The Innocent

Chapter Three

Fayetta Gibbons had lived all of her life on First Street, in the same house in which she had been born sixty-nine years ago and raised by her beloved parents, Milford and Garnett Gibbons, both dead now almost half a century. They lay buried in the family plot at Holyoke Cemetery four blocks away on Peachtree Street, and a pink marble headstone ornately inscribed with Fayetta’s name and birth date marked a space nearby.

Fayetta’s daily habits always included a short visit to her parents’ graves. No matter the weather, the routine never varied. Depending on the season, she would take fresh flowers from her garden, sometimes for her parents’ graves and sometimes to place in the marble vase attached to her own tombstone in the event that after she was gone, no one else would think to.

Except for her afternoon walks and church on Sundays, Fayetta rarely left her home. She’d never married, never had a suitor that anyone in town knew about, and had never, apparently, been sick a day in her life. As she approached her seventieth birthday, she could become a bit confused at times, but her blue gaze, keen as ball lightning on a hot summer night, still missed precious little of the goings-on around her.

If anyone would have taken note of anything suspicious in the neighborhood on the day of little Sara Beth’s abduction, it would be Fayetta Gibbons, Abby assured Sam.

They waited now on her front porch as she carried out a tray of lemonade and crystal glasses. Sam rose from the wicker rocker he’d been assigned and took the tray from her. Fayetta smiled and batted her lashes at him. “Why, thank you…Mr. Burke, wasn’t it? Such a gentleman,” she said to Abby. “A trait one finds all too rarely these days.” Her blue gaze skimmed Agent Burke’s dark suit approvingly. It wouldn’t matter to Fayetta that he had to be melting in this heat. He looked dignified, and Fayetta came from an era where appearances meant everything. Abby suspected the woman would be wearing hoop skirts if she could find some.

As it was, her starched floral shirtwaist looked fresh and crisp, as if she’d donned it only moments before her callers had arrived. In comparison, Abby felt like something her cats had dragged in. The jeans and T-shirt she’d put on that morning in anticipation of tramping through woods and vacant lots had definitely seen better days. She could feel Fayetta’s ladylike disdain rake over her as smoothly as a butter knife on cream frosting.

Fayetta handed her a glass of lemonade, and Abby gratefully accepted it, resisting the urge to touch the icy glass to the back of her neck.

“So tell me, Abigail. How is your mother? I haven’t seen her in church in ages. Is she still feeling under the weather, poor dear?”

“Mama died three years ago, Miss Gibbons. Don’t you remember? You played the organ at her funeral.”

The blue eyes clouded momentarily, then cleared. “Yes, of course. ‘Amazing Grace,’ wasn’t it? That was always Papa’s favorite. I wore my navy dress, and Trixie Baker did my hair that morning, but I didn’t like the shade. It was too brassy, but Trixie insisted it made me look twenty years younger.” Fayetta patted her impossibly blond hair, pulled back and done up in an elaborate bun—the same style she’d worn since the beginning of time. “An outrageous lie, of course, but one is never too old to enjoy a compliment.” She glanced at Agent Burke hopefully.

She’d seated him in the wicker rocker next to hers. Abby had been relegated to the porch steps, perhaps because of her age, but more likely because Fayetta, even though a spinster, was well practiced in the age-old Southern-Belle tradition of jockeying for the most desirable position next to an attractive gentleman.

But Fayetta needn’t have troubled herself. Her subtle coquetry was lost on Agent Burke because he was no Southerner and, Abby suspected, at times no gentleman. He didn’t quite grasp the expectations of an afternoon call, social or otherwise. He leaned forward, his expression almost stern as he dispensed with the niceties. “Miss Gibbons, we’d like to ask you some questions about the little girl who disappeared from Ferguson’s Drugstore yesterday afternoon.”

Stung by his abruptness, Fayetta sat back in her rocker, fanning herself vigorously with a fan from Grossman’s Funeral Home. “What’s this all about, Abigail? The police have already been here. I told them I didn’t see anything. I wasn’t even home when that poor child was taken. Don’t you think if I’d witnessed anything suspicious, I would have hollered all the way to Kingdom Come and back?”

