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Ten

On the night the lucky (or unlucky, depending on your perspective) bag lady first appeared on the streets of Seattle, Rose Samson sat by her fire in Bremerton, reading the book that had (not quite) miraculously appeared on her doorknob.

Felicity was right. Rose certainly found these fairy tales believable—at least, all but the magic parts. Poverty, famine, wife battering, child abuse, cannibalism, incest (funny how it never mentioned in the Disney versions that the prototype of Cinderella ran away from her father to avoid becoming an incest victim, and in the original tale, Sleeping Beauty was raped by the king who found her, not merely kissed) and plague. What she found the most disturbing was the way the good guys and bad guys were so firmly separated, but then, children often looked at things that way, at least where it concerned the deeds of other people.

Not that these seemed to be for children at all. Had they been made into unedited films, many of the tales would have had to fight for a PG rating. Classic Oedipus and Electra complexes and sibling rivalry abounded. After the first twenty tales, Rose put the book down. It was too much like a busman's holiday, trying to read stuff that was so disturbingly familiar.

The girl in "The Handless Maiden." There'd been the case of the twelve-year-old whose rapist had cut off her hands to—what? To cut off her hands, Rose supposed. Wantonly mutilating an already helpless victim. The girl was fifteen now, and still in physical therapy provided by the State, since the family had no money. In the Grimm story, the handless maiden was the victim of incest. In real life, in this case, the girl at least had the mercy of not having had the rape and mutilation inflicted upon her by her own family. Other kids, with other mutilations, weren't so lucky. A hell of a lot of them didn't survive, the ones who as babies had their heads bashed against walls, were sat on stove burners or burned with cigarettes. Nope, there was nothing old-fashioned about that story at all.

And Rapunzel. Two weeks ago there'd been the quiet family who went away for a couple of weeks and forgot and left a tap on. When a kindly neighbor noticed the water running out the front door and called the utilities company to shut it off, they discovered in an upstairs bedroom a young girl left alone, filthy and neglected in a built-up baby's playpen. Her hair was so long it might well have never been cut and her nails were filthy and broken, her skin lacerated. No loving rescuer for that child. If she was sane a day in her life after that, she'd be damned lucky.

These were not airy-fairy stuff after all, but thinly disguised, gossipy versions of news stories. Grimm always painted the victims as good and kind and beautiful, of course. The truth was that a child treated that way, one who survived such treatment, had a much better chance of growing up as twisted as the people who hurt it.

She realized uncomfortably that reading the stories was giving her a little insight into other, more personal reasons why she didn't like fairy tales, and she simply wasn't prepared to deal with it that night.

Instead, she put down the Grimms' tales and reached for her secret vice, a romance novel, and read a few pages before she fell asleep. Felicity was right about that too. There wasn't nearly enough of this sort of thing in the real world. At least not for her. She knew some very sweet guys, but most of them were either involved or gay and the ones who weren't were friends. They confided their own romantic problems to her and she hated to wreck the friendships by trying to make more of it. Although—although there was at least one—Fred and the little girl's silly uniformed teddy bear popped into her head again. Was he maybe a little attracted to her? Was the suggestion to do lunch more than just a pleasantry? Of course, he was no doubt involved or even married or something, just her luck, or a total jerk. Maybe Felicity's craziness was rubbing off on her, but a little harmless fantasy never hurt anyone, and it was preferable to drop off to sleep remembering how glad he had seemed to see her again ("Hello, officer. Is that your nightstick or are you just glad to see me?" the old Mae West line intruded itself irreverently into her fantasy) than thinking about those god-awful fairy tales.

 

* * *

 

But if the fairy tales in Rose's book were Grimm, the Monday morning news was grimmer.

Thousands more people had been laid off and were lining up at the unemployment office. Gangs of Asian teens beat elderly people in the International District, as gangs of black teens and white teens and Hispanic teens vied for power, weapons and drugs, turning the streets into battle-grounds. Drive-by shootings on the freeway were making driving I-5 akin to playing Russian roulette. Police blotters were full of junkie mothers who sold their children to pederasts and child pornography buffs for a few dollars worth of crack. Hospitals were swamped with crack babies who couldn't track, couldn't respond, couldn't love, could do nothing but cry. And at work, Rose's desk was even more full of heartbreak than usual.

