidential.”

He shifts his weight, looks away, scanning the sledders for any strange ten-year-old boys, then brings his hand to rest on his hip near his holster. Letting me know what he’s got backing up his point of view. “What if I told you that woman and child were in danger? Would you tell me if you’d been in contact with them?”

I notice he doesn’t threaten me with breaking the law by concealing Alice and Oren’s location. He knows that won’t sway me, that I’m more likely to talk if I think I’m protecting them. And it does give me pause. Frank might be a bit officious, he might throw his weight around like most men, and our history predisposes him against me, but he’s not a bad man. If he thinks Alice and Oren are in danger . . . but then I recall that the man who threatened Alice and Oren is dead.

“Of course if I thought a client was in danger I’d do whatever was necessary to keep him or her safe,” I answer, holding Frank’s gaze steadily. We both know this to be true.

Frank gives me a thin-lipped smile. “Always the judge’s daughter, eh, Mattie?” My carefully evasive wording hasn’t gotten past him.

I know I should laugh it off, but I can’t help thinking about the other time he said the same thing to me. The remembrance makes me mad. And as Doreen has often pointed out, I don’t have a filter when I’m mad. “Always the police chief’s son,” I answer back, “snooping into other people’s business.”

Frank’s face flushes red as if I’d slapped him. I’d like to take the words back, not only because they sound like something my mother would say, but because it’s thanks to Frank’s father’s snooping that I’m alive. I start to apologize but he cuts me off. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

I’d almost forgotten saying that and for a moment my mind is completely blank. But then I think of something. “There were some rednecks giving Atefeh a hard time last night in Stewart’s. Some hunters—Jason and Wayne—in a souped-up plow truck.”

Frank nods. “That would be Wayne Marshall,” he says. “You don’t remember him? He was in school with us, a year ahead of me.”

I shake my head, ignoring the implied criticism that I was too stuck-up to take notice of most of the locals.

“Yeah. He lived downstate for a while, divorced, moved back here to take care of his mother when she had cancer. He works for the DEP now and does some snow plowing on the side.”

“Wow,” I say. “Do you know his shoe size too?”

He scowls. “It’s my job to know what people are like. Wayne’s a nice guy. He was giving Atefeh a hard time?”

“No,” I admit. “It was Jason, who Wayne said was his—”

“Dumbass brother-in-law. Yeah, I know him. He is a dumbass. And a racist homophobe. Half the reason I think Wayne sticks around is to keep an eye on his sister and her kids. You can’t pick your family, can you?”

For a moment this sentence hovers in the air between us. We’re both thinking, I imagine, just how little we would have chosen our own families. Except for Caleb. I would always choose Caleb.

Frank narrows his eyes at me, suspicious cop again. “What were you doing at Stewart’s last night?”

“You caught me,” I say, holding my hands up. “I was jonesing for a bear claw.”

He holds my gaze for a long moment, but before he can challenge me someone calls his name. We both look toward the convent and see the unlikely sight of Sister Martine making her way through the snow, the aluminum prow of her walker breaching the drifts like an arctic dogsled. Frank sighs. “I’d better stop her before she breaks something. But seriously, Mattie, if you know the whereabouts of this woman and boy you should tell me. There are things about this case you don’t understand . . .” He looks like there’s more that he wants to say but either he’s afraid Sister Martine is going to fall or there’s information he’s not willing to share with me, and he storms off without another word. I watch him take Sister Martine’s arm and steer her back toward the convent. I can count on Sister Martine to keep him distracted long enough to get Alice and Oren out of here.

I look down the hill and see that Oren and Alice have come out of the maze. I hold up my hand, fingers splayed wide. Then I point to the lower drive, which won’t be visible from Sister Martine’s office. Will they understand that I want them to meet me there in five minutes? When Oren holds up his hand in the same gesture I’m pretty sure he does.

I walk back to the car, keeping an eye out for Frank and going over our conversation in my head. I shouldn’t have let him get me ruffled, but even when we were kids playing on the porch of my father’s law offices, he could rile me up just by looking at me cross-eyed. I shouldn’t have told him about being in Stewart’s last night, but if he warns that idiot away from Atefeh it will be worth it. It occurs to me, though, that I should stop at Stewart’s and ask Atefeh not to mention that I was meeting the bus last night. I hate asking her to lie, but she of all people will understand. I’ve just got to keep Alice and Oren hidden for one night and then they’ll be out of my hands. Which is probably for the best. There was something about Frank’s face when he told me that I didn’t understand the case that makes me think it will be better for everyone when Alice and Oren are gone.