“This is just routine,” Abby soothed. “We’re talking to everyone who lives on this street. Sometimes people remember things after the initial interview. We came to your house first, that’s all.”

Fayetta gave her a narrowed look. “Have you talked to Gertie Ellers? She’s always got her nose stuck where it doesn’t belong.”

“Unfortunately, Mrs. Ellers is in Biloxi with her daughter and grandchildren. She won’t be home until next week.

Fayetta gave a very unladylike snort. “I declare, I don’t know how anyone could put up with that woman for a whole week. Her daughter must have the patience of a saint is all I can think—”

“Miss Gibbons, these questions are very important,” Agent Burke said impatiently.

The rocking stopped. The fanning ceased. Fayetta shot Abby a look as if to say, How dare you bring this ill-mannered lout to my home?

“Two little girls have gone missing,” Abby explained. “We’re doing everything we can to find them, but we haven’t had much luck so far. I’m sure you’ll forgive us if we sound a little…abrupt.”

A pause, then after a moment, the rocking and fanning resumed. “It is a terrible tragedy,” Fayetta conceded. “But I don’t see how I can help.”

“We’re just trying to establish a routine for this street at the time of day that little Sara Beth went missing. If we get people to think about their whereabouts and activities, they may remember something that can help us.”

“But I already told Sheriff Mooney I wasn’t home. I left for the cemetery at three. Just like I did today. Just like I do every day.”

Sam Burke started to say something, but Abby smoothly waved him off. “Did you walk east on First and then south on Peachtree, or did you take Maple down to Mimosa and then cut over to Peachtree?”

Fayetta scowled. “Does it matter?”

“Sara Beth was picked up from school by her father’s secretary, Luanne Plimpton. According to Miss Plimpton, after they left the school grounds, she drove west on First Street in a silver Lincoln Town Car. We think they may have been followed from the school by Sara Beth’s abductor. If you were walking east on First, toward Peachtree, you might have met them. You could have seen the car.”

“I don’t pay much attention to automobiles,” Fayetta said doubtfully. “Although there was a time when I coveted a Studebaker Papa owned. It was a beautiful car, and it rode like a dream. He never let me drive it, of course, because Mama said that driving wasn’t a seemly pastime for young ladies.” She paused, flashing Abby a knowing look. “I’m sure you must find me hopelessly old-fashioned, Abigail. You Cross gals have always pretty much done as you pleased, and driving cars was the least of it.”

A faint heat stole over Abby’s face. She glanced at Sam Burke who was gazing back at her with…what? Curiosity? Disdain?

More like impatience, she thought. He had little use for all this idle chit-chat, and she knew if she didn’t make headway soon with Fayetta, Agent Burke was liable to try and strong-arm information from the poor woman.

“As I said, the car Luanne Plimpton was driving was a silver Lincoln Town Car. It’s a pretty big car,” Abby added. “Do you remember seeing a car like that on First Street yesterday afternoon?”

Fayetta shook her head. “No, but I didn’t go down First Street. I took Maple over to Mimosa, like you said. It’s a little out of the way, but it’s shadier. I can’t take the heat like I once could. They say once you’ve suffered a heat-stroke, your tolerance for the sun is weakened.”

“What about your return trip? Did you come back the same way?”

“Yes, although by that time of day, First Street has a little shade, too, but I like to look at Inez Wentworth’s garden. She grows roses, you know, but in this heat, you don’t get much of a bloom—”

“What time did you get home?” Abby cut in, her own patience slipping a bit.

“Why, Abigail,” Fayetta said in a wounded tone. “You may have inherited the Cross disposition for trouble, but I know your mother and certainly your Grandmother Eulalia taught you better than to interrupt your elders.”

Abby sighed, running a hand through her damp hair. She avoided Sam Burke’s dark gaze because she knew if her patience was running thin, his had evaporated altogether. “I’m sorry, Miss Gibbons. It’s just that time is of the essence here. We have to find those little girls, no matter whose feelings we may trample on. Those children have to come first. I know you agree.”

Fayetta gave her a grudging nod. “Of course. Ask your questions, Abigail, but I still don’t see—” She stopped herself this time and clamped her lips together, as if that were the only way she could remain silent.