Polly Reynaud's father had been caught molesting the daughter of one of his beer-drinking buddies and was back in jail. Polly, instead of being returned to her former foster family, was with a new one that contained at least two older boys, both with records. Why in the hell hadn't Hager just called the former foster parents? They'd have taken Polly back at once. Then there was Yasmin Chu, who'd been in detox and trying to break away from her gang. Detox reported she had walked out in the company of six other girls. And poor Dico Miller, shivering on the streets, now had a cat to look after thanks to Felicity's marvelous magic. Boy, had she been a nut to fall for that. She was going to have words with Linden when she returned.

"Rose, pick up on line one," George hollered over the barrier between their desks.

"Department of Family Services, Ms. Samson speaking," she said.

"Hiya, Rose. Did you ever get any sleep the other night?"

"Fred!" Now, here was a bright spot in a bad morning. "It was great seeing you again. How ya doin'?"

"I'm fine, Rosie, but I'm pretty concerned about Hank and Gigi, the little kids I brought in to you the other night. They seem to be missing again—this time along with their mama."

"Oh, no!" she said. The picture of the little girl still clutching the uniformed bear was fresh in her mind. And quite aside from the realization that returning children to bad family situations caused harm to the children, it was also a pain in the ass to think you had a situation sorted out only to have to deal with it all over again a day or two later. "Damn. I was hoping to fit in a home visit this week to see what the situation is. Their mother seems to be a pretty absentminded shopper."

"Yeah, that was my impression too. And of course, they may all be out together having a good time somewhere, but the father returned from fishing in Alaska yesterday afternoon and when he got to the aunt's place, he found the kids and their mother gone. He says the mother's sister claims she's got no idea where the kids are, but when he pressed her she sneered at him, saying the mother ran off with a man she met at the topless club she works at."

"Did she know if the kids were still with the mother?" Rose asked. "Maybe she did get a new boyfriend, but she may very well have taken the children along. Perhaps she and the aunt had a falling out."

"You're being optimistic, Rosie. If that was so, why did she abandon them in the first place? My guess is that the boyfriend wanted her but not the kids and she dumped them and we brought them back just before she was ready to make her move, so she dumped them again."

Rose didn't ask what kind of a mother would do that. She had known scores of them. If only the new head of the department the governor had appointed had ever worked in any branch of social services at all, he would know how foolish it was to return hurt or neglected children to their families before investigating the situation. Unfortunately, the man's main qualification for his position was that he had contributed heavily to Governor Higgins's campaign. His background, she had heard, consisted of being extremely well connected politically with a group of highly conservative, fundamentalist religion-backed wealthy movers and shakers. She had heard he had no previous job experience that anyone knew of, but lived off a healthy trust fund from inherited stock in a chemical company of some sort. She had never met him, but he and his political cronies in the legislature and the state supreme court were responsible for the new rules that made the sovereignty of the family take precedence over the good of the children. And any man who thought Bitsy Hager would be a good supervisor was obviously uninterested in reality.

"I called on the aunt," Fred continued. "Even though I couldn't do anything about it all officially, she gave me the boyfriend's name. I have a feeling he may be mixed up in drugs because she was tanked and seemed afraid, initially, to tell me who he was, but she couldn't afford to be arrested for impeding the investigation either. One of the things that makes me most worried about the kids, in fact, is that the aunt, however much she denied knowing anything, did seem to take it for granted that something had happened to them, and that if she didn't cooperate she would be party to a crime. So she did disclose the boyfriend's name, but when I checked out the home and work numbers of the man, he wasn't at home and officially started vacation from work today. We're checking airlines and cruise ships, the Amtrak and bus tour companies as a matter of course, but haven't turned up anything yet. Meanwhile, since there's what you might call a pattern established, we're asking the assistance of the departments throughout King, Pierce, and Kitsap Counties in searching the malls, and just for good measure I've got a buddy in the department in Clallam County checking out the Bjornsens with former friends and neighbors in Forks."

