gotten sort of crazy over here.”
“You sound like you've been running.”
“Running? You mean like working out?” Her laugh sounded cynical. “Not really … I've come into a little trouble though.”
“Trouble?”
“Yeah.”
My gut tightened. I could hear a hollow scraping in the background, like the sound of a desk drawer being pulled open, an echo that could have been reverberating off cinderblock walls. Someone in the background coughed.
“What's going on, Nicky?”
She didn't answer right away. She was still breathing hard, and I could tell she was trying hard not to cry, so I waited.
“Well, for one thing, I'm in jail,” she finally said.
7
For the second time in less than forty-eight hours I arrived in Leonardston, Virginia; this time with my overnight bag packed and Armistead riding securely in her hawk-box in back. The place had all the appearance of a quiet Sunday night in a small Southern town. If I weren't so worried about Nicole, I might even have been entranced by the bucolic splendor.
Near the school something flashed in the corner of my eye. Just in time for me to slam on the brakes as a group of four or five kids on mountain bikes sailed across the road in front of me. None of them looked my way—they seemed oblivious to the accident they had almost caused. But before they disappeared over an embankment, the last one in line acknowledged my presence for all of them: he flipped me the bird. So much for bucolic splendor.
A recently built municipal building bore an impressive sign for the sheriff's department and, I knew, the jail. Aerials and satellite dishes protruded from the roof. Gray walls matched a flagstone sidewalk. Inside was a small reception area with a Formica-topped counter. A deputy with skin the color of mahogany and a uniform that appeared almost ready to burst apart at the seams, stood his post. He studied me, eyes flat and expressionless and dark as coals.
“Can I help you?” His voice was a deep bass.
“Yes. I'm here to see a prisoner, if that's possible. Her name is Nicole Pavlicek.”
“And you are?”
“My name is Frank Pavlicek. I'm Nicole's father.”
Some flicker of recognition seemed to enter his mind. He squinted, shifted his feet, and put his thumbs inside his gun belt. “It's after regular hours. Wait here a second,” he said and started to turn away.
“Before you go, better let me check my weapon,” I said. I smiled and slipped off my jacket, undid the holster, and handed it to him.
“You a cop or something?”
“No. But I used to be.”
He nodded, slid open a desk drawer, placed the holster inside, and locked it. “Thank you, sir. I'll be right back.”
People up north tend to think hicks from small Southern towns are either ignorant, naive, or both. I had made the same mistake when I first moved to Virginia, misconstruing civility for stupidity or weakness. I didn't anymore.
In less than a minute the deputy was back. A door opened at the side and he came through it followed by none other than Sheriff Cowan.
“Well, hello, Mr. Pavlicek. We meet again.” His smile was almost an accusation as we shook hands once more.
“Working late, aren't you, sheriff?”
He shrugged. “Comes with the job. Why don't you all come on back to my office and we can talk before we take you back to see your little girl.”
The last time I'd thought of Nicole as little was on her ninth birthday, but I said nothing. I followed him through a door and down a corridor that smelled faintly of disinfectant.
“Coffee?” he asked as we passed a machine.
“No thanks.”
“You trek all the way over from Charlottesville again this evening?”
“Right.”
“Pretty drive at sunset. Where you staying?” Casually curious.
“With a friend, Jake Toronto.” Before leaving home, I had called Toronto who'd merely grunted affirmatively when I told him I was heading his way with Armistead, and that we might have to stay a few days. I'd also called
“You sound like you've been running.”
“Running? You mean like working out?” Her laugh sounded cynical. “Not really … I've come into a little trouble though.”
“Trouble?”
“Yeah.”
My gut tightened. I could hear a hollow scraping in the background, like the sound of a desk drawer being pulled open, an echo that could have been reverberating off cinderblock walls. Someone in the background coughed.
“What's going on, Nicky?”
She didn't answer right away. She was still breathing hard, and I could tell she was trying hard not to cry, so I waited.
“Well, for one thing, I'm in jail,” she finally said.
7
For the second time in less than forty-eight hours I arrived in Leonardston, Virginia; this time with my overnight bag packed and Armistead riding securely in her hawk-box in back. The place had all the appearance of a quiet Sunday night in a small Southern town. If I weren't so worried about Nicole, I might even have been entranced by the bucolic splendor.
Near the school something flashed in the corner of my eye. Just in time for me to slam on the brakes as a group of four or five kids on mountain bikes sailed across the road in front of me. None of them looked my way—they seemed oblivious to the accident they had almost caused. But before they disappeared over an embankment, the last one in line acknowledged my presence for all of them: he flipped me the bird. So much for bucolic splendor.
A recently built municipal building bore an impressive sign for the sheriff's department and, I knew, the jail. Aerials and satellite dishes protruded from the roof. Gray walls matched a flagstone sidewalk. Inside was a small reception area with a Formica-topped counter. A deputy with skin the color of mahogany and a uniform that appeared almost ready to burst apart at the seams, stood his post. He studied me, eyes flat and expressionless and dark as coals.
“Can I help you?” His voice was a deep bass.
“Yes. I'm here to see a prisoner, if that's possible. Her name is Nicole Pavlicek.”
“And you are?”
“My name is Frank Pavlicek. I'm Nicole's father.”
Some flicker of recognition seemed to enter his mind. He squinted, shifted his feet, and put his thumbs inside his gun belt. “It's after regular hours. Wait here a second,” he said and started to turn away.
“Before you go, better let me check my weapon,” I said. I smiled and slipped off my jacket, undid the holster, and handed it to him.
“You a cop or something?”
“No. But I used to be.”
He nodded, slid open a desk drawer, placed the holster inside, and locked it. “Thank you, sir. I'll be right back.”
People up north tend to think hicks from small Southern towns are either ignorant, naive, or both. I had made the same mistake when I first moved to Virginia, misconstruing civility for stupidity or weakness. I didn't anymore.
In less than a minute the deputy was back. A door opened at the side and he came through it followed by none other than Sheriff Cowan.
“Well, hello, Mr. Pavlicek. We meet again.” His smile was almost an accusation as we shook hands once more.
“Working late, aren't you, sheriff?”
He shrugged. “Comes with the job. Why don't you all come on back to my office and we can talk before we take you back to see your little girl.”
The last time I'd thought of Nicole as little was on her ninth birthday, but I said nothing. I followed him through a door and down a corridor that smelled faintly of disinfectant.
“Coffee?” he asked as we passed a machine.
“No thanks.”
“You trek all the way over from Charlottesville again this evening?”
“Right.”
“Pretty drive at sunset. Where you staying?” Casually curious.
“With a friend, Jake Toronto.” Before leaving home, I had called Toronto who'd merely grunted affirmatively when I told him I was heading his way with Armistead, and that we might have to stay a few days. I'd also called
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