“What time do you think you left the cemetery?” Abby asked.

Fayetta sighed. “It takes me fifteen minutes to walk to the cemetery. That is, if no one stops to talk with me and no one did yesterday. I visited with Mama and Papa for maybe another fifteen minutes, no more, because the heat was so unbearable.”

“So at 3:30, or thereabouts, you were already heading back home on Mimosa. Did you see anything unusual, any strange cars in the neighborhood? Anything at all?”

“No, nothing like that. Except…” Fayetta paused. “I don’t know that I’d call it unusual, because from what I hear, those kids are always getting into some kind of mischief or other. But Tami Pratt’s boys almost got hit by a car. I saw it with my own two eyes.”

“What happened?” Sam Burke was gazing at the poor woman so intently, Abby almost felt sorry for her. Fayetta’s fanning became even more vigorous.

“They were on those blasted skateboards.” She looked extremely indignant. “And you know how kids are with those things. A body’s not safe on the street. I don’t know why something can’t be done.”

Abby refrained from pointing out that there were worse activities for kids to engage in than skateboarding, but she’d heard about the Pratt boys. At thirteen and fifteen, Marcus and Mitchell had already been in a little trouble. Trespassing, vandalism—kid-type pranks that all too often escalated into more serious incidents. Abby jotted their names in her notebook.

“What happened?” she asked.

“They started to cross the street at the corner of Mimosa and Maple, whooping and hollering, not paying any attention to where they were going. When they got into the middle of the street, a car came tearing down Maple. It missed them by only inches, I mean. The two boys started yelling at the driver and shaking their fists, but I think it must have shaken them up pretty badly because they took off like a pair of scalded dogs on those skateboards.”

“What about the car?” Sam Burke queried. “Do you remember the color?”

“Of course. It was white, just like my Papa’s Studebaker.”

“Do you remember the make or model?”

She looked at him as if he were from a different planet.

“Was it old or new?” Abby supplied. “Ford, Chevrolet…”

Fayetta seemed at a loss. “Well, I don’t think it was old,” she finally said. “But I can’t swear that it was new, either. And I don’t know one brand of car from the other. Except for Studebakers. But you don’t see many of those these days.”

“What about dents or scratches, anything about it that might have stood out in your mind?”

She shook her head. “No. It was just a white car.”

“Two-door or four-door?”

“I—I’m not sure.”

“Did the driver get out of the car?” Agent Burke asked.

“No, but I imagine he was shaken up as well. You know how people like to sue these days, and from what I hear, Tami Pratt doesn’t have a nickel to her name since that no-good husband of hers took off with Wanda Jean—

“How long did the driver remain at the intersection?”

“No more than a second or two. Then he drove off like the devil himself was after him.”

“He?”

Fayetta hesitated. “I say he. I guess I still assume all drivers are men, but that’s not the case these days, is it? It could have been a woman.”

“You didn’t get a look at the driver’s face?” Abby asked.

“There wasn’t time. It all happened so fast, and I think he was wearing a cap or something. I was more concerned about the child in the back seat. She wasn’t wearing a seat belt. It’s a thousand wonders that poor little thing wasn’t thrown clean through the windshield.”

“YEAH, RIGHT, you’re an FBI agent,” Marcus Pratt jeered an hour later when they’d tracked the boys down and Sam had introduced himself. As their mother had suggested, Sam and Abby had found the boys skateboarding at an abandoned gas station a few blocks from their home, blithely ignoring the No Trespassing signs posted in conspicuous areas.

“What makes you think I’m not FBI?” Sam asked.

“Because you’re way too old, man. I bet you couldn’t chase down a crook if your life depended on it.”

“We can’t all look like Agent Mulder,” Sam said, nodding toward the “X-Files” T-shirt the younger boy wore. He glanced at Abby and saw that she was trying hard, without much success, to hide a grin. She would find this amusing, he thought dryly, especially after he’d come down so hard on her after the interview with Fayetta Gibbons.

“Didn’t you people even talk to that woman? We should have known about that car twenty-four hours ago. It could have made all the difference.”