"I'm so glad you called to tell me, Fred," she said. Most police officers wouldn't think of it. "If they come in for any reason, or if I hear anything, I'll call you at once."

"I'd appreciate that, Rose. I'd just let this go through channels but in the department's previous dealings with her, the new supervisor has been, shall we say, less than responsive to the needs of both the kids and the investigating officers."

"I understand perfectly. Was there anything else?"

"One more thing along the same line, as long as I've got you on the phone. Pete Hamish in vice tells me you were the assigned caseworker about two months ago when a thirteen-year-old girl named Snohomish Quantrill, the daughter of some rock star, was picked up for suspicion of soliciting and possession?"

"Oh, sure, I remember Sno okay. Not a bad kid really. Her mother died not too long ago, you know, and I think there's been a little tension between her and her father's new wife. The drug thing seemed to be still in the experimental stages, from what I could tell, and though your officer wasn't entirely convinced, I really think the soliciting charge was a misunderstanding. She said she was just hangin' on the streets to get out of the house."

"Well, she's out of it now. She's been missing since Friday afternoon."

"Missing? There was nothing about it on the news."

"Her father was just getting to bed during the morning news and, after a long hard weekend, finally noticed that the kid wasn't home, preparing for school. The stepmother has been at a fat farm since Friday morning, and apparently nobody else missed the girl either."

Rose groaned. "Oh, Jesus, I hope she's not on the streets again. She was pretty stoned when she was out there panhandling, and damned near got hysterical when the vice guy asked her if she was interested in doing what teenage girls on the street usually do for money. I'm not saying she's an innocent or anything—it'd be pretty hard to be, growing up in Raydir Quantrill's household—but she'd lived with her grandmother and her mother until her mother died recently and I think the drugs were sort of self-medication for her grief. If she did start hooking, I'd say it would be mostly to get the attention she doesn't get from her father. Not that she wants that kind of attention."

"Yeah, well, it may occur to her that going pro will get her the money for the self-medication and the attention, but her father slapped her in a private school and says she's been doing really well so far according to the school, but who knows? The stepmother's maid says the stepmom is a little more realistic about the kid and wouldn't put anything past her."

"Just what that kid needs. I got a little sidetracked talking about her, to tell you the truth. What I meant to ask you was if there was any chance she had been on the streets again. I hate to borrow trouble, but the first thing that I thought of was all those poor murdered hookers. A lot of those girls were underage."

It was Fred's turn to groan. "Yeah, that occurred to me too. But if she's been murdered, it seems to be unrelated, since the last anybody saw of her was when she was picked up from school by someone claiming to have come from her parents."

"It's Clarke Academy, if I remember correctly. Uniforms, security, very nice."

"Yeah. And very put out that the girl was apparently snatched with their full cooperation. The limo driver says he came to pick her up the same as usual, but she'd already ridden away with the guy on the Harley. The school claims he had a release letter identical to the one the limo driver shows every day."

"Maybe it was a boyfriend and they cooked it up between them," Rose said hopefully.

"Yeah, and maybe it was Evel Knievel come to take her to a rally. There's been no body found and no ransom note so far, so that's something. So let us know if you or anybody else over there hears anything about her or sees her, will you? Tell any of your clients who frequent the streets that the girl's father is offering a reward for information leading to her whereabouts."

"Be glad to," Rose said. "That's a good idea. It should turn up some leads."

"Too many, probably," he said ruefully. "Anyhow, call me if anything turns up, okay?"

"You bet," Rose said.

"Gotta go. Take care of yourself, Rosie."

"You too," she said, smiling. There was that warmth again, in his voice and in her own, that she hadn't remembered being there when he worked security. Joining the sheriff's department didn't seem to have changed him much. He was still interested in protecting and helping people, an attitude that often eroded in even the most conscientious officers once they burned out. She hoped that wouldn't happen to him.

