Behind Closed Doors

“Good God in Heaven! Did they both—”

“Yes.” Harry interrupted before his father could verbalize the image still persecuting him.

Kaleb’s sigh said more than any words could.

“Just a second, Alicia,” he heard his father say a moment later. “It’s bad and I need to help Harry first.”

Help him. And how did his father propose to do that? This wasn’t a lost position on a Little League team, or a failing grade. Could his father travel back in time, wipe out the grueling events? Could he clear away the sense of violation Laura would feel for the rest of her life?

Kaleb asked the same questions Harry would’ve asked, questions the detectives had asked. Alicia was strangely silent and Harry knew she’d pieced together enough to guess what had happened.

In his mind’s eye he saw the tears streaming down her face.

“It was because of me, Dad.” He said aloud what he’d known since those whispered words had struck his heart.

“Don’t you even start thinking like that, boy.” The sternness in Kaleb’s voice contrasted sharply with the compassionate outrage he’d shown Harry thus far. “Two against one? There’s nothing you could’ve done—except get yourself killed.”

Yeah, well, if they’d killed him, maybe they wouldn’t have gone after Laura. Without him in the picture there’d been no need.

“It was a hate crime—because I’m black and she’s white.”

Silence fell on the line. And then… “Times have changed, son. The world today is different from the one your mother and I grew up in. You know that. You’ve always known that. Look at us—two black people living in a white neighborhood and your mother’s president of the homeowners’ association. We live in a society of freedom and acceptance. At least as far as the color of our skin is concerned.”

Kaleb didn’t really believe that. And he knew Harry didn’t either. But it was the edict by which they lived.

And they’d found acceptance by doing exactly that.

“The guy with his hands around my throat spoke just as his buddy was approaching Laura.” The words stuck in his throat.

“What did he say?”

“White should stay with white.”

“Donahue.”

“Daniel Boyd here, Mr. Donahue.”

“Detective. It’s been months. Do you have any news on my wife? Is that why you’re calling?”

“You weren’t married to Amanda Blake,” Daniel said. For a brief time the previous year, he’d believed the missing Flagstaff woman had been kidnapped and was being held by a man at a motel in Tuscon, but she’d disappeared again before he had any real proof. A frantic Donahue had called him half a dozen times a day for two weeks, and while Daniel could have diverted the calls, he’d taken every one of them.

“She wore my ring. Bore my son.” Bobby Donahue’s words were softly spoken, his voice subdued.

His grief was real, which was why, in spite of what he and much of Arizona’s law enforcement believed about Donahue’s “business,” his “church,” Daniel had taken the time to speak with him.

“As far as I’m concerned, your wife’s case is closed,” he said now, before the younger man got himself worked up with hope again. “The woman who was seen at the Desert Stop motel fitting her description gave false identification and left no forwarding address. She is untraceable. She could be anywhere—or she could be dead. Unless she shows up again, there’s nothing more I can do.”

“Oh.” The deflation evident in that one word struck Daniel, despite his cynicism about Bobby Donahue. “So why am I getting a call from the Tucson police?” Donahue asked.

“Tell me you didn’t order a rape in Tucson. A white woman married to a black man.” The intricate and seemingly foolproof disguises Donahue used to cover his white supremacist activities didn’t fool Daniel for a second.

“What? Of course I didn’t.”

“You’re sure?”

“As God is my witness.”

“If I find out you’re lying to me, I’m going to hunt you down, my friend, and just like you, I don’t feel any particular need to play by the rules.”

“I understand, Detective. You helped me with Amanda. I owe you and I’m a man of honor.”

And that, Daniel knew to be true. In his own twisted way, Bobby Donahue was a trustworthy, loyal and God-fearing man.

“If I ever ordered a rape, which I would never, of course, do, I simply wouldn’t answer your question.”

Satisfied, Daniel Boyd nodded. And silently disconnected the call.

At first Laura didn’t recognize the despair that accompanied her waking to a bright new day. She stretched. And her entire body ached. She felt a chafing between her legs.

“Hi.” Harry, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, his hair still wet from the shower, sat up against the pillows beside her, smiling down at her.

At least, his lips smiled. His eyes searched hers, sending love—and seeking it. Seeking reassurance.

It was something she couldn’t give.

“Hi.” Breaking eye contact, she sat up, pulling the covers over her chest.

“You should probably call your folks. Your mother will be starting to wonder why she hasn’t heard from you.”

Glancing at the small LED screen on the guest-room night table, Laura was shocked to see that it was almost eleven. Unless she was away she called her mother every Saturday morning. It was a kind of unwritten rule. Her mother didn’t meddle in Laura’s affairs—and Laura checked in regularly.

“I’m not ready to talk to them yet.” She thought about it. Tried to push herself. And felt tears choking her throat.

Her mother would take it hard—reacting to the attack as strongly as if it had happened to her. Laura couldn’t experience those feelings again right now. Couldn’t live through the commiseration and compassion that would allow her to fall apart completely.

If she did that, she’d never be able to pull herself back together.

“I called Dad.”

Thoughts of Kaleb and Alicia Kendall brought a tiny hint of warmth. Until she envisioned their reaction to—

“They want to see you, but will wait to visit until we’re ready. They asked if you want to go to Oregon and stay with them for a bit. And Mom says she’ll have her cell with her at all times if you need to talk.”

“Could you call them for me, please?” Laura asked. Harry’s parents had always been a safe place for her, for both of them. Not only accepting their love, but rejoicing in it. Welcoming her, a white woman, into their family. “Let them know I can’t answer any questions yet, if that’s okay, but I’d like to hear their voices.”

Harry had the phone to his ear before she’d finished the last sentence.

Daniel Boyd had worked easier cases than the Kendall rape. And harder ones. He was going over the scant information he had as he pulled up in front of their home late Saturday afternoon, then started up the walk to their door. He straightened his shoulders. Experience had taught him that there was no way to be prepared for whatever scene would take place inside that house. He was familiar with the range of emotions that might be released—anger, pain, grief, guilt—and could never predict which ones he’d face. Experience had also taught him that the sooner he uncovered more evidence, the higher his chances of finding the perpetrators of this particular nightmare.