“You don’t know that,” Abby had retorted. “Sara Beth might not have been the child Fayetta saw in the back seat. And besides, if it hadn’t been for me, we still wouldn’t even know about the white car, and we wouldn’t know about the other two possible witnesses. I didn’t see you glean much information from her, especially after you alienated her five seconds into the interview.”

She was right, of course. Abby had an easy rapport with the locals that made them trust her in a way they never would an outsider. But that knowledge didn’t lessen Sam’s frustration. In truth, it probably added to it.

He didn’t know why Abby Cross grated on his nerves the way she did, or why he felt an almost compulsive need to pick an argument with her and to find fault with her. Maybe it was the heat and the tension of working a life-and-death case.

Or maybe it was because he just didn’t want to acknowledge the sexual tension that had been dancing between them like a live wire all afternoon.

She’s too young for you, a voice warned inside his head. Too young and too naive.

But, unfortunately, his body was telling him something else.

Marcus Pratt’s derisive snicker drew Sam’s attention back to the conversation with an unpleasant thud. “Agent Mulder you definitely ain’t,” the kid taunted. “Skinner maybe,” he added, alluding to an older—and balder—character on the same show.

Sam suppressed the urge to run his hand through his hair—still thick in most places—along with the desire to muzzle the boy’s smart mouth. At fifteen, Marcus Pratt had obviously developed an unhealthy contempt for authority figures, male ones especially. It was an attitude that would likely carry him far in life. First to school detention. Then juvenile hall. Then prison, if something didn’t happen to get him back on track.

Sam recognized the type. The father had deserted the family, leaving a young mother to cope with the difficulties of raising two boys. But Tami Pratt was no shrinking violet. Sam had gotten the impression that the woman’s personality could be a bit overwhelming at times, and her oldest son was desperately trying to assert his masculine dominance. To make matters worse, he was slight for his age. What he lacked in stature, he tried to make up for in bluster.

His thirteen-year-old brother was almost as tall, but there was no mistaking the pecking order. Mitchell hung back, swiping his dirty blond hair out of his face while he allowed his brother to do all the talking.

“We’d like to ask you boys a few questions, if you don’t mind,” Abby said.

Marcus cocked his head toward her. “So who’s she supposed to be? Agent Scully?”

His insolent gaze raked over Abby’s jeans and T-shirt in a manner that set Sam’s teeth on edge. Was it his imagination, or had Sergeant Cross’s clothing gotten more snug as the day wore on?

Apparently he shared the same image with Marcus Pratt. The kid gave a low whistle. “Not bad,” he muttered, staring at Abby in a way no kid should be allowed to.

Leering should be reserved for dirty old men, Sam decided. Like himself.

“I’m Sergeant Cross,” Abby said coolly, flashing her ID in Marcus’s face. Her shield was clipped to the waistband of her jeans, and she made sure the kid saw it. “I’m a detective with the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department. We’re investigating the disappearances of two little girls.”

“So? What do you expect us to do about it? Pin a medal on you or something?” He glanced at his grinning brother.

“The girls’ names are Emily Campbell and Sara Beth Brodie. Maybe you heard about the disappearances on the news?” When he merely stared at her sullenly, Abby’s mouth tightened. “We have reason to believe you two boys were in the vicinity at the time Sara Beth Brodie went missing.”

Marcus flicked back a long strand of hair from his face. “What do we look like, kidnappers?”

“We’re not accusing you of anything. But we’ve got a witness who can place you on Mimosa Street near Holyoke Cemetery at around 3:30 yesterday afternoon.”

“You ain’t got squat,” the kid said with practiced aplomb. “We were home all afternoon. Right, Mitch?”

The younger boy swallowed and nodded, his gaze darting first to Sam and then back to his brother. “Uh, yeah.”

“That’s not exactly what your mother told us,” Sam said.

Marcus’s face turned beet red. “You already talked to our old lady about this? Hell, man. What’d you have to go and do that for?”

At last, a chink in the kid’s armor, Sam thought.

“Let’s try this again,” Abby said, pushing her dark hair behind her ears. “Were you and your brother on Mimosa Street yesterday or not?”

Another glance passed between the two boys. “What if we were?”

“Were you almost hit by a car?”

His gaze narrowed. “How’d you know—” He clammed up, realizing he’d given himself away.