She hung up and turned to face the client who had just come in. The client was a slightly heavyset black woman, her hair relaxed into careful waves. She wore a neat pair of slacks and a matching T-shirt under a waist-length purple jacket. On her feet were a pair of white nurse's oxfords. She set a sheaf of papers on Rose's desk.

"How can I help you?" Rose asked as pleasantly as possible. Nevertheless the woman, who had maintained a stoic and slightly angry expression until then, suddenly looked as if she was going to cry. Rose scooted the Kleenex box closer to her.

"I'm sorry to be here. Sorry to bother you. I never thought I'd have to come to someplace like this, but I need help for my kids. It's not for me. I held out as long as I can but, well, with the youngest being sick and me having to take off work to see to her, I—I . . ."

"Slow down," Rose said. "Tell me slowly now. You have a sick child?"

"Yes. Oh, she's better now but there's not enough food in the house to feed her and . . ."

"Easy. Okay, where do you work?"

"I did work at St. Barbara's Hospital, but I was fired last week. That's why I'm here. I haven't been able to go look for a job and I'm so afraid we'll—"

"Why did they fire you?" Rose asked.

"I've got the letter right here," the lady said.

"Wait, first things first. I'm Rose Samson and you are?"

"Paula Reece."

"Okay, Paula," she said and looked over the letter. "The hospital says they're firing you because your wages were garnisheed, is that right?"

"Yes, but—"

"Who garnisheed them?"

"The hospital did."

"No, I mean, who does the hospital have to give the money to?"

"To themselves. It's very complicated and really, really dumb." Paula Reece no longer seemed to want to cry. Instead, she was becoming indignant. "A month ago my youngest started running a fever and before I knew what was happening, fell into a coma. Well, I've worked at St. Barbara's for fifteen years, so of course I took 'Cilla, that's my youngest, Priscilla Anise. My other child is a boy, Malik. He's nine. Anyway, 'Cilla was diagnosed with bacterial meningitis. Ms. Samson, they had to fight for her life. She was on a respirator for a while and they had to do all kinds of tests and she was in the hospital three weeks. Thank God she even survived. And the doctors and the nurses, they were real good to her and looked after her real good. Supervisor said I should take however long I needed to be with her. But, well, then the bills came."

"And your insurance didn't cover it?"

Paula snorted. "Ms. Samson, I worked there fifteen years but I got no insurance. You know how much it would be for a woman and two little kids? More than I make a month."

"Don't you get hospitalization?"

"No, ma'am."

"I thought St. Barbara's provided it for their employees."

"Only for full-time. I'm a part-time employee."

"After fifteen years?"

"That's right, ma'am. I work thirty-nine hours a week, not counting overtime. Lots of us nursing assistants do and even some of the licensed practicals and RNs. I get no hospitalization, no vacation and I'm not supposed to get any sick time either, except the supervisor was so nice to me. But the business office made up for it. I went to see them about the bills and told them I couldn't pay. The woman I talked to just listened and nodded, but when I went back to work and went to pick up my first paycheck, and believe me, Ms. Samson, we needed that paycheck, I was told my wages had been garnisheed. Then today I get this in the mail, telling me I'm fired because the hospital thinks I'm a bad person for having my wages garnisheed and they were the ones who garnisheed them."

Rose read the documentation the woman had very wisely brought along to present her case. Doctors' reports on 'Cilla's illness, the bill, her work contract denying her hospitalization, the garnishment, and the letter of termination. Rose sighed, half in sympathy for Paula, half in disgust at her employers.

"Will food coupons help? I wish we could do more, but you see how it is." She indicated the office full of people.

"Anything you can do will help," Paula Reece said. "I am not a deadbeat, Ms. Samson, and I'm lookin' for a job already. Every hospital in town is cryin' for help—as long as it's only thirty-nine hours a week and you're willing to work any shift. But yes, ma'am, food coupons will definitely help in the meantime."

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Framed