Chapter 8

Darlia had homework that had languished while the Delgados were there, so she went off to her room to take care of that. Cecelia went into the kitchen and peered into the refrigerator. While she contemplated supper options, I said, "Al's father is in town, looking for her."

She straightened up in a hurry, and looked at me with rare intensity. "You are speaking of the creature who raped her for two years before she ran away?"

"Yeah, that one."

I could count on the fingers of my hands – maybe just one hand – the times I'd seen Cecelia slam a door. She slammed the refrigerator shut. "He had best not come within my arm's reach," she said, and then I could almost see her mentally backing up. "But how do you know this?"

"You know I don't believe in coincidences, right? Well, I'm about to. A guy come into the office Friday wanting to find his daughter – to apologize, he said – and I told him I'd think about it over the weekend and let him know today. Well, I decided to take the case, and he had a whole file of reports from other PIs who've traced her through several cities from Seattle to here. While I started looking over the stuff I sent him out to Marla to do the contract. And then I came across his name. I had Marla bring in our copy of the contract, and there it was – his name's Vernon Hitt, and he wants me to find Alison Burdett Hitt."

"Alison McGee's maiden name."

"Yep."

Cecelia looked at me for a moment. I looked back, and even as upset as I'd become telling her about it, I noticed how wonderful she looked. She was wearing one of her velveteen Navajo-style skirts, with a concha and turquoise belt – real silver and turquoise too. She had on one of her rare tops that shows her arms, a white blouse with sleeves that hit about the middle of her biceps and a wide collar that she'd lifted up so that it framed her face. She doesn't always dress conventionally, but I've never yet seen her when she didn't dress well and gloriously.

Finally she spoke. "What did you do to this ... person?"

"He was gone by the time I realized who he was. Good thing too. I punched out the wall." And I showed her my skinned knuckles.

Normally she would have shown some concern for my injury, even if it was only to take my hand and pretend to fix the boo-boo. Now she just glanced at my knuckles and then looked back into my eyes. "Darvin, I forbid you to lay hands on that man."

"You forbid me?" I wasn't angry, just incredulous. Cecelia has, very occasionally, given me orders when she knew what she was doing and there was no time for discussion. But she had never before sounded like a tyrant.

"Yes, I forbid you." She stepped closer to me, and the harsh lines of her angry face softened. "You know that I have no more use for child molesters than you do. But I am not so much concerned for what might happen to this particular specimen, as I am concerned about what would happen to you if you gave in to your passion. I know what happened in Red Hawk, Darvin, and I do not wish you to suffer any more."

"Do you think you could live with a killer?"

"If you had killed someone in defense of yourself, of me or Darlia, or of someone else who was in legitimate danger, I would live with you willingly. But I don't think either of us could live with a murderer."

I pondered that. I've never killed anyone and like it that way, but once I had surely meant to. When that guy had commenced to shooting through his window I'd fired back, and it was only the adrenaline of my stark terror that kept me from doing more than wound him in the shoulder. I still have occasional nightmares about that shooting. "No," I finally said, "I don't suppose either of us could. I know I couldn't, never mind the problem of sitting in a cell for the rest of my life. But Cecelia, tell me how such a monster deserves to live."