“About that car,” Abby said firmly. “Do you remember what color it was?”

“Maybe white. Maybe not.”

“Was it white or wasn’t it?” Sam demanded.

Marcus slanted him a surly glance, almost daring Sam to get violent with him. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

Sam took the kid’s arm, not applying enough pressure to hurt him, but making sure the boy knew he meant business. “Now you listen to me, kid. Two little girls are missing. Their lives are at stake. I don’t have the time or the patience for your attitude. You’re a bad ass. Okay. We got it. Now answer Sergeant Cross’s questions.” He didn’t say “or else.” He didn’t have to.

Something that might have been respect glimmered in the boy’s eyes before he replaced it with a scowl. He rubbed his arm. “The car was white.”

“Did you recognize the make or model?” Abby asked, flashing Sam a look he couldn’t quite fathom.

Marcus shrugged. “How should I know? I didn’t hang around long enough to find out.” But he eased away from Sam as he said it.

“It was a Chevy,” Mitchell said, speaking up for the first time. “Maybe a ’91 or ’92 Caprice. Something like that.”

Sam gazed down at the boy. “You sure about that, son?”

“Don’t call him son,” Marcus snapped. “You’re not his old man.”

“I know cars,” Mitchell said shyly. “My dad’s got a ’67 Camaro we aim to fix up.”

“Yeah, right. When hell freezes over,” Marcus muttered.

“Mitchell.” Sam walked over and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. It was thin and bony, making him seem younger than his age and vulnerable somehow.

For a moment, Sam’s heart seemed to stop. It had been a long time since he’d been around kids. After their son had died, he and Norah had cut themselves off from friends and acquaintances with children. Eventually, they’d cut themselves off from each other. Norah had found solace in her own way, and Sam had immersed himself in work, in cases so sordid and gruesome he had no time to think of his own misery. To wonder what might have been.

But as he gazed down at Mitchell Pratt, he suddenly saw another boy’s eyes staring up at him. He suddenly wondered if he would have been the kind of father a son would be proud of. The kind of father a boy could count on.

He wondered if he would have been a better father than he had been a husband.

Not that it mattered. He’d lost Jonathan to cancer, Norah to neglect, and Sam didn’t plan to ever remarry. And now he was too old to start a family, even if he wanted to, which he didn’t. Jonathan could never be replaced, and besides, if he’d learned anything in his twenty-year journey into darkness, it was that too damned much of this world was not a nice place for children.

Even a town called Eden.

He glanced at Abby and found that she was gazing back at him. Her expression was puzzled, as if she’d glimpsed something in him that she hadn’t expected to see. That he might not want her to see.

His grasp on Mitchell’s shoulder tightened almost imperceptibly. “You’re certain about everything you told us?” he asked again.

Mitchell nodded solemnly.

“He knows a lot about cars,” Marcus said grudgingly. “He hangs around garages every chance he gets. If Mitchell says it was a Caprice, then that’s what it was.”

“What about a license-plate number?” Sam asked hopefully.

They both shook their heads.

“Either of you get a look at the driver?”

Marcus shrugged. “Other than the fact that the guy was a lousy driver, I didn’t pay much attention to him.”

“Was anyone else in the car?” Abby asked.

“Didn’t see anyone else.”

“Not even in the back seat? A child maybe?”

“Look, I said I didn’t see anyone else, okay?”

“What about you, Mitchell?” Sam asked softly. “You see anyone else in the car?”

“Naw.” The boy shook his head. “But I didn’t really look.”

“Then how can you be certain the driver was male?”

“He had on a baseball cap,” Marcus said. “And sunglasses. I guess it could have been a chick. But not like Agent Scully here. Her, I would’ve remembered.”

Abby gave him a cool smile and a card. “You boys think of anything else that might help us out, give me a call at this number.”

She handed Mitchell a card, too, and he gazed at it for a moment, then stuffed it in his pocket. To Sam he said shyly, “Could I have one of your cards, too?”

Sam fished a card out of his pocket and handed it to the boy. It had the FBI seal on the front and a number at Quantico. “Cool,” Mitchell said. “I never met an FBI agent before.”

“Yeah,” Marcus agreed dryly. “It’s been a real thrill.”