Body of David Hayes        The Art of Deception        Middle of Nowhere        The First Victim        Pied Piper        Beyond Recognition        No Witnesses        The Angel Maker        Undercurrents

THE ANGEL MAKER CHAPTER ONE Wednesday, February 1st The young woman's pale, lifeless expression cried out to Daphne Matthews from across the room. Nearly all of the kids who sought out The Shelter were high on something when they came through that door. The hollow cheeks, the dirty hair, were common to all the runaways, as were the torn jeans, the soiled T-shirts and the disturbing smell. The windowless basement room in the King Center Baptist Church on South Jackson held thirteen beds and was void of any color except for the odd assortment of unframed art posters. The beds, arranged in perfect rows, were each covered with a grey wool blanket atop which had been placed a white towel and a dull green cardboard box containing a toothbrush, comb, bar of soap, a package of condoms and a leaflet on AIDS. The boys' dorm, across the hall and next to the room where the choir robes were kept, held only eight beds, in part because teenage boys were less likely to seek help from such places, and in part because girls between the ages of thirteen and eighteen accounted for a larger percentage of the runaways that wandered Seattle's streets. The other volunteers at The Shelter welcomed Daphne's expertise as a psychologist as much as her being a member of the Seattle Police Department, though this latter qualification was rarely called upon, and never mentioned in front of the girls. For Daphne, each young woman who passed through that door represented a challenge, each had her own unique, often terrifying story. Just by coming here, they called out for help. Homeless; penniless; distrustful; addicted; pregnant; filthy; diseased: the job of each volunteer was to reverse all of that, to connect the runaway with counselors, doctors, halfway houses, government funding, jobs, housing, recovery programs and safety. To rescue and rebuild a life. Daphne sat down quietly and slowly on the bed opposite the girl and forced a welcoming smile that made her feel both cheap and dishonest: There was nothing to smile about here. She noticed a tiny scab on the inside of the girl's elbow joint and felt her heart sink. To her relief, she didn't see any other needle marks. Perhaps this was the girl's first time. With any luck, her last. The girl never looked at her, she just stared off into the room in a catatonic daze. Daphne suggested gently, "Would you like to lie down?" The girl nodded slightly. Daphne supported her head as it traveled to the pillow. Some of the drunks felt this hot, some of the druggies, but this contact gave Daphne a sickening feeling in her stomach that told her this was something worse. Exactly what, she wasn't sure. She wasn't even sure she wanted to find out. The girl cried out sharply as she leaned back, clutching her abdomen. Daphne cleared the tangled hair from her face, wincing as she noticed a pink circle on the girl's temple. Without looking, she knew there would be an identical mark opposite this: electroshock. "Cold," the girl complained in a dry, raspy voice. Daphne covered her with a blanket, told her she would "be right back," and hurried over to Sharon Shaffer who had just arrived. Sharon, a remarkably petite woman with large gray eyes and an oversized mouth, a former "graduate" of The Shelter, was now its spokesperson, working the circuit of Rotary Clubs and ladies' luncheons in fund-raising efforts. To both the volunteers and the community, she was a symbol of everything right about The Shelter, its leader and patron-saint. To Daphne, she was a dear friend. Sharon immediately dug into a pocket and handed Daphne a folded note. "I found a vet for Camile. He's supposed to be the best internist in the city. And he's a surgeon, in case she needs it." Daphne accepted the note without looking at it. She stuffed it away. Camile, her calico cat, had been vomiting and off her food for the better part of a week. Daphne had already taken her to three different vets. Was surgery the next step? There was no time for this. Daphne charged one of the volunteers with checking all area hospitals for a psych ward discharge or escapee. She briefed Sharon on the recent arrival as the two of them crossed the room: the needle mark, the evidence of electroshock therapy, the woman's abdominal pain. "Are you thinking restraints?' Sharon asked. She had a way of reading Daphne's thoughts. Before Daphne could answer, Sharon said, "Let's hold off on that, okay? There's nothing more frustrating than a tie-down. It's horrible. I've been there." Daphne didn't argue. Reaching the girl, they perched themselves on opposite sides of her bed. "Where am I?" the girl wondered aloud. "Why am I here?" "The only requirement for being here," Sharon explained in a comforting voice, "is your desire to be off the streets." She hesitated. "Okay?" The girl squinted painfully. It hurt Daphne to see that kind of pain -- psychological or physical? -- and it worried her too: the druggies usually felt nothing. Again, the combination of electroshock and that needle mark warned Daphne of an institution. Her policewoman instincts kicked in -- this girl could turn violent without warning. She was glad to have Sharon here. Sharon said calmly, "You're safe now. My name is Sharon. I'm a runaway. This is Daphne. We're all women here. Okay? This is a woman's shelter. We can keep you warm. We can feed you. We want nothing from you. Nothing at all." The girl began to cry. "We are not going to notify the police or your parents -- your home. You're safe here. Whatever you have done is behind you. Here, you are safe. If you need medical attention, you will have it. We want nothing more of you than your name. Something to call you. A first name is all. Can you tell us your name?" "Cindy," the girl answered. "Can't you stop them?" she asked desperately. Sharon repeated, "You're safe here, Cindy." She reached out and took the girl's limp hand. The girl attempted to sit up. She cried out painfully, once again clutching her abdomen and then shielded her ears. "Can't you stop them?" she pleaded. The blanket fell away from her. A wet bloodstain colored her side. A stabbing? Daphne wondered. How had she missed the wound earlier? The girl pleaded, "Do you hear that barking? Can't you stop the barking?" Daphne reached out and lifted the girl's shirt. Her skin was colored an iodine-brown from surgery. At the center of this stain was a three-inch incision laced with broken stitches. It was so fresh, it had yet to scab. She was losing an enormous amount of blood. "Call 911!" Sharon shouted loudly across the room. "We need an ambulance, pronto!" She caught eyes with Daphne then and whispered, "What the hell is this?" © Ridley Pearson Read reviews! Buy the book from an independent bookstore or Amazon.